Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer:

All characters and settings belong to the Tolkien estate. I’ve only borrowed them for a little entertainment.

Rating:

T for some fighting and violence, and overall dark incidents…

Author’s Notes:

This is the start of a probably again quite epic, very AU-story dealing with the banishment of our favourite horse-lord (hence the title ;->). As you probably expect from me, it will presumably be veeeery dark… (yes, I hear you groan)

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Go ahead, make my day! Please let me know what you think!

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Chapter 1: The Hearing

“It was not your fault, Éomer. That snake wants you to believe it was, but you know better. You must stop feeling guilty and start thinking about more urgent things… we must not let him get away with this!” Théodred looked remarkably healthy despite the fact that he had been slain at the Fords of the Isen four days ago, and his intense gaze tolerated no objection. Still Éomer felt unconvinced, and at the same time, he wondered that he felt not disoriented although he suddenly found himself standing at said riverbank beside his cousin, and the fast-flowing waters flooded around their feet. The sky was of a stormy grey, befitting the terrible scenery with the dozens of slaughtered men and horses of Théodred’s éored strewn on the ground around them. A slight drizzle had set in, and the cries of the crows and buzzards above their heads accumulated to a deafening din.

It was not the first time that he found himself standing here, but still his heart cried out at the sight of so much death. It took Éomer great effort just to lift his head, and when he spoke, his voice sounded dispirited. He could not remember when the last time was that a day had brought something good for him and his kinsmen, and slowly he began to suspect that there would never again be joyful days for the Mark. Slowly but surely, their days seemed to draw toward the end.

“I only wish that I could have been at your side! Together we would have made that foul brood run. Not a single one of them would have returned to its master.”

Théodred nodded wistfully while he followed the younger man’s gaze.

“Aye, Cousin, no army could ever defeat us together, but the worm knew that too, and his plan, I must admit, was faultless. Only now that it is too late can we comprehend its cunning. He and his master ordered their orcs to cross the plains exactly when they did because he knew they would draw you away from Edoras against Uncle’s orders, which, of course, Gríma had suggested to him in the first place He knew that you would disregard them once you learned of the threat. At the same time, the traitor Saruman summoned part of his forces to ambush me.” His tone became urgent. “It was an ambush, Éomer, do not let yourself be fooled into thinking that it was just another one of their random attacks; they were sent to kill me. No matter what my men did, they charged right through them for me, accepting much higher losses than necessary because of that strategy. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it. Do not torment yourself over it, because you will need all your wit to exact our revenge on that filth. Tell me, Cousin, can I count on you ? Will you avenge me?”

“You know that there is nothing I would like to do more.” Despair tasted bitter in Éomer’s mouth. In the battle against treason within their own halls, he stood alone now. “But the tables have turned, and Gríma has seized the upper hand. If he succeeds in convincing Uncle to execute me…” He shrugged and shook his head, not knowing how to continue. It was strange how at the same time both the river’s surroundings and the presence of his cousin and the ‘other’ reality were completely plausible to him. Some strange dreams he was having these days. He shook his head in frustration. “None dare to speak against him, not even Háma or Gamling. What shall I do, Théodred? What am I supposed to do without you now? How can it be that I am the only one left who dares to challenge that gravedigger’s words? We used to be a brave people; a people unafraid of consequences whenever we witnessed an injustice. Whenever something was wrong, we would set it right, no matter how high the price for ourselves. When did that change, and how did Gríma accomplish that? How has he turned us into a cowardly people?”

In spite of his frustrated outburst, the man he regarded as his brother smiled at him, and reassurance lit up Théodred’s blue eyes as he laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder in comfort.

“I wish I could advise you, Éomer. But be assured that you are not the only one who feels this way, and Béma knows you are not the only one determined to fight against the traitor. There are others who will remain at your side until the end, whatever end it may be. You must seek them out now, and gather them. Rouse our people and lead them against Saruman and his minions. You will know what to do once the situation arises. Your best decisions were always made on the spur of the moment, Éomer. Trust your instincts, that is the best advice I can give you. Believe in yourself, Cousin. In your hands, you hold nothing less than the fate of our people. You cannot afford to doubt now.” Théodred paused and, drawing his eyebrows together, seemed to listen intently to something Éomer could not yet hear. But the son of Éomund felt something else - a soft, but persistent pull. He knew the meaning of it already, and when his cousin’s attention returned to him, he saw the same knowledge in the blue eyes. “Our time is up for now, Éomer. But I will be back, if you let me in again. Whatever help I can grant you, I am more than willing to give. Do not lose hope, and do not forget: I trust in you!”

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The soothing rushing of the water faded away and was replaced by the echo of distant steps. Hanging on to the sound of Théodred’s voice until even the last vestige of it had vanished, Éomer opened his eyes, but it remained dark. Sighing as the grimness of reality seeped back into his mind, he settled against the cold wall and listened to his body. The throbbing from the beating he had received when they had brought him here had dulled, and to distract his mind from it and the bleakness of his thoughts, he had spent the last days honing his sense of hearing. In the darkness of the dungeon, even the moving rats populating the moist caverns and corridors were audible to the imprisoned warrior. The persistent falling of water drops that made their way through fissures in the rock, the distant rustle of clothes of other prisoners in another corridor and their sometimes hushed, sometimes loud conversations, everything carried endlessly in these bare corridors of granite. In this perpetual darkness where he was trapped, it had been his only means of entertainment. Éomer believed now what the people said of the dungeon: that even a short time down here, in hopeless blackness, made people lose their minds. Béma, he himself was leading conversations with his deceased cousin, so presumably he was already in the middle of it.

Shifting his weight, Éomer made a face when his body reminded him insistently of the beating and the days and nights he had spent on the bare floor. However, he had the unmistakable feeling that he would soon leave this cell, but remained sceptical whether his situation would improve once he was brought up into the hall. Several voices could be heard now, and the barest hint of flickering light came from the direction of the stairs. The other prisoners were calling out to their unexpected visitors, but Éomer knew that it was he they were seeking. Against better knowledge, a flicker of hope lit up in his mind for a brief second.

Could it be that the three strangers they had met on the plains and lent their horses to had arrived and finally convinced Théoden-King of his error of judgment? Éomer could not tell why, but he knew that he could rely on his knowledge of people most of the time, and there was no denying that there had been something special about the leader of the three, something that had prompted him to help them on their quest even though it had meant that he would be laying his own life on the line for someone he barely knew. Something that told him that Aragorn, or Elessar, how he had called himself, would keep his promise and come to Edoras, at least to give back their horses. And perhaps he would – perceptive as the man had deemed him – notice that the state of Rohan was under siege not only by an outside enemy, but by a foe within their own halls. The next moment, Éomer snorted, and shook his head to himself in frustration. Who was he to fool himself by laying his hope down in waiting for help from outside? If any change was to happen, the people at the Royal Court would have to bring it about themselves, and he could not lie to himself any longer: those chances were slim.

The steps were close now. Involuntarily tensing, the disgraced warrior straightened but still remained seated. He knew not for how long he had been incarcerated, but to someone used to the wide open skies above his head, it felt like an eternity. His time of punishment was about to find an end, and yet what kind of end, Éomer could not guess. Would Gríma dare to have him executed underneath their people’s eyes? No matter what lies the counsellor had been telling the Royal Guard and the ordinary folk about the crimes of which he had been judged guilty, Éomer was certain that an open execution of a member of the Royal Household would finally result in long-overdue rebellion. The snake would not risk that. Yet the question remained of what Gríma would risk. His men were not coming to simply release him, this much was certain.

Bracing himself for the confrontation as the flickering glow finally reached his corridor and pushed back the eternal darkness, Éomer warily rose to his feet. Off-balance because his hand had been bound to his back and the long time he had been deprived of food had made him light-headed, the former marshal awaited his captors. And even though his eyes watered from the painfully bright firelight as they halted in front of his cell, he could see that he had assumed rightly that Gríma would not risk using Théoden-King’s guards for the task of retrieving him. The six henchmen on the other side of the bars were Gríma’s own, part of an ever-increasing group of crooked men that had been invading the Royal Court over the course of the last three months.

“Come on out, rat,” their leader, a square-shouldered man with a swarthy, scarred face sneered at him with obvious glee, and a wide grin revealed several missing teeth. Éomer remembered him as the man who had taken the main part in the beating “It is time for you to meet the cat.”

Éomer forced himself to remain calm.

“As you apparently saw the need to bring five men with you to get me, it would seem to me that it remains still open for discussion who of us the cat is... and who is the rat.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unlock the door and find out.”

The ruffian narrowed his eyes at his rebuke, and the fingers of his free hand worked at his side as if he could barely wait to wring his prisoner’s neck.

“My orders say to bring you to the counsellor in unspoiled condition, because he does not want people to get angry over seeing you wounded. But if we break your ribs, they will never know it. Keep that in mind when I open the door now, arrogant forgoil bastard.” From a ring of many keys, he fingered for the right one and found it after two vain attempts. His gaze fixed on his prisoner, he ordered his men in. “Féldroff, Dorlâk… go and take him by the arms. If he makes one move…” His bushy eyebrows twitched meaningfully. The rusty door screamed in its hinges as it gave way, and for moment, the men stared expectantly at each other, before the two guards entered the cell.

For a brief second, Éomer thought about resistance. How wonderful it would be to unleash his accumulated frustration and rage against these men, even if they were not his true adversaries. He denied himself the pleasure. It would be short-lived, and not yet knowing what Gríma had planned for him, it would be best to conserve his strength for the time being. If they brought him up into the hall and the worm then announced his execution, he could put it to better use by snapping the filth’s neck before they killed him.

One of the ruffians poked him between the shoulder blades with a club he had no doubt brought along for a different purpose, and Éomer moved. The henchmens’ leader gave him a derogatory grin as he passed.

“Now will you look at this? Not only is the noble son of the great Marshal Éomund not a cat, he is not even a rat! Indeed I think that our once proud warrior here is nothing but a little scared mouse!” He spat. “Disappointing. I was hoping I’d get the chance to sweep the floor with your ugly face!”

“Don’t worry. You will have the chance to see the ground up close soon enough,” Éomer rebuked, his tongue for once faster than his mind. “From beneath it!”

A kick into the pit of his knee forced him to the ground, and he bit his tongue, angry with himself for letting himself be provoked so easily. Thick fingers buried themselves in his hair, and then his head was pulled back with a sharp tug.

“Say, filth, you do want the rough treatment, eh? My pleasure!”

A boot was planted against Éomer’s shoulder blades, and he was pushed forward, while the guard held onto his hair. The thick strand was ripped from his scalp, and as his face hit the ground, Éomer could not suppress a grunt. Blood trickled hotly down the back of his head, and he heard one of his tormentors curse.

“Gods, Felrod, what have you done? The counsellor said specifically not to hurt him in the face!”

“’Tis but a scratch”, their leader spat, but Éomer could hear the fear in his voice as he was pulled to his feet again. “It will not bleed for long. We will clean him up before we bring him out.” Again he poked his stick against Éomer’s back, and forced him up the winding stairs. Despite the hot throbbing at the back of his head, the fallen marshal found himself chuckling in amusement.

“Terribly afraid the worm will squash you, aren’t you, Felrod? You remind me of a dog that mindlessly follows its master just to get a pat on the head while it stands with its tongue lolling and wags its tail. Only I fear that you will get the boot this time. You’ve been a bad dog, and you know it.”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Felrod growled and pressed his big hand against Éomer’s back, pushing him forward. “Or I might just forget myself. If I am going to get into trouble anyway, I might as well make it worth it. – Open up!”

Before them, the heavy oaken door to the dungeon was opened from the other side, and Éomer squinted as daylight assaulted his deprived eyes. It was only the filtered light of the hall, but after days in impenetrable darkness, even the twilight hurt. Still he recognised one of the Royal Guards. The man’s eyes widened slightly at the unruly sight of his disgraced marshal, yet dared not to speak out. Béma, how far had it come that a crooked liar and net-weaver like Gríma could do as he wished within their ancient Hall of Kings, and not even the king’s valiant guards would raise their voices in protest! These truly seemed to be the Mark’s last days.

“In here, filth,” Felrod’s gruff voice rang out to him from behind, and Éomer was unceremoniously shoved into one of the empty guest chambers. “Dorlâk, get a piece of cloth.” The brute grinned as he eyed Éomer. “I fear we must first clean up our noble rider, before we can lead him before the King. He is filthy.” He sniffed the air. “And he stinks!” He waited for a reaction, but Éomer remained silent, instead of rising to the provocation choosing to look out of the window. It had been a clumsy attempt, and he knew better than to listen to it. Behind him, the door opened and closed as the other guard left, and heavy silence filled the room.

“Afraid, traitor? You should be. Your oh-so-noble blood will protect you no longer. My guess is that you will hang in the marketplace today before the sun sets. And what a nice sight that will be!”

A reply was on Éomer’s tongue, an acid rebuke that desperately wanted to be said out loud, but again he forbade himself to do what the ruffian wanted. The stick was poked against his back again.

“Cat got your tongue, strawhead? Or are you afraid of me?”

“Afraid?” He did not have to swallow everything, did he? As they were expected in the throne room, Felrod could hardly beat him again. Éomer gave the guard a deliberately disinterested glance back over his shoulder. “You are not worth wasting my breath. I will speak with my King, and with my King only, for he is the only man left I can still respect in these halls. Spare the effort, filth, for your words are of the same import to me as the sparrows’ chatter outside.” He turned back to the window, and heard the door open behind him again.

“Here is the cloth, Felrod.”

“Then let’s teach our pig-lord about cleanliness, shall we? Hold him!”

Again, Éomer’s arms were violently seized. He offered no resistance when the wet cloth was first wiped over his face and then pressed against the wound on the back of his head, followed by a dry cloth. When this was done, Felrod’s broad, ugly face appeared in front of Éomer’s, grinning as if this was the best day he had ever experienced. It probably was.

“Ah, isn’t he pretty again? How the maids will swoon over this handsome face when we lead him out! Perhaps we should gift them with his head once we cut him down from the gallows. They would surely appreciate it.”

“You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you, Felrod?” Éomer stared at the intricate pattern of tiles on the floor. “Or is it because you do not dare to talk once your master is around? A man of little wit like you is usually better served by remaining silent.”

“Oh, so you want to hear someone else talk, mighty one-time marshal? Very well! I forgot, you are a noble and you only answer to your King. Well, let’s see what the King has to say to you! I doubt that it is what you want to hear!” The guard rammed a big hand against his prisoner’s back and shoved him out of the room.

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On the short walk to the throne room, Éomer did his best to keep his emotions locked inside an inner vault and his features bland, although the glances their little procession were gathering were excruciating. Wherever they passed, the folk stopped and followed their small procession with expressions that were a mixture of dismay, hopelessness - and, hardest to bear – disappointment. Did they truly believe the lies that were told? Did they believe that he was actually responsible for Théodred’s death? It got to the point where Éomer kept his gaze on the tiles although he knew that doing so would make him look guilty, and he only dared to look up again when the voice of the Captain of the Royal Guard announced him to the waiting people in the great hall.

“Théoden-King, here comes Éomer son of Éomund, to be judged for his deeds. Will you see him, my Lord?”

“The King will see him, Háma son Hárlond,” an oily, well-known voice answered, and Éomer felt the short hairs on his neck rise in reaction to its sound. “Bring forth the prisoner!”

Although many people had gathered in the throne room, the only audible sound were the hollow echoes of their footsteps as they approached the dais. The silence felt almost solid, a weight on his shoulders that threatened to force him down. His blood a river of ice, his breath caught in his throat, Éomer looked at the men who formed the corridor through which he was led. Most of them belonged to the Royal Guard, and they were clad in their whole attire and armed with spears and swords, thus underlining the official nature of this hearing. He looked them in the eye as he passed them, and one after another, they averted his gaze, and their expressions became distant and went right through him as he searched for a sign in their features that they were still on his side. His heart sank.

The last man before the dais was Gamling, and he at last had the courage to face him. A silent exchange took place between the two warriors, a wordless admitance that the old man knew of the wrongness of these proceedings, but was unable to speak up in protest. Whatever held him back, Éomer could not guess, but all of a sudden he understood that he was being led like a lamb to the slaughter. The people he had grown up amongst, the people he had always thought to remain loyally on his side in good times and in evil times, they had decided to sacrifice him, but it remained a mystery to the son of Éomund of Aldburg for the sake of what. Did they not know that once he was gone, there would be no one left in Meduseld whom Gríma feared? That once he was gone, the worm could act as he pleased?

Laying his disappointment into his gaze, Éomer slowly took his eyes from the older warrior… and rested them on the only person he still trusted, even if the pain in her eyes was hard to bear as their gaze met. Usually of an already pale complexion, Éowyn’s face looked ghostly white as she stood beside their uncle, her fingers unconsciously digging into the fabric of her garments and her eyes unusually red. There were dark circles underneath them telling of sleepless nights and nightmares, and for the sight of her distress alone Éomer felt tempted to jump forth and strangle the darkly-clad figure at his uncle’s other side. His eyes narrowing in disgust and resentment as he slowly dropped to his knees before his king, the warrior finally faced his true adversary.

Seemingly ignorant of the prisoner’s hate-filled gaze, but secretly casting him a smirk that lay only within his eyes, Gríma raised his voice.

“Honourable members of the Council of Edoras and of the Royal Guard, we have assembled here today to sit in judgement over this man who has been brought before you. The reasons for a Marshal of the Mark to stand accused of treason before us today are known to you, but for the sake of protocol, I shall repeat them now.” The focus of the pale blue eyes came to rest on Éomer. “Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, you have been brought before your King to hear your ruler’s verdict to the following accusations: disobedience against your direct orders by riding into battle when you were specifically told to stay and guard Edoras, a deed resulting in the death of Prince Théodred, Second Marshal of Riddermark and heir to its throne. Again against your King’s orders, you did not bring the strangers you encountered on the plains before this court, but granted them free leave instead. And worse yet, you lent them two of our valuable horses, which we will most likely never see again. What else you agreed upon with them we cannot know, but calling your actions unwise would be too mild a verdict. For all we know, and specifically in the light of your other decisions, there can hardly be a different conclusion than to see your deliberate acts of disobedience as a conspiracy against the Throne of Rohan. Lastly, upon your return, you sought to withhold valuable information from your King and threatened a member of his household with death within these halls. What have you to say for yourself, Marshal?”

Rising from his knees, Éomer’s gaze came to rest on his uncle, who had so far remained silent, in a desperate attempt to bring out the man he had known and loved like a father. But Théoden seemed to look right through him, his eyes veiled by a mist and his gaze turned inward. Éomer could not even tell whether the King heard him, but it was the sick man he addressed nonetheless, exclusively, it seemed, as if they were alone. This was the last opportunity to force a reaction from Théoden, the last attempt to reach his King, and, as it seemed, his very life depended on it. He bowed his head.

“My Lord… I already pleaded my case, so I will spare you from hearing my words repeated. But I beg you to consider this: better than any other man in all of Edoras, you, Sire… Uncle… know that I loved Théodred like a brother, and I would gladly exchange my life for his were it possible. I grieve for him no less than you, but the truth is that we are in the midst of a war, and a war feeds on blood. Whether it is our éoreds or the common people, all of us are in constant danger in these dark times, and a life is claimed fast. It is not always in our power to prevent the death of a loved one. It is true that I disobeyed your orders and was not here when Théodred’s call for aid came. I felt that it was important to intercept those orcs who raided our land before they brought further death to our people. Our kinsmen depend on our protection, and I felt it was my duty to honour this ancient treaty between our farmers and the armed forces.” He turned his head to look at Gríma, and his tone hardened. “It is also true that – even had I been here when the call came – I could never have reached Théodred in time to prevent his death. In fact, one other consideration that led me to ride out against your orders was that I knew that Marshal Elfhelm and his éored were already on the way into the Westfold. He had an advantage of a full day on me, and even he came too late.” Feeling his blood beginning to boil in his veins at the sight of his adversary, Éomer paused, deliberately trying to calm down. He needed to remain calm.

“As for the strangers I encountered: I have no doubt that once they fulfil their own quest, they will keep their promise and come to draw their swords together with us against the plague that has befallen the Mark. I am not known to be in the habit of trusting people lightly, and whenever I chose to do so, that person always justified my trust. We need allies in this war, my Lord, however unlikely they may be, or we will not prevail.” He fell silent, waiting for a reaction. A wink, a glance, anything that told him that the man he had once known and loved was still living within the hollow shell seated on the throne in front of him. But nothing came, and so Éomer braced himself and shifted his attention to the man next to his uncle, and his voice hardened.

“But while we are speaking of trust, my lord, I cannot let it go unsaid that your own has been betrayed in the most serious manner, by someone other than me. The man at your side-“

With astonishing speed, Gríma stood up, and the pale blue of his eyes changed into ice.

“The King knows very well what he has in me, young serpent! It is not I who stand accused before this court!”

“But it should be you!” Éomer shouted, his grasp on his temper slipping as he took an angry step forth, enough for the guards to seize and pull him back. “You are the traitor in this hall! You have been poisoning our king’s mind and body for years, and your secret nets and intrigues have held the Mark hostage for far too long! But your time is coming, scarecrow, remember my words! All it takes to take you down is a man unafraid to do what is right, a man who sees through your lies and realises the blackness of your heart!” Against the men holding him, Éomer turned around, and his urgent gaze found Gamling.

“Gamling, we fought together in uncountable battles! You saw me grow up underneath your eyes; you taught me yourself! How can you doubt me now? All you need to do is draw your sword and cut off this snake’s head, and the Mark will be free of him!” He looked at the other men, then at Háma further back, desperate and angry at the same time. “What is it that you fear? I am telling you, the plague that haunts Rohan has two names, and one of them is his! The other one being that of his master, the traitor Saruman! Among them, they-”

“Enough, Éomer son of Éomund!” Gríma raised his voice, and his eyes were narrowed to a malicious slit now, sparkling with fury. “I understand that it is only natural for you to lay the blame for your failure on others, but if you abuse your right to speak to insult the present men and issue death threats and a call for rebellion, I will order you to remain silent! You will hold your tongue, or it will be cut from your mouth right here!”

“I take no orders from a treacherous worm, scarecrow! You are but a servant, and not even a servant of this house! The authority to command me belongs solely to the King, and him alone I will obey!” Another quick look at Théoden revealed that his uncle’s gaze had become clearer, but still Éomer could not say whether the sick man had heard all he had said. Nodding curtly, Gríma bent to the bowed man at his side, his furious sparkling eyes still on his adversary.

“Very well, young man. If you insist, we shall hear what the King himself has to say to you! It is of course consistent with your character that you would force a weakened and grief-stricken man to such a painful statement!” He whispered into Théoden’s ear, and while Éomer still waited with baited breath for the sign of recognition, his uncle’s gaze became clear… and hardened. Finally, Théoden-King returned his nephew’s gaze, awakened from his stupor, but when his milky eyes came to rest upon the young man before him, their bitterness froze Éomer’s blood.

“You killed my son, sister-son, and you expect mercy? You killed a man who loved you like a brother, and you expect to be spared? And instead of admitting your wrong-doing, you accuse others of treason and call for rebellion underneath my very eyes?” With considerable effort, the King rose to his feet. “I welcomed you in my house when you were little and orphaned, but it seems that unwittingly, I invited a serpent into my home. I raised you as my own son, and this is how you repay me. Cursed be the day when our bloodlines were united: first your father killed my sister, and now his son has killed my own flesh.” He stumbled, grief-stricken, and only the strong hands of Éowyn and Gríma prevented him from falling and helped him back onto his throne. Hiding his face in his hand, so that he would no longer have to look at the aghast expression of his nephew, Théoden mumbled: “Be gone, ungrateful curse to my house! You are no longer welcome in this hall, nor in this realm. You are herewith banished from the Kingdom of Rohan, under pain of death should you ever return.” With a last feeble gesture, he motioned the guards. “Take him away. I can no longer bear to see his face.” Wearied from effort and grief, the King hid his face behind his hands, and only the silent shaking of his body told the assembled men that the sick man was weeping.

For an endless moment, the silence in the room was deafening as none of the present dared to breathe. For the eternity of a dozen heartbeats, Éomer continued to stare at his uncle, unable to move, to breathe, even to think as he felt coldness creep into his body. A part of him had just died upon these stairs. And as he shifted his view just the slightest bit, he could see that it was the same for Éowyn. The stunned silence was finally ended by Gríma, who patted the King’s arm reassuringly.

“You spoke well and true, my Lord. It was about time this wolfling heard the truth, although I wished you had been in better health for this most unfortunate business.” Gríma looked at the guards. “You heard the King: Take the traitor outside and relieve us of his unbearable presence! I will meet you outside in a moment, but first I need to tend to our King. I fear the strain of these last few days has been too much for him. He needs to rest.”

They pulled him to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the door, and yet Éomer hardly felt their hands on his arms or heard their voices around him. He neither saw his sister’s dismayed expression, nor the stunned-looking faces of the Royal guards who led him outside. There was only numbness, the feeling that he had been cast into a nightmare from which there was no waking. Had he been offered a reversal of his verdict, he would gladly have chosen the gallows over this. What point was there left in living on when your own kin thought you a curse? What reasons were there left to fight?

The sound of light, urgent steps underneath the guards’ marching prompted the men to turn around.

“Éomer! Éomer, wait! Háma!“ Rushing to reach the procession before they left the hall, Éowyn stepped up to the Chief of Guards, breathless from the running. The man she had chosen to address looked uncomfortably at her, already slightly shaking his head in denial of whatever the king’s niece would ask of him.

Éowyn’s glare promised the Captain of the Guard instant death if he didn’t let her pass, and her voice gained a cold edge.

“You do not want to tell me that I cannot speak with my brother, Háma, do you?” Her blue eyes tore into those of the broadly-built man she had known and trusted for most of her life. “You do not want to tell me that he will be banished and you won’t even let me say farewell to him? Has it come so far that you will do the counsellor’s bidding without using your own judgment? I used to know a different man under the name of Háma of the Royal Guard.”

Ashamed, the warrior lowered his gaze. It was obvious that conflicting emotions were tearing the man apart inside, but at this moment, Éowyn cared little. Her brother had been banished, and not only this, she feared that their uncle’s words had destroyed what will to fight had been left in Éomer. The Gods alone knew how strong her inner urge was to leave the men standing and run to her chambers, throw herself onto the bed and cry her eyes out, but she would have to withstand the reflex. It would not help Éomer, and she could not afford to show weakness to their enemy, especially not now that her last protector was being chased from these halls.

“I apologise, my lady. You heard the king’s words yourself… but I suppose that there is indeed enough time to grant you your request.” He invited her with a gesture to step over to the convicted warrior, but she shook her head.

“No, not out here. At least let us be alone for a moment.” With her chin, Éowyn gave a brief nod to the nearest door and sighed in frustration when she saw the hesitation in her opposite’s eyes. “Háma, what do you fear we could do? I beg you, grant us this brief moment of privacy, please! I did not hear the king specifically forbid it, and you are still the Captain of the Royal Guard, a man of power yourself. Surely there is still enough power left to your position to honour my request?”

With a deep intake of breath, Háma finally gave her the little nod she had hoped for, and stepped aside, motioning for his men to release their prisoner.

“I am sorry, Lady Éowyn. These are dark days we are living in. And with each passing day it becomes harder to make the right decisions. I will grant you this moment you asked for, but please-”

“We will not cause you trouble. You have my word, Captain.” With a meaningful glance at her brother, Éowyn stepped over to the door one of the guards held open for her, and mechanically, he followed her inside. The door closed behind them, and silence filled the little guest room as she turned to him, the rigidity she had displayed in front of the guards suddenly melted away as she took Éomer in her arms, gently at first, but with growing intensity as the dam of her restrained threatened to break, and the fact that his arms were still bound on his back and he could not return her embrace made it even worse. This could not be! Reminding herself to remember her most important task first, because she did not know how much time they would be granted, Éowyn then suddenly took a step back, and her gaze grew urgent as her tone.

“Éomer, listen, I will send someone to bring you your weapons, or any weapons I can get a hold of. Ride to our old hiding place and wait there until darkness, and I will see that the weapons are stored in the little niche underneath the rock. If that snake thinks he can kill you by sending you out there unarmed, he is mistaken!” He did not react, and the stone-set look on his face almost broke her heart. “Promise me you will wait there, Éomer! Do not go into the wild like this, because that is what Gríma wants. He intends to kill you!”

“Does it matter?” Éomer finally spoke, but his voice sounded dead all the same, his eyes which had always carried that spark of defiance and willpower now two open wounds, wide open windows to his hurt soul. “My own uncle deems me a curse to his house. I am expelled for a deed I haven’t committed, and none of the men I grew up amongst speak against it though they know for the wrongness of these accusations.” He swallowed visibly. “It hurts, Éowyn… more than death. Given a choice, I would have chosen the gallows instead of this.”

Her eyes widened in dismay as she cupped his face with both hands, thus forcing him to look at her.

“Do not speak like this, Éomer! Please, you must not let yourself be fooled! That was not our uncle speaking! The worm’s foul spell is holding his spirit captive, and he will say all that Gríma bids him, without knowing the import of his words! In your heart, you know better, brother!”

“Yes, you do! You should at least, after all those years we have lived here. Is your bitterness so great that you cannot remember the man our uncle once was? How he comforted us when we came here? How much love he gave us? He is a weak, ill man in the claws of a most dangerous traitor; he is not an evil man himself!”

“He accused me of treachery before. He believed Gríma’s insinuations that I wanted to claim the throne for myself. No, I lost his favour long ago, Éowyn. He meant what he said.”

“Then why not kill the man who gives it to him and release him from his suffering?” he rebuked heatedly, bending forward. “But they all prefer to stand back and watch the Mark fall to ruin right in front of their eyes, because they are cowards!”

“There is a reason for that,” Éowyn began hesitantly. “You do not know of it yet, because it surfaced only when you were away. I meant to tell you when you returned, but they forbade me to visit you in the dungeon.”

“They forbade you to visit me?” Éomer repeated, incredulous. “Who? Gamling? Háma? That is what’s wrong in these halls, Éowyn! All of them do the snake’s bidding, even though they know it’s wrong! They say they do it for the good of Rohan, and yet they help him destroy it. You are the king’s niece; they shouldn’t be able to forbid you anything!”

“I know. But I dared not to stress my standing, because Gamling told me what Gríma showed him.” She looked into Éomer’s skeptical eyes. “The potion that made uncle his pawn… he will die if he is denied it. Gríma, of course, calls it a ‘strengthening potion’. Anyway, while you were away, Gamling quarrelled with him, and it got to the point where he brandished his sword against him. Gríma said that if he killed him, he would kill the King, too, because he is the only one who knows the secret ingredients to the potion that holds Théoden alive despite his illness. Gamling dared not kill him then, but to prove his words, the worm withheld the draught from uncle for two full days.” Her voice began to tremble. “He almost died. It was not until Gamling fell to his knees and apologised that Gríma finally relented. Believe me, it is tearing him and Háma apart to see you treated like this, but they must maintain their position! If they, too, are replaced, there will be no one left to stop Wormtongue. It is for the good of the people and uncle!”

“Forgive me, sister, but I fail to see how our people profit from our Chiefs of the Guard silently nodding to all that the crooked liar can conceive. Sooner or later, they will be replaced by his minions nonetheless, and they will have done nothing to prevent it.”

“But I see how our people are suffering. I swore fealty to my lord and my land, Éowyn. And as my lord seems no longer capable of providing safety to the people under his care, it might be time to separate the two and decide who is more important: a single man, blood-kin or not, or many thousands.” Éomer lifted his chin, and his expression hardened. “I made my decision. What about you, Éowyn?”

“You are saying then that you are giving up on our uncle, the man who was like a father to us until he fell prey to the dark counsellor’s devilry? You will desert him in the time of his greatest need?”

“It is not I who deserts him, Éowyn,” Éomer retorted, his eyes blazing. “It is he who expels me!” The awkward moment stretched between them, neither sibling knowing what to say. At length, Éomer lowered his voice, his unexpected rage gone, and his tone was apologetic. “Will you not come with me, Éowyn? I do not know what expects me out there, but I do not want to leave you behind… not with this bastard doing as he pleases.”

“And leave our uncle at his mercy?” Éowyn shook her head, even though the thought her brother had just voiced chilled her blood. “I cannot, Éomer. I cannot yet give up on our surrogate father. Somewhere inside that weakened shell of him sitting on the throne, there must still be the great and generous man who raised us, and I will not leave his side until he is dead.”

“Even if that means placing yourself at Gríma’s mercy, too? You know that once I’m gone—“

“He will not dare to touch me,” she explained forcefully, wishing she felt as convinced as she sounded. Éomer’s expression told her that he did not fully believe her, either. “I know how to fend him off, and Gamling and Háma would never tolerate it if he laid a hand on me.”

‘They tolerated that I was banished,’ Éomer thought, but he chose to remain silent. She knew. So at last he cast his once proud eyes down and wished his sister farewell as the first knock on the door interrupted the heavy silence.

“Until we are united again, I will not stop worrying for you, Éowyn.” After the heated outpour of his emotions, he suddenly felt utterly spent and choking on his emotions as he leaned forth to kiss her gently on the brow, and at last, her anger, too, faded away and gave way to a despair so deep, it threatened to leave her breathless.

“Ssshh…” she made, the tears finally welling up behind her closed eyes as she pulled her brother close und ran her hands through his hair, revelling in the sensation of his warmth and scent perhaps for the last time. “Do not worry for me, Éomer, I can hold my own. Be careful out there, you must promise me this. You are a great warrior, but you stand alone now, and must weigh your actions even more carefully than ever before. No man, however valiant, can defeat all hosts of his enemies alone. You must hide, and only surface when the time is right. Do not let your pride lead you into an early grave.”

“Lady Éowyn,” Háma’s voice reached them from outside. “I’m afraid we must leave. Will you please come outside?”

“Just one more moment, please!” she shouted, unwilling to let go. “Oh Éomer… may Béma himself hold his protective hand over you!”

“And you, sister mine,” he breathed, and his heart felt leaden in his chest. “Yours may very well be the harder task. I wish you the courage and the good luck to see it done in the end. We will see each other again, Éowyn, mark my words. One not so far day, I will return, and we will rid the Mark of the plague that has befallen it.” He kissed her again, inwardly cursing his adversary that by binding his hands, he was denied the comfort of embracing the slender body of his sister.

She lifted her chin, and the sudden expression of defiance in her eyes soothed Éomer’s mind.

“Aye, brother, we will. Gríma overestimates himself. He thinks he can foresee everything, but he will find out that he’s wrong. We will prove him wrong.”

A second, more insistent knocking interrupted her and suddenly, the door was thrown open and the armed guards of Gríma Wormtongue stood in the entrance. Behind them, Éomer beheld the distraught looking face of Háma. With a derogatory sneer, the leader of the counsellor’s private guards seized Éowyn’s arm to pull her away from her brother.

“Aw… what a sweet farewell! It brings tears to my eyes. — but now it is time!” A second later, Feldrod gasped as Éomer rammed his shoulder into his stomach, and landed unceremoniously and undignified on his behind, gulping for air like a fish while the former marshal towered over him like a god of wrath.

“Back! Back, both of you!” Throwing his full authority into the situation before it would severely spin out of control, Háma pushed through the group of quarrelling men. “Éomer, Felrod – apart! I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour.” He eyed Éowyn with concern. “Are you all right, my lady? Did he hurt you?”

“It is nothing. Just see to it that this brute won’t touch me again, Captain!” She rubbed her arm and glared at the squarely built guard who was just beginning to draw shallow, painful breaths again. His whole insides twisting into a painful knot by the knowledge of what he’d have to do now, Háma – with a deep sigh – shifted his attention back to the man he had regarded as a brother-in-arms for many years and would now have to cast out.

“Lord Éomer, will you follow me peacefully, please, as I would much prefer to lead you out unchained?”

“As long as this piece of horse-dung keeps his dirty fingers away from my sister…”

Felrod huffed as he picked himself up from the floor and wiped his trousers clean. Incredulous, he glared at the Chief of Guards.

“Captain, you cannot seriously consider leading that man through the city unchained! Béma knows what he will do! We both know-”

“I have known the Third Marshal for most of his life,” Háma retorted forcefully, his tone for once determined and his piercing gaze indicating that this time, he wasn’t about to back down. There were limits to what Gríma could ask of him. “Éomer is an honourable man. When he says he will come peacefully, then there will be no need to cast him in chains. This is my decision to make, Feldrod, and if you like, you can run to your master and complain about me, but this you will not change. Stand aside!”

The hour following his exciting of the Golden Hall settled in Éomer’s memories as one continuous nightmare. At first, they led him out onto the terrace where they bade him to wait, while one of the guards hurried back to his chambers to retrieve the one piece of his personal belongings he was allowed to take along: his old, weathered riding cloak. Then they made their way down to the stables, where they left him under the surveillance of four armed guards while the rest of them readied their horses and the stable-hands and masters silently stared at him. At last, they led Firefoot out of his stall, unsaddled, with only a halter for them to lead him. The mighty grey stallion, perceptive as ever, had felt the unusual tension among the group and given the men a hard time, and for a while, their cursing and swearing had amused Éomer as he watched them fighting with his horse. And yet at last, when they had ordered him to calm down the stallion for them, he had done so with only a few Rohirric words as he stepped into Firefoot’s path. The dangerous hooves had at once ceased their threatening dance, and although he had snorted indignantly, the grey had followed his master’s plead and lowered his head to him, and the warm breath from his nostrils had been the greatest token of comfort Éomer had received all day. Here at least was one whose loyalty would be his until the end of their days.

Still with his hands bound behind his back, Éomer had then been wrestled onto his steed’s unsaddled back, and they had thrown his cloak over his shoulders. He understood that it was to not needlessly aggravate the citizens of Edoras while they led him to the gates. When they would see him, they would see a dishevelled looking man in deerskin breeches and a torn, woollen tunic underneath the old cloak, dirty after the three days he had spent in the dungeon and reeking of the mouldy, damp cell and sweat. His golden mane was a stringy, unkempt mess flying in the gusts of the winter storm, and his overall appearance, Éomer realised, was no better than that of an ordinary thief. If he was lucky, they would not even recognise him.

Refusing to let his despair show by his bearing, Éomer had then straightened on Firefoot’s back, sitting perfectly balanced and proud despite the lack of a saddle while they led him down the lonely hill in the midst of the two lines of guards around him, the procession snaking down the steep path in ghastly silence while a mixture of snow and rain had fallen from the heavy clouds above their heads.

‘Even the sky is weeping’, Éomer thought numbly as they made their way toward the city gates, and his innards twisted at the sight of the dismayed expression with which the people they passed averted their gaze, as the procedure required. It was meant as a ride of shame, a last passing through the city while its inhabitants deliberately turned their back on the convicted man. Banishment did not simply mean to be expelled from the land one loved, it also meant that it was forbidden to ever utter the name of the expelled person ever again, neither in conversation, nor in song. Éomer’s entire existence would be erased and forgotten by the people of the Mark. For the Rohirrim, who were a people with no written language, it was the worst punishment thinkable. Before they turned their backs on him, Éomer caught a glimpse of hopelessness and despair in many of his countrymen’s eyes, but again none of them dared to raise their voice in protest. Halfway down the slope, he decided that he had enough of the sad spectacle and chose instead to look at the thatched roofs of the cottages they passed, and beyond them, at the snow-covered peaks of the Ered Nimrais in the distance, and he could not suppress the thought that perhaps this was the last time he was granted this view. The urge to turn his head and look at the Golden Hall from up close for the last time was almost irresistible, but Éomer defeated it nonetheless. He did not want to give the impression that he thought this to be final. After all, he planned to return, and not alone, but with an army, victorious and triumphant, and rid the land he loved of the true plague that had befallen it. Focussing on this internal image in his mind, Éomer squared his shoulders. For as long as there was a single breath left in his body, he was not defeated. In his veins flowed the blood of Eorl, and by Béma, he would show the worm the meaning of it!

A loud shout to his left woke him from his contemplation as the group of riders around him came to a halt.

The first shout was repeated from the guards’ position above the high wooden fence that surrounded Edoras, and Éomer recognised the voice as belonging to his friend Éothain. The pain was unexpected and sharp, and instead of looking up to bid his brother-in-arms farewell, he kept his gaze fixed on the two wings of the gate as they separated now under the screaming protest of their rusting hinges. Behind them, the wide vale of the central Mark stretched along the jagged mountains all the way to the horizon, and the fine rain that had accompanied his ride of shame slowly began to turn into snow. Éomer saw it with concern, because it would make disappearing without a trace much harder, but of course, there was nothing he could do against it. It seemed that these days, he was doomed to absolute helplessness. Had Béma truly deserted the people of the Mark? Was he playing a cruel game … or putting them to a test? Was all that was happening just a means of decision for the Gods to determine whether the Rohirrim were still worth their effort?

“Out, scum,” a voice behind Éomer bellowed, and Firefoot gave a, startled jump that caused some of the men around them – all Gríma’s, Éomer knew – to laugh. “A bit skittish, your mighty steed, Marshal, isn’t he?”

“It might be because you sound like a warg, not a man, Felrod,” Éomer returned, and in looking at the swarthy guard, added: “And not only do you sound like one, with your ugly face, you look like one, too… and I won’t even mention your smell.”

Again some of the guards laughed, but the furious glint in their captain’s eyes silenced them quickly and efficiently as he unsheathed his knife.

“Now you are still laughing, son of Éomund. But I know it won’t be for long. Soon you will wish your mother had never born you!” With three quick moves, he severed the ties that held Éomer’s hands behind his back, and for the longest moment, while his hand with the knife was still within reach, the two adversaries stared at each other and tension built around them. At last, Éomer’s mouth twitched, and his dark eyes stayed on his opponent as he pulled his arms in front against the exquisite pain in his knotted neck muscles.

“I still believe that you are the mouse among the two of us, Felrod,” he said at length, digging his fingers into Firefoot’s thick mane. “And I promise you that I will be back to show our people, you have my word.” He threw a quick glance back over the guard’s shoulder, to where the citizens of Edoras stood and watched, and pointed his chin at them. “They will see what a sorry excuse for a warrior you are. I am known to keep my promises. Ask them.”

“As a matter of fact, I would be glad if you did return, strawhead.” Felrod pulled a face and shook his head. “But I have this strange feeling, how shall I say it?” He grinned. “I have a strange feeling that I will be waiting in vain. After all, it is dangerous out there, all on your own. There are so many things that can happen to a lonely wanderer these days…” His pursed his lips meaningfully and met his opponent’s gaze unflinchingly. A hard glint briefly glistened in Éomer’s eyes.

“If you believe that Edoras is a safe place for you, warg, then you are mistaken. Sooner rather than later, the people you believe to have tamed will rise against you and your master, and when they are done with you, they will lay your hides at the steps of Meduseld as a rug for visitors to clean their boots on before they enter the hall! This is my promise to you. Remember it well! Heya!” Kicking his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and letting the mighty stallion rear, Éomer thrust his steed around and into a gallop that took them away from the lonely hill of Edoras at breakneck speed, and the now thick-falling snow soon dissolved their silhouette.

Gríma Wormtongue watched his foe’s silhouette disappear in the diffuse winter light, and his hands unconsciously balled into fists inside the pockets of his heavy cape. He had succeeded so far, his most dangerous adversary was gone. He felt satisfied, butat the same time the son of Gálmód knew that it was too early to relax. For as long as the king’s nephew was alive, he remained a threat, and having him expelled had only been the first step toward ridding himself permanently of the troublesome son of Éomund. The counsellor held no illusions that Éomer would not even attempt to leave the Mark in the five day’s limit he had been given. Doubtlessly he would instead hide in one of the many hideouts he knew from his forays into the wild, and from there, plot his return. There was no telling what the wilful young man was apt to do if permitted to roam the Mark. He was much loved by the people and – even more important – well respected among the armed forces, especially by the two most valiant captains of the West- and Eastfold,and for as long as he lived, the threat of a revolution would continue to exist.

Gríma felt amazed that he had actually succeeded in driving that final spike between the king and his nephew, but he knew better than to believe in his victory yet. The people here had not objected to their Third Marshal’s banishment because they were afraid of punishment, not because they believed the accusations to be true; Gríma held no pretence in this particular question. His position would only be secure once the former Third Marshal was dead, and he was determined to make this requirement reality before even the weakest spark of mutiny could rise among the Rohirrim. Éomer was one skilled at rousing the people, so he needed to be silenced once and for all. As always, Gálmod’s son already knew what he had to do.

Shifting his attention from the plains below, Wormtongue suddenly beheld the pale shape of the king’s niece on the other side of the terrace. Staring in the direction of the White Mountains although her brother could no longer be seen, the White Lady of Rohan ignored his presence, but the rigidity of her posture told Gríma that she had seen him.

Motioning for one of the guards near him, Gríma turned his back on the view and said in a loud enough voice for Éowyn to hear:

“Dorlâk, when the lady has had enough fresh air, you will guide her back inside to her chambers. Under no circumstance is she allowed to leave Meduseld. Do you understand me?” From the corners of his eyes, he saw the object of their conversation pivot, and her expression was that of someone who did not believe her ears.

“You do not possess the authority to lock me in, Counsellor! I am still a member of the royal family, and I will not accept orders from either you or your men, unless I hear my uncle voice them himself!”

“These were your uncle’s words, actually. He is resting now, but if you insist, we can go and disturb him,” Gríma gave back in a silken voice,his features neutral. Heindicated a little bow. “I suggested to the King that you should be kept inside the hall for those five days until your brother has left the Mark, for no other reason than your own protection. Théoden-King is well aware that you will of course feel inclined to help your brother in his predicament even if this action would make you a traitor under the law yourself.” He shook his head in pretence of sympathy. “I would hate having to throw you into the dungeon, too, my lady. As I am certain you would. It no place for a woman of noble blood, but you would leave us no choice if you chose to betray your King.” He indicated another bow and extended his arm to gesture Éowyn in the direction of the portal. “Please, Lady Èowyn, be wise. Accept my apologies for this inconvenience, but surely five days spent in Meduseld in the comfort of your own chambers will be more pleasant than sitting in the darkness of a cell underneath the hill or following your brother into this winter storm.” He squinted as a gust of wind blew snow into his face, and only barely managed to keep the smirk which wanted to accompany his words from his lips. Of course there had been no way for him to plan this, but seeing how the banishment of his adversary fell together with this winter’s first severe snow-storm was a well of intense satisfaction.

Éowyn’s eyes threw daggers at him, and from her balled fists and widened nostrils Gríma could easily conclude how enraged she was. He threw a quick glance at the nearby guards. With the hot-headed children of Éomund, there was no telling whether the fair maiden would think twice before she would assault him to scratch out his eyes.

“And if I tell you to take your good advice and choke on it, and then go down to the marketplace for a few belongings I need despite your order, what will you do then, dear Counsellor? Convict me?”

“I’m afraid I’d have to, my lady. But I honestly hope that you’ll be wiser than to force me to this measure.”

The moment stretched between them with the nearby guards uncomfortably shuffling their feet, and at first, Gríma was certain that Éowyn would put him to the test… but then with a huff, the fair maiden turned on her heels and with great, unladylike strides and haughtily lifted chin, retreated into the Golden Hall. Following her path with his eyes until the doors closed behind her, Gríma then turned back to the guard he had been instructing.

“I want a guard positioned in front of her chambers at all times. She is not to leave them without my permission. Instruct your men accordingly.”

“Aye, Counsellor, it will be done. But what if…” The red-haired man interrupted himself, not daring to look his superior in the eye.

“What shall I say if Lord Gamling or Lord Háma inquire about this? I am not in the position to—“

“If these two noble gentlemen want to know more about this special order, you send them to me. I am sure they will understand. After all, it is only in the lady’s best interest. And, Dorlâk? I need you to accomplish two more things for me, both with a certain urgency to them: first, you will go down to the gates, or send someone, if you like, and summon Captain Éothain. I expect him in the throne room an hour from now. Afterwards, you gather all serving personnel of Meduseld in the servants’ common room. I need to address and instruct them about a change of procedure that will take effect in these halls from now on. One traitor was more than enough, and we must take any precautions possible to prevent that there are followers.” Clenching his fingers in the fur collar of his cape, Gríma began to descend the stairs leading to the path into the city. “I will be back shortly.”

Standing at the window overlooking the western plains with unfocussed gaze, Éowyn bit her lip, and her fingernails unconsciously dug into the wood of the sill in silent frustration. It was hard to believe what was going on in Meduseld these days, and the impertinence with which the worm had dared to send her to her room like a disobedient child robbed her of her breath and left her with the distinct wish to unsheathe her sword and take that black-robed snake to it. Perhaps Éomer had been right, perhaps she should have accompanied him. If Gríma could even lock her into her chambers without the other men objecting, what else would they permit? What if he locked himself in here with her? What if…

It took her great effort to shove the ugly thought away. No matter what happened, she would sooner die than allow letting herself be used in this way. She still possessed the hidden dagger she had carried for years, ever since she had first become aware of the counsellor’s intentions, and if that scarecrow made the mistake to think that he could have her now, he would taste it, no matter what threat he’d utter against her or her family.

Éomer… Again her lips tightened to a bloodless line as she stared at the swirling white world beyond her window. Somewhere out there, alone, without the protection of his éored and unarmed, was her brother. He depended on her. There was something she had promised him, and although her initial attempt had been intercepted, Éowyn was determined to keep it. Reprimanding herself for letting herself be distracted, Éowyn turned away from the window and crossed the room with energetic strides. Swallowing her indignity, she knocked against the door, and heard the key turn inside the lock. A moment later, the guard who had been detailed to stand watch in front of her chambers looked at her. He had to be one of Gríma’s men, she concluded, because she could detect no trace of discomfort in his expression. Most of the men she had known among the lines of the Royal Guard for most her life would not have dared to look her in the eye after making her suffer this indignity, but that orkish-looking brute in front of her seemed to have no problem with it. Although he stood one head taller than she, Éowyn felt far from intimidated as she defiantly lifted her chin.

“I am not permitted to leave this door, my lady,” the man grumbled, his tone indicating that he was having trouble with the unfamiliar elegant wording. “I’m afraid you will have to wait until-“ Her furious look silenced him.

“You bid me to wait? Who are you that you think you can talk to me, a member of the Royal Family, like that? You have not even a name worthy of remembering, and you dare to deny my request? I know there has been much going wrong in these halls since that worm seized command, but trust me that the king will hear about it if you will not get me Maelwyn this instant! Maelwyn!”

The young, woman in the plain servant’s dress, who had been on her way to the kitchens, hastened her steps at the call of her mistress and looked questioningly at Éowyn and the guard. The tension between them was thick, and not knowing the reason for it, the maiden from Aldburg lowered her head as she asked: “What can I do for you, my lady?”

Her eyes still shooting daggers at the guard as if she dared him to object, Éowyn pressed: “I will discuss this with you inside my chambers. I see no need to discuss my private needs in public, nor did I hear my king forbid me to have visitors!”

“Leave the thinking to those of greater wits and simply do what you have been told to do: guard this door, and leave me alone, guard! I do not wish to be disturbed! The presence of you and your kind gives me a headache!” She nodded at her servant and followed her back inside her chambers, throwing the door with all her weight behind it. If they insisted to keep her like a caged animal, she would make certain that they had miserable time doing it!

Realising her public explosion of temperament had made her the object of her trusted handmaiden’s scrutiny, Éowyn took a deep breath. She needed to calm down, or she would forget something vital and Éomer would have to pay for it.

“My lady? Is aught wrong? How can I be of assistance?” Maelwyn was only two year younger than she, but right now she sounded like a frightened child. Four years in the service of the Royal Family had not yet prepared the quiet but reliable woman from the Eastmark for such a flare of her lady’s temper. It was unlike Éowyn to shout or throw doors, or to throw a tantrum of any kind. Her brother, yes. Èomer was known for his heated temper, but also for his sense of justice. Whoever he shouted at usually deserved it. It had always been easy to determine how the Third Marshal thought about something or someone, whereas Éowyn had remained an enigma to most members of this household up to this very day. While many incidents hinted at the fact that the White Lady was possessed of the same strong will and stubbornness as her brother, she usually remained in the background, observing and keeping her thoughts to herself. Yet while Maelwyn still regarded her with uncertainty, Éowyn’s angered expression slowly melted into one of exhaustion, worry and regret as she gestured toward the chairs.

“I am sorry, Maelwyn. It was not right of me to make you a witness of this quarrel. But it is hard these days to remain calm while our honourable counsellor gets away with deeds that would have formerly been unthinkable.” She made her way over to the sitting group and lowered herself into one of the chairs.

“You need not apologise, my lady. I understand that these past days have been very hard on you. They have been hard on us all.” Looking into her mistresses’ sad eyes, Maelwyn spontaneously added: “Your brother is a mighty warrior, Lady Éowyn. He will not be helpless out there.” Spontaneously, she extended a hand in comfort, and Éowyn was glad to accept it even though the other woman’s compassionate words caused her sense of despair to resurface; her eyes once again starting to burn. Angry at herself, she wiped them with her free hand.

“I know, Maelwyn. But I fear that Gríma is not done with Éomer yet. They hate each other, and he knows that Éomer will remain a danger to him for as long as he lives.”

“You mean he will attempt to have him killed, my Lady? But that would be against the king’s orders!”

“Gríma cares nothing for the king’s orders, and my uncle is too ill to see how his orders are executed.” Éowyn shook her head, and a great silence followed her words as she gazed unfocused into the distance. Seeing how her mistress seemed to ponder a thing of such great import, Maelwyn dared not interrupt her. Finally, Éowyn’s attention returned to her, and the piercing look she was given caused the young woman’s heart to jump into her throat. “Maelwyn, what I tell you now must remain among us, you must promise me this. Please know that I have always trusted you, but in these days of madness, it seems that even the walls of Meduseld have ears. You must speak to no one about what I will tell you now.”

“I will not say a word, Lady Éowyn. You entrusted me many secrets over those years I have been in your service; you know that your secrets are safe with me.”

“Yes, but this is different, Maelwyn. This time, lives depend on it, my brother’s and mine, if word gets out, so even though I want to put my faith in you, I still need to hear it from you again.” Éowyn had never sounded or looked more intense, and the younger woman’s discomfort grew. What had she gotten herself into this time? Lowly, almost in a frightened way, she said:

“Except to one man.” Taking a deep breath, Éowyn began. This was the point of no return. She hated having to drag the innocent girl into this net of lies and intrigues, but there was no other choice. She had to save Éomer. “Maelwyn, I need you to deliver a message for me to our blacksmith. It is very important that he receives it soon. Will you do that for me?”

“To our blacksmith? Bergfinn?” The handmaiden furrowed her brow in confusion. How could a message to a blacksmith be of any greater import?

“Yes, Bergfinn. I need you to seek him out and tell him to send his eldest son to our old hiding place before darkness today. Élric will know what place I speak of, he accompanied us there many times. Tell him to pack a knife, a bow, and, if he can, a sword, and perhaps some food, too, and deposit them for Éomer. He knows where. And he must make sure that he is not followed! It is of the utmost importance!” Éowyn tensed upon seeing hesitation in the younger woman’s eyes.

“But… helping a convicted man… wouldn’t that be against the king’s orders? Wouldn’t I become a traitor then, too?”

“To betray a traitor is no crime, Maelwyn. It is, in fact, our duty. And the king’s order was to banish Éomer, not to kill him; in fact, it was not even his order. It was his voice speaking those words, yes, but they were not his words; they were given to him.” She shook her head to herself, seeing how the girl got even more confused by her explanation. “I only want to ensure that the king’s orders are obeyed, Maelwyn. It was not his wish that Éomer be killed.”

“But how do you know then that is the counsellor’s intention… if I may ask this? I know it is not my place.”

“I know it, Maelwyn. Trust me, I know it as certain a I know that the sun settles in the west.” Suddenly deciding against telling the girl too much, Éowyn fell silent. The inner urge to share all her worries and frustration with someone she trusted was almost impossible to resist, but she would have be even more careful than ever. She stood alone now in Meduseld, and the Law of the Hall not the one being followed these days. The less Maelwyn knew the better. She drew a deep breath. “Will you help me, Maelwyn? I cannot deny that there may be a certain danger involved in the action, but it should not be too great if we do this smartly.”

The young woman looked miserable, and from the way her hands were clutching each other until her knuckles turned white, it was easy to see her discomfort. Éowyn’s heart sank. Maelwyn had done nothing yet, and already, she looked guilty. Gríma would have to be blind not to notice the look on her face. But if she staged a diversion, perhaps he would not pay attention if her handmaiden slipped out of the Golden Hall.

Maelwyn’s voice was barely audible when she finally answered, not daring to meet her mistresses’ gaze. “I would love to help, Lady Éowyn. I am not blind to what is going on, and I would very much like to see that dark man gone from Edoras, but what if I am caught? I have two small children to take care of. I must think of them first… and of my husband. “

“You will not be caught. I have a plan, Maelwyn. It is impossible that Gríma learns of it if you follow it.” If only she could have been as certain as she sounded.

“I’d rather not, my Lady.” The grey-blue eyes were pleading now. Had Maelwyn sensed her doubts? “The thought frightens me. I am only a servant, not a shield maiden. I am not a person possessed of great courage; I am not one of those people who can make a difference.”

“The people who make a difference are not usually those possessed of greater skill, Maelwyn; they are the ones who decide to make a stand, whether they succeed or not,” Éowyn said embittered. “There are too many among us who believe that it is not in their power to change the course of things, and it is this belief that allows Gríma to do as he pleases. It is comfortable to lean back and let others fight one’s battles, but it opens the door for those who are determined to take fate into their own hands and not to the good of others.” She allowed those words to sink in, coming to her feet and starting to pace as restlessness seized her. “I do not believe in fate. It is I who decides how I live, and no one else. There is no fate but what we make. And if we all decide to do nothing, Éomer will die, and Rohan will fall to ruin before long,” Éowyn said matter-of-factly, her tone flat. She turned on her heels and stopped. “My brother, Maelwyn, was sent out into the wild with no weapons, and no food, and without the protection of his men. The verdict forbids for the people in the settlements to help him, and a snow storm harrows the plains. He needs not even to run into orcs to perish under these conditions. Éomer has given his blood repeatedly for our people, and now those same people he rescued lean back and do nothing. Isn’t that most unfair, Maelwyn?”

This was her last weapon, her last resort, and Éowyn despised herself for using it on this innocent, frightened girl. She had no right to endanger the mother of two young children and wife to a young, hard-working man. But she could not bear the thought of losing Éomer.

Before her, Maelwyn now hid her face in her hands, terrified by the decision that had been laid upon her shoulders. The trembling in her voice indicated that she fought against tears.

“Of course it is, Lady Éowyn, and I wish I could do something to help him! Your brother was always kind to me… he and the Prince. They never treated me like a lowly servant.”

“Well, you are no lowly servant, Maelwyn, you are a member of the Royal Household, dear and trusted. And you are in the position to make a difference now. The danger involved may not even be great, at least not for you. If you are caught – which, I guarantee you, will not happen – you were simply following orders. As my handmaiden, you are not in a position to deny my orders, so the blame would be mine, and the consequences mine alone to face.” Seeing how the younger woman battled with herself, Éowyn fell silent. Maelwyn was her only hope; what she would do if her plea was denied, the daughter of Éomund did not know. There was no one left within these halls she trusted enough to pour out the contents of her heart to. And yet her heart missed a beat when the woman opposite her suddenly looked up. Her eyes looked wide and frightened, and her voice trembled as Maelwyn said:

“Well, then… if you say so, I will wager it, my lady. For you… and your brother. And for Rohan, perhaps. I cannot deny that the thought still frightens me, but I see the wisdom in your words. I come from a great family with eight sisters and brothers. We never had much, but my parents taught us that we could overcome all difficulties if only we stood as one.” She took a long, trembling breath, and then looked Éowyn straight into the eye. “It is time now for Rohan to stand as one, isn’t it? If we all hold together, surely no evil can ever overcome us.” It sounded more like a desperate plea than a statement, and yet the sincerity of it nearly broke Éowyn’s heart as she turned on her heels to embrace her utterly surprised handmaiden.

“No. No, Maelwyn, no evil shall ever triumph over the people of the Riddermark if they stand united. I thank you! I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I wish there had been a different way to help Éomer, but I know you can do this. I have a plan, and Gríma will never know about it.”

“You certainly know why you have been summoned, Captain? There are, of course, certain things that need to be discussed in the light of the recent developments.”

With satisfaction, Gríma noticed how the young man kneeling in front of the dais dared not even to raise his eyes at him and resorted instead to silently grinding his teeth. Éothain, the eldest son of Captain Ceorl, was known to be possessed of the same wilful temperament as the king’s nephew, whose best friend he also was, and seeing him dominated was a well of unexpected pleasure almost as intense as the banishment of Éomer himself. Gríma knew how much the rider despised him, and the knowledge made this lesson in power and obedience all the sweeter. Pacing the dais before the orphaned throne with carefully measured steps, the dark counsellor began.

“You are here because the king’s éored needs a new commander after the treason and banishment of its marshal. Naturally you would be next in chain of command, but I will not promote you to that position just yet. I will let you lead your men, but as their captain only, at least for now It is not unknown to me that you were well-acquainted with the Third Marshal, and so you will forgive your king and me when we delay that decision until we can be absolutely certain of your loyalty. As your reputation is that of a bright young man with an understanding for essential strategy, you certainly understand these considerations and feel not insulted by them. It is of course not the king’s wish to insult you.”

Oh, this was delightful. Where was Éothain’s haughtiness which he had displayed whenever he had been in Meduseld together with Éomer now? It seemed that the punishment of his friend had turned the grim, muscular warrior before him, who was easily twice his weight, into a scared little mouse. It seemed as if with one well-executed strike, he had ridded himself of the three most notorious troublemakers in the kingdom. How sweet the taste of victory was… and how premature to savour it just now! Pushing all thoughts of self-congratulation away to where they would not affect his concentration, Gríma’s attention shifted back to the task at hand. So far, he had won a few battles, but not the war yet, even if there could be no denying that his master would be very pleased with him when he learned these new developments.

“You will of course further understand that in the light of the same events, your king needs reassurance of your loyalty. Friendship is a valuable thing, and not easily cast aside. Yet if our friends err, or even tread on grounds that will not only endanger their own lives, but those of their friends and kin despite our repeated warnings – it is our duty to make our choice. So let us hear your decision, brave son of Ceorl: Where does your loyalty lie: with your Lord and Land… or with an old friend who has entered those ill-conceived paths?”

Éothain’s chin trembled under the almost unbearable strain, and Gríma tensed despite his delight, establishing with a brief glance at his guards that they were ready in case that the hot-headed warrior’s restraint should break. Yet Éothain did not jump at him, but when he spoke, his words were so low, they were almost inaudible.

“And that is well, but what of your king, Captain?” Gríma pressed further, rejoicing in seeing the temperamental young man squirm under his inquisition. “It goes without saying that we all strive to protect our land, but whose path do you believe to be the right one? Your King’s… or the former Third Marshal’s?” It was unmistakable that it caused Éothain almost bodily pain to speak, in the way he avoided his gaze and chose to speak to the tiles on the floor instead.

“My loyalty lies with my King, Counsellor. Whatever commands he will give, I will see them done. My Lord can trust in me.” Overwhelmed by his emotions of his betrayal against Éomer, Éothain closed his eyes.

Satisfied, Wormtongue clasped his hands and cast the young captain a benevolent smile.

“Théoden-King will indeed be glad to hear this, son of Ceorl. Yet as the Eorlingas have always been inadequate tellers of falsehoods, you will forgive me if I do not fully believe you yet. I am, however, willing to let you back your statement with actions. Until further notice though, your host will remain at Edoras for the protection of the city, and all matters needing a decision will be brought before this court by you personally. Until the king decides to further set his trust in you, you will do his bidding unquestioned. I realise that this measure of course takes away from your position for the time being, but if you satisfy your ruler, it will only be a temporary inconvenience.” He looked up as the sound of hasty steps echoed approached. “Yes, Déordred?”

The guard came to a halt. He seemed out of breath and quite shaken, a sight that caused a sudden shiver of uneasiness to race down Gríma’s spine.

“It is the Lady Éowyn, Counsellor! It is serious; I think she must have taken poison!”

On the fringes of the mountains, high above the central plains, Éomer sat in the sheltering niche of his favourite hiding place, the gaze of his dark eyes unfocused sweeping the distance while he unconsciously let a handful of sand run through his gloved fingers. Somewhere behind those low clouds and falling snow, there was the lonely hill of Edoras; and it was his home no more. He swallowed, still not acquainted with the thought he knew he’d sooner or later would have to concern himself with. The past morning’s horrible events were still too fresh to have settled with all their considerable implications in his mind. The Mark was no longer his home; he was no longer welcome here. And his own kin considered him a curse.

With a sharp intake of air, Éomer forced the image of his uncle and the sound of his voice back into the vault of painful memories inside his mind. They would escape from there again as soon as he let down his guard, but right now, he had to deny them the pleasure of tormenting him further. There were more important things he had to concern himself with right now than submerging himself in a sea of self-pity. After all, not everything seemed to be against him: to his intense relief he had found his hideout undisturbed and his provisions – some dried meat and fruit he had stored there in early autumn– untouched, and there had been no sign that someone might have discovered this sheltered outlook since he had last used it. Since the narrow switchbacks leading up to the lookout was not accessible for horses, he had left Firefoot in a sheltered vale close by. The steep path lay below him now in full view, enabling him to detect any foe long before he could be seen himself. As the path also ended right where he sat and above him and to his left was nothing but the sheer cliff wall, unwelcome visitors would have to pay a high price for admission. For a warrior skilled in the use of a bow, this place was a fortress.

Not that he had a bow. Unarmed as he was, this otherwise impregnable place could very easily turn into a mousetrap if he was indeed found here in his helpless state. But while there was hardly anything left for Éomer to trust in, he still believed in the secrecy of his sparse sanctuary. This was a place he had always searched out when he had felt the need for solitude; he doubted that even Éowyn knew of its existence. And though the worm knew many things, he, too, would not find him here.

A particularly strong gust of wind howled along the sharp angles of the mountain, and Éomer frowned while he listlessly chewed on a piece of dried, smoked deer-meat. He was not hungry, but had forced himself to eat anyway since he would need his strength in the days to come. Still, the meat’s taste did nothing to brighten his spirits, and in his mind Éomer knew better than to take his frustration out on his cousin, but there was no one else left to talk to. Not that Théodred was actually here, but he could nonetheless hear his familiar deep voice in the back of his mind. A voice which had forever been silenced by treachery in real life. The pain was still too fresh for him to hold back the bottomless, despairing sigh.

"I know it hurts, cousin, but you must never forget that it’s all Gríma’s doing. All that evil comes from him and his master in Isengard. However hard it may be to bear, and however great the injustice done to you, you must focus on the task at hand now, Éomer. If it is still your aim to free Rohan from their siege, you cannot think about yourself now. Put aside your emotions and become a weapon yourself, the spear of the Éorlingas, if you will."

How much Éomer wished that his cousin were truly up here with him, sharing this little draughty cave. If only to vent his frustration aloud, to shout the words into Théodred’s face. Gods, he was so tired of it all.

"Aye… it is my duty, isn’t it? It is about the oath I swore to my land." He spat out the words in sudden disgust as if they were a curse. "Duty. All I ever have ever known for all these past years was duty. Ever did I cross the plains in pursuit of it. I never thought about myself. I sought no personal happiness, I did not seek to found a family because I would always be gone in protection of our people. I served to the point of utter exhaustion for more times than I can count, and yet that same duty took my parents away from me. I gave our people all I ever had and more, and the one time that I need protection myself, they turn their backs on me." Éomer shook his head, uselessly fighting against another surge of despair and rage that threatened to overwhelm him, and balled his fists when a powerful urge to lash out at someone seized him. " Our people have taken all I ever possessed, so what more could they want? What else do I owe them? Tell me, Théodred!"

The addressee of his vented anger sounded understanding and yet firm, and not intimidated by his embittered outburst. And why should he be, Éomer thought bitterly, after all, Théodred was only a faint memory, a ghost. He had nothing to fear from his younger family member.

"Nothing. You owe them nothing, Éomer. You are right, you’ve given them plenty. But what about Éowyn? I know there is no use in trying to speak with you about father yet-"

"—although you know the truth behind that yourself. But do I really have to remind you of all the people who are undoubtedly still on your side, and willing to fight with you until the end, whatever end it may be?"

Éomer remained silent, and his dark eyes swept the diffuse swirling grey below in a half-hearted attempt to keep watch. He had not seen a rider approach the little patch of forest to his far right yet, but given the conditions, it would be a wonder if he made out anything smaller than a troll in this snowstorm at all. Of course Théodred was right: He knew Elfhelm and Éothain well enough to know that he could still count on them. About Erkenbrand, the valiant captain of the Westfold, he was not entirely certain, but it was no secret that the respected warrior had little love for the counsellor’s craven advice.

And still the path he’d have to enter would be stony: in a society as theirs, a society that had never questioned their king’s word in centuries, there were bound to be people of a different mind, too, and as likely as convinced of their righteousness as he was. His reputation was that of a passionate warrior, and his personal feud with the orcs well-known. Éomer knew that like his father, some of their people considered him rash and impulsive, a man who’s hatred for the Dark Lord’s creatures would occasionally lead him to accept challenges even when the odds were unfavourable. No, he could not fool himself, there were bound to be captains out there in the Riddermark who believed that he was responsible for Théodred’s death. With the armed forces split into two camps, Rohan could easily erupt in a civil war if he forced his position.

"But what of the others? The situation is already grim enough without having Rohirrim killing Rohirrim," he said at length. "I cannot risk an armed conflict within the Mark when we can hardly keep our enemies at bay while we stand united; it would be our undoing."

"Do you honestly belief that our kinsmen would raise their swords against each other?" the voice in his mind asked incredulous.

"I would never have thought so before, but after what happened today, I must tell you that I deem nothing impossible anymore, and certainly will I no longer take even the most natural things for granted. I do not know how successful Gríma’s net-weaving and lies have been outside of Edoras, but these are certainly very strange days we are living in when a proven traitor can act as he pleases in the king’s name and none do anything against it." The expression on Éomer’s face hardened with determination. "I will not risk civil war, and I will not become Wormtongue`s reason to execute Elfhelm or Éothain by drawing them into this."

"And what will you do? Surely you will not obey the verdict and leave the Mark while Éowyn stays behind?"

Long silence followed Théodred’s question. Through the whiteness the sky was still shedding, the dark silhouette of Edoras in the distance seemed to be only faint ghost of a memory. Éomer’s lips formed a tightly drawn line.

"I will start with arming myself tonight. And I will take it from there, step by step."

"But she was standing outside on the terrace only two hours ago, and there was no sign that—"

It seemed to Gríma that most members of the Royal Household had gathered in front of the White Lady’s chambers, and the agitated voices of servants, maids and guards alike accumulated to a deafening din of questions, suggestions and rumours. Purposefully, he strode toward them, his strangely torn emotions well hidden behind a perfectly bland mask of indifference, even if he was seething with rage on the inside. How dare the king’s niece defy him by demonstrating that she would sooner die than surrender to his will? And – even more infuriating – why did he care so much? Why not simply let her die and be done with her, another troublemaker erased, and this time making it clear to everyone that their suspicions were unfounded and he, Gríma, was not the source of the evil in this house? That people could indeed die without him having a hand in it!

Éowyn despised him and let no opportunity pass unused to demonstrate her hatred, and although he enjoyed their daily battle of wits and words, Gríma had somehow reached the point where it was no longer possible to deny his true emotions: that his attraction to the wilful maiden was not born from the desire to torment one of the proud nobles of this land who had forever looked down upon him for his mixed ancestry, an act of vengeance, but that it was genuine longing for a companion; a need to love and to be loved in return, something he had almost given up on. Oh yes, certainly he had had his share of women over the years, but he could not pretend that they had shared his bed because of his engaging personality. There was no doubt that he could be charming, certainly, very much so, but he was even better at corrupting, and so what had drawn those women between his sheets had either been fear or greed, a lust to feel the power of a man whose words were commands even to the king of their land. The service they had provided him had been enough to satisfy his bodily needs, and yet it had not stilled the yearning deep within his soul, a yearning the son of Gálmód had long denied to feel at all. There was only one who could quench that thirst; and she could not depart and leave him behind unfulfilled!

Anger once again overtaking him, Grima pushed his way through the crowd to the door where he was suddenly stopped by Gámling. The red-haired older man seemed uncharacteristically determined to remain an obstacle in his path, and Gríma wondered briefly what had caused the bout of heightened protectiveness in the old warrior. Did the guard truly think that he would try to take advantage of the situation? That he would try to bend Éowyn to his will while she was weak and unable to defend herself? It was a good idea. But no, no matter how minuscule his chances of still gaining the heart of the woman he desired had become, this was not how he intended to make her his’. In his dreams, she came to him willingly, as only that way would lead to the fulfilment he longed for. Yet he was no fool; regarded with the bidden realism, it was more likely that if he wanted to have her at all, he would have to take her with force, and it would be the acknowledgement of his failure if it came to that, not the victory he was still dreaming of. It would be domination, not love.

Waking from this brief inner discourse and its grim prospects, the counsellor met the guard’s stern gaze in a show of righteous anger at the man’s intrusion.

"Will you please step aside, Lord Gamling? I believe I should see first-hand what has befallen the White Lady to report it to the king."

"The Lady wants to see no one, Counsellor. Hildegard is with her and I sent her handmaiden to fetch Yálanda. Apart from them, I believe we would do best to honour Éowyn’s wish for solitude. This day has been very hard on her, and it would be best not to aggravate her further."

Wormtongue stared at the door as if he could see through the wood. The notoriously mistrustful voice in the back of his mind was whispering unintelligible words, and he could not help feeling a vague twinge of unease.

"As the healer is not here yet, I cannot say much, but apparently she has suddenly developed a violent fever and has trouble breathing. Whether it is a result of the grief she has suffered today or something else, I dare not say. The healer will find out."

"Let us hope so. The King has been very weak the past days. I do not think he could bare to lose another member of his family." Creasing his brow in deep thought, Wormtongue cast a long, pensive look at the doors of Meduseld. He had instructed his men very carefully, now he could only hope that they had heeded his words and paid close attention to what Éowyn’s handmaiden had done out there. The king’s niece was usually of remarkably good health and not lightly cast down by illness, which made this little unexpected bout all the more suspicious. "You sent Maelwyn for Yálanda? When?"

"Only a little while ago. The smithy is not far, she should be back very soon, all the more as she knows of the urgency of her errand."

"Indeed," Gríma muttered to himself and turned away from the man. He needed to know now. Any delay in the conveyance of information could prove fatal to his plans. If his men had failed, not even the Gods would protect them from his wrath! "I will go and await her on the terrace."

Her heart beating in her throat so loudly she could hardly hear anything else, Maelwyn hastened down the steep path leading from the Golden Hall to the first cottages, one of which was the smithy and the home of their old healer Yálanda, and her husband Bergfinn. She could hardly believe her luck that she was still alone; for even if Éowyn’s plan had sounded proper, the young handmaiden had been sceptical whether she would be allowed to leave Meduseld on her own. To her immense surprise, the guards had allowed her to pass without a word of protest. Apparently, they had forestalled the counsellor with this course of action, but as she ploughed hastily through the snow, Maelwyn still counted on it that a guard would be sent after her, and made hardly five steps without confirming with a glance back over her shoulder that she wasn’t followed. The snow was still falling thickly and visibility poor, but she seemed to be alone yet.

Slightly relieved by this discovery, she clutched the collar of her cape and slung it tighter around her body as she turned toward the noise emitting from the building next to the little hut where the old couple lived and found the blacksmith’s son at his workplace. He looked up as if he sensed her approach; a tall man in his beginning middle-years, strong of build as a result of his hard work and with the blue eyes and flaxen hair that would give his Rohirric ancestry away even in a great crowd of people.

"Mistress Maelwyn?" He squinted at her, his expression suddenly overcast with concern and the instrument in his hand temporarily forgotten as he sensed the urgency in her voice. "Is aught wrong? Is it the King?"

"A sudden fever has befallen the Lady Éowyn! We need your mother’s service very urgently."

"Éowyn!" The blue eyes widened in dismay, and Maelwyn remembered that her mistress and her brother had been well-acquainted with Bergfinn’s family for a long time. "My mother is in the house. I will get her immediately!," He turned toward the main building he and his wife and their parents shared. "Come with me!" Another look over her shoulder confirmed to Maelwyn that they were still alone, but still she could not help feeling as if all eyes in Edoras were directed at her every move. "Do you reckon it is something serious?"

"The fever seems to be very high and struck her without warning. Apart from that, I’m afraid I cannot say." She had to tell him now, the opportunity would never be better. Taking her heart in both hands as Élric shoved the door open and called for his mother, Maelwyn laid a hand on his arm. "And Élric, there is something else."

"Something else? What do you mean, Maelwyn? " He drew his eyebrows together in confusion and then looked down the corridor again as he heard no answer to his call. "Mother? Where are you?"

"My Lady asks for your help in an urgent matter. She made herself deliberately ill by taking a special potion so that they would send me for your mother and allow me to leave the hall. By telling you this, I lay both mine and my Lady’s life into your hands, Élric! Please, help us!" She stared into bewildered blue eyes and fell silent when the sound of steps approached them from the kitchen. A moment later, the old healer rounded the corner, and the woman’s wrinkled face turned to her in alarm.

"I am here, Élric. No need to be so impatient. Is that Maelwyn I see there? What is the matter, child? Who has fallen ill?"

"Alas, it is the Lady Éowyn," the young handmaiden reported dutifully. "She has a violent fever and trouble breathing. They sent me to fetch you."

"I knew it was too much for that poor girl! All this grief she had to endure over the last few days had to lead to something like this sooner or later. I hope Counsellor Gríma is proud of himself now." She bent to look for her leathern healer’s bag, then laid a hand on her brow as she suddenly remembered where she had left it. "Béma, what a forgetful old woman I have become! Wait here, child, I will be right back!" She disappeared in one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. Still confused, Élric turned back to his unexpected visitor and whispered:

"Are you saying Éowyn took poison? Was she trying to kill herself because of what happened to Éomer?"

"No," Maelwyn whispered back with the same intensity. If only she had been granted more time for her task! "She wanted to ask you herself to help Éomer, but the counsellor wouldn’t allow her to leave Meduseld, so she sent me instead. The counsellor must not know about this!"

Incredulity was written all over the blacksmith’s broad features as he stared at her.

"Things are getting worse within the Golden Hall with each passing day, Élric, but that is not why I am here. My Lady asks you whether you could ride out and deposit weapons for Éomer at their old hiding place, underneath a certain rock. She said you knew of what place I am speaking."

"When they banished the marshal, they took all his weapons. He is out there all by himself and unarmed, and Éowyn fears some foul play by the counsellor." From the far room, they heard Yálanda rummage through her things and talk to herself.

Her eyes one great plea, Maelwyn shifted her attention back to Élric. Was that a shadow she saw on the other side of the path?

"Please, I cannot say more, and there is no more time! Will you help? Can I tell my lady that she needs no longer worry?"

"He knows I am here to fetch your mother, and I must return with her, ere I wake their mistrust. Please, tell me, Èlric, what should I tell my mistress?" The shadow was gone, or perhaps it had never been there. Its absence calmed her not.

Following her gaze into the grey-white swirling snowstorm with pensive features, Élric mused: "It would raise suspicion if I rode out in this weather without a good reason." Deep in thought, he scratched his beard, his thoughts leagues away. The sound of his approaching mother brought him back, and finally, to Maelwyn’s utmost relief, he gave her the little nod she had been hoping for. "I will think of something. Tell Éowyn that I will see it done."

Relief lighting up her eyes, Maelwyn was already in the midst of throwing her arms around Élric’s neck when the sight of the healer behind him stopped her. Yálanda’s lined face wore an expression of mild bewilderment as she regarded her son and her visitor, whose demeanour seemed to have abruptly changed from gloomy to exultant, but then she shrugged it off and squeezed through the little opening in the door frame her son left.

Twilight had fallen when he woke. And despite the thick cloak he had tightly wrapped around himself, Éomer felt at once that the temperatures had again dropped. A lazy trail of vapour rose from his mouth with each of his breaths, and as he lifted a hand to wipe his eyes which were still heavy with sleep, his fingers brushed over a thick crust of ice that had formed in his beard. Disorientation washed over him while he waited for his eyes to accommodate to the darkness, his muscles involuntarily tensing as he straightened, grimacing when his stiff body creaked and groaned in reaction to the movement. Finally, he dimly remembered where he was, and with a soundless groan, settled back against the wall of the cave. This was not the dungeon. They had not found him yet.

Turning his likewise creaking neck to look outside, Èomer found to his relief that the snowstorm had stopped while he had been asleep. To the east, a great stripe of inken blackness began to paint the sky that was only weakly lit by the myriads of tiny bright pin-pricks, which sparkled like precious jewels on a bed of velvet. Due north, the greatest of them, marking the eye in Felarof’s outline on the nightly firmament, cast its cold light onto the frozen Mark, and later, the waxing moon would add its silvery light to the sparkle and reflect from the unspoiled blanket of white that covered the ground. It would be a bright night, a beautiful night, but Éomer felt not in the mood to appreciate its wonders. Snow was enjoyable only for as long as one had a home to return to once the fun of frolicking around in the white wetness was over and one’s limbs were numb from the hours in the cold. In his current situation, it was both a blessing and a curse: for as long as he remained where he was, the snow would be his friend, for it covered the tracks he had made on the way and muffled all noise, both his own… and those of potential foes. And as soon as he left this hideout, it would betray his whereabouts to anyone looking for him.

Slowly rolling his shoulders to warm up his aching muscles for the task at hand, Éomer mused whether they were already searching for him. Would they try to follow him from Edoras, or come at him from a direction they thought he wouldn’t expect? Did they have an inkling where he was headed? And who would his hunters be; orcs? Dunlendings? Or Felrod and his companions? It would be too good to be true. Éomer felt confident that he had what it took to take Gríma’s henchman down without looking twice. The mud-blooded filth was strong, but the light in his head shone not too brightly.

His gaze once more travelling over the twilit plains and finding nothing alarming, Éomer finally forced himself to his feet. It was not late yet, and some time remained before moonrise. The night would be too bright for a man in his situation, and the low temperatures would likewise work against him as they inevitably meant visible clouds of breath. At least, that would be a disadvantage he shared with his hunters... if he came across them. He did not expect Gríma to know of his secret hiding place in the fringes of the White Mountains, but if he did, the small grove of trees and the reed-covered edges of the Snowbourne would make for an interesting, deadly game of hide and seek.

It was time to move out. With a last sweep of his surroundings, Éomer carefully descended the narrow path to where he had left his trusted steed. Firefoot was nowhere to be seen when he reached the sheltered vale, but following the tracks in the snow, Éomer quickly discovered him underneath a crevice further back, and the big grey at once made his way over in response to his master’s low whistle, a low whicker leaving his throat in greeting. A thin, humourless smile wandered over Éomer’s face as he watched the stallion approach: there was another good side to the snow – it hid his horse well, dissolving the dappled dark and light grey form as it moved through the night. It was about time that something worked to his advantage.

Snorting and expelling a white cloud of warm air in Éomer’s face, Firefoot came to a halt in front of his master, thankful for company after the long hours of solitude. The feeling was mutual. Rubbing the stallion’s cheeks with his gloved hands, Éomer’s smile deepened. It was good to be no longer alone.

“Good lad. Good lad. What would I do without you?” He pressed his face into the thick winter-fur, briefly rejoicing in the sensation of warmth on his half-frozen skin before he gave himself the mental nudge to proceed. “Say, oh grey one, do you feel ready for an adventure?” A low guttural noise answered him and the way his horse clamped his teeth shut around the folds of his cloak to chew on them told Éomer that for once, Firefoot would probably have preferred the shelter of a warm, comfortable stable, a manger filled with oats and a good rub-down instead of his offering. He raised a brow in apology and patted the muscular neck. “I am sorry we are out here, Firefoot, but it seems that it cannot be helped for now. Let us pick up my weapons first, and then I will pay my debt and find you a warm, cosy cave for the night, what do you say?” With a last friendly clap, Éomer seized a handful of the stallion’s thick mane and swung himself onto the broad back. “Let us be on our way. The sooner we are finished with this business, the sooner we will be warm again.”

A very distinct feeling of anxiety had befallen Élric. At first, it had been but a vague notion of danger that had nestled in the pit of his gut even as he rummaged around in his workplace to find the items he would pack for Éomer. He had thought nothing of it, had even shoved it aside to concentrate on the task at hand. It was perfectly explainable why he felt uneasy; after all, he was preparing for an undertaking that would be regarded as an act of treason if he was caught, an undertaking that could easily cost him his head. For the briefest of moments, a voice in the back of his mind asked angrily why, of all the powerful people she knew, Éowyn had sought out him for her dangerous errand. He was no warrior. He knew how to wield a sword well enough from his sparrings with the White Lady and her brother, and because his profession as a metal-worker and weapons smith required such knowledge, but the truth was that he had never held a weapon of any kind against a living being with murderous intentions. How could she ask this of him?

The voice was abruptly silenced by the one he had been listening to all his life: the two siblings were his friends. They had grown up together, and the fact that he had been eight years older than Éomer had mattered little, because in certain regards, their minds had been alike. As the eldest of three brothers, Élric had displayed the same streak of fierce protectiveness toward his younger brothers as Éomer had toward his sister, and extending his protection to the king’s nephew and niece had not even been a conscious resolution but something that had simply happened. At first, Éomer had seemed irritated by it, but soon he had learned to take advantage of the situation by teaching his older and strongly-built friend the finer rules of swordplay he learned during his daily training lessons before passing Élric off to his uncle as a valiant protector he would rather wish to take along on his forays outside Edoras instead of a member of the Royal Guard.

And so it had happened that as a commoner, Élric had spent an unusual amount of time with the two royal siblings, learning of their secrets and hiding places as their friendship gradually deepened. It was friendship which had landed him in this pickle, and if the son of Bergfinn the blacksmith knew one thing, it was that friendships were proven in hard hours, not on days where the sun smiled down upon them. It had been a while since his sword lessons with Éomer, but Élric was nevertheless determined to be a good friend, a friend whose loyalty would not waver under any circumstance. And so here he was, riding out into the middle of a beginning snowstorm all by himself even though it could cost him his head in more ways than just one. What if he ran into orcs? What if something happened to his horse and he would be unable to return to Edoras before nightfall? And what if his departure had indeed been noticed by the wrong people?

For the umpteenth time since he had left the city, Élric’s gaze went back over his shoulder, and his heart missed a beat when this time, he discovered indeed four shadows to his far left, almost invisible behind the thick curtain of falling snow. The cold hand of fear tightening its grip on his stomach, his mind began to race. It could simply be a coincidence; after all, he was still on the road. Perhaps those riders had nothing to do with him. But what if? Should he try to outrace them? In these conditions of poor visibility, it might indeed be possible for him to disappear. But no, Élric dismissed the thought almost instantly. In addition to being a few years past his prime, the heavy-boned gelding he rode was not built for speed. And what use was there in shaking his pursuers if he had been identified and would be interrogated upon his return to Edoras? Fleeing would be an acknowledgement of guilt. No, the only way to handle this situation would be to keep to the plan he had made before his departure.

Quickly the shadows grew more solid which each of the horses’ leaps. Their riders were here for him, Élric noticed, because even though their steeds could have easily overtaken him at the slow pace he was going at, they remained level with him for a while before they were suddenly directed toward him, encircling him. Fighting against the panic rising in his chest as he recognised the heavily cloaked guards, Élric pulled on the reins and brought Gaér to an abrupt halt to not run into the rider who blocked his way.

“Excuse me, my lords, is aught wrong? Has a danger been reported on the road, or—“

“It is I who asks the questions here, blacksmith,” the rider before him growled impatiently, and Élric recognised him from the bushy black eyebrows as the man seen most often in the company of the king’s counsellor. “Whereto are you riding in this storm? I gather it must be rather important for you to leave the city under these conditions.”

They were all around him now, so close that Gaér fidgeted in discomfort at the other steeds’ proximity. Fighting with his mount as well as his own rising fear, Élric drew his eyebrows together in an attempt to appear righteously angry over the intrusion.

“I am indeed on my way to my brother’s family in the Folde. I finished a few tools for him today that he will have need of if these temperatures remain or drop even lower, as predicted. Like this axe here, for example.” He took it out of its pouch to show it to the guards. “His own was stolen, and he will need it for firewood.”

“And when was it that your brother told you?” the deep voice rebuked. “A few weeks ago? I cannot remember having seen anyone enter Edoras who did not dwell there since the beginning of winter. And only now that the weather turns ill you suddenly remember?”

“I had no iron to work with,” Élric insisted. “Like you said, there were no traders in the last weeks from outside. So I finally decided to melt some old horse-shoes yesterday and reworked them. I felt I could not longer wait.”

“And decided to ride through the hardest storm we had all winter to bring that axe to your brother. Aw, such loving dedication breaks my heart! My brother would rather kill me than do such a thing for me!” The ice-encrusted eyebrows twitched meaningfully while the other men laughed, then suddenly, there was the flicker of bright metal, and Élric found himself in the snow, his feet still in the stirrups of his saddle which had slid from his horse’s back. With a single fast swipe of his sword, the guard had cut his saddle girth, leaving a bloody scrape on the side of the old gelding. With a panicked scream, Gaér bolted, and the blacksmith suddenly found himself in the midst of an ever-tightening circle of restlessly shifting horses. Virtually at the last second, he withdrew his hand before a heavy hoof landed on it and crushed his bones. Deadly afraid and at the same time with mounting anger, he craned back his neck to glare at the leader of the pack.

“Look what’s in his saddlebags, Dôrlak,” Felrod ignored him, and his companion to the left quickly slid from his saddle and drew his sword. “I got a funny feeling that we have found the first Rohír in the history of the Mark who tries to tell us fairy-tales.”

“You cannot do this!” Hastily, Élric freed his feet of the stirrups and robbed backwards, with a quick glance trying to determine where his axe had fallen, but his path was cut off by another guard. “You are in the King’s service, you swore to protect us, not to terrorise us, have you forgotten? What you are doing is against the law!”

“It is funny that you should talk about the law, blacksmith,” Felrod replied calmly while he accepted the heavy leather pouch Dôrlak held up for him. Once glance into it was enough to determine the contents. The guards voice dropped to a dangerous snarl. “After all, you seem to be in the very process of violating it yourself in the most serious manner. Or do you want to tell me in all honesty that these weapons are for your brother, too?” He unsheathed the short sword he had found in the pouch and pretended to examine it. “Not a particularly kingly instrument. I assume it is for your brother to cut bread with because his knife has been stolen as well?” He threw it into the snow and took out a thin, sharp-bladed knife instead. “This is a much better work, even worthy of belonging to a member of the Royal Guard. Thank you for that wonderful gift.” He kept it in his gloved fist as he dismounted, the threat in his bearing unmistakable.

“You cannot do this!” Élric repeated anxiously, finally succeeding in scrambling to his feet, but he fell again when the rider behind him shoved him down by riding into him, and then the son of Bergfinn screamed when the horse’s hoof stomped forcefully on his thigh, breaking the bone with an audible crack.

Running a finger over the glistening blade of the knife, Felrod came to a halt only a step away from their groaning victim and glowered down onto the injured man with grim promise in his eyes.

“You have still not told us whose weapons these are, but that is all right, for I can easily guess. What I cannot yet guess is where you will meet with Éomer, but that is all right, too, for you will tell me!” He squatted down in the snow, his piercing gaze never once leaving Élric’s face. “You will tell me, blacksmith, or I swear, even though it is cold now, I will make you sweat every ounce of pain your body is capable of before I kill you, and upon my return, I will see to it that your parents and that treacherous bitch the king’s niece sent to you will be arrested and thrown into the dungeon. I doubt they would last very long down there. It is dark, and cold, and moist. In winter, most prisoners perish quickly from the infection to their lungs they catch there.” He shook his head and grimaced. “They suffocate on their own matter. Some take days before it is finally over. It is a very ugly death I’ve been told.”

“My parents have nothing to do with it,” Élric breathed, horrified by the thought. “They do not know—“

“Do you honestly believe that I care, traitor?” The gleaming steel-blade held directly in front of his victim’s face, Felrod’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “Tell me where you were taking these weapons, and they shall live. Lie to me – and I’ll make it true. It is your choice!”

The world behind the windows had turned dark grey when the old healer’s expression finally lit up. In the warm light of the flickering candles and oil lamps, the woman’s wrinkled face looked ancient to the frightened handmaiden who shared her watch over the king’s niece, but for the first time since they had entered Éowyn’s chambers, Maelwyn was certain that it was relief she saw reflected in the pale blue eyes. For hours they had tended Éowyn, administering her bitter teas and potions and wrapping the White Lady’s calves and brow with cold, wet cloths to lower the fever that burned within her body until the first results showed.

Maelwyn had assisted as best she could by fetching and sending the other servants for the items and herbs needed, but on the whole, she had been forced to stand back and watch with a terrible feeling of helplessness how Éowyn restlessly shifted on her sweat-soaked bed. The secret she carried within about her conversation with the healer’s son burnt on Maelwyn’s tongue, and yet she dared not utter a word in the presence of the old woman for fear that Éowyn, who kept unconsciously mumbling to herself in her fevered dreams, would accidentally spill it herself to the wrong ears. How much she longed to tell her lady that her plan had worked and help for her brother was underway; how much she longed to ease Éowyn’s troubled mind, but although they seemed to be alone in these chambers, Maelwyn remembered all-too-clearly the glance the counsellor had given her upon her return to the Golden Hall. As soon as his pale blue eyes had found her climbing up the stairs to the terrace, they had held her captive; piercing her like an arrow would pierce a deer. It had seemed to her that he had looked right into her head, not seeing her treacherous thoughts clearly but sensing their distinct scent nonetheless. Luckily, Yálanda had quickly pulled her along and out of the dark man’s reach, but even as the door had closed behind her, it seemed to the young handmaiden as if she could still feel the counsellor’s stare on her back.

Éowyn’s plight, however, had soon occupied her thoughts so thoroughly that the counsellor had been forgotten. Strewn on her bed, her always pale face so ghostly white that Maelwyn had actually feared for a moment that they had arrived too late, Éowyn had seemed near death, too weak to lift her head or even speak as Yálanda began her work on her. This was not the situation her mistress had prepared her for. Yes, she had said that the potion would give her a fever serious enough for the healer needing to be summoned, but not that it would bring her to the brink of death itself. Éomer would be horrified if he ever learned that his sister had almost killed herself in order bring him help.

Only now that she felt encouraged by the healer’s satisfied expression, Maelwyn dared to stand up from the chair in the corner she had occupied for some time now, silently observing, and asked:

“Aye. She feels cooler to the touch. It deems me that she has mastered the worst of it.” Gently, Yálanda smoothed a wet strand of Éowyn’s golden hair from her exhausted looking face, and her eyes registered with satisfaction the regular rising and falling of her patient’s chest as she slid deeper into the arms of healing sleep. “Sleep well, child. We are here, watching over you.” She turned to Maelwyn.

“I will remain in Meduseld for the night, Lady Maelwyn, but I cannot deny that I am feeling fatigued myself. I believe it would be best if we could split the night watch between the two of us, that is if you could stay, too.”

“Of course, Mistress Healer. I would not want leave my lady in this state and go home; I could find no sleep myself that way. I already sent one of the lads home to tell my husband. He will understand.” She looked at the peacefully sleeping Éowyn. “It was horrible to see her suffer so much. Do you truly believe that the worst has passed?”

“Aye, child. It looks to me like the White Lady is sleeping the sleep of healing now. I would be surprised if she woke before tomorrow evening. The rest will do her more good than I could ever do with all my herbs and potions. Do not worry, Maelwyn, I am certain that you mistress will survive this. – But tell me, could I ask you to keep the first watch? I am no longer as energetic as you, young lady, and fear that I need a few hours of rest myself before I can continue, as much as I would like to remain at Éowyn’s side.”

“I will be in the guest chambers should you need me, and release you of your watch three hours after moonrise. But do not hesitate to wake me earlier if something arises.” With considerable effort, Yálanda made her way over to the door, bent like an old branch. Touching the handle, she looked back. “Shall I instruct the kitchen to send you something? I cannot remember having seen you eat the whole day.”

“That would be nice, my lady. Now that you mention it, I do indeed feel hungry.”

“I will tell them to send you some soup and bread. It is ill enough that the king’s niece has been struck down by the fever, we cannot afford to have the few people of intelligence and compassion left in this hall weakened, too. It is us who hold the kingdom together these days.” The door closed behind her to a silence that was only interrupted by the crackle of the fireplace.

Love and concern in her eyes, Maelwyn gently laid a hand on Éowyn’s brow to feel for herself. Aye, the lady definitely felt cooler to the touch.

“Fear not, my Lady,” she whispered confidentially. “Help for your brother is on the way.”

Éomer heard the urgent rush of fast-flowing water long before he saw the dark floods of the Snowbourne glisten through the steady change of sparkling snow, the shadows of trees and the absolute blackness of the thick undergrowth. With the merest pressure of his thighs and a slight tug at Firefoot’s mane, he signalled the grey to halt his steps, and breathlessly, both rider and steed reached out with their combined senses to listen to the many different voices of the night. Each rustle in the thicket of dead plants, each stirring in the crowns of the trees and each call that reached their ears was registered and identified: close by, the urgent sound of a rabbit breaking cover; from above, the almost inaudible rustle of air on feathers as a bird in the crown of the nearest tree stretched its wings, and from a distance, almost on the edge of Éomer’s perception, the hesitant, careful steps of perhaps a deer moving through the deserted forest. There was no crunching of snow underneath heavy boots, or the distant whickering of horses left tied to a branch while their riders lay in a stakeout for him; nor muffled noises or urgent whispering giving away the presence of other human visitors to this corner of the Mark. It seemed to Éomer that he was indeed the only human soul in this forest… and still he knew better than to trust first impressions. He waited, biding his time.

The blanket of white he saw over the stallion’s pricked ears looked undisturbed except for a few animal tracks, yet further confirmation of his solitude since the snowfall had stopped hours ago. From the left, the rush of wings prompted Éomer to turn his head just in time to see a big owl land on one of the stronger branches of an old oak, and for a moment, wide orange eyes met his before the bird lowered its head to tear a strip of meat from the prey it held in its talons. An faint, unconscious smile wandered over Éomer’s face at the sight. Owls were shy, elusive birds. If this one felt secure enough to feed, it probably meant that there was indeed no danger to be feared.

And still he waited for another moment before he dismounted, his senses now exclusively focused on his mount, and the experienced war-horse knew what his rider expected of him. The slightest twitch of the mighty muscles or even the lowest hint of a whicker from his throat would mean that Firefoot sensed the presence of others in their vicinity, but for now, his steed remained quiet. The large dark eyes swept the silent forest as the stallion drank the chill air through his widened nostrils, tasting it for the scent of predators. At last, he shook his head and released the breathless tension with a heartfelt snort. Following his example, Éomer allowed himself to relax as well and patted Firefoot’s shoulder as he slid from the horse’s back.

The last part of the way he would have to go on foot. So far, the trees had provided them with excellent cover from potentially hostile eyes, but his old hideout lay closer to the edge of the river, well-hidden within a broad belt of dried reed. As children and even more as young adults, they had often sought refuge here whenever the days in Meduseld had been too dark and depressing to bear. Endless hours had they spent here together with Éothain, and on occasion also Élric, making plans and vows about what they would change as soon the necessary power was theirs. Although it had been their shelter, the memories Éomer held of this place were bittersweet.

Forcing himself to concentrate anew, he shoved away the distant images and assessed the situation: it would be difficult to move through the reed without giving himself away. So far, Éomer had neither seen nor felt the presence of others, but he had not survived countless battles and risen to the position of a marshal at his young age because he underestimated the necessity of caution. This was not the time to rush things. Out in the wild, even the smallest mistake usually proved fatal. He had seen enough valiant warriors unexpectedly called to the halls of their ancestors because a single, brief moment of impatience, and he was determined not to fall prey to the patterns of behaviour expected of him. They believed him to be rash, unconsidered. Very well if they thought that. It would make his task easier.

"Wait here," he muttered under his breath to Firefoot, knowing that the stallion understood and would not stray far from the place he was left at. On second thought, Éomer also slipped out of his cloak, although he hesitated to abandon the excellent camouflage its grey colour provided: it would render it impossible to move silently through the reeds. Laying the folded garment on a tree stump next to his stallion, Éomer stealthily made his way over to where the last rows of trees granted him cover before the area of dried scarp, his eyes tirelessly sweeping his surroundings for the treacherous columns of frozen breath. The crunching of the snow beneath his boots seemed treacherously loud to his ears as he ducked through the undergrowth and halted. A brief flicker of movement in the shadows of the thicket to his left caught his attention and was quickly identified as a fox. Suddenly aware of the presence of his unbidden visitor, the beast darted away, a white blur in the nightly forest, and only its tracks in the snow remained as proof of its existence.

Savouring the sensation of crisp air filling his lungs as he took a deep, silent breath, Éomer suddenly noticed a first slivery sparkle in the water. The moon was about to begin its course over its silken black realm, and its pale light would soon reflect from the freshly fallen snow and illuminate the night; a combination favouring the hunter and putting the hunted at a disadvantage. No matter if he was indeed the only human soul out here, it would be best to hurry, as he had no intentions to change from predator to prey. Only one question still remained, and soon enough, it would be answered: had Éowyn succeeded in sending his weapons?

With infinite caution, Éomer lowered himself onto all fours and began to edge through the scarp toward his destination. Skilfully using the cover it provided without causing the dried stems to sway and betray his whereabouts, he moved along; a cat on the prowl, the born hunter, his movements noiseless and fluent as he advanced and at the same time soaked up the noises around him. Nothing escaped his attention: not the low song of the mild breeze in the thicket of dead stems, not the low gargle of the river through the patches of ice which tried to hinder its waters from their journey south – and not the sudden flutter of wings as three small birds suddenly burst into flight before him.

Cursing soundlessly while his heart pounded furiously against his ribcage, Éomer sat back and held his breath. Anyone looking had now been alerted of something moving through the thicket, and so he waited anxiously for the noise of heavy boots in the snow closing in on him, or the tell-tale rustle of a heavy bodies in the scarp. Yet it remained calm. Closing his eyes for a brief moment as relief almost became too great to bear, Éomer silently shook his head to himself and proceeded. It was about time he finished this and went on his way, for his nerves would not take many more of these incidents.

When he finally caught sight of the group of rocks he was headed for, a first wave of exuberance flooded his veins as he detected the single line of footsteps leading up to the biggest of them, the one with the small den underneath they had used as a storage for their provisions and later, messages. From behind, the lonely cry of the owl emitted into the night, unanswered. Encouraged by the silence, Éomer moved on, and as he approached, he caught a first glimpse of a heavy leathern pouch underneath the rock.

His heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribcage, he advanced, and the feeling of the first triumph over the worm, even if it was only a small one, pushed him forward with renewed purpose. All of a sudden, his prospects would vastly improve: armed with sword, bow and knife, he would give any foe he met, orc or man alike, a fierce fight. His reputation as one of the Mark’s most valiant warriors had scared away solitary enemies for a long time now; in fact it had been years since any of them had been willing to test their battle-skills against him in a one-on-one fight at all. As long as it was no army Gríma would summon against him, Éomer felt confident that he had what it took to emerge yet victorious from this greatest of his challenges. The object of his efforts now almost within reach and impatient to feel the encouraging weight of a sword in his hand again, Éomer pulled off his gloves with his teeth and reached out, his fingers closing around the pouch. Frowning at its absurdly light weight as he pulled it out from the den, he unpacked the one item it contained, and suddenly the feeling of a sling tightening around his neck paralysed him: it was a stick he held in his hand.

Frozen by the implications of his discovery – ‘They caught Éowyn! Is she dead? How many- ‘ - Éomer stared at the gnarled parody of a weapon in his hand, until a sudden rustle in the scarp broke the spell. Reflexes honed by years of experience sent him to the ground and into a controlled spin before he had consciously realised the danger; the warrior in him taking over as with a sharp thwack, an arrow embedded itself into the ground he had occupied only a heartbeat before.

Back on his feet, he instantaneously charged into the wall of reeds, not pausing once to look back and check how many foes there were on his heels or whether they were men or orcs. As cunningly as this trap had been laid, they had probably spread around him, and even the slightest hesitation would buy him an arrow in the back. Abruptly breaking to the left, Éomer felt the current of air on his neck as another shot missed him only by the breadth of a hair.

From further behind where he had left Firefoot, a horse’s shriek suddenly pierced the air, and Éomer cursed under his breath as he ploughed through the thicket in a hare’s zigzag, performing another sudden switchback only to drop to his knees and breathlessly wait for his pursuers to give their positions away. How many were there? Would there be a chance to take one of them by surprise and acquire his weapons? Sensing movement to his right, he crouched deeper.

"I missed. Rabid dog’s faster n’ a snake! But he can’t be far. Be silent!"

Two men so far. And at least another one back where Firefoot was. Silently praying that they had not killed his horse, Éomer laid a hand on his mouth to disperse the vapour of his breath as he cautiously exhaled. From behind him, the concussion of approaching steps caused his strained muscles to vibrate with tension. He was ready for the fight, but where was the other man? To his right, moving away, the distance between them growing.

Flexing his fingers, Éomer concentrated on the steps and tensed. His life probably depended on him killing the man silently. The darkness in front of him took shape as the reed parted, and he threw himself at his adversary with the velocity of a striking snake. The surprised man he crashed into barely had time to utter more than a breathless gasp before Éomer had him in a death grip and snapped his neck with a powerful jolt.

Alas, their brief fight had not gone unnoticed. As there was no use in easing the dead man soundlessly to the ground, Éomer dropped him where he stood and stooped to retrieve his knife, the rustle in the scarp already indicating that his foes were closing in on him again. Deciding to place his hope in speed rather than stealth, he bolted as an excited shout erupted into the night.

The reeds whipping his bare face as he raced toward the forest’s edge, Éomer somehow managed to collect enough air for a sharp whistle. It compromised his position but could not be helped, for there was but one thing left to save him now, and the furious shriek of his horse told him that he had been heard. Almost simultaneously, a pained shout rang out from the darkness of the forest, followed by the distant thunder of hooves.

More shouting, orders screamed regardless whether they were overheard. They were certain they had him cornered and advanced from two sides now, cutting off his path to the cover of the forest. It did not change Éomer’s strategy. They would not be able to shoot at him with greater accuracy while they ran, so Éomer dashed toward the shadow closest to him; already switching his grip on the knife toward the blade. Only at the last possible moment his ears told him that the man had already stopped and was probably aiming his bow in his direction, and he acted instinctively. A pained shout rewarded him as the knife he had thrown blindly indeed found its mark, and with a dull thud, the arrow meant to kill him embedded itself into the ground at his feet.

Starting toward his adversary to retrieve his just won knife, Éomer parted the reed and froze: the thug was still on his feet, the heft of the weapon protruding from his left shoulder while he already held his sword in his other hand, looking both pained and eager to kill. With his comrades advancing fast, there was only one decision open to Éomer, and he ground his teeth and bolted, abandoning the blade with a heavy heart.

The stallion answered him immediately, and suddenly, his great grey body broke through the undergrowth and raced toward Éomer. A rope dangled from his neck, but there was no one at the other end.

In full run, Éomer shot out his hand, and his fingers closed around the horse’s thick mane as he virtually threw himself onto Firefoot’s back. A hail of arrows rained down on them, one even leaving a tear in his tunic, but then Éomer had found his right seat and the Half-Meara accelerated, leaving only little clouds of snow in his wake that had already settled while the hunters realised that their trap had been sprung.

Grinning at the sound of the frustrated shouts behind him even if he could not understand the words, Éomer cast a quick glance over his shoulder to establish that his assassins had indeed stopped at the edge of the forest. A flood of pure energy raced through his veins, so intense it stole his breath. He had bested them. They had been waiting for him, five of the worm’s henchmen, heavily armed and with the advantage of surprise on their side, and yet he had managed to kill one of them and wound another man. For the first time, the stinking traitor in the Golden Hall had received a taste of what it meant to be at war with the sons of Éorl, and if it was in his power, Éomer was determined for it to be only a vague hint of what he had planned for Gríma Wormtongue and his minions.

The sensation of triumph was fleeting though, as the question of how those men had found out about Éowyn’s plan sobered him quickly and thoroughly. He doubted that the snake would actually hurt his sister, not while he still desired her and ultimate success within his grasp now that all her protectors had either been killed or expelled, but still the question remained: what had happened?

Still battling with his unsettling thoughts, Éomer was suddenly cast back into reality by his stallion’s enraged shriek, and from one leap to the next, Firefoot accelerated to full speed. A moment later, a similarly angered answer emitted from the thinning trees they were headed for, and next to them Éomer could make out the shapes of six horses in full tack. What a lucky coincidence: by sheer chance, he had just stumbled across his assassins’ means of transportation, and the opportunity was too good to let it pass unused. Acting on impulse, Éomer directed Firefoot at the small group with a malicious smile: he would buy himself some rest for the remainder of the night, possibly even longer.

His eyes watering from the icy wind in his eyes, Éomer blinked as they charged toward the horses and could not help being amused by the display of his own steed’s fury. The way the grey stallion stretched beneath him, his hooves hammering the ground in a frantic rhythm at the challenge of the other horse, it appeared to him that Firefoot - just like he - was in desperate need of unleashing the accumulated frustration of the past days against someone. He wanted to fight, and the bay horse that presented itself to him by stepping away from the others was an ideal target. Yet as much as Éomer sympathised with his animal ally, killing those horses was not what he had in mind. If he succeeded instead in re-directing Firefoot’s fury to chasing the horses away and thus rob his hunters of their transportation, the manoeuvre would buy him valuable time. And perhaps, if he was lucky, Gríma’s henchmen would not even make it back to Edoras on foot. The Mark was a dangerous place not only for the righteous men. Yes, this plan seemed sound. Now all he had to do was convince his furious stallion of it.

"Hoh, Grey One, slow down! No need to scare them senseless! They’re your kin, remember? You’re not a warg, so stop behaving like one! " He tugged on the mane and shifted his weight to bring Firefoot alongside the other horses – and found himself ignored. "He! I am talking to you!"

Now forcefully attempting to hinder the Half-Meara from charging into the others like a ram, Éomer was almost unseated when without warning, Firefoot performed a wild swing to the right. Clinging to the thick mane for all he was worth, Éomer – to his bafflement – suddenly heard a surprised shriek and caught the fleeting glimpse of a dark shape in their path before he felt the impact of Firefoot’s hooves on something soft. Looking back as his steed continued almost without interruption, he saw the man collapsed in a heap behind them, unmoving. Of course. They wouldn’t have left their horses unguarded. Not finding it in himself to pity the man when he had come here to kill him, Éomer regained his seat and shifted his attention back at the horses they had almost reached by now.

The bay who had challenged Firefoot had apparently come to his senses at the close-up sight of his steaming opponent, because he suddenly turned on his hind legs and bolted, taking the others with him. Swearing and seeing his stallion’s ears twitch at his angered outcry, Éomer slapped the grey neck hard with his flat hand.

"Stubborn mule, now see what you’ve done! It could have been much easier!" Still angrily shaking his head to himself, Éomer decided he had enough of being only a passenger on his steed’s back. It was about time he regained control. With a few rigorous commands, he threw Firefoot around almost in a circle, clinging to his back like burdock, before he allowed him to resume pursuing the other horses, only at a much slower pace. As soon as they were no longer spooked, he would ride up to them and grasp their reins, and then lead them far, far away…

Dawn lay yet hours away when Maelwyn left the servants’ quarters after a few hours of shallow, restless sleep. Although Éowyn’s condition had further improved during her watch, concern had kept the handmaiden awake for the greater part of the night even after the healer had relieved her of her duty, as so many questions of consequence were still open and would only be answered in a few days, if they were lucky. What was Élric doing right now, and was he someplace safe? Had he succeeded in bringing the weapons and provisions to Éomer? If he had indeed travelled on to his brother’s in the Folde after depositing them at the secret place, he would not be back for at least another two days, a torturous span of time when so many lives were at stake. Was Éomer still alive, or had some horrible destiny befallen him even before his sister’s plan could have brought him relief? And what about herself, Maelwyn could not help wondering; had her conversation with the blacksmith been observed? Or had the counsellor made the connection after being informed about Élric’s sudden departure despite the harsh weather? Would he perhaps even wait for her at the White Lady’s door for a thorough interrogation? That thought frightened her. What would happen if he found her guilty of treason?

The hand of fear digging its cold fingers into her stomach, Maelwyn hastily directed her steps over to the kitchen to fetch Éowyn’s breakfast and occupy her mind with something else for a change. A wonderful scent of freshly baked bread wafted into the great hall whenever the kitchen doors opened and closed, and under other circumstances, she would have found it mouth-watering. Yet after the long day and even longer night of worry, Maelwyn felt not yet ready for food. She also thought not that Éowyn would like much of a breakfast after the fever, but at least the tea would help her restore some of her strength. And Yálanda might want the rest of what she would bring them. Silently working in the kitchen until she had everything assembled on her tray, Maelwyn turned and left the cooks to their daily business, suddenly very intent to reach the relative safety of Éowyn’s chambers before she could be intercepted by the counsellor or one of his men.

She was intercepted nonetheless, but not by the man she dreaded. No, it was Éothain who called out to her as she was already bracing herself for the confrontation with the stern-looking guard in front of her lady’s door. Inwardly thankful for the reason to delay the inevitable, she turned to the warrior who apparently had been waiting on one of the benches close to the hearth, balancing the tray in her hands. Although Éothain still stood several paces away and the flickering light of the few torches kept burning at night was not bright enough to let her see his face well, the dread in his eyes caused Maelwyn’s stomach to contract painfully.

“Maelwyn.” He came closer, and the defeat in his body language almost made her cry. She had always liked the powerfully built young man who was so akin to the king’s nephew. Possessed of the same fiery temperament and strong sense of justice as his friend, Éothain’s slightly different brand of humour and talent for gallantry had quickly caught her attention after she had taken up her service for the Lady Éowyn four years ago. Like Éomer, however, the son of the esteemed Captain Céorl was no man she could ever hope to win for herself, but certainly Éothain had never made her feel like just a lowly servant. To see him in this state of dismayed helplessness was yet another blow to her spirits Maelwyn desperately struggled to uphold. “They will not tell me anything apart from that she’s sleeping. Tell me the truth, Maelwyn, how is Éowyn faring? Has the healer been able to help her?”

They’d have to be careful under the guard’s observation. She’d have to watch her words. This was an entirely new experience for her, to be part of a conspiracy. It could have been exciting if she hadn’t been so frightened.

“Aye, she was, Éothain, don’t worry. When I left my lady last night, it seemed that her fever had dropped, and I believe that they would have woken me had there been any changes to the worse in her condition. Yálanda and I shared the night watch, and she is still with her. Éowyn is in good hands, Éothain.” How much she wanted to embrace and comfort him. But was it advisable under the guard’s scrutiny? On the other hand, they had been amiable with each other before, why should they stop now all of a sudden? In reaction to her short report, Éothain’s expression lit up, but the hint of mental fatigue and even shame in his eyes would not dissipate. Shame? Surely he blamed not himself for what had happened the day before, did he? Stepping away from the door under pretence of having to put down the tray on one of the long tables, Maelwyn signalled for the warrior to follow her and lowered her voice as she turned around, not to a whisper which would have woken instant suspicion, but to a level that was just low enough so that the man at the door wouldn’t understand their words.

“Éothain, you are not at fault here. There is nothing you could have done for Éomer yesterday. There was nothing anybody could have done.”

Éothain seemed to stare right through her; the lowly burning fire in the hearth gleaming in his eyes as he slowly shook his head.

“I should have left together with him, along with the other men of his éored. My father eventually talked us out of it, but it still feels to me as if I betrayed my best friend.”

“But you are needed here, Éothain! The people of Edoras need you. What would we do if all righteous men left and we’d be at the mercy of these crooked men? As long as some of you remain here to put limits to what he can do, we can still hope that there will be a change for the better. Please, do not rob us of this hope. Éothain?” Impulsively, she laid a hand on his arm, but his thoughts were still somewhere else.

“Those were my father’s words. And I do understand his point of view, but still…” he looked over Maelwyn’s shoulder in the direction of the royal chambers, his lips tightening. “Perhaps we could be of better help to our people if we had left.” His voice dropped even lower. “I know what Éomer will do out there: he will summon the riders and return, he will not accept the verdict. And at least Elfhelm and his men will follow him, and I do not think that they will be the only ones. Perhaps Éomer will succeed in uniting our people against what has befallen us.” His expression darkened further. “I only wish I could ride with them. Of what use can I be here? The worm only keeps me here so that he can carry out his foul plans outside the city gates. It is not like he gives me any important errands to carry out within the confines of Edoras. He jus wants me to stay out of his way.”

“That may be so, but I will tell you again, Éothain: your very presence guarantees the safety of the people here in Edoras. And once Éomer returns, it will be your task to stop the counsellor’s men from within the city, before they can think of anything horrible to do.”

The young captain still seemed unconvinced, but at least she had his full attention now.

“But what if we hope in vain for his return? What if he is already dead? I think I am the one who knows best what skill Éomer has with the blade; I know he is not a man who is easily thwarted, but he is all alone out there, and without arms! And even if he was armed, he needs to sleep some time. He cannot be on his guard all day and all night! What if orcs find him while he’s sleeping, or-“

“Éothain!” Maelwyn raised her voice. “You must not think of that now. It is not in our power to prevent it.” Feeling the strong impulse to comfort him, she first cast a cautious look over the young captain’s shoulder to make sure that his back obstructed her from the guard’s view before she whispered with a meaningful twitch of her eyebrows: “Help for Éomer is underway. My lady arranged for it yesterday, her illness was part of the plan to get me out of Meduseld. Please, I cannot say more, just rest assured that Éomer is not alone in this. Have faith, Éothain. We must not lose hope now.” Craning back her neck, Maelwyn met his scrutinising glance freely, and at last, he seemed to believe her. Taking her into his strong arms, the son of Céorl – to Maelwyn’s as well as to his own surprise – suddenly kissed her brow before letting her go. For the longest moment, they looked at each other in bafflement before he nodded and turned to go.

“Thank you, Maelwyn. Be assured that that knowledge is safe with me. I will do what I can to help our people here, but please, come to me if there is anything I can do for you or Éowyn; no matter what, no matter when! Do not trust anyone else.” He interrupted himself, the sudden uproar of emotions to strong to be kept inside nearly choking him. Aware of Maelwyn’s stunned expression, he only managed two more hastily spoken sentences before he virtually stormed toward the exit: “I will come back later. Be careful, Maelwyn.”

It was still dark when Éomer halted Firefoot with a slight tug at the reins. Following the loss of his cloak, he had literally clung to the stallion’s neck for the better part of the ride to soak up the warmth his horse exuded, but inevitably the moment had come where it became impossible for him tocontinue his ride only in his tunic and breeches. To his misfortune, the horses he had abducted had carried neither spare garments nor blankets with which he could have substituted his thick cloak; likewise he had found no additional weapons in the saddlebags, only a few provisions. Together with a set of tack, they were the only things of use to him. Relieving the horses of their saddles, Éomer had put one of them on Firefoot’s back and filled the bags with his sparse loot, then - in order to prevent the animals from running straight back to their masters as any well-trained Rohirric horse would do once he released them - he tied their reins to a thick branch. To leave them a chance to free themselves if a danger should arise, however, he did not pull the knots very tight. It was a gamble he was taking, but Rohan needed its horses. About the dark bay whose bridle and saddle he had used on Firefoot, he could do nothing to keep him close, but thought not that the gelding would stray far from his companions. In any case it would be a long walk for Felrod and his band of thugs to reclaim their mounts.

Yet not even this amusing thought could lighten his spirits anymore. While the ruffians would simply be cold for a while, but certainly were in no danger of freezing to death, Éomer himself felt chilled to the bone, his teeth were clattering and he knew that he would not live to see the light of the new day if he did not take immediate action. Keen on making the most of the advantage he had gained by the abduction of his foes’ horses, he had relentlessly pressed on to reach the mountains instead of seeking shelter from the elements, and only now that they had travelled over terrain where the snow had been blown clear from the rock for a while, Éomer felt secure enough to stop. Perhaps not for the night, but long enough to help himself to some shelter from the temperatures.

Looking back the way they had come, he registered with satisfaction that they had left no tracks and shifted back in the saddle to concern himself with the new challenge he was faced with: behind Firefoot’s flickering ears, a thin column of smoke lazily rose into the sky from a group of buildings. Éomer knew the hard-working people living here well and felt miserable about having to drag them into this most unfortunate business, even if he could see no other option. It was either freezing to death or… steal? Grimacing at the word alone, Éomer took a deep breath. Yes, he would have to steal indeed, for it would be the only way to keep the couple out of trouble. It was no secret that their people were anything but adept at lying. He did not doubt that Forlorn and Théa would grant him anything he asked of them even if he woke them in the middle of the night, but if Gríma’s minions somehow found out that he had disappeared in this direction, things could get very ugly. No matter what happened, he would not be Gríma’s justification for the killing of innocent people. For once, it would be best to simply swallow his pride and take what he needed like an ordinary thief, and be gone before anyone found out who had paid them a nightly visit.

Patting Firefoot’s neck, Éomer slid from the saddle and ground his teeth at the discovery of how numb his body had already become in the cold.

“I know you would rather want to be in that barn than out here, Big One. I would that we could stay, too, but it is something that we just cannot do.” Narrowing his eyes as his gaze swept over the peaceful picture of the farmhouse and its stables and barn, Éomer clenched his jaw. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

The stallion’s snort sounding rather annoyed behind him as he advanced on feet he didn’t even feel anymore, Éomer listened into the night. He knew that the couple owned two fearsome watchdogs, a breed of wolfhound that was kept throughout the Mark as guardians for the stock, and scanned the patches of snow for their tracks without finding any. With luck, they would be kept inside the stables at these fierce temperatures, and his tired and freezing mind refused to come up with a solution for the case if they were not. After all he had been forced to endure these past days, wouldn’t it just be fitting to be ripped to pieces by his own people’s guard dogs? Surely Gríma would delight in such news, which was one of the reasons why he could not let it happen. Yet without arms, what should he do if he was detected?

‘Firefoot would come to my aid, even if he is cross with me at the moment,’ Éomer thought, briefly pausing in the shadow of the last tree before he would actually enter farm territory. There was still no sign of the dogs. Looking back, he briefly confirmed his stallion was indeed paying heed to his order before he advanced, treading even more carefully. There was no light anywhere in the house as he passed, but Éomer was still glad when it lay behind him. Now, where to go? Where would he find anything of use? Since entering the main house was out of the question, Éomer decided to try his luck first in the biggest building, since the barn was the place where most farmers kept their tools. What he would do if his search were in vain he did not know, and he pushed the thought back as he stealthily approached the great wooden structure over the patches of ice in an attempt not to leave a trace and at the same time, not to slip.

From the long building to his right, the muffled noises of sheep could be heard, and their scent reached his nose with amazing clarity through the chill air. Still no dogs. He reached the barn and craned back his neck to peer at the small window below the roof. To reach it, he would have to climb the pile of firewood stocked next to the building’s wall, an activity he was not looking forward to as it would be far too easy to slip on these ice-covered tree trunks and send the whole pile tumbling and seriously injure himself in the process. Yet what else could he do? A quick test revealed what he had already assumed: the door was locked and secured with an additional iron-chain. No way to get in through here, so the window it was for him.

Flexing his numb fingers to get at least some feeling back into them, Éomer began the ascent by carefully placing his foot on the first trunk. It did not roll away under his weight, and encouraged, he moved on, swiftly and cautiously at the same time nearing the narrow rectangle above him until he was directly below it and able to reach the wooden frame with his fingertips. Another quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that he still had the night to himself, and he turned back and tensed, then jumped. His fingers closed around the middle beam of the window, and with a chin-up, Éomer pulled himself up to see a barricade in the form of a pressed block of straw in front of him. Finding hold on the small ledge, he placed his shoulder against it and pushed cautiously, but persistently. Slowly, the block gave way.

The first sensation as he squeezed through the window was that of warmth… and then the smell of the animals and the noises of their restless shifting trickled into his awareness as well. Stretching his neck to orientate himself in the semi-darkness from his elevated position, Éomer looked down on two rows of stalls holding cattle and two heavy-set horses. From their calm demeanour, Éomer concluded that the beasts had not yet picked up the scent of their unbidden nightly visitor, and so he used the moment to look around further. The flickering light of an oil lamp that enabled him to see stemmed from an even higher place opposite him, where two booted feet stuck out from underneath a blanket: a guard. He tensed, even though he had not expected to find himself alone in here. These days, no farmer could risk his stock by leaving it unprotected. He would have to be quiet.

With careful, conscious movements, Éomer silently advanced to the edge of the straw and peered down. There was still no sign of the dogs, but as he looked to his right, he saw to his excitement a couple of fur-lined, thick leather capes hanging from hooks at the wall underneath the sleeping guard’s position. There was a small shed there, as well, which probably contained work tools such as axes, hammers and sickles, things he could use well for a weapon in lack of a better option. His heart beating faster at the sight of this treasure, Éomer climbed down and came to stand on the stone floor only a moment later. A brief glance upwards confirmed that the guard was still asleep, and so he took his heart in both hands and closed the distance to the wall with a few fast and soundless steps, his fingers already digging into the thick fur to unhook the cape – when a sudden low, menacing snarl turned his stomach into a block of ice. Inwardly swearing, Éomer turned around. From the corridor between the two rows of stalls, a pair of amber glowing eyes was set on him, and even as he looked, the growl rose in volume, the flickering light now also reflecting from an impressive looking set of pointed fangs as the wolfhound they belonged to approached.

‘Gods, I almost had it! Am I spared nothing?‘ Lunging for the first thing within his reach, Éomer’s fingers closed around a hayfork, which he stabbed menacingly in the direction of his attacker. Yet instead of jumping, the well-trained guard dog immediately retreated to wake the barn with his hysterical barking. The alarm was instantly picked up by the cows and horses and filled the building with an ear-splitting din that could impossibly be overheard even in the distant main house.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath…!” Still attempting to hold the dog at bay with the fork single-handedly, Éomer seized one of the capes and started to edge his way back to the pile of straw blocks when a young frightened voice from above froze him in his tracks.

“Faestor? What is it? Is there something-“ The light of the lamp started to move down the ladder, and with a sigh of resignation, Éomer retreated all the way to the wall while a burning feeling of shame twisted his insides. So it had come to this: the former proud Marshal of the Mark had been reduced to a petty thief who broke into stables at night to steal from the people he had once sworn to protect and scare their children. No longer attempting to escape detection, Éomer waited until the young lad he knew to be the oldest son of the couple saw him. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

The lad, no older than thirteen or fourteen summers, held a small axe in his hand which he lifted now in pitiful threat upon the sight of the stranger in his barn. Not intending to scare the boy further, Éomer did not move a muscle.

“I mean you no harm, Hâlrod, relax. I only wanted to borrow one of your capes.” Slowly, he lifted the hand with the garment. “I am sorry for the disturbance, but--”

“Who are you, and how do you know my name?” Holding up the lamp to see better while his still growling hound walked with stiff steps over to his master, Hâlrod looked confused at hearing his own name uttered. Yet before he could think of anything else to say, the sound of the heavy door being unlocked and pushed open interrupted his train of thought, and the next moment, a broad-shouldered, unkempt looking man in his middle-years entered the barn, a sickle in his right hand. Inwardly sighing to himself, Éomer looked down the corridor. So here came Forlon. Béma certainly seemed in a mood to spare him not even the least indignity these days. Holding up his own oil-lamp, the farmer squinted at him and when he spoke, his tone was harsh.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in our barn in the dead of night, thief? What did you hope to find here?” He squinted even more, and suddenly his eyes widened in disbelief. “No, it cannot be! Marshal? Marshal Éomer? Is it really you?”

Straightening to his full height and squaring his shoulders, Éomer swallowed his pride. His approach had not worked, so he would have to think of something else now, even if the thought of including the family in his act of disobedience against the banishment still caused him stomach cramps.

“Yes, it is indeed I, Forlorn, even if I am no longer a marshal, and you must believe me that I am truly sorry about this. Circumstances brought me here in the middle of the night to try and borrow one of your capes.” He took a deep breath and added in a low voice: “I would have brought it back later.”

“But…” The man obviously doubted whether he was truly awake yet, but his hand with the sickle sank. “-why did you not knock and wake us, my lord? We would have given you gladly everything you needed.” He paused as his memory slowly returned. “There was a rider here two days ago, telling us that… oh Béma! They did not even leave you your coat? But that is murder!” Casting an angry glance at the still growling dog, the farmer shouted: “Silence, Faestor! Hâlrod, take him back to his stall before he causes the animals to panic. There is no foe to be found here.”

With another insecure glance at him, the lad grasped his hound by the collar and did as bidden.

“It is a long story,” Éomer sighed as he slowly relaxed. His hand with the cloak sank. “Of course I would have rather liked to ask you for this instead of simply taking it, but you know the rules of the banishment. It was not my wish to draw you into this any more than necessary.”

“But is it true then that the Prince is dead? The errand rider said that he died in battle in the Westfold.”

A shadow crept over Éomer’s face as Forlorn’s questions brought back the hurt of his own loss.

“Aye. Alas, I fear that it is so. It is not true that I played a part in it. But as I said, it is a long story, and –“

“So the heir to the throne is gone. Alas that we should live to see such days of darkness…” The farmer’s expression told of his dismay. “And of course I know that it could not have been your fault, Marshal, you do not have to tell me. Although we live far from the court, we know better than to trust information coming from Edoras these days.” He shook his head, motioning Éomer closer. “I would never have thought that I would say such a thing one day. But tell me, what is the matter with the king these days that he makes such strange decisions?”

“Gods, Forlong, will you look at the poor man?” another voice suddenly interrupted their conversation harshly from the direction of the door. “The Marshal is shivering like autumn leaves, and his teeth clatter. He must be half-frozen! Will you not ask him to come to our house for some warm broth and tea first? You can continue your talk there.” Théa, the frail-looking, yet astonishingly resilient wife of the man before him stepped into the barn with an expression of irritation on her plain face as she regarded her husband. “Marshal Éomer, please, it will be an honour for us to welcome you in our home”

“And I thank you, Théa, but I am afraid that I cannot accept your invitation, as much as I would like to. If I am found here, you will come to harm. And I will not risk it, under no circumstance. “

Yet to his utter surprise and then, sudden, secret amusement, the diminutive woman put her hands on her hips in a resolute gesture, seemingly far from intimidated by her high guest.

“I understand, my lord. You would rather freeze to death out there. But how in Éorl’s name is that supposed to help us?”

“You say you understand, Théa, but you don’t. I was banished, which means that all who help me will be treated as traitors if it becomes known, and I will not be responsible for your death.”

“There is no one here to see you. It is the middle of the night! There have never been many Rohirrim forces around here, not even when we really needed them… except for your éored, of course. You and your men risked your lives for us many a time; it would only be far to repay you for it now, even if we cannot do much, I’m afraid.”

“If you could borrow me this cape, it would be more than I could have hoped to find. That, and perhaps something I could use for a weapon, a knife, or an axe, should you have one to spare…”

“The cape is yours, let us talk no more about it,” Forlorn rejoined the discussion. “And before you leave, we will also find a blade or such for you as well, but for now, I fear I have to agree with my wife: we will not let you leave like this. We would see it as a serious insult of our hospitality.” He paused and looked back. “Wouldn’t we, Théa?”

“Oh, we certainly would.” The woman was actually glowering at him now, Éomer noticed, torn between laughing and feeling annoyed over the stubbornness of the couple. And yet, wasn’t this the very character trait their people were famous for, the one trait which had ensured their survival through all those hard, violent centuries? “I even believe that I could feel insulted enough to take back our gift.”

“Aye,” Théa beamed. “Thus I think it would be best for you to give in. We are two, after all, and there is only one of you… and of course, we also have the dogs.”

Now Éomer could no longer help himself, the grin broke through as he slowly shook his head in wonder.

“I see. It is quite telling what happens to authority once you’re stripped of your titles. Very well, I surrender to your sheer power of conviction. But –“ and he pointed the finger at the woman, whose expression suddenly flushed with satisfaction. “—I will move on before dawn, even if I have to fight you. I meant it when I said that I must not be found here.”

“And we understood you,” Forlorn confessed. “But there must be time enough to thaw you up again. Come, we will let you sit before the fire and Thea will make you some hot soup and tea while I pack a few things for you. Aye, and I am certain that your horse might appreciate a few handful of oats as well, wouldn’t you agree?”

In the many chambers of the Golden Hall, someone else was experiencing a night without sleep although he hadn’t expected so. Waiting for his men to return from their secret errand, Gríma Wormtongue had stayed outside his chambers for a long time even after the King had gone – or rather been brought – to bed. The ill old man had instantly fallen asleep, almost too quickly for his personal caretaker to administer him the tea that contained the poison. Every time he thought about it, Gríma felt astonished that it still worked so flawlessly. For the first months that he had used it on Théoden, his claim had been that it was a medicine against the constant ache in the king’s joints; a rather natural condition that came from old age and exposure to the harsh climate of the Mark. By then, it had indeed been mostly medicine, the part of it that would make the patient dependant and at the same time opened his mind for manipulations minuscule. And the king had felt better quickly after he started taking it, and so had uttered no protest when Gríma had suggested that the potion would have to be taken each day to prevent the pain from returning. Each week, he gave a small phial of it to Théoden’s long-time manservant with the stern warning to never give the king more of it than five drops a day. After this show of concern, nobody had ever suspected that this was the very tool that would grant the spy in their midst access to power over the realm of the Riddermark. As soon the potion had been accepted by all as a given in Théoden’s daily routine to the point that it had been forgotten, Gríma had altered the mix. Month after month, he had made it stronger, and while his master’s joints still seemed in perfect condition, the old man’s health and mind suddenly started to crumble.

As before and due to his initial success, people once again came to ask him for help, much to Wormtongue’s secret amusement. No word of suspicion was ever uttered against him, not even when in response to the other draughts he mixed for Rohan’s ruler, Théoden-King’s mental health was stripped away piece by piece to the point where he did not even recognise people anymore. When at last, all attempts of restoring the monarch’s health had failed and Gríma claimed with convincingly acted sorrow that the king’s illness had to be a result to old age which not even the best medicine could reverse – they believed him and never once suspected that he was in fact the cause of Théoden’s condition. It was only the king’s family, of course, who suspected differently, but since it was well-known that Éomer had hated him from the beginning, his blunt accusations made during the rare occasions when he was not roaming the Mark with his éored were not taken seriously by the rest of the Rohan court, and Gríma had shrugged them off as a horse rid itself of a fly that pestered it. No, he was safe. But still, his cautious nature told him to only brew small amounts of the potion each time, so that in case that his treason would one day be detected, it would be difficult, if not impossible for the Rohirrim to dispose of him without killing their king at the same time.

Staring at the window, a far away, not at all pleasant smirk crept over the counsellor’s face. The Rohirrim’s blind loyalty to their king was an amusing but, at the same time, extremely valuable characteristic to him. On some days Gríma himself was still astounded what foolish orders the warriors accepted unquestioningly from an old, weak man who could not even dress himself without help anymore– and much less had an idea of what was going on in his kingdom.

Still Gríma knew better than to overdo it. The keen strategist in him was quite aware of the fact that his hold on Rohan stood and fell with King Théoden’s life, and that all power would be lost if the old man died. These days, Théoden was so thoroughly under his influence that all words whispered into his ears instantly settled in his mind as fact. At first, Gríma had been hesitant about forcing Éomer’s banishment for fear that this extreme measure would perhaps stir up some part of the ‘real’ Théoden, the part he held prisoner and that would be horrified to learn what he had done to his people and family. So to insure that the outcome of the hearing would meet with his expectations, Gríma had secretly sat all night by the king’s bed almost until dawn of the day of truth, and he had filled his liege’s mind up like an empty vessel with his words and images, pitilessly continuing even after Théoden had started to weep in his sleep at the repeated vivid description of how cruelly his son’s had died. The effort had not been in vain.

So far, he certainly had reason to congratulate himself for a plan well executed, Gríma mused without real satisfaction. Finally succumbing to his restlessness, he once again came to his feet and directed his steps over to the window even though the darkness behind it hid the world from his view. Despite the chill night air, he opened the elaborately worked glass-wings and rested his elbows on the sill, impatiently listening into the night. Yet once again, he held out in vain for the sound of horses approaching the hall. Creasing his brow as he watched the cloud of his breath rise into the air, Gríma grimly asked himself for the hundredth time what had happened to Felrod and his men. How could it be that everything he delegated had a tendency to go wrong? He had chosen these men carefully for their strength, loyalty and ambition, and just as carefully had he instructed them about the observation of the king’s niece and everyone close to her. Still they had allowed letting themselves be fooled. Had it not been for his deliberate order to keep the smithy under close scrutiny after he had learned of Éowyn’s handmaiden leaving the hall, no one would ever have thought of following that blacksmith’s son. Was he to do everything himself? Perhaps punishment would make them heed his orders in the future. He had promised them positions of great power when he had taken them into his service, but power would remain unattainable for all of them if they did not fulfil their duty, and failure would come at a great price: Gríma harboured no doubts that his impatient master would get very upset if he heard that things in Rohan were not entirely under control yet, and what Saruman would do if angered was something his mind tried to shut out. No, one way or the other, he would have to remind his men what was at stake.

Which brought him back to his newest reason of discomfort: why had the men he had sent after Élric not returned yet? He did not doubt that they had intercepted the blacksmith’s son as soon as they had been far enough away from Edoras to rule out that their actions would be witnessed, but what then? Had they found out what the man had been up to? Gríma’s suspicion was that the marshal’s sister had somehow tried to send help to her banished brother; either in the way of weapons or messages. Whatever it had been, Felrod and his men would have found out. Their victim was no warrior, and thus unacquainted with the persuasive powers of pain. Perhaps the meeting point with Éomer lay further away than they had suspected, and he was simply being too impatient. Perhaps, this very moment, the Half-Dunlending and his men were preparing their trap and waiting for their prey to arrive on the scene. But why then was there this insistently whispering voice in the back of his mind which he knew so well from experience, telling him that it might be different? That the hunters had failed, and that the son of Éomund – admittedly one of the Mark’s most valiant warriors – had disposed of them and taken their arms and was now coming for his blood?

Forcefully exhaling at the image of an enraged Éomer storming up the hill to stick his sword into his flesh, Gríma suddenly slammed the window shut so hard that the glass almost shattered. It could not be. The marshal would never again set foot upon Edoras; for he himself, Gríma Wormtongue, had taken all precautions thinkable to prevent that the banished man would ever return. Even in the case of his men’s failure, there would be others to execute his order. Unbeknownst to them, Felrod and his companions were not the only ones hunting Éomer: this past noon, following his foe’s departure, Gríma had made the necessary arrangements, and now in addition to his own henchmen, each and ever one of the many orcs in the Mark was searching for the king’s nephew. With their skill and by sheer number, Saruman’s creatures had already succeeded in killing the heir to the Mark’s throne, and now they would also slay the one man left in the kingdom still posing a danger to his master’s plans. With their superior hunting skills and sense of smell, it could only be a question of days until the message of Éomer’s death reached him. No, Gríma concluded, as he settled back into his chair for the continuation of his night watch: there was no need to be nervous.

When Éomer stepped outside into the chill air, he could hardly believe that he had it made through part of the night only dressed in his tunic and breeches. Daylight’s first messenger already coloured the eastern sky in pale grey, but it was still every bit as cold as it had been when he had first laid eyes on the farm. Involuntarily clenching his fingers in the thick cape he wore over his shoulders now, he knew that the garment would need a few moments to absorb his body heat before it would warm him. Briefly halting in front of the barn to check for tracks and listen for the noises of approaching horses without detecting either, Éomer then shrugged off the sudden tension and exhaled. There was no sign that anyone had come in the vicinity of the farm except for him and Firefoot. And really, how could there be? The éoreds did not move at night, and the thugs sent after him had in all likelihood not even found their horses yet. He’d have to trust in the logic of this and learn to use these moments of relative safety to relax and conserve his strength for the moments when he would need it.

Firefoot…the corners of Éomer’s mouth curved into an amused smile at the thought of his mount’s eagerness to be out of the cold. Whereas the grey stallion usually enjoyed a well-earned reputation of being loyal to the death to his master, but feeling nothing but contempt for the rest of mankind, it had not needed Éomer’s usual stern admonishment to let the Meara-Halfbreed allow their hosts’ older son to approach him for a good rub-down – especially not after he had been bribed with a manger filled with oats. Horses… Éomer shook his head in amusement. This was not the first time that he thought that they were not much different from man. If he thought of all the comparisons that had been drawn between him and his steed…

"Good times you’re thinking of, my lord?" Forlorn spoke into his thoughts. "That is good, because it shows me that our efforts in lightening you up were not entirely in vain." He pushed the barn-door open, and they quickly slipped inside.

"Aye, I feel indeed better, Forlorn, even if I do still not approve of the means you used to get me into your house!" He blinked at Théa who accompanied them to bid him farewell.

"Do I hear you right, Marshal?" the tiny woman laughed, and since Éomer had hours ago given up correcting her about his title, he laughed with her. "You can feel you body again, you are wearing a wonderful cape of leather and fur and the bag in your hands contains provisions and other treasure to no ends, and you still complain?"

"You know what I mean, Théa." He lifted the heavy bag. "I have no words to thank you enough for this, but I do not like the thought of having endangered you by staying. It is not my usual way to draw innocent people into conflicts."

"But you were not expelled and on your own before, at least not that we would know of." She turned to him, took his hand and pressed it gently, but insistently. "Be careful out there, my lord. And if you should find that there is anything else that we can do for you, please return and tell us. Remember, the people of the Mark are still on your side. Be not afraid to ask for their help, for they will be more than willing to grant it. That is something my heart is telling me, and yours should tell you the same. When in need, turn to the simple people. They know what you have done for them in the past and will be eager to repay you the favour. That may be the best advice I can give you."

"I will not forget it, Théa, thank you. And you, Forlorn, know that you and your family restored some of my faith tonight. I promise you that I will do what I can to help the Mark, even though it is not officially my place anymore." He tried to think of more to say, of other, more solid tokens of comfort that he could give them but the promise of a man expelled from these lands, but before the words would come to him, Firefoot’s loud neighing woke the barn’s occupants for the second time in one night. Smiling at the sight he was granted, Éomer turned to his stallion, who was munching on a carrot Hârlond held out to him and looked his way with unmistakable wariness in his posture. No, Firefoot was no more eager to leave this comfortable, warm place than his master, but his obvious disgruntlement was something Éomer would just have to ignore. On his patrols through the Mark he had soon quickly that staying too long in one place easily got one killed. Deciding not to let the thought dispirit him when he had just enjoyed such warm-hearted hospitality, Éomer forced himself to a cheerful tone. "It appears that I arrived just in time to prevent you from spoiling my hardened war-horse for all eternity, young man! Firefoot is not used to such attention, and after what you did tonight I will probably have to bribe him with food from now on every single time that I need his service."

"He is a wonderful steed, my lord. I have never seen our war-horses up close, except for those few times when the éoreds rode through our farmland. No wonder everyone envies us for our horses if they are all like him."

"Béma beware, if they were all like Firefoot, our riders would never be ready to fight because of all the bruises their horses would give them!" Ignoring his stallion’s indignant snort, Éomer opened the stall and threw the saddle onto the grey back. He knew that his horse was not keen on heading out again, but it could not be helped, for he intended to be far gone from this place even before sunrise. The mountain path to Aldburg he intended to take was rarely travelled by riders in winter, but its mouth lay in the vicinity of a settlement Éomer wanted to have passed once the day began. It would take him at least a day longer to reach Aldburg on it and lead him through rough terrain, but since the plains and thus the Great Road were out of the question, Éomer in fact welcome the additional time the lesser travelled road would grant him before he would eventually have to come to a decision of how to contact Elfhelm. It was not like he could simply ride up to the city gates and knock. Occupied with his thoughts while the couple waited outside the stall, Éomer pulled the girth tight and saw Hâlrond already adjust Firefoot’s bridle. Yet where the sight of a stranger handling his horse would usually leave him uncomfortable, it was easy enough to see that the lad had worked wonders on the grey, for Firefoot not only took the bit without resistance, but even lowered his head for the boy to reach up. Filling his newly acquired treasure into the saddlebags and fastening a blanket the couple had also gifted him behind the saddle, Éomer raised a brow at Hârlond in acknowledgment.

"Thank you, Hârlond, and congratulations! It seems you’ve made a friend here. I have never before seen him like this." With a feeling of satisfaction and security, he fastened the knife Forlorn had given him among other things to his belt.

"Trust me, it is not without reason that most riders of my éored suspect that the other half of his blood belongs to a mule." Éomer clapped Firefoot’s muscled shoulder and took the reins from the boy’s hand. "I believe we are ready."

"I could not give him away even if my life depended on it," Éomer gave back as he led Firefoot outside, the sound of hard hooves on the stony ground very distinct. He turned serious. "The big grey here saved my life more often than I can count, not only last night. I assume that gives him the right to be a little difficult." Once more he patted his horse’s neck and then turned around to the waiting family. Although they stood a few paces away, he could see their faces clearly now in the beginning dawn, and the concern in their expression moved him deeply enough to nearly choke him. Once more putting all his gratitude in his gaze, Éomer gave them a small, appreciate nod. "Firefoot was not the only one to save me last night. I am deeply indebted to you, and I promise I will do whatever I can to pay that debt off. No matter what happens, do not despair. All is not lost yet."

"We trust in you to set it right, marshal, just like you always have," Théa said, the conviction in her eyes genuine. "We have endured for five hundred years despite of our many foes, and we will not vanish now. Not if we all stand united." She inhaled. "Be careful, son of Éomund, and know that our good wishes accompany you."

"I will return, Théa, and this time, it will not be in a secret, cowardly manner in the middle of the night. Our riders will accompany me, and we will rid the Mark of all its enemies once and for all, that I promise to you. The days of uncertainty will soon come to an end. Farewell and once again: thank you for your help!" He nodded and then pressed his heels against Firefoot’s flanks, sending the great stallion in a gallop that brought them out of the sheltered vale of the farm before the tiny crystals whirled up by his hooves had settled back onto the ground.

The pale light of dawn already filtered through the frost-blinded windows when Maelwyn registered movement out of the corners of her eyes. Sitting in the comfortable stuffed chair next to the merrily crackling fire and basking in its warmth, the young handmaiden had finally been overwhelmed by exhaustion as soon as the old healer had left the chambers to go and seek some rest at home. With her lady still sleeping and the tantalising scent of the tea and bread wafting through the room, Maelwyn’s stomach had finally reminded her that it had gone without sustenance for almost an entire day, and so the young woman had helped herself to an early breakfast, knowing that she could get more for Éowyn any time. With her stomach satisfied and the warmth from the fire as well as the peaceful sight of the fitfully sleeping Éowyn, it had not taken long for Maelwyn to fall into a half-sleep where she still registered noises from outside, but was resting nonetheless. As Éowyn shifted in the bed for the first time since she had fallen asleep the evening before, Maelwyn woke from her trance with a start, and her heart beast faster when she found that her mistress had opened her eyes.

"My lady!" Quickly she rose to her feet and was at Éowyn’s side, relieved to see the lucid expression in the blue eyes and the faint smile on the still pale lips. "We were so worried! How do you feel?" Now that the king’s niece seemed fully conscious again, she suddenly dared no longer to touch Éowyn’s brow to feel for herself. But the fevered flush that had coloured her lady’s otherwise ghostly white face last night had gone, and neither could Maelwyn detect even the slightest trace of sweat at her hairline. Relieved beyond words, she beamed and found her joy mirrored in the exhausted face before her. With a deeply grateful smile, Éowyn took her hand, and her fingers felt cool to the touch.

"I feel tired. And exhausted. But I suppose I should not complain, as that was what I was asking for." Rolling on her back and briefly closing her eyes, she added: "I had no idea the potion was so strong. I almost drank it all, because I thought not that…" Her words trailed off, and from the way her gaze swept the room to come to rest on the grey light of the new day beyond her window, Maelwyn concluded that she still felt disoriented. "How late is it? Is it the next day, or have I missed more than one day?"

"No. It was yesterday that you took the potion. The fever began to drop during the evening, and since then, you’ve been asleep. Nothing much happened, except that Élric left Edoras shortly after I told him of your plea." Maelwyn’s smile deepened as she saw the relief well up in Éowyn’s eyes. "He agreed to help you at once. Your brother must already have received the weapons by now. Your plan was faultless, my Lady, even if it was more than daring. We all feared for your life. Oh, and Éothain sends you his heartfelt greetings. I spoke with him earlier this morning. If there is anything he can do for you, he wants you to let him know." To her surprise, the joyful expression on the White Lady’s face quickly darkened to wariness.

"What did Gríma do after you returned from Bergfinn? I do not suppose that it escaped his attention that you left Meduseld. Did he send his men to the smithy to investigate after you were there, or did he question you upon your return? I can hardly believe that we should have fooled him so easily."

"Oh, the counsellor definitely seemed to have a few questions when I came back, but Yálanda insisted that she needed me urgently to assist her and pulled me away from him." Still, the piercing gaze of the pale blue eyes had followed her even into her sleep, and Maelwyn shuddered at the memory. "And then I spent the entire day here in your chambers, and the Captain of the Guard wouldn’t allow him in, so I wasn’t summoned… yet." The thought extinguished her good mood like a bucket of water dropped into a fire. "But he will summon me today, there can be no doubt. I saw it in his eyes yesterday. He suspects something" She swallowed, suddenly and suddenly felt very sick. Her eyes wide, she sought Éowyn’s gaze. "I have never before lied, my lady. I do not know how to do it. What if he sees right through me? What if he asks me why Élric left so suddenly despite the harsh weather?"

"You say that he was already readying his horse when you saw him. And that you did not speak about his errand with him, so you know nothing." Despite her exhaustion, Éowyn’s gaze had never been more intense.

"Then you say the truth: that you told him of my illness and asked him to call his mother for you. Gríma knows that Élric cares about me, and that he would enquire to hear more about my condition. There is no reason for you to be afraid, Maelwyn. Gríma cannot know. He may try to frighten you with empty threats, but the truth is that he cannot prove anything. All you must do is stay calm and tell him what I just told you. I know you can do this, Maelwyn. Yesterday, you said you were frightened of doing the thing I asked of you, and yet you not only overcame your fear, you succeeded. This is now the next step: we won an advantage, and now we must secure our victory!"

Èowyn was fast asleep again when with a knock at the door and Maelwyn’s invitation, Hildegard, one of the older serving maids of the royal household entered the chambers. The young handmaiden was glad to see the older woman, for she had feared that her visitor would be someone else… someone far less welcome. Half of the morning had already passed by without the counsellor’s summons, and while she felt grateful for the respite, Maelwyn knew that it was yet too early to relax. Who knew why Gríma had not called her yet? Perhaps the dark man had fallen ill himself and couldn’t leave his bed today? Oh, this was certainly too delightful a thought to be true.

With a deep breath, she rose to her feet, her body stiff and aching from long sitting. As reluctant as she was about leaving, Maelwyn at the same time longed to go home. A long day and an even longer night of worry lay behind her and she missed her husband and her boys, for once feeling in desperate need of comfort and closeness herself. Was everything all right with them? She had sent one of the errand runners down into the city with the message that she would stay in the Golden Hall over night, knowing that her husband would understand, but still… somehow, the thought of her family having to brave the tasks of the day alone, without her around, left her uncomfortable. Without her cooking, what had they eaten? Had the boys been able to sleep, knowing that their mother was not in the next room to soothe them if a nightmare stole their rest? Inwardly shaking her head at herself, Maelwyn had to smile. What a silly wench she was! Were all women like her, thinking that the world stopped turning once they were not around?

“As good a night as one can have in the servants’ quarters,” the older woman said grumpily, walking straight across the room to open the window for fresh air. “I hope there will be no need for the healer to stay again tonight. The old hag’s snore is louder than even my husband’s, and our house shakes already when he is asleep.” She stopped herself when she realised that the other woman had probably had even less sleep than she, and turned around looked at Éowyn instead.

“How is the Lady Éowyn faring? Is there anything I need to know? Some special medicine she needs, or…”

“Béma be praised, her condition seems to have much improved over night. She was even awake a few hours ago, and I talked to her. She didn’t want to eat yet, but at least she had some of the tea that I brought her. When you fetch her fresh tea, tell the kitchen to brew it from the herbs Yálanda left them for the lady. She will come and see her later, but I suppose until then, it would be best just to let Éowyn rest.” Turning, Maelwyn picked up her woollen shawl and slung it around her shoulders. For a moment, her compassionate gaze rested on the sleeping woman’s still features. It was not right that Éowyn had to bear such a burden. She was such a kind-hearted, gracious person once one had penetrated the hard shell she had erected around herself as a protection against the evil which had haunted her life ever since her childhood days. The Gods knew how she felt inside now with her brother banished, her cousin dead and her uncle fallen into shadow; and yet still she upheld the guise of strength to all observers. Such strength to Maelwyn was awe-inspiring. She knew that under the same conditions, she would have despaired long ago.

“When will you be back, Maelwyn? Just in case Éowyn asks me,” Hildegard asked, stooping to feed the fire with a few more blocks of wood.

“Later this afternoon, I think. I need to see what my husband and my boys are doing. They know I spent the night here, but they will be worried regardless.” She grasped the door handle and depressed it. What if the counsellor waited for her outside? ‘You do what your lady has told you,’ she tried to calm herself. ‘He cannot know. Just go. With a little luck, he is not even around.’ “But if Éowyn wants to see me, let me know and I’ll come.” She opened the door – and looked into the grim face of the guard. “Good morning, Gùthlaf. I am going home for now. I will be back later, in case anyone should ask.”

The man said nothing; he did not even repeat her greeting. Swallowing her mounting anger over the rudeness of the new members of the Royal Guard, Maelwyn directed her steps to the exit, for once glad to leave Meduseld. In the summertime, the coolness and shade of the Golden Hall were pleasant, but during the long, grim wintertime, the darkness inside its vast chambers was oppressive, and in the last months, its atmosphere of illness and unspoken despair had thickened to the point that it drained her spirit of all joy. No, she longed to be out in the open now, to breathe the fresh, clear air regardless of the cold.

Nodding her thanks to the wards who opened the heavy door for her, Maelwyn stepped outside, and the assault of the cold wind on her face instantly revived her spirits. The thick layer clouds of the past days had been replaced by a mesmerising blue sky, and the sunlight’s reflection from the blanket of white that covered the world was almost too intense to look at. From the city below, the sound of children’s laughter reached her ears as they chased each other in their play; and horses and men hurried through the streets in pursuit of their endless daily errands. It was the sound of normality, and Maelwyn was thankful for it after her world had come unhinged for one day. Walking over to the steps to the beginning of the winding path home, the young woman suddenly froze when the door behind her opened again and her name was called by a familiar, most dreaded voice.

Her heart suddenly beating wildly in her throat, Maelwyn turned around. ‘He does not know. It is something else he wants! Stop behaving like a child caught with its hand in the honey pot! You will only make him suspicious!’

“My lord Gríma, what can I do for you? I am glad to report that the Lady Éowyn is feeling much better today. She is still asleep though, but I left Hildegard with instructions to--”

“That is well, because Hildegard will be the one tending the White Lady from now on,” the counsellor interrupted her brusquely, and his pale blue eyes skewered her. “You will not return here. From this moment on, you are released from your service to the Royal Family.”

For the longest moment, Maelwyn was rendered speechless, the connection between her mind and her tongue severed. She could not even breathe as she stared in stunned shock at the man in front of her.

“Do you understand me, maid? Your service will no longer be needed in Meduseld. Go and find an occupation someplace else.”

“You know perfectly well what you have done, wench! Do you wish to insult me?” Gríma hissed under his breath, his eyes narrowing in unmistakable threat. “If I were you, I would swallow whatever words were on my tongue and get out of my sight before I change my mind. I am aware that your mistress is the one mainly to blame for your actions of yesterday, but treason remains treason, and conspiracy remains conspiracy. Because I know that you were not its origin, and because of your family, I am yet willing to exercise mercy, but you do not seriously expect that I allow you to remain a member of the Royal Household after the breach of trust you committed, do you, Maelwyn? Even if you are just a lowly serving maid, you could not be so foolish!”

Maelwyn felt with all distinctiveness how the blood drained from her head. She could literally feel herself turn white under the counsellor’s hostile stare, and a strange feeling of light-headedness overcame her, so powerful that she feared to faint right here on the stairs. And wouldn’t it be just what that horrible man would wish for if she fell and broke her neck? Somewhere, she found the strength to push the sudden weakness back, and her vision cleared again, but still she could not help it that her legs felt like lifeless sticks and that her voice barely made it through her dangerously tightened throat.

“That is no longer one of your concerns, maid. Be gone, and see to it that you never come under my eye ever again, or I swear, I shall bring the full weight of the law down upon you, and you will be punished for your treason, family or not.” He lifted his chin and looked down upon her from his elevated position with contempt and finality. “Am I making myself clear, maid, or would you like to test me?”

Suddenly shivering violently, though not in result of the temperatures, Maelwyn feverishly tried to think. How much did he know? Had he only seen her talking with Élric, or – Béma beware – was he even informed about their plan to send the weapons to Éomer? And if he was – had he intercepted Élric? What if by her failure, she had become responsible for the death of both the blacksmith and her lady’s brother? The thought of them lying lifelessly strewn in the reddened snow made her want to cry out in despair. Gods, it could not be! Why could she not wake from this nightmare?

Her mouth working although she did not consciously think of the words, the young woman breathed a low: “No, Counsellor. I understand. And I thank you for your mercy. I…” she broke off, at last at a loss for words. The sudden rush of her blood in her ears drowned out all other noises, and again she wondered whether she would faint. Perhaps breaking her neck would be preferable to learning about what grief she had accidentally caused by ever agreeing to Éowyn’s plan.

“Go then. And remember what I just told you. I swear to the Gods, I meant it.” Leaving her standing, Wormtongue slung his cloak tighter around his body and retreated into the sheltering warmth of the hall. Numb and hollow-feeling, Maelwyn staggered down the remaining steps to the path with unseeing eyes. How could she ever have hoped to fool that man? His eyes and ears were everywhere; there was no escaping his attention. Had she been utterly mad to agree to be a part of this?

From further down the path, a sudden din of dismayed cries suddenly woke her from her thoughts of despair, but when she detected where the shouts were coming from, Maelwyn realised that reality was about to get even grimmer: the wails rose from the smithy, and the voices crying out in despair belonged to Bergfinn and Yálanda. Slowly rounding a gentle curve and walking toward the first buildings below Meduseld on legs she didn’t feel anymore, Maelwyn’s stunned gaze fell on a group of riders in the work-yard. Éothain was among them, just now opening his arms to hold the old healer as she collapsed sobbing against his chest, while Bergfinn, wearing the expression of a man who no longer understands the cruelty of the world, slowly extended his hand to take the reins of a white, unsaddled horse with a long gash in its side.

The full meaning of the scene before her eyes stole Maelwyn’s breath away. So her worst fears had become reality: for his horse to return riderless, Élric had to be dead, and if he was dead, it was likely that Éomer had been killed as well, or – unarmed and alone as he was - would be dead before long. Éowyn’s plan to bring him help had failed, and two men had died because of her own inability to carry out orders with the bidden secrecy. Feeling sick to her stomach, Maelwyn suddenly met Éothain’s pained gaze as he cradled the sobbing Yálanda in his arms, and in that moment, all hope died in her heart.

It felt good to come home, Elfhelm thought upon the sight of the mighty wooden fence that guarded his hometown of Aldburg, and yet it was a strangely empty sort of joy. ‘Relief’, would probably have been the better word for it, because how could he truly feel joyful after the horrors they had witnessed on the battlegrounds of the Westfold? So many men had lost their lives at the Fords of the Isen. Of the one hundred and twenty riders he had led westward as soon as Prince Théodred’s call for aid had reached them, battle had claimed twelve, and ten horses. And yet they had been luck. The éoreds of his western brothers-in-arms Erkenbrand and Grimbold had sustained much greater losses, while the Prince’s Riders had been all but erased even before reinforcements had arrived. Again the Mark had lost hundreds of riders; men leaving behind families and friends; men who would never again roam the plains of the Folde, or the Westemnet. One could despair just thinking about it.

And for what, Elfhelm wondered wearily as he directed his long-legged bay stallion over to the city gates where the road ended. Only to throw back the enemy over the Isen for a few days at great cost, until the evil man in Isengard replenished their ranks and even multiplied the number of his warriors, so that next time, it would be even harder to stand against his army, yet more men would die, and in the end, they would have to relinquish control of their side of the river altogether. For a long, dreadful moment just after they had joined the battle, Elfhelm had feared that this was already the day that would see them defeated. After three days of hard riding, men and beast exhausted even before the battle, they had arrived too late to save the King’s son or most of his men, and the blood of the dying or lifeless bodies on the battlefield had reddened the waters of the Isen.

Only then they had seen the enemy, a vast, dark army of orcs and Uruk-hai greater than any Elfhelm had encountered so far; an evil army empowered by the will of the White Wizard, moving with the single-mindedness of one being and slaughtering Riders left and right. At that moment, Elfhelm had believed this battle would be their last, but after hours of hacking, slashing and skewering, and countless cries of men and horses wounded and dying, the combined forces of West- and Eastfolds had at last thrown the remainder of the enemy back across the river. None of them rejoiced in the taste of their victory though, because even then it had been clear that their victory would be short-lived. The Isen would not be a hindrance for the necromancer’s foul brood for much longer, and what the orcs would do once they roamed the plains at their will was a thought that made the captain’s blood run cold.

Anxious to be out of the saddle, Élfhelm shifted his weight. At the age of forty-three summers, the resolute captain was one of the Riddermark’s most respected warriors and expected to be promoted to the rank of Marshal in the near future as far as his Riders were concerned. Elfhelm himself cared little for titles, and so had not objected when the King’s nephew had been promoted despite his obvious youth. In his opinion, the lad was exceptionally skilled and fiercely dedicated to the protection of their people and had rightfully earned his honour. After all, couldn’t he fulfil his duty just as well by remaining a captain? They fought for the same side, whether it concerned his Westfold counterpart Erkenbrand or the two marshals. ‘One marshal’, Elfhelm corrected himself with a frown. There was only one marshal left now. The thought was still hard to bear.

As they approached, a shout could be heard from the guard-tower above the gates, and it briefly woke him from the dreadful images repeating themselves endlessly in front of his inner eyes.

“It is I, Elfhelm, your captain! Open the gate!” His voice barely made it over the raging storm, and when at first there was no answer, his riders looked at each other quizzically and wondered whether they would be granted entry to their home after their long journey, but then the groaning and creaking of frozen hinges rewarded their patience as the gates slowly swung inward. In single file, they passed through the opening before the massive wooden wings closed again and cut off the punishing gusts for the first time since the warriors had been on the road. Wearily shaking their heads, their horses tried to free themselves of the thick crust of ice that covered their faces, and the men on their backs imitated their efforts by knocking off the accumulated snow from their garments and beards.

“It is the Captain! Captain Elfhelm is back! Béma be blessed! Our riders have returned!”

Barely hearing the relieved shouts or the sudden din of the bell that announced their return, Elfhelm straightened for the first time in hours and grimaced. All day the wind had assaulted them from the front, and although he had hidden underneath his hood and wrapped a woollen scarf around his head until only his eyes were left uncovered, the captain felt half-frozen despite his additional attempt to hunch over and thus find cover behind his horse’s neck. Needless to say, his effort had been vain, and in addition to feeling like a block of ice, his back had now joined the chorus of pain from the numerous bruises and scrapes he had received in battle. And still, Elfhelm thought, who was he to complain? Compared to the injuries many of his Riders had sustained, his were merely an inconvenience. He was alive and relatively unharmed, that alone was reason enough to be thankful after what they had gone through.

Surfacing from his black thoughts to find the captain of the guard approaching him, Elfhelm inhaled deeply. The man smiled, probably assuming that the situation couldn’t be too grave when most riders of their éored had returned. How much Elfhelm would give for such blissful ignorance now!

“Please excuse the delay in opening the gates, Captain Elfhelm, I did not recognise you at first under all this clothing and the ice,” the guard said, his gaze travelling over the weary riders as they dismounted. “I know that our horses to not allow orcs to ride them, but I still wanted to be certain before—“

“There is no need for an apology, Gaewolf,” Elfhelm interrupted him, not ready to exchange more words than absolutely necessary. He was aching to be home now and anxious to perform his few necessary duties before he could likewise retire for the day. “I’d rather wait outside for another day even in this weather, than have you open the gate to enemies. Speak no more about it.” With a grimace, he looked at the streets which were only just beginning to fill with people anxious to greet their loved ones. Some of them would search in vain. The thought of what he had to tell them sent a sharp pain through Elfhelm’s gut. He turned away from their sight and dismounted himself. “Rohirrim! See to your horses, and then you are dismissed. Get some rest, and those of you in need of a healer, come to the hall and you will be tended! Rohan and I thank you for your service. Béma knows that this errand wasn’t an easy one.” He nodded in acknowledgment to the men passing him and then shifted his attention back to the guard at his side. “How were things here, Gaewolf? Any trouble?”

“Nowhere close to the city, but one of the éoreds had a skirmish with a group of orcs who tried to steal their horses.” A satisfied expression spread over the man’s face. “None of the filth survived, and all riders returned unharmed, Béma be blessed.” Silently walking alongside his captain toward the stables, Gaewolf’s smile suddenly dropped. “Word already reached us about how the battle at the Fords went. The messenger spoke of great losses… and of course the people are devastated to lose Prince Théodred… especially now, with Éomer banished. It seems that --”

Gaewolf’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and for a moment, he looked at the approaching figure of Findárras, Elfhelm’s second-in-command, who had held control over the city for the time their riders had been away and had now been called down from the Great Hall by the sound of the bell. He turned back to Elfhelm.

“You mean you were not informed about it yet, Captain? But they sent riders everywhere to spread the word! I cannot believe that they should have missed your éored on the road.”

“No, not missed…” Elfhelm muttered angrily, his lips a bloodless line as he tried to grasp the implications of what he had just been told. Éomer… banished? “I assume it is more that they deliberately avoided us, because that worm in Meduseld knew that I would have taken my éored straight to Edoras to wring his neck once I heard of it.” Nodding his greetings to the red-haired Findárras, he looked at the overcast sky. “I doubt it would be wise to ride out again today. We would not make it all the way to Edoras in this weather, and the men and horses need a rest. I will ride out tomorrow and take only a few men with me. This is something we cannot allow anymore. Has the King been stricken blind, deaf and mute to let the Worm do this, or have all members of the Court lost their minds? ” He clapped his second-in-command’s shoulder. “It is good to see you, my friend. Do you know more of what happened?”

“Word is that Éomer was punished for disobedience against the King. The verdict even spoke of treason, but I must confess that I know no details. Captain Céorl, however, arrived yesterday, and he will probably know much more. He is waiting for you in the guest-quarters. I did not think it would be advisable to discuss this subject in the Hall.” The red-headed warrior cast his captain a meaningful look.

“The King, or shall I rather say, his counsellor, sent a group of advisors down here to assist you in your decisions now that Éomer is no longer Third Marshal. In the two days since they have been here, they have done nothing but asking questions and turn up at councils or wherever a larger group of people gathered to drink, or eat, or talk. I assume we can safely call them spies.”

“Of course,” Elfhelm snorted, nodding as he passed their stablehands on the way to his horse’s stall. “Now the Worm will concentrate on removing me… and Erkenbrand. Once he has rid himself of us as well, there will be nobody left to speak against him, which makes my little visit tomorrow all the more important.”

Findárras scratched his beard pensively while he waited for his brother-in-arms to free his bay of his tack. As weary as he felt himself, Elfhelm could easily have delegated the duty of seeing after his horse to one of the stablehands, but after the loyalty Éon had once again proven to him on the battlefield, the warrior felt it his obligation to tend the stallion himself.

“Would you deem it wise under these circumstances? What if the Worm only sees it as an invitation to rid himself of you right there?”

With a groan, Elfhelm lifted the heavy saddle off the bay’s back and onto its stand.

“I need to see for myself what is going on in Edoras, Findárras. I am tired of hearing – or not hearing – everything through messages and errand-riders, and I also need to speak to Éowyn. If Éomer was indeed banished, she remains the only member of the royal family with a sound mind in Meduseld. She might be in danger. – Can you get me a sack of oats, please, and a bucket of water for my friend here?”

“Some apples or carrots, whatever you can find. He was of great help on the battlefield to me yet again; we burnt the corpses of at least three orcs whose skulls were smashed in by his hooves, not to mention the dozens he incapacitated so they could conveniently be killed.” Freeing his mount of his bridle, Elfhelm clapped his neck. “Perhaps I should rename you, Éon. ‘Orc-Fiend’ might be a more suitable name for you.” He took the heavy sack Findárras dragged into the stall and began to fill the empty manger with oats. After he had accomplished that and seen to it that the stallion would lack neither water nor food, he hand-fed him the apples Findárras had obtained, briefly enjoying the sensation of the horse’s soft lips on his hands.

“When you are done here, I was told to accompany you to the council. They want your report.” Findárras inhaled and raised an eyebrow. “What shall I say to them?”

Rubbing the white star between Éon’s eyes for a moment of silent contemplation, Elfhelm’s weary gaze at last found his patiently waiting second-in-command.

“Tell them that there is nothing to report apart from what they already know. Tell them that our éored suffered the loss of twelve riders, and tell them that as their Captain, I will first speak with the men’s widows. I will not tolerate being rushed while I am occupied with this task, and it will probably be well after nightfall before I will be finished.” The Gods knew he wasn’t looking forward to this task, but it was something he owed to the families of his riders. “And as I am wearied myself, I will then go home and get rest. If they deny me that, Aldburg will soon have to find a new protector.”

“And I suppose you want me to say that you will deliver your report tomorrow morning, and when you don’t show up because you are already on the way to Edoras, I will tell them that there were reports of an attack on a settlement up north and that you had already left to investigate. Is that true?”

Elfhelm looked weary beyond belief, but his grin was genuine when he replied: “There is a reason for you to be my second-in-command, Findárras. Thank you for demonstrating it to me every time I need reassurance that there are at least some of us left who know about the value of loyalty and friendship.”

“Glad to be of service. What should I tell Ceorl? I assume you will see him later today… at your home?”

“Aye. After nightfall, under cover of darkness. Perhaps he can grant me a few hours to restore myself to a condition where I will be able to think again. Aye, and it would be good if you were present, too. I don’t know when the Worm’s weasels will go to sleep, but in each case, we should not meet until their presence can be accounted for in their chambers. We must take precautions to keep our meeting secret. Do you think you can do that for me, old friend?”

Twilight had once again turned to darkness when the expected knock at Gríma’s door was finally heard. With a sharp twinge of both anticipation and anxiety, Gríma opened it and found himself face-to-face with Felrod and Mordred, the two Half-Dunlendings in his service. The men looked wet, weary, dishevelled and half-frozen, but in their hands they held a large grey bundle that caused the counsellor’s heart to skip a beat. Still, what in the name of the Gods had caused their delay? To his experienced eye, they did not look as if their plan had worked flawlessly. Bidding the men into his study, Gríma closed the door behind them and turned around.

"You are almost a day late. I already feared the worst. Even the blacksmith’s horse returned hours ago, so you can be certain that the tidings of Élric’s death have spread through Edoras by now." His eyes became narrow slits. "He is dead, isn’t he? He didn’t escape you somehow?" The cloak in Felrod’s hands told a different story, but Gríma knew better than to trust anyone but himself.

Although Felrod felt miserable after his long exposure to the elements, the muscular Half-Breed still managed to look satisfied.

"He is fodder for the crows now. We stopped him an hour’s ride from Edoras, and he spilled it all. He had weapons for the marshal in his saddlebags and claimed that the King’s niece had asked him to take them to a hideout only known to them. He also said that his parents knew nothing of this, but this little wench serving the White Lady… she is involved as well." He gave his master a frozen grin.

"I do not suppose that Élric shared the information willingly?" Again, Gríma’s gaze sank to the grey bundle in his henchman’s arms.

"Not quite." The grin widened. "It took a bit of convincing on our part, but we hid his body well away from the road. Nobody will be distressed by the sight of it, even though I doubt that it will be found before spring, and by then there will not be much left of it. Nobody will be able to say who it was or what has befallen him. That is also why we waited until nightfall to return. We wanted to make certain that the people did not see this." He unfolded the treasure in his arms to great effect and beamed in expectation of his master’s praise.

"So he was there indeed…" Gríma muttered thoughtfully, surveying the damage done to the garment and the broad patches of dried blood around the several large tears in the leather. There was no doubt that it was Éomer’s cloak; he had seen the son of Éomund wear it many times. "How disappointing. I would have taken the marshal to be smarter than this." Even in the twilight of the room, he could see that the blood had soaked the material thoroughly. Whoever had shed it could impossibly be still alive. He extended a hand to let his fingers glide over one of the tears.

Felrod nodded, and his eyes were hopeful. No doubt was he already pondering what his reward would be.

"Aye, counsellor. He turned up just like you said he would. A sitting duck would have been harder to miss."

"Is that so?" The stains concentrated mostly around three jagged tears on the back, and the sight of them was somehow … wrong. Gríma frowned, and the omnipresent voice in the back of his head started to whisper its words of suspicion again while his fingers probed the slashes. "These are from a knife, not from arrows." He looked up with cocked eyebrows, waiting for an explanation, but Felrod only shuffled his feet and avoided his gaze. No, something was definitely not right here. "Will you not tell me what happened, Felrod? If Éomer walked right into your trap unsuspecting like you said he did – why did you not simply riddle him with arrows from a distance instead of putting yourself in danger by fighting him at close quarters? He is, after all, a valiant warrior."

"I am afraid, Counsellor, that things did not go entirely as planned. Somehow, the marshal sensed us at the last moment and evaded our shots. We had to hunt him down, but in the end we got him." He pointed at the cloak. "Isn’t that what counts?" The Half-Breed seemed nervous and still avoided Gríma’s glance. The Counsellor’s brow creased further. He could have told from a league away that the man was lying. He could almost smell it!

"So it was not like shooting a sitting duck at all, was it, Felrod? Did you hunt him down… or shoot him at your leisure? What is it you want me to believe? Or no, spare the answer, for I will believe neither." Gods, was he glad that he had sent the orcs after Éomer! Somewhere in the deep pit of his black mind, he had known beforehand that it would turn out this way. It was slowly becoming uncanny even to Gríma himself how his intuition was always correct. The ruffian in front of him was now obviously at a loss, for his stumble could no longer be taken seriously.

"We hunted him down… but it wasn’t very hard. There was no way he could have broken through our circle. And after we had surrounded him, I decided that--"

"You do not want to tell me, Felrod of Westland, that you killed Éomer of Rohan, admittedly one of the Mark’s most powerful warriors, yourself and armed with nothing more than a knife? In a battle of man against man?" Gríma felt an insane desire to laugh in the man’s face. How much of a fool did that mountain of muscle take him to be? Yet incredibly, Felrod did not understand that his lie had been uncovered.

"We were five, my lord. He stood no chance." Desperate now to prove his point, Felrod tugged at one of the tears as if it explained everything. "You see what we did to him. I wanted to make this battle personal and kill him with my own hands. I knew I could take him down."

"And still I do not believe you. Your eyes are lying. Your voice is lying… and it is not so hot in here that you should break into a sweat unless you knew you were fighting a lost battle here." Gríma’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What is it that you are trying to hide from me so inadequately? Éomer escaped, didn’t he?"

"Did he get away? Yes or no, Felrod? I have no patience for your pathetic excuses! If he is gone, I must take immediate action!"

"Yes, my lord, he did. And he killed Dorlâk. Broke his neck. Gartloff is wounded too, that grey beast the Marshal rides kicked him. Broke his leg." He inhaled deeply and, with an even lower voice, admitted: "And we had to leave Thorloff behind. He was guarding the horses and… was ridden down when that filth stole them."

"You mean that not only has he escaped you, but he stole your horses, too? And killed two of your men in the process?" Gríma clapped his hands in morbid delight. Béma, could he have found men any more incapable of the task than these had proven to be? And now it also made sense why the man who accompanied Felrod stood so hunched over, not daring to look at him. "And you are wounded, too, I take it? Let me see!" The man straightened with a grimace and revealed a blood-stained tear in his cloak around the left shoulder. Since he had decided not to cry over the inadequacy of the men he had chosen, Gríma laughed. "So out of the six men I sent to kill him, six men who had the advantage of being armed as well as that of surprise, the good marshal managed to kill two and wound another two. He stole your horses and provisions and has armed himself now, I suppose. I would call that a strong contender for the greatest failure in the history of the Mark, save perhaps the vow King Théoden swore to serve his people. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?"

"He cannot have acquired more than a knife, counsellor. It will not give him much of an advantage."

"No. Not against what I am about to unleash now." With another pensive look at the cloak on the floor, Gríma turned away, the wheels of his mind already turning. There was still a possibility to turn this failure into an advantage if he played his cards right.

"I must say I am disappointed, Captain. Not only did you fail to carry out your errand successfully, but even more seriously, you tried to hide your failure by lying to me. I must admit that I do not know yet what to make of this. I cannot think of a single thing at the moment that you could do to heal this breach of trust." He turned back to the uncomfortable men. "Trust, as you know, is more important than ever these days. Tell me, how am I supposed to still trust you after this disaster?"

"You can trust us with anything, my Lord," Felrod rushed to say, his throat tight with fear. "Please, I promise that we will make up for this! We will hunt down the Marshal for you, and I swear, this time, we will not fail! We will bring you his head should you wish so."

"No. This time I have entrusted someone else with this most important of tasks, someone capable. I took the freedom to alert them before I even knew of your failure. They will have begun their hunt even as we speak, and they will rid me of this problem once and for all. I am most confident of this." His gaze fell again on the bloody heap at his feet. "Yet I may have use for this thing that you brought me. It is, in fact, the only reason I will forgive you this time, Felrod, but do not fail me again and most importantly: never ever lie to me again! Believe me, you do not want to see me angry."

Once daylight had faded again, the temperatures dropped fast, and it was with relief that Éomer finally detected the narrow, steep path that led up to another one of his secret hideouts. He directed Firefoot there with a slight nudge of his thighs. The stallion complied, the weariness of his steps indicating that he needed rest urgently after a day of moving through rough, dangerous terrain. Many times, Éomer had dismounted and led his steed along the steep, ice-covered ridges, careful not to slip into the deep drop-offs. Progress had been slow once they had entered the path, and Éomer was well aware that no rider in his right mind would ever have chosen to travel it under the current conditions. His boldness could easily cost their lives if he had misjudged the situation. So far, his daring had paid off; except for a few birds, they had not seen another living soul all day, neither man nor beast, and no tracks either. It seemed that they were all alone out here in the eastern fringes of the Ered Nimrais… the way he had hoped it would be.

Once again Éomer shifted in the saddle, and his gaze swept the stark, forbidding landscape for the umpteenth time searching for signs of his enemies. Visibility had grown poor in the thickening twilight, but a dark shape moving over the snow would be easy enough to detect. Yet nothing moved. Satisfied, Éomer turned around again as Firefoot abruptly rammed both forelegs into the ground and snorted in protest at the dark shadow in front of them. Sighing, the Rohír ran a hand over the stallion’s neck. He understood his steed’s reluctance, as it was not in a horse’s nature to seek shelter within a cave where escape would be difficult in the case of an attack.

"Aye, Grey One, I know that you do not like this place, but it cannot be helped," he whispered, checking the bare rock in front of the cave-entrance for signs that his shelter was already occupied by unbidden guests. "It will be easy to heat, though, and it will only be for one night anyway, so stop complaining." Grasping the short-handled axe Forlorn had given him and enjoying the feel of it in his hand, Éomer slid from Firefoot’s back to investigate. The stallion, for once content to remain where he was, followed his master’s stealthy approach with pricked ears and flared nostrils.

All senses strained, Éomer edged closer to the narrow opening and his fingers involuntarily renewed their grip around the handle of his weapon. Orcs reeked of death and decay, and even with the wind not blowing into his face, he could usually smell them before he saw them. Yet he detected no trace of their vile perfume in the air before the cave, and no sounds indicated that his hideout might be occupied. Lifting the axe, he advanced further, hesitating at the sight of the pitch-black entrance that granted him access into the mountain he had travelled alongside for the last part of his journey. But deep inside, Éomer already knew better. It was almost dark now, the preferred time of orcs. If any had been in here at all, it was likely that they had moved out with the beginning of twilight and were long gone by now.

Half relieved but still knowing better than to walk into the dark cave blindly, Éomer looked back to Firefoot, clicking his tongue and smiling thinly as the stallion obeyed his command with an all-too-human expression of indignity. From his saddlebags, Éomer carefully removed a clay pot that contained still red glowing embers and lit the oil-lamp the couple had given him behind the shelter of a rock, safe from potentially hostile eyes. Once again he proceeded into the cave, and one look in the flickering light was sufficient to establish that the place was as deserted as it had seemed. Inspecting the walls and the ground, Éomer lifted the lamp… and tensed at the sight of prints left in the fine layer of sand. Some had been made by booted feet, and some featured claws and indicated that someone had dragged himself along rather than lifted his feet. Orcs. His lips a thin, bloodless line, he squatted and brushed his fingers slightly over his find. There was no way of telling how old these prints were, but the discovery that the filth had found one of his best hiding places darkened Éomer’s mood as he stared at the hideous forms. They seemed to be the tracks of three or four creatures, one of them substantially bigger than the others – or perhaps it had just bigger feet; it was impossible to tell. It seemed that there was no end to the variety of the foul creatures’ forms.

Rising again, Éomer proceeded deeper inside to cast a glance into the second chamber of the cave: the pile of dried wood in one corner had definitely been touched, and the amount of ash in the fireplace in the middle of the sheltered niche had likewise changed. Also, the ground was covered with the bones of small animals, neatly stripped of all meat. From their sheer number, Éomer concluded that the orcs had used the caves repeatedly, not just once because they had accidentally stumbled over them. His expression darkened further as he looked back toward the entrance, considering his options. What could he do? It was definitely not wise to stay here when the enemy knew about this place. The remains of their meals, however, looked old. He furrowed his brow, uncomfortable with the realisation that he had not much of a choice left. With the terrain as treacherous as it was and temperatures dropping far below freezing since sunset, moving on in the darkness would be a shortcut to the halls of his ancestors. Éomer looked forward to seeing his parents and Théodred again, but he had not planned to do so in the near future. No, as much as he hated to admit the fact to himself, it looked as if he was trapped here for the night.

Having made up his mind however reluctantly, he gathered some of the straw from the ground and together with two blocks of wood, arranged them in the firepit. Carefully and patiently nurturing the flames until they settled in the thick wood and danced merrily in the darkness, Éomer then rose to his feet again and went to fetch Firefoot.

In the outer cave he stopped and clicked his tongue, rightly suspecting that he would have to drag the big grey in like a stubborn mule. Not that he could blame Firefoot when he himself felt reluctant about staying. The only thing he could do about his unfavourable situation was stay alert and set out again with earliest dawn, just in case the orcs returned from their nightly forays to seek shelter from the sun. Even if the evidence of the creatures’ presence looked old, he would not commit the mistake of falling asleep in the wolf’s den. Although he had already gone almost without sleep the night before, Éomer knew that another long, lonely watch lay ahead of him. He sat the lamp down upon a protrusion and stuck his head out of the opening, seeing Firefoot lift his head.

"I know you heard me, Meara-mule. You want to stay here and give our presence away to our foes? Is that it?" Éomer reached for the reins and narrowed his eyes in beginning anger as Firefoot retreated. "Come on, you’ve been in here before. Stop making this so hard; Béma knows I’ve got enough problems without your bullheadedness already." With a quick move, he got hold of the reins and pulled. Surrendering only very reluctantly, the stallion followed him with stiff steps into the cave.

"Ah, that must be Maelwyn now. And it is about time, too," Hildegard said in a tone of forced cheerfulness in response to the rap on the door. She looked at Éowyn, who sat in her bed with the pillows propped against her back and sipped her soup, looking much better than the evening before. "She said that she would return in the afternoon, and it is already late. Enter!" Anxious to go home, the old serving maid came to her feet and gathered her belongings while her lady’s gaze rested fondly on her.

"I suppose she needed to spend some more time with her family," Éowyn offered with a little smile. "Bidding her boys a good night, perhaps telling them a story to send them off to sleep… It is all right. I feel so much better already, I may not even need someone to sit by my side watching me sleep tonight. I--" her voice died in her throat upon the sight of her visitor. It was not her handmaiden. Alarmed by her lady’s sudden silence, Hildegard turned around.

"Counsellor Gríma! I believed that you had already gone to bed, therefore I did not--"

"There is no need to apologise, Mistress. I just wanted to see with my own eyes for once how the King’s niece is faring. I told Théoden-King of the recent developments, but of course such statements are made with greater conviction if I have seen that of which I speak." He turned to Éowyn. "It is wonderful to see that you seem to recover very quickly, my lady. Yálanda certainly knows her craft."

Suddenly feeling frozen despite the fire in the hearth and the warm soup in her stomach, Éowyn put the half-empty bowl down on her nightstand, deliberately suppressing the violent shudder that threatened to make her hands shake. Her tone was chill when she replied: "Aye, she does indeed, Counsellor, and I am most grateful for that. However, I was just about to go to sleep myself, so I would greatly appreciate being left alone now that you have seen for yourself that there is no reason to worry." Warily, she eyed the strange bundle Wormtongue held firmly tucked under his left arm. "Would you happen to know whether my handmaiden has already been seen in the hall?"

"I do indeed." Still smiling, Gríma inclined his head to the older serving maid. "Mistress Hildegard, I thank you for your service today. Please, do not hesitate to retire for the night. I just need a quick word with the White Lady before I go."

Clutching her shawl against her ample bosom, Hildegard lowered her gaze in obedience.

"Thank you, Counsellor. I trust it that someone has already been assigned the task of sitting with Lady Éowyn tonight?"

"Your concern honours you, Mistress Hildegard, but rest assured that everything has been thought of. I bid you a good night." Gríma gaze followed the servant to the door and briefly his smile flashed up again as she turned around once more.

"Good night, Lady Éowyn. I will be back in the morning. And good night, Counsellor." Hildegard bowed her head and then quickly slipped out of the room. The silence in the wake of her departure seemed deafening.

All too aware of the fact that the man in her room and the guard outside, who was possibly one of his own, were likely to be the only waking people within earshot if Gríma tried to move against her, Éowyn tensed, her gaze briefly grazing the nightstand where she had hidden the dagger she usually kept under her pillow. Knowing that she might not be fully conscious once the potion took effect, she had hidden it in its heavy drawer before she swallowed the contents of the phial... out of her reach should she really need it now.

"You look tense, my lady," Gríma began at last, slowly stepping over to the foot of her bed. He narrowed his eyes and his gaze intensified. "Or shall I say ‘guilty’? Surely there would be no need for such agitation just because of my presence if your conscience was clear?"

"I do not know what you are insinuating, Counsellor," Éowyn forced herself to say, past the great lump forming in her throat. She sounded cold… and nervous. "By now you should have grown accustomed to my dislike of your person, so I don’t see why my anxiety should surprise you. What is it you want?"

Gríma’s smile broadened as he looked at the thing he had brought with him, patting it with his free hand before his attention found back to her.

Angered by his impertinence, Éowyn lifted her chin. How dare the filth play games with her inside her own chambers!

"I would believe so," Gríma replied, taking the grey thing with both hands now and holding it out before him as it unrolled. Her mouth already opened for an acid rebuke, Éowyn suddenly froze and all breath left her lungs while a deadly chill travelled down her spine. Unable to avert her eyes, she felt herself blanch.

Gríma’s cool voice seeped into her conscious from leagues away. It was as if all of a sudden, she had been cast into a different realm, a place without air where she was trapped all by herself. She thought she was about to faint. This cannot not be! Éomer? Could her brother be dead?

"I hate to say this, My Lady, but I fear that it was actually your little trick that lured your brother into our net. If I was a cruel person, I would in fact thank you for your help. However, since I do understand your distress…"

"You are not a cruel person, you are a beast," Éowyn spat, breathless with horror. It took all of her remaining willpower to tear her eyes away from the bloodied coat, and with the connection cut, her voice steadied. "You are worse than any orc could ever be. Orcs kill because it is their nature, but you thrive on causing misery. Your whole life is an endless quest to cause others grief and harm."

"But I don’t believe you." Summoning what courage she had left, Éowyn looked at the torn garment again, clenching her blanket so tightly that her knuckles went white, and still her hands shook. "This is only his cloak. The blood on it may not even be Éomer’s. Do you want to hear what I believe? I believe that your men stole this from him. They followed him and when he put it down somewhere, they stole it because they would never have dared to fight him, and then they slaughtered an animal on the way back to smear its blood onto it to make it look as if they killed him." She uttered a mocking laugh even though she felt dead inside. Could it be true what she said? Or was it desperation trying to make her believe in something even though the opposite was already proven? "It is but another of your petty little ploys. You cannot fool me, carrion bird! Go and show this to the King, if you are so proud of it!"

Seemingly unfazed by her outburst, her adversary calmly rolled the cloak together and directed his steps over to the fireplace.

"Believe what you may, Lady Éowyn, but your brother is in my hands. He is alive yet, and in the hands of a capable healer, who might help him to survive his wounds… but if you choose to remain a nuisance to me, I may just decide to tell him to withhold his help. I might even, in fact, tell him to cause your brother yet more pain. He is a master of the Dark Arts, he knows how to make your brother feel every ounce of pain he is capable of enduring for a long, long time. Trust me when I tell you this."

The trembling travelled up her hands to seize her entire body as she stared in shock at Wormtongue, gasping as her adversary carefully laid the cloak into the fire.

"No! No, you will not get away with this! I will tell the King! He said nothing about killing Éomer, and nothing about torture! He will have you executed before the sun goes up tomorrow morning." Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed although she still felt weak, Éowyn ripped open the drawer of her nightstand and took the dagger from it. Alarmed by the noise, Gríma’s head snapped around. He narrowed his eyes.

"I would not do that if I were you. If you think you can threaten me, I would advise you strongly to reconsider. What you did yesterday could easily land you in the dungeon yourself, My Lady. Or even worse, it could cost you your beautiful head. I have irrefutable proof of your treason. Several people ssaw your handmaiden talking to the blacksmith’s son, which is why she won’t return, in case you were wondering. I have no doubt that Élric himself will testify against you if he is being properly motivated… if he recovers, that is. I am keeping him somewhere close, as well, in the same place as your brother. They are both in my hands, and believe me when I say that I will not hesitate to make their lives even more miserable than they are now if you give me so much as the faintest reason!" His gaze pierced Éowyn with open brutality, all pretence of friendliness or compassion long gone. "And before you go and wave that dagger in my direction, or whatever else you might come up with to dispose of me, know that the men guarding your brother and Élric are under orders to kill them both in the most painful way they can conceive should they not hear from me each and every single day. Do you understand me?"

Gríma allowed himself a malicious smile at the sight of the young woman’s helpless rage. Once more poking at the remains of the burning cloak in the fireplace to make certain that nothing would remain, he straightened and put back the iron into its stand. Cleaning his hands on his dark robe, he walked over to the door without haste, and a victorious smile spread over his pale features as he depressed the handle and looked back over his shoulder. "Anyway, I do not have to remind you whose words the King really listens to these days, do I, Lady Éowyn? I bid you a good night."

The door closed behind him, and Éowyn no longer cared whether he could hear her as she threw herself onto her bed and gave herself over to despair…

It was well after darkness before Elfhelm had spoken with all the families of his fallen riders. With each of the grieving women, the captain had taken his time, never rushing, never hurrying, and when they had broken down in despair, unable to speak, Elfhelm had stayed with them and held them in his strong arms, speaking words of comfort which he knew would not help while the pain was still fresh, but which might be a source of comfort once the immediate shock had worn off.

When he finally directed his steps over to his own home, the afternoon of passing tidings of death had exhausted the Captain of Aldburg to his limits. So much grief. So much suffering. What had the good people of the Mark done to deserve such misery? Had the Gods truly deserted them? Wearied to the point that not even the sight of Freela waiting for him in the doorway could lift his mood, Elfhelm approached the woman he shared part of his life with. She wasn’t his wife and would never be. Both had decided after the loss of their first partners that they would never wed again out of respect for those they would continue to love when they met them again in the afterlife. Yet the temperamental artist and he were soul mates, kindred spirits who had found comfort in each other in the time of their pain, and he was glad that Freela had chosen to stay with him for the winter before the travelling folk she belonged to would set out again with the arrival of spring. He needed her now; her understanding, her comfort, her warmth, all she had to give.

"Freela…" Words failed him, but the compassion in her eyes was all he needed. Allowing himself to lower his guard at last and unleash the emotions he always held under tight rein in the presence of his men, Elfhelm sank into her embrace.

"Ssshh…it is all right. I am here," she whispered, holding him tight and stroking his head. He almost crushed her in his arms, but she endured it without a word. "Findárras told me what happened. That you lost twelve of your men… Who were they?" He told her the names, and as she rembered some of them, their earnest faces passed in her mind at Elfhelm’s mention. Fighting her own despair, she kissed him, pained to see her warrior in such emotional distress. "You are not alone in your grief, léofa. Those men earned to be mourned." Gently, she moved backward, urging him inside. "Come. You did what you could for them, now you need to rest. Let me take care of you, Love. Come."

"I cannot rest. Not yet," Elfhelm breathed against her neck, his voice hoarse with emotion. "There is still more to do. I must speak with Céorl and decide what to do about the news from Edoras, and--"

"I know," she interrupted gently. "But later, not now. Now, you come inside and get some rest yourself, or you will not be able to lead your men for much longer. It is more important than ever that you conserve your strength." Freela closed the door and looked at him as he lifted his gaze, and knew she had found the right words. Still, it was so hard to look into those sad, pained eyes. What could a woman do against such grief?

"Aye. Aye, love, you are right." Elfhelm wiped a dirty hand over his brow and inhaled deeply, trying to force the weariness back. Kissing Freela once more, he then stepped back and put the sack with the contents of his saddlebags onto the bench. "I should do that first, or I will not be of much use to Céorl when he comes to speak with me later."

Trying to give him her most encouraging smile, Freela anxiously eyed the man she loved as he began to shed his cloak with cautious movements. The delay between the arrival of his éored and his homecoming had been nothing short of torture, yet she had not found it in herself to wait in the square with the others. Ten years back, in another life, she had done that for the man she had not only loved, but been bound to with her eternal vow, and he had not returned. She still remembered every detail of that dreadful autumn afternoon, how she had stood in the rain, the thunder of the approaching éored just outside the slowly opening gates… and then the shouts and cries of joy as the people around her recognised their sons, brothers and husbands... how her gaze had anxiously darted from face to face without finding the one she was looking for, her heartbeat accelerating with each failed identification. Then the joyful crowd had abruptly shifted with the first shouts of people who had noticed that their friends or kin were not among the returning riders. Freela had stood among them, unable to call out herself as the feeling of foreboding strangled her, seeing everything in perfect clarity: the foam-lathered horses rolling their red-veined eyes as they passed her, many of them wounded in the battle and the gashes in their hides gaping and raw, the warriors’ dispirited expressions as they looked right through her in their own search for their families, many of them bleeding as wellm and then she had seen the horses behind them, tied to the back of their saddles and carrying the limp forms of their fallen riders into the city, and Nightshade, her husband’s black stallion, had been among them, the load he carried lifelessly dangling from his back…

It took a great effort to shove away the images and the emotions they stirred up. No. No matter for how long she had to wait at home for Elfhelm, she would never again stand in the crowd and listen to its unreal din of simultaneous joy and heart-piercing grief. She knew that she would not be able to bear a repeat of that darkest day of her life, and if she could prevent the death of man she loved now by not awaiting him behind the city gates, she would do so, no matter how foolish the thought seemed. Seeing him fight with his sleeve, she came to his aid.

"Come, let me help you with this." He grimaced, and Freela’s heart missed a beat as she held the cloak for him to slip out. "Are you wounded? Should I call the healer for you?"

"It is not necessary," he declined, yet unable to suppress another slight groan as he freed his arm. "They are only bruises and scratches; I will have forgotten about them in a week."

Freela nodded, unsurprised. For Elfhelm to admit that he hurt, he would have to come back to her carrying his head beneath his arm.

"I see." She took the cloak and hung it on the hook by the door. "But would you fight me if I prepared you a hot bath with some of my special ingredients, and then gave you a good massage with the scented oil I bought in South-Gondor on my last voyage? The man said he got it in Harad, and that its scent is supposed to do wonders to a wearied man…" Under different circumstances, she would have lowered her voice suggestively to accompany her offer, but after the long anxiety of waiting and the dispiriting news of the éored’s casualties, Freela felt just as emotionally exhausted as the man by her side "What would you say to that?" Once more, she slipped her arms around him, and her slender fingers caressed the long, winding scar alongside his left temple. So many wounds, and so many scars. Would the ordeal ever end? Would he return to her after the next battle? She dared not think about it.

"The bath sounds good, and the massage even better, but you will have to be gentle with me." Elfhelm gave her a tired, but honest smile, and she felt a little better. "You must excuse me, léofa, I’m afraid I am not the better for wear these days."

"Are you insinuating then that I am not usually gentle with you?" Freela teased playfully in an attempt to lift his spirits. The little smile in the corners of his mouth deepened, but then he winced as her fingers found a hard lump above his right shoulder blade. She cast him an apologetic glance. "I am sorry, but this feels as if I should have a look at it."

"There are more of this kind for you to look at later, woman, but right now, I would really appreciate the bath you spoke of… and then something to eat, if possible."

"Aye, and you shall have that, too." Reluctantly, she let go of him. He felt so good in her arms, the firmness of his hard, muscular body; his warmth; even his scent. Elfhelm had spent over a week in these clothes, he had gone through battle in them, and he had spent the entire time in close company with his horse. Others would have said he reeked, but it was his scent, and since Béma had chosen to give him back to her alive, Freela welcomed whatever sensation reassured her of his presence. Taking a step back, she motioned Elfhelm over to a chair. "Come, sit down here and relax with a mug of hot broth while I prepare the water for you. I promise that it will not take long to make you feel warm again."

After another long day filled with routines and the usual arrival of ill tidings, the City of Kings finally came to rest behind the protection of the great wall of stone and wood, but none of its inhabitants felt safe from the storm they knew would be coming for them soon. Dark clouds were already visible on the horizon, a tower of darkness and evil, a great maw slowly opening to devour them all no matter how valiantly they fought. There was battle now on all their borders, and even within them. Errand riders from the west and various settlements in the Ered Nimrais reported marauding orc-troups, and there seemed to be no one left to stop them. Their King appeared to no longer understand what was happening in his lands, the Second Marshal and heir to the throne was dead, the Third Marshal banished, and the captains of their éoreds were unable to provide sufficient protection with the few men left to them. Slowly but surely the people of Rohan began to accept that these were the days that would see their end.

High above the sleeping city, Éowyn sat in a restless vigil at the window overlooking the plains; her mind occupied with related matters which were yet entirely her own. Somewhere out there, her brother fought for his life… if she believed Wormtongue. The question was whether she did or not; she could not decide. She dared not to think what it meant if it were true, if Éomer had indeed been captured by the snake’s henchman and grievously wounded. Éomer, of course, would have told her to pay no heed him, to do what was best for Rohan without thinking twice, but how could she do that? How could she forsake all bonds of blood-kin and commit the only remaining member of her family to a horrible death at the hands of their foe? Slightly shocked to find that she no longer included their uncle in her definition of ‘family’, Éowyn shut her eyes in despair. And Élric, poor Élric! He had not understood the danger her plea had sent him into. They had grown up together. How was she supposed to let him die, even if it served the greater good? Béma, what should she do? With Maelwyn’s dismissal, Gríma had effectively banished Éowyn inside her own halls. She stood alone now, with no one left to trust. Whatever she decided to do – kill Gríma despite his threat against her family and Élric and thus risking her brother’s and uncle’s lives, or try to escape from this place infested with corruption and evil, to Aldburg perhaps, and then take it from there without having to fear the Worm’s malice – responsibility lay on her to act, and her task to accomplish. There would be no help from outside.

With a deep breath, Éowyn opened her eyes again. The snow-capped mountains beyond her window looked the same as before, and as before, they held no answers for her…

It was not until well after most of the city’s inhabitants had gone to bed and the lights had been extinguished before a secretive rap on the door was heard. Disorientated until she remembered that her valiant captain had scheduled a secrete meeting for the night, Freela blinked and sat up, wiping her eyes. Next to her, Elfhelm already stirred in his sleep, likewise woken by the signal. Knowing that they would have visitors some time later at night, they had gone to bed with their clothes on, resting while they waited, and when the hours had passed uneventfully, had fallen asleep. Unwilling to leave the warm bed, Freela swung her legs over the edge and shivered at the sensation of the cold ground underneath her naked feet. A hand went back to gently shake her resting warrior.

"I heard it," he muttered into his pillow. "Give me a moment." He groaned and rolled onto his back, moaning. Why was it that one felt even worse upon waking up than before resting? Thinking for a moment about going back to sleep, Elfhelm opened his eyes to the darkness of the room.

Freela slipped into her shoes and made her way over to the door as the second knock came, not lighting a candle for fear that the light would be seen by hostile eyes.

"I am coming. I am here." She sniffled, the burden of sleep still heavy on her shoulders as she asked softly through the still closed door: "Who is there?"

She unhooked the chain and cast a quick, cautious glance outside before opening the door for the three waiting men. Running a hand through her unruly heap of dark red curls, Freela gestured fleetingly at the table in the living room.

"Elfhelm will be with you in a moment, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the meantime." They nodded at her and murmured their thanks as each of them took a chair in the darkness. "Can I get you something? Tea, perhaps?" She could not help it that she still felt uneasy at the sight of the dark-haired young man among their visitors. She knew that Elfhelm trusted the Half-Dunlending who had joined his éored a few years before with his life, but Freela had witnessed more than one attack of his evil brethren of the other side of the River Isen. She would never feel comfortable around one of their kin. They had taken Kélgard away from her, something for which she would never forgive them. Freela was grateful for the darkness, not wanting the scout to sense her hostility, but perhaps he did anyway, because after a long, questioning glance, he, too, averted his eyes.

"Tea would be wonderful, Freela," the tall, red-haired Findárras replied in the strained silence, and she gave him a quick smile, thankful for the reason to disappear before she seriously upset the warriors with her irrational behaviour. "If it is not too inconvenient for you? I realise that it is the middle of the night, but waiting until everybody was asleep seemed the safest way of meeting."

"Think no more about it, Findárras. I have to apologise for letting you all sit in the darkness, but it is the way Elfhelm wanted it," she said, her eyes briefly resting on the third visitor; a grim looking man in his middle years with a thick, grey-streaked beard that was considerably darker than the hair upon his head. It was not often that Céorl came down to Aldburg. That he had undertaken the journey despite the unfavourable conditions only pointed at the seriousness of the matter he had come to discuss. Aware of her close scrutiny, the Captain’s keen eyes briefly met hers and the powerful warrior acknowledged her with a barely noticeable nod as Elfhelm made his appearance.

"Céorl! It is good to see you, old friend, especially in times like these! Thor? Good that you are here, too. Findárras was right to bring you along." He nodded at the younger man, rightly guessing that the scout still felt like an outsider in the presence of the commanding Rohirrim. He would have to overcome that. Only a few years had passed since Erkenbrand had made Thor his responsibility, knowing that the survivor of a routed Dunlending raiding commando who had switched sides in the middle of battle would never be given a chance to prove himself in the Westfold. Since then, the Halfbreed had shown extraordinary promise and eagerness, and Elfhelm had seen no reason why he should not groom the man to be a captain. In a time when men died quicker than they could be replaced, the need for leaders was ever present, and once he overcame his insecurity, Thor had what it took to make people follow him. Of that Elfhelm was sure.

Still feeling every bone in his body despite the bath and the relaxing massage, Elfhelm extended his hand to greet the experienced Captain of the northern realm, who quickly rose to his feet to embrace his brother-in-arms.

"I apologise for the inconvenience of having to deny you your sleep when you only just returned, Elfhelm, but with the Worm’s watchdogs on my tail I saw no way of doing this differently." Céorl’s deep, full voice fit his impressive frame as he clapped his comrade’s shoulder and sat down again while Elfhelm occupied the last remaining chair. "We heard about the battle from the errand riders, but I know that even their worst reports can only give a weak impression of what really happened." He inhaled deeply, and his brow furrowed in concern and compassion. "I assume that it was the worst you have been in so far?"

"Aye." Elfhelm’s expression darkened. "Aye, it was, by far. The bloodshed was unbelievable. The waters of the Isen ran red with the blood of our Riders. I truly expected this to be the battle that would see us fail for the first time. I feared that we would have to retreat to save our naked lives. It was only through Erkenbrand’s and Grimbold’s determination that we threw them back at last, but I fear that next time, what is left of our armies will not be strong enough to keep them from entering the Riddermark. While we must fill our emptying ranks with men both too young and too old, the necromancer simply breeds himself a new army in a matter of days and assaults us again." He clenched his teeth in helpless frustration while the other men listened silently. "The Mark is bleeding out, brothers. There are hardly enough able-bodied men left to fight in the Westfold, and we cannot summon them from other parts of the kingdom because they are needed there, too. We cannot fight a war that comes to us from all directions at the same time."

"And not only do we have to fight our foes from outside, but also those who seek to weaken us from within, as if our problems weren’t great enough already," Céorl muttered angrily. He shook his head in frustration. "It has been a long time since I was able to understand the orders coming from Edoras, but my patience has reached its end now. This newest act of foolishness cannot be tolerated. I never thought that I would one day speak against our King in this fashion, but it is no longer he who rules this land; it is this foul, crooked spy of Saruman’s at his side. For how much longer are we expected to lean back and accept how he weakens us by forbidding us to hunt down those who assault us, or watch him kill and expel our leaders? I, for once, refuse to walk open-eyed to my doom! If I cannot change my fate, at least let me hew off as many ugly orc-heads as I can along the way!"

Nodding in acknowledgement of his brother-in-arms’ passionate statement, Elfhelm changed the topic.

"What is known about Éomer’s situation? Findárras said he was banished for disobedience to the King. What did he do?"

"Only what each of us would have done in the same position: he rode out with his éored against Théoden’s orders when reports of a great horde of orcs descending on Rohan from the East Wall reached us. I would have gone with him, but he bade me to stay behind and guard Edoras. The Worm somehow succeeded in convincing the King that Éomer left them behind without sufficient protection, and also that he was responsible for the death of Théodred since he was not present when the call for aid arrived from the Westfold."

"But that is nonsense!" Elfhelm exclaimed, enraged. "I was already on the way, and even I arrived too late! Théodred and most of his men had already been slain when we entered the fray. Éomer could have done nothing to prevent it!"

"You know that, and I know that, but we both know who Theoden-King is listening to these days, Elfhelm. Still, I wouldn’t have thought that he would act so harshly toward his own kin."

Exchanging a grim glance with Findárras as he tried to grasp the full meaning of Céorl’s words; Elfhelm could only shake his head. It still sounded unbelievable.

"Against the King?" Céorl raised an eyebrow. "From what I heard, it was Théoden himself who spoke the verdict. You know Gamling and Háma – they would never question their lord’s words, even though they have to understand by now where the orders are really coming from now."

Yes, Elfhelm knew the two members of the Royal Guard well enough. Both were honourable men – and both would follow Théoden loyally until the end of their days. Given recent developments, that event seemed not too distant anymore. Fighting mightily against the bout of helpless frustration and anger welling up in him, Elfhelm asked instead: "Is it known whether Éomer has already left the Mark, or where he is?"

"Apparently, the Marshal was first incarcerated for three days upon his return, because the Worm needed the time to send his riders out to bring the tidings of his banishment to the people … Théoden had not even spoken the verdict then!" Céorl’s hands balled into fist as anger overtook him anew. "They released Éomer yesterday morning. I left Edoras shortly afterward to bring you the news, as I doubt you would have heard it from Wormtongue."

"They sent him into the wild in the middle of a snowstorm?" Elfhelm asked incredulous.

"Yes. I am sure the snake found that little addition to the punishment very delightful. His men chased Éomer away from Edoras unarmed and without provisions; you know the law yourself. He is forbidden to seek help from the people, and they are forbidden to help him, and in addition to that, the Mark is brimming with orc patrols. I would not be surprised if Gríma told them to search for Éomer. The question is now, what do we do? The way I see it, we must either openly disobey the law, or load shame upon ourselves and follow the verdict."

Heavy silence ensued, and the darkness seemed to thicken as the four warriors sat brooding over their possibilities. They woke from their dark thoughts only briefly when Freela placed steaming earthen mugs in front of each of them, and they muttered their thanks, their minds occupied with the problem at hand.

"We must do something," Findárras began hesitantly, twirling his thin, red beard. "I mean, we cannot just leave the Marshal to his fate, can we? With the Prince dead, who will lead us? Our Riders look to Éomer, and it is still the House of Éorl they trust the most. It would be devastating to them all to see the man who fought so passionately for Rohan discarded without resistance from us, their commanding officers. They would no longer trust us. It is our duty. "

"Not to mention that we would be next, no doubt," Elfhelm added. "We… and Erkenbrand. And Grimbold. It would be foolish to assume that Gríma would stop once he has rid himself of Éomer. He will not rest before he has filled every single position of power in the kingdom with a man he controls."

"I kept Éothain from leaving Edoras with Éomer," Céorl admitted lowly, avoiding Elfhelm’s glance by looking at the table. "All the men of his éored wanted to accompany him, but I told them that the people in the city needed their protection now more than ever. I cannot tell whether this was the right decision or not, but if Edoras falls, it will be over for all of us. I felt uncomfortable about leaving it entirely in the hands of men we cannot trust; it would make it too easy for Gríma to fortify the city against us, or even take its inhabitants prisoners if we came for him. Éothain did not like my orders, but he promised me he would stay. Yet we must come to a decision tonight, it can no longer be delayed."

"I fear you are right." Elfhelm furrowed his brow as he looked at his scout. "Is anything known about Éomer’s whereabouts? Which way did he head, west… or east? I would expect him to head our way. He must know that the people of Eastfold are still on his side, so even if he violates the verdict, he will most likely not be reported. Perhaps he will even try to seek me out."

"It will be difficult with the Worm’s spies everywhere. I suppose Gríma expects him to head our way, too, or he would not have sent so many men to the Eastfold’s major settlements. He does not expect Éomer to leave the Mark." Céorl stared over Elfhelm’s shoulder at the window. Beyond was only the darkness of the night, and still he felt uncomfortable. They were talking quietly, but simply by meeting in this strange, secretive way they had transformed themselves into suspects should the counsellor’s spies ever find out about it. The urge to get up and check for potential eavesdroppers was almost irresistible.

"Of course he will not do that," Elfhelm agreed, lost in his own grim contemplation "Éomer would never leave Éowyn at the Worm’s mercy. Gríma must know that he will plot against him for as long as there is a single breath left in him, no matter where he ends up staying." Elfhelm’s eyes narrowed as the implications of his words began to settle in his mind, and his blood turned into ice-water. "The filth will try to have him killed. He must see the threat Éomer poses to him even now; he cannot allow him to live." The cold hand of fear seized Elfhelm’s stomach as he followed his thought to the last consequence. "He knew the people would not have taken it had he ordered Éomer’s execution, to have him killed right in front of their eyes, so he feigned mercy and made arrangements for his adversary to be killed in secrecy instead. I have to give the Worm that: his cunning knows no equal."

"Then we must protect the Marshal!" Thor let himself be heard for the first time. The others looked at him, and from their silence, the younger man concluded that he had voiced their own thoughts. "We must find him before his enemies do, and help him hide until we know exactly which path to take." He fell silent, not knowing whether he had overstepped his boundaries. After all, he was just a simple soldier, and not even a pureblooded Rohír. Although he had already served for several years in Elfhelm’s éored, Thor knew that apart from their group of Riders, people were still distrustful, the Captain’s own woman being an excellent example of their sentiments. There was nothing he could do about it but be patient and try to reassure them through his deeds, but although he was used to being given hard looks, their hostility was hard to swallow at times. Éomer, however, had been one of those who had given him a chance after fighting side by side. That alone meant Thor felt indebted to the man.

"That sounds reasonable, but I fear we will have to come to a decision about our further course of action tonight," Céorl pressed. "Gríma’s influence gets stronger with each passing day; we cannot afford to wait much longer. Perhaps the time has arrived when open rebellion is necessary. Think about it: what would the Worm do if you and I, and Éothain, and Erkenbrand, and Grimbold, too, and every captain in the Mark summoned the éohere to ride to Edoras and cast him out? What could he do if all our folk united against him? He could not defy ten thousand riders."

"It is a nice image, I agree, but you forget that he still has power over the King," Elfhelm said darkly. "Béma knows what it is, but there are still many men among the Royal Guard who will enforce Théoden’s will, no matter how strange his orders may seem. We have been brought up this way, Céorl. You and I… one of the first things we were taught when we were still children was never to question the King."

"But there can be no denying that Théoden has been led astray!" Findárras cried out, dismayed to hear his own voice say these words.

"Elfhelm is right, though." Céorl’s expression darkened. "One can call Gríma many names. We call him a liar, a worm, filth, and it is all true, but he is also no fool, and his plan is faultless. There are more people than you would think who believe his lies. They believe that Éomer is responsible for Théodred’s death. It was a horrible blow to the people to hear that he had fallen, you know how much they loved the Prince. Éomer was in his youth known to be rash on occasion, reckless even. We who have ridden with him for years know that he has lost that and has become a very shrewd strategist, but enough of the simple folk will believe that he disobeyed the King only to pick a fight." He exhaled, giving his words time to settle. "So, what will we do?"

Elfhelm leant back. He had made his decision. The path he had to take was clearly visible to him now.

"No doubt Gríma expects us to become active, and I would really hate to disappoint him." A nasty smirk formed around the corners of his mouth. "Yet I didn’t just take this position yesterday. We will help Éomer, but we will do so in secrecy." He looked at his scout. "Thor, come dawn, you will summon our éored to the stables. I want them to form five independent groups and search the mountain paths. You are free to kill whatever orcs or other foul beasts you encounter along the way." With a wolfish grin, Elfhelm’s attention returned to Ceorl. "You see, Captain, that I take the King’s orders seriously. I protect our people and that is why we will go on an extensive orc-hunt tomorrow! We will clear the way for Éomer. I myself will ride to Edoras with a few chosen men to see for myself what is going on in Meduseld, and try to speak with Gamling, Háma and perhaps even the King. When I return, I will bring Éowyn with me. I am not comfortable with the thought of her in that snake pit. Éomer would want me to do that, and once I am back, we will begin to form the resistance."

Céorl nodded and straightened in his chair, visibly relieved like the other men around the table.

"Aye, and I will accompany you on the way, old friend. We will see whether the snake dares to defy us entry. If he does, I might as well take the opportunity to kill him myself. It is time that the Mark is returned to the hands of men who have its welfare in mind, not its destruction…"

"How do you plan to contact Elfhelm… if he has returned from the Westfold, that is. You know the Worm as well as I. I would be surprised if he didn’t send his spies to all major cities and settlements to wait for you to show up… especially in Aldburg. He will expect that you are headed there. Are you certain that it is not a mistake to do what he is counting on?"

"I agree that it won’t be easy." Éomer took another bite from the pitifully thin rabbit in his hands and fell silent, chewing while he stared through Théodred in deep thought. "As a matter of fact, I have already given this some thought." He looked up. "Of course, it still involves risk, but no matter what I do, I will not be able to avoid it entirely as long as I stay in the Mark against the verdict." Still chewing, he turned his head to see Firefoot restlessly shifting. The grey stallion had at last accepted his master’s choice of camp for the night, but it was clear that he would not be able to rest here. Whenever his head sunk and his eyes closed, it took only the smallest crackle from the fire to wake him and make him toss his head, ears nervously flickering to and fro. Éomer felt sorry for his animal companion, but it could not be helped. This was not the time to be picky; they’d have to take whatever was available.

"So what will you do?" Théodred spoke into his thoughts, waking him from his contemplation. "I share your opinion of Elfhelm; I don’t see that he would ever turn against you… but Aldburg is a great city with three éoreds, and not all of the captains might share his view. You see that Rohan has been brought to the brink of defeat lies in our inherent obedience to our King. I hate to say that we should have rebelled against Father’s, or perhaps I should rather say - the Worm’s – orders sooner, but it just is not in our blood. The King’s word is law." Théodred raised one sceptical eyebrow. "You are fighting against five hundred years of Rohirric tradition. I certainly don’t envy you, Cousin."

Éomer shook his head and took another bite, cursing over getting more bones than meat in his mouth with it. Creasing his brow in realisation that Théodred had made a very valid point, Éomer stared into the fire. To unite their people against Théoden was indeed be a deed he could hardly hope to accomplish… yet what other option was there? To flee and leave his kinsmen, and – even more importantly – Éowyn to their fate? He would sooner die than admit defeat by Gríma Wormtongue. Even if they riddled him with arrows wherever he chose to turn up, at least he would die knowing that he had tried.

"Brother?" Théodred spoke into his thoughts, staring at him from the other side of the fire. "Tell me, what is your plan? Because if I were you, I would not force my position and ride into the city openly, however certain you may be of the people’s loyalty to you. Just one man of a different mind would be enough for it to go wrong."

Éomer inhaled deeply, and tried to lend his voice conviction. "I do not plan to ride into the city; as you said, it would be madness. I will ride to the farm of Arnhelm’s parents in the foothills near Aldburg and ask Elgard to deliver a message to Elfhelm for me. I know I can trust Elgard." The man he spoke of was the younger brother of the scout he had ridden with for most of his life among the Rohirrim. Due to an injury he had sustained in a match - breaking his leg in one of their wild riding games - Elgard had to his great disappointment been rejected by the Armed Forces, but Éomer remembered how the younger man had always eagerly listened to the tales of their bravery once their éored returned. "I will instruct him to tell Elfhelm that I will be waiting for him near Aldburg to discuss what we can do."

"I see." The older man nodded pensively. "And since I know that you are usually a good judge of character, I will not question your choice, but you realise that even if Elfhelm agrees to follow you and if all the Eastfold’s éoreds will do so, too – what you are about to unleash will test the boundaries of our people’s beliefs and loyalty. There has never been rebellion in Rohan. This could easily end in disaster… and result in a bloodbath that would drown us all, brought upon ourselves. This is a great responsibility you are speaking of. "

"I am aware of that, but I do not see how it could be worse than witnessing the slow decay of the kingdom the Worm forced on us. I would rather die on my feet in a battle against fate itself, than live on my knees, and I am certain that our people do not see it differently. Things cannot go on the way they are now. It is that simple." Éomer stared into the fire with unseeing eyes, and more than just its gleam sparkled in the brown irises. "One way or another, the fate of the Mark will soon be decided, brother. He paused as he realised that Théodred was no longer paying attention to him. "Théodred?"

WARNING: This is a big, fat, ugly, very red “R-rating”! People with sensitive stomachs might want to avoid it!

Not knowing what to make of his cousin’s remark, Éomer furrowed his brow as he followed Théodred’s gaze to the outer cave without seeing anything.

“But only in your dream, Éomer! That is not, however, where the danger lies!” As his cousin abruptly turned back to him, the alarm in Théodred’s eyes sent a sharp bolt of anxiety through Éomer’s gut.

“You are asleep, brother, for how else could I be here? But someone is approaching! You must wake immediately, they are almost upon you!” Théodred twitched as another noise reached them from the entrance of the cave, and he jumped to his feet, eyes wide with panic. “Wake up, Éomer! Hurry!”

He sat up with a start, gasping and his heart pounding in a frantic rhythm against his ribcage as his fingers clenched the handle of his axe. Staring wide-eyed into the semi-darkness, Éomer’s gaze came to rest on the red-glowing remains of the fire, and he realised with shock that he had indeed been asleep for a long time. Somewhere during his lonely watch, his body had betrayed him, and daylight was already underway. There was already enough of it for him see the outline of the cave and the large grey shadow nearby which tossed its head and stared in the direction of the entrance with flared nostrils, trembling with tension.

“Sssh…” he said, laying a hand on Firefoot’s neck and instantly feeling the tremors of anxiety as he listened with baited breath. So it was indeed true: even asleep, he had been alerted by a noise, and his inner voice - in the shape of Théodred - had instantly woken him … unfortunately far later than he had planned to leave, leaving him to deal now with the consequences of his failure. Who were his unbidden visitors: orcs? Or the Worm’s henchmen? He doubted they could be Rohirrim. They would have had to ride through the night to get here so early. No, it had to be foes. Involuntarily, his grasp around the axe tightened.

“Giet, Firefoot…” Laying a finger onto his lips, Éomer silently moved over to the wall separating the two caves and from where his foes would enter. His back pressed against the rock, he breathed noiselessly while he reached out with his senses… and heard them: low mumbling, at least two different voices, guttural and throaty. The words were too low to understand, and yet the very sound of their language told Éomer that he was not listening to men. It was neither the sound of Westron, nor Rohirric, nor that of the Dunlendings that was spoken. No, he was listening to the Black Speech. Orcs, then. Feeling the short hair on the back of his neck rising, he mentally readied himself for the fight. How many? Only those two? It would be unusual for orcs, who usually preferred to travel through hostile territory in greater number to improve their chances in case they were detected. The stealthy steps hesitantly approached his hiding place, and Éomer flexed his fingers around the handle of his weapon once more, waiting for what would happen when suddenly, the whispering on the other side ceased with a hiss and was replaced by leaden silence… which was interrupted by an exasperated, heaving breath as the tension became unbearable for Firefoot, and the stallion burst into flight.

Cursing, Éomer whirled around, aware that he would have to make the brief moment of surprise count if he wanted to stand half a chance. Storming out of hiding in the wake of his charging horse, Éomer lashed out with the axe and buried it deep in the chest of an orc Firefoot’s assault had thrown against the wall. Hate-filled eyes glared at him in stunned shock, but he did not linger to watch them glaze over with death. There were more of these foul things, and they were coming for him now.

Freeing the blade from the carcass with one hard tug, Éomer raised it in defence at the shadow attacking him. Sparks flew as the orc’s long-blade crashed against it, the impact travelling up the Rohír’s arms and almost knocking the hilt from his grasp. It was the moment when the warrior in Éomer took charge and instinct replaced reason. Éomer threw himself against his adversary shoulder first, and it sank into the creature’s stomach while their weapons were still caught between them. He rammed the orc against the wall, the impact stunning the creature through the tough armour of leather and bones that protected it. Pointed fangs snapped at him with a furious hiss, and spittle showered Éomer’s face. The long-blade twitched, but he kept it caught with the axe and freed one hand to punch the aberration in the face, almost breaking his knuckles against the hard skull. The spittle became blood, but suddenly, the vile thing grinned at him and went down.

No time to hold on to it, no time to think. Instinctively, Éomer followed the orc’s example and rolled, as with a rush of air, a spiked club hit the wall with bone-shattering force, missing him by the breadth of a hair. Completing the defence-motion by rolling over his shoulder, Éomer landed on his feet with cat-like agility, lashing out again even as he rose. A pained grunt rewarded his effort, and the club clattered to the ground. A second strike to the orc’s head ended its misery, and Éomer whirled back in time to see a blurred shape hurl itself at him. It was too late to avoid the impact, and his bones groaned as he was thrown against the rock. Somehow, he managed to hold on to his axe, but could not lift it. Though smaller than he, the orc was incredibly strong, it’s muscles hardened by a life of hardship and violence. Never having fought one of these creatures in hand-to-hand combat, Éomer realised quickly that he was in trouble when long claws sank into his arms and a curse was spat at him, followed by a malicious chuckle, the yellow eyes in front of his face burning with lust for his blood. Slowly, Éomer’s axe hand was forced down.

Pointed fangs went for his throat with the speed of a striking snake – and sunk into his left hand which he brought up in defence against the orc’s grip. Amusement over his desperate struggle gleamed in the luminous eyes and it clenched its jaw, observing him in obvious delight while blood welled up around its lips. And still it pressed toward him while it mauled his hand, getting within strike distance no matter what Éomer did. The muscles of his arms trembled with the strain of trying to keep the creature away and bring up his weapon. Suddenly, the orc spit out his hand and with one mighty jerk, forced his arm aside to go for his throat again.

His reaction was pure instinct. With a violent thrust, the warrior knocked his brow against the beast’s opened jaws, causing it to howl in pain as its teeth first ripped through his skin and then shattered when they met with the harder bone of Éomer’s skull. For a moment, its strength waned, and without hesitation, Éomer freed his arm and swung the axe in a deadly half-circle upwards, cleaving the orc’s head clear from its neck and sending it flying through the cave. Yellow eyes widened in shock even as the deformed thing rolled into a corner, and then glazed over. Placing a heavy boot against the still standing body, Éomer pushed it back, and the carcass collapsed in a heap on the floor as an ear-splitting roar filled the cave. He swivelled, axe ready to hew down whatever came within his reach, when something punched against his right leg with a sharp sound, and the weapon fell from his hands.

There was no one behind him, not in his immediate surroundings, but as Éomer looked down, a thick, black shaft suddenly protruded from the middle of his thigh. Uncomprehending, he reached down to touch it while his gaze darted through the twilit chamber. It could not be real. Where was the pain? Yet all thoughts about his leg vanished when a massive shape stepped away from the wall next to entrance where it had hidden, a bow in its claws. The sight of it left Éomer stunned in realization that his worst nightmare had come true. It had not been a deformed orc who had left the larger tracks. It had been a Uruk-hai, and the prints on the floor had indeed been an indication of its true, massive build. Towering at least a head taller than he, its intimidating shape blocked out the light from the exit. Night or not, he should have moved on, Éomer realised with sudden bitterness, but now it was too late.

The huge creature chuckled maliciously at the sight of his adversary’s dismay, revealing yellow, pointed fangs in a bellowing roar while its amber eyes sparkled with infernal bloodlust. It seemed to be in no particular hurry to finish him off, Éomer noticed as he stooped to retrieve his weapon from the ground. A first violent wave of pain from his thigh caused him to clench his teeth. Keenly observing him, the Half-Orc lifted the hand with the bow – and opened its fingers. The message was clear: it did not intend to kill him from a distance. Provokingly slowly, the clawed hand wandered down its impressive frame, over the thick armour of leather and bone it wore down to its hip, where it unsheated a long, crudely worked blade with a double spike at the tip and lifted it up for its wounded opponent to see. It was the most intimidating weapon Éomer had ever laid eyes upon, and he harboured no doubts that the first strike he would not be able to parry would fell him like a tree.

His mind raced. So, the foul thing planned to dismember him. What could he do against it? With Gúthwinë in his hands, he would have taken on the challenge confidently even with the arrow in his leg, but the little axe with its wooden handle felt like a joke compared to the Uruk’s weapon; a tool for cutting branches rather than killing mutant orcs. While the tremors of pain from his leg intensified, Éomer took a stumbling step back toward the second cave. Perhaps he would stand a better chance in more confined quarters, where the orc’s bulk would be a hindrance rather than an advantage. But how he was supposed to defeat his adversary without armour and adequate weaponry was beyond him.

Before him, the Uruk crouched into battle-position and slowly lifted the blade back over its shoulder. Its maw, wide enough to swallow a man’s head whole, opened to emit a blood-curdling roar – and then it charged! With the unstoppable force of an avalanche it came at him, ready to hack him to pieces. Retreating the one step that separated him from the wall, Éomer awaited his opponent, and with a first, fierce thrust, blade and axe met in a rain of sparks. The impact knocked Éomer backwards and almost tore his weapon from his hands before he could use the force of the attack to spin around and disentangle his weapon at the same time. The blade grazed the Uruk’s side and it roared in fury as it whirled around, but the wound was barely more than a scratch.

“A little over-confident, are we, filth?” Éomer laughed, now clear about the strategy he would use: he had to keep the orc raging. Although this bastard-breed had been domesticated by the Dark Lord and the traitor in the west to the point where it was intelligent enough to follow a given strategy, Éomer knew that once provoked, most orcs tended to regress to a beastly state and abandon common sense in exchange for raw power. While an enraged Uruk-hai was a fearsome sight to behold, warriors using their wits usually found them easier to overcome than in their calm state; one reason why the Uruk-hai were usually defeated despite their superior strength. “Come on, aberration! Or is one man more than you can take alone?”

The blade raced toward his neck, and Éomer intercepted it at the last moment. Yet the razor-sharp steel bit deeply into the handle of his axe, half separating the iron head, and a vile stench assaulted Éomer’s nostrils as the orc bellowed its rage at him, the gaping maw directly in front of his face. Their weapons caught between them once again, both adversaries fought to free theirs first, yet Éomer quickly found that he was no match for the Uruk’s brute strength: with a brutal jerk, it pulled its sword free, and Éomer had to let go of his axe if he didn’t want to end up crashing face-first into his assailant’s chest. Thrown off-balance, he was too slow to duck the creature’s clawed hand, and it caught him behind the temple and jerked his head around, sending him reeling backwards and falling over a dead orc with its owner charging after him.

Stunned from the impact, Éomer watched as the blade descended upon him once more, slowly slicing through the air, which had become thick and liquid and hindered his moves while the hot wetness of his blood ran down his face and neck.

Théodred’s voice sounded far away, waking him from his stupor, and he reacted, abruptly thrown back into reality as if surfacing from a deep pool. He rolled, and the strike that would have hacked him in two left a deep scratch on the ground he had occupied only a heartbeat earlier. The shaft in his leg clattered over the stone and twisted the arrow-tip his flesh. Éomer cried out, just as his fingers touched something smooth and hard. Not pausing to examine it, he grasped it and lashed out at the big hand seizing his tunic, cutting deeply into his foe’s forearm.

A bellow of rage followed him as Éomer stumbled to his feet and backwards to distance himself from the now seriously enraged creature. Holding the gaping gash that was gushing black blood, the Uruk had dropped its sword and stared at him with eyes blazing in an unspoken promise to rip him apart. Satisfied over shaking his enemy’s self-confidence, Éomer blinked away the blood in his eyes and grinned.

“See now why you always lose despite your greater number? You are a mountain of meat without a brain. Even our children are more adept at battle than you!”

The thing bared its fangs at him, yet did not charge. Yellow eyes flickered infernally as the Uruk-hai lifted its wounded arm and extended a thick, black tongue to lick off its own blood to demonstrate that it cared not for the injury. Fascinated and repulsed at the same time, Éomer stared at it, and when the orc grasped its sword and dropped into a battle-crouch once again without breaking eye-contact, he understood: the game was over, his adversary cured of his overly great self-confidence: the Uruk considered him a serious threat now, a fact that made it immeasurably more dangerous as it approached with the black blade drawn back for the deadly strike.

“You speak much, Strawhead,” it growled, and its sparkling eyes followed Éomer’s moves as they began to circle each other. “It tells me you afraid. I smell all over you. You scared… and you right fearing me, for now you die!” It struck, the impact hard enough to almost shatter Éomer’s arm as he lifted his orc-blade in defence, and the top-half of the longsword was hacked clean off. The Uruk’s expression brightened in expectation of its near triumph as it looked upon the short piece of iron left in its adversary’s hands. “Next strike – will be you.” In an uncanny display of intuition, it stepped into Éomer’s way and blocked him from the carcasses of its brethren to retrieve another weapon, grinning at his dismay. “You think me foolish, Strawhead? I know what you want. You not get it.” It spat, and then, suddenly threw its own blade away. “I kill you with own hands. Will take longer… and be more hurtful!”

Feverishly thinking as he backed away from the beast which approached him now with extended arms, demonstrating its intimidating span and reach, Éomer lifted the pitifully short remainder of his weapon. Somehow, he had to get past the Uruk. If he got a hold of the sword, or at least made it back to where the carcasses of the other were strewn on the ground to retrieve the club – a claw swung toward his face and he ducked and slashed at it with the iron shard in a desperate dash to dive behind his enemy. Before him, the black sword reflected weakly in the intensifying daylight, and he threw himself at it, ignoring his wounded leg – when with a horrible crunching sensation, something exploded in his right side and he was flung against the wall, unable to catch his breath.

‘Bastard kicked me!’ Éomer thought through a haze of crippling pain, blindly groping to find something he could use for a weapon while the most immediate fight was the one for air. His lungs burning while bright explosions danced before his eyes, Éomer tried to move as a shadow fell upon him. An instant later, he was grabbed by the throat and lifted into the air as if he were a puppet. Air! He needed air! His feet dangling, he furiously clawed at the fingers crunching his neck, and when that proved unsuccessful, reached for his adversary’s eyes, but the Uruk merely extended his arm to its full length with a malicious snarl, keeping him out of reach while it observed his desperate struggle with obvious delight.

“What now, manling? You not on horseback no more, and no shining armour. Without it, you weak. I could crush you if I want.” The fingers dug even deeper into Éomer’s throat, and he gasped, his conscious fading quickly despite his efforts to hold on. Again he clawed at the hand holding him, sunk his fingernails into the thick skin and drew blood, but its grasp was no less unbreakable than the teeth of a bear-trap. A fleshy black lip curled upward in a menacing sneer. “But I want not. I kill you slow.” It flung him against the cave wall like a bundle of rags, then stooped to pick him up again and ran a finger over the side of his face, tasting his blood. “You tasty, manling. Better than stinking orcs. I will eat you raw. But first, make you tender!”

Again Éomer crashed into the wall, and as his broken body sunk back, he knew at last that he had lost. ‘Forgive me, Éowyn,’ he thought dimly, his conscious fleeing him. ‘I meant to keep my word, I really did.‘

Once more, he was hurled up, and the big, ugly head of the Uruk-hai swam into his blurred vision, triumph in its gaze. No longer able to keep his arms up to tear however uselessly at the fingers choking him, Éomer hung in their iron grip like a marionette with its strings severed. Soon, it would be over. His fingertips brushed over the arrow-shaft in his thigh… the splintered shaft.

“Now, prepare to die, Strawhead,” his adversary growled, holding him up directly in front of his face as if about to bite his head off. “I think I will eat your left eye first.” As the claws dug into the skin near his nose, Éomer’s fingers tore the splintered remainders of the arrow from his leg and sunk them in one continuous move into the Uruk-hai’s left eye with the last of his strength. The great body shuddered, and the fingers around his throat clenched. Half-conscious, Éomer drove the splinter further in with one violent push before his hand fell down and everything turned to grey. When the pressure around his neck suddenly ceased and he fell to the ground once more, he hardly felt it. The last thing he heard was the muffled creaking of leather, and then a great weight landed on top of him and made it impossible to breathe…

There was already a faint stripe of daylight visible on the eastern sky, lighting the vast plains near the great city of the Eastfold as the long line of Riders descended the slope. Although many of them had only just returned from the long journey and the battle at the Fords of Isen, none of the men had complained over being chased out into the harsh conditions again so soon. Only their captains and scout knew about the further reaching implications of their errands, but orc-hunting was a duty all of them took seriously and saw to most eagerly. Their captains had told them of increased orc-activity in the White Mountains, where many of their kin dwelt and relied on their protection. None of the Riders needed further motivation.

As the gate opened and the éored split into five groups, many men glanced back at the small group that would not accompany them. That Captain Céorl would return to Edoras had been widely assumed, but that Aldburg’s chief protector, Elfhelm, would leave with him, although he had hardly spent more than a few hours at his home, came as a surprise. Rumours of what their captain’s errand in the City of Kings might be made their course, and after the tidings of the last days, many of the men quietly asked themselves whether they would see their commander again. It was only a small group that would travel to Edoras; the five men Céorl had brought with him, and four men Elfhelm had chosen to accompany him. Their number would be great enough to defend themselves against potential orc-attacks, but not sufficient to arrive in the city as anything more than beggars. Whatever Elfhelm wanted to force by visiting the King, ten riders would not give him a good position to bargain. The glances grew increasingly doubtful until the mighty fence blocked the Riders’ view of the small group, and they shifted back in their saddles and concentrated on the task at hand.

While the city around them woke, Freela hid her face against Elfhelm’s broad chest, revelling in his warmth and scent embrace before he would be gone again too soon. She feared for him, but knew that his self-appointed task was honourable and necessary. As much as she hated to be left alone again, at the same time it was this man’s incredible sense of duty that had first attracted her to him. He was a man always in service of his people; a man who would never rest until he could be sure that those in need of his protection had been cared for. So how could she even think of objecting?

Behind them, the men from his éored who would accompany him were also bidding their friends and kin farewell while Céorl and his men waited patiently just outside the open gate. Tightening her hold on him as she felt him prepare to let go, Freela lifted her head, fighting tears. It was not fair. She needed him, too! She saw understanding in his grey eyes which could look so fierce, but were now full of compassion… and at the same time, determination.

“You do understand why I am riding, don’t you?” he asked softly, kissing her brow, and she nodded, her voice caught in her throat. “I will not be gone long. I loathe leaving you so soon, too, but this is too important. I must see with my own eyes what is going on in Edoras. All that will follow depends on it.” He inclined his head, saw brimming tears in her eyes and then kissed her once more. Her lips were dry and trembled underneath his, as if she was about to cry, but they opened to him, allowing him a taste of her he would carry with him until he returned.

“I will be here for you when you return,” she whispered breathlessly between kisses, fighting the urgency and the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Her hands roaming through his hair, she deeply inhaled his scent and took comfort in it before she forced herself to step away. It would not do for her to make saying farewell so hard for him. If the other women could be brave, so could she. “My prayers will accompany you every step on the way. May the Gods protect you and your men and give you back to me safely, my proud Captain of the Rohirrim. Go and protect your people.”

Gratitude and pride over her bravery lit up Elfhelm’s eyes, and Freela was glad that she had held her emotions under control even if she felt like breaking down. Elfhelm’s rough hand cupped her cheek.

“I will be back before you can miss me, I swear.” And with that and a little nod, he turned around and mounted his horse, his eyes briefly coming to rest on Findárras, who would take over command over the city in his absence once again. “And when we return, we will chase the Worm’s spies out of Aldburg, old friend!”

“I am looking forward to that, Captain. Make haste, for I can barely wait to begin!”

“But you will wait for me, for I would not miss that opportunity for anything in the world! Hiya! Ride, Sons of Eorl! To Edoras!” He spurred his horse, and in a cloud of snow, the group of Riders vanished from sight even before the gates had closed behind them.

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The voice was persistent; not loud, but once it had found a way into his conscious, it refused to go away, no matter how fiercely Éomer struggled to ignore it. Unwilling to rise from the bottom of the deep black pool in which he had found shelter from the pain, he refused to follow the sound or even acknowledge its existence, reluctant to realise that the injuries he had sustained likely meant his end even if he had defeated his assailants. Where was the point in struggling and torturing himself only to fail in the end and die on the mountain path, miserable and freezing, when he could remain here in the warm, dark arms of oblivion, peacefully dreaming his way over into the Halls of his fathers?

And yet Éomer found, to his dismay, that those arms had already released him from their embrace, because he was slowly ascending to that bright place, the place of suffering he had so desperately longed to avoid. Briefly he struggled against the pull, but had to realise quickly that he was no match against the unseen force.

“I know you hear me, Éomer,” the voice penetrated his thoughts again, and he sighed at its familiarity. “You know what must be done. There is hardly enough time left to take care of it now… and your fire is going out. Soon, it will be freezing cold in this cave.”

“Go away, Théodred,” Éomer groaned, still refusing to open his eyes. Perhaps, there was a way back if he just tried hard enough. “You are dead already, so what valuable advice could you possibly give me? Why don’t you go and leave me alone?”

“Because you will die if I do,” his cousin said matter-of-factly. “I may be dead, but I still care for you. We are of one blood. I do look forward to seeing you again, but not so soon. Our land and our people need you, Éomer, and there are many duties waiting to be seen to before I will welcome you here with a glad heart. You are too young to die, and your existence in this realm serves a purpose.”

“If that is meant to comfort me, Cousin, I must tell you that it fails.” Béma, he was dying, and still there were only words of duty and purpose. He would have thought better of Théodred.

“Stop scowling, Éomer,” Théodred suddenly berated him, impatience colouring his tone. “You know how I mean it. Obviously I do not want you to die because I love you, but that will not get you to do what must be done: you must tend your wounds, or they will get infected. You know what orcs do with their arrows; it has to come out of your leg as quickly as possible. You cannot afford to let more time pass. Come!”

“And what difference will it make?” Éomer pressed through his bruised throat, every breath he took a conscious decision, a fight. It did not help that - in addition to the swelling - there seemed to lay a heavy weight on his chest hindering the flow of air into his lungs, and even the little amounts he managed to get down did unbelievable things to his right side when they extended against his damaged ribs. “Helpless like this, what could I possibly do? I can barely move, much less ride like this, and even if I somehow managed to get on Firefoot’s back, the first person I met could kill me at his leisure, be it Rohír or orc. No, thank you, I’ll stay here.”

“I understand.” Théodred said, and his at first compassionate tone froze. “Instead of fighting your way back, you want to take the easy road and leave Éowyn and our people to their fate.”

“Are you mad?” Enraged, Éomer sat up and glared his cousin, fists balled in barely controlled anger. Had he heard that right? “Tis not a question of what I wish for, Théodred! Did you wish to die at the Fords? Did you finally have enough of the useless fighting and just decided to end it there?”

“Of course not!” The older man was kneeling by his side, and the expression in his eyes mirrored the coldness of his voice... ignited by a spark of anger. “You know that; I was assaulted. I stood no chance against my enemies. They were many, and they killed me quickly...but you defeated yours! You are not dead yet, and whether you survive will be as much a matter of your will as of incidents you cannot influence. Things may go your way or not, help may arrive or not, I cannot tell, but if you give up now, you throw away whatever chances you may still have.”

Éomer snorted, angered that he should have to lead this argument with his cousin when Théodred was supposed to be the one to understand him best. “Tell me what chances are you speaking of, Théodred: the chance to meet more orcs? A pack of wargs or wolves? Or a group of Rohirrim? All will kill me on sight. I am alone. No one is looking for me to bring me help.” His embittered words caused the older man to lower his voice, and Théodred’s expression softened at his cousin’s obvious despair. Perhaps he had been too harsh.

“How can you be so convinced of that, Éomer? Do you honestly think Findárras would draw his sword against you if he found you here? Or Elfhelm? You are in their territory; there is a chance that they will find you, and if they do, they will not kill you. I would bet my life on it were I not already dead. They would be insulted to hear that you would think that of them.” He received no reply, not even the smallest reaction to his sarcastic remark. At length, Éomer laid back again as his strength deserted him, and his gaze went unseeing up to the ceiling.

“They will not look for me here. The path is precarious, and there is nothing around that would make the journey worth their while, nothing to protect. No, Théo, I appreciate your efforts, but that is not the way things will turn out, and I cannot defeat circumstances on my own. You expect too much of me.” He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world, and his cousin with it. He felt so tired... For the longest moment, Theodred’s gaze continued to rest on him, and his expression turned from compassion to disappointment. The notion also crept into his voice, making it even harder for Éomer to listen to his stinging words.

“Too much, you say. I always expected much of you, and you never failed me before. Where is the man I came to know as Éomer of Eastfold now, the young marshal whose name alone would rout the enemy in the midst of battle? The name that brought our people hope? The Éomer I knew, the warrior I saw growing up and regarded with pride as my brother, he was a man who would defy destiny itself. No matter what the odds were, or how badly he was outnumbered, he refused to be defeated, and many a victory he achieved only by the sheer power of his will. I wonder where that man has gone. Perhaps he was just a dream.”

“But what can I do? Firefoot is gone; it might even be that the Uruk killed him while I fought with the orcs. Without him, I am doomed. And even if he was here, what could I possibly do?” He could only whisper the words, choking on his own despair. Why did Théodred have to torment him?

“At least, you can try, Éomer. Instead of giving up, you could fight, the way you have always fought.” Théodred had never sounded more insistent. This was a conversation between brothers, from the experienced older man to the younger one in need of his wisdom. “Gods, I wish I could give you better advice, but I don’t know the answers myself; except for one thing: if you want to survive, you must take it step by step. First, you must take care of your fire, or you will freeze to death. Then you will have to tend your wounds. These are the two most immediate things you will have to concern yourself with to ensure your survival. After you are done with that, we will see what else needs to be done, and what else you have the strength for. Step by step. I know you have the necessary strength and the will. Think of Éowyn. Without you, there will be no one who will stop the Worm from claiming her as his prize. She depends on you, Éomer!”

Éomer flinched. Why did Théodred have to bring up Éowyn? Why did he have to be so cruel? The thought of his sister in Gríma Wormtongue’s hands was more than he could bear. “Do you not think I know that?” It was a mere whisper, followed by a long, ragged breath. “All right. I will try; I will do what I can… but I cannot promise you anything. In fact, I would even be surprised if I made it back to the fireplace.” His words, however dispirited, brought a relieved, encouraging smile to his cousin’s face.

“That sounds like the Éomer I know. I am sorry for being so hard on you, and the Gods know how much I wish I could help with more than just words!” Théodred shook his head in helpless frustration and then extended his right to Éomer while determination returned to his expression. “Come, brother! Show the worm what it means to tangle with the blood of Eorl. He may think he has won, but you will prove him wrong. Now move!”

From one heartbeat to the next, Éomer found himself spat out into reality and the full ugliness of his situation assaulted him without warning. His body was an agonised mess, a bag of misery, and the intensity of his pain robbed him of the little air he had been able to draw into his lungs. Gasping and putting all his will behind the effort, he lifted his head – and stared at the dark mass on top of him.

The Uruk was dead. Although Éomer’s vision was blurred and his left eye swollen half-shut from the gash next to it, it took him only one glance to understand: only a short end of the splintered arrow protruded from the creature’s eye while the rest of it was lodged in its brain; there was no way for the aberration to be still alive. A thin trail of blood had trickled like black tears down the side of its nose and stained Éomer’s tunic. The stench of it spoiled the air, but Éomer hardly noticed as he concentrated on his dead adversary: there was no rising and falling of the massive chest against his body; no beating of a black heart inside this powerful beast on top of him; a single stab had reduced it to dead meat - a crushing mass of dead meat.

His strength failing him, Éomer sank back and tilted his head toward the cave entrance. The light had not changed from what he could last remember, and disorientation washed over him. For how long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? Half a day? ‘For too long. It is time to act!’

A first, cautious test revealed that while he felt as if every single bone had been crushed, there was none of the stiffness yet that accompanied heavy bruising once the injury had been given the time to fully develop. All the more reason to move while he still could. Running a hand over the left side of his head and feeling the gashes and spikes of his hair hardened by dried blood, Éomer fought to collect what was left of his strength. Crawling out from beneath the carcass and dragging himself all the way back to the fireplace and his saddlebags seemed like a task of epic proportions. ‘Just do it. Don’t think about it.’

‘I believe in you.’ It was Éowyn’s face he saw smiling encouragingly before him now, a vision from past days when he had readied his horse to ride into a great battle, and he followed that vision willingly.

Éomer lifted his head, took another deep breath against the searing pain in his side and propped his arms against the rock and pushed himself backward with the leg he could still move – and found himself drenched in sweat before he had moved a single inch. ‘I can do this!’ He gritted his teeth. So, even in death, the Uruk intended to make this hard for him? He would show the filth the meaning of willpower. He. Would. Not. Die. Underneath. This. Carcass!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he doubled his efforts, and a loud groan escaped him as he pushed and dragged himself over the ground, soon swearing as he found it easier to deal with the pain by venting his anger at Wormtongue and his master and basically every person who had ever crossed him in his life. It was an astonishing tirade of groans and moans, interspersed with the foulest Rohirric curses ever heard in the Riddermark, and if anyone who knew him had heard him then, they would have been thoroughly shocked. But soon enough the Uruk’s head, which had weighed heavily on his stomach, had moved down to his hip. Exhausted but not dissatisfied with his progress, Éomer allowed himself a short moment of rest to collect new breath and strength. The swearing had made it easier to bear, but Gods, he hurt all over! How was he supposed to leave this cave even if he made it over to his saddlebags?

‘One step at a time, brother. Do not get ahead of yourself. First, get clear of that Uruk. You are almost there.’

For another couple of heartbeats, Éomer stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Bracing. Just a few more breaths to channel what was left of his strength. He looked up. Théodred was right; he had almost cleared the corpse. He clenched his jaw, then sat up and pulled, and the monster’s head slid down onto his injured thigh, forcing an agonised grunt from him, in addition to the worst curse he had ever uttered. If Béma would punish him later for it so be it, but right now, it felt good. Bright lights began to dance in front of his eyes while the rest of his vision dimmed and a chilling cold flooded his body. Éomer knew what this meant. Yet denying himself the pleasure of unconsciousness, he doubled his efforts, throwing all he had left into a last push - and then collapsed heaving on the ground as his legs cleared the body and he was at last free of the weight. For a precarious moment, his consciousness threatened to flee him after all, but he dug in his fingernails with the ferocity of a warg and held on, no longer susceptible to distractions of whatever kind, a one-track mind on the way to the fulfilment of his task. He was at one end of a long narrow tunnel and had to get to the other side of it, where the fireplace was waiting for him. Nothing else existed, and once he had started this journey, he would continue to the end. The only acceptable outcome was sitting by the rekindled fire with the half-empty flask of Forlorn’s spirits in his hand while the other half cleansed his wounds. Once he had achieved that, he would allow himself to fall unconscious, not sooner.

Steeling himself for the effort ahead of him, Éomer craned his neck to look in the direction of the glowing ashes. It was not very far, perhaps twenty-five steps. Théodred had been right: He could do this.

It had been another long night for Maelwyn; a night with little rest and greater feelings of guilt while she stared at the ceiling, hearing Yálanda’s agonised cry over and over and seeing the pain in Éothain’s gaze. And the icy chill in the counsellor’s almost colourless eyes when he had uttered his threat against her, and the deadly promise behind his calm tone. Each time the vision returned, it sent a cold chill down her spine and choked her again, never losing any of its potency.

At last, it had become too much to bear, and Maelwyn had left the bed although the sun would not be up for another couple of hours, as she did not want to disturb her hard-working husband with her restlessness. Lovingly, she had smoothed away a lock that had fallen into Torben’s face, and breathed a kiss onto his cheek before she sat up, beat after a night of worrying. Mechanically slipping into a simple woollen dress, she had then sat for hours at the table of their living room and listened to the noises of the slowly waking city with the worst possible images passing in front of her inner eye. What was Éowyn doing now that she was alone? Had she fully recovered from the fever? What would the horrible man do to her after he had found out about her attempt to help her brother? Would he dare to throw the White Lady into the dungeon for treason? Horrified by the thought, Maelwyn buried her face in her hands.

More dreadful thoughts came: what horrible misfortune had befallen poor Élric? She had not yet dared walking up the hill for fear that the counsellor’s men would take her away, and instead tried to get tidings from Éothain. Yet the son of Captain Céorl had not been able to tell her anything more than that Élric’s horse had returned riderless and wounded, and then he had given her the incredible news that he, too, was no longer allowed access to the Golden Hall. It seemed that slowly but surely, Meduseld was turned into a fastness against its own people, a thoroughly frightening experience. All saw it and worried, and yet none dared to speak about it in public for fear that their words would reach the wrong ears... and there were many ears to be avoided these days. Maelwyn had no idea where all the strangers who had seeped into the city lately had come from, but their number seemed to increase with each passing day. Before she had been included in the secret proceedings, Maelwyn had certainly noticed a few foreign faces among the citizens, but only yesterday on her daily walk across the market, had she realised with shock how many strangers had been roaming the streets. Were indeed all of them evil men, secretly spying on the people, and whoever dared to say a wrong word would be taken away? It was as if they had only waited for Éomer to leave the city to rear their heads, certain that it was safe for them now to walk the city streets in broad daylight. It could no longer be denied that the counsellor’s men had not only seized complete control over the King’s household, but all of Edoras, too.

Taking a sip from the honey-sweetened tea she had fixed herself to calm her down, Maelwyn leaned back and stared over to the window where dawn had at last arrived. Tired, she ran a hand through her tangled hair and wondered whether the King still knew what was going on inside the confines of his own hall and his city. She had always known Théoden as a just and benign ruler, even though the first signs of his illness had already been visible when she had become a member of the Royal Household. Yet when she thought back, his constitution had quickly deteriorated after the first six month of her service for his niece, and there was in fact no incident Maelwyn could think of within the last two years where the King had seemed lucid to her. Surely spies could not be his idea of keeping his people under control in the time of his illness, could it? But who was left to take action against it with Éomer gone?

Staring at the world behind the window, Maelwyn decided that she would try to speak with Éothain again, preferably somewhere where they would neither be seen nor overheard. And her conscience was screaming at her to go and comfort Bergfinn and Yálanda, if that was possible. That something happened to their son was partly her fault, and she felt miserable about it. While she would not be able to tell them the truth, at least she could demonstrate her compassion. It was something she needed to do. And after all, the smithy was not Meduseld; she would not be at fault to go there. She had known Bergfinn’s family ever since she had come to Edoras, so surely offering her comfort to them would be something expected and not a dubious deed. She could not be arrested for doing so… or at least she hoped not.

Feeling better now that she had finally decided to act, Maelwyn rose to her feet and went into the kitchen. Her husband and the children would be up soon, and the routine of fixing them breakfast would do her nerves good before she left the house herself.

He had barely reached the fire in time to safe it. When he had finally made it back to his lair in the second cave, drenched in cold sweat and shivering from pain and exhaustion, the embers had darkened to a dull red, and for a moment, he had feared the worst. Throwing a fistful of tinder onto the ashes, Éomer had spent some of his hard fought-for breath to carefully blow into the glow, and the effort alone had almost made him pass out. Finally, the first little flame had hungrily licked into the air, and was soon joined by a second and a third one. Carefully, Éomer had fed them another block of wood from the pile and watched with baited breath to see whether the branch would kill them or be accepted. For a frightening moment, the fire had seemed to expire despite his efforts, but then suddenly jumped at the new food with the savageness of a predator. Expelling a relieved shallow breath, Éomer laid three more thick branches into the flames before he settled back against the wall he had chosen to support his weight, too feeble to sit by his own strength alone.

He hoped that the four blocks would suffice, because seen realistically; it was likely that he would pass out for a longer time once he was done with the task he had to see to now. Cautiously probing the gashes in the left side of his head, Éomer looked down upon his leg, and his stomach turned in anticipation of what he was about to do. The remainders of the arrow had to come out, Théodred had been right in this, but he was still hesitant. He knew the design of orc-arrows well enough; they were mean instruments of torture with a deliberately frail, spiked iron tip made to break off in the wound and cause infection even if the victim had not been killed outright by the hit. There was enough of the splintered shaft protruding from his thigh to grasp, but drawing it was not an option. He’d have to drive it through and hope that the tip would remain intact. It went without saying that he did not look forward to that task. Experienced in helping his brothers-in-arms that way, Éomer had never been in the position to perform the deed on himself, and he doubted whether he would be up to it.

Cautiously, he moved the shaft in an attempt to determine how deeply it had penetrated into the muscle and gritted his teeth when the white-hot bolt of pain exploded in his conscious and his stomach threatened to spill his sparse evening meal in a retching fit. Gasping, he closed his eyes and sank back against the wall. It felt as if the arrow had already gone more than half through; all it would take to make it come out would probably be one or two hard hits…if he could bring up the courage to hit hard enough. Numbly staring at his leg, Éomer realised the pickle he was in. The wound had not bled much so far, as the arrow still blocked it, but this would inevitably change once it came out. As Éomer was fairly certain that the procedure would make him pass out, the danger of bleeding to death if he so much as nicked the artery was very real. He grimaced. Nothing he could do about that. But he definitely had to leave the treatment of this wound for last. While he did not look forward to burning out the other gashes and abrasions with Forlorn’s strong liquor, it would probably be the best course of action to see it done first.

With considerable effort, Éomer gathered the things he needed around him: the flask, his water-skin and provisions from his saddle-bags, the woollen blanket and the small, very sharp knife the couple had given him, and last but not least, the stone with the flat surface he had gathered on his way back. It seemed he was all set, even for the case that he wouldn’t be able to leave his lair for the next days. There was no excuse for further delay.

Clearing his mind of concern over what he could do if his efforts proved vain and he caught an infection anyway, Éomer cut the hem of his tunic into small stripes and laid them by his side as he reached for the flask. Shaking it, his sweat-beaded face darkened further: it seemed precious little fluid to tend all his injuries. Perhaps he could… creasing his bow, he looked at the water-skin. What if he stretched the spirit, only a bit? Would it lessen its effectiveness too greatly? Grimacing, he bent over and pulled it closer. He had to do it. What good was it if the wounds he treated with the spirit did not gather infection, while the ones he could not tend because he had run out of the liquid killed him?

Making up his mind, Éomer unscrewed the lid and filled up the flask to the rim, then carefully closed both vessels again and shook the one with the mix until he was sure that the content had thoroughly mingled. Letting the flask sink, his gaze involuntarily grazed his injured hand and with a frown, he lifted it to inspect the damage. Though throbbing as badly as the rest of his body, the injury did not look serious: two small, deep holes on the inside and back of his hand were connected by a line of smaller holes which apparently had not penetrated quite as far. The worst of the wound seemed to be the bruising. Vaguely relieved, Éomer picked up the first piece of cloth and drenched it in the liquid, grimacing at the biting odour. This wouldn’t be a pleasure… but it had to be done.

Steeling himself for the pain, he applied the cloth to his hand. The feeling was not dissimilar to holding it into the fire, and despite his determination to stay composed, Éomer could not suppress a hiss as he forced himself to wipe once again over the wound, really working the liquid in. Lifting his hand, he then looked at it curiously, feeling a bit ashamed. Compared to the injuries his riders sustained every day in their various battles across the Mark, this was hardly worth mentioning; less than a scratch. It had to be the fault of his overall deteriorating condition that he seemed unable to compose himself as usual.

Determined to finish his grizzly task as fast as he could, Éomer soaked the cloth anew, hesitating only for a brief moment before he pressed it against his face. The pain there was exquisite, and while he carefully dabbed at the scratches next to his eye, Éomer couldn’t help wonder whether Forlorn truly drank that stuff. It certainly felt as if it could set a man’s stomach on fire. His jaws clenched, but otherwise slowly getting accustomed to the burning of the spirit, Éomer methodically worked his way over his face to the gashes on the side of his head, and then further to the abrasions on his hands and arms.

At last, the moment arrived when he could no longer delay the inevitable. Glancing darkly at the protruding shaft as though he had hoped for it to have miraculously disappeared in the meantime, Éomer threw two more thick branches into the fire and shifted his weight. His fingers brushed over the stone he had chosen earlier for the task, but as if they had a will of their own, hesitated to pick it up. He allowed himself a few more moments to compose himself, consciously feeling his lungs expand against his hurting ribs with each shallow breath. Dizzy from the lack of air, he forced himself to pick up the remaining cloths and - forming them into a ball – put them into his mouth. Carefully testing the feel, Éomer bit down on them. It was not much, but like everything else these days, it would have to suffice.

He would prove to Théodred how strong he could be. He would not falter. After all, had he not been known once as the fearsome Third Marshal of Riddermark, the man who killed orcs by his glare alone? Surely he could rid himself of a ridiculous arrow then and laugh over it, couldn’t he?

He picked up the stone, fitted his fingers around it while his other hand closed around the remainders of the shaft. The rock had the right size for his hand, the perfect tool for what he was about to do. Once again, he shifted his weight, so that if he fell over unconscious, it would be to the left and not on his wounded right side. ‘If I survive this, I will do the same to you, Worm! I will let them riddle you with arrows, none of them mortal, and then have them driven through your flesh beat for beat! I swear it!’ He lifted the stone, tensing while he admonished himself inwardly to hit as hard as he could to not uselessly prolong the dreaded procedure – and struck.

The cry erupted from his throat despite the cloth and gritted teeth, his jaw-muscles creaking with the strain as he bit down hard on the fabric in his mouth. A sickening wave of nausea welled up from his stomach as his vision caved in, and he felt himself hit the ground hard. ‘Not yet. Not yet!’ He could no longer see clearly, but he felt the sharp angle of the tip pressing against his probing fingers from the inside of his thigh. Almost done. All that was left to do now was just a little push, and a splash of the disinfectant into the wound, and then he could sleep all he wanted. ‘What are you: a warrior… or a wench?’ He rolled on his back, fingers closing around the stump of the shaft that had almost disappeared inside his leg now, the thumb on its end. He pressed, and felt the tip break through with a splash of blood; that last pain only a pin-prick compared to the first hit, but it added to the overall inferno ravaging his body. A loud buzz began to build between his ears, and suddenly, it became very, very cold. Spitting out the cloth for fear he would choke on it if he fell unconscious and retched, Éomer fumbled blindly to pull the arrow from his leg, and then poured the remaining contents of the flask into the tear in his flesh. Strangely, there was no more pain, no burning. No throbbing, as well. Only this bone-chilling cold. The bottle fell from his fingers. ‘No, no; I must dress-” The thought died as he plunged into the darkness…

The sky was as grey as her thoughts when Maelwyn moved through the marketplace, barely able to concentrate on the stands and the displayed goods. She found herself more and more distracted by the faces of the people around her. There were many among them familiar to her and belonging to people she had known for years, and yet their expressions were strangely guarded, and hardly any words were exchanged between them at all. It was an eerily silent caravan of people too afraid to look each other in the eye lest they be drawn into a conversation.

The sight of it sickened Maelwyn, and so she hurried to fetch the few things she needed and be gone. Yet when she put the loaf of bread into her basket next to the eggs, apples, cheese and a package of meal she had already bought, the moment came at last when her decision could no longer be delayed, and she stopped and looked up to where the Golden Hall towered high above the city in stark contrast to the grey sky; the image unusually sinister and forbidding to her mind. For as long as she could remember, Meduseld had always been the centre of their peoples’ pride, and the sight of it and its shining golden roof had always rekindled the spark of hope in their hearts even at the most difficult times. But the thick layer of clouds shielded the sun from their eyes and its beams of light from the golden roof. So often the gleam had been like a beacon, a sign of their unrelenting will to live, but now it looked dull and tarnished, and the sight of it cast another shadow on the faces of the desperate citizens of Edoras whose gazes went up in search for comfort but found none.

Maelwyn hesitated. Would it be too high a risk to go and look for the old couple? The winding path leading up the slope to the smithy looked forbidding despite the crowd moving up and down on it in their various errands. There were so many people on it, but somehow, the scene of apparent normality felt staged, and unbeknownst to her, her hands balled into fists. ‘But I only want to speak with Yálanda. I am not doing anything unlawful! Surely he will understand if he even sees me.’

A first cautious step finally broke the spell that had rooted her to the ground, and with her heart hammering a frantic beat against her ribs, Maelwyn slowly ascended the hill, her widened eyes darting over the people around her. Their faces were guarded wherever she looked; and there were many strangers among them whose eyes told her nothing. Her fingers involuntarily tightened around the handle of her basket as she felt herself being scrutinised by a man to her left. Was he a spy, only waiting for her to commit a mistake? Did she look guilty? She noticed how her pace slowed even more as insecurity threatened to overwhelm her. But wouldn’t she appear even more suspicious to them this way?

Angry with herself, Maelwyn forced herself to speed up. Another four switchbacks ahead, she could already see the thatched roof of her destination, and she accelerated, eager to reach its relative safety. If only she could be off the street soon! Once she was there – a sudden jerk yanked her around, and the contents of her basket flew into the street as strong fingers dug painfully into her upper arm.

"Where do you think you’re going, little witch? On your way to weaving your nets again? You will not fool me twice!" She recognised the ruffian as one of the men who had been on duty when she had left Meduseld to fetch Yálanda. The man had a square-jawed face with bushy dark eyebrows and a wild thicket of an even darker, unkempt beard... and he looked very angry. The shock of the assault rendered her temporarily unable to speak, and the muscular guard shook her and shouted into her face. "You think I want more problems because of you when I am not yet even with you for the last time? Come! I will teach you a lesson you won’t forget so soon!" He pulled her along like a naughty child in the direction of an empty back street, and her heart accelerated even more.

"Where are you taking me? I have done nothing wrong!" From the corner of her eye, Maelwyn realised that people had stopped to watch, and she looked at them pleadingly, silently begging for help. Yet to her dismay, she found compassion and anger over the abuse of one of their own in their faces, but much stronger was the deep insecurity and fear written all over them. They wanted to help her, but they were afraid. "Please, don’t you see what they are doing? Don’t let them hurt me!" She dug her heels into the ground, but found herself no match for the brute’s strength. His comrades laughed at her desperate attempts to free herself.

Suddenly, a hand landed in her face with a sharp slapping sound and threw her head around. Stunned by the sudden pain and the realisation that the man had just hit her, Maelwyn could only stare at her assailant as her free hand reached up in reflex to feel her burning cheek.

"A feisty little thing, isn’t she, Gûthlaf? Perhaps too feisty for you? Should I handle her?"

"That wench is more mule-headed than a real mule! Just throw her over your shoulder!"

"Yes, look closely! This is how we deal with traitors, see? If you don’t follow your ruler’s orders, you will be next! Now go and be on your way, there is nothing to see for you here!"

And still, the people stood there with their fists balled in helpless frustration, battling with themselves as they weighed their chances and the dangers of an attack on the four armed guards. Their inherent sense of justice commanded them to interfere, but what should they do without weapons against trained members of the Royal Guard? The Royal Guard... it was their first duty to protect the King, but were they not also meant to keep the people under their care from harm? In the second row, Maelwyn suddenly saw a woman bend over to whisper something into a lad’s ear, and the boy took off like a horse in full flight, but she could not follow his path as there was suddenly development in front of her.

"Yes, there is!" a deep voice growled, and heads turned around. It was one of the carpenters, Maelwyn realised, even though she didn’t know him by name, and as he stepped through the ever-growing crowd, she saw that he held a hammer in his hand. A chill travelled down her spine. They wouldn’t kill each other over her, would they? Planting his feet firmly on the ground and squaring his shoulders in open challenge, the man stared at the guards menacingly. "I don’t care what she has or hasn’t done, but you will not hit a woman in my presence."

"And you will stop me, I suppose?" Upon a short nod to his companions, the other guards unsheathed their swords to dismayed murmurs and gasps from the crowd. Maelwyn dared not breathe. "You and what army? Or do you think you can take me alone with that..." he snorted "- intimidating weapon in your hand? Go back and build your chairs and tables, simpleton, and keep clear of affairs of which you have no understanding." His words did not have the intended effect: instead of scaring the people into scattering, their expressions suddenly darkened in growing anger, and two more men stepped over to the carpenter to stand by his side.

"I don’t need an army to teach you and those scarecrows behind you a lesson. We may not have swords, but you will find yourself hard-pressed to repel the charge of thirty people armed with hammers, hayforks, sticks and chains." A grim promise flickered in the man’s eyes, and as he advanced another step, Gûthlaf suddenly drew a knife and pressed it against Maelwyn’s throat. Too scared to breathe, she closed her eyes.

"Try it, peasant, and she will pay for it. I am saying it for the last time: all of you will leave now and take—"

"Leave her be!" It was a voice Maelwyn hadn’t heard before; but it was also a voice she recognised and which cut through her fear like a ray of sun through the dark clouds of a thunderstorm. She opened her eyes and saw Éothain and his men stride through the crowd. Behind him, the lad she had seen leaving earlier slipped back to his mother with a satisfied expression on his young face. Suddenly, her heart beat even more furiously.

"Only two days ago, you deceived your King and just now I caught you on your way to doing it again. Am I supposed to wait until you spun your conspiracy against us further?" The knife disappeared from her neck, but now Gûthlaf pulled her even closer by pressing his forearm painfully against her chest while he stared threateningly at the warrior. "Stay out of this, Captain. This is none of your business."

Raising a hand to silence the angered people behind him, Éothain focused on the group of suddenly very uncomfortable looking guards.

"The protection of our people is my business, Gûthlaf, and if you think that I will stand back and tolerate your abuse of a woman under my care, you are mistaken." Éothain’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, the gesture not to be misunderstood. He meant it. Yet despite the spark of hope his appearance had woken in Maelwyn, she feared for him. Éothain was accompanied by three of his men, but the guard’s comrades counted one more, all of them with the constitution of tree trunks. A deadly promise seemed to sparkle in the eyes of Céorl’s son as he advanced another step in a clear and potent threat. "Let her go, Gûthlaf. Your master pardoned her, and I will not allow you to exact your personal revenge on her. Leave her be and see what other things may require your attention; I am certain you have more important things to do than hitting women who can’t defend themselves."

"I find it strange that you do not seem to care about the fact that this wench sought to betray our King, Éothain. Aren’t you bothered by that thought at all? Or no, I understand why you are not: after all, perhaps you approve of her plans or are you even part of them, because they expelled your friend? Perhaps I should report you as a potential co-conspirator, what do you think? Perhaps it would be smart to banish you just like the Marshal, eh? After all, it seems that there are still too many crooked liars in this city."

"I agree with you on that last part, Gûthlaf," Éothain replied, slowly unsheathing his sword, and his men followed his example without hesitation. Behind them, the crowd murmured angrily. Suddenly, the atmosphere was full of tension, just waiting to be ignited. His eyes found Maelwyn.

"Maelwyn, why don’t you tell us what you were doing here? You did not seek to go to the Golden Hall, did you?"

"No. No, of course not. I know that I am not allowed to go there. I wanted to speak with Yálanda and Bergfinn, as I heard that something terrible may have happened to their son." And perhaps that brute behind her had killed him. Oh Gods, what a horrible thought! "I have known them ever since I moved to Edoras and only wanted to express my compassion."

"And I see nothing wrong with that," Éothain said, his gaze directed over her shoulder at the guard in a less than subtle challenge. "And since it is I who commands the city in Captain Céorl’s absence, and you are a member of the Royal Guard, responsible for Meduseld alone and not even its chief, you either bring me Háma or Gamling to discuss this further, or taste my steel, because I will not let you assault the people under my care. What do you choose, Gûthlaf?"

For a moment, the guard’s grip tightened even more, and Maelwyn feared for the worst, but suddenly, the hold was released and she was pushed forward with vigour, stumbling toward Éothain and falling over her own feet. Quickly, she was helped back up by two women and pulled into the safety of the crowd.

"Very well, if that is how you want it… Here, take her." Gûthlaf sneered, his eyes gliding over his adversary and the angry mob as if he wanted to remember each face for a time when they would not expect him to strike. "But be assured that I will bring this before Counsellor Gríma. He will not be happy with your interference."

Éothain snorted. For a moment, his hard stare softened as he looked over his shoulder at the handmaid, relieved to find her safe and unharmed, then he shifted his attention back at his opponent and raised his chin as he forcefully sheathed his sword.

"Do that if you think you must, but I will not believe that your orders were to abduct women from the streets and brutalise them. If one day the Counsellor will utter such a command, he should bring his men with him, because I will fight him." He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to an insistent, warning tone while his gaze wandered over the darkly glaring guards. "Now go back to Meduseld, because the inhabitants of this the city do not value your presence, and if I catch you one more time at terrorising one of them, I will bring it before the King. You have my word." His hand still on the hilt and broad shoulders squared, he stood and watched until Gûthlaf and his men disappeared grumbling behind the next corner. Only then did the tension drop from him with a heavy sigh, and he shook his head as he turned around.

"Maelwyn, what in Eorl’s name were you thinking to come up here? You know that Gríma is watching you closely. You ought to take his threat more seriously!"

Now that the danger was over, Maelwyn suddenly found herself shaking like autumn leaves in a strong breeze. Evading Éothain’s gaze for fear he would see the tears brimming in her eyes, she squatted to pick up her goods from the ground and found that eager hands were already helping her. Good wishes and soothing words were directed at her from all sides simultaneously, and more than one clapped her comfortingly on the shoulder before the people left to finally be on their way.

"I- I did take him seriously, Éothain. Really, I did. I only wanted to speak to Yálanda and Bergfinn, I swear it. I have known them for so long and they were always kind to me, I felt I had to express my compassion. How can this be wrong?"

"It is not wrong, Maelwyn, there is nothing to discuss. But you know how things are in Edoras these days. You must be more careful; you must stay out of their sight, at least for a while. Come to me if you have any business in the upper levels of the city, and I will see it done for you, but do not cross the guards’ way again. Will you promise me this, Maelwyn?"

She nodded, not knowing what to say when the carpenter who had first come to her aid and thus turned the tide approached them, feeling the strong urge to fall on his neck.

"Thank you! Thank you so much. I cannot tell you how scared I was. If it hadn’t been for you... and I don’t even know your name! Isn’t that a shame?"

"That can be helped. I am Béor. I work at the carpentry across the street, and when I heard the disturbance, I had to see what it was." He looked at the dispersing crowd. "They are still good people, they are only afraid. They need a leader to remind them of their honour in these hard times, but once they’ve found him, they will follow him with fierce determination."

"Aye, Béor," Éothain agreed, laying a hand on the man’s arm as he realised the deeper meaning of the carpenter’s words. "You are certainly right with this. But in lack of one, we must stick together for now. They cannot overcome us as long as we stay true to each other. The people of the Mark were always known for their sense of justice and loyalty; as long as we can keep those two traits alive, there is still hope. As we have seen today. I thank you, too. Your courage may very well have been the proof people needed to see that their fate lies still in their own hands: Just be careful after today. I do not know what those crooks might do to avenge themselves for the defeat."

"I doubt that the filth will be back. He knows he will be in trouble once his ugly face is seen here." He looked back over his shoulder, and then gave Maelwyn an acknowledging nod. "Yet I must excuse myself for now, I’m afraid. There is still a piece waiting for me to finish on the workbench which I must deliver today."

"Of course. Thank you, Béor. Without you, I don’t know what would have happened." She followed the carpenter’s path with her eyes until he disappeared inside the building, and then drew a deep, shaking breath. With the immediate shock waning, tears were suddenly on the verge of bursting out, and her knuckles turned white, so firm was her grip around the handle of her basket. Suddenly she felt Éothain’s hand underneath her chin, gently lifting her head and turning it to the side to inspect the damage done.

"That brute," he muttered angrily at the sight of the red handprint on Maelwyn’s cheek. "I wouldn’t mind going after him and stick my sword into him very slowly. I will mention this in my next report. The King should know about this."

"No," she objected lowly, desperate to go home before she would fall apart before the captain and his men. "Please don’t. You would only stick your head out for the Counsellor to cut it off, and I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you, too. Please, Éothain, I am fine. I am most grateful for your help, but there is no need for anything else."

Unconvinced by her statement, Éothain let his gaze travel over her thin, trembling frame before he extended his hand to take the basket from her.

"At least let me walk you home then, Maelwyn. You are shaking so badly, you can barely stand. Come, let me carry your basket."

She could not deny that he was right, and also could no longer speak as the words would have left her throat in the form of a sob. So she just silently nodded her agreement and gratefully accepted his steadying arm when the tears finally spilled over. Resting the handle of the basket in the pit of his elbow, Éothain gently laid his arm around her and lead her down the path, only briefly pausing once to look at his men.

"I will bring her home. Meet me in the market square in half an hour. We must talk."

It had taken them a while to reach the alley in the centre of the city, and by then, Maelwyn’s trembling had subsided to a level that allowed her to walk mostly by herself. She no longer felt as if she would burst into tears in front of Éothain. What would happen to her composure once she had reached the relative safety of her home and its solitude until she felt ready to pick up her children from their neighbours, she dared not imagine.

"All right, here we are," her saviour murmured lowly, as he came a halt and turned toward her. "I will go and tell Torben to come home. I do not want to leave you like this."

She shook her head as she cautiously felt her throbbing cheek. It felt hot to her touch.

"No. No, Éothain, thank you." She looked up to him, deep thankfulness in her eyes. "Please don’t. You did so much for me already, and I do not want Torben to worry. He already has much on his mind these days as it is. He needs not to know about this."

"But he will see that print on your cheek. What will you tell him? Will you lie to him?"

"I don’t know yet, but I will not make things better by causing him yet more worries, Éothain. If I need to speak about it, I have you to confide in. Really, I will be all right." She tried to smile as she rubbed her cheek. "It was just a slap."

"As you wish. But at least let me leave you with one of my men for protection for the next few days. I do not think that Gûthlaf and his thugs will come down here to take revenge, but I want you to be safe. I will send you Léod." The young warrior seemed unhappy not to be able to do more. "In the meantime, will you promise me to remain in the lower levels of the city for as long as the situation hasn’t been solved? I will try to keep an eye on you, but I will not always be around. That I was today was a lucky coincidence."

She nodded, touched by his concern. "I promise. And I am sorry that you were drawn into this. But can you please tell Yálanda and Bergfinn—"

"I will tell them that they are in your thoughts and prayers, but believe me, they already know that." For a moment, Éothain looked at her strangely, as if he had a question he was not certain he should ask. Then he added hesitantly: "That Élric has disappeared… has it anything to do with… I mean, I noticed your look when you saw me with Yálanda and…"

"I cannot tell you, Éothain, please, understand." She laid a hand on his arm, begging him to let it be. He did her the favour, nodding his head with a gloomy expression as he turned his head to look down the street.

"I must be on my way, but I will send you Léod right away. Do not send him away. He may be young, but he is an able warrior, and I would be relieved to know that someone is looking after you. Maelwyn?"

"Thank you, Éothain." She accepted his embrace gratefully and closed her eyes. "For everything." She could not say more, and when at last he let go of her and turned away with a nod of acknowledgment, she followed his way with her eyes until he passed out of sight.

The feeling grew stronger. Strong enough to alert him through his dark dreams and reach his subconscious. He was no longer alone. At first, Éomer thought it part of his dream, an echo of the attack he was reliving in grizzly detail again and again, unable to shut the images out; a vivid recollection of the first burst of anxiety in reaction to Théodred’s warning. But the feeling did not wane, and the steady change from cold to warm air against his face seemed too real to be only a product of his imagination. It was the breath of a living being, and it was close.

With a gasp, Éomer sat up – and fell straight back when his strength gave out even before he had reached an upright position, hitting his head on the bare ground. Not seeing clearly in the diffuse twilight, he blindly groped for the knife even though he knew that he was in no condition to fight. Easy prey, that was what he was, and yet Éomer found to his surprise that his abrupt movement had apparently scared his unknown visitor away at least for now, the large shape retreating from him with a startled noise.

His heart pounding against his hurting ribs like a hammer against the anvil, he stared into the semi-darkness with the knife in his hand, ready to lash out… but suddenly, all tension fell away from him, and his lips curled upward in a weak and at the same time honestly glad smile. He laid the weapon down and instead wearily raised his hand in greeting.

The stallion’s long face looked almost comical as it hovered above him with an all-too-human expression of concern written all over it; widened nostrils quivering as Firefoot took in his master’s comforting scent. Yet at the same time, the stench of blood made the horse skittish, and his ears flickered nervously to and fro as he cautiously lowered his head again to sniff at Éomer’s hand, only to recoil again from him.

"It is only I, Grey One. No reason to fear me. I couldn’t hurt a foal… not that I ever would." At last, Éomer was allowed to touch his steed’s nose, and his smile deepened as he found himself thoroughly moved by the display of the horse’s loyalty. Despite the horror of the nightly attack, and despite the stench of the fallen orcs around them, Firefoot had returned to this place he hated and wouldn’t enter on his own earlier… to look for his rider. The thought brought a warm glow to Éomer otherwise freezing body as he gently caressed the soft skin beneath his fingers and lowly hummed a soothing melody. A raspy, but heartfelt "Thank you" was all he managed before lack of strength finally forced him to lower his arm.

What now? As Éomer stared upward, it seemed to him that Firefoot was at a loss of how to proceed as well. Clearly indicated by the way he restlessly shifted and nodded his head as he retreated for a few steps now to paw the ground, his horse was eager to leave these caves that reeked of danger and death. All his behaviour was a single, desperate plea his master to stand up and mount and be gone from this evil place… and yet Éomer could not comply. His head sank back as the last of his strength deserted him, and the smile vanished from his face as if it had never been there. As much as he hated the realisation, it could not be helped that they would have to spend another night in their compromised hideout. If more orcs came, it would be destiny. There was nothing he could do about it.

"I’m sorry, Firefoot…" His gaze found the fire…. the pitiful remainders of his fire. Of the four thick logs he had fed it earlier, most had crumbled into glowing ashes, and only small flames still licked at the little remaining food. The sight of it brought a great wave of disorientation. For how long had he been unconscious? Was it already night again? Trying to lift his head high enough to look in the direction of the exit, Éomer found that he could still faintly see the outline of the cave, if not too clearly. Either it was a very overcast day, or nightfall could not be far off. Furrowing his brow with discomfort over his finding, he lay back… when something else came to his mind.

Reluctantly his gaze went down to his leg, and Éomer braced to finally see the full damage done. The merciful twilight of the cave could not hide the glistening dark stain around the middle of his thigh where the blood had soaked his breaches around the small cut. Carefully turning the muscle to inspect the exit wound, Éomer gritted his teeth as he peeled aside the leather to look. He seemed to have been lucky: as expected, the tear had bled a while, but the flow seemed to have ended a good while ago. Only the movement now caused it to weep anew, but not exceedingly. No, the wound looked about as good as he could have hoped for. Rolling on his back with an effort, Éomer fumbled in the diffuse light to find the strips of cloth he had cut from his tunic earlier and with what little of his strength had returned, dressed the wound. At last, he rekindled the fire with four more thick branches and lay back, utterly spent and ready to pass out again.

As his hand fell down, his fingers brushed over a thing that clattered away underneath his touch, a bright noise that caught his attention through the leaden exhaustion, and he picked it up to inspect it. It was the arrow. Thoughtfully, Éomer ran a thumb over the delicate tip and was relieved to find it intact; there were no dents or sharp angles on it where they didn’t belong. Disgusted, he dropped it, and instead unscrewed his nearby water-skin to take a sip. Its lightness did nothing to improve his mood; the way it felt it could be barely more than half-full. Perhaps enough to last until the next morning, or noon, if he drank sparsely. But what then? ‘You will have to crawl to the entrance and fill it with snow.’ A dry, humourless laugh. Yes, certainly. He already felt as stiff as one of the Pukel-men at Dunharrow, and by tomorrow, his mobility would be reduced to the point of non-existence. ‘You did not tell me about this, Théodred! Step by step you said, but you did not say how many steps there were to take altogether. You cheated!’

There was no answer, and exhausted from the brief time awake, Éomer closed his eyes, intending to go back to sleep and forget about his hopeless situation at least for another few hours, when from the side, a deep, impatient whicker reached his ear. Unwillingly, he craned his neck to look at his restlessly shifting stallion.

"No, Firefoot. We stay." He felt sorry for his animal companion. This was no place for a horse. The caves were too narrow for a creature of his frame; they stank of death and there was no fodder. The stallion had to be hungry and yearning for company of his kind. As was he, Éomer thought in a sudden fit of loneliness, and he listened into the darkness. Where was Théodred when he needed him? With another sceptical glance at the slowly reviving fire, Éomer carefully reached out to clutch the woollen blanket he had not had the time to wrap himself into before unconsciousness had claimed him, and spread it over himself.

Better. As miserable as he felt, at least he was no longer cold. Staring into the flames with unfocussed eyes and enjoying the warmth on his face, it did not take long for him to sink back into oblivion…

The sun’s tarnished face disappeared behind the Ered Nimrais and plunged the land into twilight as another frustrating day drew to an end; a day of helplessly watching how everything around her fell to pieces. It was the third day Éowyn had been forced to remain in her chambers, and while she appreciated their luxury over the other possibility Gríma had threatened, the very thought of the audacity to keep her imprisoned within their own halls was enough to let the blood churn through her veins.

Standing by the window with her gaze resting on the plains like she had done for long periods within these past days, Éowyn felt that she was fast approaching the point where she would either have to storm out of her chambers and kill whoever dared to block her way, or explode. Fully recovered and the fever but a distant memory, the inactivity to which she had been condemned was quickly becoming torture. How could she sit around doing nothing while Éomer suffered somewhere perhaps close by at the hands of their arch enemy’s minions? How was she supposed to bear this burden with no one to confide in, no one to share the load or to encourage her? Although she kept telling herself that the Worm’s proud statement about having captured her brother was only another one of Gríma’s devious mind games, there was no way to know for sure, and the uncertainty was driving her mad.

And what about their uncle, how was he faring? Since Gríma’s power over their people was closely related to his hold of the King, it was Éowyn’s conviction that the evil counsellor would do everything in his power to keep Théoden alive for as long as possible. And yet, while she suspected that the effort would be vain and the result depressing, she desperately needed to see her surrogate father with her own eyes and attempt to talk with him. Perhaps, if she was lucky and caught him in one of his rare lucid moments, she could alert him of the horrible things going on in the Mark in his name these days.

As she turned toward the door, Éowyn’s expression darkened. There were so many unknowns, so many things over which she had no influence, but she had to keep trying. To do nothing would mean to give up, and she was not yet ready to admit defeat. All day long, she had repeatedly opened the door to keep the changing guards in front of her chambers busy with errands, only waiting for the moment when that man would be someone of the old ranks of the Royal Guard and not one of Wormtongue’s thinly disguised henchmen. So she tensed as she depressed the handle yet again, and this time her heart jumped into her throat as she recognised the man.

"Déor! Béma be blessed, I was hoping to find you here!" A quick glance established that they were alone, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. These days, one could never be too cautious. The elderly guard looked at her warily, obviously unhappy over being pulled into affairs that could cause him trouble.

Relieved that her request seemed to be harmless and did not ask for him to engage into any forbidden activities, Déor nodded.

"I will have someone look for him, my lady." He granted her a curt nod. "In the meantime, I would like to say that we are glad to see you recovered. Your illness cast a great shadow upon this house, and seeing your health restored is at least one great worry off people’s minds."

"I thank you for your concern, Déor. It is a comforting thought that people still care for each other in this house, even if most of them seem too afraid to show it these days. Now, if you can please get Gamling for me? I’d be most grateful." She paused and gazed intently into the darkness on the other side of the hall. "You would not happen to know where the Counsellor is?"

"I understand that he left Meduseld a while ago to go into the city. To my knowledge, he has not returned yet." The discomfort was back in the older man’s eyes as if he suspected that the King’s niece would ask for something he was not allowed to grant, but to his relief, the White Lady only nodded and then closed the door behind her again.

With long powerful swipes Elfhelm pulled the straw over Éon’s steaming hide, his body warming with the movement after another long day of exposure to the elements. As much as he usually enjoyed riding and the freedom of the wide open plains in contrast to the city’s haunting feeling of despair, the Captain of Aldburg felt that the long leagues he and his horse had travelled in the past weeks were finally beginning to take their toll on the both of them. The problem was that he would not be done once they reached Edoras tomorrow; he’d still have to get back to Aldburg, and who knew what would await him upon his return. If Éomer had shown up there in the meantime and their call to rebellion spread through the Riddermark, there would be no rest for him in the foreseeable future. And yet he could live with these prospects, because rest meant inactivity, and each hour of inactivity meant orcs roaming the Mark unchallenged, burning their land and killing their people, a thought Elfhelm found altogether intolerable.

He pushed the idea away, not wanting to occupy himself with it any longer while there was still much to be done, more immediate problems to be seen to before he could concern himself with the questions it posed; the most urgent one being the decision of how they would proceed once they reached Edoras. Behind him, rusty hinges creaked as the stable door was opened from outside, and when heavy steps approached him, Elfhelm turned his head to acknowledge Céorl’s presence.

"You look tired," his brother-in-arms said after a scrutinising glance. "I really wish there had been a different way to deal with this than dragging you over the plains again when you had only just returned from battle."

"But as we both know, there isn’t one, and as long as it concerns crossing the Worm’s plans, I will go wherever I’m needed, whenever I’m needed, even if I had to crawl on hands and knees to get there."

With a dry laugh, Céorl stepped up to him, and rested his hands on the stall door.

"I came to tell you that the farmer’s wife fixed us an evening meal in the main house. But perhaps we should first discuss what to do tomorrow, and I would prefer to do that here. It is not that I don’t trust them, but one can never be too careful these days." He extended a hand and clapped Éon’s neck, the gesture resulting in an exasperated huff from the neighbouring stall. Céorl looked at his steed with raised eyebrows. "I do not believe my ears, Lancer! Do you honestly feel that I didn’t give you enough attention today? After rubbing you dry, checking your legs and hooves and feeding you, you will still not allow me to touch another horse? You are one envious beast, I’ll give you that!"

Demonstrating that he cared little for his steed’s protest, the warrior patted the bay stallion again, and again, his grey mount huffed indignantly before turning away to punish his master by ignoring him. The subject of their little quarrel appeared untouched by the tension and calmly continued to chew on his oats, enjoying the attention of the two men very much. Shrugging as he exchanged an eloquent look with the other warrior, Elfhelm finally dropped the straw and rubbed his hands against his breeches as he left the stall with a last pat on Éon’s powerful hindquarters.

"I don’t think we should enter Edoras together. They expect me back, but if you and your Riders accompany me, it will only alert the snake that something is brewing. If we want to reach something, we need to catch him unawares."

"And what do you suggest?" Elfhelm realised that he reeked heavily of horse and sweat, and he would have liked to wash before the meal, but if it was already waiting for them, it would take too long. After the long day on horseback, freezing in the stiff breeze, he very much longed for a hot meal… and he was ravenous. Oh well. It was not like the farmers would be shocked by the odour. He sighed.

"My men and I will ride ahead, and I will speak with Éothain as soon as I see him to make the necessary arrangements. You will follow us three hours after moonrise, once the lights of the city have been extinguished. Then either Éothain or I will personally open the gates to let you in; we will give you a signal once the air is clear. If we want to find out what is really going on in the city, I believe we have the best chance at night, before word of our arrival reaches our adversary and he can send out his spies. I will see to it that we can speak undisturbed. Once we have been filled in, we can then decide upon the necessary steps."

With a deep intake of breath, Elfhelm stared through him for a long moment of silence. When he woke from his reverie, his brow was furrowed.

"I suppose that it is indeed the smartest approach, but I do not like it. It makes us look like thieves."

"Yes. But these days, it would seem that righteous men have to move this way, because the crooked ones have seized control. It cannot be helped. It is in stealth where our greatest chance lies."

"True." Elfhelm still despised the image in front of his inner eye, but he saw the sense in the other man’s words. "And what a shame that is. But I will regard it as only another insult we will make the snake pay for. I agree with your plan. My men and I will approach the city after nightfall and wait at the rocks near the Snowbourne until you give us the signal." His hand landed heavily on Céorl’s shoulder before he turned to go. "And now I am hungry. Come, let us go and see what these good people cooked for us. I feel like I could eat an entire pig all by myself."

Rationally, Éowyn knew that not much time had passed before she heard the awaited rap on her door, and yet the span had seemed like an eternity. Each moment Gríma could return from whatever twisted things he had arranged for in the city and spoil her perfect opportunity to see her uncle after the long days of isolation. Oh, if she could only make him see and understand what the snake by his side was doing to his kingdom under the guise of his most loyal servant!

"Come in!" She almost jumped to her feet when the door opened and the older, red-haired warrior looked in. "Gamling! Oh, dear Gamling, I am so glad to see you! Please, do come in!"

"I must apologise, my lady," the Chief of the Royal Guard said, and when he came closer, the deepened lines on his already weathered face told of the strain that had worn on him for the past dark weeks. Carefully, he closed the door behind him before he turned back. "I meant to see you sooner, but with all the strange and disquieting things going on in Meduseld and the city, I was kept more than busy… and I preferred to visit you when the Counsellor would not know about it and we would not have to fear that he would have his ear literally on the door. That man is not easily tricked, and he seldom leaves the Hall."

"There is no need to apologise, Gamling," Éowyn said, fighting a thick lump in her throat about finally being able to talk to a friend. "Believe me, I understand. And while all of us have to bear our burdens, I realise that it must be especially hard for you."

"It is not easy to do the Counsellor’s bidding when all I want to do is stick my sword into him, but there are so many of his men now, spies wherever you go, so that you can’t have an open word with anyone, and I do not know what he has planned for your uncle. For now, he still needs him, but what he will do once his control of the court is complete, I do not dare to think about. All I know is that I must remain close to the King at all times. I am his only protection."

The old warrior’s loyalty moved Éowyn greatly, and she laid a hand upon his arm.

"You are the greatest friend a man could wish for, Lord Gamling, and I only wish that my uncle were in a condition to fully appreciate your loyalty. But since he can’t thank you, please accept my sincere thanks."

"There is no need to thank me, my lady." Gamling looked uncomfortable. "I swore an oath to your uncle once, and it means everything to me. Together we braved hard times, and I am still convinced that we will weather this storm, too… even though it seems as if we have entered the heart of darkness these days. Yet surely, we will soon see the light at the end of the tunnel; it cannot go on like this for long. In the end we shall prevail, the way we have always done. Once our people realise that the very existence of the kingdom is at stake, they will stand up and fight." Éowyn nodded, thankful for his uplifting words and wishing that she would find the strength in herself to believe them. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, and at length, Gamling asked: "Yet this is not why you asked me to come, is it, Lady Éowyn? What else can I do for you?"

"Gamling… I realise that this might not be a simple decision for you, but I would very much like to see my uncle. I miss him dearly, and with my brother gone, he is the only family I have left. I worry for him, and it would comfort me greatly to be allowed a few moments with him."

"He was so frail when I last saw him. What if he dies before I can speak with him again? Won’t he think that all his family has truly deserted him?" Éowyn shook her head, and her gaze became a desperate plea. "I do not want to give him this feeling, Gamling. He was kind to us when we came here after our parents’ death; full of understanding and care. He greatly lessened the pain we felt and helped us to overcome our grief. It is my wish and my duty to be with him as much as I can in this hard time." She expected to need more and already wracked her brain for arguments, but the old warrior surprised her.

"You do not have to convince me, my lady. I know how dear you are to each other. Come, let us not lose another minute. The King is already in his chambers, but I doubt that he is asleep yet." He turned to open the door for her, and she stared at him in wonder.

"Come," he gestured urgently. "My orders did not say that you were forbidden to see your uncle. And I am still a captain of the Royal Guard. This title must be good for something!" He turned to Déor, who was following their exchange with an expression of insecurity. "Déor, stay here. If the Counsellor returns, you will say nothing unless he asks you. If he does, which I don’t think he will, you will tell him the truth, which is that the Lady Éowyn asked me to take her to the King to see how he was faring, and that I personally took her there. I don’t see how he could object to this. But you will only tell him if he asks. If he doesn’t, we will not volunteer it. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord." Déor nodded, visibly relieved that his superior was taking full responsibility. "Certainly."

"Good." Gamling motioned for Éowyn to follow him, and she slipped out into the hall, excited to leave her chambers after the days of imprisonment.

The King was already lying in his bed but still awake, as Gamling had rightly suspected. It had taken little effort to convince his manservant of the great favour he would be doing the King and the White Lady if he allowed their reunion even at this late hour, and so Baldor had quietly stepped aside and closed the door to grant Théoden-King and his niece a moment of privacy. Looking at Gamling, who had likewise chosen to remain outside, he found his own contentment mirrored in the guard’s face. This was the right thing to do. Perhaps these brief moments of closeness with a beloved family member would improve the King’s condition.

Suddenly feeling young and small again, Éowyn hesitantly crossed the room that was only lit by the flickering flames in the fireplace, and her insides twisted into a tight knot. The place reeked of illness and despair, and so the first thing she did was open the window to allow fresh air in before she turned to kneel on the bear-pelt before her uncle’s bed. Her heartbeat accelerated when she realised that he was looking at her rather than through her, appearing more lucid than he had when she had last seen him. But oh, he was so deadly pale, and the lines on his face were deep like the furrows on a newly set field. Yet what was that expression on his face, for it was not blank as she had seen it for these past weeks and months. Taking his hand into hers, Éowyn summoned her courage and began.

He looked at her, and behind the veil covering the faded blue eyes, there seemed to be just the smallest spark of recognition. Not sure whether it was just an illusion, Éowyn nearly jumped when the pressure of her grip was suddenly returned.

"Éowyn?" It was the softest, frailest voice she had ever heard come from this man, so delicate that the merest movement of air would suffice to carry the sound away, but the effect it had on her was overwhelming. From out of nowhere, Éowyn’s eyes suddenly filled with tears of joy, and she squeezed his hand in enthusiastic affirmation.

"Yes! Yes, Uncle, it is I. Béma be blessed!" The tears spilled over, and she wiped them away with an unconscious gesture, a surge of happiness racing through her she had not felt in a long time. "How do you feel?" He looked at her as if contemplating her question, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

The words were a bucket of cold water into her face, and the smile vanished from Éowyn’s lips as if it had never been there. ‘Your son died, and you do not even know about it?’ she thought with sudden bitterness, yet knew better than to voice her emotions. But the question nonetheless troubled her greatly. How much of the past did Théoden know? He seemed like a man who had just woken from a deep sleep, completely unaware of what had happened in the meantime. How on earth was she supposed to tell him that his son was dead when he was only beginning to wake?

"He is not here," she evaded, lowering her gaze to look at their intertwined hands. Gods, how to begin? If she told him of Théodred’s death and Éomer’s banishment and his role in it, the damage it could do could not be estimated. And yet somehow, she had to bring it to his attention that all was not well in his kingdom. If only she had more time. "What is the last thing you remember?" she finally asked, deciding to approach the difficult subject from a different side. Théoden looked through her, and for a moment, she feared that she had lost his attention.

"Darkness," the ill man finally said in a pensive, gloomy voice, and still he seemed to Éowyn more lucid than she had seen him in a long time. "As if I was caught in a dream I could not wake from. You were there and Éomer, and Gríma, too… and I also remember seeing Gamling and Háma…" His attention found back to her. "I called, but you would not hear me. You were looking at me, but--" the furrows on his brow deepened "—you almost seemed angry with me. I know not why. Was it only a dream, Éowyn, or did I do something horribly wrong?" An unnamed dread coloured his voice as if he feared to hear what he had done. Éowyn felt terrible, but she knew that she had no other choice. If she wanted to wake him from the stupor induced by Wormtongue, her uncle had to know the whole ugly truth. Perhaps, if she found the right words, he would be so dismayed that he would send the snake away upon his return to the hall. Perhaps, everything could find a good end even tonight!

After an additional moment of collecting herself, she finally dared to look up – and saw him flinch in reaction to her gaze. Did he already know what she was about to say? Had he witnessed the scene of the banishment, but taken it for a dream?

"It was not you," she began hesitantly. "I know that. You are ill, and have been ill for a long time, but you must know that someone very close to you has been misusing your trust to bring great damage to the Mark for a long time. He is, in fact, the one responsible for your sickness. You must send him away, Uncle, for he is an evil man." Her heart pounding against her ribs, she waited anxiously for his reaction, yet before Théoden could respond, a sudden rap on the door interrupted their moment of privacy. ‘No! No, it can not be!’

The door opened, and it was not Gamling or Baldor who looked inside; but the very subject of her words, and in his pale blue eyes Éowyn saw the understanding of what he had caught her at. How had that snake succeeded in sneaking up on them so quickly that there had not even been time for a warning?

"My lord, my lady… it is wonderful to see the two of you recovered. What a happy moment for us all this is." His gaze found Éowyn, and she lifted her chin in defiance, daring him to throw her out. "Yet it has only been three days ago that you were in the throes of a great fever, Lady Éowyn, and while I have to admit that you look much better, I would prefer to wait with a longer reunion until we can be assured that the sickness has indeed passed. As you know, your uncle’s health is a frail thing."

Oh, the mud-blood infuriated her! Was Gríma truly suggesting now that she was the reason for the King’s sickness?

"I have felt well again since yesterday, thank you, Counsellor," she replied coolly, wanting to say more, but Théoden interrupted her. The joy with which he greeted the false snake made her bodily sick.

"As a matter of fact, yes," the dark man said as he slowly entered the room, but while he spoke with the King, his gaze remained on Éowyn as he took a small phial with a clear liquid out of his pocket. She understood the unspoken threat. ‘One word, and your brother will suffer for it.’ "I grew impatient, because your health had declined so greatly over the past weeks despite my efforts, and I thought I’d attempt something different this morning. I am most relieved to see that it worked so well." He opened the stopper and poured a few drops of the liquid into the carafe on the King’s nightstand.

Éowyn clenched her jaw, biting down heavily on her tongue. No, no, it could not be! By drinking this, her uncle would no doubt be reduced again to the will-less puppet he had been for too long, the unsuspecting pawn of the most cunning enemy the Mark had ever seen. Holding Théoden’s hand tightly, she watched how Gríma poured some of the steaming contents of the carafe into a cup for her uncle to drink. She had to intervene! She opened her mouth – and shut it again upon another knowing glance the counsellor gave her as he passed the cup to the sick man.

"What would I do if I didn’t have you, Gríma," Théoden said with a thankful smile on his face. He emptied the cup, and Éowyn had to force herself to look away. She could not bear to see her uncle’s unsuspecting gratitude, or the expression of victory on the Worm’s face. Shivering with suppressed rage, she pressed the old man’s hand in a gesture of farewell, and – after planting a gentle kiss on his cheek – rose to her feet again, harbouring no doubts that by next morning, the man she loved as her surrogate father would be gone again, replaced by the hollow shell that did Rohan so much damage.

"I fear that it is time for me to leave, Uncle. You need to rest, and so do I. I will be back tomorrow, but for now, I bid you a good night." She did not look back as she left the room with hasty steps, wishing to reach the safety of her chambers before she came undone. She had been so close… Behind the door, Gamling and Baldor waited for her, and though she clearly saw the dismay on the men’s faces, she felt not ready to address them. Quietly, Gamling accompanied her to her rooms, where at last he attempted to explain.

"He was suddenly there, as if he had hidden in the shadows. I swear, if I had seen him, I would of course--"

"I do not blame you, Gamling. It is that man." Without warning, her gaze turned to steel. "We will have to do something about him. It cannot go on like this." And with these words, she disappeared into her chambers for the night.

"Éowyn! Éowyn, no!" The pyre erupted into flames as Gríma put his torch to it, the yellow tongues hungrily climbing up the wood toward his sister’s flesh. Éowyn screamed, all evidence of her usual calm and collected demeanour gone in the face of a horrible death, but nobody moved to help her; all the citizens of Edoras who had gathered at the market square to witness her execution stood entranced and stared at the quickly building fire with blank expressions. In the front row, an inanimate Théoden sat on his throne, which had been carried down for him to watch the burning of his niece, and his voice was the only sound audible over the increasing roar of the fire and Éowyn’s screams.

"Well-spoken, Master," Wormtongue complimented him silkenly as he slipped behind the king and placed his hands on the old man’s shoulders in a disgusting display of false closeness. "She would not listen. We warned her by sending her brother away, and yet she did the same thing. If she cannot listen, she must burn."

Jumping from Firefoot’s back into the crowd Éomer dashed madly toward the pyre where the first flames reached Éowyn’s feet, and her cries of pain froze his blood.

"I am coming, Éowyn! Hold on!" The guards stormed toward him, but he rammed them aside and jumped into the fire without consideration for his own safety. Already the flames tasted the flavour of his garments as he stormed up the pile of wood.

Still climbing, he drew his knife to cut her loose, but then saw to his dismay that his sister was shackled to the post with iron-chains.

"No! No!" Dropping the knife, he tore at the chains with bare hands while the heat engulfed him, each breath searing his lungs. The roar of the fire was deafening, yet not loud enough to drown out Gríma’s words as he said: "Brother and sister burning side by side for their sins against Rohan. Isn’t that most fitting indeed, my lord?"

"Éomer!" Éowyn’s eyes widened in horror. "You cannot help me. Go and save yourself, for Rohan needs you!" The fire reached her legs, and she issued a bloodcurdling scream. Helplessly, he tore at the chains, but it was already too late. There was but one thing left that he could do for his sister now, and so Éomer gave up his efforts and instead closed his arms around her as the heat and the brightness and the roar of the flames engulfed them. He could not save her, could not shield her from the fire but at least they could die side by side. As the air grew too hot to breathe, Éomer turned his head and saw the faint outline of their uncle through the flames, and Gríma standing beside him, holding his hand. It was the image he took with him…

... when he awoke with a gasp to darkness; a thick, solid blackness that was all the more confusing in contrast to the firestorm he had just escaped. Strangely though, the heat seemed to have followed him from his nightmare: his garments and the blanket were drenched with sweat and stuck to his skin. For a moment, Éomer could not tell where he was.

"Éowyn?" Was this the afterlife? But why could he not see? Wasn’t he supposed to go to the Halls of his Fathers? What was this dark place? Sweat stung in his eyes, and slowly, it seeped into Éomer’s conscious that the horrible scene he had witnessed had only been a dream. His heart still pounding in a frenzied rhythm against his ribs, he sank back and wiped his sweat-beaded forehead in an unconscious gesture… and paused when his cold fingers touched his hot face. ‘Bema, no…it cannot be!’ But there was no denying: the more Éomer became aware of his surroundings, distancing himself from the last echoes of the nightmare, the more he felt the dull throbbing of his racing pulse behind his brow, and as he looked at the fire although he already knew that the sensation could not originate from there, the brightness of the flames assaulted his eyes like needles. Alas, he knew those signs well, and a sinking feeling spread in his stomach.

He had been too slow in tending his wounds, or not thorough enough, or there had not been enough of the spirit to clean all the gashes and tears. Perhaps he should not have weakened the brew by stretching it with water, but what good were regrets now? While he had been asleep, infection had developed in his wounds, and now fever burnt him alive. Tremors already ran through his muscles, telling him that the poison had already spread far through his body. What now?

"Firefoot?" Blindly reaching for his water skin to soothe his dry throat, Éomer turned his head… and found the cave deserted. There was no sign of the stallion. From the entrance, only the ominous roar of the wind penetrated into the sanctity of his retreat and he shivered underneath his wet blanket as a bone-chilling cold seized his body, making his teeth clatter and his hands tremble. He spilled half of the water before he could hold the opening of the water skin still enough to drink. The liquid soothed his raw throat on the way down, yet it was only la drop in the bucket and a moment later, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth once more. Fighting the urge to drink the rest of it, Éomer fought with the stopper, and suddenly, the vessel slipped from his grasp and emptied its precious contents into the straw. "No…"

His hands in the puddle as if he could shove the water back into the pouch somehow, Éomer stared in dismay at the disaster… when he suddenly felt with all distinctiveness the tiny hairs at the back of his neck rise. It was another shiver, but not caused by the fever, and after the many years of riding with the Armed Forces, Éomer immediately understood the meaning of the telltale prickle of his scalp: death was in the neighbourhood, looking for him. Its shape was yet unknown, and although he was painfully aware of the fact that he stood no chance of defending himself against anything greater than an orc babe, Éomer clenched the hilt of his knife. The deadly threat resulted in a burst of fresh energy surging through his body and enabling him to push himself up into a sitting position against the wall. Frantically, his gaze darted through the impenetrable darkness beyond the fire.

Something was moving where the light ended; several invisible shapes he could sense but not see. For a heartbeat Éomer hoped that it was Firefoot who had returned from his foray, but with the next beat, he wiped it away. This was not the sound of iron-shod hooves on stone he knew so well; no, these were stealthy, fast steps on padded paws and although the clicking of the claws on the rock was almost too low to be audible, his battle-experienced subconscious registered it nonetheless. This was the sound of predators. He had not even ended the thought when there was suddenly the reflection of the fire in three pairs of luminous eyes before they turned away, and Éomer inhaled sharply. Wolves.

The knife was of no use. Dropping it, Éomer picked up one of the burning branches instead, quickly throwing another piece of wood into the fire to strengthen it, followed by two more. Perhaps the flames would discourage them, even if he did not dare to hope. The thick stench of death must have led the predators to the cave, and while they usually preferred fresh meat, Éomer knew that in the hard wintertime, no wolf would let an easy meal get away, even if it was carrion. They had initially come for the orcs... but now they had found something far better. Once again their eyes gleamed maliciously in the darkness as they halted to stare at him, trying to estimate the strength of their prey. Menacingly, Éomer waved the branch toward them, his energy already waning, and he gritted his teeth in effort, knowing that once he went down, not even the fire would protect him any longer. Again the wolves shifted and turned, still undecided whether to attack or not, but finally, a nasty snarl rose from the other side of the fire, lowly at first, but quickly increasing in volume as it was picked up by the others. They were hungry… and ready to charge.

"You will not get me! Go away!" Éomer shouted at them without much hope, struggling to remain upright although the interior of the cave was already spinning around him. Wolves were smart hunters and possessed of great senses. Of course they smelled his illness and knew that they would be rewarded if only they remained patient. The thought was still unfinished when the three predators suddenly advanced by spreading in a half-circle. The first one moved at him in a feint, snapping, and as Éomer lashed out at it, the one on the other side jumped, almost making it around the fire before Éomer could turn. Sinking its jaws deeply into the blanket, it jumped back just in time to avoid the burning branch and retreated into a corner to secure its prey. Yet one bite was enough for the beast to understand that the thing it had claimed was worthless, and it quickly rejoined the others in the attack.

Rivers of sweat ran down his face, burning in his eyes and blurring his sight as Éomer waved the branch to ward off another attack, his strength fading fast but yet kept upright by his growing anger. How could it be Béma’s will to let him be killed by a pack of wolves after all he had done for his people? How did he deserve this fate? His fury lent him the energy for another thrust, and the branch hit the wolf’s head and seared its sensitive nose and eyes. With an anguished yelp, the beast retreated – and knocked the weapon from his hands and out of his reach!

For a second, wolves and man stared at each other in perfect understanding: they were the hunters and he the prey, and they had given him his chance. He had committed a mistake, and now he would die. They jumped at him in unison, but suddenly their angry snarls were drowned out by a piercing shriek and the deafening sound of thunder in the narrow hollow. Like a demon of wrath, Firefoot charged into the cave, too fast for the stunned predators to evade. A vicious kick catapulted the first wolf to the side with a broken shoulder, and it screamed in pain and only barely evaded the stallion’s teeth as it turned on the spot to follow its fleeing brothers on three legs, not prepared to fight prey of this size and furious temper.

Chasing after them, Firefoot snorted furiously and stomped the ground in display of his terrible weapons as he stopped at the entrance, half-rearing in expectation of the beasts’ return. Yet their scent weakened quickly and finally vanished from the night breeze, so he sent a triumphant scream after the pack and pranced, tossing his head with the thick mane frothing around his neck before he returned to his master, the proud victor.

Éomer smiled weakly at the advancing grey shadow, both amused by the stallion’s pride and deeply grateful, but then slumped into a heap under the assault of yet another wave of heat. His hand seemed to weigh a ton as he lifted it in greeting at his animal ally…and something else was wrong with it, too. Blinking, he stared at the swollen thing at the end of his arm, briefly wondering whether the fever distorted his vision or if his fingers were really so deformed. They had swollen to the point where he could hardly bend them, and the colour of the skin around the holes had darkened to an angry red. Realisation of the meaning of his finding slowly seeping in his conscious, Éomer sat transfixed for a moment longer. Those stinking orcs. Now he’d have to leave the caves, or he would die here, adding his bones to those of all the rabbits and mice that had ended their lives here in the stomach of the filthy brood. Of course chances were also good that the first living thing he encountered outside would kill him, but if he remained here, his fate was certain.

An irritated whicker rose from the depths of Firefoot’s throat, and Éomer looked up. The stallion pawed the ground, anxious to leave this horrible place that assaulted his instincts with the stench of sickness and death and foes. Éomer understood the horse’s nervousness, for though he had no plan nor knew where to turn to for help yet, one thing was sure: he’d have to make haste, or all would be too late. Another look at his hand revealed the dark pattern of thickened veins through which the poisoned blood flowed, and the sight chased another shiver down his spine. He had seen riders with such infections; he had seen them lose limbs or even die once the bad blood had spread too far through their body. And at the same time he knew for certain that he would not be able to mount his horse the usual way; he didn’t even have to make the attempt to know. There was only one option.

Supporting his head against the wall because it felt too heavy to keep upright on his own, Éomer muttered tiredly: "I know, Firefoot. You want to leave. I assume it does not matter; we might as well try it. But I fear that I cannot stand. You must come down for me." He patted the ground and looked up. Firefoot towered above him like a statue, and his large eyes stared at Éomer as if he contemplated whether his master had truly lost his mind now. Éomer would have laughed over the incredulous look on his horse’s face if it had not been for another cramp seizing him, stronger this time, and he gritted his teeth and groaned as he waited for the pain to subside. This had to be the way a raw piece of steel felt while it was bent and hammered into shape above the fire.

The next moment he snorted, bewildered by the strange shape his thoughts were taking and blaming it on the fever. Even his eyes hurt when he looked up at the restlessly shifting stallion, rising what was left of his voice: "Down, lad. Here!" Again he patted the ground, and the horse tossed his head in indignant refusal. There was no misunderstanding the meaning of Éomer’s gesture, as it was taught to all Rohirric horses, no matter whether they belonged to the Armed Forces or the farmers. In a land as dangerous as the Mark, it was vital that one was able to mount one’s horse at all times, even if one could barely move. Their horses’ unusual intelligence and fierce loyalty along with their strength and endurance were the reasons for their renown in the rest of the world; they were no common beasts. If only this big, bull-headed example in front of him would remember his heritage and stop fussing!

And yet Éomer knew well that he was being hard on the stallion: the reasons for Firefoot’s reluctance were perfectly understandable. The training had always taken place on soft ground, and if the horse lowered his bulk onto the hard surface, Firefoot could hurt himself considerably, even more so since freedom of movement was limited within the caves. Also, while they could fight, even their magnificent horses were beasts that preferred flight to battle. If the wolves returned while Firefoot lay on the ground, he would be able to do neither. He’d be easy prey. Horses never lay down in a place they felt not completely safe at, and the stallion had hated the caves from the start. Now they reeked of death, and his master was asking him to expose itself to perhaps lethal danger. Of course the task was risky. But it was not something Éomer could take into consideration now.

Torn between his instincts and loyalty to his master, Firefoot circled the narrow confines of the cave once more, and for a moment, it looked to Éomer as if he wanted to leave, but with an angered and at the same time resigned huff, the Half-Meara turned at last on his hind legs and returned, and from the awkwardness of his movements Éomer could tell that he was looking for a favourable spot to lie down.

"That is my boy," he breathed, silently wondering whether he would succeed in mounting even if Firefoot lowered himself for him. "Thank you, lad." He looked at the things strewn around him. The waterskin was empty, no use in taking it along. The knife… yes, perhaps he would still need it. ‘At least I could hurt the first orc that attacked me before he bites my head off.’ He secured the blade underneath his belt. What else? Provisions? He had no strength left to saddle Firefoot, so where should he leave them? No, this being his last attempt of survival, there was no use in taking anything else.

Reaching for his cape and cautiously slipping into it, Éomer observed the horse’s efforts to lie down from the corner of his eye. Each of the grey’s movements expressing his reluctance and discomfort, Firefoot shifted and turned endlessly before at last seemed to have found a suitable spot. Awkwardly bending his front legs, he dropped at last with a heavy thud, and Éomer grimaced compassionately upon hearing the deep groan the grey issued in response to the impact. Very well, his horse had done for him what he could; now it was on Éomer to make the last effort. Only a few steps separated him from the stallion, who had almost lowered himself onto the fireplace. One last time collecting the pitiful remains of his strength, Éomer bent to the side with a hiss, simultaneously dragging and pushing himself over the ground. The roar of his rushing blood in his ears drowned out all other noises before his hand finally touched the grey hide, and his vision threatened to leave him with small white explosions dancing in front of his eyes.

"It is good, my friend. I am here." Affectionately, Éomer patted the mighty shoulder and grasped a handful of the thick mane to literally drag himself onto Firefoot’s back. Shivering with exhaustion, he finally slipped his injured leg over the side with a pained hiss and clicked his tongue, hoping that he would not fall when the stallion rose to his feet. Gods, how he would make Wormtongue suffer for this! "Up. Up, Firefoot." The great muscles worked underneath him as Firefoot spread his front legs. A strained groan emitted from the depth of the stallion’s broad chest in effort as he struggled to rise with the additional weight on his back. Swaying like a foal that tried to gain its footing for the first time in his life, a precarious moment passed when Éomer thought they would both fall back and he would be crushed by the grey’s weight, but with a last mighty effort, Firefoot thrust forth his bulk, and at last he stood. Thin rivulets of blood ran down his strong legs from the abrasions he had suffered by letting himself fall, but in his relief of finally being able to leave the deadly trap of the caves, he felt nothing.

His fingers clenching the dark mane so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms, Éomer squeezed his eyes shut against the searing pain in his leg and side upon his steed’s first steps, and an awful surge of nausea rose from his stomach. He was not certain for how long he would be able to remain on Firefoot’s back, had no inkling of where to go. Putting all his faith into the senses of his horse because he knew that the grey would search the wind for signs of his kin, Éomer tightened the cape around his shivering frame and committed himself to chance. Together, horse and rider left the darkness of the caves to enter the narrow mountain path in the first faint light of the new day.

The dark silhouette of Meduseld loomed forbiddingly against the pale grey sky, and for the first time ever, the sight evoked a feeling of dread in Céorl as he approached the mighty wooden fence that surrounded the city. Voices called out from the guard tower and knowing that he had been recognised, he reined in his horse as he waited for the gates to open. Finally, they were home again… only it did not feel like home. Instead of a place of safety, the experienced warrior felt as if he was treading on a frozen lake, the ice underneath his feet creaking and treacherously thin. Looking to see whether his fellow Riders shared his impression, the Captain turned his head and found his own discomfort mirrored in their grim faces and the rigidity of their bearing. While all the Riders were looking forward to be reunited with their families, none of them found solace in the thought of entering a city that reeked of mistrust and fear. What would they find once they proceeded inside? What had happened in the streets of Edoras since their departure, and when would they be called to answer to the Counsellor’s questions?

Setting his jaw at the thought of having to suppress his disdain while speaking with the Worm, Céorl urged his steed through the gap, and at once the leaden atmosphere of the city weighed him down, threatening to suffocate him as he beheld the guarded and fearful expressions of his kinsmen. Quickly they hurried by in their various errands, barely pausing long enough to regard him and his men with a vague sense of relief before they averted their eyes again.

"Captain Céorl!" One of the guards descended the ladder from the watchtower, and at least his face showed honest joy over his commander’s return. "It is good to have you back. With all the fell things going on out there, one can never know whether one will see those who leave the city again. How are things in Aldburg?"

"Not much different from here, it would seem," Céorl grumbled meaningfully, angered by the sight of his fearful kinsmen, and his urge to throttle the man who had turned their proud, courageous people into these sad shadows of themselves resurfaced with sudden vehemence. With a deep intake of breath, he looked down upon the older guard, struggling to rein in his bucking temperament. Poor Aldor most certainly did not deserve to be snapped at. "Tell me, Aldor, has anything of import happened in Edoras in my absence? Anything that I should know about?"

"Alas, the blacksmith’s son has gone missing, and his horse returned with a wound in its side, so apparently they were attacked. No one knows yet what fate has befallen him, and no body was found."

Céorl’s expression darkened at the insight that apparently, he could not even be gone from the city for four days without evil assaulting the people under his care.

"Have they looked for him? And why did he leave the city? Where did he want to go in this weather?"

"Your son led the riders out in search for Élric, but they returned empty-handed. I fear that there is not much hope left for the poor man. Bergfinn said that his son intended to bring a few instruments to his brother in the Folde which he had finished that day."

"This is the fourth day, Captain. He left the same day as you." There was no need to say more. Céorl understood, and with a silent curse, shook his head and exhaled.

"Your son was well when I saw him this morning, my lord, but I fear that he is not in the city. He and part of his éored left this morning to investigate a report of orcs north of here."

An instinctive fear befell Céorl as his eyes went over the guard’s shoulder in the direction the man had indicated, aware of the fact that he never used to worry overmuch about his son’s fate. Éothain was a capable warrior, skilled both with bow and sword and not lightly overcome. For years, battling orcs had been hardly more than a chore for their riders, but lately, the numbers of the foul brood had increased to the point where their hordes posed a serious threat even to a full éored, and since the discovery of the Uruk-Hai, a more fell and powerful breed of these accursed creatures, farmers and soldiers alike had begun to fear them.

"Well, if Éothain returns from his errand soon, tell him to meet me at the stables, Aldor. Otherwise I will meet him at home later on. I need to talk with him." Directing Lancer toward the ascending path, the warrior’s glance went up the slope to the stark silhouette of the Golden Hall. He did not look forward to delivering his report to a man with whom he would sooner exchange sword strikes than words. ‘It will not be for much longer,’ he thought, urging his steed on with a grim expression. ‘The Worm’s time is running out. Tonight, we will plan his end.’

High above the city, Éowyn sat once again by the window, her eyes unfocussed, staring into the thickly falling snow while she contemplated her options. No matter how her visit the night before had ended, it had filled her heart with hope to see that inside the apathetic shell of her uncle, the man Théoden had once been was still alive. She had feared that man was lost, but now that she had found out that he still existed, she was determined to find a way of bringing him back; with Gamling’s and Háma’s help or on her own if necessary. Looking at the closed door of her chambers in thought, Éowyn remembered her discussion with the Chief of the Royal Guard, and warmth spread through her at the comforting thought that she still had an ally within these halls. If it came to the worst, perhaps they could still force fate to bend their way.

Good old Gamling… She hoped that she had not caused her uncle’s most trusted friend additional trouble because of her request, but then again, it had never been said that she was not allowed to visit the King. It was infuriating that the Worm apparently held enough control over the court to confine her to her rooms, but to keep her isolated from her only remaining family member when it was well-known that the King’s condition always improved with her visits, however briefly, would be an uncalled-for punishment. Surely the ranks of the Royal Guard still held enough loyal followers of Théoden to keep her adversary and his henchmen in check.

‘Really?’ a voice in the back of her head asked warily. ‘How can you believe this after what happened to Éomer? Do you think Gríma would spare you if he caught you plotting against him? Do you think that he would hesitate to throw you into the dungeon if he knew that you plan to rid the Mark of him only because he wants you for himself?’ Oh yes, that thought. Long had she succeeded in ignoring it, but now it reared its ugly head again. Did the snake honestly believe that after all that had happened, she would still eventually surrender to him, that he would have her sooner or later, whether by force or by her own free will? No matter how much she despised the dark man, he could not truly think that she would ever consent to sharing her bed and her life with him; she would rather fall on her sword.

An inquisitive rap on the door woke her from her contemplations, and she raised her brows, tensing in sudden anxiety.

It was the Snake, of course. She had expected him to see her about the happenings of the night before, and still his talent of showing up whenever her thoughts were occupied with him was most uncanny, as if he were somehow able to look inside her head and heard her thoughts to make his entry when he would most unsettle her. His face an unmoved mask, the subject of her pondering shuffled into the room with his usual slight limp and closed the door behind himself. The look of the pale eyes resembled the thin crust of ice on a very deep lake. Just one wrong step, and she would plunge into the water and drown in its dark depths.

"Alas, it would appear to me that you do not take my threat seriously, my lady," he said, and a dangerous gleam danced in his pale eyes. "Do you not care for your brother, or how am I to interpret your little unexpected visit to the King last night?"

"Would you mind telling me in what way you believe me to have offended your commands, Counsellor? It was never said that I could not see my uncle, and I did not make a secret out of seeing him. On the contrary, I specifically asked the Chief of the Royal Guard to accompany me to his chambers, so that the visit would not be regarded as an act of disobedience. If you did not want for me to do so, you should have been clearer in your wording."

"You were ordered to remain in your rooms for five days. Today is only the fourth day, and your uncle’s chambers are not your chambers. I do not believe that we must discuss this fact."

"By your own words, you admitted that the arrest was only out of fear of me trying to help my brother in some way that would force you to incarcerate me. Now, thanks to your intervention--" at this she glared at him – "Éomer was unable to leave Rohan in the time you officially granted him. It was you who did not play by the rules, and I don’t believe that we must discuss this fact, either. It was also against the rules to let your henchmen stalk and injure him, so why should you tell me anything about rules, Counsellor?"

"The rules are made by the stronger one, Lady Éowyn. The weaker one either obeys, or feels the punishment for his disobedience. The choice is his."

"All I wished yesterday was to see my Uncle! I do not know whether you have noticed, but he is ill and frail! He is my family, and although you turned him into a hollow shell, I still care for him. He needs me in these hard times. You cannot forbid me to see my kin!"

"Do not try my patience," Gríma sneered. "I would be much more generous with my approval if it were not for the distinct feeling that you were in the process of disparaging me to the King when I entered, Lady Éowyn, and don’t even try to deny it. It was written all over your face!" Gríma held her gaze, and again it was as if he looked right into her head. "Do not take me for a fool, I know exactly the purpose of your little visit, and it was not solely to establish that your uncle was still alive. You wanted to find out whether he was clear enough to understand your accusations against me, is it not so?"

"Does it even matter what I say?" Éowyn rebuked. "You are so convinced of your version of the tale that you will not listen to me anyway!"

"You planned to tell the King of your brother’s fate. You planned to urge your Uncle to send me away, and that leaves me with only one possible conclusion: you do not believe that my threat is a real one. Tell me, what shall I do to convince you of my sincerity? Shall I bring you your brother’s hand to make you understand that he is indeed at my mercy... or will you continue to not believe me until I bring you his head?" Wormtongue advanced another step, and his gaze burned her. It took all of Éowyn’s restraint not to jump at the evil man and bury the dagger she now carried always with her in his chest. "I will do it, my lady. If you insist, I can have your brother’s head here for you to see by tomorrow. You will believe me then, but you will have to live with the knowledge that your rebellion killed him. Tell me, is this indeed what you want me to do? Your wish shall be my command."

She could not answer. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, Éowyn stood shivering with rage. Gríma, however, showed no mercy.

"I asked you a question, my lady. Should I send for your brother’s head?" He stared her down, and at last, she closed her eyes, no longer able to look at her tormentor.

"No." It was but a breath, and although Gríma had well heard it, the sound of it did not satisfy him.

"Say it loud and clearly, or I must assume that you still do not mean what you say!"

Éowyn’s eyes opened, and if looks could have killed, the Counsellor would have dropped dead right then.

"No, I do not want you to kill Éomer. Will that mean that you’re condemning me to stay here in my rooms while my uncle is dying a slow death at your hands?"

"He is not dying from my hands; it is his body failing him. In fact, I am prolonging his life! You should be grateful! But to answer your question: no, I will not forbid you to see your uncle in the future, but the decision whether you can see him or not lies solely with me from now on, and you will only visit him in my presence, because once again, you have proven yourself untrustworthy. And I will not hear any protest, because you know very well that I speak the truth. If you force me to intervene one more time, the restriction you have spoken of yourself will become reality, and you will hurt both your uncle and yourself by it… not to mention your brother." Turning around, Gríma laid a hand on the door handle, but then looked back at Éowyn once more, almost as if in afterthought. "I honestly hope that you understood me this time, Lady Éowyn. I keep my promises, and I mean what I say, always. If you still think that you can play your little games with me, then I must inform you that the times when I tolerated them for amusement’s sake are over. If I catch you scheming just one more time, you will bring suffering to those you love, mark my words." He let the words trail off into the heavy silence between them for dramatic effect, and when no answer came, left the chambers without another glance back.

Cold. So cold. The wind a howling, raging beast; tearing at him and sucking warmth and strength from his body no matter how deeply he hunched over Firefoot’s neck or pulled the hood of his cape into his face. A thick crust of ice already covered his beard and brows and eyelashes, thickening with each laboured breath, and he shivered violently from the cold and exhaustion. Yet despite the cramps, Éomer caught himself falling asleep and slipping to the side with increasing frequency during the last part of the ride. Several times he only barely avoided the fall that would settle his fate, because instinctively he knew that once down, he would never be able to climb onto the stallion’s back again. Still he had to face the fact that slowly but surely, his reserves were nearing their end.

When they had first set out, the throbbing pain in his leg and side had been a constant companion, so strong he had not even felt the blistering cold. It had kept him wide awake for a while, but inevitably with the duration of his exposure to the temperatures, the cold had begun to affect him: frost slowly crept up from his feet, inside his legs and further up his body underneath the swaying cape to settle in his sweat-drenched garments, adding shivers to his fever cramps. Now the cramps slowly ceased as the temperature in his body dropped... and numbness replaced them. It was no improvement of his condition, Éomer knew, and still he welcomed the change. Numbness and fatigue he could endure for a while longer, but not the cramps. They had left him hollow in their wake, barely able to hold himself on his horse.

Where were they? Was it a scent Firefoot was following? Did he sense others of his kin close by, which – in Rohan – inevitably also meant the presence of men? Or did he merely proceed deeper and deeper into the mountains because halting would not solve their problem? More hanging than sitting on the grey’s back, his mind in a daze, Éomer stared at the swirling white maelstrom the world had become, threatening to pull him into its cold and deadly embrace. He had lost all sense of direction and time, could not even tell for how long they had been riding. It seemed like forever. North, south, west, east, hours, minutes, all was one in the raging elements, bereft of meaning, and he knew not for how much longer he would be able to endure.

Suddenly, the great body beneath him gave a deep grunt and tensed as if Firefoot had picked up a scent he disliked. His fingers involuntarily clenching in the horse’s thick dark mane, Éomer fought to penetrate the twilight as the stallion turned in an anxious circle, and for a moment, he thought he saw indistinct shapes moving on the path they had just cleared. The next moment they were gone, but Éomer was almost unseated when the stallion suddenly jumped into a gallop without transition. For the duration of ten thundering heartbeats, he hung precariously on the horse’s side, fighting with the last of his strength to regain his seat.

Ignoring his master’s feeble attempts to slow him down, the grey accelerated, and now Éomer saw for the first time the shapes behind them clearly. The pack had grown from the three wolves which had assaulted him earlier to more than half a dozen beasts, and they moved closer with each long leap, determination on their feral faces. They were hungry, and this time, they would not back down. His attention focused on their pursuers as he felt for his knife, Éomer was caught by surprise as Firefoot abruptly leapt to the left, and the next moment, frost bit the naked skin of his face as he landed on his stomach in the snow.

Stunned by the impact on his injured ribs and the shock of the fall, Éomer’s left hand still clenched the hilt of his knife, and he fought breathlessly to draw up his knees. Putting all the energy left in him into his arms, he pushed himself up into a kneeling position just as the first wolves emerged out of the swirling mist behind him.

He lashed out with the knife, missing as the wolf evaded him with ease, and the force of the thrust unbalanced him. Again he landed face-first in the snow, and the whiteness on the ground greeted him with cold fingers.

‘Stay here’, it lured him. ‘Lay down and sleep in my embrace, and you won’t even feel it when they rip you apart.’

Théodred’s voice called out to him from the other end of a very long tunnel, muffled and almost too low to make out, but where before it had succeeded in lending him the necessary energy to escape the gaping maw of oblivion, Éomer now felt himself falling into it as the ground shifted beneath him and the tunnel turned into a bottomless pit. The last sensation he felt was the solid hilt of his knife in his fingers and then the repercussion of heavy steps approaching him, and then he knew no more…

Darkness was fast approaching as Elfhelm and his men readied their horses for the ride to Edoras. Tension was thick among the Riders, and none of them spoke as they concerned themselves with saddles and bridles, absorbed in their own grim thoughts of what they would find upon entering their capital.

Leaning against Éon as he pulled the girth tight with his full weight, Elfhelm could not help wondering whether Céorl had succeeded in preparing their secretive arrival… or would the Snake’s henchmen await them behind the city gates, because the filthy crook already knew of their plan? And what should they do then? Fight… or let themselves be captured without resistance and hope for the best? What crime could Wormtongue accuse them of, even if the manner of their arrival in the city looked more than suspicious? Would the citizens of Edoras and Éothain’s éored tolerate it if they were captured and accused of conspiracy against the King with no solid evidence? So many questions, and no answers.

His lips a thin line, Elfhelm fastened the buckle and took a step back to regard his work as the bay stallion turned his head to cast his master a long, inquisitive stare, peacefully chewing on a mouthful of hay. With a half-smile, the warrior extended a hand to run his fingers affectionately over the white star on the horse’s brow. Éon sensed his tension, but while the sensation made other animals skittish, the long-legged, experienced war-horse remained calm. Even in the heat of battle the tall bay usually kept his cool head, and the number of orcs killed by his hooves was awe-inspiring. Éomer had once jokingly remarked that Elfhelm had chosen the otherwise docile animal because of his lacking riding skills, but Elfhelm had seen the respectful look in the younger man’s eyes even then and known what to think of these words. In certain aspects, Éon and he were very much alike: they both were experienced warriors, extraordinarily skilled in the use of their weapons and possessed of well-founded self-confidence. Like Éomer and his moody and temperamental Firefoot, they were a perfect match.

With a deep intake of breath, Elfhelm patted his steed’s muscled shoulder and shifted his attention back to his men to find them ready and looking at him in expectation of orders. He cleared his throat and began.

"I realise that it might not be easy to ride in the darkness all the way to Edoras, all the more as the ground has been treacherous for the last day. That is why we are leaving so early; we will ride slowly and should reach the Snowbourn about an hour after moonrise. There we will wait in the cover of the rocks near the pool until the sign is given."

"And what kind of sign will it be?" Arnhelm, his experienced scout asked. "The waving of a torch? Or will someone leave the city to guide us in?"

"I do not know, but I would assume that it will be a torch signal; probably from outside the gates and not from the watchtower, lest anyone sees it from the Golden Hall. Make no mistake about this, brothers: once we are on the way, we will be seen as conspirators against the crown, and our path will be a dangerous one. If there are any among you who doubt our purpose, this is the time to step back from it." He waited, and found only determination in the faces before him. The sight filled him with pride. "I did not think so, but I thank you nonetheless. The Mark needs us, and we have already waited too long to take action. Let us ride!" He swung into the saddle, and a sudden surge of energy flooded his body. The Worm had better watch out that he did not cross their way tonight, or he would lose his head before he realised who had come to avenge their people for the long years of misery…

They had waited patiently, not daring to attack. The horse was strong-boned and tall even for his kind, and willing to fight, answering their taxing stares with a challenge of his own each time they attempted to intimidate him. For a long time now, the pack had circled the stallion, afraid of his hard and quick hooves which came terribly close whenever one of them jumped forth in a quick feint to snap at the air to convince the great beast by their mere presence that it would be wiser to flee and leave the creature it guarded to them. After days without food, the pack desperately needed to make a kill, but still they hesitated to attack so powerful and well-prepared an adversary. Of course the horse would have made a much worthier target and provided those surviving the attack with a feast for several days, but none of the wolves wanted to be the one starving to death with broken bones somewhere in a den afterwards. So instead they had silently agreed among themselves to settle for the smaller prey; it would suffice to fill their stomach at least for a few hours and seemed less risky to obtain. Sooner or later, the great beast had to understand that it stood no chance against their combined attack and abandon the man. It was patience they needed to exercise now, not boldness.

But time had passed and twilight thickened around them, and still the horse blocked their way and seemed in no way impressed by their increasingly desperate false attacks. Quite the contrary, the last times a member of the pack had jumped forth, the grey’s whirling hooves had only narrowly missed, and the beast seemed emboldened now by its success at keeping them at bay. Apparently, there was no other way: they needed to heighten their risk or abandon the attack entirely and retrace their steps to the orc carcasses. Coming to a silent understanding, the two leaders of the pack decided to take action, and upon their unspoken signal, the others assembled in a circle around the horse and its fallen rider.

Sensing the sudden change in his attackers’ demeanour, Firefoot hammered his hooves onto the ground in a powerful threat and snorted. The wolves recoiled once more, but not as far as before, and with each of their now quicker feints they moved closer, intending to separate him from his lifeless master. Two had already met with his fury, and they held themselves in the back now, limping, but the pack was determined: they would not give up this prey under any circumstances. Working together in an elaborate plan, two wolves on either side jumped at their adversary while simultaneously, two more attacked the prone shape on the ground, and their fangs sank into the thick cape and began to drag it from the stallion’s reach.

With an enraged shriek, Firefoot turned on his first attacker and sank his teeth into the fur, but could not evade the jaws of the other wolf as they closed around his left foreleg. Encouraged by the sight of the great beast’s distress, the rest of the pack then entered the fray while two more helped their brethren with the heavy target of their attack. Their full weight behind their thrusts, they had already succeeded in moving the prone figure away from the madly fighting horse, and the smell of his sweet blood did incredible things to their empty stomachs when - without warning - their leader collapsed with a pained gasp, struck down by an arrow through his neck. Baffled and shocked, the pack turned to face the new threat still hidden by the mist.

Firefoot used the moment to whirl around, and the wolf he held still between his teeth yelped and then was forcefully thrown into a bush. A well-aimed kick found another attacker, and when the leading female fell under another arrow, the rest of the pack turned their tails and fled into the snowstorm. Firefoot pursued them for a few leaps, then halted and turned on his rear as he sent a triumphant scream after them. His bleeding head proudly lifted to encounter the new threat, the great stallion drank the cold air with quivering nostrils, and his powerful frame trembled with tension. Friend or foe, who had chased off his assailants? Would he have to defend himself and his master against something even worse now? Once again Firefoot probed the scent on the howling wind, and suddenly a loud neigh escaped his throat in joyful welcome of the two shapes emerging from the swirling snow. With twitching ears, he eagerly listened for an answer as he turned in an anxious half-circle, too nervous to stand still.

He did not have to wait for long and by now, their scents were strong enough for him to recognise. Again he called out to them, overjoyed to finally have found company of his kind. They were two stallions, a bay and a white and both of them familiar. But the scents of their riders Firefoot had only encountered once before, and he tensed again as he observed their approach with pricked ears. Friend or foe? Torn between the options of attacking or waiting, he remained still, a statue of vigilance that would burst into action upon the slightest provocation.

"So this is the end of the trail: that stallion is guarding someone; there, in the snow!"

"That is because you have too much hair in your face, and all of it has frozen over. You ought to shave it off, or you will always have to rely on my eyesight."

"Give it a rest, you two. That is a war-horse of Rohan. He would not guard a worthless bundle of clothes against a pack of wolves." The leader of the little group dismounted with a fluent movement and then stood still, aware that the anxious stallion before them was still mistrustful and nervous in the wake of the fight. A quick glance found the man on the ground, but the stranger understood that he had to be patient. Rashness could easily result in an attack, and none of them wanted to kill a horse that merely defended its rider. Blood already marred the stallion’s grey hide running in several thin rivulets from his proud face and strong legs, bespeaking the fierceness with which the animal had protected himself and its master. And now, it dared him to approach…

"Sssssh, my friend…" the stranger said, and he lowered his voice to a soothing mumble while he held out his hand in a calming gesture, switching into Rohirric. With a faint smile, he noticed how the horse reacted at his change of languages, his ears flickering toward him while he kept his wary glance upon the others. "We will do you no harm. We are here to help your master, if you will allow it."

"I know why I don’t like horses," the shortest and stoutest of the riders huffed. "Be careful, Aragorn, he looks like a grumpy fellow to me!"

"He just saved his master from the wolves," the tall figure in front of him explained. "Of course he is not certain yet of our intentions. But see, he is listening to Aragorn. He looks calmer already."

Deciding to take his own horse along to further calm the stallion down, the Ranger slowly approached, and a distinct feeling of dread settled in his stomach as the feeling of familiarity grew stronger. Surely the majority of the famous Rohirric horses were of that colour, but he could not shake the awful suspicion that they had already encountered this particular stallion and exchanged words with his master only a few days ago. Was this the price the Marshal had paid for lending them the spare horses? It was a horrible thought.

Eying him closely, the grey pawed the ground with an explosive snort and Aragorn halted, granting the animal more time to decide that he was no enemy while he once again regarded the lifeless figure in the snow. He had registered no movement yet, but then again, there was no blood on the snow around him, either. Perhaps they had arrived yet in time to safe the warrior’ life.

"I will advance now, with your permission," he said at length, again in Rohirric. "Your master needs our aid, and I am sure that you want us to help him." Carefully, Aragorn took another step, and the stallion tensed. With a clap on Hasufel’s shoulder, he sent the bay ahead, and then advanced further. The way the two horses greeted each other indicated their familiarity, and he noticed how all tension finally fell away from the stallion and knew that he would be allowed now to approach the fallen rider.

"Is he alive?" Gimli asked from behind and then protested as the elf dismounted from their horse, leaving him alone on the unsaddled back of a beast he held no control over. At last, the son of Glóin also jumped into the snow, deciding to seize the brief opportunity to stand on his own two feet where he would not be at the mercy of the unreliable beast. Aragorn slipped his hand under the unconscious man’s hood, gently easing it from his head, and his expression darkened as he found his fears confirmed. "It is the Marshal we met on the plains with his éored. The man who gave us the horses."

Standing behind him, Legolas creased his brow as he looked down. "So he killed those orcs in the caves, but he paid a high price for his victory. I wonder what he is doing out here all by himself. Where are his men?"

"A good question. I hope they did not meet with an unfavourable fate." Aragorn sighed and slowly shook his head as he continued his examination of the fallen Rider. "But then again, we followed the trail for quite some time, and there was no sign of them before, not even on the plains. No, I doubt they accompanied him. Yet who in his right mind would roam this land alone if he had a choice?" Carefully, Aragorn ran a hand through the Rohìr’s matted and blood-encrusted hair, finding gashes on the side of his head and his brow and paused. Then he removed his gloves and at last he laid his fingers onto Éomer’s slightly parted lips to feel for his breath.

"You think that he was punished for lending us the horses?" the elf spoke into his thoughts, voicing his fears. "But didn’t he say that he was related to the King himself?"

"He also said that Théoden was no longer the man he used to be, that his mind had been overthrown by the enemy. If the Marshal’s generosity was enough to get him banished by his own kin, it is no wonder they were tense when we met them on the plains." Aragorn felt nothing, and his heart sank from fear that they had arrived too late to save the warrior. Only when he concentrated he became aware of the faintest stream of warmth against his skin, and with a quick glance at the stallion who had apparently decided that they could not be enemies if his brethren allowed them on their backs, Aragorn carefully rolled the Rohír on his back to probe for other injuries in addition to the ones he saw. "His breathing is shallow and unsteady, and he feels cold to the touch. We must find shelter quickly." He looked over his shoulder, contemplating their further course of action.

"You mean back to the caves?" Behind the thick crust of ice that covered his face, the dwarf looked as if he could easily acquaint himself with the thought, but Aragorn shook his head. Rising to his feet, he clicked his tongue for his steed to come closer and began to untie the thick blanket from behind the saddle.

"No, the caves are too far away. We would not reach them before nightfall and he will not last much longer out here. He needs aid soon, and I could not provide it for him there. We must see that we find a house, or a settlement. In the meantime, we will wrap him in our blankets."

"We will have to put our faith in the horses then," Legolas said, his keen gaze already scanning the continuation of the mountain path. Quickly he untied his own blanket and together with the dwarf, helped his friend to wrap the unconscious man in it. "They were eager to proceed since we left the cave, so perhaps they sense something that is hidden from our eyes yet."

"Then we must find it quickly." Looking down with obvious worry, Aragorn led his obediently waiting steed alongside the Rohír. "Help me to get him into the saddle; I will ride with him. Perhaps the warmth of my body will keep him alive until we find shelter."

Under Firefoot’s watchful eyes, the three companions wrestled Éomer onto the bay’s back, and at last, the little group was on their way again…

"Félarof he named the mighty stallion when at last he cornered the animal. And as if by some miracle, the horse understood that he was indebted to Éorl for taking his father away from him. Éorl did not know it then, but Félarof understood the language of man, and the stallion agreed to be his steed from that day on, under one condition: that he’d be ridden without tack, because even if he gave up his freedom, the father of the Méaras would not be tamed in that way. He submitted to the man on his own free will, and Éorl accepted, and since he was the most skilled rider the Mark has ever seen, he needed neither bridle nor saddle, not even in battle. And he rode the stallion in that fashion ever since."

"Every word of it. He could not speak our language himself, because horse’s throats are different from ours, but he knew what the man demanded of him, and he understood that it was Éorl’s right to ask this service of him in payment of his debt. It is a trait that lives on in our horses even today, and it is what makes the bond between them and their riders so strong. But enough for today, it is already late, and you need to sleep." Smiling, Freya bent over to give her eight-year old son a goodnight kiss.

The lad’s brow creased, and he exchanged a sceptical look with his younger sister at his side before he turned back to his mother. "But then why is Féllea being so difficult? I fell from her back twice today, and yesterday, she even tried to kick me. If she understands what I want, then why…"

"Ah, but do your friends do all that you ask of them, even if they understand you quite well? Or does your sister, for that matter?" She winked at the little girl who had silently listened to her tale with shining eyes, one finger ceaselessly twirling a flaxen curl that stubbornly hung into her face, and found the child’s fascinated look quickly replaced by an impressive scowl. "Oh, Edilda, you know how I mean it. Come here, Little Lamb!" She invited her daughter in her arms and laughed when Loégar, jealous of the attention his sister received, quickly pried his way into her embrace as well. Luckily, both children were still small enough to fit into her arms nicely, and Freya squeezed them affectionately, enjoying the moment of closeness. "You both know how much I love you, so you don’t need to show me your lower lip, Edilda, even if it is very pretty."

"Edilda never does what I tell her!" Loégar shot a dark glance at his sister, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Because you always send me for things you forgot, and you are too lazy to get them yourself," Edilda snapped at him, her little hands clenching in her mother’s garments. "Like you have no feet of your own!"

"Stop, stop, stop, both of you!" Freya intervened, releasing the children from her embrace and regarding them with the stern expression of a very annoyed parent. "This afternoon, the two of you promised me not to fight anymore, at least not today, and I will not believe that you have already forgotten my words. What was it that I said about your quarrelling, Loégar?"

"Very well, I see that you do indeed remember," Freya said, shifting her attention to her youngest. "And Edilda, what did I tell you?"

"No "but", little Lady!" Freya wagged her finger. "If the two of you don’t learn to get along, I fear that the further adventures of Éorl and his mighty steed Félarof will have to wait."

"Then you must keep your promise. Your mother has a lot on her mind each day, and many tasks to accomplish. If the two of you get into each other’s hair over every little word, you make things even harder for me, and I will not have the time to think of further stories for you, nor would I want to tell them when I am exhausted from your quarrelling in the evening. Do you understand me?" The children nodded reluctantly. "Very well. We will see about that tomorrow. And now I will hear no complaints when you go to sleep. You have had your story for today and…" The young mother’s lecture was interrupted by the sudden eruption of furious barking from outside, an unwelcome sound that sent a shiver of fear down her spine as it usually indicated danger.

"What is it, Mother? Who is coming?" In the six years of her life, Edilda had already witnessed too many alarms to remember, and knew just as well as the adults that it usually meant that their farm was about to be attacked by horrible things with sharp teeth. Quickly, Freya made her way over to the window. Please, Béma, not again! Barely one week had passed since the last pack of wolves had sought out their farm in a desperate attempt to find food. The winter was hard on everyone, and the wolves had looked lanky and malnourished and given up quickly once Freya and her family had stormed outside to chase them away, but still they had lost one of their valuable guard dogs in the attack. Pulling the curtain aside to peer outside, she noticed that it was still snowing, but so far, there was nothing else to see. And yet Freya knew the dogs were usually right.

"Freya? Are you coming?" a deep voice resounded from the corridor, and the next moment, Osred looked into the room, a heavy club in his hand that lent his appearance a decidedly aggressive air.

"Aye. Just one moment!" She turned back to her anxious children and gave them a quick kiss. "You two stay in here. I will be right back and tuck you in."

"Is it the wolves again?" Loégar whispered with large frightened eyes, and for once, he did not dare to mock his sister as she clutched her doll to her chest in fear.

"I don’t know; I did not see any. Perhaps it was just a distant scent that set them off. Hush, to bed with the both of you now, and this is where you’ll stay until I come back." Freya turned to go and closed the door behind her, calmed by the though of having another wall between her children and their possible attackers. ‘But what if they are orcs?’ An ugly thought shot through her head as she retrieved her trusted hayfork from the little chamber by the kitchen. Briefly she considered taking the sword she had been given by the Marshal four summers, but despite the special training she had received along with it, she still felt more secure with the weight of the massive fork in her hand.

Osred already awaited her at the front door, where he peered outside through the narrow opening. Fighting hard to control her anxious breathing and remain calm, Freya stopped behind him.

"There are no wolves, but I see three horses, one of them riderless." He squinted into the diffuse darkness, his tone mistrustful. Who in his right mind travelled the mountain paths in such weather and after nightfall? Slowly he opened the door wider and lowered the club although he did not yet permit himself to relax. Looking over his shoulder, Freya felt slightly relieved that it did not seem to be another attack. In the opened door of the next building, she saw her brother Halad and his wife Fleadwyn imitate their stance, mistrustfully awaiting their unexpected visitors while their dogs barked furiously in the compound.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" Squaring his shoulders, Osred stepped out of the house and shouted over the din when the riders had advanced enough for him to see that there was something peculiar about them. Why were the four men sharing only two horses while the third one, a strong-boned, dappled grey stallion ran free? And what had happened to the man sitting slumped in front of the first horse, his head lolling with each of the horse’s steps and only held in the saddle by the strength of the rider behind him, whose features were hidden beneath a deep hood? Who were they? No orcs, apparently, but still Osred did not like it, and he jumped when Freya’s fingers suddenly dug painfully into his arm.

"No, it isn’t," he objected, but by now, the riders were close enough to establish that it was indeed the Marshal’s mighty stallion. So that meant that the man in front…

"Forgive us for troubling you at this late hour," the rider behind the unconscious man said, and his voice sounded both gentle and urgent. "We did not mean to frighten you, but this is an emergency." He smoothed back the hood to reveal his face, and his dark hair and beard immediately gave him away as a stranger. At the same time, there was something in his appearance that made Osred feel awkward in his presence although the expression in his intense eyes was one of kindness. "My name is Aragorn, and these are my companions Legolas and Gimli. We are friends of Rohan and were passing through, but then we found one of your warriors grievously injured on the mountain pass and decided to bring him here. I fear that he is not in a good state."

Shoving her hesitant husband aside, Freya stormed toward the halting riders with a cry of dismay.

"I wish I could give you the answer to that question, my lady," Aragorn admitted, briefly gesturing for Legolas and Gimli to dismount and help him with the wounded man. "He was alone when we found him. Apparently he was attacked by a group of orcs, and while he defeated them, he was wounded and somehow tried to make it to your farm on his own. We need to get him warm at once, or I fear that he will not hold out much longer." Cautiously, he let the unconscious Rohír slide from his horse’s back into the arms of his waiting companions.

"Bring him inside, quickly!" Freya gestured toward the door, dismayed by how lifeless Éomer hung in the men’s arms. "Osred, stoke the fire! And please, take Edilda and Loégar over to Halad. They do not need to see this."

Her husband did not appear to hear her as he regarded their unexpected visitors with narrowed eyes.

"You already gave us your names, but who are you? It is obvious that you are not men of the Mark."

"We are friends of Rohan," Aragorn said in looking up from the burden of the unconscious man whose arm he had around his neck in the combined effort to carry him into the house. His voice was firm, but he did not appear to be insulted by the question. Times were difficult, and it was clear to him that strangers were not easily trusted in the Mark even if they were apparently no orcs. "We are here to help. There is no need to fear us."

Freya glared at her husband in anger as she passed him and led the men inside, motioning them to the living room and the fireplace. Another door on the corridor opened and she looked at the twin girls who had heard the commotion from outside.

"This way. Wait, let me spread a sheepskin under him, first. Willa? Wyndra? It is Éomer, they found him wounded in the mountains! One of you, bring me all the blankets and sheepskins you can find, and the other one, go in the kitchen and heat water. Take a large pot, or several large pots, we will need lots of it. And we will need bandages, and the brandy. Quickly!"

Overtaking the men, Freya quickly pulled the thick woollen blanket from the bench to spread it on the ground. "Here. Lay him down here." Anxiously she waited as Éomer was laid down, his head lolling in the pit of the dark haired stranger’s elbow, and she stiffened at the sight of his blue lips and the blood on the side of his face.

The little ones! Better if they did not see this. Fighting for her composure, Freya turned around and saw Loégar and Edilda standing in the corridor with frightened expressions, hugging themselves.

"They are friends, léofa. No need to be afraid." A deep breath. "Osred, please, can you take them over—"

"I will bring them over immediately, but I can only do one thing at a time, Freya!" Her husband fed the fire with an armful of dry wood while the strangers cautiously freed Éomer of his torn cape. Suddenly, he beheld the strange form of one of them: hardly taller than a tree stump the man seemed, and just as sturdy, with a mass of brown, partly braided hair in his face that was heavily encrusted with ice, and he was clad in thick armour. And the one next to him… Osred paused, picking up an even stranger sensation from the fair-haired man next to the short one. As if the stranger had noticed his unusual attention, his strikingly blue eyes went up to met the farmer’s, and the calm, self-conscious gaze of those strikingly blue eyes was the last straw to tell Osred that he was not looking at an ordinary man. Never had he felt as naked underneath anyone’s gaze; never since his adolescence had he felt more like a child again, and the sensation confused him greatly.

"Aye," he muttered distractedly, staring at the stranger’s pointed ears. Was that the hint of a smile he saw playing around the man’s mouth? Was his unsettlement so amusing? "I am already gone." Still bewildered, he cast a last glance over his shoulder and then picked up his children. "Come with me, you two. We will go and visit Halad and Fléadwyn. Perhaps they have another goodnight tale for you, hm?"

"No, he will not die. Your mother knows how to help him, but now we must leave her to it and get out of her path, because she has a lot to do. All right?"

The door cut off their voices, and at last, thick silence settled in the little room. Swallowing at the sight of the deep gashes on the side of Éomer’s head, Freya carefully reached out to touch his cheek. Gods, he felt so cold! ‘Will he die?’ It could not be. Béma, no, not Éomer!

"He was already unconscious when we found him and did not wake from it during the ride. He still breathes, but shallowly and irregularly. I fear that he has been exposed to the cold for a long time." The dark-haired stranger who had introduced himself as Aragorn knelt down beside them and his hands – long-fingered, strong hands which looked like the hands of a man used to living in the wild – felt for the younger man’s breath, then slid down Éomer’s neck to feel his heartbeat. Piercing grey eyes met Freya’s in an attempt to read her expression as he unsheathed his knife. "We must get him out of these garments."

Did he expect her to leave the room? This was certainly the wrong moment for feelings of propriety, and she told him so with her gaze. Her fingers gently caressing Éomer’s brow and cheek, Freya summoned her courage and looked the man straight in the eye.

"I do not think you can afford to send me away," she said, now feeling the attention of the three strangers on herself. "I am skilled in the way of healing, and I am not easily shaken. Out here, it is I who treats my family in times of illness. I help our animals to give birth, and it is I who slaughters them when we need their meat. I do not faint at the sight of blood, even if it is that of a friend or family member." She pointed her chin at the prone figure. "He is very dear to me, and I want to help him. Please."

"Then I will not stand in your way." Aragorn nodded in satisfaction and looked up. "Legolas, Gimli…?"

"If you don’t need my assistance, I will go and see that our horses are properly tended," the Elf said with a quick glance down. In her concern for the fallen warrior the woman paid them no heed. "And his stallion, too. He was wounded in the fight. Will you accompany me, Gimli?"

"And tend the horses?" The dwarf seemed somewhat less enthusiastic, but quickly caught the hidden meaning behind his friend’s words. "Oh well, I assume it would not hurt to go outside and make sure that we were not followed."

"Very well." Aragorn drew his knife and bent over to cut the wet tunic from Éomer’s prone body. "In the meantime, we will see what we can do for him."

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(**) How Éomer and Freya came to know each other is told in the three parts of "Know Thy Place" of "The Way of a King", also on this site.

Completely absorbed in their work, neither Freya nor Aragorn heard the elf and the dwarf leave, and for a while, the crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room while they freed their patient of his drenched clothes. Trying to ignore the fact that she had never been this close to Éomer as she cut the dirty garments from his limb body, Freya concentrated on her hands. It helped to clear her head that he felt so cold to her touch even if the sensation frightened her, but still she could all too well imagine how, under different circumstances, it had to feel to lie close to him, pressed against his powerful, hard body underneath a warm blanket while they caressed each other. ‘He could have been yours!’ a most unwelcome voice in the back of her head spoke up no matter how hard she fought to silence it. ‘He wanted you, but you sent him away. And now look what the both of you have: he is dying because you made him choose the way of the warrior, and you are stuck with Osred. It could have been different.’

Her eyes burning both with shame over her thoughts as well as compassion, Freya lowered her head and focused on freeing Éomer’s arm from the sleeve, hoping that Aragorn had not noticed her distraction. The sight of the hideous pattern of blue and black marring Éomer’s pale skin finally ended her unsuitable thoughts, and with a dismayed gasp, she reached out to touch the particularly dark and large bruise on his right side, her throat narrowing dangerously.

“Oh Gods,” she breathed “What did they do to him?” How could a man of such powerful build still be so frail? As Third Marshal of Rohan, Éomer was one of their strongest warriors, both physically superior and extraordinarily skilled in the use of his weapons, and still it had not been enough to protect him from the onslaught of his enemies. If warriors like he could not stop the orcs, who could? Wasn’t it all hopeless? Whispering in a despair-choked voice, Freya gently stroked Éomer’s cold cheek: “You must survive, Éomer, please. Fight! I know you are strong enough!”

Aragorn’s expression darkened at the sight of the Rohir’s injuries and the young woman’s despair, and as he cut open the sleeve of Éomer’s shirt, he noticed with alarm the deformed shape of the warrior’s hand. Frowning, he picked it up and turned it around for a closer examination, at once understanding that he had found the worst of the Marshal’s wounds. This could not wait for much longer. As soon as Éomer’s condition had sufficiently stabilised, they would have to concern themselves with it. Deciding not to mention it to Freya yet, the ranger worked even faster to pull away the wet shreds of clothing from underneath the heavy body and came upon the leg wound. Briefly he examined it and found it likewise in a state of slight infection, if not as severely as the hand. It was not bleeding exceedingly, therefore Aragorn decided that it, too, had to wait. Looking up, he saw Freya already picking up the thick woollen blanket by her side and nodded, taking the lower ends.

Quickly they wrapped Éomer in three layers of wool before they dared to pause. Kneeling on both sides of the unconscious man, the ranger and the farmer’s wife regarded each other with worried expressions, and only now became Freya aware of the fact that she and her sisters were alone in the house with a man they knew nothing about. For a moment, that thought troubled her... but then she looked once again into the stranger’s kind eyes and found her worries wane. This was no evil man. She could not say yet who he was, but somehow she could not shake the feeling that his travel-worn garments and overall rather dishevelled appearance disguised his true character; she could not deny that there were a depths and a dignity to the dark-haired man that hinted at a probably noble heritage. The way Aragorn talked, the way he behaved, all of it pointed strongly toward the conclusion that he was a lord of men, not a savage. And while his strong jaw-line and overall security in his movements indicated that the man in front of her was used to making decisions and seeing his will done, his eyes also bespoke an enormous capacity for compassion and mercy. To Freya, he seemed like a born leader, and she had no doubts that this was a man others would follow gladly into battle.

Confused how she came to feeling so strongly about a person she barely knew, Freya finally shifted her attention back to the prone figure before her, her fingers resting on Éomer's cold brow as she looked down. She did not notice that she was observed, did not see the expression of approval on Aragorn’s face as he regarded her, impressed with her composure. It was easy to see that the extent of the woman’s concern exceeded what she would have felt for an ordinary rider, that she had deeper feelings for the wounded warrior, and still she had worked fast and efficiently, not allowing to let herself be overwhelmed by her emotions.

“We will treat his wounds later,” Aragorn spoke lowly, inclining his head to regard Éomer’s still features. “For now, the cold is my greatest concern. He must have lain outside for a long time. How far is the water?”

“Willa?” Freya lifted her voice, fighting to remain calm and controlled before the stranger. “Willa, is the water ready?”

“It must not be too hot,” Aragorn reminded her. “If it is too hot, we will do more damage than good.”

“Skin temperature, I know,” Freya said, and noticed how his brows went up as if he had not expected such knowledge from her. “I have treated men exposed to cold temperatures before. We are well equipped for such cases.”

“It is almost ready,” a young voice called out to them from the kitchen. “How many do you need?”

“As many as you have.” She noticed Aragorn’s inquisitive look. “Sheep stomachs. We use them as vessels for the water. They adjust very well to the shape of the body and give off the warmth without loss. We have made very good experiences with them.”

“Very good.” He nodded approvingly, astonished by the woman’s resourcefulness.

“And we could fix him some yarrow tea to warm him up from the inside as well, even if he cannot drink it for as long as he is unconscious…” Wyndra threw in from behind, already rising to her feet in her eagerness to provide more help for the man she had known and loved like an older brother since childhood.

“Yes, that would indeed be helpful, not just for the additional warmth, but in his battle against the infection as well. Please, do so.” Aragorn shifted his gaze to Éomer’s face, studying his pale features until a different thought surfaced and he turned back to Freya. “You do not have Athelas in the house by any chance, have you?”

“Now, that I have heard of,” Freya said. “But I have none. I’m afraid that it doesn’t grow around here. But we could fix him spelt water in addition to the yarrow tea. I have seen it doing wonders on other men.” Yes, it certainly seemed to her that a wonder was needed to help Éomer survive. Underneath the blood and dirt that caked his skin, he looked like his own ghost.

Following her gaze, Aragorn inhaled deeply. It would have to do. “We will have to wake him to make him drink it though; one way or another.” A taxing glance found Freya, and she tensed, not sure what the expression in his eyes meant. Afraid of what she assumed it meant, she bent over in an attempt to wake Éomer in a gentle way.

“Éomer, if you hear me, give me a sign. Can you open your eyes?” She waited, hoping for his lids to flutter and listening for the lowest groan that would indicate that her words had been heard, but there was nothing to see, nor anything to hear. Except for the irregular and laboured rising and falling of his chest, Éomer seemed lifeless. Anxiously, she stroked his brow, and again the coldness of his skin caused her stomach to twist. “Éomer, it is I, Freya! Follow my voice! Please, you must wake!”

Silently observing her efforts, Aragorn turned around at the sound of approaching steps from the corridor, and the next moment, the other of the two young women entered the room with two arms full of half-filled, flexible things of which she handed him one to feel for himself.

“I hope that the temperature is right. Will these suffice, or should we make more?” She received an approving nod and a faint, thankful smile, and warmth spread in the pit of her stomach, causing her face to glow.

“Thank you, Willa. You might save his life with these. And yes, we will have use for more once they have cooled. We will have to keep Éomer warm throughout the night.”

“Then I will go back to the kitchen and boil more water.” Standing behind Aragorn and hugging herself with thin arms, Willa watched as the ranger placed the sheep stomachs upon the blankets between Éomer’s arms and body and evenly all over him while Freya talked to the unconscious man with increasing urgency.

“He is so pale,” she whispered from behind, the warm feeling Aragorn’s praise had woken in her extinguished by a sudden chill. “Can he survive? How grave are his wounds?”

“They would not appear life-threatening to me except for the infection in his hand,” Aragorn said. “But the most immediate fight he has to brave is that against the cold. Is your sister preparing the tea?”

“Tell her to sweeten it with plenty of honey. He will need the additional energy… if we can get it into him.”

“We always drink it with plenty of honey, for we do not get it down otherwise,” Freya said without looking up from Éomer’s pale face. Why did he not respond? Was he already dying? Her stomach clenched at the thought, and her pleading now became urging, as if she could will him back to life. From the corner of her eye, she saw Aragorn turn toward the corridor again.

“Here is the tea.” Wyndra handed the ranger an earthen mug of steaming contents. “I made it strong, and there are three spoons of honey in it, but it may have to cool for a few moments before he can drink it.”

“Thank you…” Probing, Aragorn took a sip and found the temperature almost ideal.

“Wyndra.” She smiled unhappily and stepped back to where her sister stood. Eyeing the twins with an encouraging expression, Aragorn nodded.

“Wyndra. Willa –“ He looked at the first girl. Except for their hair, the sisters looked almost identical. It was only Willa’s mass of ashen curls that made it possible to tell the two young women apart. “—and Wyndra. Very well. You may save him with this.” He turned to Freya and saw her flinch in reaction to his sudden look of determination. “Is he responding?”

The urgency of his grey eyes almost burned her, and a hard band suddenly tightened around her chest, almost cutting of her breath. Did she trust that man? Yes, she did. She could not believe anything else than that the expression of concern for Éomer on his diamond-cut face was genuine. After all, he had brought him here, so why should he do him evil now? She nodded.

“It will not be pretty, but it needs to be done. He may look frail to you, but he is not as frail as you think. He won’t die from what I will do now, and if I don’t do it, his time is running out. I want you to understand this before I begin.”

“I understand.” Upon his silent signal, she moved back, reluctantly taking away her hand from Éomer’s cold cheek. While she exchanged a worried glance with her sisters, Aragorn bent over the Rohír.

“Éomer, wake up!” The abrupt transformation of his low, compassionate tone into a hard commandeering voice caught the women unawares, and they looked at him with widening eyes, stunned by the complete change of his demeanour. While they still looked on, Aragorn’s hand suddenly landed with a sharp slapping sound in the unconscious man’s face. “Come, I know you hear me! You do not want to surface from this comfortable place you found inside of you, but it is treacherous and you cannot remain there.” Éomer’s head lolled under another slap, and the women winced. “Wake up, Son of Éomund! Your time has not yet come!”

“You must wake up!” Before their eyes, the stranger grasped the wounded man by the shoulders and shook him. Her hand on her mouth, Freya stared wide-eyed at Aragorn as he bodily assaulted Éomer, and the sight of it sickened her. He had promised not to hurt him further, so how could he do this? Yet before she could voice her protest, she suddenly beheld the briefest flutter of Éomer’s eyelids, and her heart jumped into her throat.

“That is good, but it is not enough. Fight, Marshal! Your people need you, you cannot give up yet! You must wake if you want to live!” With relief in his eyes, the rangers gaze briefly grazed the women as he turned around to pick up the mug. “Freya, I need you to hold up his head now.” She rushed to his aid and gently placed Éomer’s head on her lap, reassuringly stroking his cheeks.

“I am here, Éomer. We have something to drink for you; it will warm you up and help you to heal. It may taste a little bitter, but you must swallow it. Can you do this for me?” She noticed how his eyes rolled underneath their closed lids and felt a light twitching of muscles underneath her fingers. He was not yet fully conscious, but perhaps it would suffice to get the tea into him.

Careful not to spill it, Aragorn pressed the mug against Éomer’s lips… and at last they parted. He lifted the mug, and the first drops of golden liquid disappeared in the young man’s mouth… and were swallowed.

“Oh, Béma be praised…!” Unexpectedly Freya found herself beaming at the stranger before her, feeling the strong urge to fall on his neck. “Thank you, my lord! Thank you so much! The Gods must have sent you to us!”

“The battle is not won yet,” Aragorn reminded her, but finding himself also smiling with relief. “But it is an improvement. Quickly, let us get the rest into him as well, and then we will have to concern ourselves with his wounds.”

Slowly, the hand reached over the stall door. With pricked ears, Firefoot watched its approach, and his widened nostrils tasted the scent that wafted toward him from the strange being talking to him in a foreign tongue. Never before had he encountered this scent, and he did not trust it. As the hand moved even closer, the stallion’s ears suddenly flattened against his head and he retreated into the very back of his stall, huffing in exasperation.

Confused, Legolas shook his head and took his hand back. Never before had he encountered a horse that had retreated from him. “He will not let me touch him. I do not understand.”

“I told you that he looked like a grumpy fellow,” the dwarf reminded his friend helpfully, annoyed to still be standing in the stables when they could already sit inside the warm house, preferably with something to eat and drink on the table the young wife of their host had promised them earlier when they had entered. “If he rejects your help, you should leave him alone. Why bother? He is not even your horse. Perhaps he will change his mind once he is in enough pain.”

Frowning, the elf stared at the beast which was still hiding from him in the furthest corner of its stall, making no secret of its disdain for its visitors.

“He should know that I would never hurt him. I have never met such a stubborn horse before.”

“Oh, he is a truly Rohirric steed, my lord,” Halad threw in from behind, fighting against showing his amusement too openly. After preparing the medicine for Firefoot, he had handed the bowl and cloth to the elf and then sat aside on a sack of oats to watch, knowing in advance how the stranger’s efforts would be rewarded. “All of our horses have a mind of their own; they cannot be compared to ordinary horses.” He turned toward the grey. “And Firefoot is truly a unique steed. He is solely Éomer’s horse, and won’t let anyone else handle him... except for me, perhaps. We know each other quite well, and have done so for a long time. Do we not, brother?” The stallion’s ears flickered toward him. Smiling, Halad rose from his seat and walked up to the two strange beings. It was the first time that he saw an elf and a dwarf with his own eyes, and yet it was Firefoot who occupied his attention. “Please, will you let me try? I think that he will trust me.”

He accepted the bowl from the elf’s hands and opened the stall-door, sceptically observed by the strangers and the stallion alike.

“That is madness,” the dwarf uttered, sadly shaking his head. “That beast will crush him.”

“He will not. He knows me.” Confidently, Halad met the scrutinising gaze of the large dark eyes. The sight of the blood on the grey’s hide saddened him, and yet at the same moment, he felt pride over the stallion’s courage to defend his master even against a pack of wolves when most horses would have bolted. Aye, the horses of Rohan were special indeed. “Will you not let me help you, my friend?” he said, switching to Rohirric, and noticing how Firefoot’s ears turned toward him at the familiar sound. “Your master would want you to be treated, but he cannot do it himself. Will you allow me to touch you instead?”

At last, the mighty stallion shook his head with a deep intake of breath, and all tension left his body as he approached the young man inside his stall with three steps and pressed his nose against Halad’s chest. Smiling in joy over this great proof of the horse’s trust, the young man reached up to rub Firefoot’s brow, his fingers cautiously circling the gash on the stallion’s cheek while he examined the wound. It did not look deep, but needed to be cleaned. Slowly working his way down to the horse’s nostrils and noticing how the grey closed his eyes in enjoyment of his caress, Halad lifted the bowl and looked back over his shoulder.

“Will you come with me then, my lords?" Fléadwyn’s voice suddenly rang out from behind, and the men turned around. Wrapped into a heavy shawl, the young woman nevertheless looked half-frozen with her hunched-up shoulders and the tip of her nose as well as her cheeks rosy from the frost. She also looked very young to Legolas and Gimli, but the expression of open friendliness on her frail features prompted them to smile in return. “The meal is ready, and I assume that you must be hungry after a day in the wilderness.”

“The meal is ready?” the dwarf exclaimed joyfully, and his heavy hand landed with a slapping sound on his friend’s side. “You certainly know how to revive a dwarf’s spirits, lass! Come, Legolas, let us go! That horse will live on without your help, but without some food in his stomach, this dwarf will not!”

“I still don’t understand it,” the elf uttered, offering little resistance as the dwarf pulled him along, already having forgotten about the horse as he followed their host outside. “I did not mean to hurt him…”

Aragorn knew not for how long they had treated the injured marshal on the ground before the fireplace, but it had felt like an eternity: steadily they had exchanged the cooling sheep stomachs for new, hot ones to gradually warm up Éomer from outside, while – at the same time - they also succeeded through endless patience in administering him two mugs of tea. By and by, the Rohir’s erratic breathing had steadied and along with the warming of his skin, some colour had crept back into his face, strengthening Aragorn’s hope that the warrior would survive. But it would not be a success to claim solely for himself.

As he leant back into the chair that would be his resting place for the remainder of the night, a tired smile wandered over the ranger’s face in fond memory of the three women’s help: Freya and her younger sisters – as he had quickly learned – had done more than their share, always quick to provide what he asked them for, no matter how odd his request had deemed them. His gaze unfocused on the flickering light of the candle that illuminated the room, Aragorn’s smile deepened as he recalled their aghast expressions upon his request for mouldy bread. Yet to their credit, instead of questioning him, they had actually succeeded in producing the needed substance and even in sufficient quantity for his purposes. Then they had waited and observed him with almost professional interest as he opened the wounds on Éomer’s hand with two quick incisions to drain the poisoned blood. With equal concentration they had watched him cleaning the cuts with the brandy after the red flow had slowed… and with fascinated expressions, they had followed his efforts of working the mould into the wounds before a bandage was tightly wrapped around it. At that point finally their questions became unavoidable.

"And this will help him?" Freya had asked him sceptically, but even though her expression had been doubtful, Aragorn had already detected a faint sparkle of intrigue in her tense features, as if no matter with which methods of healing he would surprise them, she would still lay her trust in his better knowledge. "It will not make the infection worse?"

"As astonishing as it may seem, the mould found on dark bread is a very potent remedy against infection," he had replied with a brief glance at his host while he quickly treated the arrow-wound in the same fashion and moved on to inspect the dark bruise on the Rohir’s side. "I learned about it some years ago from the elves."

"The elves!" Willa had exclaimed excitedly, and her sisters’ faces had mirrored her wonder. "I have never seen elves… before today. I thought they only existed in fairy-tales, like dragons, and fairies, and dwarves. Dwarves… your friends – excuse me – are they… you know… "

At this, Aragorn had laughed good-naturedly, and because his fingers had found no broken bones during their examination of his patient’s discoloured ribs, the tension had at last seeped from his body. It was then when they had all suddenly heard an audible moan from the man on the ground, and the sound had brightened their faces. Not only was he back from the brink of death, now it even appeared as if Éomer was on his way to consciousness. With a deep, satisfied sigh, Aragorn sat back on his heels and winked at the young woman who had inquired about his companions. As a people that had always preferred seclusion, the simple Rohirric peasants of course were not usually acquainted with the existence of other beings than men, except for orcs. Most of them never left the spot of land they were born on. It was only their armed forces and nobles who understood that the world beyond their borders did not solely belong to their kind, and that there forces out there – both good and evil – which far exceeded their knowledge and might.

At this thought, the ranger’s expression sobered. How sad to only know the vile side of creation when there were also such powers of light inhabiting this realm. He cleared his throat and again leant back, his thoughts returning to the rest of the conversation.

"As you have seen with your very own eyes now, Willa, many of these so-called ‘fairy-tales’ are deeply rooted in history, and not all that we take for make-believe is such. There were dragons once, and as you have seen, dwarves and elves are just as real as you and I. They may look strange to your eyes, and their language may sound foreign to your ears, and yet they are similar enough to man in their thoughts and deeds to understand and befriend each other. They know about the value of freedom; about the importance of friendship and compassion. They know about honour and pride, and they are fierce fighters for those causes. And in this battle against Evil, they are on our side."

Awe-struck by his elaboration, the young woman had only silently nodded, her blue eyes wide with wonder as he shifted his attention back at her older sister. "I find no broken bones, so it appears to be merely a bruise. A hideous one, I agree, but a bruise nonetheless. If he rests for a few days – and by that I mean that he should stay in bed - he should recover quickly. Perhaps you could apply a salve to help the distribution of the clotted blood underneath his skin, but apart from that, I believe that this injury will need no further treatment." At his statement, the faces in front of him had visibly brightened despite the women’s obvious exhaustion. It had been a long, intense evening and time to get some much-needed rest, at least for his hosts. "I believe then that we are ready to carry him over. Would you have a spare bed for him?"

Upon calling Osred, Gimli and Legolas over from the other house, the men had carefully carried Éomer into the children’s vacated room and laid him on their bed, still wrapped in the three layers of woollen blankets, and Aragorn had begun his silent vigil by the sleeping man’s side. While he believed that the Marshal had braved the worst of the storm, he was nonetheless determined to stay with him for at least this first night. Hardly had he settled back into the chair when Freya entered the room, a tray in her hands on which a bowl of strong-smelling stew and two thick pieces of dark bread in addition to two mugs had been placed.

"I know you said that it wasn’t necessary, Lord Aragorn, but I fixed you something to eat. Your friends told me that they already had the evening meal at my brother’s house while we were treating Éomer, but now it is late, and still you had nothing to eat. You must be very hungry, and I do not want to be a bad host." She held out the tray to him invitingly and with a warm, slightly shy smile now that they were alone in the room, and he accepted it with a thankful nod, his empty stomach rumbling in anticipation as the delicious smell of the stew reached his nose.

"That is very kind of you, Freya. I am indeed very hungry." He tried a first spoon full, and his smile broadened at the spicy taste. "It is very good." He looked down and found to his surprise that the stew contained a great amount meat, something in no way to be taken for granted in a land where many people were starving because of the damage of war. "I know that in these hard times, it is not easy to feed additional mouths when you have a family to be taken care of, so my gratitude is even greater. But I hope you are not giving us something you cannot afford to spare in this hard winter."

"You saved Éomer. That alone is worth more to me than everything I own." Freya’s expression became sombre as she tilted her head to regard the sleeping warrior.

"But it is not your task to pay for it. We were merely paying off a debt, but even that was not our reason for helping him. It is a duty to help others in need, no matter who they are, " Aragorn said pensively, following her gaze. "We met him and his men on the plains some days earlier, and he greatly helped us in our errand by lending us horses even against the orders of his king, although we were strangers to him." He sighed and shook his head, once again silently contemplating what had brought the young Rohir into this dire situation. Aware that Freya was still listening to him as she sat on the edge of the bed, he met her gaze again, urgency in his grey eyes as he spoke the next words: "In these dark times, we must stand united against the enemy, or we will be defeated." He fell silent, and his powerful statement seemed to echo in the air.

Thinking about his words as she absent-mindedly caressed the unmoving shape of Éomer through the blankets, Freya bit her lip. "You said that he was attacked by orcs," she said at length, not sure why she was asking, for her guest’s answer would surely upset her even more. "Forgive me my ignorance, please, but what can you tell me about our enemies? Out here in the wild, far from the lords, we do not hear much. Éomer sometimes told me about incidents and battles, and that he suspected that those dreadful creatures were sent by some evil necromancer in the west." She laughed nervously. "Please... an evil necromancer? I do sound like Willa with her dragons and fairies when I say such things, don’t I?"

Aragorn regarded her silently, using the moment while he was still chewing on his mouthful of stew to cautiously consider his reply. Should he say the truth and frighten her further by telling her that the evil wizard was only one of two enemies, and the weaker one at that? Should he tell her that the world that she knew lay in the hands of two Halflings, and that it would end if they failed to destroy the enemy’s mightiest weapon; that each being refusing to serve the Dark Lord would die and the sun be extinguished in the sky, plunging all of Middle Earth into a second darkness? Or should he lie? He chose a middle path.

"I admit that it sounds strange... but such things like magic and spells do exist, and there are people... or beings... who are born with a natural talent for mastering them. That may be all there is to the title of a ‘Wizard’; that he is a man gifted with a special talent – or cursed, it depends on how you see it and what use that man is making of it."

"But even if there is such a man, and spells, as you say... why does he seek to destroy us?" Freya shook her head, searching for answers in the deep grey eyes of the man in front of her. She did not know why she thought that he could answer that question, except that there seemed to be an endless depth to him, a wealth of knowledge gained only by far journeys and the open mind willing to understand all those journeys brought. "What did we ever to do him to incur his wrath?"

"Not all evil deeds are borne from wrath, or revenge," Aragorn spoke carefully. "In fact, I would say that it is greed that does the most harm. And that necromancer, he lusts for power."

"Power over a land of grass and horses?" She did not understand. "What would that man win by destroying us? This land is rough; it takes a lot of very hard work to get anything out of it at all. I doubt that he would set fields or plough the ground himself, would he? Apart from our horses, there are no treasures to be found in the Mark."

"It seems to be the very nature of evil that if often comes without apparent cause. We cannot always understand why evil deeds are committed; we can only try to fight back," Aragorn admitted. Even he did not have all the answers. "The mind of man often defies all explanation. Even the men themselves cannot say why they must act in a certain way; except for an inner urge."

"But this has been going on for so long. So many have lost their lives, men, women and children alike, and it appears to get even worse all the time." In an attempt to wipe the weariness away, Freya ran a hand over her face, but of course the gesture did not help. "Please, Lord Aragorn… I do not know who you are, or what your errand is in our land, but my feelings tell me that you are a good man, and you seem to know a lot about the nature of men and of war. So please, tell me if you think that this evil will end one day? Will we brave this storm? Or will the Mark become a vast, empty land once all of us have been slaughtered? When I see him—" she nodded at Éomer, "—I fear for the worst. He is a capable man, said to be one of our best warriors. He must be, or he wouldn’t be a marshal at his young age. But even he was overcome." She had no defence left against the sudden surge of desperation that rose in her, choking her. Suddenly, she found herself in the stranger’s embrace. "Oh, Béma, no…"

"Do not despair, Freya," Aragorn spoke lowly, the warmth of his breath comforting on her skin. She tried in vain to hold back the tears surging up from the bottom of her soul. "´Éomer will live, and so shall the people of the Mark. My friends and I are here to help Rohan in its need, and for as long as there is a single drop of blood left in our veins, we will not yield." For a wile, he just held her while suppressed sobs shook her thin frame. "It is good, Freya. It will come to a good end."

Sniffling, she separated from him at last, an embarrassed smile of apology on her lips as she wiped her eyes.

"I am sorry, Lord Aragorn. I did not mean to break into tears in front of you, I usually don’t. It is only…" she shrugged, her hand performing a little, helpless gesture. "The shock to see him like this… and all this misery we keep hearing of…"

"It is hard to bear, and even harder not to despair, aye, I understand that very well, my lady." With his rough hand, Aragorn cupped her cheek, and his gaze intensified as he looked at her, almost burning her with his urgency. "Some days, it would appear as if there is no hope, but in these times, we must avert our eyes from the evil around us and concentrate on the good things which still exist, and we must draw our hope from them." He could see the question forming in her features, and provided the answer before she could even voice it: "Éomer is still alive, and he will recover. The people of the Mark are still alive, and still fighting, and nothing is lost yet. Life was never easy for the sons of Éorl, and yet after five hundred years of struggle, you still endure, and your enemies fear you for your hardiness, your courage and your determination. No one has ever defeated the Rohirrim for as long as they stood united... and now my friends and I have come to aid you in that fight; you stand not alone." He pointed his chin at Éomer. "On the plains, I promised him that we would draw our swords together one day, and I intend to keep my promise. Believe me, my lady, it is far too early to give up hope."

Through her tears, he saw her smiling, and was glad to have lifted the young woman’s spirits. Like a true woman of Rohan she deemed him; simple but honest, proud and hardy, and yet warm-hearted and compassionate at the same time to those deserving of it. A people like that deserved to endure, and if it was in his power, he would do his part in ensuring their survival. His hand sank from her face, and she took it and pressed it affectionately, thankful for his comfort.

"You cannot know what your words and your deeds tonight mean to me, Lord Aragorn. I can only repeat what I already said: the Gods sent you to us in this dark hour. Perhaps, they still look kindly upon us after all, even if they have a strange way of showing it."

"That I am convinced of," he assured her, giving back the pressure. "Even if I do not know whether it was them who led me here. But now that I am here, I am intent on making the most of it." His smile deepened, and carefully, he smoothed away a strand of ashen hair which had fallen into her face. "It is already very late, you should go and get some rest now. I promise you that I will stay with him."

"I am used to long watches. And while I do believe that the worst is behind him, I will find not rest myself until I am sure that he is on the way to recovery." Seeing that she was still not glad with his answer, he offered: "But if you insist, I will wake you around dawn for the continuation of the watch. Will you accept that?"

"Gladly," she nodded, and rose to her feet, no longer able to disguise how very weary she felt. Her hand reluctantly left its place upon the shape of Éomer’s arm below the blanket. "And since you say that you are a man of your word, I expect you to keep your promise..."

She believed him. However reluctant she was of leaving Éomer, she needed to sleep. He was in good hands, and the thought of a man she had known only for a few hours yet being the only one awake in their house did not trouble her at all; in her mind, Aragorn had already ceased to be a stranger. With a last glance back, Freya silently closed the door behind her, the despair which had haunted her for weeks suddenly replaced by a feeling so unusual that she at first fail to name it for it had been a long time since she had last felt it. But yes, there was no denying anymore that with these three strangers, hope had returned into her home...

The night was cold and too bright for Elfhelm’s liking. The light of the waxing moon in addition to the blanket of snow on the ground allowed them to see far, and no doubt had their approach been visible from the watchtower of Edoras if the guards had paid attention. The city lights had died down approximately a while ago, and while they waited in the cover of the group of rocks upon the river’s edge, shivering from the cold even though they sat huddled into their thick blankets, hardly a word was spoken between the men.

"There is the signal! Look!" Arnhelm suddenly hissed, pointing a finger in the direction of a small moving light in front of the gates, and his words prompted his comrades into motion. Still they did not talk, and as they swung into their saddles with limbs stiff from the hours of sitting unmoving in the cold temperatures, Elfhelm saw his own tension mirrored in their drawn faces. How easy it would be for the Worm to lead them all into a trap if his spies had found out about Céorl’s plan! The feeling of foreboding was strong in him, and growing stronger with each step that took them closer to the mighty wooden fence surrounding the city. Suddenly, Éon stopped.

"Captain?" His scout regarded him from underneath a furrowed brow, and it was only then when Elfhelm realised that – in his reluctance to enter the city – he had involuntarily pulled at the reins. Angry at himself, the experienced warrior gave his waiting men the signal to proceed, although his instincts were crying out at him to turn back. Stubbornly, he told himself that his disquiet stemmed from the exposure on this last part of their approach which offered no cover; something an experienced warrior always sought to avoid even if he wasn’t riding into battle. Their horses, sensing their riders’ tension, remained silent as well, although the familiar scents of home and of others of their kin would have prompted them to welcoming neighs under normal circumstances.

These were no normal circumstances. They were here to plan a revolution, an unprecedented event in the history of the Mark. His lips a thin, bloodless line, Elfhelm’s eyes narrowed as he tried to identify the man with the now extinguished torch waiting for them in front of the opened gates. It was not Céorl, and it was not Éothain, so much he could see already, and his discovery brought about another fit of anxiety rumbling through Elfhelm’s broad frame. Who else was left the Captain of Edoras trusted enough to appoint with this precarious task?

Laying his right hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword to be ready, just in case, he approached the waiting figure… and finally recognised it as one of the men who had accompanied his Edoras’ counterpart to Aldburg .

"Westu hal, Captain Elfhelm. Aye, he sent me to bring you to the meeting place." He craned his neck to look up, and again Elfhelm felt a strange shudder at the sight of his guarded face. "Will you allow me to share the saddle with you, Captain? I did not bring my own horse, for it would only have raised unneeded questions of why I needed it during my watch."

"I understand," Elfhelm said, extending his hand to help the guard mount behind him. Of course the man was tense, he berated himself, after all, he was risking his life by allowing them into the city as much as they were. "We do not meet him at his home?"

"The Captain fears that his home is under surveillance by the enemy, therefore he chose another place. Let us proceed inside quickly. The city appears to be sleeping, but one can never know whether there not malicious eyes watching from behind one of these dark windows."

Heeding the man’s words, Elfhelm urged his steed through the narrow gap in the gate, and with a click of his tongue, reminded the stallion to move cautiously. His gaze fell upon the houses surrounding the square they entered now, and a chill travelled down his spine at the thought of the guard’s words. Were they being watched? Was there a group of the Worm’s men waiting in the shadows for them to approach, their arrows already fitted to the string of their bows and ready to loose them as soon as their aim was true? Their horses hoof-beats seemed treacherously loud to his ears, certain to alarm the entire lower city. Perhaps it would have been better to leave them outside… but then again, five fully saddled, riderless Rohirric war-horses in front the gates would likewise rise suspicion, and Elfhelm had no way of knowing for how long their secret meeting would take. No, better to take them along and hide them away in a barn. The snow and mud muffled the sound, and it probably seemed only loud to his strained ears and would not wake a man sleeping inside these houses.

In silence, the short line of riders proceeded through the sleeping city until they came to the last building in a hidden back-street, a weather-worn wooden structure that seemed to have been used as a shed for the craftsmen living close by until a fire had recently destroyed part of it. Even in the moonlight, the charred black scars in the wood were still visible, and a faint burnt stench still wafted toward them through the clear air. Upon Anlaf’s silent signal, Elfhelm brought his steed to a halt, and after a long, thorough look at his surroundings, he finally dismounted, followed by his men. The columns of their frozen breaths rising into the chill night, the warriors strained their senses until at last, all faces turned to Elfhelm and the guard, awaiting their orders. With a deep breath, Anlaf walked up to the large door and knocked his knuckles against the wood in a careful rhythm. Rigid, all hands on their swords and muscles strained to react to whatever situation they would find once the door opened, the men waited. Finally, the muffled sound of steps could be heard from inside.

They held their breath. At last, the sound of a bolt sliding aside reached their ears, and the door opened... to darkness. The face of the man whispering to them from inside to enter quickly was hidden by the shadow, and yet Anlaf seemed to recognise him as he disappeared into the blackness. Hesitant, the warriors looked at each other, until at last, Elfhelm took his heart in both hand and followed the guard inside, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his blade.

"Céorl?" It was too dark. He understood the import of secrecy, but not even a candle had been lit to help him see where he was going, and suddenly, the darkness was complete when the door closed behind them. "Céorl?" It was a reflex that made him draw his sword, the barest notion of a presence near him, but it was already too late: his vision exploded in a fireball as a heavy object connected with his head, and the blade slipped from his hands. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

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This is for Maddy, without whose medical knowledge Aragorn would have looked pretty stupid in this chapter! Thank you, and I hope you recover quickly and give us another delicious episode of "Unexpected"!

“Captain? Captain Elfhelm? Please, you must believe me, I did not mean to betray you, but they said they would kill my family if I did not deliver you. I have two little daughters! Please, I did not--" A dull sound interrupted the anxious flow of words and replaced them with a pained grunt.

“Enough of that disgraceful whimpering,” a rumbling voice spat disdainfully. “You betrayed your commander, get used to the thought! I don’t think he wants to hear your blabbering now. You did it, now live with it.” Another rush of air, then breathless gasping. This was what Elfhelm woke up to. He opened his eyes to the flickering light of fire... and a headache that felt as if someone had buried an axe in the middle of his skull. Instantly, a debilitating wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he spilled the sparse remainders of his evening meal onto the ground in a violent retching fit.

“Now will you look at him, your proud Captain of Aldburg!” The same dark voice sneered with unmistakable glee. “Look carefully, all of you who think you are something better! Scrambling on the ground like a pig he is, ready for the slaughter. If I wanted, I could kill him right now without breaking a sweat!” A foot prodded Elfhelm in the side and turned him around less than gently, and the warrior could not suppress an anguished groan. “What? Are you in pain?” the voice snorted. “Believe me, this is only the beginning. Once my master begins his work on you, you will wish that you were never born!” Heat assaulted the Captain’s face as the torch was lowered, threatening to burn him.

The brightness of the flames assaulted Elfhelm’s eyes like knife stabs, digging into the soft matter inside his head. Instinctively, he tried to evade them and found his hands bound behind his back. Dirty laughter rose from several men before him he could not see in the semi-darkness.

“You think this will help you, traitor? You think you will get away from us? I believe not.” The torch came closer, almost scorching his face now. Unable to breathe or get away from the fire, Elfhelm did the only thing he could think of: he kicked out. His feet found a solid aim, and with a surprised grunt his torturer went down, dropping the torch... onto him! Quickly he rolled and extinguished the flames before they settled in his garments. A wild curse was uttered in the guttural Dunlending tongue, another dirty laugh from the men further behind – and then a brutal kick landed in his stomach and left him gasping for air. “Bloody mule-headed Rohirric bastard! You do not understand when you have lost, do you?”

“Enough, Felrod! I need him alive! Step back!” Now, that voice Elfhelm recognised, and even over the pounding in his head and the churning of his blood through his ears, he knew who had come to this shed, but what for? To torture and question him where no one would see? And what of his men? Where they still alive? Had one of them perhaps even managed to escape? He craned his neck, yet found that he could still not see what lay in the darkness of the building.

“Wormtongue...” He hissed through clenched teeth, spitting out his adversary’s accursed name as if the word itself were poison. “Tell me, is it Théoden-King’s wish now that you assault the men who protect his people, or what is this? What crime is it you find me guilty of? Is it unlawful now to enter Edoras?”

“Ah, dear Captain, do you really feel you have to ask me that?” With a rustle of garments and leather, the dark-haired man squatted beside him, his pale features hauntingly to behold in the flickering light. The self-satisfactory expression the Counsellor’s wore was unmistakable, and if Elfhelm’s hands had not been bound, he would have snapped the man’s neck right then. As it was, it took all of his supreme willpower to even lift his head. The smile dropped from Grima’s lips, replaced by a hard glint in the almost colourless eyes.

“I know perfectly well why you are here, Captain! You planned to unseat me. Together with Céorl, you intended to attack me, in what way I do not know, but do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me that you sneaked into the city in the middle of the night like a thief without treacherous intent. Do you believe that I could not guess the reason for Céorl’s departure for Aldburg four days ago? Do you believe that I did not know the purpose of that journey? If I had so little wit, I would not hold the key to power over the Kingdom of Rohan in my hands. But of course, your arrogance was very helpful, too. As long as the so-called warriors of this land keep underestimating me, you make my task very easy, and I thank you for it.” The triumphant smile with which Gríma rose was almost enough to lend Elfhelm the strength to kick again, but as it was, it was he who found himself the aim of another well-placed boot, and he fell back gasping... and froze as his adversary’s boot was placed upon his throat. From above, the Counsellor’s voice dribbled into his reeling conscious like poisoned honey.

“I could crush you right now and be done with you, once and for all, Captain, and it would not even cost me a single drop of sweat.” The pressure on Elfhelm’s throat intensified, and he struggled for air. “How does it feel to be at the mercy of someone you hate? How does it feel to know that you have failed all who set their trust in you?”

“You will soon find out, snake!” All air he had been able to collect was spent with his hateful rebuke, but the effort was worth it, even if the pressure on his throat now became intolerable. Would Gríma indeed kill him? Somehow, Elfhelm could not believe it. The next moment, the weight was taken from his neck, and he was forcefully hauled to his feet. The pain in his head exploded at the movement, and if it had not been for the strong hands holding him, he would have fallen to the ground like a stone. With a muffled grunt, Elfhelm squeezed his eyes shut to suppress another powerful retching fit. His chin was lifted, and for a moment, he hoped he would spew whatever was still left in his stomach onto the accursed filth, but then the dry heaving stopped.

“You think you are so smart, don’t you? Sneaking into the city like you did, thinking that I would not find out what you had planned. I give you one advice, Captain, even if it will not be of help to you anymore: I know everything! My eyes and ears are everywhere, and you cannot even breathe without me knowing about it. You made it so much easier for me to capture you by stealing into the city like this! I could not have arrested you for entering Edoras had you arrived in broad daylight, underneath the citizen’s eyes. They are afraid of me, but I do know my limits, and arresting a warrior they trust and respect without apparent cause would probably have resulted in an uprising, which I then would have had to end with much bloodshed. Ah, but now I understand: you wanted to spare your kinsmen the bloodshed! How very noble of you, Elfhelm of Aldburg! It shall not be forgotten when they sing the mourning song at your grave!”

“You like to hear yourself talk, Worm, don’t you?” Elfhelm spat. “If you want to kill me, just do it, don’t talk about it. But make no mistake; the people will learn of it one way or the other, and one not-so-far day, what you fear will become reality. Only you will be powerless to subdue them when it happens. They will tear you to pieces, I promise you this!”

“We will see who will tear whom to pieces,” Gríma dismissed his threat. “It seems to me that you forgot who stands behind me. There is a great army of orcs assembling in the west as we speak, and it can only be a matter of days now before they march for this city and erase every hint that this land had ever been occupied by man. Perhaps I will let you live until then; it should be quite satisfactory to make you a witness of the slaughter before I let you die. Anyway, for the moment, you are of greater use to me alive.” The nasty smirk became threatening. “There is a Rohirric maiden who needs to be taught certain lessons... and since I have no solid proof yet for her brother’s demise, I think that keeping you as an insurance that no one will engage in any foolish acts of misunderstood courage and honour might be a wise precaution to take.”

“You will use me to blackmail Éowyn? You filthy--” Another blow to his head ended Elfhelm’s heated outburst, and he slumped in the henchmen’s grasp. Barely conscious, he felt his mouth being pried open and a gag applied, and for a moment, panic spread its nightblack wings in his stomach. With the nausea still not subdued, what if he had to retch while he was gagged? Weakly he fought against his assailants, but it was to no avail. A moment later, a slightly brighter quadrangle opened in the darkness before him and he was dragged outside into the street, stumbling and unable to walk by himself. Without warning, his head was yanked up by the hair, and Gríma’s face filled his vision like a sickly pale moon.

“Listen closely, Captain: we will take you up to Meduseld now. For every attempt you may undertake to free yourself or cry out and alert the citizens, we will kill one of your men. Do you understand?”

His men were still alive? Barely conscious, Elfhelm tried to turn his head, but it was forcefully held in place.

“Blink once if you understood. Fail to co-operate, and the first of your men dies right here.” He blinked. “Good.” Gríma released his hold and took a step back, his eyes narrow slits. “Remember it well, for I will make it true.”

In ghostly silence, the line of men left the shed and made its way over to the winding path up to the dark, forbidding shape of Meduseld…

She could not sleep. No matter how she tossed and turned on her bed, Éowyn just could not find the position that would make her drift off. Her sheets and blankets were already a crumbled mess, impossible to disentangle, and she gave up fighting with them and for a moment, just lay still on the bed and stared against the ceiling in the eerie pale light of the moon.

Something was very wrong; she felt it with every fibre of her body. The atmosphere had been strange in the hall all day long; the tension even worse than all these past weeks. It had reached breaking point; the point where something had to happen, to yield one way or the other, even if she could not tell why she felt tis way. At first, Éowyn had blamed her strained nerves for this notion; after all, she had spent four days in the narrow confines of her chambers, forced to watch helplessly why Rohan’s enemy was free to act as he pleased. And of course the general mood had to be bleak in the wake of the recent events: Éomer’s banishment, Élric’s disappearance, the sudden dismissal of Maelwyn, who had been after all a long-time member of the Royal household… but while those incidents certainly depressed the remaining personnel, they were not responsible for this strange feeling of foreboding the daughter of Éomund felt; a weight lay on her shoulders as if the roof of Meduseld was about to collapse and bury them underneath the debris.

Abruptly, Éowyn sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, no longer able to remain inactive while all her instincts told her of something afoot. She had barely seen Wormtongue today; only once around midday had he briefly entered her chambers to see her, his expression tense and guarded as if something had happened that was not to his liking. She barely dared to guess what it might have be that disturbed him. Perhaps Éomer was returning with his éoreds to avenge himself on the Counsellor and his band of crooks? She still was not entirely convinced that her brother was at the Worm’s mercy, and she did not want to believe it. Quickly dressing in the darkness, Éowyn then rushed over to the window, anxious to find out what it was that had her instincts in an uproar.

The glass had frozen over from outside, and she opened the window to gaze out. From her bedroom, she had a partial view of the slope with the ascending path, the nether regions of the city and the plains surrounding it all the way to the White Mountains, whose snow-capped silhouettes were a ghostly contrast to the blackness of the sky. The moon was almost full and shed its silver light onto the sleeping land, illuminating the scenery… A cold chill suddenly wandered down Éowyn’s spine, and it had nothing to do with the air from outside. There was movement on the slope, several dark silhouettes on the ascent to the Golden Hall. She narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. Who was roaming the city in the middle of the night? For another long moment, she just stood and watched.

There were no horses. They seemed to be men, but some where moving strangely, hobbling, or in tight groups, as if they were carried or pulled along. The sight of it, even if it was indistinct, was so wrong that at last, the decision came easily to her: feeling for the comforting weight of her hidden dagger, Éowyn rushed toward the door… and found it locked! The revelation stunned her for another couple of heartbeats. It also confirmed what she had already felt: something horrible was afoot. Somehow, she had to alert the few people who she knew were still on her side. Hands balled to fists, she hammered against the door.

Again she pounded against the wood, hearing some muffled words of the guard in front of her door but not giving a care as she turned to fetch the poker from the fireplace. With powerful swings, she attacked the door with renewed vigour.

The night seemed to have no end. Although experienced in long, lonely vigils, Aragorn could no longer deny that he was experiencing increasing difficulties in warding off sleep. The long days on horseback, the worry and concern for their friends and the Rohirric Marshal and not least of all, the heavy evening meal had done their share to lull the ranger into a stupor. Likewise, neither the flickering light of the candle on the nightstand nor the pleasant warmth in the small room helped in keeping himself awake. Briefly he considered opening a window to let in fresh, cool air to clear his head, Aragorn nonetheless quickly dismissed the idea as he turned his attention back to the man he was watching over. It had taken Éomer long to warm up, and his condition was still fragile. Better to keep fighting drowsiness than risk a relapse, Aragorn decided. And also, it was time to get some more liquid into his patient and see how the young man was faring. He rose to his feet.

He received no response, but had expected none. Even if the Rohír had improved to sleeping rather than being unconscious, he was probably so far out of this world after all that he had been through that he would not wake for at least another day. Gently, Aragorn laid his hand onto the warrior’s forehead and found it warm to his touch… too warm. But even this development did not trouble him; he had applied the mould to Éomer’s wounds only a few hours ago; it would need some time yet to do its wonders. Judging from the state they had found the Rohir in, it was most likely that the son of Éomund had been burning with fever even when he had set out from the cave, the fall from the back of his horse a result of his weakness overwhelming him. Yet while the cold had almost cost his life, it had probably broken the fever, too, and Aragorn did not believe that it would rise to a dangerous level again… not if he could help it. Turning toward the nightstand, he calmly poured some more of the steaming tea Willa had left him in a temperature-preserving vessel before she had gone to bed into a mug.

He looked up, having caught the notion of movement from the corner of his eye. Éomer’s eyes, however, were still closed and the warrior was obviously dreaming as he shifted on the bed, his brow creasing with worry. Quickly, Aragorn set down the mug and once more laid his hand against the side of Éomer’s face, this time to calm the ill man.

“Ssshh… be at peace, Son of Éomund. You are safe and among friends.” This time, there was a reaction to his words, and his wrist was suddenly grasped as he found himself the focus of dark, feverish eyes. He did not stir, and very soon, his hand was released when the Rohir’s strength deserted him. Acting on impulse, Aragorn grasped it himself and pressed it reassuringly as he beheld the growing confusion in the young man’s stormy gaze. “There is no need to worry. You were wounded, but none of your injuires are serious. Just rest, and in a few days, you will have fully recovered.”

He could not tell whether he was being understood, but when he saw the younger man’s fog over with drowsiness again, he quickly turned to pick up the mug. “Here, I have something to drink for you. It will help you to sleep, and also quicken the healing.” With one hand helping his patient to hold up his head, the ranger gently pressed the rim against Éomer’s lips, and although the Rohir was barely awake enough to keep his eyes open, he drank half of the contents in small sips before he lay back, utterly exhausted even from the small effort. When Aragorn addressed him the next time, he had already sunken deeply into the realm of sleep again. A tired smile wandered over the ranger’s face. Even if it had only been brief, but that first moment of wakefulness so soon after the crisis had to mean that Éomer was out of danger. He felt incredibly relieved.

“Sleep, Son of Éomund,” he whispered, carefully covering the warrior’s hand with the blanket again. “And when you wake again, you will feel much better.” After a quick inspection of the bandages, the Aragorn settled back into the chair for the continuation of his vigil…

The way up the slope to the Golden Hall had never seemed so long to Elfhelm, but it was not only due to his injuries. Every step on the way, through the horrible pounding in his head, he had waited for the one opportunity to overcome his captors, the one opportunity to communicate with his men and tell them to hold themselves ready. And yet, nothing had presented itself to him. The Worm’s henchmen held him firmly in their grasp, their fingers cutting off the circulation in his arms until Elfhelm could not even feel his hands anymore, and while he waited, his mind raced: what had happened to Céorl? Was he still alive? And what were Gríma’s plans now that he finally held all the cards in his hands? Had he already disposed of Háma and Gamling, too, for Elfhelm was certain that this had to be the point where their obedience to the King ended. Under no circumstance would they tolerate that the last men loyal to the Mark would be executed or thrown into the dungeon...at least he hoped so.

Silently the mixed group approached the corner, behind which the Golden Hall waited for them, and from the last building before the stairs, a shed normally used to store provisions for the Royal Household, Elfhelm suddenly saw a group of men emerge. All of them were but dark shapes, strangers to his eyes, but the way four of them had arranged themselves in a half-circle around the fifth person in the middle who stumbled toward them as if he could barely walk, Elfhelm knew who was joining them for the last part of the way. His soul cried out as he beheld the bleeding, dishevelled figure of his brother-in-arms, and his jaws clenched around the gag in his mouth in helpless frustration. Gods, what had they done to Céorl? Blood encrusted the warrior’s face from two gaping cuts on his left eyebrow and cheekbone and also below his nose and mouth, and the way he held himself indicated that the injuries to his head were by far not the only ones. Of course not, Elfhelm cursed silently, Céorl would never have betrayed them. He knew the valiant Captain of Edoras long enough to understand without words that his kinsman had silently swallowed whatever punishment his assailants had subject him to in order to make him speak. He had given them nothing, ready to sacrifice his own life to ensure that the chance of surprising their adversaries remained intact for Eflhelm, but he had been powerless to act when his torturers had turned on his men after forcing them to watch the terrible beating of their captain. And along with that horrible threat of killing his family, poor Anlaf had finally broken. As hopeless as his own situation seemed right now, Elfhelm could not blame the man. He could not tell what he would have done in the same situation.

When the two Captains regarded each other, the sight of his friend’s swollen and bruised features prompted a surge of rage so powerful and uncontrollable in Elfhelm’s that he rammed his weight against the guard to his left, sending him to the ground and kicking him hard in the ribs. From the corner of his eye, he saw his men respond, and for a moment, he felt wild triumph and the possibility to free themselves well within reach. It was abruptly ended by a hard blow between his shoulder blades that sent a silver bolt down his spine. All feeling left his legs, and the warrior fell to his knees like a sack of meal, grunting. With a brutal tug, his head was pulled up by the hair and he looked into Wormtongue’s face.

"I thought we had an understanding, Captain. Very well, it is you who will have to live with the consequences of your actions now." The Counsellor gave a short nod to one of his minions guarding a captive. "Kill him!" Suddenly, there was thin, long knife in the thug’s hand, and as Gríma straightened and walked over to where his followers had already suppressed the short eruption of mutiny among their prisoners, Elfhelm groaned. Against the gag in his mouth and the fire in his spine, he tried to shout out, he tried to scream, and he even tried to rise to his feet to prevent what would happen, but the hands that held him down were too strong.

"Watch closely!" Felrod sneered into his ear, audibly delighted by his opponent’s dismay. "It is your fault that he dies now."

Before the widening eyes of the Rohirrim, the dark-haired guard buried his dagger to the hilt in the chest of the rider next to him, and with infinite sorrow and rage Elfhelm realised that it was Anlaf. The doomed warrior’s jaw muscles clenched painfully around the leather in his mouth as he narrowed his eyes, and his muffled outcry tore apart his comrades’ souls. For a moment, his powerful body tensed… and then sagged when the last remains of life left him. No one could move. The Rohirrim were stunned into shock, and their guards tensed in expectation of their violent reaction. For a while, the world hung frozen. His almost colourless eyes scanning the prone figure on the ground for movement, Gríma cautiously prodded his foot against Anlaf’s side. The man felt slack, thoroughly lifeless, and the pool of blackness spreading from beneath him did not lie. Satisfied he turned around to stare at the kneeling Elfhelm.

"You still have not learned that I keep my promises, Captain." He extended his hand toward the lifeless man. "There, look what you did with your misguided sense of comradeship and honour. Although I do not understand why his demise should even distress you…" A cruel glint flickered to life in the pale eyes. "After all, this was the man who betrayed you. Shouldn’t you rather thank me for his disposal?"

An unintelligible outcry of rage escaped Elfhelm at the evil Counsellor’s mockery and again he attempted to shake off his captors, but the men were too strong, and he could do nothing when they hurled him to his feet. Another cold gaze grazed him before Gríma turned to his own men and said with a curt nod at the dead man’s body: "Take him with us and see to it that there is nothing left of his blood on the path. We will dispose of him in the dungeon. And now let us hurry, before the city wakes after all and we will be forced to kill even more men!" With a warning glimpse, the Counsellor turned and approached the steps to the Golden Hall with firm strides. For the longest moment, Elfhelm and Céorl’s eyes met, and both men saw the bottomless despair in the other’s gaze before they were forcefully shoved toward the stairs.

"Gamling! Háma! Wake up! Please, you must—" From outside, Éowyn suddenly heard the sound of fast approaching steps, and then an angry voice exclaimed:

"Excuse me, my lords, but may I ask what you are seeking here in the middle of the night?"

"You may not; Kôr. Step aside, or I’ll make you!" It was Háma’s voice, and its sharp tone and the long unheard determination in it caused Éowyn’s heart to jump into her throat. They had heard her! They had indeed come! With renewed vigour, she pounded against the door with the palm of her hand.

"I do not care for the Counsellor’s orders! I am the Chief of the Royal Guard, and if anyone has the authority to give me orders, it is but the King himself! To him I swore my oath and not to his counsellor, and since his niece is calling for my aid, I will see what she needs, regardless of what you have to say against it. Stand aside, if you do not want me to go through you!"

"Háma! Háma, quickly, open the door!" Outside, the men quarrelled for another moment, but at last, Éowyn heard the much anticipated sound of the key turning in the lock, and the door opened to the concerned faces of the seasoned warriors. "Háma! Gamling! Oh Béma be praised, I was beginning to despair!" She felt the strong impulse to fly around Gamling’s neck, but knew that there was no time. Rushing out of her room, Éowyn’s gaze went over to where the massive doors of Meduseld still lay in darkness. She turned around, urgency in her features. "Someone is approaching Meduseld, a group of men, and I feel that there something is wrong with them. They seemed to move with great stealth."

"A group of men?" In an instant, the two warriors were alert. They no longer heeded the guard as the man stole away into the shadows. Gamling stared at Éowyn in alarm. "Whom did you see, Lady Éowyn? Enemies? Dunlendings even?"

"No Dunlendings, or at least I do not think so, but they moved strangely. Quickly, Gamling, you must summon your men and await them here, ready for battle, whoever it is!" Instead of leaving, the old warrior simply turned and shouted into the silence:

"All men to me! Quickly!" Yet before he could proceed, the doors of Meduseld were thrown open and a great group of men spilled into the hall along with a gust of cold air. Yet it was not the air that chased a chill down the guard’s spine as he beheld the mangled and bloodied features of the two Rohirric captains in their midst. Involuntarily, Gamling’s fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. Éowyn had been right; evil was afoot, and this time, he could no longer afford to tolerate it; not for peace’s sake, and not for his King’s sake. With Céorl and Elfhelm, two of the four remaining men of power were in danger of being eliminated by the Worm, and he felt that at last, the time had come to make his stand. Squaring his shoulders, the wiry warrior stepped forth together with his brother-in-arms to confront the darkly-clad figure who just now shed its hood and stared at them contemptuously from beneath a deeply furrowed brow.

"What is this, Counsellor Gríma?" Háma’s tone was hard and determined like Éowyn had not heard the usually calm guard in a long time. "What evil is going on in Edoras these days that you felt you had to arrest Captain Céorl and Captain Elfhelm, and in the middle of the night, too, sneaking into Meduseld in all secrecy as if you wanted to prevent that anyone sees your prisoners? It appears to me that this is not an operation sanctioned by the King, nor that he knows about it."

Éowyn’s heart beat furiously against her ribcage, and involuntarily, her hand went for her hidden dagger as the atmosphere in the hall abruptly thickened to the point where a single heated word would suffice to ignite it. Finally, the true servants of the Mark had decided that they would no longer tolerate the Worm’s secret reign, and both Háma and Gamling were a sight to behold as they blocked Gríma’s path. It was exhilarating to finally witness the confrontation that would see Wormtongue banned, an event she had wished for for years… and yet at the same time, a part of her was dying, because she knew that with this deed accomplished, her uncle’s fate would be sealed… and Éomer’s as well, if the Snake truly held him captive. She did not fully believe it after the uncountable lies the filth had been telling her over the years, but still the possibility remained. And her uncle… perhaps there would be a way to save him; perhaps their healers would find the potion in Gríma’s chambers and be able to find a cure to it in time. Perhaps, no one had to die… but even if all went wrong, it could not go on like this.

In the long sleepless nights of her captivity, Éowyn had at last come to the painful realisation that the protection of her loved ones could not mean the sacrifice of their entire people. As hard as the decision had been to make, she knew for a fact that Éomer would be content with it if by his death, he would buy life for Rohan, and so would be Théoden. Still, how was she supposed to go on without them, knowing that she was responsible for their deaths? Perhaps, it would be for the best if this confrontation would be solved with bloodshed; perhaps, she could see to it that it would claim her life, so that she would not have to continue living with this great burden of guilt about sentencing her only remaining blood-kin to death. Her knuckles whitening around the hilt of her dagger as her fingers clenched it in unconscious distress, Éowyn fought back the despair that threatened to choke her. This was not the time to break down; first, they had to dispose of the enemy! Defiantly, she lifted her chin, determined to see this through.

Behind them, the remainders of the Royal Guard still loyal to Gamling and Háma emerged from the darkness of the throne room to form an expectant half-circle behind their captains and await the outcome of the confrontation, ready to assist if their strength was needed. Meanwhile, Gríma stared at the two men in front of him with the same amount of disdain he would have reserved for a rotting orc-carcass.

"These men you see here, they entered the city in a secret and most cowardly manner that leaves only one possible conclusion: they are conspirators against the Mark and planned to--"

"Conspirators against the Mark? Céorl and Elfhelm?" Gamling laughed. "I fear, Counsellor, that you will find no one here ready to believe your unfounded accusations! Take the gags out of your captives’ mouths and let them explain themselves, or are you afraid to hear the truth, namely that they came to rid Rohan of its true plague, which is you and your men?"

"I see, Old Man. You are one of them. Alas, I wished I had known before how far the conspiracy against the King already reaches." The pale blue eyes narrowed to dangerously sparkling slits as Gríma raised his voice for all to hear: "Listen well, Gamling and Háma of the Royal Guard: you are herewith dismissed from your service to the King! You will step aside and leave this hall now, or I warn you, I will have you both arrested as well!"

"And what would our crime be, Counsellor?" Instead of looking intimidated, Gamling even took a step forth, and his fingers tightened around his sword. "That we protected our King and our people against your devious plans? Because it is not Théoden-King you serve, that much is clear to all present by now, but no matter who your true master is, he will have to find himself another pawn to do his bidding, because here and now, your rule over Meduseld ends! Release your captives, or we will free them by force!"

"I do not believe that you understand the situation, Lord Gamling." Gríma’s voice was almost too low to be heard, just like the slight rustle of dry leafs before the snake underneath them uncoiled for the deadly bite. Nonetheless he took a step back, which brought him closer to the safety of his men who had likewise unsheathed their swords and looked ready to kill their captives at the first command of their master.

Unsettled by their adversary’ strange composure in the face of the uttered challenge, Éowyn followed the man’s gaze beyond Gamling’s shoulder into the darkness of the throne room, and the sight of many dark shapes silently emerging from behind the pillars froze her. In a half circle, they arranged themselves with readied swords behind the members of the Royal Guard who looked in shock and confusion at the new development. These were Dunlendings! How in Éorl’s name had Dunlendings entered the city, and even the Golden Hall without anyone having taken notice of them? Where had all these men come from? Éowyn guessed the answer, and her already pale features turned deadly-white. So Gríma had pried from Théoden’s captured mind the knowledge of the secret passage between the King’s chambers and the foot of the lonely hill of Edoras; a path hewn through the rock by generations before them and thought as a means to ensure the King’s survival in case that an enemy would ever gain entry to the Golden Hall. There, in all secrecy, Gríma had arranged his army within this passage, safe from detection until he would need it on the day when he would seize control. His plan was flawless, for the warriors still loyal to the King were now far outmatched.

The guards’ expressions became grim as they realised their predicament. Instinctively, they moved closer together and formed a circle, daring the enemy to attack. For a moment, none of the men dared to breathe. His features darkened and his body tense in expectation of the first charge, Háma suddenly turned to Éowyn.

"My Lady, please, you should go back to your chambers now. I believe that he will let you do so..."

"No, Gamling, my place is here with you. I can help you." She drew her dagger, not evading the men’s pleading gazes as she whispered: "Yes, we are outnumbered, but all we must do is kill the Worm! Without him, they have no purpose to fight for, they will submit!"

"Lay down your weapons, all of you!" Wormtongue now raised his voice, interrupting her, and on his pale face, open triumph sparkled for the first time. No longer did he have to hide his satisfaction, for his victory was complete; with the removal of Céorl, Edoras belonged to him. "As even the most stubborn Rohrric peasant would have to admit: you are outmatched! Don´t be foolish! You will lay your arms to the ground and step back now, or this hall will bear witness to a massacre of the likes it has never experienced before. You will either let yourself be arrested… or be killed, the choice is yours!"

The men looked at each other, doubt and fear on their faces, and for a brief moment, Éowyn thought that they would submit... but from the corner of her eye, she caught the silent exchange between Elfhelm and Céorl, nothing more but a wink, and suddenly, all hell broke loose...

The attack found Wormtongue’s guards unprepared, and before they knew what hit them, they had been rammed to the ground and immobilised with kicks to their stomachs and heads by their captives.

“Free the prisoners!” Háma shouted and raised his sword, and despite the threat of the Dunlendings from behind, the Rohirrim charged in a wave against Gríma’s guards. Not thinking about her own safety when the future of Rohan was at stake, Éowyn joined in their attack although she only carried her dagger, and in the first rush that swept them right into the midst of the enemy, she suddenly found herself standing before Elfhelm.

“Quick, turn around!” With a well-aimed cut, she freed him of his bonds, and he flexed his hands to start the circulation to his fingers again.

“I thank you, my lady, but now you must seek shelter, or your brother will have my head if anything happens to you! Duck!” Pushing her aside even as he spoke, his fist landed in the face of the guard who had thrust his sword at Éowyn; blocking the strike. The man fell like an axed tree, but even before he hit the ground, Elfhelm had wrestled the blade from his grasp and ended his foe’s pain permanently. “Rohirrim, to me! Form a circle!”

In the flickering light of the torches, it was difficult to determine who was friend and who foe; everywhere men were fighting in close proximity, sometimes even back to back, and battle cries and shouts penetrated the din of clattering swords and rushing footsteps. Not wanting to flee when every single blade was needed but understanding her disadvantage caused by her inferior weapon, Éowyn stood frozen in the conflict for a moment too long, and suddenly found the way to her chambers blocked by an advancing Dunlending. His crude sword menacingly raised for the deadly strike, he grinned at her with yellow teeth as he realised that his intended victim had no means of defending herself.

“Do not kill the King’s niece!” Gríma’s voice suddenly rose above the noise of the battle, but it did not penetrate to the Hillman as he lashed out. Her instincts dropping her to the ground in an evading motion, Éowyn suddenly found herself at her assailant’s feet, and with her whole weight behind the thrust, she buried her dagger in the Dunlending’s gut. Malicious eyes widened in unexpected pain, and the man’s sword clattered to the ground as he clutched his horrible wound. Not wasting her time to see him die, Éowyn rolled and grasped the blade she had won. More confident now that she had an adequate weapon, she regained her feet and looked around to get her bearings. Where was Gríma? He would not be in the middle of the melee without a weapon, she knew him better. And just as she had suspected, she caught a brief glimpse of the familiar dark cape behind the mighty statue of his guard Felrod where he supposedly deemed himself safe. Hah, she would show him! If no one was allowed to attack her, she would put that advantage to good use.

Moving through the cluster of fighting men as if she were invisible, Éowyn focused on her enemy. She would end the Mark’s captivity now; with Gríma’s death, their enemies would surely surrender. Her only regret was that she would have to kill the Worm quickly to not risk it that his reign endured if he was just wounded and their attack failed. Still several men were between her and the Counsellor; and carefully she sought her way around them, avoiding any provocation that would cause them to attack against Gríma’s orders. Suddenly a voice cried out:

She did not see the man who had warned Wormtongue, but his words had been heard and now the aim of her attack pivoted Upon seeing her and instinctively understanding her intent, Gríma’s pale eyes widened in disbelief before he tugged at his guard’s shirt.

Driving back the Rohir he had fought with a powerful strike, the big man swivelled, and a nasty grin spread on his angular face as he waved his sword at Éowyn in a menacing gesture.

“How nice! I have never fought a woman before. It is one experience in life I always wanted to make: first cut them up, and then—“

“Then enjoy this!” Éowyn shouted, and lashed out while Gríma dived away to seek shelter behind a pillar. Sparks flew as her crude Dunlending sword collided with Felrod’s, and with a horrible clang, half of her blade was hacked clean off while the hilt of the mutilated weapon reverberated in her hands. Instinctively, Éowyn retreated, but Felrod had licked blood now and was determined to claim his prize.

“You think you can defeat me, lassie? I already defeated your brother, so what do you think you can do against me?”

At his words, a red curtain lowered over Éowyn’s vision. That pig had killed Éomer? With a shout of rage, she attacked with the shard of the blade in her hands, succeeding in blocking the big Dunlending’s countering strike and cutting deeply into his hand. The next moment, she suddenly found herself on the floor to his feet, unable to breathe and her stomach a ball of fire. Gasping, she looked up and saw the big hand that had punched her reaching for her. Strong fingers dug into her tunic and hauled her to her feet when suddenly, she was released from the grip. From her left, an angered shout reached her ears, and a Rohir charged against her tormentor. So furious was his onslaught that he drove the Dunlending back several steps before Felrod could block his sword and push against his attacker. It was Háma.

“Flee, Éowyn! Out of the hall! We cannot hold them for much longer!” The guard was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his eyes were wide in dismay as he cast her a brief glance of utmost urgency.

And as she followed his gaze, Éowyn saw that he was right: wherever she looked, their men were fighting one against three or four enemies at a time, and even as she looked on, their numbers dwindled further when two more fell to the ground, hewn by their foes. She turned back and saw Gríma behind his pillar, almost within reach while the front doors of Meduseld lay equally far away on the other side. The exit was unguarded, all men involved in fights. No one would stop her if she fled now. But how could she leave Gamling and the others behind when they needed her? She turned back to Háma, just in time to see the guard block two mighty thrusts, but with the third, Felrod knocked the weapon from his hands.

“No!” She dashed toward him, meaning to help, but it was too late: his attention focused on evading his assailant’s next strike, Háma stepped back – and into the sword of a Dunlending who had sneaked up on him from behind. “Háma!” For a moment, the guard’s eyes looked in utter bewilderment at the bloodied sword protruding from his skewered chest… then his knees buckled and he fell, his weight ripping the sword in his midst from the Dunlending’s hands. Black eyes stared at Éowyn in dismay as the Hillman unexpectedly found himself unarmed, and his triumph over the Captain of the Royal Guard was short-lived as Éomund’s daughter hewed his head clean off his shoulders with an enraged shout.

“You are defeated!” Gríma’s voice could suddenly be heard over the fight. “Drop your weapons and you shall live. Anyone still insisting on resistance dies I mean it!”

Pivoting, Éowyn saw that is was indeed true. There were only few Rohirrim left among the mass of dark-haired Dunlendings and the Worm’s personal guards; too few to speak even of the faintest hope. Among them, she saw Elfhelm and Céorl, both bleeding from several cuts and surrounded by enemies. Gamling she could not see, but her heart sank at the discovery that she herself was encircled by their foes. There was no escape; not for her, nor for anyone. They had lost the battle for Meduseld. All fighting spirit leaving her, she sank to her knees next to Háma, and her broken sword clattered to the ground. “Oh Háma…”

Reaching out to caress the dying man’s cheek in a last gesture of farewell, Éowyn felt a sudden desperate impulse to take up the razor-sharp shard of her blade and turn it against herself. What use was there in living on? What could she expect from her adversary, if not even more grief and horror? She had known Háma of the Royal Guard for most of her life. He had always been kind to her from the moment on when Théoden had brought them with him from Aldburg, and many times had he covered for her, deliberately misdirecting her stern teachers of needlework and court-etiquette who had sought her while she had been secretly at the training grounds, practising her swordplay. He had been her secret confidante, an ally in the strange world of the Rohan court she had been cast into. And now, he had saved her for the last time. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stroked his cheek, horrified by the sight of the thin stream of blood flowing from the corners of his mouth.

“I wish…” He coughed, and the pain forced him to shut his eyes. “I wish you had escaped, my lady…” His rough hand grasped her fingers, and she held on. “You… you should have fled.”

“I could not leave you behind,” she cried now, oblivious to the sound of steps which approached her from behind. “But you saved me, Háma. Once again, you saved me. And it will not be in vain; the Worm will not win, I promise you that.”

Háma could no longer speak, but the sadness in his gaze said more than words could ever have expressed. She pressed his hand, and choked on her tears when the guard’s eyes grew distant with death and his strength deserted him.

“My… lady…” It was but a whisper, and with it, Háma of the Royal Guard died. The pain was too great for a scream, and so Éowyn just bent over the fallen man and cried silently while the steps came to a halt behind her.

“He left us no choice,” Wormtongue’s voice reached her ears. “You left us no choice. I did not wish for this bloodbath; it was your own fault. Why do you people not understand when you are defeated? Why can you not see when you are faced with impossible odds? The Rohirrim always pride themselves of their defiance and their stubbornness to accept someone else’s superiority, but I say that it is foolishness. He needn’t have died. It was your misdirected sense of pride and honour that put him into his grave, my Lady.”

A hand dug painfully into her shoulder. It was an impulse, happening so fast she had no means to stop herself: suddenly, the broken sword was back in her hand and she thrust it upward in a vicious move. A pained shriek rewarded her before her wrist was seized and the weapon painfully wrestled from her grasp. Éowyn shouted in pain as she was hurled to her feet by her twisted wrist, and the next moment, her breath was cut off by a thick forearm pressing against her throat.

“Did she hit you, my Lord?” Felrod’s deep voice growled behind her, and as Gríma straightened, his hand cupping his cheek and blooded oozing from between his fingers, Éowyn felt a moment of wild triumph even through her pain and despair. Her adversary’s pale eyes blazed with fury as he regarded her.

“Throw her into the dungeon! Take the darkest, loneliest cell you can find. It is about time this wench is taught a lesson she won’t forget!”

“Three. The two Capains and Gamling. As you said earlier that you wanted to take them alive if possible—“

“Indeed, that is what I said.” Taking his hand from his cheek to regard the redness of his own blood, Gríma cast a last, dark glance at Éowyn before he turned to the men who awaited his orders. “You did well. Throw them into the dungeon as well. Captain Elfhelm will be given the cell opposite the White Lady’s, and he will be shackled in it. The other two will be brought into another wing, out of earshot from each other, and without light. I will teach the stubborn descendants of Éorl the bitter taste of defeat!”

It was no longer easy to keep herself awake with the slow approach of dawn, Freya found. With Éomer resting save and soundly on the bed next to her chair, his cheeks slightly flushed from the fever but nowhere near as pale and death-like looking as he had when the three travellers had brought him to her, the surge of energy that had flooded her veins during the treatment had vanished. She was still concerned for him, but it was more like holding the night-watch over her children on those occasions when they had played for too long outside and caught a cold. No longer did she believe that Éomer could still die, not when he looked so much better already.

“You will live,” Freya whispered, her fingers brushing over his heated brow in a gentle caress although he gave no sign of hearing her. “I know it. You are strong.” Letting her hand sink, she settled for taking his hand into hers, hoping that he felt her presence even in the darkness he roamed and thus know that he stood not alone in his fight. With a tired smile, she leaned back into the chair and looked at the twilit world beyond her window. It was too early to lose hope, Aragorn had said. Was Éomer’s survival then to be seen as a good omen, a sign to not despair? Her eyes resting on Éomer’s still features, Freya felt the same, unsettling stirring in her she had always felt in the warrior’s presence. Ever since their first, fateful meeting, she had asked herself whether she had been right in sending him away when, after all these years, their feelings for each other were still as strong as ever. Every time he visited her here, he brought her emotions in an uproar, and she knew that he felt the same way about her; his secretly stolen glances even when his men were around, the little smiles on the face of that man who didn’t smile often and the soft, loving expression in his eyes whenever he looked at her, they all gave him away, and it was an elevating feeling and excruciating at the same time, with neither of them able to live out what their hearts truly wished for.

As if Éomer felt her turmoil in his sleep, he suddenly shifted his position and sighed deeply, but his eyes remained closed. With a loving smile Freya bent over to smooth away a strand of flaxen hair which had fallen into his face… but suddenly, she froze. A well-known chill turned her skin to gooseflesh, and when she looked up, she saw Osred’s face through the narrow gap behind the open door. Quickly retracting her hand as if she had reached into fire – ‘And perhaps that is the very thing I have done!’ – she sat bolt upright and heat flushed her face, even if her own dismay angered her. She had done nothing wrong! Yes, she loved Éomer, and Osred had known it for a long time. They had never talked about it, but the looks he had given her whenever the Marshal had been around had spoken louder than words. But it was not anger she saw now on her husband’s broad, shadowed face with the trimmed flaxen beard. It was defeat, something even worse in Freya’s opinion. It would have been easier for her to bear had Osred shouted at her or flung the door, but this quiet submission in his expression was unbearable. While her mind still raced thinking about what to say, Osred suddenly turned away and left, and she jumped to her feet to follow him.

“Osred! Osred, wait!” As quietly as possible, she shut the door behind her and followed her husband to the end of the corridor where he stood and gazed at Aragorn, who was sleeping on the ground before the fireplace, wrapped into a blanket. When he turned around, his accusatory gaze briefly grazed Freya, and without a word, he passed her by and went into the kitchen at the far side of the corridor. Her heart painfully beating in her chest, Freya followed him inside and closed the door behind her. “Osred, please, it is not as you think…”

“Spare me, Freya,” he mumbled, staring at the window as he felt not able to face her. “I know what is between you and the Marshal. I even understand you, for how could I – a simple farmer – compete with a Lord of the bloodline of Éorl himself? Of course you feel flattered that a noble shows interest in you; every woman would. Who am I to complain?” He shrugged and shook his head. “Perhaps I should rather feel honoured because my wife is deemed worthy to belong to a captain of our riders.”

Sitting down at the opposite site of the table, Freya reached for his hand, but he took it way, denying her touch. She sighed, shame burning her at the sight of her husband’s torment.

“Osred, will you hear me out, please? Please?” Reluctantly, he looked at her. “Osred, you are my husband, and I love you, you must know that!”

“Not as much as him,” Osred said quietly. “You cannot deny it; I have seen you together.”

“And you feel that you have a reason to complain about the way I have been treating you? Do you not feel loved by me?” He remained silent at that. “Because I do love you, Osred, but it is a different kind of love. Éomer… I have known him for so long, he is like a brother to me.”

“No.” Osred shook his head, and now his voice was coloured with anger at last. “No, you do not look at him as if he were your brother; do not take me for a fool, Freya! Perhaps I must endure the thought that you long for another man, but I will not endure being lied to! I do not deserve that after all these years!”

“I love you, Freya; I took you for my wife because of who you are. I love our children and the life we lead out here; I love this land and I will do all that I can to ensure that we have a good life. I may not be a great warrior with shining armour and endless courage and honour, and I may not know much of the world beyond these mountains, but I do know what is needed to ensure the survival of my family even in these hard times. I work hard from dawn to dusk each day; I set the fields, I see to the animals and the buildings, and when I am done, I come home and hear how your day was and play with our children. I do what I can, Freya, but I see that I cannot compete against him, and it hurts.”

“You do not need to compete,” she said quietly, her eyes burning. “I married you even though Éomer asked me to become his wife years before we met. Do you not think that this is the answer to all your doubts?”

“But why did you marry me, Freya? Was it not only because you knew that you could never have him? That, and you needed someone to take care of the farm for you, someone who would not always be away and might not return from his next battle. I was the reasonable choice, but never the one your heart wished for, is it not so? No matter what I do, I will never be more than second-best to you. It is not fair, Freya.”

She swallowed, his words burning her soul because each of them was true. Béma knew how much she had tried to feel the same for Osred as for the son of Marshal Éomund, but her heart would not let itself be fooled, and it knew the difference between reason and love all too well. She had hoped to be able to hide it from her husband, not wanting to hurt him when he didn’t deserve it, but apparently he had known it after all for all these years they had spent together, even though he had said nothing. Feverishly she tried to think of a way to tell Osred that he was mistaken, but her head was empty. Feeling the tears rise, she shut her eyes.

“Have you never wondered what you are for him?” Osred now asked lowly, defeated. “Have you never asked yourself this question? He knows as well as you that there is no future for the two of you together, he must have understood it from the beginning. He is only playing with you—“

“—to ensure that there will always be a warm bed and a good meal waiting for him on his patrols through the Eastfold. I know of what I speak, Freya! It was that way in the village I was born in. The young women there, they were always keen on making friends with the riders, because those would share their stories of honour and battle with them and take them out into the world even if it was only with their tales. Sometimes, they would even bring them gifts, small tokens they had won in battle and which they brought the woman of their choice to be sure she’d remember them after they had been away for a while. Not because they loved them, but to ensure that they would have a home away from home on their journeys; and perhaps even a woman in addition to the one waiting for them at their home; a body to use when this one urge became too great after weeks of separation…”

“Éomer is not like that!” she shouted, rising to her feet with such force that the chair toppled over behind her. Surely, all in the house were awake by now and listening to their quarrel, but this she would not take! “He never used me, and he never tried to, either! Years ago, when we were both much younger, he even asked me to become his wife, but I sent him away even then because I knew that it could not work. We are friends, Osred, even if I will admit that we feel more for each other than ordinary friends, but we have arranged ourselves with the situation. We cannot be together, not in that way; that is simply the way it is. I never betrayed you!”

“But you married me instead to make me feel every day that I would never be the one your heart beat for.” Osred narrowed his eyes. “You got yourself a fool who would work his fingers to the bone to provide you and your family with food and protection while your love was reserved for someone else. I was blind, Freya, until today I never understood how cruel you were.” He stood up from the table, too embittered to further bear his wife’s presence. He needed to leave. In a desperate attempt to escape the conflict, he rushed to the door.

“Stay away from me, Freya! Please! Do not touch me!” Lifting both hands in a defence motion against her, Osred shot his wife a warning glare, and the young woman’s insides twisted into a hard knot at the bitter expression on his face. She halted, and her arms dropped to her sides as all strength left her.

“I do love you, Osred. Don’t forget this when you leave me now. I love you in a different way, and that love is just as honest, if not more honest, as the one I have for Éomer. Think about it when you leave me now; think about the life we share, and whether you truly think that for all these years, we were living a lie. Will you do that, Osred?”

“I cannot tell you yet what I will do, Freya. At this moment, I do not know anything.” He did not fling the door, but the silence he left behind was just as deafening.

Shock-numbed and grief-stricken, Éowyn offered no resistance as the guards lead her downstairs into the dark, forbidding heart of the mountain, a place she had only been to once before in her childhood, and although it had just been a visit then, it had been a frightening experience. It was Éomer who had enquired about the dungeon after witnessing a trial in which their Uncle had sentenced a man to a fortnight in the cell because another man had been injured in a fight. A few months had passed since their relocation to Edoras, and while Théoden had deemed the siblings too young to visit such a dreadful place, their cousin had in the end persuaded his father to be allowed to show them the place, his point being that – as possible future rulers – his cousins should be well aware of each aspect of Rohan life. The darkness, the cold and leaden silence and the hollow echo of their footsteps had horrified Éowyn even then, and she had been glad to leave the dungeon shortly afterward to the mockery of her brother. This time, she would not get out so easily, or so soon, and yet the prospects did not frighten her – they didn’t even reach her. She was dead inside.

As they passed the already occupied cells, surprised shouts and gasps could be heard upon the sight of the noble King Théoden’s niece. Éowyn neither heard them, nor did she care; in the wake of the battle, she was left bereft of all fighting spirit. Gríma was now in possession of the one thing he had craved for all these years: absolute power over Meduseld. The only remaining question was whether he would leave her uncle alive yet, counting on his worth as a captive just in case that Éomer wasn’t dead, or that Erkenbrand and Grimbold, now the Mark’s only two Captains and remaining men of power, would ride for Edoras because they felt that something was wrong in their capital. Or was he killing the feeble King even now, convinced that he no longer needed him? And what would he do to her afterward? So many questions and possibilities she denied herself to contemplate. What did it all matter? With Éomer banished and most likely dead, Háma killed and Gamling, Elfhelm and Céorl incarcerated along with her, no one was left to save their people from extinction; it would be too much too expect that deed accomplished by the two remaining Westfold-Captains. Not even the thought of the deep gash she had marked Grima’s face with could bring a smile to her face.

What was that scratch compared to the agony poor Háma had had to endure, impaled on a sword and dying in his own blood on the floor of the Golden Hall? What was it compared to the sight of Céorl hanging between his captors like dead weight, too weak to stand and losing more blood from his multiple wounds with each beating of his heart? And Elfhelm, likewise a man she had known since her earliest childhood as he had been their father’s best friend; and the mentor and often times saviour of her brother… he, too, was wounded and would rather need a healer than the dungeon. Gamling she had not seen as they had pushed her over to the door leading to the stairs ahead of the others, but she suspected that in the horrible fight, he, too, had not been spared from the sharp swords and axes of their enemies.

At a crossroads, they briefly came to a halt in the flickering light of a distant torch; and Wormtongue turned around to his men. The deep cut in his cheek throbbed and hurt, and yet the pain did not spoil his mood. He had won, and determined to savour each and every little aspect of his victory he had worked so hard for all these past years. Pain was a temporary thing; glory was forever, and he would wear this scar proudly. Even better, in the years to come, it would be a constant reminder to the hot-headed niece of Rohan’s soon-to-be-history King of how she had failed. In fact, she had done him a favour with it. Clearing his throat, Gríma pointed in the direction of the crossing corridor and addressed Guthlaf.

“You, Guthlaf, will take Captain Gamling to the northern end of the dungeon; and Céorl to the western end. There will be no torches in their corridors. I want them to be in absolute darkness. As they have demonstrated to us too often by now, the Rohrrim do not learn lessons easily, so we must ensure that they understand their defeat this time. Go!”

“Céorl needs a healer, or he will die,” Elfhelm growled, his voice tense from his own battle against the pain. His head felt as if the top half of it was about to fall off, and from numerous cuts he had not been able to avoid, he felt his hot blood running down his body. “Or is that what you want, to make us die slowly down here, Worm? You will not succeed, no matter what you do. Sooner or later, Éothain will find out what happened here, and he will alert Erkenbrand and Grimbold. Once they are at the Golden Hall’s doorstep, you will wish that you never came to Edoras!” In vain, he tore at his bonds as Céorl and Gamling were led away.

“Is that so?” Gríma replied coolly, immensely satisfied with Elfhelm’s obvious distress. He had yet some more information to share which would stun the arrogant Captain of Eastfold into silence, and the haughty daughter of his king along with him. Every word tasted delicious on his tongue as he bent his colourless eyes on his captives to share his full knowledge with them at last: “I really hate having to kill your hope, but I fear that the Lords Erkenbrand and Grimbold will soon be too concerned with trying to save their own part of the Mark to even think in which direction to ride for Edoras…” Oh, how delightful it was to see the warrior’s expression darken with this unnamed dread he had woken!

“What do I mean?” With raised brows, Gríma inclined his head to gaze at Éowyn. The King’s niece had for once not even attempted to resist his guards up to this point, and he had almost believed for her spirit to be broken, but now the distance in her gaze gave way to a wary sparkle. Smiling, the Counsellor shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. “I mean that within the next few days, the men you are setting your hope in will be faced with an army of Uruk-hai so great that even the sky has not enough stars to rival their number. From the Gap of Rohan to the border to Anorien, the grass of the Mark’s plains will disappear beneath the feet of a host greater than anything this land has ever seen; a host so great that the earth will shake from their marching long before you can see them even from this hill!” Thoroughly satisfied with the growing horror in the warrior’s eyes, Gríma bend forward to whisper in mock-confidentiality: “Your Westfold-armies will be crushed underneath their feet like ants, Captain Elfhelm. Whatever aid you are expecting, no one will come. No one will be left alive to come for you, except the great orcs of my master. In about a fortnight, the Kingdom of Rohan will have ceased to exist. Enjoy its last days, even if you spend them in a cell.”

With Elfhelm rendered unable to speak, Wormtongue’s re-focused on Éowyn. Even in the flickering light he could see her turn deadly white. “Perhaps, if you behave, I will let you witness the destruction of Edoras from the terrace, my Lady. It should be a most valuable lesson for you to see the power of Isengard swallow you insignificant realm of farmers and horses. Not even all the stubbornness of your people combined will suffice to let them survive.”

Éowyn’s lips were a bloodless, trembling thin line, but her voice was dangerously low when she replied: “The most devastating defeats are always received when one of the combatants thinks that he has already won. The sons and daughters of Éorl know how make good use of such haughtiness, Worm. Our salvation will come from a direction you won’t anticipate, mark my words.”

“Proud and stubborn as ever, our brave daughter of Éomund. Very well, so be it; this is only the first day of your trial yet. Let’s get her into her cage and be gone, for it feels rather draughty down here and I long for my warm fire. Go!” He gave his guards a curt nod and slowly trudged after them while they pushed the King’s niece into the small, barred niche in the rock, shut the door and turned the key in the lock even as she turned around. Then he watched with great interest as Elfhelm was shackled to the wall by his wrists in a standing position in the cell opposite Éowyn’s.

Upon the completion of his orders, Felrod turned around, keeping half an eye on their female captive to take delight in her reaction as he asked:

“My Lord Gríma, do you want us to extinguish the torches in this corridor, too?”

Provokingly slowly, Wormtongue turned around to face Éowyn, and for the longest moment, let her remain in uncertainty while he pretended to contemplate his minion’s question. She was afraid of the dark, oh yes. How much she dreaded to be left in this very real cage and to be choked by its narrowness and the absence of distraction from her hopeless situation! “ No. Not yet, at least. I want them to see each other. And I want her to witness how with each passing day, this man you care for will weaken while he slowly starves, provided his injuries don’t kill him first. How slowly he dies will be your decision, my Lady. Each day, I will come down here once with water and food, and you will be appointed a task. If you solve it to my full satisfaction, he will get both. If I need to force you to do it, he will only get the water. And if you won’t comply at all, he will get nothing.” He paused meaningfully, waiting for the crunching with which Elfhelm’s cell-door closed to make his point before he added: “You now have a whole day to think about my proposition, Lady Éowyn. Use it well.” He granted his guards a curt nod as an indication of his satisfaction with them as well as an order to leave. “Now back to your posts. Our captives need the quiet to contemplate their situation, and I do believe that there is some cleaning up to do in the Hall.”

“You will pay for this,” Éowyn shouted after him, rattling at the steel bars. “Sooner or later, you will be punished, and you will pay like no man has ever paid before!” She received no answer, and when at last the sound of steps faded away, all strength left her and she leaned heavily against the bars, her despairing gaze meeting Elfhelm’s. The warrior lifted his head, and urgency replaced the weakness and pain in his grey eyes.

“My Lady, I do not know what that Snake has planned, but I fear that he will try to use me in order to break you. But no matter what he does to me, you must promise me not to bend to his will. Lady Éowyn? Will you promise me this?”

“I do not know if it is in my power, Elfhelm. If he tortures you… I may not be able to endure it.”

“But you must.” Elfhelm’s gaze pierced her. Instinctively the seasoned warrior understood what it was their adversary would ask of Éomer’s sister, and he knew that he would not want to live with the knowledge of being the reason for Éowyn’s degradation and the destruction of her spirit. “Promise me that you will not tolerate it that the Worm lays his hands upon you! Not for me, and not for anyone! If you succumb to his will, it would be my ultimate defeat. Pain cannot touch me; I have endured it before, and I will die gladly if I can ensure by it that your honour stays intact. Promise me!”

The moment stretched between them, and for the longest time, only the omnipresent trickling of water could be heard in the semi-darkness while the daughter of Éomund of Aldburg and the Captain of Eastfold stared at each other. At last, Éowyn closed her eyes, and the two words she uttered despite the hard lump in her throat felt to her like the ultimate betrayal.

“I am proud of you, Cousin. This was a dire situation you were in, but you mastered it.”

“So I am still alive?” Éomer looked at the older man sceptically. “But then why am I talking to you?”

“Because you are dreaming. I exist only in your head, don’t you remember? We talked before, and you didn’t ask those questions then. I am, in fact, you. And yes, you are alive.”

Not understanding his cousin’s strange explanation, Éomer creased his brow, but then chose to ignore it. If Théodred said that he was not dead, he would believe him, and wasn’t that all that mattered? Silently, both men let their eyes sweep over their surroundings for a while. Once again, they were at the fords, but this time, the slaughtered men and horses of Théodred’s éored were nowhere to be seen, and the clearing with the backdrop of forest and mountains looked almost idyllic in the misty light of early morning.

“And now you expect me to summon the Rohirrim against Gríma,” Éomer began at last, and his gaze wandered over to where his cousin squatted on a rock that protruded into the river, his hands in the fast-flowing waters. “Even if I am still alive, I will need time to gather our forces… - provided they will indeed follow me.”

“They will,” his brother in all but blood said confidently, looking up. “You underestimate your own esteem, Éomer. There are none among the Armed Forces who would ever believe the Worm’s accusations. The Royal Guard, I cannot say, because they are the King’s own men and closer to him than anyone else. Whatever Father says is their law, no matter what his condition is. But the riders are your weapon, and you must use them now. They are already waiting for you.” The moment stretched between them; a moment when Éomer studied his cousin’s expression intensely to find nothing but honesty.

“I hope it is like you say,” he said at length and shifted his view at the distant mountains, unfocused. “But I fear that there is not much time left to act. It is only a feeling, but the dark clouds are already on the horizon. It cannot take much longer for the storm to break loose. There were too many orcs involved in those skirmishes of these past weeks, and their sheer number suggests that the White Wizard’s army must be ready to strike any day now. ”

“And your intuitions were always accurate,” Théodred admitted. Refreshing himself with the clear cold water, he straightened. “Saruman must be your first concern, as much as you ache to ride for Éowyn’s aid. The threat he poses must be eliminated first, for if you wait too long, his army will invade our land, and even if we succeeded in stopping it later, the danger would be too great that we lose the entire Westfold in that first attack. Erkenbrand and Grimbold are valiant men, but they cannot withstand the assault of the White Wizard’s entire host. They will need your help, Éomer, and soon. Once Saruman is defeated, Wormtongue himself is nothing, and every threat he could still utter would be empty.”

“But what if we lose this battle, Théodred?” It was a thought Éomer was reluctant to concern himself with, but the mental image of the burning city of Edoras was hard to suppress. “What if we are defeated, and no one rides to Éowyn’s aid?”

“And what if you freed her and Edoras, only to be surprised by an army following on your heels that killed everyone in the Westfold and burned the land behind them because there were no sufficient forces to repel them when they crossed the Isen? Wouldn’t she die then, too, and everyone else along with her?” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in before he added, shaking his head: “No, Éomer, it is Saruman who needs your attention now. I am afraid that there is no other way.”

Éomer remained silent. Théodred was right, as much as he hated to admit it to himself. His cousin had not been the Mark’s mightiest man of war for nothing before his death; despite his youth in comparison to seasoned captains like Grimbold and Erkenbrand, Théodred had always been a shrewd strategist and won many skirmishes by superior planning as opposed to greater numbers.

Not waiting for his answer, King Théoden’s son added: “You doubt, and yet the situation may not be as grim as you figure it, Cousin. No longer do you stand alone; and you made some mighty friends along the way. Mighty enough to turn the tide for us, even, with a little help from the Gods.” He smiled faintly at Éomer’s sceptical expression.

“You mean those three wanderers we met on the plains? Aye, I agree that they must be skilled warriors; or they would not have reached the Mark. Their leader had something to him I cannot put into words, and I am honoured to know them on my side, but, how can three additional swords, no matter how well-handled they may be, make a difference when we are faced with an army that multiplies with each passing day and replenishes its ranks from one battle to the next?”

“You will find out,” Théodred said cryptically. “But you are right in one regard: The enemy’s army grows larger the longer you wait. Your only chance of defeating it would be to attack it while it is still not complete. Every day counts now, Cousin. You must strike first and surprise them, or we will be outmatched to an extent that no matter what we do, we cannot emerge victorious. And when you go, you must rip out the plant by its roots, never to grow back. No matter where the traitor has his breeding pits, you must destroy them, so that no one can ever use them again.”

Éomer snorted, understanding what his cousin was driving at. “What you are saying is that I should stop lying around and act.” Blue eyes mustered him thoroughly, and it appeared to Éomund’s son as if the older man looked right into him.

“I realise that you will need at least a few days to recover. But you must find the balance. You will not be able to lead our riders if you can barely hold yourself in the saddle. But aye, I fear that there may not be enough time for you to recover fully before you must be on your way. It is a balance only you can find. For now, the best advice I can probably give you is to heed your saviours’ words: rest while you still can, because the opportunity will soon pass.” And with a long, warning look, Théodred turned his back on him to wade toward the other side of the river. To his dismay, Éomer found that he could not follow him there. All of a sudden, an invisible barrier had formed between them.

“I must leave now. The world of the living is not my place. I gave you what help I had to offer, but the rest of the path you must walk alone. You know the direction you must take yourself now; you don’t need my help any longer.”

“I will always need you, Théodred! Please…” Feverishly thinking of arguments, but coming up empty, Éomer helplessly raised his hands.

“You have other help now, potent help, and it is given willingly. Accept it for the good of Rohan and free our people, Cousin! They are setting their hope in you, and they are right to believe in your abilities. You must find that confidence within yourself now, Éomer, there is no more room for doubt.” Having reached the other shore, Théodred turned around, and a choking feeling of finality robbed Éomer of his breath as his cousin raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. “Follow your instincts, Éomer! Become the leader our people need in these evil times. They are waiting for you, and eager to follow the man they respect. Call them, and they will come!”

“I will await you on the other side in due time, and gladly welcome the saviour of our people in this realm, but not anytime soon. Until then, I bid you farewell, brother!”

But already, a blanket of grey mist veiled the opposite riverbank from his eyes, and the river disappeared even as he dashed into the water, swallowed by whiteness. Disoriented and dizzy, Éomer halted. Turning on his heels as he tried to pierce the insubstantial wall around him, he briefly caught a glimpse of something darker to his left, and moved toward it. It was a path formed by trees on both sides of the way, their gnarled, leafless branches touching each other to form a solid roof. Instinctively, Éomer understood that it was the path he was expected to take, and with a deep intake of breath, he straightened and squared his shoulders. Where it would lead him he did not know, but it felt right when he set foot upon it, and he submitted himself to its gentle pull…

After a long night of worry and concern, the world ready to be born again and eagerly welcomed the first faint touches of daylight on the horizon. Yet they failed to lift Freya’s spirits as they slowly illuminated the world beyond her window. Since her quarrel with Osred, the young farmer’s wife had sat unmoving in her chair and listened to the soothingly regular sound of Éomer’s breathing; her gaze unfocused and distant while her earlier argument still echoed through her head.

‘No matter what I do, I will never be more than second-best to you. It is not fair, Freya.’

No, it wasn’t. Not for her, not for Osred, and not for Éomer. He had never asked to be born a noble and to lead a life where its many privileges were counterbalanced by high expectations and strict rules of conduct. Why should the Third Marshal of the Mark not be free to take for his wife whoever he wanted, instead of what others deemed good or appropriate for their land? And why should she not be deemed worthy, only because she could not write or read, or had no fancy dresses to wear or knew how to behave in the presence of the lords? All these skills were impractical when it came to ensuring the survival of her family in this isolated part of the Mark, but still considered higher of worth than the vast practical knowledge she had accumulated in a life that had forced her to stand on her own two feet at a very young age. Where was the justice in that? Years back when she had just met Éomer, she had sent him away herself for those very reasons, having been raised with these traditions in her mind; but lately, she had begun to wonder.

Although she did not wish for a life at the Court of Edoras, the thought that others might consider her unfit for it stung. What would those fine people do if they were forced to make a life out here in the mountains? Undoubtedly they would starve before even a single month had passed! Not that Éomer fit that description: though born a noble and undoubtedly taught the necessary skills to move securely and without fail at the court, her young rider had declared to her repeatedly how he loved the straight-forward, uncomplicated life underneath the open skies. The dangers on the plains were well known to him and he was prepared to face them; even preferring to test himself against a severe storm or a group of enemies rather than being towed into a game of words with the council members at Edoras. It was the simple life of a rider he was born for, and being part of a group of men loyal to each other to the death meant more to him that the approval of a court tactician ever could. And that feeling was mutual: during each of his visits with his éored, Freya had clearly perceived the respect his riders held for their leader despite his youth. They respected Éomer for his skill and determination as much as his humility; and his noble blood was of no concern to them. It were his deeds which had earned him that respect, not his lineage. The thought that one day, duty might call Éomer permanently back to Edoras and end this nomadic life he loved whole-heartedly was a dark cloud on the horizon of his future, and for his sake, Freya prayed that it would never come to that.

‘I do what I can, Freya, but I see that I cannot compete against him, and it hurts.’

She closed her eyes and fought against the rising tears at the thought of Osred’s despair. Never had she intended to cause her husband pain, or to make him feel not good enough for her, and for all these long years, she had believed to have successfully hidden the true extend of her feelings for Éomer by disguising their mutual affection as ordinary friendship. With his powerful frame, his long golden mane and the contrast of his dark eyes in his well-cut face, the young marshal - in addition to the power which came with his title and his physical prowess - was after all a strikingly handsome man, and Freya was certain that women throughout the Mark regarded him with secret desire in each settlement he passed on his patrols. The sudden quiver of jealousy that thought woke in her came as a surprise, and she creased her brow. What was she doing? It was not her place to feel jealous about a man she could not have! Inwardly tensing, she returned from the foray into her mind to the narrow confines of the room to regard the object of her conflict.

Éomer had not married yet, and in the long years they had known each other, he had never told her of someone being close to his heart except for his family. What did it mean? That he, too, was not ready to love another woman but her, that he instinctively sought her likeness and kept coming up empty? It would have made it easier for Freya to give him up if she could tell herself that he belonged to someone else now, she mused, inwardly asking herself whether she was now blaming Éomer for her own failure. Yet how was she supposed to handle this emotional conflict in the future… provided that a future existed for their people? Would it make things easier for her to ask Éomer to no longer visit her farm? Perhaps it would be the best solution, even if it would break her heart, and possibly Éomer’s, too. And what of her brother Halad? He had been eleven years old and unable to cope with their mother’s death when that fateful winter storm had blown Éomer and his éored into their little valley, and at once there had been a strange connection between the lad and the young rider, one that endured even today. How could she cut that connection?

The warrior’s attention and understanding had brought Halad out of his self-chosen isolation, and Freya knew that up to this very day, he saw in Éomer a surrogate older brother and mentor, even if he had not followed in the riders’s footsteps and become a warrior himself, for which she was thankful. As much as she respected the Rohirrim for their selfless service to the Mark, the thought of sitting at home worrying while her loved ones rode into battle was disquieting. She had lost her mother at an early age, and three years ago another hard winter had claimed her father’s life after a long time of illness. Freya was not certain that she could bear another loss. With Éomer entering her life, she had not been able to avoid that fear altogether, but so far it had been helpful to hear of the battles he had been in only after he had survived. She was not sure how that would be in the future, now that she had seen for the first time that he, too, was not immune against the dangers roaming their lands.

So many questions, and after all these hours of pondering, Freya still felt unable to come to a decision. What was she supposed to tell Osred when she saw him later today, provided he would even speak with her? And what should she say to Éomer once he woke? No doubt would he realise the change if she suddenly kept her distance. How had her life suddenly become so complicated? With a soundless sigh, Freya settled back into the chair and though back to the day when she had first met her husband at the Harvesting Celebration in one of the bigger settlements in the Folde.

What had it been that had attracted her to Osred? His powerful frame and white-golden hair, a shade brighter than she had ever seen and which made him stick out of the crowd wherever he went? His broad, honest face with the big blue eyes which seemed incapable of hiding even the smallest thing from her, and which, during those the three days of the celebration, had sparkled with heartfelt joy whenever he had spotted her in the crowd? Or the way he had treated his parents and younger siblings, with so much care and consideration that he had reminded Freya of her own family? Perhaps it was everything, and combined with the considerable skill Osred had demonstrated in the various farming competitions, she had somehow come to a reach the practical decision that he would make a suitable husband. She had liked him at first sight, hoping for love to develop between them; a decision of her head and not her heart. Perhaps she had hoped to forget Éomer over him… and yet after all these years, it was still the son of Éomund who made her heart beat faster and who caused that pleasant flutter in her stomach whenever she thought about him. It was a sensation Osred had never evoked in her, and perhaps it was time to admit to herself that he would probably never do. Had she committed the worst mistake of her life by marrying him?

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Freya’s gaze accidentally fell on Éomer’s face… and with a jolt, she realised that his eyes were open and mustering her intently; his expression a single great, unspoken question.

“So sad…” he breathed upon noticing her attention, his words almost inaudible, and his brow furrowed with concern as if he asked himself what had turned the spirited woman he had known since his youth into the sad creature sitting by his side. While Freya still tried to think of an answer that would not result in a blatant lie, his hand emerged from underneath the blanket and opened to her in an unspoken invitation. With a lump in her throat and an involuntary glance at the still closed door, Freya finally laid her delicate fingers into his palm, her conscience crying out over her delight at Éomer’s touch as he cautiously closed his hand around hers. The smile she forced onto her face felt entirely false, and nervously she asked herself whether he would notice. After a moment of mutual silence, the need to speak at last became too great.

“Not sad.” The lie sounded awkward even to her own ears. “Worried, yes. And tired, too. I feared for you, Éomer, and I thank the Gods that they decided to let you live.” Anxiously she regarded his face, searching for the hint that gave his disbelief away. As to be expected, he looked drowsy and exhausted, and yet Freya imagined seeing that glint of scepticism in his eyes she had feared to find. How could this man be so perceptive when he had only just woken after a night spent on the narrow ledge between life and death? But then again, wasn’t this one of the qualities she had loved him for since the beginning? To this day, Freya had never felt so naked under Éomer’s gaze, never more vulnerable: there was no hiding from these inquisitive, keen eyes, and she felt not surprised when in response to his examination, he released her from his hold.

“I am sorry…” he whispered, a slight frown spreading over his face. “It is not my place to—“

She did not want him to let go of her, and yet at the same time, she hoped that he would not touch her again. How was a woman supposed to endure that kind of conflict? Longer than necessary, she cleared her throat, but the lump that had formed inside would not disappear.

“You do not have to apologise, Éomer, please, don’t be foolish.” Ignoring the warning of her inner voice, she deliberately claimed back his hand. “How do you feel?”

He considered her question. The blistering cold which had mercilessly sucked the energy out of his body was but an unpleasant memory, and the throbbing of his wounds had ebbed to a more endurable level. In the wake of the fever, his body felt slack with weakness but at least pleasantly warm. His side and leg still hurt, but it was nothing unbearable, and as he freed his injured hand from underneath the blankets to look at the bandages, the swelling there seemed reduced, too. Aye, he had been lucky indeed, no matter how mangled he felt. His gaze found back to Freya.

“Alive,” he replied at last, cautiously flexing his fingers. “I did not expect to…” His thoughts flowed apart, and in silent excuse, his lips curved upward in a sleepy, thankful smile. “You saved me,” he whispered, the sincerity in his eyes sending a shudder down Freya’s spine. Béma no… She wished he would stop looking at her like that.

“It was not I who saved you,” she said at length and looked own upon her hands to avoid his gaze, attempting to give their conversation a new, less personal direction. “It was your friend; I only assisted him. He knows more about healing than I will ever learn. At some part of the procedure, he actually asked us for mould to work it into your wounds!” She laughed an insecure little laugh. “I thought he had lost his mind, but when I look at you now, I must admit that his unusual treatment has to be the reason that you are still alive… and it was he who found you, too.” She could see the confusion spread over Éomer’s features. Too much information at once, too many words. She had been babbling, Freya realised. No wonder, considered how nervous she still felt in his presence. And she had so much looked forward to being by his side when he woke!

“My friend? Elfhelm? Éothain?” But what business would have brought Éothain into the mountains? And since when did he know about healing? Too exhausted to further follow the confusing train of thought, Éomer shut his eyes.

“His name is Aragorn. He said that he met you on the plains, and that you gave them horses to find their friends.”

“Aragorn…” The sound of the unexpected name gave Éomer the strength to look at Freya again, even if his eyelids seemed as heavy as horse-shoes.

‘You made some mighty friends along the way. Mighty enough to turn the tide for us.’ Théodred’s voice echoed in his mind, and through his exhaustion, he felt a sudden surge of excitement strong enough to prop his hands against the mattress in an attempt to sit up… but if his eyelids alone weighed too much to keep them open for longer than for a few brief moments, his body seemed to be made of lead, and he could not lift it at all. Groaning in response to the silver bolt shooting through his injured hand and side, Éomer sank back onto the mattress.

“Careful, Éomer! Your wounds--” Freya’s hands on his chest, their pressure soft but insistent, were more than sufficient to keep him down. Fighting with his deteriorating concentration, Éomer gathered what concentration he had left to ask:

“Aye,” Freya nodded. “He and his two friends spent the night here.” Her mouth curved into a slightly wondrous smile as she remembered the sight of the three unusual strangers. “An elf and a dwarf accompanied him. They were the first beings of their kind I have ever seen, and still, I only had eyes for you, isn’t that funny?” Suddenly, heat crept into her face, and she stopped herself before she could say more than was appropriate given the current situation. It would not help things if she kept on letting Éomer know with each of her words how much she cared for him. “The two slept over at Halad’s house, but Aragorn is in the living room. It is still early and he is probably still asleep, but I am sure that he will look after you as soon as he wakes… he sat with you for most of the night until he felt certain that the danger had passed.”

“His friends… he found them?” Gods, he could barely think. If only he wasn’t so tired! There were so many questions to ask, so many things he needed to know. Like Aragorn’s presence in this isolated vale… what had brought him here, a long way from Fangorn Forest where he had intended to go? And yet even in his feeble state, Éomer remembered clearly having perceived one thing about Aragorn Son of Arathorn in the few moments of their conversation: this man would always have a reason for his journeys and deeds; he was not the kind of traveller who wandered through the world aimlessly.

“I do not know; he did not mention them, but only the three of them are here, if that answers your question.” Freya lowered her gaze to glance upon her restlessly moving fingers. Angered over giving away her emotions so easily, she folded them. “You can ask him later… but now I have a question, if you are not too tired to answer it, but I have worried about it all night.” From his own contemplation, Éomer’s attention shifted back to her. “Aragorn said that you were attacked by orcs, but I wonder, why were you alone? Where is your éored?” A shadow fell upon his face, and Freya swallowed, fearing that she had said something wrong. “Or shouldn’t I ask? But I do care for them, especially for Éothain. Is he well?”

“I don’t know…He was not with me.” Not feeling ready yet to confess what had happened, Éomer closed his eyes again, shame flushing his cheeks. No, it was not something he wanted to talk about; not yet. Not when he was just about to drift off again. But there was other one thing he had to know. ”Firefoot…?”

“He is here, and he is well. Halad looked after him yesterday. He said that he has suffered a few scratches, but Firefoot allowed him to clean them, and they are no reason for concern. Do not worry.”

“And you can visit him once you are better,” Freya offered, readjusting the blankets and stuffing Éomer’s hands back underneath. After last night, he still needed all the warmth he could get. “But for now, you must rest. Aragorn said that none of your wounds are too serious, but you were exposed to the cold for a long time, and the infection weakened you. The best you can do for now is sleep and allow your body to heal. You are safe here, and there is no reason to rush things.”

“There is,” he mumbled, already half asleep again. “I must summon our forces… There’s not much time left…”

“But I am sure that you will agree that you are in no condition to leave the bed yet, let alone ride through the Mark and give battle. They will have to wait.”

“No time…” he repeated, barely audible, and then fell silent as he once again drifted off into darkness. Although his words had been but a whisper, the sense of urgency in them chased a shudder down Freya’s spine, and as she straightened, hugging herself, she could not shake the feeling that the storm which had been brewing on the borders of the Mark for so long was about to be unleashed…

It was the first time in days that the sun shed its light onto the plains from a cloudless blue sky, and even if it was still cold, the very sight warmed Éothain’s heart and lifted his spirits as he approached the great gates at the head of his éored. For one and a half days, they had pursued a band of orcs on the fringes of the Westemnet, urging their horses to keep up their speed once the tracks they had followed became fresher, until at last, they had overcome the foul beings just before these could seek refuge in the nearby mountains. Needless to say, they had put an end to them.

And since none of his men or any of their horses had been wounded in the fight, Éothain’s spirits were unusually high as he steered his bay gelding toward the opening gate. From the guard tower, the bell announced their approach to the citizens of Edoras, and its silver sound warmed his heart. It had been a long time since he had last felt positive about the City of Kings; had felt at home within the confines of the mighty wooden fence.

"Captain?" Aedwulf rode up to him. "Do you have other errands for us today or…"

"I just kept you away from your families for two full days. No, Aedwulf. See to your horses, and then you are released from duty for today. Tell the men. I will give the King my report, and then I will go and seek some respite as well."

"But like I said earlier, I would deem it wiser if some of us accompanied you up to the Golden Hall…" The older man’s gaze went up to the stark silhouette of Meduseld, and his expression darkened as he narrowed his eyes "After that confrontation with the Worm’s guards, I would feel very uncomfortable at the thought of you delivering your report unguarded, Éothain. Béma will forgive me when I say this, but all know that Meduseld has become a snakepit. Please, allow us to protect you. We cannot afford to lose our Captain, too, not after they already banished our Marshal." He stared back over his shoulder, for a moment lost in thought before he at last turned back with a soundless sigh and slow shaking of his head. "Do you reckon that Éomer is still alive? What might he be doing now?"

"I count on it, and I count on it that he is out there somewhere, teaching our enemies to fear him and preparing his triumphant return to Edoras," Éothain said with more confidence in his voice than he felt, his gaze following Aedwulf’s to the distant mountains. "And when he does, we must be ready to support him."

"Aye, my Captain, and that begins with being alive. Thereby I consider it decided that we accompany you to the King, Éothain, and I will hear no words of protest! Hiya!" With a mock-serious glare, Aedwulf urged his mount ahead of his captain and called out to their riders to itell them of his plan. As expected, it did not take long to find a dozen men more than willing to make the way up to the Golden Hall; the difficulty was more to determine who would not accompany them, as Éothain found the thought ridiculous that their entire éored walked up the path. And needless to say, the sight of one hundred and twenty armed, grim-faced warriors marching up the hill toward their own Hall of Kings would definitely upset the citizens. He wanted to keep things as quiet as he could. There were enough worries on the people’s minds already.

In a long line, riders and horses snaked through the half-opened gates into the city, and the feeling of returning home brought a smile to Éothain’s lips even if home was no longer what it used to be. The faces of the people awaiting them on the large open space behind the fence brightened with relief, and with heartfelt shouts of joy, the riders were welcomed back by their family members. His gaze sweeping the buzzing activity around him, Éothain involuntarily sought his father’s stern features in the mass of people, but it was his mother he saw instead hurrying toward him with an expression on her face that at once alarmed him: how could eyes look so relieved and so anxious at the same time? Swiftly sliding out of his saddle while his heart beat furiously in his throat, Éothain opened his arms, and Glenwyn accepted the invitation gladly as she embraced her son with a vigour which astounding given her fragile appearance.

"Oh Éothain, it is good to have you back! With all that going on in our land, one can never be sure if one sees his loved ones again when they ride out, even if the report spoke only of a small band of orcs." Her arms tightened around his chest, and he smoothed one of her ashen curls aside to kiss her lovingly on the brow.

"And I am glad to see you, Mother, but where is Father? Has he returned from Aldburg yet?"

The lines on Glenwyn’s face deepened abruptly with the mention of her husband, and her bright blue eyes, who were so much like her son’s, fogged over with concern.

"Aye, he returned yesterday shortly after you left... but none have seen him since he went up to the Golden Hall to deliver his report to the King. I know that he did not ride out again, because his horse is still here, but he did not return home last night, and after what happened to Éomer, I dare not think about what might have happened up there!" Barely suppressed tears sparkling in her eyes, she craned back her neck to look at her son who stared at her with a growing feeling of foreboding.

"Nobody has seen him, you say? Béma…" Pressing his lips together, Éothain looked up to the Hall towering above them. The decision came to him easily, and Glenwyn almost recoiled in shock when she beheld the expression of cold fury on her son’s face. "I will go immediately and find out where he is, Mother, and if that Snake in the disguise of the King’s counsellor says so much as a wrong word, he will deeply regret it!" He let go of her and turned to grasp his horse’s reins. Torn between clashing emotions of relief and concern, the wife of Captain Céorl laid a hand upon his arm, first wanting to hold him back, but reconsidering at the same moment.

How far had it come for the people of Edoras to be afraid of approaching Meduseld, Éothain thought bitterly. He grasped his mother’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Fear not, Mother. My riders already demanded that I’d take them with me, and once I tell them about father’s disappearance, they will all storm up the hill together with me. Wormtongue will not dare to oppose me with an entire éored on his doorstep!"

Daylight flooded his room through the heavy yellow curtains and bathed everything in a warm golden glow when Éomer woke again. From outside, children’s laughter could be heard, a wonderful, long-missed sound of normality. It market the absence of danger, and for a moment, while his body was still pleasantly heavy with sleep, Éomer allowed himself to just lay back and stare at the ceiling, thinking of nothing.

"Hrmpf! I will show you who is too slow here, Young Man!" a deep, rolling voice grumbled in mock-anger, and a lazy smile spread over Éomer’s face when he recognised its owner. Béma knew he had made his own experiences with the temperamental dwarf; to the point where they had glared at each other with drawn weapons. Had not Aragorn interfered at the last moment, they would have spilled each other’s blood. And how foolish would that have been, for the enemies of the White Wizard to kill each other and helping him in his evil task of emptying the plains of the Mark of all human life! "The orcs do not fear Gimli son of Gloin for nothing throughout Middle Earth! Sooner or later, I’ll catch you, and then I will tan both your hides!"

The sound of silent laughter reached Éomer’s ears from the right, and cautiously, he turned his head to see Aragorn in the chair Freya had occupied earlier. Strangely enough, the sight of Elendil’s heir did not surprise him. Had not Théodred spoken of the mighty friends he had made and who had come to his aid?

"He does not really mean it," Aragorn chuckled, amused by his friend’s antics invisible to him through the curtains, but which he could easily imagine. "That dwarf loves to act as if he understood no fun, but he has a very big heart, that one, especially for young ones. Even if they are having their fun with him. I suppose they cannot understand how someone can not be taller than they and not be a child. I can honestly say until today, I have never seen Gimli engaged in a snowball fight."

"A snowball-fight?" Éomer echoed in amused disbelief, trying to envision the stout, hairy warrior in that activity and failing. "I wish I could see them."

"You can, they are right in front of your window." Aragorn rose to his feet and walked around the bed to pull aside the curtains. The bright sunlight blinded Éomer, and he shielded his eyes as he adjusted to it after days of muted twilight in the caves and overcast skies. "Let me help you sit up." He offered his hand, and it was readily accepted.

Remembering how he had failed last time, Éomer cautiously pressed his free hand against the mattress and then slowly half-shoved, half allowed himself to be pulled into an upright position against the wall, grimacing against the throbbing in his side. The effort brought beads of sweat onto his face, but it was a definite improvement from the first attempt a few hours earlier, and Aragorn nodded at him approvingly as he helped him to make himself comfortable. Finally, Éomer leant back against the thick cushion in his back, and he smiled at the sight of the short-legged opponents racing through the snow in front of his window.

"I am no longer a marshal," – Aragorn’s eyebrow went up – "- and aye, I am astonished about that myself. Although I probably shouldn’t be after Freya told me that I was in your capable hands." Éomer met the ranger’s gaze evenly. Somehow, talking about the shame of his banishment to this man was easier than it would have been to others. There was something in the older man’s nature that inspired trust; a thing Éomer had never given lightly to anyone. "She said that it was you who found me on that mountain path, and that it was you who treated me. Your intervention is the reason that I am still alive." He gave the ranger an appreciative nod. "I will not find it easy to repay that debt."

"You repaid it already by surviving," Aragorn assured him. "In fact, it was us who were indebted to you in the first place for lending us your horses although you knew of the risk. Yet I would not have accepted them had I known what resulted from this generous decision." He inhaled, and his expression turned grave as he shook his head in disbelief. "You say that your title was taken away from you. It is still hard to accept for me that Théoden-King would expel even his own kin. I used to know a different man on the throne of the Mark."

"That may be so, but the Théoden-King you are speaking of is no longer the man ruling us. That man is but an empty shell our enemy uses cunningly to weaken the Mark from within, for there are still too many men of power left who will do Théoden’s bidding regardless of how strange or unwise his orders may sound to them. I assume there is no way of expressing it differently: my Uncle has become the ultimate tool in the undoing of the Mark." Éomer fell silent, broodingly staring with unseeing eyes at the window when memory briefly overwhelmed him. At last, his attention returned to Aragorn. "You say that you knew him before he fell under the enemy’s influence… when was that? I do not remember ever seeing you in Meduseld."

"It was a long time ago," Aragorn said, deliberately imprecise as he knew that the younger man would be sceptical when he told him the truth. "It does not matter now. We will concern ourselves with him, and with your enemies," Aragorn assured him, compassion colouring his voice. He could well imagine how the proud young man in front of him had to feel about being expelled from his land by his own family member. "Once we have defeated them, your Uncle’s condition may even be reversible."

"I must unfortunately say that I am having my doubts." Lost in contemplation for another moment, Éomer then shook his head as if shaking off the last cobwebs of an unpleasant dream, and life finally returned to his eyes when he asked. "What about your friends, did you find them?"

"Indeed, thanks to your help we did, and astonishingly enough, they even were in good spirits and more or less unharmed. Those Halflings appear to be possessed of an incredible talent to land themselves in trouble and then escape from it by the most unbelievable incidents. By pure chance, they discovered what must be the safest place in all of Middle Earth, so we decided to leave them there for the time being and head back to return your horses... and also, I told you that I would be honoured to draw swords with you. I stand by that."

"I am glad to hear this and would never have doubted your word, and yet I wonder what you are doing here. How come that we meet again in the eastern Ered Nimrais when this farm is a long way from Edoras, which was your initial destination?"

From outside, a shrill shriek and ensuing laughter indicated that the son of Gloin had at last caught up with his tormentors, presumably treating them to a good, cold face-rub in the snow. For a moment distracted, Aragorn glanced outside, and the sight was indeed unusual enough to chuckle. Shaking his head in amusement, he turned back to the waiting Rohir.

"On our way to Edoras, we came across several orc-tracks and decided to investigate, thinking that it could not hurt to make ourselves useful while we were here. I admit though that it was by pure chance that we followed the one that lead us to the caves, and ultimately, to you." Éomer stared at him, not liking what he heard.

"We saw four." Aragorn studied the younger man’s expression with interest. "They seemed to move in one great group at first, and upon reaching the mountains, they split up… apparently in search of you."

"Of course," Éomer growled. "Wormtongue wants me dead. He knows that I will skin him alive when I return." A hard glint of vengeance suddenly lit up his eyes. "It is this very thought that speeds up my recovery, apart from wanting to help my sister and having to summon our armies against the traitor in Isengard before he attacks us."

"My Uncle’s so-called counsellor and chief minion of Saruman. I have no proof for it, but there can be no doubt that the King’s condition is due to foul play on his part. According to my sister, Théoden’s will is held enslaved through the use of a secret potion which his body has become so depended on that he might die if it is withheld from him. That is the chief reason why we could not dispose of the Worm yet." Éomer exhaled, bitterness in his features "I fear though that we can no longer allow for this to influence our decicions. Where the fate of all of Rohan is at stake, the life of a single person is of no concern – even if he is the King."

At the mention of Saruman, Aragorn had straightened, and his gaze hardened when he stated: "So you already know of the White Wizard’s treason."

"We suspected for years that he was behind the steady increase of orcs-raids in the Westfold, although I found solid proof of it only now." Éomer shook his head in frustration. "Of course, Théoden-King would not listen when I confronted him with it. Instead, he threw me into the dungeon for disobedience, and I am convinced that the Worm made what I found against his master disappear. Yet it matters not; most of our Armed Forces know who our true enemy is by now, and I am convinced of it that they will follow me into battle even if I am no longer their marshal."

"And yet I must tell you that Saruman is not the only foe to fear," Aragorn spoke slowly, reluctant to burden the still weakened warrior with the weight of his knowledge, but it was something Éomer needed to know. "And the weaker one at that, I am afraid. The true adversary awaits us in the east." He looked into suspiciously narrowed eyes.

"What do you mean?" For the longest time, the two men regarded each other while the merry laughter outside seeped into the quiet of their room, suddenly very distant. "Are you saying that the Dark Lord is behind all that is happening in Rohan? So far, we thought he was only stealing our horses."

"As brought to us by Gandalf Greyhame, as you call him here, a union has been concluded between the two towers of Isengard and Barad-dûr; their aim being nothing less than the complete annihilation of all who are not on their side; be it men, elves or dwarves. The Dark Lord is readying his armies to cover all of Middle Earth with a second darkness, and with each passing day, his power grows. Soon, he will be ready to strike, and if he gets hold of his most terrible weapon, there will be no withstanding his onslaught no matter what we do. In this hour of peril, my friends and I have come to Rohan to join with the sons of Eorl in fight and ensure that the war will not be brought to us from two sides. I do not know whether our presence here can tip the scales in our favour, but all that can be done to achieve victory, we will do."

For the longest time, Éomer stared at Aragorn as he tried to grasp the meaning of the older man’s words, and his stomach plunged into a deep hole within his body as he contemplated the full extent of the ranger’s revelations.

“So if Saruman is not even our real enemy... Béma help us…” He sank back into the pillow, suddenly feeling bereft of all his strength as his gaze sought the ranger’s eyes. “Once again, you bring me heavy tidings, Lord Aragorn. And this while I am not even convinced that our strength will suffice in dealing with only one foe.”

“I know, and I would have liked to wait before I told you, but time is running through our hands, it would seem.” Aragorn fell silent, and for a while, both men pondered the implications of the other’s revelations and silence thickened in the small room until their attention was diverted from the problems at hand when a shadow suddenly moved in front of their window.

“Are we interrupting something?” a cheerful voice, muffled by the glass, inquired, which was all the more disconcerting as all the two warriors saw was the large head of a grey horse. “I could not help noticing that the curtains had been drawn aside, and thought that this would be the sight that would brighten your spirits, Éomer!” The next moment, the laughing face of a young man appeared in front of the glass.

“Halad!” Éomer beamed and with astonishment, Aragorn watched as the young warrior’s expression change without transition from dread to heartfelt joy. “How good it is to see you! And what a splendid idea of you to bring Firefoot!” Éomer fought to sit up and allowed himself to be helped by Aragorn, miraculously finding some reserves of his strength within his body and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, although he could not suppress a hiss as an angry bolt of pain raced through his injured thigh. Yet not even this could ruin his sudden enthusiasm as he looked at the ranger, who respectfully stepped aside to not interfere with what seemed like the reunion of good friends. “Lord Aragorn, please, could you open the window for me?” Éomer’s smile broadened when, in reaction to his words, the horse’s head turned around and the stallion’s warm breath obscured his sight as Firefoot sought for his master, whose voice he could hear without being able to detect his scent on the air.

“Only if you wrap yourself into your blankets,” the rangers demanded sternly. “I spent all of last evening trying to warm you up; I will not let you undo my work now!”

“Or, let me guess, I will have an unpleasant encounter with the ‘Sword-that-was-broken’?” Éomer grinned, upon which Aragorn nodded in mock-threat. Still smiling, the Rohir turned back to the patiently waiting Halad and noticed the younger man’s arched eyebrows.

“I hope you don’t mind me agreeing with him, Éomer, but it does sound reasonable. I did not see you myself last night, but Freya said that you looked like death personified when they brought you in, and while you certainly look no longer dead to my eyes, I would not yet go as far as to say that you’re looking at the peak of health again.”

“I see. It’s a conspiracy!” Éomer nodded, his eyes narrowed, but of course, he had no valid points to make against the two men’s concern, and so he sighed and blindly groped for the blankets behind him. “Very well, if you insist…”

“I do indeed. And as you know, I always get my will,” Aragorn confirmed with a wry twitch at the corners of his mouth, but then helped Éomer to untangle and spread the blankets over the injured man’s shoulders. Briefly creasing his brow as he noticed that – during his unconsciousness - he had apparently been gifted with a new shirt and trousers - Éomer then looked up with the expression of a child promised a very special gift as the ranger opened the window. A whiff of crisp cold air carrying the distinct scent of horse immediately wafted into the room, and the rider’s smile widened in untainted joy as he reached for his horse. “Firefoot! Come here, you big, grey, courageous, stubborn mule!” Hooking his fingers into the simple halter, Éomer pulled the big head closer and rejoiced at the sensation of the stallion’s warm breath against his chest.

“He guarded you well,” Aragorn said, smiling at the sight of the Rohir’s reunion with his animal ally. He had never seen any man beyond the Mark’s borders so attached to his horse, but then again, the memory of how the stallion had risked his life for his master was still vivid and strong. “There cannot be too many horses on the face of this earth that would defend their riders against a pack of starving wolves. He was a sight to behold when he fought them.”

“Aye. Aye, he is special through and through,” Éomer said proudly, his fingers circling the healing bite on Firefoot’s cheek. “He knows it though and thinks it an excuse for his unsurpassed haughtiness. Don’t you, Meara-mule?” With narrowed eyes, he regarded the thick crust of dried blood which had formed on the gash, sharing Halad’s opinion that it was barely more than a scratch that would be forgotten in a few days. With a brief glance at Freya’s brother he asked: “Is that his only wound?”

“There are a few more scratches and another bite on his left foreleg, but it does not hinder him. he doesn’t even limp. I cleaned everything and he didn’t even twitch.” The young man clapped the stallion’s muscle neck adoringly, and his smile broadened as Firefoot began to chew on Éomer’s shirt. “He, that is my shirt you are destroying there! Watch what you are doing; I don’t have so many that I can afford to let you eat them!” He gave the halter a quick tug, and the stallion tossed his head in refusal. “Èomer!”

“Now you want my help again, Halad, hm? Where is the cheek now that you showed to me earlier?”

“You do not have to help me. What do I care if your untamed horse eats your borrowed garments, for it is not I who will have to walk around unclothed in the snow once these are gone, for I have no others to spare.” Immediately, Éomer tugged at the fold of the fabric Firefoot had in his mouth.

“It is good, Big One. I know how much you love me, and I love you, too. Now please, leave me this shirt if you will.” He pressed against the grey head, and reluctantly, the stallion let go, but instead tried to seize his master’s bandaged hand. “No. No, Firefoot!”

Having followed the playful exchange for a while, Aragorn strained to look past the stallion.

“Halad, can you see my friend back there?... Legolas, I mean?” Legolas had left early after the morning meal to search for tracks and find out whether they had been followed. He had been gone for a while now, and while Aragorn knew that the elf could certainly look after himself, he found himself getting increasingly impatient.

“The elf? Not since he left this morning.” Halad’s playfulness change to nervous uncertainty as he noticed the shadow that suddenly fell upon the Dúnadan’s weathered face. “Do you believe he might have… found something unexpected?”

It was too early yet to be alarmed. Legolas was thorough, Aragorn told himself; there was no doubt that he would cover a great distance to ensure that his report would be well-founded. Distinctly aware of Éomer’s suddenly wary look, the ranger fought down the sudden feeling of foreboding and shook his head.

“No. It is nothing.” None of the Rohirrim looked thoroughly convinced, so he added: “Our company has been through a lot since we set out, and it makes one cautious. My friend is probably still underway, but if he is not back when the sun has reached its highest point, I will go after him.” He inhaled deeply and looked down on Éomer. “First though, I will have another look at your wounds and change the bandages. The injuries seemed less inflamed last time I checked, but I will not take any chances.”

For a moment, the Rohír’s gaze seemed to penetrate right into his thoughts, and in response, the younger man’s expression likewise hardened as Éomer gave Halad a curt nod, dismissing him.

“Thank you for letting me see Firefoot, Halad. And thank you for taking such good care of him, too. There are few who could have done that.”

The younger man smirked and briefly tugged at the stallion’s halter to catch his attention.

“I know. And it makes me feel thoroughly special, knowing that your ill-tempered demon likes me enough to let me tend him.” He clicked his tongue. “Come, Demon, and meet the ladies on this farm. We could do with some Méara-blood around here..” With a last nod, he took the stallion with him and left the two warriors alone. Silently and brooding, Aragorn closed the window while Éomer leant back into his pillow, staring at his new-found ally with precisely the same sense of foreboding he had read in the older man’s eyes.

“Orcs do not hunt in the daylight,” he spoke slowly, yet not entirely convinced himself. The new breed of orcs the White Wizard had bred was oblivious to the sun. Their skin did not burn, or they did not mind the pain as much. Of course it was possible that something had happened to the elf out there on the mountain path, and this very moment, a sling could be tightening around their necks they did not even know of. Aragorn nodded, instinctively understanding from Éomer’s tense tone that the Rohirrim had likewise already encountered the new orc-species.

“He will soon be back. He just wants to be certain, that’s why he is taking so long. I know it.” Blinking as he shook off the cobwebs of the dark vision haunting his mind, the Dúnadan nodded at his patient. “Now let me see your hand…”

The omnipresent buzz of the citizens on the way to their many errands came to an abrupt halt as all on the market square as well as the winding path froze in their tracks, and the atmosphere, which had been unusually upbeat for a change after the éored’s return, abruptly thickened with the weight of looming violence. A serious conflict was about to erupt, blood was about to flow, this much was clear to all of the onlookers as they watched with obvious tension in their bearing their riders march toward the Hall of Kings. The sight and sound of the one hundred and twenty men storming up the hill with grim expressions, their hands on the hilts of their swords and preceded by their young captain, whose blue eyes blazed with determination, could only mean one thing: the patience of their Armed Forces had ended. Word of Céorl’s mysterious disappearance in the wake of his return from Aldburg had spread like wildfire through the city on the day before, and not only the people well-acquainted with the Captain’s son expected that the numbness of the warriors in the face of Wormtongue’s dubious orders would end with this unsettling incident. Meaningful glances were exchanged between the people, and suddenly, a great upwards movement set in, drawing the citizens to the place of the expected conflict…

“My Lord Gríma, quick! There seems to be a mutiny in progress!” Guthlaf, the broad-shouldered half-breed threw open the door and stormed through the throne room, not caring who heard him as he frantically sought for his master’s pale shape in the deep shadows. He finally heard the door to the King’s chambers open and saw Wormtongue emerge with an expression of disbelief on his face.

“A great crowd is coming up the path, and they look very angry! Captain Éothain leads them, and it looked to me as if he is accompanied by his entire éored! And not only that, many citizens seem to have joined them as well, armed with hayforks and shovels and whatnots. They must soon be here, and I don’t think my men can stop them! There are too many of them, and they look quite determined!”

“Éothain, huh?” Gríma sneered menacingly. “What does that brat think he’s doing? Does he think he is the Marshal now?” With a deep breath, he swivelled and looked to where his most loyal henchman was silently awaiting his orders. “Feldrod, take a few of your men and get me Céorl and Éowyn from the dungeon. Meet me at the door, quickly! I don’t care if you have to carry them. All others--” Wormtongue waved at the host of heavily armed Dunlendings occupying the throne room, who had already risen in expectation of finally being allowed to slaughter their adversaries without having to care for secrecy anymore. “Follow me! The moment for which I prepared you has arrived. It is sooner than I anticipated, but that changes little, they stand no chance against us. Come, my brothers!”

“What will we do once we’re up there, Éothain?” Aedwulf asked underneath his breath, not wanting for anyone else to hear. Only two more switchbacks ahead, the dark silhouette of Meduseld stood in stark contrast against the cloudless sky. As the sun was behind it and blinding them on their way up, he could not see whether they were already being expected, but it would be foolish to think that they could surprise Wormtongue. “If they deny us entry – will we fight our way through to the King? I do not wish to fight against Háma and Gamling.”

“If what I feared happened to my father, then Háma and Gamling won’t welcome us at the doors,” Éothain growled, his hand already sweaty on the hilt of his sword. He changed his grip, silently asking himself whether this would be the day when he would at last hew the Worm’s head from his shoulders. “At least I hope it for them, for if they tolerated that, I would not spare them. Still, the other option is not really better, because it would probably mean that they are dead.”

“Perhaps not,” Aedwulf muttered without real hope, yet not wanting to resign to dread when nothing was proven yet. “Perhaps he locked them into the dungeon instead. As hostages. They could be of great worth for him… and your father, too.”

It was not a question, and Éothain felt not inclined to answer. The rising noise behind them told him that many citizens had joined his éored, and his heart beat furiously in his chest, as for the first time in month, a feeling close to exhilaration flushed his veins. It was enough; finally, all were ready to fight against what they had earlier accepted as fate, and perhaps they would succeed in casting the poisonous snake that was Wormtongue out of the Hall which had provided him shelter to this day. Oh, how satisfying it would feel to stick his sword into the filth slowly and avenge all his brothers-in-arms who had died as result of all the cunningly laid traps Saruman’s orc-hordes had been able to set with the help of the spy in their midst! And Éomer… Gods, he would cut the Worm into stripes for what he had done to his best friend!

“What will we do then?” Aedwulf took up his thought again, dismayed by the prospect. “What if Gríma locked up all who are not on his side and holds them hostage: Théoden, Éowyn, Háma and Gamling… what are we supposed to do then? Tolerate that they will be killed when we attack?”

Éothain’s heart froze at the rider’s question, for he had no answer to it himself. Angrily shaking his head to himself, he hastened his steps instead, quickly approaching the last switchback which would lead them to the stairs.

“We will see how it goes, Aedwulf. But no matter what my orders will be, I need to know now that I can trust you to follow me.” He turned his head to look at the older man without stopping and read consternation in the grey-blue eyes. “Can you promise me that?”

“Forget I said that,” Éothain suddenly interrupted him, inwardly swearing at himself. Now was definitely the wrong time to alienate his companions. “Of course I did not mean that--” The sight awaiting them on the top of the hill silenced him like a blow to the gut, and as his men followed his gaze, gasps and swearing rang out into the air. Of course their ascent had not remained unnoticed, and he wouldn’t have suspected so. Yet what he had not anticipated was the sight of the terrace in front of the Golden Hall brimming with dark-haired men dressed in rags and armour; all of them pointing their bows at him and his éored. Dunlendings! Their swarthy appearance gave them away even though they were clad in Rohirric armour from head to toe. There were so many of them that the narrow space in front of the opened doors hardly seemed sufficient for all of them. He had not yet recovered from the sight, when a cold, familiar voice rang out into the stunned silence.

“No step further! Or all of you will regret it deeply! I will not hesitate to let my men riddle you with arrows if only one of you so much as twitches!”

CHAPTER 28: A Siege and a Vow

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EDORAS

Before he knew what he was doing, Éothain found himself stepping away from the mass of his comrades and setting foot upon the first step to the Golden Hall. Immediately, a thicket of arrows was aimed at him, and he understood that it would be the easiest thing in the world for Gríma to dispose of him now if he really wanted to… and dared to in front of the angry éored. Yet Éothain did not believe that he did.

“Then why not shoot and be done with us once and for all, Worm?” he shouted, his voice firm. “Why do you hesitate? Are you afraid that this would at last cause the uprising that will be your undoing? I fear that your assumption would be correct. The people of Edoras have enough of you, and they are ready to demonstrate it.”

Another step, closer yet. Now he beheld the pale figure amidst their enemies. Unlike he, Gríma did not present himself as a target, and for good reason. Apparently, Saruman’s minion had foreseen this confrontation, and there was no guarantee that his enemies would not use the first opportunity they saw to rid their land of their oppressor. In fact, this had been the first instruction Éothain had given the best of his archers before they headed up the hill, and even now he knew that they were standing among the crowd with their arrows fitted to the string of their bows, ready for the first clear shot that would present itself to them. Briefly Éothain wondered why he felt no fear at the prospect of possibly walking straight into his death, but the answer was obvious: he was too furious to be afraid. Inside him, a cold rage burnt with devastating force; a fury that could only be extinguished with the blood of his adversary.

“If you don’t lay down your weapons and surrender this very instant, they will storm Meduseld despite of everything you’ve been threatening them with for the last months and years, Worm! My éored and I are, in fact, your only chance to survive their fury. Accept it, or pay dearly for your crimes against the Mark! The choice is yours.”

“What do you want, youngling?” Gríma sneered, his colourless eyes blazing with unspoken threat, and Éothain halted on the little platform at the middle of the stairs, figuring that he had approached as far as possible without running the risk of being seized by the Worm’s henchmen and taken for yet another hostage.

“You know what I want: I want my father, out here, safe and unharmed, leaving with us when we go. And I want Éowyn, our King and all you hold captive released immediately, or Béma help me, you will live to regret it!”

A disconcerting smirk distorted his opponent’s features at the mention of these names.

“Is that so, young man? How comes that you feel in the position to make such a bold request? Alas, I realise that it is the fault of youth that makes you ask for far too much. Of course you are aware that I can’t and I won’t simply give my captives to you. They are my insurance that you and your men will not stupidly try to storm this hall and die in a hail of arrows, as would your kinsmen if they dared to follow. By keeping them, I am preventing, in fact, a bloodbath, so you should be thankful!” Lifting his chin in a display of calm superiority, Gríma’s gaze swept the crowd before him before his attention returned to the young captain.

“Of course, you must ask yourself now why I hesitate to kill you where you stand, but I fear that you must forgive me for now for leaving that question open. All happens for a good reason, is all I have to say to that, and I have another proposal for you as well, one you would be wise to accept: leave, and you and your men shall live… at least for a little while longer. Sheathe your swords and walk down that hill again, Son of Céorl, and make sure that neither of your comrades will be seen upon these steps or this path again, or I swear that your father will die a slow and painful death… at my very own hands.”

With a brief glance over his shoulder, he gestured to someone still hidden within the shadow of the hall, and as that man stepped out, a dismayed gasp rose from the assembled riders, soon changing to shouts of rage: it was Felrod, the muscled guard in charge of Gríma’s men, and behind him, chained and slumped between the two armoured Dunlendings supporting his weight, Captain Céorl of Edoras was brought forth, his tunic and breeches torn and dirtied by large stains of dried and still wet blood. Éothain felt the colour drain from his face.

“Father!”

Aedwulf could only see his captain from behind, but the young warrior’s enraged trembling was unmistakable, and he knew that it was he who had to save his brother-in-arms from committing the greatest mistake of his life as he stormed forth and grasped Éothain before he could storm up the stairs.

“No! No, Éothain! Don’t!”

“Take your hands off me, Aedwulf! That snake has my father, and I will--” More hands seized him, holding him back, although he fought like a beast to shake them off.

“That is what he wants, Éothain! Don’t you understand?” With a quick glance at the waiting Dunlendings, the older man stepped in front of his captain, blocking his view. Éothain’s cheeks were flushed with red-hot fury in stark contrast to the deadly whiteness of the rest of his face, the veins on his temples and neck standing out like strings as he fought against his own men. “He wants you for another hostage! Don’t give him that!”

“But he has my father! Look what he has done to him!”

“Aye.” Aedwulf seized Éothain’s garments with both hands and stared at the young man with blistering intensity as he lowered his voice: “Aye, and it is terrible, but there is nothing we can do about it now, not while they have their arrows aimed at us and just wait for our attack. We must retreat for now, and return with a better plan when they don’t expect us. We will free your father, I promise, but this is not the way to do it. We’ll lose!” Breathing heavily, he studied his captain’s expression, which changed only slowly from blind rage to a mixture of anger and defeat, and read in the blue eyes that at last, he was getting through.

Giving up the struggle against his own men, Éothain stared at Aedwulf, trembling with emotions he was not allowed to act on, his hands clenching the hilt of his sword so fiercely that his knuckles were white, then his gaze once more went over the other warrior’s shoulder to where Wormtongue waited with an expression of confident superiority for his decision. He swallowed.

“What will it be, Son of Céorl?” the evil Counsellor raised his voice above the din of muttered curses as soon as he felt the young man’s attention on himself again. “Do you want me to kill your father, or will you retreat? To make this decision easier for you, I should perhaps prove to you that he is, in fact, not the only person you care for who is at my mercy at present!” Again he looked back and nodded, and if possible, the horrified reactions from the crowd were even louder when they beheld the lithe figure of the White Lady in the cruel grasp of her captors. Clenching his jaw so tight that the muscles stood out from his neck, Éothain stared at the unravelling nightmare in front of him, rendered speechless.

“You will get what is coming to you, Counsellor,” Aedwulf spat instead of him, the fingers of the hand he had laid onto Éothain’s shoulder in a comforting gesture painfully digging into his comrade’s flesh. “Béma sees what you are doing here, and when his punishment comes, you will regret that you were ever born!”

His outburst earned him a nasty smirk.

“Considering all ill that has happened to the Mark ever since your forefathers seized it by force from the Dunlendings, you still seem to put an incredible amount of trust into your gods, Rider! Where were your gods when your people were massacred in the Westfold? Where were they in the endless winter which ended the lives of so many of your kinsmen? And why do they allow that your people suffer if they are supposed to be on your side? Explain that to me, please, for I do not understand it!” Silence answered him. “You have no explanation, isn’t that so? Could it be than that your gods do not care for weaklings? Could it be that your gods favour those who take destiny into their own hands instead of crying rivers of tears over the injustices done to them? Could it be that they favour the determined and strong instead?”

“They certainly don’t favour filthy liars and deceivers, Worm!” Éothain finally managed to utter, steaming. “They may bide their time and observe thoroughly before they act, and I certainly would not want to be you when they at last enter into the fray. Aedwulf is right; your punishment is only a question of time and it will be befitting your crimes!”

Shrugging off his angry retort with a dismissive gesture, Gríma’s cruel stare found back to the young captain after a suggestive glance at the barely conscious Céorl.

“Believe whatever you may, young man; I couldn’t care less. Just tell me what I am supposed to do with your father now: slit his throat right here on the steps of Meduseld… or will you retreat?”

His voice quivering and his insides in an uproar as he met his father’s gaze and then Éowyn’s, Éothain at length pressed: “We will retreat… for now.” He collected himself and his tone hardened when he added: “Yet know one thing: each man you sent into the city no matter on what errand will be killed upon sight. From this moment on, we will lay siege to Meduseld, and whoever leaves it and is regarded as an enemy will forfeit his life. You cannot hide within the Golden Hall forever!” He did not like the smug look on Gríma’s face in response to his threat; it was as if the filth knew something that he didn’t.

“We will see, young rider,” the counsellor spoke with a tone corresponding with his expression. “We will see. If you think you can threaten me thus, you should know that it will be the captives who will suffer from a shortage of water and food, first. Now leave, if you don’t want your father’s blood to soil these stairs after all.”

His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt, Éothain turned his back to the man he longed to kill more than he longed for the next breath, and Aedwulf relaxed slightly when he read in his comrade’s expression that the danger of committing that deadly mistake had passed. If anything, Éothain looked even more determined now.

“You are right, Aedwulf,” he muttered under his breath, taking no chances that the Worm could overhear them. “We cannot harm him now, but from now on, I want this path guarded day and night. If any of his scarecrows leave the Hall, we will take them. We’ll see how long they can do without water. He will not let his hostages die, nor will he kill them, or he won’t have anything left to bargain with. It is an empty threat. Come. There is much to discuss!”

With a curt nod at his men, Éothain descended the stairs. Though the defeat hurt and the fear for his father and the woman he had regarded as his sister since his youth still threatened to choke him, he at last succeeded to lock his emotions away in a place of his mind where they would not impair his strategic thinking. It was cunning they needed now; a superior plan. Violence could not solve this problem. With a last look back from below at the stark silhouette of Meduseld, Éothain narrowed his eyes. Very well, if Gríma wanted to play a game of chess with him, he would do so. If only he had not this feeling of missing something important...

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

After the ranger had left and drawn the curtains before the window again, Éomer had settled back into his cushion and waited for the throbbing of his wounds resulting from Aragorn’s inspection and cleansing to subside. With relief he had heard the older man’s comment on how much better the gashes looked already, and yet he found it hard to accept his saviour’s stern advice of a few more days of absolute rest. With all the ill news he had learned, how could Aragorn possibly expect him to stay in bed even for another day? His kinsmen needed him! Each day he waited, Rohan’s doom drew closer... and at the same time, Eomer knew that the other man was right. Though possessed of a will that was legendary and feared among the Armed Forces, his body was still too weak to follow the insistent urging of his mind. Simply being awake for the last two hours although he had barely moved had exhausted him to the bone, and once again Éomer felt as if all strength had been sucked out of his body to the point where even keeping his eyes open seemed to be impossible. Shutting his eyes, he had dozed for a while and walking the strange land between wakefulness and sleep, when a hesitant rap asked for his attention.

“Yes?” His head felt too heavy to lift it, so he just looked at the opening door from underneath half-closed eyes. It was Freya’s face which appeared in the narrow gap, an inquisitive smile in the corners of her mouth. Although weary, Éomer was glad to see her, even if her gaunt appearance and the dark circles underneath her eyes filled him with a sudden sense of guilt for being the cause of her concern. In a brave attempt to lift her worries, he cast her a sleepy smile to let her know how much better he already felt.

And yet he could not see whether his effort had been successful, for a most pleasant smell wafted into the room from the tray she carried, stealing his concentration, and his stomach, having seen only sparse rations of smoked deer meat and dried fruit for days, rumbled in anticipation. Embarrassed, Éomer pressed his good hand against the source of the noise in an attempt to silence the sound. And yet involuntarily, his body’s reaction was what widened Freya’s smile, even if there was still something in her bearing that disturbed him, something he could not name except that this was not the uncomplicated woman he knew. With a smile that would not have raised anyone else’s suspicion, but which did not reach her eyes, the farmer’s wife slipped into the room and placed the tray onto the nightstand.

“So at last you are awake, Éomer! I was trying to ask you whether you were hungry several times today, but every time I did, you were either asleep or otherwise occupied, and I did not want to intrude.” She nodded her chin at his middle section. “And now I no longer need to ask you, because your stomach answered that question for you quite clearly. You must be starving!” After a quick, nervous glance at the window almost too brief to notice, she helped him to sit up. “Try to eat as much of the meat as you can; it will give you back your strength.”

“I am not very hungry, but thank you. This smells wonderful.” Studying her strangely guarded expression, Éomer could not help feeling a sudden quiver of unease. He had never seen her like this; why was she so nervous in his presence, half of her attention apparently directed at the door even as she was addressing him? Frowning, he asked: “Has the elf returned yet?”

She shook her head; her thin lips forming an even thinner, bloodless line as she stared over to the veiled window apparently deep in thought. “No. Aragorn and his friend went after him a while ago. I hope they find him soon, and that nothing happened to him.” Éomer looked at her sharply, a cold feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

“Aye. I hope so, too.” Not only for the elf’s sake, but because Legolas’ disappearance would mean the existence of orcs in the vicinity of the farm, a thought that froze his blood. What if the orcs whose tracks Aragorn had seen earlier found this valley and killed Freya and her family, just because their hunt for him had led them into this sheltered little vale? To soothe himself as much as his host, he added: “Those three know how to handle themselves, or they wouldn’t have made it here all the way from the North through hostile lands and great peril. I am sure the elf’s delay is only the result of his thorough search. They will be back soon.”

Yet some vague shadow of the disturbing mental image which had assaulted him for a moment seemed to be written upon his face, for Freya’s expression was now overcast with even greater concern as she turned her eyes from the window to stare at him.

“But you are not convinced of it, Èomer, are you?” She swallowed. “You do not need to say it, for I can see it in your eyes. Do you think your enemies will follow you here?”

He inhaled deeply. There was no point in hiding information she needed to know, not while the situation was still uncertain.

“It is possible,” he admitted at last, meeting her frightened gaze. “Aragorn told me that they came upon the tracks of a great host of orcs leading into the mountains before they found me.” Another breath. “The enemy wants my death, Freya, and I fear that he will take any measure he can think of to ensure that I am out of his way before he sets his armies in motion.”

“Who is ‘he’, Éomer?” she asked lowly, her stomach clenching into a tight knot. “The evil necromancer? And why were you alone when they found you; where is your éored?” And at last, he told her of all the evil things he had kept from her for so long, meaning not to frighten her further when life in the isolated part of the mountains was already hard enough for her family. Hesitantly at first, but with growing conviction, Éomer explained about the King’s predicament and the treason of Gríma Wormtongue, ending with the murder of his cousin and the ensuing events which had brought him to her farm. And she listened, never once interrupting him, and finally understanding that these were the days which would decide about the fate of their entire people. The realisation left her frozen. Wordlessly, the silence in the small room weighing down upon them, she stared with unseeing eyes into the distance. “So it could very well be that all of us are dead before the next full moon.” Her voice sounded dead already.

Éomer shook his head.

“There is still hope. I was on my way to summon Elfhelm and the Eastfold’s éoreds to take them west and give battle when those orcs intercepted me. I know my men will still follow me, whether I am their marshal or not, and I am convinced that it won’t be different with the rest of the Armed Forces. Even with Théodred dead, there are still mighty warriors on our side, and all is not lost yet.” He inhaled. “And I would not underestimate what Aragorn and his friends can do for us; I have a feeling that they were sent here for a reason.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Sent? By Béma, you mean?”

“First I met them on the plains, and despite Uncle’s orders, I instantly felt that I had to help them. I can still not explain what made me place my life in the hand of three complete strangers, but I did, and in return, they saved me. I do not believe in coincidence, Freya, not in this case. Everything happens for a reason, and it is my firm conviction that the last word has not been spoken yet. The traitor in Isengard is too sure of himself, and it will be his downfall.” He fell silent, confused how he had suddenly come to feel so confident about the Mark’s fate when he had watched it fall apart piece for pieces for so long. “And I promise you something else: I will ride for Edoras, and I will kill the filth who helped him myself, with my bare hands if I must, and if it is the last thing I will ever do! As long as there is a single drop of blood left in my body, I will pursue the death of Gríma Wormtongue!”

Éomer had eaten in silence, the atmosphere in the small room leaden in the wake of his dispiriting tale of the Mark’s decline. He understood Freya’s wordless brooding and the far-away look on her face as she contemplated the meaning of his words, but it was beyond him why she still held herself so stiffly in his presence, why her body language was so rigid as if she barely dared to move. She had been tense the entire time she had sat beside him in her chair, her gaze sooner directed at the distant world beyond the window than at him, evading him as much as she could in the narrow confines of the children’s room. It irritated him greatly, and at last, Éomer felt that he had to inquire about the reason for the strange behaviour of the woman he had known well for eleven years and yet never seen like this.

“Freya?” His voice woke her from her absorption, and the grey-blue eyes that looked too large in her gaunt face turned to him with a distinct notion of wariness in her gaze. His frown deepened. “Will you not tell me what happened? Or what the cause is for your discomfort around me? I must say that I do not understand. Did I do something?” She flinched in response to his words, her involuntary reaction confirming to him the correctness of his suspicion: her strange bearing was not just an imagination. “Or is it something you would rather not talk about it?”

It took no intensive studies of his host’s expression to interpret correctly the two contradicting impulses on her face: the daughter of Féonwar reminded him of a wild animal, a deer perhaps, that still curiously listened to the cracking of dry twigs in the undergrowth while its muscles already vibrated with the impulse to fly. And she looked guilty, too, distinctly aware of what he meant, even if she still remained silent. Her expression more guarded than ever, Freya averted her eyes to concentrate instead on placing the half-emptied bowl he had sat aside on the tray to take it out.

“And what good would it do?” she replied at length in a flat voice bereft of hope. “For there is nothing that could be changed about it.” Hesitantly she slanted him another glance, and although the moment was fleeting, the hurt in her expression sent a bolt of alarm through Éomer even in his state of leaden exhaustion. Straightening against his pillow, he extended his hand to touch her arm, an instinctive gesture to which she reacted as if he had meant to hit her, pulling away from him. Dumbfounded he stared at her.

“Was it is, Freya, tell me! Is it about Osred? Is he not treating you well?” He could not explain what had directed his thoughts in this direction, other than her repeated nervous glances at the door and window while she had sat with him, and was sceptical when she shook her head.

“Osred is a good husband, Éomer. It is not he who is the problem... it is I.” Her surprising statement hung in the silence while she contemplated for a moment longer whether to tell him or not, whether to reveal her secret. But didn’t he already know, deep inside, what she was hinting at? Didn’t he feel it, too? Briefly shutting her eyes in a desperate hunt for the right things to say, Freya exhaled deeply before she summoned all her courage to meet Éomer’s gaze, grateful that he had not interrupted her and thus granted her the time to bring at least some kind of order to her thoughts, even if her insides still felt in an uproar. “Osred... he is the kind of man every woman in these isolated settlements hopes to find one day: he is crafty and practical, he is eager, he is strong and protective and selfless. He works hard to ensure our survival out here, and he is a loving father.”

“But something is missing, you mean. Something you would seek for in a man with whom to share your life.” It was a statement, not a question, and she nodded slowly as she stared at the closed door, still seeing all-too-clearly the expression of deep hurt engraved in her husband’s weathered face as he observed her tender moment with Éomer and understood that he would never be able to evoke the same emotions in his wife as the esteemed warrior of the Rohirrim.

“Do not misunderstand me, Éomer; I do care for Osred, but I fear not as much as he deserves. It is a different form of love that I have for him. I respect him for his commitment and dedication and his hard work… but in the end, it is just this: respect... and partnership. We work well together, and we get things done. Our farm has never been in a better state, but that is not what marriage should be about, is it?” She fell silent, an expression of remorse and guilt wandering over her face, for a moment uncertain whether it was wise to go on, but now that she had started, Freya felt it impossible to hold back the outpouring of her emotions any longer. She had to get this out once and be done with it for all time. Perhaps Éomer would understand, and perhaps he wouldn’t, it was not in her hands.

“I always that that I should feel differently about the man to whom I swore my oath. That he should make my heart beat faster whenever I thought about him. That the thought of him should fill me with a warm feeling, and that I should barely be able to stand being separated from him. That we should be two halves completing each other; the sum of us being more than one whole thing, something greater.” Her lips tightened, and a terrible honesty shone in her eyes as she looked Éomer straight in the face. “My marriage is none of these things, Éomer. Osred doesn’t know how to make my heart beat faster; he doesn’t know how to make me dream, nor would he understand what dreaming was good for, for he has no dreams himself. He only knows common sense and the world he can see and touch. For him, the world is divided into ‘useful’ and ‘useless’ things. All those things Aragorn told us about, the far reaches of the land he wandered through and the beings and creatures he has seen... Osred has no interest in that; it does not exist for him. As long as it does not concern our farm-life, he is not even curious to hear about new things. He is satisfied with being faced with the same challenges year after year after year; he doesn’t want to hear about other people or other races. He doesn’t like surprises and thus he never surprises me...” She swallowed at the disillusioned tone of her own voice.

“Life with Osred is predictable, Éomer, and it is all about duty and work and reality. All these years that I lived in this vale all alone with my parents and my brother and sisters... I never felt that our world was too small or that there was something missing. But lately, it feels as if the mountains are closing in on me, as if their ring around our valley narrows with each day that I spend here. Some days, it feels as if I am slowly suffocating. If it were not for our children…” She broke off, uncertain about the continuation of her confession.

Listening with mixed feelings, Éomer could not help but wonder: “Did you ever tell him? Try to change things? Perhaps he doesn’t know what it is you want.” She looked at him wearily and shrugged.

“How do you explain the importance of dreams to someone who has none himself?”

“But there must have been a reason for you to choose him. I remember that you wedded very quickly. From one visit to the next, things changed from where you did not even know Osred to him living on the farm with you. I was very surprised, to say the least.” Did she hear indignation in his voice, or was it just wishful thinking?

“It is the usual way to marry out here in the wilderness, Éomer. We live so far apart from each other that there can be no courtship. We meet at the spring or the harvesting fairs, and if we do not find each other too terrible, we will take them home with us if they possess the necessary skills. I do not have to tell you how hard life is out here. I could not manage it on my own, no matter how crafty I may deem myself. There will always be a task that requires more strength than I have to offer or an additional pair of hands. It was my head that chose Osred; it was reason, not emotion. We cannot afford to wait for love out here; we must take what we are offered. I needed a man who would take care of my family and me, and I thought that with time, love might develop between us, but my heart would not let itself be fooled, for it had experienced that feeling once and to this day, it is someone else who evokes it in me.”

She looked at Éomer openly as she submitted herself to his judgement, not entirely sure what she wanted to hear. Perhaps, it would make things easier if he laughed at her; perhaps it would be best if he found her secret longing ridiculous. Her heart would probably break, but she would be cured of her ridiculous dream. But Éomer did not laugh; he frowned like someone who had been given bad tidings instead of a declaration of love. Was this better?

“Freya...” Visibly shocked by her confession, Éomer reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it at last, savouring and hating the feeling at the same time for it tore her apart. “You know that there is no way for us--”

“Aye, we decided long ago that we could never be together. You are a warrior; I am a peasant’s daughter. You are a noble, our next and perhaps last king the way it looks, and I am a commoner. The Mark can not have an uneducated farm girl for her queen; nobody understands it better than I, and I wouldn’t even want to live at the court of Edoras. We talked about this before. And yet what can I do when my heart feels differently? All these years, when you visited us on your patrols, it was you who lifted me from of the bleakness of my life; with your tales of your battles and the bravery and courage of your riders. Or when you sat with Loégar and Edilda when they were smaller, telling them of our ancient kings and legends. It was not only them who listened with baited breath; I did as well. The way you told those stories, the way you made them come alive…you made me feel the adventure as if I was right there. And I remember the passion with which you told me of your dreams and plans for the future…it is something Osred could never do. He doesn’t know about passion. I have lied to myself for so long, Éomer, telling me how foolish I was to feel that way when I lay next to Osred in the night and listened to his breaths instead of yours. I thought that with time, I would learn to take those feelings I had for you and shift them to him… but I cannot.” She took a shivering breath, and when she continued, her voice had lowered to a whisper.

“It all came to me last night, when your friends brought you here on the edge of death, bloodied and pale and cold like the snow… and I understood at last what it would feel like to lose you forever, and it was devastating, Éomer. I…” she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and ran it nervously through her hair, uncertain whether she was right in confessing her innermost feelings when it would only make things harder. “I felt that with your death, something in me would die as well, something that would be lost for me forever. My children would have forced me to carry on, but life would have held no more joy for me had you died. It would have been like waking to a world without the sun for the rest of my days. Osred must have seen the realisation on my face when he saw me sitting with you at dawn, and he understood it at once. Aye, I still love you, Éomer, even though I know that I mustn’t. I cannot help it.”

Now the tears came and she hid her face in her hands, embarrassed to cry in front of the man who had once admitted to love her for her strength. It did not help in keeping her composure that she suddenly found herself enveloped in two strong arms, but she could not fight against something she had longed for for so many years: to be close to Éomer, to feel his warmth and the firmness of his muscles underneath her fingers; to hear his soothing voice whispering into her ears. She knew that all these things were wrong, and yet at the same time, they felt so very right. Caught in the storm of her contradicting emotions, she surrendered to the sheer hopelessness of her situation.

“Sssshh…” Éomer soothed, for once speechless as he held her head against his shoulder, his mind racing as he feverishly sought for a solution. “Freya…” but the words would not come. Or rather, he had something to tell her, but hesitated to utter for fear that it would crush her completely. Yet before he could think of anything else, she straightened in his arms and leant back; mustering his expression with an intensity he had never felt from the frail farmer’s daughter.

“It is not the same for you, Éomer, isn’t it? You would have told me now if it were so. I can see you are battling with something you do not want to tell me. Please, I need to know. It might make it easier for me to let go of this ridiculous dream of mine.”

“It is not ridiculous,” he objected, squirming awkwardly. How to bring this to her without hurting her? “Freya…” He inhaled deeply. “We have known each other for a long time. We were both very young when we met…”

“And your feelings for me have changed since then,” she completed the sentence for him, laughing unhappily. “Aye, I understand. I told you that we could not be together, and you took your passion elsewhere. Of course, I never expected you to wait for me to change my mind. I just wondered…”

“Why did you never take a wife, Éomer? Each time you visited me, you always spoke of your riders and errands, and your sister and your cousin. You never told me about anyone else dear to your heart, and it made me wonder…” She summoned her courage. “It made me wonder whether I was not still in your heart, too, blocking the way for anyone else seeking entry.”

For the longest time, he looked at her, thoughts racing his mind he had pushed in the background for what suddenly felt to him like an eternity. How long had it been since he had last contemplated matters of the heart, rather than battle strategies?

“Perhaps it was so at first,” he admitted at last, thinking back. “It took me a while to understand, and then, to overcome my disappointment. For the first several times we met afterward, I actually dreaded to see you for fear of what your closeness would stir up in me.”

“Aye,” she nodded, like he lost in their shared memories. “You avoided me. I remember fearing that I had lost you after all, that you were unable to maintain a friendship with me even though you had said that you would make the effort.” She looked down upon his hands, which still held her much smaller one firmly in their grasp. “May I know what changed your mind in the end?”

“It was not a conscious decision, at least not one that I could remember. It was a process; a combination of knowing that we were simply not meant to be, a constant need to be on the road in search of the enemy and at the same time, the growing conviction that I had been born a warrior. Elfhelm had been right back then when he told me to my face that I would never find contentment in the life of a farmer; it would have ended in misery for the both of us had we stayed together, Freya.”

“I know this,” she admitted silently, lowering her gaze. “It was the one thing I perceived when I first laid eyes upon you: that despite your youth, you were a man bursting with purpose. That you would not rest until you had achieved your high goals, and that you would never abandon them to sow crops in an isolated part of the Mark.” The conviction in her expression grew as she added, bravely forcing herself to smile: “You have become our land’s greatest protector. It would have been selfish and irresponsible of me to keep you from your true calling. Perhaps it is this I should try to remember whenever I feel again that life has been treating me unfairly.”

“We may not have become lovers, but we have become kin, Freya. We are as close to each other as we can possibly be. You are right in saying that my feelings for you have changed, but it is not for the worse: you are as dear to me as my sister by blood, and I would tear myself in two to keep you and your family from harm. You will always have a special place in my heart, which may be more than any woman I marry in the future may ever be able to claim.” He wondered of which future he was talking. By the look of things, his worries would be non-existent before the next full moon, his dreams and desires like those of his uncounted kinsmen trampled underneath the feet of the White Wizard’s armies.

“Do not speak so,” Freya interrupted him, deeply moved by his confession even if it did not change things. Perhaps she could learn to live with this thought, even if it still felt strange to regard the man who had evoked the strongest emotions in her she had ever known as a brother. Yet faced with the choice of either that or nothing, how could she choose nothing? Laying her free hand against his lips, she whispered: “You will find a wife you love, and she will love you back, I know it. Once this war is ended, you will find happiness and contentment in a woman’s arms, and I will be glad for you when it happens.” She leant forth to kiss him gently on the cheek.

“I suppose I will have to learn to fill out this new role you appointed to me…” She smiled at his sceptical expression, but it was a sad smile. “From now on, you have an older, wiser sister. You will hate me soon enough.”

He returned her smile although he felt its true nature and could not help admiring her for her courage.

Her gaze travelled over to the door, and now even the sad smile vanished from her face.

“I will have to speak with him. I do not know if we can change things between us; I doubt it in fact. I know that I will not be able to change who he is, but perhaps I can make him understand what it is that I need from him. If we both make an effort, perhaps… we can solve this. I cannot imagine living a life without love.” She looked unconvinced, but no longer as hopeless as she had at the beginning of their talk. Lovingly, Éomer stroked her face.

“I wish you happiness, Freya. You deserve it.” A thought entered his mind, and although he felt reluctant to utter it, he had to know the answer to it. “Perhaps I should stay away for a while. For as long as things are not clear between the two of you, Osred will continue to consider me a threat, no matter what you say. I know I would do the same in his position.”

“Would you?” She straightened at the sound of running from behind the still closed door. She had been with Éomer for a long time; now it was time to speak with her husband. “Aye, I believe you are right. But don’t stay away for too long, or your new family will feel neglected. As for now, I have but one more request for you: Get well soon!”

“Mother? Mother, are you in here?” Her son’s voice sounded to her through the thick wood, and Freya rose to her feet.

“You should rest now, Éomer, you look tired. Please, forgive me for bothering you with my personal problems…”

“There is no need to apologise, Freya. I feel honoured that you told me, and I do believe that something good will come out of it for the both of us.” He smiled weakly; barely able to keep his eyes open as a leaden heaviness overcame him. He sunk into his pillow.

Picking up the tray, Freya gave him another grateful glance before she turned to the door, opening it. A young expectant face looked at her.

“Mother? Can I ride Snowflake? Halad said that he would take me with him, but I should ask you first. Please, can I?”

“Can I, too?” As usual, Edilda was not far whenever there was the possibility that her brother could be allowed a thing that she might not.

“Well, if Halad says that it is safe…”With a last glance back, she closed the door behind her, her smile dropping from her face when she discovered that Éomer’s eyes were already shut and that he seemed to be half asleep already. Now all who was left to pretend happiness to were her children, and they were by far too excited by the prospect of being allowed to ride her brother’s big plough-horse to notice her misery. “All right, you two. Go. But tell him that I want him to be cautious, or I will need to have a word with him. Do not leave the farm, and no galloping!”

With a cheerful shout, the two children stormed out of the house, their voices soon muffled by the closing door as they raced over to their uncle’s house. A faint smile on her face at the sound of the little ones’ enthusiasm, Freya went into the kitchen and set down the tray, for a moment lost in thought. She did not know whether to feel saddened or glad at the thought of Éomer’s confession. While the depth of the feelings he held for her was comforting, they were of a different nature than she would have wished for. Still, wasn’t it better this way? Wasn’t it better than knowing that he, too, longed to be with her, and that all that kept them apart were the strict rules of their people? If he had learned to accept this fate, perhaps she could, too, all the more as there seemed to be only two possibilities left for her: to either send him away for good or to learn to be satisfied with what she could have. She did not want to send Éomer away.

With a deep sigh, she turned her attention to the pile of used dishes that had accumulated since the morning. Perhaps it would help to work some of her frustration away. It took her another moment to come to the realisation that she was not alone. Turning around on her heels, her gaze went back to the door she had just passed. It seemed that Osred had been waiting for her to notice him, and from the look upon his face, he had heard every word of her conversation with Éomer.

Numb in mind and body from the horrible scenes she had been forced to witness, Éowyn offered no resistance as the guards brought her back to her cell and sat down on the wooden bench that served as the laughable imitation of a bed. Not that she expected being able to sleep anytime soon. What she had experienced in those past few days alone would probably suffice for a lifetime of nightmares, and she had the distinct notion that she had not even witnessed yet all the cruelty her adversary was capable of. Involuntarily rubbing her arms to restart the circulation of blood to her hands after the guards’ cruel grip, the King’s niece stared wordlessly into the flickering twilight until the echoing of steps died down and the distant thunder of a shutting door told her that they were alone again in their part of the dungeon.

“What happened?” Elfhelm asked at once, his tone and expression tense as he lifted his head. “What did he want from you?”

“To show me to his enemies. Me and Céorl,” Éowyn replied in a flat voice, still seeing the scene vividly in front of her inner eyes: the horror in Éothain’s eyes when she had been presented like a trophy, and his anguished outburst when the Worm had confronted him with his severely wounded father. For a moment, she had prayed that Éothain would order the attack regardless of the Worm’s threats and end this farce of a Dunlending-held Meduseld, no matter how high the price. But even before he had answered to Wormtongue’s challenge, deep inside Éowyn had known that the young Captain would never dare to endanger his kin and friends even before she had seen his strikingly blue eyes cloud over with the signs of defeat.

With a soundless sigh, the daughter of Éomund tilted her head to face the chained warrior in the opposite cell. The man her adversary would use to break her, she held no illusions in this regard. She could not yet imagine the torture the Worm would submit Elfhelm to in order to bend her to his will, but the half-breed’s inventiveness was beyond doubt. Would she be able to stay strong upon having to hear the anguished cries of the man whom she had known since early childhood when Elfhelm had served as an ordinary rider under her father? The man her brother regarded as his mentor? Her blood ran cold at the thought, and she fought to push it away for the time being. She would be faced with the reality of it soon enough. Lifting her chin, Éowyn sought the Captain’s gaze, forcing herself to answer his question with the calmest voice she could manage. It would not help their situation if she broke down now.

“Éothain and his riders threatened to storm Meduseld, and they were accompanied by many angered citizens. It seems that finally, they are no longer willing to tolerate his reign. They challenged Gríma, but I’m afraid that the Worm once again held the sharper weapon in his hands. He threatened to kill Céorl and me if they attacked, and Éothain would not dare it… I almost wish that he had. He places the worth of our lives higher than that of all citizens combined. That cannot be right. I do not want my life bought with that of dozens of our people.”

“Don’t blame him,” Elfhelm soothed. “I would have acted the same way. Most of us would have. The filth knows that. It is our weakness, but it is a weakness I am proud of. We Rohirrim care for each other, and will never abandon our kin and friends lightly; it is for this reason that our people still endure after five hundred years of hardship. If we gave up more easily, we would have perished a long time ago. So, I say that this weakness is, in fact, our strength. Our enemies fear us for our determination.” He fell silent, trying to think, although it became increasingly more difficult with the pounding pain in his head and the intensifying thirst and hunger. The gashes he had sustained in the fight did not bother him much yet, but they added to his overall weakness and Elfhelm knew that they would get infected if he did not see a healer soon. “So, Éothain retreated, you say.”

“Yes. He threatened to kill Wormtongue’s men if they leave the hall for water and supplies, but I don’t think they will…” Nervously chewing on her lower lip, Éowyn recalled what she had seen. “It looked to me as if the filth counted on such an outcome and made the necessary arrangements long beforehand. I saw many sacks and large vessels stacked in the throne room when they led me to the door… as if Gríma expected a siege. I would not be surprised if he emptied the entire storage shed. If Éothain thinks he can get to him this way, I fear that he will be mistaken.” Her attention returned to Elfhelm, and if possible, her bearing became even tenser. “Still, I cannot shake the impression that Wormtongue does not count on a long siege… One of his remarks made me wonder whether he knew something no one else has an inkling of yet.”

“You mean that he is waiting for something to happen? Or for someone to arrive to solve the problem for him?” Elfhelm inhaled, and his frown deepened. “Even if he got his greedy fingers onto all of Edoras’ supplies, holing up in Meduseld will not get him out of danger. He has to know that sooner or later, our people will find a way to get to him, even if they have to turn every little pebble the hill consists of to find the secret tunnels in the rock. No, he is waiting for his master armies, or perhaps even his master himself will come here.” The thought of the White Wizard upon the threshold of Edoras robbed him of his breath. What would the necromancer do to their people once he took possession of the City of Kings?

“Could it be that they are already on the way?” Éowyn forced herself to remain composed even if the images of bleeding people and the burning city suddenly overwhelming her mind sickened her. “Could it be that the Westfold is already ablaze with war and its inhabitants dead, and that the plains are swarming with orcs marching for Edoras?” She stared at the shackled warrior and saw the paralysing dread she felt herself mirrored in his eyes. “We have no way of knowing, Elfhelm, but I fear that it might be so. The wheels are turning and the last pieces of Wormtongue’s plan have fallen into place, and there is nothing left to do for him now but wait for the host that will murder his foes and free him. That is why he was so calm when Éothain challenged him: there is no need for him to leave Meduseld. Without a miracle, in a few days the Riddermark will be a deserted wasteland bereft of human life, and he knows it.” The sheer enormity of her sudden realisation choked her.

“Béma…” Stunned by the same imagery, Elfhelm stared into to flickering semi-darkness. Éowyn’s assumption made perfect sense. Shaking his head as he fought to subdue the terrible cries and pictures threatening to flood his mind, he lifted his head with an effort, involuntarily grimacing at the stinging of his wounds. “But such a miracle… who should bring it to us? Your brother?” His expression left no question that he did no longer believe Éomer to be alive, and his hopeless demeanour caused a sharp bolt of pain to pierce Éowyn’s heart. If not even the always optimistic Captain of Eastfold believed in her brother any more… She could not speak, choking despair leaving her mouth dry like sand.

“I assume that we can forget about Gondor coming to our aid,” Elfhelm meanwhile continued, looking through her as he wrecked his brain for a flicker of hope that would help to carry them through the darkness of these days. “They did not answer to any of our calls for a long time. Like the Steward’s son said, they are hard-pressed themselves to repel the enemy again and again and can spare none of their soldiers. Not that I believe that they would send them even if things were different. Gondor has long forgotten about our old alliance. Five hundred years have passed since Éorl’s glorious ride, and to many of that high folk, it is barely more now than an ancient myth. A tale for their children when they take them to bed, but not something founded in reality. Nowadays, those fine people think of us as barely more civilised than the hillfolk. We are savages to them, not worthy of their allegiance.”

“If that is what they believe, then both Gondor and Rohan will fall,” Éowyn said lowly. “Do they not understand that the war will come to them from both sides if they allow the necromancer’s armies to slaughter us? Our foes are the same, why then do we not fight together?” She waited for another reply, and when none came, looked to the side to see Elfhelm’s face contorted into a pained grimace, his eyes tightly shut. The sight of his distress chased a shudder down her spine and she jumped to her feet. “Lord Elfhelm?”

“Forgive me, my Lady. It is just my head. That coward whom the Worm calls his right hand hit me with something heavy last night when they captured us. Not to worry, I’ve experienced hangovers that were decidedly worse than this; it takes more to take me down.” Éowyn’s gaze was still sceptical when he looked up, and to divert her attention from his problems, the Captain of Eastfold decided to change the topic of their conversation. “How was Céorl faring when you saw him? You said that the Worm used him, too, as a shield against Éothain. Could he walk by himself?”

Her expression even graver than the one with which she had regarded him, Éowyn shook her head.

“He seemed to be barely conscious and had to be supported by two men to walk. I fear for him. He needs a healer urgently, but I doubt that Wormtongue will allow Yalanda to see him. If he gets no help…” She had not the heart to finish the sentence, but the Captain of Eastfold understood her regardless, and he evaded her compassionate gaze. Summoning what strength was left in him, he inhaled deeply and then shouted into the darkness: “Céorl? If you can hear me, Brother, then answer me!” Anxiously, they both listened into the ensuing silence. “Céorl?”

Another breathless moment passed, and then a faint echo answered them, and it was a voice they recognised, even if it wasn’t the one of the Captain of Edoras; its words so distorted that they were almost impossible to understand.

“I am not sure…” Her large eyes wide filled with dread. “But I think he said that Céorl no longer answers him either. And they are in the same corridor…”

Loose pieces of a distant conversation trickled into Éomer’s refuge from outside, gradually waking him from the state of dozing which had overwhelmed him after the meal and the intense conversation with Freya. The young woman’s difficult situation had even followed him into sleep, resulting in a strange dream where he and Osred had entered into a shouting match about who had first mentally deserted the farmers’ daughter. Glad to leave the disturbing scene behind as he woke to the reality of his room, Éomer soon recognised with relief Aragorn’s calm and at the same time firm voice as he spoke with Halad, and yet he already caught an undercurrent of urgency in the ranger’s tone that troubled him deeply enough to reach for the edge of the mattress in an effort to sit up.

“Lord Aragorn! Thanks be to Béma, you have returned! We already feared for the worst because you were gone for such a long time… But I see that you found your friend.”

“Our apologies, Halad. Yes, all is well with us, but we made a discovery that needed our attention, and I am afraid that we return with bad tidings. Can you please go and fetch your wife and Osred and meet us in the main house? We must talk immediately, and it would help if all were present. A decision needs to be made at once.”

In the muted twilight of the children’s room, Éomer struggled to push himself up against the headrest of the bed, the cold hand of fear clenching his innards at the thought of what the ranger had found. When the door opened at last and Aragorn’s serious face appeared in the gap to find out whether he was awake, Éomer saw his worst assumptions confirmed in the other man’s gaze even before the words had left the ranger’s mouth. The question of who the three travellers had run into had just been answered. Swallowing, the Rohir asked the only other question he could think of his state of stunned shock.

Following the ranger’s brief recapitulation of their encounter with the enemy, the silence in the room cramped with anxious people was thick enough to cut through, and for the longest time, only the innocent crackling of the fire could be heard. Already feeling exhausted even from the few steps over to the living room he had taken with the massive help of Halad and Aragorn, Éomer leant against the wall and looked at the Dunádan from his improved cot on the ground with the feeling that the bottom of his stomach had just dropped out. It was not as if he had not expected for the enemy to find him. The orcs’ senses were sharp, and the strong winds must have carried his scent halfway across the Ered Nimrais while he had first battled the elements and finally lain in the snow for hours, long enough for them to estimate his location. He had not wanted to pull Freya’s family into this mess, but there seemed to be little that could be done about it now.

“Twenty-five orcs! And you are sure that they are headed our way? They could not be just passing through on the way to Aldburg?” Osred, too, stared open-mouthed at the ranger, all blood drained from his face. He then checked the expressions of the man’s strange friends, involuntarily hoping to find a hint there that it was only a very cruel joke. Of course, he found none.

“Alas, I fear that it is so.” Aragorn’s gaze wandered over the family’s faces, feeling pity for their hosts. The two small children sat huddled on their parents’ laps, their little faces pressed against their shoulders in a vain search for cover. Aragorn knew better. Once the enemy’s host entered this vale, there would be no hiding. It was either running or making a stand, a decision they’d have to reach very quickly. “We attempted to lead them away, but the effort was unsuccessful.” He lowered his gaze to regard Éomer, who nodded silently upon listening to his words, knowing the enemy too well himself. “Orcs hunt mainly by scent, and though our tracks were not to be missed, they did not care for them.”

“Of course not. It is me they want,” Éomer stated grimly, his insides clenching into a tight knot as all faces turned to him. He ignored them as best he could, although the frightened expressions were painful to behold, and looked at Aragorn instead. “How far away were they when you left them?”

“About halfway between the cave where you slew their brethren and where we found you. I would say no further than five leagues from here.”

“Five leagues!” Osred cried, and his son’s little hands clenched in his shirt. The child whimpered with fright. “But then they are already on our doorstep!”

“They were moving slowly though,” Legolas added in an attempt to calm him. “They are wary after finding their dead brothers, and very cautious not to run into a trap. We tried to get close enough to reduce their number, but the wind worked against us. If they proceed in this fashion, they should arrive here somewhere during the night.”

“Then we must flee,” the farmer decided with a glance at the frightened expressions of the members of his family. “There are yet a few more hours of daylight left; if we saddle the horses now, we could make it to our neighbours before nightfall. And tomorrow--”

With a sinking feeling in his stomach at the sound of Freya’s fearful and yet determined voice, Éomer stared into the fire. He knew what would follow; after all, he had already witnessed himself how this shy and vulnerable looking woman had fended off wargs with a hayfork to protect her kin. She would not run, even if he desperately wished her to leave.

“No. This is the farm of my parents, and of their parents before them. My family has lived in this for generations; building and adding to it in uncountable hours of hard work. If we run now and leave it unprotected, those things will burn it and slaughter our stock, and there will be nothing left for us to return to. We will be uprooted like so many before us; we will be left without a home, and more people will starve because we can no longer supply them with food.” Clutching her daughter in obvious distress, Freya stared at Éomer, her expression confrontational. “You know how important our farm is in sustaining the people in the mountains, Éomer! You cannot seriously consider abandoning it without a fight!”

“You do not suggest that we stay here, Freya, do you?” Osred threw in, not wanting to believe his ears. “Or do you value this farm higher than even the lives of your loved-ones? I am not even talking about myself here, but your children and your sisters. Do you believe that your home is worth more than their lives? ”

“You do not know what is coming at you, Freya,” Éomer rebuked, for once ignoring Osred although he supported his position. “Twenty-five enemies—“

“We can defeat them, Aragorn!” Almost expectantly, Gimli fondled the haft of his axe, apparently the only one not dismayed at the prospect of a fight upon the farm’s grounds. “Twenty-five orcs, that makes only five for each of us if we count the Rohir and him in.” He looked at Osred. “We’ve been faced with grimmer odds.”

“I can fight, too!” Halad piped up, but Éomer was faster when he asked Aragorn:

“Freya…” Determinedly shaking his head, Éomer turned back to their anxiously listening host. “Listen to me: you must leave. Osred is right, it is too great a risk. Take your horses and put as many leagues between them and you as you can. And bear in mind that it will not be safe at your neighbour’s farm either; come dawn, you will have to proceed, and your neighbours, too. There is no stopping a host of twenty-five Uruk-hai without the help of an éored. Trust me, I know! I fought but one of them, and he almost killed me!” He shifted his attention back at Aragorn. “One of us should ride ahead and alert the riders in the closest settlements. We are halfway between Aldburg and Captain Erkenbrand’s stronghold, so--”

“We killed far more than twenty-five Uruk-hai at Amon Hen, Aragorn!” Gimli tried again, his gaze travelling over his friends and the banished Rohir, whose brow creased in anger over his intrusion. To Aragorn’s left, Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “If you and the elf diminish their numbers with your bows from a distance first, we will not even have to face twenty-five in a battle one-on-one. And since they do not know that we are here, we will have the advantage of surprise! They think they will face some unarmed farmers without battle experience. If we use their haughtiness to our advantage, we can make short process of them. Think about it!”

“But he is right,” Freya hurried to say, slanting the dwarf a brief, thankful glance before she addressed her brother: “Halad, you and Fleadwyn and Willa and Wyndra will ride, and you will take Loégar and Edilda with you.” She turned around to Osred, sad but determined. “And you ride too, if you must, Osred, but I will stay. I was born here, and if the gods have decided that I should die here, then I will, but I will not let them destroy my home without a fight.”

“And I will stay, too,” Halad said, and looked at his younger sisters whom he knew as able-bodied riders. “Willy, Wyndra, you and Fleadwyn will ride, and you take Loégar and Edilda.” He felt his wife tense beside him and wrapped her even closer in his embrace as he looked at the man he had regarded as an older brother for a long time. “Éomer, you taught me yourself to fight. You even gifted me with a sword. You need me here. What did you prepare us for all these years if not for this case?”

“You do not understand, Halad. These are Uruks; they are far more powerful than ordinary orcs. I fought one of them in the caves, and he almost killed me although I am much more adept at battle than you. I do not want you killed.”

“You will not have to leave her because we will all leave!” Osred threw in, glaring at Freya. “And I will hear no more!”

Helplessly listening to the family quarrel while he stared at Aragorn and simultaneously wrecked his brain for a solution, Éomer suddenly found it: ”I will ride.” Disregarded the deepening lines on the older man’s brow, he continued with sudden enthusiasm: “It is me they want. So it is I alone who can lead them away from here.”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes; his expression that of a man not believing his ears. His voice, likewise, indicated what he thought about the Rohir’s idea: “You cannot even stay in a saddle long enough to leave the farm’s grounds, much less lead a host of Uruks through the mountains that will shoot you the moment they get within range!”

“I can do whatever I must; it is not the first time for me to ride under less than perfect conditions!” Éomer rebuked against better knowledge, fighting not to raise his voice as he did not want for Freya’s children to hear his words. “And even if you had to bind me to the saddle, I would not stay here and become the reason for Saruman’s brood to slaughter these people!”

“You will not help their cause by getting yourself killed!” Aragorn, too, now added intensity to his voice as he stepped in front of him, his back on the family and thus blocking their view. His hard grey eyes tore into Éomer’s. “Or who else should lead your armies against the enemy if you are dead? Do I have to remind you of the state we found you in just last night? Would it not be self-evident to a warrior who set himself a higher goal that he cannot simply throw away his life over a matter of pride?” The two men stared at each other, both attempting to impose their will unto the other while the rest of the present listened to their argument in dismayed silence. What were they supposed to do if even their leaders could not decide over the right course of action while time was running through their hands?

“So you expect me to sacrifice them, is that it?” Éomer asked, his eyes widening with incredulity. “To save my own hide? If that is the impression you have of me, I must tell you that you are wrong! I have never hidden behind--”

“You have not even heard my suggestion yet,” Aragorn replied calmly. “Will you not hear me out first before shouting at me and feeling insulted over things I haven’t said? I was always under the impression that a Marshal of the Mark had to be open to common sense, and I am perfectly certain that you are capable of that, Son of Éomund. Are you willing to listen to what I have to say?” Silently, he watched Éomer’s expression change from anger over pensiveness to wariness, confident that the younger man would see the logic of his words.

Although many years had passed since then, he had ridden with the Rohirrim long enough to be well-acquainted with their occasional flares of temper and fits of stubbornness. In the end, Aragorn had always found the sons of Eorl open to reason, and he had no doubt that it would be no different with the young warrior in front of him who reminded him so very much of his proud father: possessed of the same powerful build and manners of movement and speech, it was the unyielding will of Éomund of Aldburg directed at him through his son; the determined gaze of which he found himself the focus similar to the late Marshal of Eastfold’s, even if Éomer’s eyes were– for a Rohir of a peculiar - brown instead of his father’s piercing blue-grey. No, the wilful young warrior was very much his father’s son, and it was in him where the Mark’s hope lay. Having risen to one of the highest military positions in the realm of Rohan at a very young age, Éomer had to understand about the value of outside advice, even more as Aragorn had gained the distinct impression that – though they had not known each other for long – the Rohir trusted him unlimited.

And really, although he still seemed disgruntled, Éomer swallowed whatever objections he had on his tongue in an effort to be constructive, and his voice sounded calm enough when he asked: “And what is it that you suggest, Lord Aragorn?”

Eyeing him for a moment longer with approval in his gaze, Aragorn straightened and turned back to the anxiously listening family, his eyes wandering over the row of concerned faces: “The Uruks are on their way, and by now they must already have passed the last intersection that would lead them away from this valley.” Again he looked at Éomer. “So even if you could ride, there is no point. Their path will lead them here, no matter what we do, and here is where we will make our stand.” His gaze found Freya just long enough to see the brief spark of hope in her large, concerned eyes. “Gimli is right, on our journey to Rohan, we were faced with worse odds several times, and we braved them even though our foes had the element of surprise on their side. This time, it will be our advantage. We were very careful when we followed their host today, and I doubt they know yet that they have been detected.”

“But you cannot be entirely certain of that,” Éomer summoned, and Aragorn nodded solemnly. “What about the tracks you made to lead them away?”

“Like I said, they paid them no heed. Of course there are no guarantees, but let me assure you that we were extremely cautious. We would not have reached the Mark if not for our skill of passing unseen underneath the enemy’s eyes.” Satisfied with his confident reassurance, Éomer nodded. “With the rest of the afternoon and probably most of the night to plan and prepare ourselves, it should be possible to develop a strategy for the defence of this farm, perhaps even a trap. Yet first of all, we need to call for aid. If we can alert a nearby éored, there might nott even be the need for battle.” He looked at Osred. “We must build a fire; a big fire which generates a lot of smoke. Do you have enough wood?”

“We have our supplies, but this being a hard winter, I’d rather not use it all up. It is hard to get firewood up here in the mountains.”

“I understand, but wouldn’t it be worth the effort? If an éored is in the vicinity, will they not ride to find the source of the fire to see whether their help is needed?” Aragorn turned back at Éomer and found to his surprise a wry smile on the warrior’s lips.

“If there was enough smoke, certainly, they will investigate.” A brief glance at the window confirmed that the sky outside was still clear. “In these conditions, it will be seen for many miles. I’d say that it is definitely worth a try, but we will have to make haste. There are not too many hours of daylight left.”

“How great are the chances that an éored will see the smoke?” Freya asked, barely daring to hope.

“With the increased orc-activity lately, many of our patrols are constantly roaming the mountain paths, so I would definitely count on their appearance… It all depends on whether they will be here fast enough, for the orcs will see the smoke as well and know what it means.” He looked at Aragorn, who nodded pensively.

“That is right, but since they are headed for the farm anyway, it does not matter. Stealth will not help us in this case.”

“I would build it,” Halad began reluctantly, his gaze travelling from his sister to his brother-in-law and back. “But shouldn’t we at least get Loégar and Edilda away from here?” He looked at the two scared children, then at his young wife who pressed herself against him, painfully reminding him of her rounded stomach in which life also grew. No, she could not stay here. Searching for understanding, he looked down upon her. “And Fléadwyn, I want you to leave, too. And you, Willa and Wyndra…”

“And you?” His wife looked up, her eyes large and frightened. She could not have heard him right. “Will you accompany us?” ‘Please!’ her eyes pleaded silently while her hold of him intensified, and it hurt Halad having to deny her wish.

“I am needed here, Fléadwyn. All these past years, Éomer told me to fight, and I am well prepared.” He turned his head to the man he had always regarded as his older brother, hoping for the warrior’s consent. And Éomer granted him the little nod he had hoped for, but the expression in his dark eyes spoke of less confidence in his apprentice than Halad would have wished for. “Do not fear for me, Fléadwyn,” he whispered, and pressed her against his chest. “I am sure there will not even be a fight; our riders will see the smoke and be here before the orcs can reach us.”

“Perhaps that will be so, but I will not take that risk. You are riding with them, Freya!” Osred’s expression indicated that he would tolerate no discussion in this regard, and for a moment, his wife was rendered speechless as she stared at her husband, even her free hand which had reassuringly stroked Edilda’s head for the duration of their conversation halted.

With an insulted edge to her voice she finally asked: “You mean that I should leave you and our guests behind and expect you to protect our possessions with your lives while I myself run?” Incredulous, she looked at Éomer, in whose face she read to her dismay the same determination as in her brother’s. Of course she wanted to be with her children and protect and comfort them, but what if the men died because of her objections against leaving their farm unguarded? “Éomer, you taught me to fight yourself! You even gifted me with a sword. You know what I am capable of.”

“Aye, Freya, I know.” The warrior nodded, fully aware that his next words would rose her anger. “And that is why I have to agree with your brother. Leave. Your children need you out there. It will be easier for us to defend the farm knowing that we won’t have to look out for you, too.” He saw the crease building between her eyes and immediately understood its meaning even though he had never seen her like this. “And yes, I know that you never ran from anything, and that you defended your farm against wolves and wargs since your youth, but Uruks are no wargs. They are no animals, and while they may lack the sheer weight of a warg, their ferocity is the same, and it is paired with cunning and intelligence. Those creatures were bred and trained for battle, Freya, whereas wargs only seek to fill their stomachs. They are easily discouraged when they meet resistance, but those things are beyond your capabilities!”

“Listen to him!” Osred entered the discussion, incredulous that he should have to convince his wife of such an obvious thing, and for the first time, Freya paused. Edilda whimpered in her tight clutch, and soothingly, she stroked over the girl’s head.

“Ssh… it is good, little one. No need to be scared.” Suddenly uncertain, she looked at Aragorn, but the ranger’s attention seemed to be solely focussed on the wounded Rohir.

“They are beyond your capabilities, too, Éomer, at least for now.” He steeled himself for the young man’s outburst he knew would come. But Éomer surprised him. With a sly smile, he craned back his neck and met his saviour’s glance openly.

“Like you said, I am too weak to ride, so I am afraid that I’ll have to stay.” He could see that Aragorn was less than amused by his rebuke. “I can fight, Aragorn. That Uruk in the cave only had a chance against me because I was no appropriately armed.”

“How far is your neighbour’s farm away?” The Dunádan looked at Osred, but it was Halad who answered.

“It is a good afternoon’s ride if they travel fast. They may be able to make it there until nightfall, but they will have to leave immediately.” He looked uncomfortably at Fleadwyn, not wanting to imagine his young wife riding through the mountains without protection. Having seen his worried glance, Legolas stepped forth and met Aragorn’s gaze, finding affirmation there even before he had uttered the first word:

“I will accompany them on the way and then return, there should be time enough. And I can see well enough in the dark to find the way back.” He acknowledged Halad’s silent thanks with a gracious nod and laid a hand upon the young man’s arm in a comforting gesture “They will be safe with me, fear not.”

“I do not doubt that. Thank you, my lord.” With a sudden lump in his throat, Halad nodded at Aragorn and then looked at his sisters and his wife. “I will go and ready the horses. Pack a few things quickly and then meet me at the stable. We must hurry.”

“We have yet to determine who rides with them,” Éomer said with a long gaze at Aragorn. “Freya will; I will not. I assure you that I can handle myself. I agree with you that a long ride through the cold would not be in my powers yet, but if I have a few more hours of rest, and with the proper preparation, I will be able to fight. I can still handle a bow, and with a tight bandage around my leg, I should even be able to walk. I’ve had to fight under worse conditions before. You cannot afford to send me away, Aragorn. You need me.”

The ranger’s expression indicated that he knew this to be true, however reluctantly that realisation came to him.

“I will take Freya’s sword.” Éomer saw dread in the young woman’s eyes in reaction to his words. She still felt guilty to leave when it had been her intervention that could result in their death. “It is a very good sword, as is Osred’s and Halad’s. They are sharp enough to even cut a falling piece of paper in half. I saw to that when I ordered them for you. With them, we are well-armed. Any Uruk who comes too close will regret it.” His words were followed by a meaningful silence as each of the present realised the high stakes. At last, it was Freya’s brother who broke it.

“Let me help you,” Legolas offered, looking around and finding approval in Aragorn’s gaze. “The sooner we can leave, the better.”

“And I will concern myself with the fire, if one of you could be so kind and show me where the necessary things are,” Gimli grumbled, glad to finally have something constructive to do. The dwarf seemed to be extraordinarily pleased at the prospect of battle.

“I can do that,” Wyndra stepped forth, looking at her sister. “Willa, can you please pack something for me, too, while we build the fire?”

“Then all of us have their task.” Aragorn looked around, until at last, his eyes found Éomer, and the message they conveyed was clear to the Rohir. Their task would be to determine the strategy that would either ensure their survival… or result in their death.

The day had been almost too busy to look forward to the little educational visit to the dungeon he had planned for the early evening, but as Gríma stood in the kitchen, waiting for the few servants they had kept within the hall to prepare the tray with his prisoners’ meals, he could no longer help feeling excited.

Impatiently tapping his foot, Wormtongue’s thoughts went back to the confrontation with the young Captain Éothain of Edoras, and the role his captives had played in it. As a matter of fact, he was surprised that it had worked so well; that it had not been necessary to shoot a single arrow into the angered mob of Rohirrim. And how much he had welcomed it, because the situation could easily have spun out of control if one of their attackers had so much as been wounded in the quarrel. Now, Éothain and his men had retreated, and though Wormtongue harboured no doubts that the young man had meant the threat he had uttered, it did not bother him. He was well prepared, the throne room and the kitchens of the ancient hall packed with enough food and water to easily last for at least two weeks, and even longer if they rationed the supplies more strictly. Not that he expected for the siege to last for long. The last message he had received from Saruman had indicated that his master was finally ready to deliver the killing blow to the stubborn peasants of the Mark. Any day now, the western horizon would turn black with their marching army of Uruk-hai, and the earth would shake beneath their feet. Until then, he and his followers would sit safely inside the barricaded hall and enjoy their secret knowledge of the city’s near destruction each time they looked out at the thatched roofs below. A satisfied smile wandered over the Counsellor’s face while he silently followed the kitchen maid’s frantic efforts to fulfil his order and be rid of him.

Perhaps this was the very reason why he still kept the King alive. At first, Gríma had considered simply letting the weakened man die in his chambers now that Théoden was no longer of any use to him; too weak to rise to his feet by himself, he would be forced to soil his bed while he slowly starved to death; probably the most shameful exiting of this world a Rohir could imagine. The thought of it was sweet; but even sweeter was the plan which had formed in the Half-Dunlending’s mind only two days earlier: he would bring the King back from his dazed state; allowing Théoden to wake from the nightmare he had wandered for years, and when Saruman’s army tore into the capital of Rohan, he would lead him out onto the terrace to watch his people’s destruction. Yes, this measure felt appropriate to Gríma as a revenge for all the years since his early youth when he been the object of the strawheads’ spite and cruelty. It would be a pleasure to watch their dying throes from the elevated position of Meduseld with their devastated ruler by his side. Another event to look forward to… but now, another task waited for him he had awaited for a very long time, and he was determined to savour every moment of it.

“Your tray is ready, Master Gríma,” the kitchen maid at last approached him, her gaze lowered submissively, and he granted her a benign smile, prompted by his extraordinarily good mood this evening.

“Thank you, Hilde. I am certain that the Lady Éowyn will appreciate your care in fixing her meal.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the success of his words as the old woman flinched at the thought of her captive mistress, and then turned to Gúthlaf who had silently waited behind him. “Take it and follow me!” For a moment, the guard paused and Gríma could virtually feel the man’s reluctance in carrying the tray after his master like a serving wench, but one brief glance back over his shoulder reminded him quickly of his place, and he followed without protest. In front of the kitchen doors, two more guards awaited them.

Already in a triumphant mood although nothing had been achieved yet, Wormtongue preceded his group of loyal followers to the door leading to the dungeon, opened for him upon a curt nod by the nearby guard who also handed him a lit torch. A ghastly procession of darkly-clad men with grim expressions except for their leader descended the narrow, winding stairs into the darkness, their steps echoing threateningly through the vast corridors. The few prisoners who had spoken with each other in hushed voices fell silent as the guards passed their cells, inwardly glad that it was not them those men were coming for, even if it meant that someone else would suffer instead.

A fat rat with a crippled leg was too slow in evading as the guards turned into her corridor, and Felrod gladly took the opportunity to crunch the animal beneath his heavy boot. Upon reaching the main crossroads, Gríma turned back to his most loyal follower, a knowing smirk upon his face. He had heard the rat’s dying squeak and knew that the big fellow was in the appropriate mood for what he had in mind.

“All except Gúthlaf, wait here. I will first see how our dear Captains Gamling and Céorl are faring before we will concern ourselves with the others.” Leaving them standing, Wormtongue and his minion strode down to the other end of the cells and came to a halt in front of the last one before the corner. As he had ordered, the corridor lay in complete darkness, and the red-haired former Captain of the Royal Guard squinted at him from his bench like an owl caught in the daylight as he lowered his torch.

“Lord Gamling, how very wonderful it is to see you here, alive and behind bars. I hope you find everything meeting with your expectations?” The man’s pale face reddened with anger as he came to his feet and grasped the bars.

“You think you have won, Snake! You haven’t, let me tell you this! Enjoy these moments while they last, for your end is coming.”

“Oh, I am certainly enjoying them, dear Gamling,” Gríma laughed, unfazed. “After all, they are my sweet revenge for uncounted years of ridicule. Do not think that I did not see it in your eyes whenever you looked at me. Lord Háma was only the first to pay the full price of his haughtiness, and if you don’t watch your mouth, you will be next.” Meaningfully, he turned to the guard still holding the tray and picked up a bowl of undistinguishable contents and a mug of water. “This is your meal. The dogs had the same this morning, and they liked it well enough, so it should agree with you.” He set it down upon the ground and straightened, mindful not to get too close to the bars as he lowered his voice confidentially: “I am in a merciful mood today because I understand that the shock of what happened is still fresh. Yet know that if you continue to speak with me in this fashion, I will be forced to withhold your meals from you for as long as you refuse to use courtesy in my presence. You have an entire day to make your decision before I return, and since I have always known you to be a reasonably intelligent man for a Rohir, I trust that you will see the wisdom in my suggested course of action. Enjoy your meal!”

He left the swearing Rohir behind, not listening to the man’s enraged words while he silently counted the cells he passed. At the other end of the long corridor, again the last cell of the row, he found what he had been looking for: a dark shape on the ground, crumbled like a bundle of rags; unmoving.

“Captain Céorl? Here is your meal.” He placed the mug and bowl on the ground within reach for the injured man if he woke from his unconsciousness. Wormtongue doubted that it would be soon. Very well. If Céorl did not eat what he had brought him, why should not the rats enjoy a rare feast? Feeling safe that the warrior would not suddenly jump up and grab him through the bars, Gríma stuck his arm with the torch through them to have a better look at the prone shape to his feet. Was the man still alive?

“The filth is dead, Master,” Gúthlaf grumbled with deep satisfaction. In the battle, the warrior had almost defeated him before the rest of his Dunlending brothers had come to his rescue. Even now the long cut on his arm stung as he stared at his fallen adversary, and not even the knowledge that it had been he who had delivered the hardest blow to the wounded Rohir before Céorl had surrendered had lifted his mood the entire day. It was only now that he saw the man crumbled and bloodied, in all likelihood dying on the floor of his dark, cold cell that Gúthlaf felt appropriately avenged. Yet even as he turned away, he saw out of the corner of his eye the smallest of movements and swore: Céorl had turned his head toward them, and his eyes were open, their expression not the broken expression he had hoped to see, even if the man looked more dead than alive.

“Not yet, Gúthlaf,” Gríma addressed the obvious, half waiting for the Captain to speak even though he could see that the warrior was too weak and barely conscious. “Not yet. But it will not take much longer until the rats down here will have a feast of the likes they have never experienced before. Too bad, I would have loved to let him witness the death of his son first.” He narrowed his eyes as he beheld the strange expression on his prisoner’s face. Was Céorl actually smiling at him? “What?” But instead of an answer, the warrior just turned his back on him.

For a moment, Wormtongue felt angry enough to open the door and teach the prisoner that he had chosen the wrong object for his ridicule, but only a heartbeat later, common sense had the rule over him again, and with a derogatory snort, Gríma turned away from the now again unmoving figure. In another corridor, someone else was waiting for him, and he would take his rage with him now and unleash it against her!

“Come, Gúthlaf!” he barked, already storming ahead so quickly that the guard found it difficult to follow his master. “We have an appointment, and I would really hate to keep her waiting!”

In the semi-darkness of her cell, Éowyn had sat and listened to the distant interchange even though the words had been low for her to understand the conversation. And yet when it stopped and was replaced by fast steps, she instinctively understood that they were coming for her now. In the eternal darkness of the mountain’s insides, her sense of time had suffered a quick, merciful death, and it was only her empty stomach that insisted it had to be almost evening by now. Gríma had said that he would return for her in the evening, and he was known to keep such dark promises. He would not miss this opportunity to cause her yet more torment.

Torment… her insides twitched at the thought of what they would do to Elfhelm, and what the Worm hoped to achieve by brutalising the man she had cared for deeply since her childhood days. The notion that her ideas were presumably not far off did nothing to comfort her, and when Elfhelm whispered her name from the other side of the corridor, she hesitated at first to face him, afraid to let him see the depth of her fear.

“Èowyn! Please, remember what I told you! Give him nothing, especially not because of me. I can take what he has to give; I am not afraid of him. But if you bend to his will, you will make my resistance worthless. We must be of one mind in this. Éowyn? Promise me this!”

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her throat as she listened to the approaching footsteps. How could Elfhelm still have hope? Why not make it easier for themselves by complying?

It was Éomer’s voice in her head, surprising her with its forcefulness, and in the narrow confines of her cell, Éowyn straightened as she listened to her brother.

‘You are the reason for everything that Gríma did, Éowyn! It was because of you that he turned to Saruman, knowing that you would never be his under normal circumstances. He still wants you, and with your submission, you would make his triumph complete. Without it,victory will be a hollow, tasteless thing for Gríma, even if the Mark comes to ruin . In your hands lies the ultimate act of defiance, and if you remain strong, you can destroy all he wanted to achieve. Be strong, Little Bird’

Tears stinging in her eyes even as she shut them, she nodded, and with a choked whisper said: “I promise.” Silence answered her, and at first, she thought that Elfhelm must not have heard her, but when she turned her head to finally face him, she found him looking at her with a strangely touched expression softening his tense features. It was a brief moment of comfort in the darkest night of her life, and it gave her the necessary courage to swallow her tears and await their captor and his minions with dignity.

“Dearest Lady Éowyn,” Gríma smirked. “I see that you have been waiting for me. Is it just because of your growling stomach, or had perhaps a part further above in your body also a saying in this?” His smile widened in response to the young woman’s irritated expression, and with an exaggerated gesture, he presented to her the tray which Gúthlaf held in his hands, obviously enjoying himself as much as his master: “I am bringing you your meal, my lady. I hope you will find it to your taste.”

“I am not hungry,” Éowyn said, lying straight into her captor’s face since Gríma’s superior attitude angered her too greatly to grant him even this simple satisfaction. Coolly, she looked away as if the walls of her cell were of greater interest than anything the Counsellor could offer, inwardly dismissing her tormentor. Wormtongue however was not surprised by her cool demeanour. He had studied the White Lady’s body language for long years and knew what each little gesture, each blink of her eye meant. Éowyn was still very much listening to his words even if she pretended not to care. Oh, how satisfying it would be to see this cold facade of hers crumble!

“I see,” he oozed, slick as honey, in a tone that feigned understanding. “You are still too proud for your own good, just like your brother.” He noticed how she twitched at the mention of Éomer. “Of course, the King’s niece will never accept the crumbs from the hands of the man she despises, even if it is he who is now in the position of power. Very well, have it your way. But you would do well to remember my last night’s words, Lady Éowyn: I am on a quest to curing you of your haughtiness and unparalleled arrogance. Through me, you will learn about humility and gratitude for the one who alone is in the position to spare you from a fate you do not even want to begin to imagine. Your behaviour will determine the fate of your friend, our valiant Captain Elfhelm of Aldburg. Did you ask him whether he was hungry? Perhaps he does not see things your way. Perhaps, he would rather not starve to death or die of thirst just because the arrogant young thing in the opposite cell insists on keeping her pride intact?”

“You will not succeed in driving a spike between us, Worm!” Elfhelm spat, a hard glint in his narrowed eyes. “Your intrigues and net-weaving fail against the virtues of the Éorlingas. It is the blood of Éorl that will ultimately defeat you!”

“Perhaps it will, even if I do not believe it. But either way, you will not be around to witness it if the golden-haired maiden here insists on playing coy with me for much longer.” Inclining his head in mocking mirth, Gríma looked at his chained adversary and found to his pleasure that Elfhelm looked already weaker than the past morning. Of course, as yet another prime specimen of the stubborn horse-lords, the warrior would sooner swallow his tongue than admit his worsening condition to his adversary, but there could be no mistaking the way he hung, rather than stood, in his chains. Slowly but surely, his wounds, the hopelessness of their situation and the lack of food were getting to him, and this was just the beginning. His brows arched, Wormtongue looked back over his shoulder to the King’s niece.

“I believe that I already told you how it worked, my Lady, did I not? Co-operate and do what I say without protest, and the two of you get rewarded with food and water. You comply, but only after a discussion, and your poor captain will only get the water. You continue to be a nuisance, and he gets nothing. I would urgently advise you to remember those rules, Lady Éowyn, unless you want for your friend to suffer.” Lifting his chin as he waited for a reaction that didn’t come, Gríma continued: “Or perhaps you think that the Captain is not hungry either?” He shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. “What do you say, Captain? Perhaps you should talk with each other; after all, I can imagine that it must be gruelling to hang in these chains for so many hours. I see that your legs have already given out under the constant strain. Who knows, a little food might give you back at least enough of your strength to stand again, but like I said, it is your decision to make.” His expression a cruel parody of compassion, Wormtongue picked up the earthen mug from the tray and then slowly turned his hand, watching as the precious water spilt onto the ground. “You can only keep this up for a very short time. By tomorrow you will beg me for water, and you should pray that I will be in the mood to give it to you.”

Nodding to Gúthlaf who stooped to place the bowl and the other mug on the ground before Éowyn’s cell, Wormtongue did not miss the guilty expression in the shieldmaiden’s eyes as she looked up to him from her cot, although she quickly replaced it with anger.

“And I have more to give, don’t think for a moment that I am at my wit’s end yet! You will beg me, oh haughty daughter of the Mark! You will crawl in the dirt before me and kiss my feet and plead with me before long, I promise you this.” He paused, and the weight of his threat seemed to resonate in the flickering semi-darkness. “Yet despite your discourteous manner, know that I am still willing to exercise mercy on you, but only for today. But I will not allow you to threaten me with starving yourself to death. If you are not hungry yet, even if I don’t believe you, then you won’t have to eat now. I will leave your meal here, in front of your cell. It is a very good meal, something the poor citizens outside would be overjoyed to have on their table once a month, and certainly not something the common prisoner could ever expect to receive. The meat is fresh and hot now, almost rare and with a seasoning of herbs on a bed of steamed vegetables. It is a delicacy now; it will be old and spoiled by tomorrow. And when I return tomorrow evening and find that you haven’t touched it, I will let my men force-feed it to you. Think about it, my lady. One way or another, you will eat this; you choose whether it will be a pleasant experience or something to give you yet more nightmares. I will leave you to your contemplation now and bid you a good night.”

Wormtongue did not linger to see Éowyn’s blue eyes glaze over with seething hatred. He knew he had reached Éomer’s sister from the shocked silence behind them when he and his men excited the forbidding darkness of the dungeon. By tomorrow, the White Lady of Rohan would be more than susceptible for his devious games…

“I want you to guard this path as you would do in an ambush on the enemy in the mountains; like a cat, ready to pounce. I want none of them able to leave the hall, be it in search for food or to give secret signals to someone in the city or on the plains. If possible, take them alive; if not, kill them. I do not believe that we could exchange them for the Worm’s prisoners anyway, but having hostages to trade won’t hurt.” Éothain’s gaze swept the lines of his riders, who had fully assembled on the open square in the lower regions of the city and listened intently to their Captain’s orders. “I also want every stone turned for the exit of the secret tunnel from Meduseld. I know there is one because the Marshal once mentioned it to me, but he did not tell me where it ends. If we can find it, it will give us a great advantage over the Worm!” He inhaled deeply.

“Those not holding watch or searching will begin to fortify the city and prepare it for battle. I am not certain what Wormtongue meant when he said that we would live at least a few days longer if we did not storm Meduseld, but I did not like his tone. In any case, we should be prepared for an eventual attack. I already sent an errand rider to Aldburg this afternoon to call for aid, so reinforcements will hopefully be on their way soon. We must hold Edoras under all circumstances, and I know that I can count on you, my fellow kinsmen, to give your best for its defence! Let’s show our enemies what the Éorlingas are made of!”

A challenging yell from many voices answered his speech, and the people quickly dispersed to see to their assigned tasks. For a moment, Éothain stood and watched them leave, unable to move himself. All afternoon, even as he had discussed their strategy with the other remaining captains of the city, he had felt numb as if he were walking through a nightmare from which there was no waking, stunned by the sight of his semi-conscious, bleeding father in the hands of their adversary’s henchmen… and the horror in Éowyn’s wide blue eyes while the thug behind her back had almost strangled her. There was no way of knowing what had happened to Gamling and Háma, or to the King, but Éothain held little hope that their adversary had left them alive when he at last seized complete command over the Golden Hall. Likewise, the young captain’s hopes of being able to save his father and the others trapped in it were marginal at best. Éothain held no illusions that if his enemies stormed Meduseld, Wormtongue would sooner order his prisoners to be killed and escape their wrath with the help of one of his devious potions that would stop the beating of his black heart painlessly, rather then surrender. He had to know that he would be burned if they ever caught him alive.

The young warrior cast a long, dark glance to the forbidding silhouette on top of the hill, and his lips formed a bloodless line when he thought of the ordeal his father had to endure this very moment. His heart cried out at the memory of his mother’s reaction to the ill news he had been forced to bring her after the confrontation, and the feeling of overwhelming helplessness and despair threatened to take his rational thinking away whenever Éothain lowered his guard. Deep inside, the young warrior already knew that he would eventually never again see his father alive. Their death toll was rising with each passing day, and yet while Éothain barely dared to hope for his own survival, he would be content to be called to his ancestors if he was granted his revenge on the man responsible for the death of his kin and friends first.

With a last deep breath, the Captain of Edoras turned his back to the building he had always seen as the heart of the Mark. The heart was still beating but poisoned, and whether there was a cure for the illness that had befallen it would remain to be seen…

Darkness had fallen over the land when the five men left for the defence of the farm had finished with their preparations and frantic activity was replaced by the even more gruelling task of waiting for the inevitable. Éomer had always found it difficult to wait for the enemy even after the heated hatred he had felt for the orcs as an adolescent had been replaced by the greater strategic wisdom of the young man and then the extraordinary battle-skills of the Third Marshal of Riddermark. To sit around with one’s sword readied while nerves and muscles vibrated with tension, waiting for the enemy to appear, was nothing short of torture, and how many times had he wished to just jump upon his horse’s back instead and ride in a reckless charge against his foes.

Instead, Éomer lay on his back on an improvised cot in the little shed used as storage for fodder and gear when the stock was on the higher feeding grounds in spring and summer. It was narrow and uncomfortable between the various sacks and boxes, and the cold in the unheated building he shared with Aragorn was getting to the wounded Rohir even through the thick blankets into which he was wrapped. Éomer was aware that he was only still alive because he had at last mastered the hardest of lesson in becoming an achieved warrior: the value of patience. How many times had Théodred and Elfhelm lectured him about its import; how many times had they admonished him until it had finally stuck? In the end, it had taken a disastrous turn of events to drive the knowledge home, inextinguishable for the rest of his life when he had been forced to witness the annihilation of an entire éored – not their own – because their leader had not followed Elfhelm’s orders to wait for reinforcements. Patience was an essential ingredient of every victory, and yet after all these years, Éomer still found it hard to exercise. Even now as he was supposed to rest and spare his strength for the coming fight while Aragorn held watch, the Rohir found himself too tense to sleep even in his weakened condition. It also did not help that each time he closed his eyes, the images of the advancing host and what they would do with the people he had dragged into this mess if their defence failed assaulted him with increasing force. So instead of sleeping, Éomer lay awake and contemplated the many possible turns this night could take, preferring to stare at the ceiling over seeing Halad’s and Osred’s mutilated bodies if their strategy proved wrong.

It would be a hard blow for him if Osred died. The farmer’s dispirited expression with which he had bidden his wife farewell while his children cried as they were lifted into the saddle had filled Éomer with regret and guilt, even if he knew that he could hardly be blamed for Freya’s confused emotions. He was afraid that Osred’s realisation his wife’s heart belonged to another man would drive the farmer to a foolish attempt to win her heart in a battle against a foe he had never been prepared to handle. And if this thought was not distressful enough, there was also the question of what would happen with Freya younger brother.

Innocent Halad, who even as a lad had instantly recognised an older brother in him and strived to become like the man whose courage and skill he admired. Young Halad, who now felt the obligation to prove himself to his mentor despite his lack of battle experience and the fact that not far away, his wife feared for his life as their child grew within her. Though frightened by the prospect of facing the nightmarish creatures of which the warriors had spoken, Halad had kept his composure while they had worked all afternoon in their preparations for the fight. Éomer was convinced that he had only succeeded at it because the young man could not yet imagine the horror awaiting him. He would learn a hard lesson tonight.

'Oh Freya,’ Éomer thought with the sudden bitter taste of despair in his mouth, the tear-streaked faces of the leaving women and the sound of their suppressed sobbing assaulting his mind with new force from the vault of his memories. ‘You understood too late that your wish to defend your farm might result in the loss of your brother and husband. How will you live with yourself if you return and find them slaughtered and your possessions saved? I know that your farm is important in the feeding of our people, but this price is too high.’ He refused to continue the thought all the way to its consequent end, which was the death of them all, including him and his three saviours.

With a sharp exhale, the Rohir turned on his good side, involuntarily grimacing against the pain caused by the movement. Reluctantly, Éomer had heeded Aragorn’s advice to rest for the remaining hours of daylight which the others used to build barricades of ice and heavy logs as their defence position in front of the barn. While the smoke of their signal fire formed an impressive dark column in an otherwise clear winter sky, the men prepared their weapons for the battle, oppressive silence between them.

Upon waking, Éomer had found that night had already fallen. No éored had arrived to aid them in their plight, and after a light meal, Aragorn had helped him dress his wounds as tightly as he could bear, the bandages lending support to the severed muscle of his thigh and his injured side. Under the ranger’s sceptical scrutiny, he had then made a few tentative steps and known at once that in a close quarter’s battle, he would stand no chance against the ferocity of a Uruk-hai. In his feverish hunt for a way to be of use in the upcoming fray and not another obligation, it was then when the idea had struck him, the result of which was that instead of the warm main house, he was now sharing the shed with the Dunádan, waiting.

Aragorn’s features had been sceptical when Éomer had first made the suggestion of splitting their already small numbers in favour of a strategy that would allow them to attack the orcs from two sides. While Legolas would reduce their foes with the deadly accuracy of his bow long before they would reach the barricade, Aragorn and he would spring their trap by assaulting the host from behind on horseback with arrows as well, thus hopefully creating enough confusion among the enemy to kill many of them before close quarters’ battle would ensue.

It was a good strategy, the ranger had at last admitted, but one that depended on the wounded Rohir to stay in the saddle for the battle. With more confidence than he had actually felt, Éomere had assured him that he would find it easier to fight this way rather than on the ground, as most of the work would be done by his experienced war-horse. The question of where they would get the additional bow was quickly settled when Halad had produced the weapon he had built under Éomer’s supervision years ago for hunting and defence. While it was not as powerful as those of the ranger or the elf, it would suffice to weaken the enemy, especially since the young farmer had then – with a weak smile – handed his mentor the flask Éomer had gifted the family together with their swords and almost forgotten about. It contained a thick, dark-green syrup; a potent poison which, once it entered the bloodstream through a wound, slowly paralysed the victim until it could conveniently be killed. After the warg-attack on the family he had witnessed in that fell winter of his youth, Éomer had long mused over an efficient and easily used weapon to give them to substitute Freya’s rusty hayfork. He had found it in the form of the poison which would change even simple wooden spears into weapons that would kill with the first wound inflicted with them. With the tips of their arrows prepared this way, each hit would fell one of the beasts. Aye, it was the best strategy under the given conditions, and still, Éomer felt horrified by the prospect of the fight.

Another distant grumble of the likes they had heard several times in the course of the afternoon woke him from his brooding. Osred had explained it to them as the sound of wet snow tumbling down the steep slopes as its weight became too heavy due to the rising temperatures. That fact had been hard to miss the way the snow had turned to mush underneath their boots during their work and the water had dropped onto their heads from the roofs of the buildings, and still Éomer could not help wondering whether the avalanche he was listening to now had caused by the vibrations of marching feet.

“It is another avalanche,” Aragorn’s low voice reached him from the window where the ranger gazed intently through the small gap of the shutters. With a hiss, the Rohir pushed himself into a sitting position. There would be no more sleep for him tonight; too much was racing through his head. With a brief glance at their horses in the back of the shed, which were likewise listening intently to the strange noise, Éomer turned his attention to his brother-in-arms.

“…that it was them who caused it?” Aragorn raised a brow, and his gaze again swept over their treacherously calm surroundings. “We will know soon enough; it didn’t sound too far away. It would be bad though, because I did not see Legolas return yet.” And with a brief glance at the pale moon, which hung in an otherwise inken sky like an ill omen, he added: “The time would be about right. If they hurried, it could be them… but perhaps, the snow has taken them to their cold, wet grave.”

“I wish I share your optimism,” Éomer gave back with a heavy breath. “But I do not believe that Uruk-hai can be killed by the snow. No, they are still out there, coming for us and hungry for our blood.” Involuntarily, his fingers clenched around the hilt of Freya’s sword. It fit his much larger hand less than perfect, but it would have to suffice as there was no other weapon available. It was a good sword though, Éomer knew, after all he had ordered it together with the blades for the rest of the family and closely supervised the procedure of their forging himself. The weapon was well-balanced and sharp to the point where it could cut a falling leaf in two; in any case, it was infinitely preferable to the little wooden axe with which he had fought the Uruk-hai in the caves.

“How do you feel?” Aragorn spoke into his thoughts, one eye upon him. “Will you be strong enough to ride? Did you find enough rest during the afternoon to replenish at least part of your strength?”

“I would worry if I had to fight on foot, but my horse is very skilled at this way of doing battle. It is our most efficient strategy against the Dark Lord’s brood, and I would even go as far as saying that Firefoot must be the best at it in all of Rohan. Those of my éored who have seen him evading the orc’s bows call him Arrowdancer. He sees those skirmishes as a welcome opportunity to prove his skill to everyone looking.” With a proud, loving smile, Éomer’s gaze wandered over to the grey shape in the back of the shed. “You love to show off, don’t you, Grey One?”

The stallion snorted indignantly, and, having come to the conclusion that that the strange noise he had heard outside meant no immediate danger, took the few steps over to his master’s cot to lower his head in expectation of a caress. He was not disappointed.

Feeling the older man’s amused attention upon himself as he affectionately massaged the silken softness of Firefoot’s nose, Éomer looked up, suddenly remembering something the ranger had mentioned earlier that day, and his brow creased in thought.

“This morning, you told me that you were in Rohan before, a long time ago… and that you knew my father. May I ask… may I ask how you met him?”

“I rode with your people for a while,” Aragorn explained, registering Éomer’s surprise and at the same time, sensing the young man’s growing suspicion. “Since my youth, I have been travelling through many countries to learn about the different peoples and their ways. It appears that in these dark times, this kind of knowledge is becoming ever more important in understanding our foes.” He fell silent and his gaze turned distant with memories both fond and fell. “I was not in your father’s éored, but we went to battle together more than once. Although still very young when we met, he was already an extraordinarily skilled warrior and greatly respected by the riders, and I was grieved when I heard of his death.” He smiled as he returned to reality. “I see a lot of him in your appearance and your demeanour: the same pride, the same love for your people and the same determination and unyielding will, and on the plains, I saw the same love and respect for you in the faces of your riders that his men held for him. Marshal Éomund would be proud to see what kind of man his son has become.” He could not be certain in the darkness of the shed, but it seemed to him as if the Rohir’s complexion had darkened in reaction to his words.

It took Éomer a moment to recover from the older man’s high praise, and his voice still sounded strange when he said: “I do what I can. Whatever is in my power to save the Mark from the abyss that is yawning at us, I will do, but whether it will be enough to defeat our enemies I cannot say.”

“If you do not find a way, than nobody will,” Aragorn answered, feeling compassion for the young rider who had been raised under the pressure of having to follow in the footsteps of a great man and who had ultimately risen to the challenge even if he still doubted himself.

“When you rode with our forces,” Éomer then inquired further as something dawned to him from the well of the long distant memories of his early youth, “…did our people know you a under different name perhaps than ‘Aragorn’? I never heard of a stranger with that name riding with our warriors, but often, my father would tell us about the deeds of a Captain of the éoreds not born in the Mark, a man from a far-off land and with dark hair. A man who was unusually skilled at battle and shrewd at reading people although he was much respected for his kindness also.”

“You want to know whether I am Thorongil?” Aragorn asked calmly, his gaze meeting the Rohir’s as he gave him the little nod Éomer had obviously awaited. “Aye. I was known under that name here once.”

Breathless beats of silence passed between the two warriors, the atmosphere suddenly changed. For a moment at a loss for words even if once he had followed his thought, he had unconsciously already guessed the result of his interrogation, Éomer’s smile suddenly broadened, and a new expression of awe and wonder suddenly lit up his features.

“And so at last, the mighty ‘Eagle of the Star’ returns to aid Rohan in its darkest hour. It appears as if Béma has at last heard our prayers. Now there is hope indeed for the Sons of Éorl to brave even this fiercest of storms in the history of the Riddermark.” He stared at the older man, suddenly feeling very young again in the presence of the mighty warrior whose deeds had inspired many of the rousing songs and tales he had grown up with, but before he could continue, the bloodcurdling din of the watchdogs’ alarm rose into the night…

In a heartbeat, Éomer joined Aragorn at the window, ignoring the bolt of pain shooting up his leg as he strained to peer through the small slit of the closed shutters.

"What do you see?" he whispered, aware that Aragorn’s attention was not directed at the path from where they expected the enemy to come, but at the farm.

"The dogs do not bark at something that is coming from our side," the ranger gave back, all senses strained. "Look, their backs are turned on us." He narrowed his eyes and suddenly, all tension fell from him as he beheld the shape of a pale horse in the distance, almost invisible against the snow-covered surroundings. "It is Legolas." The older man exhaled and turned to Éomer, a relieved smile on his face. "It is about time. I began to worry." Again he looked and saw the dark shapes of the others move out of hiding to greet the returning elf.

Following the distant scene with a similar feeling, Éomer silently asked himself why he was still feeling timid if the din had been caused by the return of their comrade, and why, all of a sudden, he found it almost impossible to breathe. It was almost as if the air in the little shed had grown too thick; as if something other than the bandage around his ribs were pressing his lungs together. The atmosphere had changed, shudder after shudder raced down his spine, and even if he had no name for the feeling that had befallen him with frightening intensity, Éomer knew the sensation all too well. His stomach turned into a solid block of ice.

"Éomer?" Puzzled by the young man’s silence, Aragorn shifted his gaze from the scene outside to his comrade – and froze as he stared into wide, dark eyes; the sensation of the abysmal dread he read in the other’s face assaulting him now as well. With all distinctiveness, he felt the short hairs on his neck and forearms rise, and the chill air that slowly filled his lungs suddenly gained the metallic taste of danger as a low sound rose from the back of the shed.

Already knowing what they would see, the two warriors turned toward their horses. Éomer had heard that particular warning uncountable times in his life, and never once had Firefoot been wrong: he didn’t have to see the stallion’s rolling eyes or his flared nostrils sucking in the air in sharp bursts to understand that the enemy was close.

"Sssshh..." he soothed, with a quick step by his steed’s side to lay his hands onto the muscled shoulder. The grey trembled hard. "Giet, Firefoot." His fingers slid down the powerful body just in time to prevent his horse from stomping his hoof and thus alarming the enemy. "Not a sound..." Now he heard or rather felt it, too: the faintest echo of a marching sound, the movement of many heavy bodies in perfect unison; distant but quickly rising in volume. The crunching of the harsh snow that had thawed in the sun and frozen again with the beginning of night underneath their foes’ feet.

Next to him, Aragorn had likewise succeeded in calming Hasufel to the point where he felt confident that the chestnut would not betray their whereabouts with a frightened noise at the wrong time. Both horses were experienced in the art of war and had participated in numerous ambushes. In countless skirmishes, they had learned to unconditionally trust their riders, and though Hasufel had lost his first master not long ago, he had learned to trust Aragorn in the few days he had been carrying the ranger. Convinced that their steeds would remain quiet despite the orcs’ proximity, the Dúnadan and the Rohir turned back toward the window .

"They heard it, too." Aragorn pointed over to where their comrades sought cover behind the barricade they had built, his words but a breath. In Éomer’s gaze and the way that the young man’s gloved hands clenched around the hilt of his sheathed sword, he read the same anxiety over sitting trapped in the small building that he felt himself. They had discussed the details of their stakeout during the afternoon and agreed that with the wind carrying their scent up the mountains behind them, away from the orcs, the risk seemed not exceedingly high. It was time to remember it now.

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn forced himself to calm down. No, their plan was sound. Although the Necromancer’s brood would pass them close by, their attention and powerful senses would be steered away from the shed by the scent of Osred, Halad, Gimli and Legolas – and of Éomer’s blood and sweat-stained old garments they had deposited in the middle of the valley where no cover was to be had and the orcs would make excellent targets for their bows. Involuntarily, he clenched his fingers. Not much longer to wait.

The sound of marching feet was now supplying the background for the guttural grunting of beasts out for blood. The orc-stench preceding the host had grown thick to the point where it no longer took a dog’s or horse’s finer senses to know that the enemy was upon them; a vile cloud in the otherwise clear winter air. Inhaling the putrid reek through his nose in a deep breath, Éomer closed his eyes. This was the moment he knew so well: it separated the warrior from the commoner, and the marshal from the simple rider. Where the frightened man would flee or freeze, the warrior came to life.

The pounding of his heart thunder in his ears, the rush of blood in his veins so loud that it drowned out all other noises, Éomer felt battle-readiness flood his body like hundreds of times before: it was an unstoppable, hot wave saturating his muscles and preparing them for the challenge ahead, while at the same time his mind was overtaken by a great calm and clarity. It did not matter that he had almost died the night before; it did not matter that he was not at his usual strength. When Éomer opened his eyes again, all fear and hesitation had been swept away and been replaced with the cunning and strategic skill of the warrior who had risen to the rank of a marshal faster than any man before him safe Eorl the Young himself.

Through the small gap between two logs he saw them coming; the Uruk-hais’ dark deformed shapes despoiling the perfect whiteness of the snow as they flooded into the valley in single file to came to a halt right in front of the shed. The lazy trail of his frozen breath rose into the air, and out of habit, Éomer waved it away, not even aware of the movement. To his left, Aragorn imitated his gesture, his keen grey eyes surveying the happenings outside, ready to act.

No more than a few steps away, the host of nightmarish creatures huffed and snorted while their luminous yellow eyes swept the narrow valley and the buildings before them; their broad chests rising and falling with each of their deep breaths as they probed the air for signs of the enemy. From the farm, the dogs’ furious barking announced their presence, yet still they bided their time, mistrustful of the otherwise perfect silence. This was not their first raid of a human settlement; experience told them that usually, the farm’s inhabitants exited the buildings to investigate the disturbance, and yet nothing moved. Had the man-things somehow learned of their approach and fled, leaving their stock and even their dogs at the mercy of the fighting Uruk-hai?

The host’s leader, an enormous creature with bulging muscles and a particularly gruesome armour made of human skin and bones, lifted his clawed hand with a sharp grunt; ending the noise. His army now stood as one, a silent, deadly, dark silhouette waiting for the attack signal. With a soundless, fluid movement, Aragorn had an arrow fitted to the string of his bow with the sharp tip pointing through the small gap in the shutters toward the Uruk’s neck.

‘These are more than twenty-five Uruk-hai!' Éomer thought with sudden realisation, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Aragorn’s lips move in a silent curse. Somewhere along the way, another group of Uruk-hai had joined their attackers, and instead of roughly two dozen of these beasts, it appeared as if they were faced with more than forty enemies now, crushing their already slim chances of victory. Even before Éomer could truly fathom the meaning of this discovery for their plan, the lead Uruk suddenly turned his head and stared right at them.

The Rohir froze as gleaming amber eyes met his, neither daring to breathe nor blink. He knew that the orc would be dead upon his first step in their direction, and yet the knowledge did not soothe him. He had seen several crossbows among the creature’s brethren; even if Aragorn killed their leader, they would die in a hail of iron bolts only a moment later. The thin wooden walls could not provide protection against these deadly weapons:

They were still hidden in the darkness of the shed, but what if the creature smelled them?

Although he did not turn his head to see how their horses were taking the challenge, Éomer felt tension mount to the breaking point within their hideout. He could not tell how, but their steeds sensed that the Uruk-hai’s attention was focused upon them, and while battle-experience told them to remain still, it was an uncommon situation for Firefoot and Hasufel to find themselves trapped in a crammed building with no way to flee. It was a violation against a horse’s very nature, and just as Éomer braced for the panicked shriek with which his stallion would bolt and jump against the thin wooden wall that blocked his escape, the great orc outside turned back toward his host, and a clawed finger pointed at the silently waiting farm as he ordered the attack with a bloodcurdling roar. A black avalanche of death, the Uruk-hai descended upon the farm.

The wave of relief surging through his body was almost painful, and with a sharp breath, Éomer closed his eyes.

"That was close," Aragorn voiced his thoughts as he lowered the bow. "I must compliment you on your horses’ training. I have known for a long time that the horses of Rohan have no equal in Middle Earth, but to remain silent under the enemy’s scrutiny while their escape way is blocked is something even I would not have expected from them."

"Their trust in us is strong," was all Éomer said, not deeming it important to mention that it would have ended differently had the orc waited for a moment longer. Aragorn probably knew it himself, and right now, they had more pressing things to do. With a last quick glance through the shutter, he turned to Firefoot and grasped the bridle. "It is time."

Ignoring the older man’s sceptical gaze as he limped toward the exit, Éomer stepped out into the chill night air, for once glad to escape the narrow confines of the shed that could have easily turned into a trap for themselves. From below, the din of the dogs’ alarm and the orcs’ war-cries pierced the night as he climbed into the saddle without his usual grace, mechanically readying his bow as he became a predator himself, ready to deal death.

"Éomer?" Aragorn held out his hand as he directed his own horse alongside Firefoot, and Éomer took it. Their eyes met, and in the ranger’s gaze he read the determination to emerge victorious from this battle despite their lessened chances. "Good hunting, brother!"

"And for you, brother! We’ll teach them to avoid this valley for all times." He pressed Aragorn’s hand, and - feeling infected by the ranger’s show of confidence – burst into a grim smile as he threw his steed around. Together, the two warriors charged down the slope in a white cloud of snow; a different kind of avalanche, but just as deadly...

Chapter 34: The Heart of Darkness

WHITE MOUNTAINS

“It is Legolas!” Despite the torturous tension which had held him in its clutches ever since their guests had returned with the ill news of the likely attack, a heartfelt smile briefly brightened Halad’s features as he beheld the approaching figure on the white horse. Never had he seen a more welcome sight. He made a first step out from behind their shelter, but was beat by Gimli, who stormed toward his brother-in-arms first.

“It is about time, Master Elf!” the dwarf huffed in feigned exasperation, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his relief as he watched his friend dismount. “I was beginning to ask myself whether you really wanted to leave the honour of killing all of that orc-scum solely to me. I should have known you would never be so generous.”

The corners of the elf’s mouth twitched in reaction to the dwarf’s loutish remark, but his gaze already swept the opposite side of the narrow valley. He felt something. And the dogs seemed to sense it, too, for they had stopped barking and stared intently in the same direction, their thick neck-fur rising.

“Are Freya and the others safe?” Osred asked from behind, anxiety colouring his deep voice. Legolas nodded and sent his mount away with a sharp clap on the muscular hindquarters, trusting that the stallion would be intelligent enough to escape the fray. He would not be needed tonight. “Aye, Osred, they are, fear not. They are at your neighbour’s farm as we discussed. We encountered no problems along the way, yet alas, we also saw no signs of a nearby éored. We must assume that we will have to brave this storm by ourselves.” The expressions around him darkened as last hopes were crushed.

“But that there is no need to despair,” Gimli roared defiantly, and his big hand landed forcefully on Halad’s back and making the young man flinch. “Like I said before, on our way here, my friends and I killed a lot more than twenty-five Uruks, and we can certainly repeat this deed tonight. These stinking beasts stand no chance against the Son of Glóin and the mighty Prince of Mirkwood… not to forget the Heir of Elendil! If they knew whom they were up against, they’d turn back right now and--”

“Where is he?” Legolas interrupted his tirade, his brow furrowed as he looked around. “Where is Aragorn? And I don’t see Éomer, either.”

“They are in the fodder-shed over there,” Osred informed him, pointing in the direction. “They thought it would be a good idea to divide our forces... what little there is of it.” He shrugged, and not for the first time, looked back to where the path led further into the mountains. Surely it was not too late to flee yet. Now that the night began to grow old around them, his initial decision to stay and defend their possessions felt increasingly ridiculous to the farmer, all the more as he could not name his reason for partaking in this madness. What did he hope to achieve with this? To win his wife’s respect? By dying? Snorting, he shook his head. No, he had been foolish to stay, but it could not be helped now.

“Aragorn wants you to shoot as many of them as possible before they reach us, while he and Éomer will attack the orcs from behind on horseback divide their forces and confuse them; perhaps even rout them so that we will have to battle fewer of them on foot.” Gimli squared his jaw and winked at Halad, who looked far too pale for his liking. “Not that it matters. Whatever orc reaches us, dies. Right, young master? You know how to slaughter a beast, do you not?”

“Uh...” In search for a suitably enthusiastic response to the dwarf’s optimism, Halad searched for a way to squeeze his voice through his dangerously tightened throat, yet his effort was ruined by the sudden sound of low growling behind them. His insides froze as his head shot around toward the valley entrance. There could be no question that his dogs had picked up the scent of the enemy.

“We will find out very soon,” Legolas said, his voice strangely detached as he followed the young man’s gaze. “Here they come. I can already hear them!”

“Quickly, get let us get the dogs! They are easy targets in their paddock, and we might need their sharp teeth behind the barricade.” Osred motioned his brother-in-law to help him, and together, the two men hurried to retrieve the big wolfhounds, sceptically watched by Gimli.

“I just hope they do not attack us! It’s not as if these dogs would know us from an orc, right? We are as much strangers to them as those beasts. If there is something I cannot afford in this fight, it is a wild thing gnawing at my calf while I’m in the middle of separating orc-heads from the necks they are attached to.”

“I’m sure they can control them.” Legolas said confidently, but his gaze was clouded with concern as his gaze came to rest upon the small building near the valley entrance. “The wind is on our side, but if Aragorn and Éomer are detected while they are trapped in the shed, it will be their doom. I can only hope that their plan works, because we will not be able to help them from here.” His attention shifting back to his dwarfish friend, he unslung his bow. “Come, my friend. Time to get into position. Our advantage of surprise will be ruined if they see us here.” With a quick glance back to where the two farmers had gathered their hounds by the collars and hurried toward them, the elf stepped through the narrow opening between the barn and the ice-wall and knelt next to the small hole from where he would target their attackers, laying his quiver down. A moment later, Gimli, Osred and Halad followed his example and crouched behind the thick wall of ice and wood as they drew their weapons. As Osred’s command silenced the dogs, the world suddenly became very quiet.

All senses strained, men, dwarf and elf listened into the night.

“There they are…” Legolas breathed, and as the others gathered around the small hole to catch a glimpse of the enemy, they, too, beheld the dark crest of the hill opposite their position. At first, it was only a shadow and they had to strain to make out movement, but now the breeze carried the low grunting of the creatures over to them as well as a cloud of putrid stench. Anxiety threating to overwhelm him, Halad turned brusquely away from the sight and squeeze his eyes shut; his hands trembling so violently that he almost dropped his sword.

“Oh Béma…” he gasped, only now realising with frightening clarity what he had himself gotten into by agreeing to stay. Brave words were one thing; brave deeds something altogether different. It was not like in the dreams of his youth, where the monsters he had often dreamt of as a child disappeared once he opened his eyes. These beasts were real, and they would not hesitate to bite off his head if he failed. With a long, trembling breath, Halad realised that it was too late to change his decision; he would have to try his best and hope to survive the night…a brave thought that was ruined by the blood-curdling screams the wind suddenly carried toward them as the foul creatures stormed down the path toward them. Beside him, the elf uttered a word he did not understand, but the forceful pronunciation left no doubt that the ancient being had cursed. It did nothing to improve his mood.

“They are more than twenty-five!” Legolas exclaimed. “Many more! They must have met with another group since we left them.” The first arrow fitted to the string, Legolas took aim. His quiver held twenty arrows, and if they wanted to retain half a chance of surviving, he’d have to make each of them count.

“It will not help them!” Gimli growled, patting his axe in obvious anticipation. Again he winked at Halad and Osred, who both looked frightened beyond belief and silently wondered whether the dwarf was not, in fact, stark raving mad to look forward to the slaughtering. “Come on, lads, we will give them a good beating! Have courage!” Over the tip of Legolas arrow, he caught sight of the ferocious dark flood coming toward them with the force of a rock slide and swallowed. “Well, at least there are enough for all of us.” The sharp sound of the arrow being released interrupted him, and a heartbeat later, an anguished roar pierced the night as the first Uruk fell.

His hands moving almost too fast for the eye to follow, Legolas repeated the move, and another orc stumbled and did not stand up again, but despite the success, the elf shook his head in frustration as he speedily fitted another arrow to the string.

“They are advancing too fast! Be prepared, they will be upon us soon!”

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

The cold air bit into the naked skin of Éomer’s face and the wind roared in his ears as Firefoot charged down the slope like a grey demon. Forgotten was the instinctive fear that had gripped the stallion in the confines of the crammed shed; now he was a war-horse once again; bred and trained to intercept the enemy at all costs, and with each of his widening leaps the distance to the band of orcs dwindled. To his left on the other side of the path, Hasufel and Aragorn charged toward the enemy in a parallel line, and the ranger already reached for the first arrow while the Uruk-hai stormed unsuspectingly toward the farm. They had not been detected yet, the army’s onslaught was too loud to make out the hoof-beats of only two horses on the dampening snow.

Advantage was still on their side, even if the Uruks moved fast. With a much-practised gesture that had long become second nature to him, Éomer reached over his back. For a moment, he feared to let go of the reins. It would be a challenge to remain in the saddle only with the strength of his thighs despite his injury once Firefoot started his evasive manoeuvres while he aimed at the enemy, but with a vigorous effort, he shoved his doubts aside. He had no other choice.

Enraged roar rose into the night as the first Uruk fell under Legolas’ assault, but the rest stormed on unperturbed, already having covered more than half the distance that separated them from the barricade from where they were being attacked. The second one fell, again without slowing the enemy down. Gods, they were moving too fast! How were they supposed to diminish the enemy’s numbers significantly before they reached the elf and the others? Swinging Firefoot around with a slight shift of his body weight, Éomer took aim and sent his first arrow into the swirling dark crowd of beasts. A furious growl rewarded him, and then another Uruk stumbled when its neck was pierced by Aragorn’s shot.

“Forth Éorlingas!” The cry had left Éomer’s throat before he could stop it, and even as he reached for the next arrow, he could see the effect on the enemy as their charge came to an abrupt halt.

“Riders!” a guttural voice grunted, barely understandable. “Riders from behind! Watch out!” Simultaneously, two more orcs collapsed from hits to the chest and neck while a third one roared in pain when its shoulder was pierced.

“Run!” the leader bellowed, motioning furiously. “Do not stand still! Crossbows, to me!”

“There are only two riders, no host! Kill them!”

Kicking his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, Éomer held on as the grey jumped into action. They had been spotted; now the real fight began. “Do your dance, my friend,” he mumbled under his breath, already aiming at the first Uruk which raised its weapon toward him. Setting his trust in his horse, Éomer gave the stallion his head. “Hiya!”

He loosened the arrow and then held on tightly as Firefoot broke to the left, a bolt passing by his ear so close that he felt the rush of air. Not lingering to see the damage he had inflicted, Éomer reached for the next just as the first wave of Uruk-hai surged against the barricade.

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

“Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd ai-mênu!” With a war-cry, Gimli swung his axe against the first claw reaching over the wall, severing it with a spurt of black blood even as with a crunching noise, the two-tipped blade of a crude long-sword embedded itself in the ice before his face. Beside him, Legolas loosened his last arrow at the enemy and then unsheathed his White Knives to enter the fray as well. From all sides now, their shelter was assaulted, and already the first Uruk fought to squeeze its massive frame through the narrow gap between barn and barricade. It was intercepted by Fang and Ossa, as the two wolfhounds shook off Halad’s grip and sank their teeth into the fleshy leg intruding their territory.

Roaring, the orc lashed out at its attackers with a clawed hand, brushing aside the first hound and flinging it back as if it were no more than a wet cloth, but suddenly its eyes bulged as a wooden spear was thrust through its unarmoured middle, and a flood of black spilled from its gaping mouth.

“Die, filth!” Osred shouted as he drove the spear further in with his entire body weight; his chest feeling as if it would explode from the violent beating of his heart. The horrible fire in the creature’s eyes flickered and then died as the orc collapsed and cleared the way for the next one behind it, which had already lifted its crossbow.

“Down, Osred!” Halad yelled, now likewise on his feet and slashing furiously at the arm grasping for him over the wall, and the next moment, the thick iron bolt disappeared in the piled logs on the other side of their shelter. Not bothering to reload as it would take too long, the orc cleared the opening with a quick movement and swung his sword. By reflex, the young farmer caught it with his own blade, deflecting it, but the sheer power of the strike knocked the hilt from his hand and him back into the barricade with the Uruk charging after him. “Gimli!”

But the dwarf was already on his way, his battle-axe scything in a deadly half-circle through the air and knocking the Uruk’s sword to the side. Faster to recover from the clash of arms, Gimli pivoted, and his strike found the big orc unprepared and cut a deep gash across its middle. Its anguished roar was cut short by the thrust of a sword deep into its gaping maw. More surprised than anything else, yellow eyes stared at Halad as the young farmer retracted the blade, stunned by his violent deed.

“Very well, young Master!” Gimli laughed, already lashing out at the next foe. “For you to have been so afraid only moments ago, you show remarkable talent with the blade! Come, let’s teach the scum some manners!”

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

Firefoot was in his element, dancing on the slippery white surface with a surefootedness that knew no equal in the Land of Horses. Again and again he evaded the bolts that were shot at them, anticipating the enemy’s every move with his head held high and his tail flowing on the wind, mocking his foes. Yet the time had come for an even more dangerous game, Éomer thought grimly as he loosened his last arrow into the group of Uruks that had started toward him in an attempt to cut off his path. Not as fast as horses, the big orcs were nonetheless faster than any human and skilled at the particular hunting method they employed now. A brief glance over their heads established that another group had also fanned out to encircle Aragorn, and Hasufel, an experienced war-horse himself but in no way as skilled as Firefoot, slipped precariously as he tried to evade them. They were chasing him further and further up the steep hill, and it was only a question of time until he would lose his footing upon the ice.

His lips a grim line, Éomer dropped his now useless bow and unsheathed his sword, trying to ignore its unfamiliar light weight as he raced toward the creature to his far left which had a small advantage on its brethren in the pursuit. Upon his command, his stallion stretched beneath him, hooves hammering the ground as they raced toward the Uruk who drew its long blade back over the shoulder in anticipation, not seeing itself at a disadvantage.

“Come, manling!” it roared, yellow eyes sparkling with infernal fire as it lashed out. Yet just before the blade could cut through the horse’s flesh, Firefoot rammed his legs into the ground and reared. Unbalanced by his miss, the orc stumbled and with a sickening noise, the stallion’s hooves landed on the creature’s head, shattering it. Then, without pausing, the grey jumped into a gallop again without transition, just in time to evade another sword strike from behind as their enemies closed in on them. Wild triumph in his voice, he broke through the almost closed circle and once again gained an advantage on their pursuers.

“Well done, Grey One,” Éomer praised, briefly bending over to pat the upper part of Firefoot’s neck in acknowledgment before he looked over to the other side of the valley. “Aragorn!”

It appeared that his brother-in-arms was likewise in danger of being trapped by the cleverly moving Uruk-hai, and unlike Firefoot, who revelled in a fight once it had begun, Hasufel was less sure of himself and by now close to panicking, his rear hooves slipping and sliding on the icy slope onto which he had been chased. Aragorn, too, seemed to experience increasing problems in keeping his enemies at bay. His sword was too long for the fighting from horseback, and he had to hold back if he did not want to accidentally decapitate his stallion with one of his strikes. When at last, the ring around him closed, the ranger slid from his steed’s back to continue the fight on foot. His first violent hit felled the enemy closest to him, and yet Éomer could see that even considering the considerable skill the Dúnadan displayed in the battle, the ranger would be hard-pressed to repel by himself the onslaught of the eight creatures still surrounding him.

Viciously, the Rohir kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, and what he had almost deemed impossible happened: Firefoot accelerated. Like a snowstorm, he flew over the ground in a white cloud of whirling snow, diminishing the distance with each of his mighty leaps.

“Hold out, Aragorn!” Éomer yelled. “I am coming!”

Upon his cry, several orc-heads turned in his direction, and another creature was felled when the Heir of Elendil used the deadly mistake for a surprising lunge. Furiously, they turned back, undecided whom to give their full attention, and the moment of hesitation cost them dearly as Aragorn lashed out just when his nearest foes shrank back from the onslaught of the approaching rider. Caught between the hammer and the anvil, three more of Saruman’s brood fell in the coordinated attack of the two human warriors, and the rest turned on their tails and fled head over heals toward the main body of their army.

With a shift of his weight, Éomer turned Firefoot around and brought him to a halt before the heavily breathing ranger. The ranger gave him a grateful nod as he looked up.

“I thank you, brother. That was close. Hasufel is a good horse, but he does not like these conditions.” Having spotted the skittish chestnut further behind, he clicked his tongue. Éomer followed his gaze and saw that – despite the just made frightening experience – the stallion was willing to return by himself. He turned back to Aragorn.

“Alas, I fear you are right. I remember now that Garulf, his former master, once complained about his uncertainty on snow. I am sorry for not having a better horse for you.” He lifted his head, his brow creasing as he beheld the dark wave of bodies assaulting the barrier behind which the others had taken cover, and cursed. “We killed so many of them, and yet their strength seems hardly affected by it. Do you have any arrows left?”

“None.” Quickly, Aragorn swung into the saddle again. “The rest will have to be done by sword, even if Anduril is not suited for the fighting on horseback. Come, let’s help our friends before it is too late.”

They spurred their steeds, but as the two warriors raced toward the hostile army once again, their hope shifted into doubt…

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

“Gimli! Gimli, help! I cannot hold them any longer! Quick!”

“Down, lad!” With a bright sound, the dwarf’s axe intercepted the blade descending on Halad. Sparks flew, and yet as the young man crawled back, half-numbed by a blow of a huge fist to the head, he saw two more orcs bearing down on the valiant little warrior, and another strike hit the dwarf square on the chest. “Gimli!”

He struggled to regain his feet and came to a shaky stand just as Gloin’s son stumbled back with a grunt, closely followed by the three creatures who had assaulted him. Their precious wall of ice and wood had been hacked to pieces and effectively torn down to the point where almost no further protection was to be had from it, and everywhere Halad looked gleaming yellow eyes and glistening fangs jumped toward them. They were losing this battle.

Instinctively, he lashed out at another hand grasping for him, but then stumbled over the body of a dead orc and dropped his sword while his attacker jumped with a triumphant roar over the remainders of their barricade.

“Back, Halad!” he suddenly heard a breathless voice next to him, and a heartbeat later, he was pushed aside as Legolas intercepted the beast with whirling blades. Another orc was felled, but what good was it when their number seemed hardly diminished yet and all of his comrades were already bleeding? A crunching noise behind him made him spin around just in time to see that two of the large blocks their wall had consisted of were torn away by another group of orcs, the breach now wide enough for the creatures to come at them in greater numbers.

Strangely, he felt no more fear. It had been clear from the beginning that their chances of survival were slim, and now that they were in the process of being overtaken, acceptance of his fate filled the young farmer even as he stooped to pick up the last of their wooden spears. He had done what he could; he had fought as bravely as could be expected of him, and he hoped that his father would welcome him with pride in the next realm. Together with Osred, he thrust the spear at the first orc, skewering it through the gut, but its place was quickly taken by two more of its brethren.

“Out! Out! Seek shelter in the buildings; we cannot stay here! Stay together!” A violent push sent Halad reeling, and suddenly, he found himself outside the barricade.

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

“Ai Elbereth!” To his left, Aragorn’s voice cut through the pounding of his heart as Éomer ducked on Firefoot’s back, and with a brief glance, the Rohír saw the ranger jump from his steed’s back to attack the foes who had gathered around a gap in the barricade to assault the desperately fighting men within. Two collapsed in headless heaps before the Uruk-hai had registered that they were being attacked from behind, but Éomer could not follow his brother’s charge because he was now within reach of the enemy himself. Although by now feeling drained of most of his strength, he lashed out and half-separated an ugly, black head from its neck, while Firefoot’s shoulder rammed the hapless beast to the ground.

A wild cry of defiance broke from Éomer, a war-cry that turned the heads of the enemies before him and successfully diverted their attention from the outmatched warriors behind the broken barricade. Yet it appeared that his strategy had been too successful: even in his stallion’s abrupt break to the side, a vicious claw raked over Firefoot’s shoulder, unbalancing the stallion, and with a scream, the grey crashed to the ground. Years of practise sent Éomer into a controlled fall clearing his horse’s bulk before he could be buried underneath it, but whereas his skill would normally have him landing on his feet, his injured leg gave way. With a pained grunt, he fell back even as the first orcs stormed toward him, the pain in his thigh and his side so severe it robbed him of his breath.

“Kill him! Kill the strawhead!”

“He is the one! Kill him!”

Fighting the wave of nausea that assaulted him, Éomer propped his hands against the ground, and his gaze darted frantically over the ground. Where was his sword? From the corner of his eye, he saw the nearest Uruk raise his crossbow at him with a gleeful snarl and froze. It was over.

For a moment, Éomer saw over the raised crossbow the promise of his own death in the eyes of the beast, and his lungs expanded with the last breath he knew he would ever take, the air bittersweet with the taste of farewell… and then he flinched at the sharp sound of the bolt being released. His eyes closed, he waited for the punch to his chest or head, but it was the Uruk who fell as he looked up again, the fire in its eyes extinguished. With surreal clarity, Éomer saw it grasp for the arrow-shaft that suddenly protruded from the pit of its throat, dropping its own weapon. The impact of the crossbow on the ground loosed the bolt, which dug itself into the ground, then the creature’s knees buckled and it collapsed with a gargling sound, dead before it hit the snow. Unable to comprehend what had happened, Éomer turned his head to see an innumerable number of riders race toward them. Before him, the remaining Uruk-hai paused.

The thunder of the charging éored drowned out the dismayed shouts, and from one moment to the next, the Uruk-hai realised that the tables had abruptly turned.

Relentless attack abruptly shifted into a panicked rout as the great orcs stormed toward the ice-covered slopes in hope to make it to safety, but the Rohirrim bore down upon them with the crushing force of a rockslide. More than half of the Uruk-hai perished in the hail of spears and arrows of the first attack, and their anguished roars echoed from the mountains. The wounded were ridden down without mercy, and as the riders turned like a flock of birds in a big half circle to return and finish their work, it was clear to all that that the nightly assault on the farm had failed. Once more, the thunder of the Rohirrim came upon the orcs, and then all noise died down when the last foe had been slain.

Still on the ground, Éomer watched as the riders’ leader directed his horse over to him, and he tensed despite better knowledge. The Armed Forces were under orders to kill him if they found him still within the Mark. What would they do now, and who was leading those men? Was it Elfhelm? Somehow, even though he felt that it would make no difference, Éomer was determined to throw in his full authority as an ex-marshal of the Mark, and as such, it would not do to encounter those riders in a diminished position. With the last reserve of his will and strength, he made it to his feet, although he could hardly put any weight upon his injured leg. A brief gaze confirmed that Firefoot was likewise on his legs again, even if he was heavily favouring his left foreleg, and behind the barricade which had been hacked to bits, he saw the fair head of Legolas, and behind him, Aragorn. The others Éomer could not see, but now there was no more time left to see how Osred, Halad and the dwarf were faring, because the leading rider had reached him and reined in his horse not even three steps away.

Éomer recognised the sleek, black stallion immediately, but the tension still refused to leave him as he looked up at the Half-Dunlending in the saddle, involuntarily squaring his shoulders.

“I am relieved to see you, Thor. You came just in time, as always. The battle was just about to turn ill for us.”

“We would have been here hours ago had we not been delayed by an avalanche,” the young man said, his expression guarded. “We were already hard on the orcs’ tracks, so I suppose that the snow slide was their doing.” His gaze travelled over the still bodies oozing blackness into the snow, and a disdainful expression crept into his features. “It did not help them. But I still wish we could have spared you entirely from their attack.” He eyed Éomer closer, and his brow creased with concern before he slid from the saddle. “It is a great relief for us to have found you alive, Lord Éomer. We had been searching for you for the last two days, and were beginning to fear the worst.” He nodded. “Tolgor will tend your wounds. How serious are they?”

“Not too serious. They were already tended by someone who knows his craft,” Éomer replied, his eyes briefly wandering over where he had last seen Aragorn. “I may not be able to walk too well, but I will live.” And at last, his knees surrendered under the combined attack of relief and fatigue as all tension left him, and he landed unceremoniously on his behind in the snow. So his riders were still with him. Finally he had confirmation of what Théodred had been so confident about. But then again, Théodred has only been in his head. “But I don’t know about my friends.” He lifted his chin to look past the kneeling Halfblood before him. “Halad? Osred? Where are you? Gimli?”

“They are here!” Aragorn’s voice rang out from behind their improvised ice-wall. “Halad and Gimli are well, but Osred is wounded.” His words sent a bolt of alarm through Éomer.

“Is it serious?” He tried to push himself up again and was helped to his feet by Thor and another rider.

“Lord Éomer, you are wounded yourself,” the young scout said with a frown as he beheld the blood on Éomer’s face and leg. “Should we not help you into the house and--”

“All that could be done about it has already been done,” Éomer dismissed him and took a first, tentative step, hissing at the silver bolt shooting up his leg. “A little pain won’t kill me. I need to know how the others are faring before I can rest.” He looked at the Halfblood. “But I fear that I’ll need your help.” His former brother-in-arms looked bewildered at his former commander’s almost begging tone. Apparently, Éomer still did not view their loyalty as a given. Did the son of Éomund still doubt them?

“You have it, of course. And please, Marshal, believe me when I say this on behalf of my entire éored, and even more, for all the riders under Captain Elfhelm’s command: you are still our commander and the man we will follow until the end; whether it may be good or bad, and no matter what the orders from Edoras say. We know where they are coming from these days. It is you in whom our people trust, my Lord. The Eastmark stands behind you. I just want you to know that.” Blushing from his own words, the usually shy and quiet young man cast down his gaze as he saw the moved expression in his commander’s eyes. It could not be that the proud, wilful Marshal Éomer of Aldburg was close to tears just because of he had said, could it?

And yet, as Éomer’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and the man gave him a silent, appreciative nod, Thor could see that it was so, and that Éomer’s thanks were given in this silent manner because he did not know how to fit his voice through the lump that had formed in his throat. Embarrassed to have caught his commander in such an emotional state, the Halfblood shifted his attention to his own men instead: “Dismount. Pile the carcasses and burn them, but do it a good distance away from the buildings. We do not need for the poor people to have the remains of that filth on their doorstep.”

“Aye, Captain!” several voices answered him, and the riders immediately busied themselves with tying ropes to the bodies of the slaughtered Uruk-hai and dragging them to a place on the far side of the valley.

No longer paying them attention, Éomer limped over to where Aragorn had disappeared, first stopping where his stallion stood with hanging head, his left foreleg raised. From the hoof, dark drops had already discoloured the snow, and Éomer’s stomach dropped as he reached for the horse’s head, carefully asking his animal ally to turn so that he could see the damage done.

“Ssshh, Big One,” he soothed, gently caressing the horse’s brow as his concerned gaze found the three parallel gashes in Firefoot’s muscular shoulder. “It is all right. It’s over. We made it.” He reached out to touch the bloodied hide next to the wound, and the stallion’s skin twitched underneath his fingers. “It is still bleeding, but hopefully, it is only a flesh wound,” Éomer mumbled to no one particular, rubbing the horse’s cheek. It pained him to see his stallion in such a state, but it could not be helped, Firefoot would have to wait. “I’ll be right back.” He hated to leave the creature which had insured his survival so many times over the last few days, but there was someone even more important now he had to look after. Squeezing himself through the broadened gap in the barricade, Éomer finally discovered Aragorn kneeling next to Osred, who sat against the barn wall and seemed to be deadly pale even in the darkness. The ranger looked up, and the expression of his grey eyes was concerned.

“How bad is it?” Summoning what was left of his strength, Éomer limped over. Please, not Osred. If Freya’s husband died or would be permanently crippled because of his decision to seek shelter here, he would never forgive himself.

“It’s a deep cut on his shoulder and chest,” the Dúnadan said quietly, his hands with which he kept pressure on the wound slick with blood. “I do not think any organs were damaged, but we need to get him into the house at once.”

“He saved me,” a very anxious Gimli added from the other side. “I was in a melee with three orcs, and another one I had not noticed had sneaked up on me from behind. Osred intercepted him and took the strike himself.” The dwarf swallowed and shook his head as he looked down upon the wounded man. “That was a very brave thing to do, Master Osred, and yet I wish you didn’t do it... at least not for me. We were here to help you, not the other way round.”

The farmer’s eyes were squeezed closed against the pain, but now he opened them to look at the son of Gloin.

“You are the better fighter. Without you, we would have had no chance. I was nowhere near as important.” He hissed and grimaced, and in his eyes, Éomer read the continuation of his thought, even if the farmer did not speak it. ‘Not even my wife cares whether I live or die.’

“You should not speak so,” Éomer said more forcefully than he had intended, simultaneously dismayed and angered by the older man’s self-disdain. “You fought as bravely and as well as the others, or there wouldn’t be so many dead orcs lying around. Even if our éored had not arrived, those orcs were paying a high price for their boldness, and that is your merit just as well as everybody else’s.” Osred’s hate-filled gaze pierced him without warning, and while Éomer never shrank away from such a challenge, the sudden hostility in the farmer’s pained eyes silenced him. What had he done to deserve such reaction? It had not been his idea to remain here; nor had he ordered Osred to stay. Was he being held responsible for the man’s injury now?

Noticing the sudden tension between the two Rohirrim but refraining from commentating on it, Aragorn looked at his elven friend: “He is losing too much blood. Legolas, help you please help me to carry him to the house?”

“I want to help, too!” Gimli stepped forward. “After all, it was my life he saved with his brave foolishness!” And he hurried to help the farmer to his feet. Together, man, elf and dwarf supported Osred on the way to the main house, and with a last questioning glance at the young Rohir, Aragorn turned away. It became very quiet. His head reeling with the memory of the farmer’s hostile gaze, Éomer turned to Thor. He needed to keep a clear head, all the more as he slowly felt his own reserves wane. There were still so many things to think of, so many things to organise before he could even begin to consider getting any rest himself. Somehow, it felt as if this night would never end.

“Aye. Do you want him to assist your friend? But what about you? You look as if you could use his help, too.”

“I can wait. Send him over to the house, they will need him there.” Unwilling to say more, Éomer shifted his attention back to the only other remaining witness of the nightly attack, and his frown deepened even more. “Halad…” His insides twisted into a painful knot as he met eyes with Freya’s little brother, seeing behind the shape of the young man in front of him the face of the little lad who had turned to him in that fateful night of the war-attack. Sitting in the snow before the barn, huddled and hugging himself, Halad’s thin body shook so violently that Éomer felt a sudden strong bout of self-loathing for ever having directed his steps toward the farm. He had brought those poor people nothing but misery, and if things went ill, his selfish search for refuge would leave the woman he cared for widowed, and her brother shocked for life. Once again he turned back to Thor, who still waited patiently behind him.

“Thor, could you please bring Firefoot into the barn? The door is still chained, but Osred should have the key for the lock. And tell someone to boil water; his wounds need to be cleaned.”

“Aye. I’ll do that at once.” It was clear to the young Half-Dunlending that his commander wanted to be left alone with the terrified young man, and so he followed his order without further question. Grateful for the scout’s decency, Éomer stepped forward, feeling awful as he looked into the tear-streaked face of Freya’s brother. “Halad, please… it is over. We made it. All of us.” How to get down with just one good leg? He managed it less than gracefully by unceremoniously dropping into the snow, hissing at the pain and laying an arm round the younger man in a brotherly gesture. Pulling him closer. “Osred will recover; I promise you that.” He asked himself how he could make such a promise if he did not even know about the seriousness of the farmer’s wound, but it was clear that Halad needed something more than comfort now. “Aragorn healed me, and he will heal Osred as well. He will not let him die.” But he knew that this was only part of the problem.

“I know.” Halad nodded, averting his eyes. But what he saw to his right did nothing to calm him down, and he hid his face behind a trembling hand. Following his gaze, Éomer saw the mutilated remains of the family’s wolfhounds, and he shook his head. He knew how much Halad loved all his animals. Silently, he pulled the young man closer against his shoulder.

With a pitiful cross between a sob and a laugh, Freya’s brother lifted his head: “No. No, it is I who is sorry. Béma, what a sorry excuse for a warrior I am! All these years when you taught me swordplay, I filled your ears about wanting to fight, and now that I finally had the opportunity, I behave like an old woman!” He laughed unhappily while the tears streamed over his face. Although it pained him, Éomer looked him straight in the eye, indicating to the young man that he meant every word.

“No, Halad. I am proud of you. You fought bravely. Most would have fled long before those orcs would have arrived.”

“What does it matter?” Halad sniffled, unable to look at the warrior he had always regarded as his brother; as the man he wanted to prove himself to. “Perhaps I did, but look at me now! This is not what a warrior should behave like after the battle. I have never seen a rider weep, or shiver with fright. I am a disgrace.”

“And you would be wrong, for I have seen both, and repeatedly so,” Éomer objected forcefully. “And I do not speak only of young, inexperienced riders. During the fight, we may be brave, and we may be hard against our enemies, but once the slaughter is over, we have to pay the price for our deeds, too. We weep for our fallen friends, and for the horses we lost, and we fear for the injured. We are not beyond compassion or fear, Halad. These are the very emotions which make us human, after all. Without them, we would be like them; mindless beasts. Orcs.” He nodded at the bodies strewn around them and fell silent. The lad was still trembling. “Do you want to know what I did after my first fight?”

His eyes still glistening with wetness, Halad looked at him questioningly, as if he could not believe that the man he had thought of as invincible and unshakeable could be any different than his imagination had always painted him.

“I retched.” A wry grin tugged at Éomer’s mouth as he remembered. Years ago, there had been nothing comical about the situation, at least not to him. But perhaps its recapitulation helped in lightening up the shivering bundle of misery in his arms.

“Have I ever lied to you?” Éomer paused, and when Halad remained silent, continued: “Most of the young riders do it upon their first kill. Years back, our éored had planned an ambush on a host of orcs in rocky terrain. Éothain and I were deemed too young to fight, so we were ordered to stay behind to guard the horses. Unfortunately, on the way there we had caught the attention of three orcs ourselves, and when the others left, they came to steal them. They had not seen us among the horses.”

“Éothain killed one of them from a distance, and then we had to fight the other two at close quarters. I gutted mine.” Éomer grimaced as he remembered the spill of blackness onto his garments, the creature’s shriek and the terrible stench. “Even though I should have been proud over my first kill, trust me when I tell you that it was one of the most horrible experiences of my life. I was green and still spilling my breakfast and all the meals I had had that week when the others returned.” A sarcastic twitch pulled the corner of his mouth upward. “Having the entire éored laugh at me did not make it better, but at least it helped to calm my stomach. I did not want to be their object of ridicule for longer than absolutely necessary, so I stopped. But I did it again after the next fight … and then I had learned to control it. But I never liked the killing. It is but a necessary evil we cannot avoid if we want to prevail.”

Encouragingly, Éomer patted Halad’s shoulder, noticing that his little diversion had been successful. A little colour had returned to the young man’s face. “I do not know how many of them you killed, but you were very, very brave, Halad. Fléadwyn and your sisters will not believe their ears when I tell them how bravely you fought. You have all the makings of a great warrior, but I am glad that you did not choose that path. One pays for it, one way or another.” He did not elaborate even when he felt another questioning glance upon himself, and then sagged against the barn wall when all strength suddenly left him. For a moment, the world turned before his eyes.

“Éomer?” Now it was Halad’s turn to look concerned. With a weak smile, Éomer gestured that there was nothing to be worried.

“I am just tired.” He looked up into the sky and found that the moon had wandered a good distance over the horizon since last he had looked. “It is hardly a wonder. It cannot be long until dawn anymore. I firmly believe that it is time for the two of us to get some rest… but there is something left to do, first.” With a last squeeze, he took his hand from the young man’s shoulder. “Better?” He was rewarded with a tentative nod, and his heart flowed over with love and respect for the courageous lad. “I know I have asked much of you already tonight, but will you do me one more favour, please? Only if you are not too exhausted yourself, but you are the only one who could help me with this, and I would greatly appreciate it.”

“See after Firefoot?” The request brightened Halad’s gaunt features. “Aye, of course. I do not believe he will let anyone else handle him.”

“I will do it myself, but I will need your help. He did more for me these past days than I can ever repay. I owe him that.” Turning his head, Éomer tried to see through the gaps in the ice-wall where Thor had disappeared to. “Now all I need is someone to help me get up…”

Elfhelm had no way of knowing how late it was. Since they had been thrown into the eternal darkness of the mountain, his sense of time had suffered a quick death, and the only indication of the time he had spent chained up against the wall were his growing thirst and hunger. He assumed that the night had passed, but that it would still take a few more long hours until the Worm and his henchmen would return to resume their torment of them. Elfhelm felt angered by the discovery that deep down inside, he was waiting for them to come back with water and food, even if he knew that he would not get any of it if Éowyn heeded his words. He wished her to, and on the other hand, especially the thirst was getting increasingly harder to ignore. His throat hurt, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and the pounding headache had even worsened in the course of the long hours he had spent without nourishment. Dying of thirst was an ugly death and he did not look forward to it, but still it would be better to triumph in death than see Éomer’s sister humiliated because of him.

Involuntarily, Elfhelm straightened from the slumped position he had hung in for the better part of the night, momentarily succeeding in taking the strain off his hurting shoulders. The iron bands around his wrists had cut into the flesh, and his arms – outstretched in a most unnatural position above his head– had gone from excruciating pain to numbness hours ago. It was a state he preferred to the previous, but the sensation ended at his shoulders which throbbed under the enormous strain of having to hold his entire body weight, as his legs had likewise given out. From time to time, Elfhelm tried to force some feeling back into his feet, but his efforts had been to no avail. Again, the moment of relief was short-lived when his strength deserted the warrior, and he dropped back into his former agonising position, groaning as he did so. ‘And this is only the beginning!’ he thought. ‘Stop wailing like an old woman!’ It would get much worse than he felt now, and he prayed that he would be able to hide the true extent of his suffering from the King’s niece for as long as possible:

Éowyn... that she should have to witness the horrors of the dungeon was without question the most terrible aspect of the Worm’s plan. Narrowing his eyes as he lifted his head to squint past the flickering light of the torch into the darkness of the opposite cell, Elfhelm cursed at their adversary’s deviousness. While Wormtongue had decided to let Gamling and Céorl suffer in the dark, he had been adamant to keep the torches in their corridor lit at all times, and it was easy to see the purpose behind his order: He wanted Éowyn to witness all stages of her protector’s deteriorating state in order to break her more easily. So, if he wanted to avoid causing yet more anguish to Éomer’s sister than she already felt in the wake of the last evil events, Elfhelm knew that he could not afford to relinquish control even for a single moment for as long as the White Lady was awake. The effort was draining, and though possessed of a fierce will, the warrior feared that his strength would not suffice to stay in control for much longer. And yet he would sooner kill himself than be the reason for Éowyn’s surrender.

With a low moan, Elfhelm’s head sank onto his chest again. Who did he think he was fooling? Certainly not Marshal Éomund’s smart daughter. As his weary gaze found back to the lithe figure on the bare wooden cot, his insides clenched into a tight knot at the sight of her restless shifting. However tight her control on her emotions was while Éowyn was awake, in sleep there was no escape from the demons that hunted her, and her choked, anguished sobs and the trail of glistening tears on her face made Elfhelm feel his absolute powerlessness more distinctly than ever before. What hope was there left for them? Or for their entire people, for that matter? If the army Wormtongue had announced was really as vast as he had led them to believe, it would crush their weakened and reduced kinsmen underneath their feet, and without warning… what could they do? The defence of the city was by now left in Éothain’s hands, and while the son of Céorl was an able leader of the Armed Forces, Elfhelm feared that not even Éomer’s unlikely return would result in victory.

Éomer… Not wanting to imagine what evil fate had befallen the wilful young man he had taken underneath his wing and helped on the path of becoming one of the Mark’s most valiant warriors ever, Elfhelm shut his eyes. It would be foolish to deny any longer that everything was falling to pieces around them. Perhaps it was time to spend the last hours of his life thinking of something positive for a change; of someone kind and beautiful, someone giving and warm. Someone who would be waiting once again in vain for her Loved One to return. The sudden realisation of what his death would mean to Freela destroyed the comforting feeling her image had evoked in Elfhelm, and instead of the loving expression he had envisioned upon her freckled, delicately cut face, he now saw the pain in her eyes once she understood that she had lost the second man she had loved, too.

"Oh Freela…" he whispered as desperation finally overwhelmed him. "I am so sorry…" But only the rats heard him.

The sun had barely begun its ascent into the pale grey sky, and yet already the city was already bursting with activity as all of its inhabitants were eagerly seeing to the various tasks appointed to them. For a fleeting moment, Éothain felt a vague flutter of hope as he stood in the market square to supervise their efforts. After a long conversation with his captains, their strategy had emerged and he had summoned the citizens in the market square to instruct them on the measures he meant to take in the light of the last events. To his surprise and pride, there had been next to no protest even if the course of action they had decided upon seemed daring.

Now one the two groups into which they had divided the citizens was eagerly preparing Edoras for an assault, while the other, smaller one turned every stone and leaf in search for the secret tunnel into Meduseld. While Éothain watched them, he could not shake the feeling that his kinsmen felt actually relieved that the siege of fear and mistrust Gríma Wormtongue had imposed on them had ended and that they were allowed to act against those who tormented them now. Nodding his confirmation to a group of men and women dragging heavy carts with supplies into the upper reaches of the hill where they would not easily become a victim of fires, Éothain felt a surge of pride. Yes, the kinsmen were afraid, and yet they had decided not to run. They trusted him to steer them safely through yet another of fate’s hard tests and supported him as best they could with their very own brand of Rohirric pragmatism. While he watched, weapons were stored at strategic places all along the wooden fence that surrounded the city and yet more were being manufactured, and the gates strengthened and fortified. In another few hours, Edoras would be ready for battle.

And yet doubt remained while Éothain watched as wooden planks and iron plates were hammered into place. Had he made the right decision, or would they pay a high price for staying here and not make for Dunharrow instead? The stronghold in the mountains was almost impregnable and would offer their people better chances at survival in case of an attack, and yet Éothain had dismissed the notion as soon as it had hit him because leaving would mean surrender. It would mean handing over triumph to the Worm without a fight, and it would mean deserting their King and Éowyn and his father. How could he leave while there was no certainty that his father was dead? Sooner would he try to sneak into Meduseld through the secret tunnel if they ever found it, and fight his way through all of the Worm’s guards until he had either freed his father or found him killed by Gríma’s minions. No, running from the enemy was out of the question, and with relief, Éothain had found that their people felt the same. For better or worse, they would make their stand here and either defeat the enemy or perish.

With a deep intake of breath, Éothain turned on his heels and looked up to where the stark silhouette of the Golden Hall loomed threateningly against the grey sky. It was strange to no longer regard it as their inner sanctum, but the stronghold of the enemy. Curse the traitor who had despoiled its sanctity! He would avenge it if he could, yet another reason to cut Wormtongue into very thin stripes if fate presented him with the opportunity. A soundless sigh escaping his slightly parted lips, the son of Céorl shifted his attention back to the frantic activity around him.

Éomer woke to the sound of rustling straw and the smell and noise of shifting animals around him. After years of riding with the Armed Forces, who usually slept in the settlement’s barns when they patrolled the land in the cold season, both sensations were so familiar to him that at first, he did not bother opening his eyes and just lay on his back as he gradually rose to wakefulness. Yet the more he escaped the embrace of sleep, the more realisation seeped into his conscious that the situation was far from normal. He was not on patrol with his riders; he was not even officially a member of them anymore. And they had been assaulted. A brief recapitulation of the nightly events racing through his mind and culminating in the image of the Uruk’s murderously gleaming eyes behind his raised crossbow, Éomer shook off the last remainders of sleep. With the mental images of the weeping and trembling Halad in his arms and of Osred’s hate-filled gaze while his bloodied fingers pressed against his wound, the warrior opened his eyes.

Daylight greeted him as Éomer stared unmoving at the ceiling, feeling disoriented even though he knew at least that he was still at Freya’s farm, if not in his bed in the children’s room where he had intended to go after finishing with the tending of his horse. Furrows forming on his brow, Éomer slightly craned back his neck, and a sleepy smile wandered over his face as he beheld the sight of his grey stallion, who had buried his head in his manger and demonstrated remarkably good appetite despite of the fact that he had been wounded during the night. Clicking his tongue, Éomer watched as Firefoot turned one ear in his direction, and for a moment, the grey head turned and one of the big dark eyes looked at him, but at last, the delicacies in the manger won the competition for the stallion’s attention and the horse resumed emptying it with obvious delight. The wound on his shoulder, as far as Éomer could see, looked good, and Firefoot’s appetite was a good sign. With a relieved sigh, the Rohir turned back and lifted his head to see what else was going on around him when he heard the sound of approaching steps.

He knew the man who entered his vision now with a pleased expression on his face over finding him awake, and still, as he pushed his stiff body up into a sitting position, Éomer involuntarily tensed. Only a few hours ago Thor had assured him that his riders still saw him as their leader, and yet last night’s events night still had an unreal quality which made Éomer question himself whether the Orc-attack and all that had followed had not been another one of his fevered dreams. Still, the straw underneath his palms felt remarkably real as he watched their healer Tolgor approach.

"Marshal! How very good it is to see you awake! We feared the worst when we heard of the Worm’s verdict against you. Béma be praised, it seemed that we arrived just in time last night." His gaze travelled over Éomer’s frame with all the experience of a seasoned healer. "You look much better than a few hours ago. The rest has done wonders."

"Aye," Éomer confirmed to him, not entirely convinced of it himself since his body felt bruised and stiff as a wooden puppet, even if the bone-deep exhaustion that had felled him the night before had vanished. "You chose the right moment to appear. The battle had turned ill on us, and had you arrived only a little later, there would have been nobody left to save for you." He looked around and registered that except for the two of them, the barn was empty. "Where are the others?"

"Cleaning up," Tolgor said with a twitch of his lips. "We could hardly leave these poor people with four dozen orc-carcasses to dispose of, could we?" His gaze intensified. "What happened to you after you left Edoras? Those must have been some long, lonely days out there in the wilderness... not to mention dangerous. Your friend told us that you encountered a group of orcs and just barely survived?" Éomer nodded. "I assume the orcs didn’t?"

"You assume rightly." Almost in afterthought, Éomer lifted his injured hand and found the swelling even more reduced and the colour back to normal. Cautiously, he flexed his fingers while Tolgor shook his head in amused disbelief and squatted down next to him, a proud expression suddenly lighting up his eyes. "Those beasts should have known that it takes more of them to kill a Marshal of the Mark. They just don’t learn." He noticed Éomer’s gaze, and his smile widened. "I looked after your injuries last night together with your friend after you had fallen asleep." The smile developed into a grin. "Or rather, after you passed out. We moved you around from one side to the other and even disinfected the wounds once again, but you didn’t seem to notice. I wish I could sleep like this for a change!"

"Go and wrestle some orcs all by yourself, and your wish might be granted," Éomer grumbled, still too sleepy to react to Tolgor’s good-natured bantering, and then wondered: "I do not remember falling asleep."

"After you tended Firefoot, you said to Halad that you were too exhausted to walk over to the main house by yourself, and that you would need help, but when he returned with your dark-haired friend, you had already fallen into a sleep so deep, not even a stampede of all the horses ever born in the Mark would have woken you, so they decided to leave you here with us, and only gave you some blankets." The healer’s smile was replaced by a questioning glance. "Halad said that you were half-dead when those strangers brought you here, but you look much better today. Your friend seems to happen to know a thing or two about healing... and he is very skilled with the blade. Who is he, and how did you meet him?"

Éomer inhaled deeply as his mind returned to the little shed he had shared with Aragorn while they had waited for the enemy. He still felt awed by the thought of what he had learned from their conversation. "Have you heard of Thorongil, the stranger who rode with our forces in Thengel’s time and accomplished many deeds worthy of song?"

Tolgor’s glance grew sceptical, as if he did not understand what one thing had to do with the other.

"Of course I have heard of Thorongil. Every child in the Mark grows up with the tales of that warrior. But…" The furrows on his brow deepened. "You mean… that he is Thorongil? But--" His gaze went over to the barn door.

"He appears to be too young to be the ‘Eagle of the Star’?" Éomer finished for him, following his gaze. "Aye, it would appear so. And yet Thorongil was no ordinary man. My father said once that he was rumoured to be of Númenorian descent. That would explain it." He shook his head. "Anyway, I believe him. I met him once before on the plains, and although I did not know him then, I could already tell that there was something special about him. Anyway, he is on our side and has come to aid us, and that is all I need to know." Grimacing, Éomer shifted his weight and his brow creased as he looked at the little window high above them through which sunlight filtered into the barn. "How late is it?"

"It is a little after midday. We decided to let you rest, as you seemed to need it." The healer ignored his commander’s dismayed expression. "And of course, we appreciated the rest, too, since we combed the mountains in search for you from dawn till dusk for days. And when we saw the smoke yesterday, we hurried even more to get here, so the break was indeed not only welcome, but necessary." He studied Éomer’s expression and felt a sudden quiver of nervousness. "Something is troubling you."

Éomer’s frown deepened as he scrambled to his feet, helped by his fellow rider.

"We are losing too much time. The enemy is ready to strike." Standing, he stared at Tolgor, suddenly all marshal again. "Where is Elfhelm? Did he not ride with you?"

"Elfhelm sent us out to search for you. He himself rode to Edoras when he learned of your banishment. I assume that he wanted to make sure that Éowyn was safe. They should both be waiting for us in Aldburg when we return."

Éowyn! He had not thought of her for a long time, but the mention of her name brought back the memory of the terrible night when he had just barely escaped the Worm’s trap. Gríma had known about their secret hiding place, and there was only one source where he could have learned of it. Had Elfhelm been fast enough to save his sister? Grinding his teeth in frustration, Éomer bid his stallion a good morning with a clap on Firefoot’s muscular hindquarters and then turned to leave. How much he wanted to ride back to Edoras or Aldburg to confirm that his sister was still alive and well, and yet he remembered Théodred’s warning, and Aragorn’s words. They had to concern themselves with Saruman, first, even if it meant to possibly sacrifice the only family member left to him. The Gods were cruel:

"We will not return to Aldburg," he muttered darkly, not looking at Tolgor. "At least not yet." ‘And perhaps never again.‘ His gaze grew urgent. "I need to talk to Thor!"

"I will find him for you." The healer opened the barn-door for his limping commander and then slipped out himself, wondering what Éomer had meant. The Marshal’s anxiety troubled him, but he refrained from asking, assuming that they would learn about the source of it soon enough. Who was the enemy he was speaking of? Saruman? And how could he know that Saruman was ready to strike?

Bright sunlight greeted the two warriors, but the scene it shed its golden light on could hardly be less idyllic: the snow had turned to mush under the rising temperatures and last night’s assault, but the great black stains the Uruks had bled onto it were still visible, as were the trails of blackness leading to the dark piles burning in the distance. The powerful stench of the burning flesh assaulted Éomer’s senses before he could steel himself for it, and his stomach gave a disgusted twitch.

"Éomer!" At the sound of Aragorn’s by now well-known voice, the Rohir shifted his attention back at the main house in front him, where the ranger sat on the bench and cleaned his sword only to rise to his feet now and quickly make his way over with a big, honest smile on his face. Hardly noticed by Éomer, Tolgor slipped away in search for his captain when the ranger came to a halt of his Rohirric brother-in-arms. His keen grey eyes briefly travelling over the younger man in a quick but thorough evaluation, the Dúnadan laid a hand upon Éomer’s shoulder. "You look much better."

"I feel much better, too. Thanks to you. Even if you should have woken me. We are losing too much time." Inwardly tensing, Éomer hesitantly asked. "How is Osred faring?" Béma, he had meant to be at the farmer’s side while Aragorn tended his wounds. He had meant to look after him. He had done neither. The man hated him already, and now he had even given him a real reason. Aragorn eyed him observantly and then calmly pointed his chin at the door.

"He is still asleep, but his life is not in danger. Fear not, Éomer. He will survive it, and I do not think that any permanent damage has been done, although he will need some time to heal. Once the pain has passed, he will be proud of what he did… and his family, too." Those perceptive eyes meet with Éomer’s again. "I told him that you had passed out. That you were worried for him and that you had meant to be by his side, but that your own strength had deserted you. He understands, Éomer. After all, it has only been one day since we brought you here."

"It is no excuse," the Rohir muttered, the words meant for himself rather than the ranger, and then shook his head as he fell silent and turned around to look at the members of his former éored, who were still wrestling heavy corpses into the fires. Osred was alive and he would recover. Good. For the moment, this was enough for him, but sooner or later, he would have to talk to the farmer, and he did not look forward to the conversation. When Thor emerged from the distant group of men to make his way over them, Éomer was almost grateful..

"So, what will you do now?" Aragorn spoke into his thoughts, like he following the Halfblood’s approach. "Assemble the éoreds and ride to Isengard?"

"It is what I must do to save the Mark, isn’t it?" Éomer sighed, evading the ranger’s questioning glance. "So I will do it."

"I have no hope left for my uncle. He has become Wormtongue’s chief minion in the undoing of the Mark, nothing less. It is not him I worry about; it is my sister. I do not want to imagine what Wormtongue will do to her if he doesn’t get his way… and she will never bend to his will. She will sooner kill herself then let him touch her." Éomer fell silent. The thought had struck him suddenly, and it felt like the cold, hard truth. If Éowyn saw no other way of escaping Gríma’s clutches, she would seek death… which made it even harder to ride in the other direction, away from her. He closed his eyes, his lips a thin line as he lowered his head. His own kin was in mortal peril, and he did not ride to her aid? He felt like a traitor. To his relief, Aragorn remained silent, common sense telling him that any words of comfort he could utter would be empty of meaning.

Grateful for the opportunity to distract himself from his fears for his sister with some strategic planning, Éomer turned to Thor, who had reached them and nodded his acknowledgement at Aragorn, as he turned to his commander.

"It is a relief to see you on your feet again, my lord. I was worried when I saw you last night."

"I was exhausted, nothing more." Éomer was tired of talking about himself. He nodded in the direction of the distant men. "You are almost done with them?"

"The orcs? Aye." Thor followed his gaze and shrugged. "Once the snow has melted, nothing will be left of them."

"No. I was assuming that you would be riding with us when we returned?" He saw the answer in Éomer’s face and lifted a dark brow. "We will not ride back to Aldburg?"

"No. We must make for Isengard, before the traitor there can attack us. We will not be able to stop him if we come too late, and we will need all our forces to repel him… and not only repel him, but annihilate his armies and kill him, too, this time. Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do." Éomer waited for a question, but the scout seemed too stunned to even think of one as he stared at him. So he continued. "I want you to send an errand rider to Aldburg, and another one further into the Eastmark. All settlements are to deploy their éoreds immediately for the Westfold, except for a few riders for their own protection. When they travel West, they must use the mountain paths and not the road, even if it is more dangerous and probably slower. If they travel past Edoras, the Worm will know that something is up."

"So you do not want for the Edoras’ éored to be alarmed?" Thor asked sceptically. "But what about Éothain? Can we spare him and his men when we attack the White Wizard?"

"We need him indeed, but the risk is too great. If Wormtongue learns of our plans, Saruman will know that we are coming for him. We must attack the wolf while it still sleeps in its den." He cut a glance at Aragorn, who stood silently by his side and nodded. "Also, I want two more riders sent to Erkenbrand’s stronghold and alert him of our coming and that of the éoreds. It would be good if he has already summoned his forces when we arrive, for there will not be much time left until we must ride."

Thor nodded, his dark eyes looking even more concerned than usually as he exchanged a worried glance with the ranger next to his commander:

"Wait," Éomer interrupted him, one hand raised. "We will do it differently: It would be better if you sent half of your éored ahead to Erkenbrand in addition to the two dispatch riders, together with your best scouts. I want them to clear the way for us, and to hunt down and kill each and every single orc they can find along the path. We must make sure that no word of our plan gets to Saruman!"

"There has been a lot of orc-activity in the mountains lately. It will take them a while." Thor hesitated. "I understood that time was of the utmost importance?"

"It is, but it is even more important that we retain the advantage we have in the element of surprise. Send those two riders ahead to alert Erkenbrand, and the others shall follow as fast as they can." The Halfblood nodded.

"Aye, my Lord. May I ask when you plan to leave?" His question was greeted by silence, and from the brief, wordless exchange between the two warriors before him, Thor understood that the marshal’s impatience would rather drive him to leave the farm this very instant, but that he also knew his limits. Limits which the stranger by his side didn’t even have to mention aloud, although his glance was a clear indication of his opinion. Finally, Éomer shifted his attention back at his captain.

"Tell the men to be ready tomorrow by first light. Until then, I want them to rest. The next days will be hard enough." He nodded, having said everything that had been on his mind, and Thor inclined his head and turned, understanding that he had been dismissed. As Aragorn and Éomer watched him leave, the Rohir shook his head, not looking at the man by his side. "And so it begins, the last great offence of the Rohirrim. I wonder whether I am not sending them all to their death."

"If you do not send them, death will come and catch them unprepared." Aragorn waited until he had caught the younger man’s eye. "This is the one chance at survival you might still have. You are doing the right thing, Son of Éomund. Do not the Gods favour the courageous?"

"My people have always been courageous, and yet they are on the brink of extinction," Éomer said darkly. "And many who only sought to protect their kin gave their lives. No one came to save them, or to reward their courage. I do not know who can honestly claim to have the Gods’ favour in these times, but one thing is certain: it is not the sons of Éorl." With dark glance, he turned to the main house and took a deep breath. Here waited another duty for him which he could not postpone. "I must speak with Osred."

It took Éomer a hard mental push to open the door to Osred’s and Freya’s room. For the longest time he had stood before it, pondering his options and staring against the irregular pattern of the wood. Uncertain what he was supposed to tell the man who had decided to regard him as his enemy and rival, he felt angered over the injustice of having to defend himself against untrue accusations or to apologise for a crime he had not committed. It had not been his idea to stay behind and defend the farm against the orcs, and neither had he forced Osred to join them, so the farmer could hardly blame him for having been wounded in the fight. That he had even travelled in the direction of the farm had been born out of plight, not of choice, and helping friends in need had – so far – always been an unquestionable duty to any self-respecting inhabitant of the Mark. As much as Éomer regretted his decision for he had unsuspectingly led the enemy to the family’s home, he had not been at freedom to handle things differently, not least of all since he had been unconscious when Aragorn and his friends had found him.

Deciding that the whole unfortunate business would only get more uncomfortable the longer he waited, the rider rapped his knuckles softly against the door with a low sigh and then slowly opened it. The image he was granted was heart-warming enough to put an involuntary smile upon his lips despite his troubled and bothered state of mind: on the chair to the right side of the bed, young Halad sat slumped with closed eyes, which he opened now with great effort to blink tiredly at his visitor like an owl caught in the daylight. On the left side, a quite comatose dwarf hung even more precariously in his seat in danger of falling, and his impressive snore left no question that Gloin’s son was indeed roaming the land of dreams. As was Osred, amazing as it was considering the noise originating from the dwarf. While Éomer still regarded the occupants of the room with silent amusement, he felt the tension drain from him. More than willing to postpone the confrontation with the wounded farmer, he nodded at the lad who struggled to his feet and forced an utterly exhausted smile upon his gaunt face upon the sight of the man he regarded as his older brother.

“Éomer!” Halad whispered and laid his hand onto the other man’s arm. “How do you feel? Could you sleep? You must excuse us for not carrying you over into your room last night, but we thought--”

Soothingly, Éomer raised his hand: “I am well enough, Halad. Don’t worry about me. I must have spent more nights of my life on the floor of a barn than in a real bed, so it was something I am quite accustomed to.” He nodded with his chin at the sleeping Osred. “But how about your brother-in-law? Aragorn says that his wound is not life-threatening, and yet I saw that it was much more than just a scratch.”

“Aye. It is a deep cut, and it took your friend a while to staunch the bleeding and sew it shut. But I suppose he is as well as can be expected, because he slept all night. It is probably best this way, because he will not feel the pain… at least I hope so.”

Nodding in agreement, Éomer could not help creasing his brow at the sight of Halad’s haunted expression and the deep shadows underneath the young man’s eyes. Quite obviously Freya’s brother had not been able to follow Osred’s example after the horrors of the past night. Remembering clearly how his first battle had shaken him, Éomer imitated the farmer’s comforting gesture and offered: “I will take over here, Halad. It is time for you to lie down and get some rest yourself now.” His tone indicated that he would not tolerate objection. Halad attempted it nonetheless.

“But--” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the prone shape on the bed. “How can I rest while he is--”

“There is nothing you can do for Osred right now, Halad. What he needs most to heal is sleep, and it would be best for you to do the same, because you look ready to collapse. I will not have Freya angry with me because I drove the two most important men in her life to the brink of utter exhaustion. She will soon be here, and if you greet her looking like this, she will have my hide.”

Defeated by the older man’s undeniably correct observation, Halad hung his head, not daring to look his mentor in the eye as he nodded wearily and ran a hand through his matted hair. For a moment, the faintest ghost of a smile travelled over his face at the thought of his sister reprimanding a proud marshal of the Rohirrim, but a heartbeat later, it had faded to non-existence.

“I am tired,” he admitted finally in a low, beat voice that caused Éomer’s heart to ache in compassion for the brave young man. “But I am afraid of going to sleep. They’ll wait there for me in my dreams, and I don’t know...” He fell silent and swallowed, his throat tightening at the thought. He looked up in search for understanding in the experienced warrior’s eyes and found it.

“I know that it is hard at first, but sooner or later, you will have to confront these dreams, Halad; you cannot escape them forever. Yet trust me when I tell you that the sooner you face them, the sooner they will fade away. It is important to remember that you defeated those things. They are dead, and you are alive. Take this thought with you when you lie down, and no dream can harm you. Take it as advice from someone who knows of what he speaks.” Éomer patted the young man on the shoulder, never having felt more brotherly toward the lad, and then watched Halad leave until he closed the door behind him. Sighing to himself, the warrior turned back toward the bed– and tensed. While the dwarf was still very much asleep and gave no sign that he would hear if another band of orcs tore down the house around him, Osred’s eyes were open and regarding him with an unreadable expression that brought ants to Éomer’s stomach before the farmer averted his gaze to stare at the opposite wall.

Unwilling to betray his nervousness to the other man and thus strangling the life out of the unwelcome notion, the Rohir approached the bed with careful steps. Osred looked weary and very pale in addition to still being obviously very much in pain despite Aragorn’s generous administration of most of the family’s supply of poppy seed juice. The older man was covered up to his chin in a thick blanket, which spared Éomer the aggravating view of his heavily bandaged chest, and still the son of Éomund could well imagine his agony, of which only a minor part stemmed from his physical wound. What did he have to say that could possibly make Osred feel better? What the man had heard from his wife had been devastating enough to prompt the farmer into staying behind and face an attack of murderous creatures although he had been the one who had initially voted most fervently for evading the battle. Why had he done it? Éomer mused while he regarded the farmer in the thick silence of the crammed room. To impress his wife? To impress him, and prove that although he was no warrior, he could well hold his own if it was needed? He feared that it was something altogether different, a rather hopeless reason, and with a heavy breath, the rider lowered himself into the empty chair.

His eyes closed in an attempt to deliberately ignore him, Osred said in an unfriendly voice: “What do you want?”

“Believe it or not, Osred, but I want to see how you are faring. I meant to be here last night, but you heard what happened. I am concerned for you and I am sorry that you were wounded and that my decision to come here endangered your family. You were very brave last night, even if I am not sure about your reasons for staying, and you fought well, but I suppose that this is not what you want to hear from me, even if I cannot imagine what I may have done to incur your anger.”

The farmer stared with even greater concentration against the wall, his lips a drawn line and a crease forming between his eyes which bespoke his contempt without words.

“You cannot? That surprises me because while you were still Third Marshal, you were famed for your ability to read people. But then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, for this is only the way the nobles have always taken what they wanted without a care of whom it might belong to.”

“I beg your pardon?” Stunned by the sheer audacity of the farmer’s accusation, Éomer stared at Osred. Had he heard right? At last the older man turned his head, and the intense resentment in his features was a punch to the rider’s gut.

“Oh, as if you wouldn’t know of what I am speaking! Wherever the éoreds appear, order falls apart. The nobles take whatever they want, whoever they want; and we farmers have to accept it. You always say that you give your blood for your people, but your protection comes at a high price; it has always been and will always stay this way. It was just the same in my village: every time the riders came, the womenfolk got excited and fought for their attention, and the men had to stand back and let themselves be humiliated. Aye, such is life, I understand, and we commoners cannot even begin to compete with the blood of the kings. And still, it is not fair! You can have almost every woman in the Mark; you could have chosen a woman without family. Why has it to be my wife?”

Although he felt his own temper stir at the incredible accusation, Éomer forced himself to remain calm. It would not help if he lost control.

“I do not know what you experienced to give you such a lowly opinion of our riders, but it is certainly not I who stands between Freya and you, Osred; you should understand this much if you carefully listened to our conversation like you claimed. Instead of taking a good, hard look at yourself and examine whether there could be some truth to your wife’s words, you choose to blame me for your problems. It is a very easy way of seeing things, and it will not solve them!”

“Why should I even listen to you when you abuse my hospitality in the most loathsome way? Leave me alone!”

“I am not your rival, Osred, get it in your head! I have known Freya for much longer than you have, and had we meant to be together, it would have happened years before she met you. But she denied me, and for all the right reasons. Since then, my feelings for your wife have changed from love to friendship and although I care for her deeply, I would not act on it even if she were still alone, for we know both that it could not work. I have my commitment, and I take it seriously; just as you have yours and are no less dedicated to it. The things that make us content are very different, Osred, and alone for this reason, we are not a match. Freya understands this, even if she may be very confused right now. It will pass, but you must talk with each other!”

“Deny it all you like,” Osred pressed, and then hissed against the pain his exaggerated breathing caused in his wounded chest. “I know what I saw, and if you lie to me, you make it even worse!”

“And what exactly is it that you saw? What forbidden thing was it that you caught us at?” Ah, yes, the infuriatingly stubborn sons of Éorl! Éomer could not shake the feeling that he was sitting before one of the most mule-headed examples of them all, but perhaps, that came from Osred being a farmer. The next heartbeat, he berated himself for the mocking thought.

“You two holding hands when I looked into the room, and both of you wearing an expression on your faces exceeding everything that could be explained with the word ‘friendship’! Do you dare to deny it?”

“I do indeed!” Éomer gave back with half a glance on the still slumped shape of Gimli. It was unbelievable, but the dwarf seemed to sleep right through their heated argument. He turned back to his adversary. “What about the word ‘concern’? And what about ‘relief’ and ‘gratitude’ that a friend, or someone one regards almost as kin survived a serious injury? Would such an experience not lead one to show perhaps more affection toward that friend than one would under normal circumstances?”

Osred just glowered at him, obviously still not willing to believe a word. His elbows resting on his knees, Éomer bent forward, and his voice grew even more intense. “I will not argue that your wife is confused right now, Osred, I am not denying that. Despite her practicality and rationality, Freya has always been capable of very strong emotions, and perhaps the intensity of these last days caused her to confuse care with love. I am sure that she has no intentions toward me, and that her outburst was only prompted by that unusual surge of emotions.”

“So you would regard it as excusable if your wife poured out her heart to a stranger and scorned her husband in his presence?”

“She does not scorn you, Osred. If you overheard our conversation like you said you did, you would do well to remember all of it, especially the point when she said how much cared about you.” He could see that he was not reaching the other man.

“She cares for me, aye. Like she cares for her animals! To her, I am only another part of the farm, like our plough horse or a tool for the hard work, and that she lies beside me at night is only one of her duties and not something she would wish for.” For a moment, bitterness replaced anger in the farmer’s weathered features. “What meaning has my life now that I have been shown my place in my wife’s heart?”

As angered as his former words had left Éomer, he could not help feeling a twinge of compassion for the man.

“It is not over yet between you, Osred. But you need to set things right. You heard what Freya longs for, and what she misses in your marriage. Think about it, and think whether there is not something more you can gift her with which you haven’t given her so far. Freya has no intentions to leave you, but it takes no mind-reading to see that she is not content. Do you not wish to make her happy? Wouldn’t that be a goal you would be proud to achieve?”

“If you talk about all those strange things and fairy tales she has in her head: do you expect me to indulge in them the way she does? I may have my dreams and hopes, too, but dreaming will not get us over the winter! Life is not all play; I thought she understood that when I married her. I had believed her to be more practical.”

“Freya grew up in this valley and practically raised her brother and her sisters alone. She worked on this farm since her early childhood days, so I am sure that she understands better than most of us what it takes to survive in this part of the Mark. And while I agree with you to a certain point, I will always say that dreams have their place in life, too, and that they are just as important elements of life as practicality and realism. If you cannot sense the dawn following a sinister night, you might not live to see it at all. Dreams are what replenish your strength after a hard day; they are the very foundation of hope itself. If you cannot dream of better days, what point would there be in fighting for survival? You might as well lie down and die, for it would certainly be easier than all this strife!”

Éomer waited for a response, but Osred remained silent and stared onto his blanket with a still grim expression. “Let me tell you one thing, Osred, and that is the plain truth, whether you believe me or not: to achieve higher goals in life, you need to envision them first. If you never stand on the tips of your toes to reach for the impossible, you will never get ahead. You will never get a taste of the extraordinary.”

“The ‘extraordinary’?” he sneered. “And what would the ‘extraordinary’ be out here in the wilderness? This is not Edoras, where with the snap of your finger, you can have something extraordinary if you are wealthy enough to pay for it. The ‘extraordinary’ is reserved for you nobles only.”

“Who says that it has to be a material thing? Everyone has a different idea about it, and it can be something as simple as a special moment one shares with each other. ” Did the man not understand him, or was he just not willing to see his point?

“If you are one of the mighty lords of the land, then of course you will have no problems in attaining them,” Osred rebuked mockingly. “I have seen the womenfolk beat each other up over the right to spend the night with the brave captains of our éoreds, while we simple men must take what is available. I have been foolish to think that it could be different for me.”

“What could possibly be more personal than what we are already discussing?” But he did not evade the rider’s probing glance.

“Why did you marry Freya? What was it that you hoped to gain with this union?” The other man looked at him dumbfounded.

“You accuse Freya of having married you only to work on her farm. And yet it is one of the chief considerations when couples meet and get together in these isolated parts of our land. How could it be different? The distances between settlements are too great to travel them often, especially in these dangerous times. Children are either promised to each other, or you meet your future husband or wife only once before marrying. Freya did not know you well when she agreed to become your wife, and neither did you know her. She hoped that with time, you would grow to love each other. What did you hope for?”

“The same of course,” Osred said bitterly, and he sounded honest. “And I thought that we shared that feeling… until I saw her with you when your éored visited us for the first time, and I suddenly understood the difference between duty and love. I am the man she married, so naturally, she lies with me at night. But I am not in her heart; it belongs to a man I cannot compete with.”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that you might not need to compete with me?” Éomer asked. “That it might be something entirely different Freya expects of your union?” The confused gaze in Osred’s grey eyes told Éomer that he had lost the farmer.

“Did you not hear what Freya said? Did you not hear what it is that she found lacking in your marriage? It is not wealth, nor does she long for a fancy life at Edoras, and neither is it the strength and skill of a warrior she seeks in a man. She says that you are a good father, and that your children adore you, so obviously, you are able to act differently when you are with them. Why not extend the same courtesy to your wife? Fight for her! Show her that you care for her concerns and wishes and that you are willing to try. If I can tell you one thing about love, it is that I have rarely seen it happen from one moment to the next. Lust, yes, and affection perhaps, but love requires work. It requires knowing each other, and the willingness to change or improve on certain aspects of oneself to make the other person content. It is an endless battle for balance. If you are not willing to fight for your wife, then perhaps the feeling is not strong enough in you, and it is simply not meant to be. But then I have one last question for you, and I would be very interested to hear your answer: why did you stay here with us? If you have given up on your wife, then why did you stay behind to do her bidding?”

From outside, the sound of excited shouts reached their ears and announced the return of the women. It distracted both men from their argument for a moment, but when they faced each other again, the tension between the farmer and the warrior had not lifted.

“Because the answer might tell me the way you are headed. If you stayed to prove yourself to Freya or to me, there may be yet some hope left if you are willing to fight for her. Yet if you did it solely to let yourself be killed and burden your wife with guilt as a ‘vengeance’ for her words…” Éomer shook his head “… then I must admit that I do not see how the two of you will be able to continue living together.” He waited while the voices outside came closer, but Osred remained silent. “I understand. You do not want to tell me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“This is alone for me to know,” the farmer said at length, and he closed his eyes as he sank back into his cushion, looking wearied by their argument. It was clear that he considered the discussion over and his rival dismissed, and so Éomer stood up and, slowly nodding to himself, limped over to the door to slip out of the room before Freya would burst in and make the scene even more awkward, not knowing whether he had achieved anything at all except that Osred seemed to hate him even more now. Only time would show.

In search for solitude, Éomer turned away from the excited shouts and chatter that leaked to him from outside and headed for the main room instead. He did not find himself alone there, either, but the picture of the still shape of Halad who slept on the thick sheep rug in front of the fireplace brought a little, almost parental smile to his lips. So the lad had indeed heeded his words, but had decided to stay close to his brother-in-law just in case. His drawn features gave the impression of utter exhaustion, and Éomer hoped that he would be allowed to stay for a while in the deep realms of sleep where no dream could reach him. He knew from own experience what an event like last night’s did to a young person’s soul.

Running a hand over his face in a vain attempt to chase away the weariness he felt after the intense planning and heated discussion, Éomer stepped closer. He had not been awake for long, and yet felt exhausted enough again to fall asleep on the spot; a reminder of his still greatly weakened condition he knew he should not ignore given his plans for the next days. If he wanted to stay in a saddle for the journey to the Westfold and still reserve his strength to convince the sceptical and independent Erkenbrand of the need to attack their western enemy, only to ride into battle against the greatest army the Rohirrim had faced in their entire history, he needed to listen to the signs his body was giving him.

With another quick look at Halad, Éomer picked up the neatly folded blanket from one of the chairs and spread it over the sleeping shape while behind him, the voices grew louder and the sound of the opening door reached his ears.

Bracing himself, Éomer turned around just in time to see Freya storm into the room, her eyes wide and great anxiety written all over her pale features, and he pressed his finger against his lips as he pointed out the sleeping young man to his sister. Freya followed his gaze, and her drawn look briefly melted into an expression of a relief too great to be put into words. She offered no resistance when Éomer laid an arm around her shoulders and led her out.

“Legolas already said that Halad was not harmed, but I feared for him nonetheless. He is such a gentle soul.” Looking back, she inhaled deeply. “How is he?”

“Your brother is well, Freya. A little shaken, of course, but I am certain that he will soon overcome this. He fought bravely, and the way he carried himself even after the assault earned him not only my respect, but that of the Riders. You can be proud of him. All Halad needs is a little rest now, and he will be as good as new.”

She nodded at that, and now looked at him taxingly, silently asking how he had survived the night when he had barely escaped death’s cold hands a night earlier. Their mark was still visible in the exhausted hollowness of Éomer’s gaze and the blood-encrusted scratches on his brow and the side of his head, and the very sight of his weariness choked Freya. It was her fault that he had been forced to fight in his weakened condition. How easily he could have been killed! And yet when she extended her hand to touch his cheek in an affectionate gesture, Éomer caught her wrist and gently eased down her arm. She stared at him in bewilderment. “And what about you, Éomer? You had barely recovered from what these things did to you, but because of my decision, you had to fight again even though you can still barely stand! Are you well? Nothing happened to you?”

“I am fine, Freya. Don’t blame yourself for what happened,” he said, pretending not to notice. “If it is anyone’s fault, then it is mine for leading them here. You were right when you said that your farm is too important for the feeding of our people; we cannot allow Saruman to simply destroy our means of sustaining ourselves without a fight. If we fled each time we were faced with such a decision, we would have expired long ago… and not to forget: all of you would be left without a home now. There are too many people in the Mark already who suffered this fate.”

She look unconvinced as she remembered the dark glances her brother’s wife had given her on their ride to their neighbours’ farm and back. And even her sisters had been tellingly quiet for the duration of their stay, and the memory of their silent looks hurt even worse. Béma, what had she done? She had never meant to endanger her family. In a hollow voice, Freya said:

“Fléadwyn hates me. She accused me of valuing my possessions more than the lives of my family. But that is not true, Éomer! I never expected you to stay behind and fight my fight while you sent us away. I always defended my home, and I was prepared to do it this time, too.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But this time, you would have lost. It was a small army that attacked your home, not a random pack of hungry wargs. They would have killed you in the wink of an eye. There was no way we could allow that.”

“It was not my right to ask this of you. I-I didn’t think it through. I didn’t understand that you would regard it as your duty to stay and risk your lives, too, if I stayed. And now…” her voice sounded increasingly strangled “… Osred was wounded because of my stubbornness, and my own brother nearly died because he wanted to impress you. Always from when he was little, Halad talked about how he wanted to make you proud of him one day and prove that all the lessons you taught him had been well-learned. He always thought of battle as an adventure.” Swallowing, she looked at the sleeping shape behind them and sadly shook her head. “I hope that last night cured him of this idea.”

“I am certain of that. He is a smart lad. Slaughter, no matter whether of people or those creatures, is never to be regarded as an ‘adventure’. There is no glory in the spilling of blood, whether it may be red or black; no matter what the reason. It can never be more than a necessity. I, too, had to learn this lesson in my youth. I had wanted to avenge my father for as long as I could think, and yet when I killed my first orc, I felt sick to my stomach.” He reached out and touched her arm, lowering his voice to a reassuring tone. “Halad will recover from this, Freya, I am certain of this. Your brother is stronger than you think; he will put this behind him quickly.”

“I can only hope for the best, or I will never be able to forgive myself.” Her eyes travelled hesitantly to the door behind which she knew her husband to be, and with a deep breath, Freya confessed. “I am afraid to face Osred, Éomer. I caused him so much pain, and now he is even wounded because of my stubbornness. Had I not insisted to defend the farm, he would not have stayed. Last night, I could not forget what he said. That he works so hard to please me, and yet that I do not respect him for who he is because I have only eyes for you. He thinks that I don’t love him, and yet he stayed to defend our home because I wanted it.” She took a deep breath and looked at him guiltily. “Èomer…”

He did not correct her, did not mention his own assumption of Osred’s motif which made him fight, because it would have gutted the already devastated woman in front of him. He could not help her with her problem and told her so with a mere glance. She had to come clear about these things with herself, first, before she would be able to make any chances. And yet, when she looked at him, Éomer had an inkling that Freya was beginning to see the path she wanted to travel, and he lifted his chin in expectation of her words.

“Éomer I hope you know that I will always care about you. You will always be in my heart, but…” she looked at the door again and pressed her lips together. When her gaze back to him, she almost pleaded. “… he is my husband. We exchanged our vows, and I want to honour my promise. I meant it when I spoke it, and Osred has done nothing to deserve the way I have been treating him. He is a good man, and from now on, I will do what I can to be a good wife to him. I have much to make up for.” ‘Please, don’t hate me for it!’ her eyes pleaded silently, but to her surprise, Éomer smiled.

“I am glad to hear this, Freya,” he said softly, squeezing her arm affectionately. “And I am convinced that the two of you will come to terms with what happened. You will overcome this and your bond will be much stronger than before.”

“How could I be? He is the father of your children.” He shook his head and inhaled, feeling as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted off his back. “Didn’t we two agree a long time ago to be friends, and nothing else? It is for the best, and I stand by that.” ‘And despite, when I leave you tomorrow, the chances are good that I and every man I take along will never return.” He didn’t say it as he nodded in the direction of the door. “Now go in and tell him this yourself.”

“I do not believe that he will. He really loves you, Freya; his jealousy is an unmistakable sign of it. Now speak with him and tell him that he has nothing to fear from me. Tell him that you regret what happened yesterday, and tell him that you worried for him all night. He should be able to see it in your expression, but let him hear it as well. It is not too late yet for the two of you.” Extending an arm, he opened the door for her, and then suddenly remembered. “Wait for me here. I will be quick.” And without so much as another glance, he turned toward the door and cautiously opened it. Osred seemed to have fallen asleep again in the wake of their heated dispute, and the dwarf in the chair beside him showed no change in his condition, so Éomer entered the room and walked up to him. “Gimli?”

He hesitated to touch the dwarf. As a warrior who was likewise possessed of strong reflexes, he knew firsthand about the danger of waking an armed comrade, especially after a fight. When he had just joined the éoreds, Éomer had been sent to wake their captain and committed the almost deadly mistake of touching Elfhelm’s shoulder. The dagger that had been thrust against his chest would have killed him if the older man had not stopped himself virtually at the last moment, leaving a thoroughly rattled young man to ponder the foolishness of his deed for the rest of the day.

“Gimli?” A little louder, but just as vain as the first attempt. Bracing himself, Éomer balanced on his good leg and carefully tapped against the dwarf’s shin with his foot instead of bending over and bringing his chest within reach of the warrior’s battleaxe. At first, he received no reaction either, but at last his effort was granted success when he repeated it more forcefully. Between the bushy red eyebrows and the mighty red-brown beard, a small slit opened and Gimli’s unwilling glance went up toward his face.

“Hrrmmm?” the dwarf grumbled, still half asleep. Éomer could not help grinning at the dwarf’s deteriorated condition.

“Master Dwarf, I hope you can forgive me for waking you, but you are needed outside.”

“Oh?” With dirty, still blood-encrusted hands Gimli wiped the sockets of his eyes and then, suddenly remembering why he sat in the chair, turned his head to look at the wounded farmer, who had likewise woken from the disturbance but was doing his best to ignore them. “How is he doing?” the son of Gloin whispered urgently, his broad, weathered face – or what could be seen of it through the hair – displaying such concern that Éomer felt touched. A strange creature, that dwarf. On one hand, he was fearsome warrior who seemed to enjoy the bloodshed, and yet at the same time, he seemed to be possessed of an extraordinarily great heart. It would be interesting to find out more about his kind if time for a conversation was granted to them on the way westward.

“He will recover, but he needs rest,” Éomer hinted less than subtly and offered his hand to help the groaning dwarf to his feet. “Come, let us look for something to eat.” It had just dawned on him that he felt hungry, and as he had learned in one of his conversatios with Aragorn, there was no better way of catching a dwarf’s attention than the mention of food. And really, Gimli’s eyes lit up at the thought as he followed him out of the room.

“Aye. That sounds to me like the best plan I have heard in a long time! I am starving, now that you mention it.” From out of nowhere, an impressive grumble resounded from the middle of his body, which he then patted affectionately. “Quiet, He hesitated only a moment to look back. “But who will sit with him?”

“His wife.” Now the hint could no longer be called subtle, and even the drowsy dwarf understood. His eyebrows going up, he nodded. “Ah. Very well then. Let’s go and eat! What a splendid idea! – Well, hello, Mistress Freya. We taught those orcs to make a big detour around your farm in the future.” He inclined his head in greeting, thus answering her little thankful nod, and with a hearty slap on Éomer’s sore back forced a wince from the Rohir as they left the room. Briefly pausing to let the dwarf get ahead, Éomer laid a hand upon Freya’s arm. “Don’t be afraid, Freya. He will listen to you, and he will understand. I know it.”

She nodded and then swallowed when anxiety rose in her again. Large blue eyes silently asked Éomer whether he would be all right all by himself, and he gave her the little reassuring smile she had hoped to see before he turned away and left her to her hard task.

In the wake of all the intense discussions he had led since he had entered this house, the sudden silence felt oppressive to Éomer as he walked toward the kitchen, which made the din of voices from outside seem all the louder, but somehow what was going on there in the snow felt strangely disconnected from his own world. He was a small island onto himself, separated from the riders and the family by his most detailed knowledge of the great peril for his land and his kin. None of them had witnessed his trial, they only heard of the Worm’s power, but to them, it was an abstract thing, and although Gríma’s scheming had been going on for a long time, it seemed that each new act of evilness still surprised them. Staring at the scene outside with unseeing eyes, Éomer arrived at the stunning realisation that outside of Edoras, he was the only one who had fathomed yet the full depth of the black hole that was Gríma Wormtongue’s soul.

With a deep sigh from the very bottom of his heart, Éomer reached for the door when it suddenly opened by itself, almost hitting his head, and the frail shape of Halad’s young wife stood before him, startled by his unexpected presence.

“Fléadwyn!” he greeted her, at once noticing the hollow look in her eyes and the dark shadows underneath which bespoke her anxiety despite Legolas’ reassurance that her husband had not been harmed in the fray. As she stood before him, her head barely reaching up to his chest and a hand protectively cradling her slightly rounded stomach, she looked very young to him, almost like a child.

“Éomer!” Impulsively, she embraced him, and he responded by taking her in his arms. “Béma be praised, you are well. Where is Halad? And Osred? Legolas told me that he was wounded in the fight?”

“Osred is in the bedroom, but since Freya is with him right now, it would be best if you waited before you see him. Halad is sleeping before the fireplace, but I don’t think he would mind if you joined him there.” With a little reassuring smile, he released her and turned back to the outside scene. Freya’s sisters and her children stood in front of the dog hut where Halad had laid their dead hounds until the ground thawed out far enough to bury them. As he looked on, little Loégar knelt down in the wet snow to touch the stiff fur, and although Éomer could only see his back, he knew that the lad was crying. The shadow on his face deepened. The family had endured much, but at least they had each other.

Éowyn, on the other hand, was alone, provided that she was still alive. If Elfhelm had not succeeded in freeing her which Éomer doubted because his sister’s treason had been uncovered even before the Captain of Aldburg had left his domain; she sat now trapped in Edoras at the mercy of the man who had greedily followed her every footstep since her youth. Forced to powerlessly witness Gríma Wormtongue’s ascent to Lordship over the Golden Hall while she believed her brother dead and at the same time, having to watch how their uncle fell deeper and deeper into shadow. How could she endure such torment? And instead of riding to her aid, he sat here in the wilderness and summoned their armies against an enemy of overwhelming power who was likely to crush them with the heel of his boot. He knew that Éowyn would have wanted it that way, that she would have wished for him to save their people instead of endangering everyone to come to her aid instead, and still the bitterness of the decision he had been forced to make would not vanish. So Osred thought he was leading a privileged life? Was it such a privilege to be forced to abandon his kin for the call of duty?

His expression darker than ever before, Éomer forcefully closed the door and turned back toward the kitchen where he could hear the dwarf rummage around in search for something with which to fill his stomach. Even if his contemplations had ruined his appetite, common sense dictated that he did everything in his power to recover his strength. The never-sleeping voice in the back of his mind asked what he would do if he succeeded in saving Rohan only to arrive in Edoras too late to do the same for his sister…

She had feared to hear the sound of the accursed footsteps, and yet at the same time, somewhere deep within herself, Éowyn had also longed for something to break the oppressive silence and distract her from the darkness and hopeless thoughts that assaulted her in her prison even at the price of more torment. She could also no longer deny that she was hungry and thirsty, ravenous in fact, and as the first wave of a delicious scent wafted into her cell, the daughter of Éomund of Aldburg felt to her dismay her mouth beginning to water and her stomach contracting into a painful, demanding ball of hunger. Pressing a fist against it to prevent that her body would give away her condition to her captor, Éowyn looked at Elfhelm to see how he responded to the prospects of another encounter with the Worm.

It had not escaped her attention that the warrior’s condition had greatly deteriorated since the previous day. Especially over the course of the last few hours, Éowyn had been forced to helplessly witness with increasing anxiety how the warrior descended deeper and deeper into a semi-conscious state; a state which revealed the true extend of his suffering although Elfhelm had been quick to assure her during his lucid moments that he felt not as horrible as it might appear to her. Even in the flickering semi-darkness of the torches, there was no question that her protector was running a fever. Whenever the Captain of Aldburg undertook the considerable effort to lift his head while he talked to her, the tale-tell shine in his eyes and the beads of sweat running down his face in tiny rivulets betrayed his crumbling state. At last, when Elfhelm had begun to experience trouble in speaking and finally lost most of his coherence due to the serious lack of water, Éowyn had understood just what was at stake: if her protector was denied drinking and sustenance for yet another day, he would not live to see the next morning. Not that they were able to see its light deep down here within the bowels of the lonely hill.

The tantalising scent of roasted meat and steamed vegetables crept into Éowyn’s nostrils and slid down her throat, then doing unbelievable things to her stomach although it was still more than questionable whether she would actually see any of it. Or would she? Would she be able to contain the hatred she felt for the Worm and keep her sharp tongue in check to insure that Elfhelm would not be denied the urgently needed liquid? Would she be able to swallow her pride and… beg? For Elfhelm’s sake?

Éowyn closed her eyes in a doomed attempt to calm down. Somehow, she would have to succeed in reining in her temper, even if Elfhelm had been adamant that she should not surrender to the enemy. But this meant that he would die, and addition to the devastating guilt she would feel over her responsibility for the warrior’s death, it would furthermore mean that she would be left all by herself in this dark, lonely corridor, a thought that was too frightening to contemplate further. Éowyn was certain that she would lose her mind if she were forced to remain in this cell with no living soul to talk to or to comfort her. It seemed that she had to choose between two evils. Which was the lesser one? Abandoning her pride and admitting defeat to her arch enemy to be allowed the continuing comfort of Elfhelm’s presence… or the conservation of her mental integrity at the price of his death?

Caught between the two contradicting choices, Éowyn’s gaze slid down to the almost empty bowl in front of her cell. It had been the rats who had enjoyed an unexpected feast last night; she had not touched any of it. Would Wormtongue see the difference? Would he know that she had not yet submitted? ‘So what if he does?’ the warrior inside of her, the side of her which had spoken too rarely during these endless black hours, sneered. ‘At least he will not be able to shove the rat-touched food down my throat!’ ‘But he can do other things,’ the fearful voice in the back of her mind, which had held the upper hand of her conscious for a while now, insisted anxiously. ‘Worse things than force-feeding me. Much worse things!’

It took an enormous effort to suppress the disquieting thought and calm down enough to mould her expression into the imperturbable mask of cool superiority she had reserved for the crooked minion of evil all her life. Sitting on her bare cot with her back to the wall with as much dignity as she could muster after more than a day of imprisonment, Éowyn braced for the confrontation just when the group of four came to a halt in front of her cell.

“Lady Éowyn,” her chief tormentor’s voice trickled into her ears, smooth like poisoned honey. She lifted her chin, succeeding in looking down upon the man even from her seat like royalty upon the lowliest servant, and not like the captive at her captor. “I am delighted to see that you apparently heeded my yesterday’s words…” Wormtongue regarded the bowl at his feet for a moment as if it were the most interesting item in the world, then his lips curved into an unpleasant, knowing smile. “Or did you leave the food to the rats? I cannot help thinking that it might not have been you who ate the stew.” The smirk broadened at something he seemed to see in her eyes. Fear, perhaps, for betraying the truth? The moment stretched until at last, Gríma averted his gaze in the seemingly most casual way. “And yet since I am in a forgiving mood, I will not dive deeper into this, my Lady. But look what I have here! Your meal… and the Captain’s, if you allow him to have it today.” With his eyebrows raised expectantly, he turned toward the warrior who hung in his chains and seemed to have barely enough strength left to lift his head.

Her insides clenching into a painful knot, Éowyn followed Gríma’s gaze…and looked Elfhelm straight in the eye. He was pleading with her, silently, to remember her promise. Fevered, pained and as weak as he was, he did not want her to succumb to their enemy’s evil scheme, but how could she just let him die? How could he expect that of her? Éowyn’s throat tightened dangerously, and she had to avert her eyes in order to collect herself.

“Yes,” she then said lowly as she turned to her waiting adversary, hating the sound of her own defeated voice even as she spoke. So, even if Elfhelm regarded her as a traitor, she could not do it. She could not cause a dear friend’s death and then endure the oppressive silence and darkness of the dungeon all alone. With growing certainty over her decision, Éowyn lifted her head and summoned all that was left of her dignity as she met the silently amused gaze of which she was the focus. “Please, give it to him. He needs it.” The counsellor’s brows rose even higher. The surprise on his face seemed genuine and shamed her greatly. So even her tormentor had expected more resistance from the White Lady of Rohan than she had left within herself. Perhaps he would lose interest in her now. And yet she didn’t believe it. Gríma was too satisfied with himself to not reap what he had sown years ago. He revelled in his triumph and would enjoy every little aspect of it.

“Did I hear you right, my Lady?” Wormtongue asked her again, thus confirming her assumption. “Are you actually asking me to give this to the Captain?” His eyebrows twitched. “Would you beg me for it, too?” A brief gesture pointed at the tray in his henchman’s hands. Éowyn took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. What use was resistance in her situation? She had not much strength left in her and had to pick her battles carefully. Rising to his teasing was definitely not worth wasting any energy over.

“If that is what it takes, then yes, I beg you.” She inhaled deeply and then added calmly, with as much dignity as she could muster: “You have won, Gríma Wormtongue, at least for now. I am not so foolish to deny it. Whether you will be victorious in the end remains yet to be seen, but for now, power is yours. Like the power to let him live...” She nodded at Elfhelm “...when I know that it is me you want. It would be useless to torture him further, for there is one thing about me that you must understand: if you kill him, I will never be yours.” An expression of utter intrigue crept into Wormtongue’s features.

“You want to set conditions? Even though you are behind bars?” Her audacity greatly delighted Gríma. So she had not given up at all! In the wake of what had happened, she had been shocked and stunned as was only natural considered the violent change of power in Meduseld, but now she had recovered, and she was still the brave shield-maiden he had admired for so many years. What a glorious woman she was! Scratching his chin as he feigned having to contemplate her words first, the new Lord of the Golden Hall turned on his heels to cast a long, pensive look into the other cell, where Elfhelm looked dismayed over the last developments. With a smug smile, he then shifted his attention turned back at Éowyn.

“You want to barter, you say. Fine, let’s barter. This is my proposal: your friend gets both food and water, and you will have your evening meal, too - if you agree to have in my chambers, together with me.” Ah, this she had not expected! After all these years, his skill to unsettle the haughty young woman was still as powerful as ever. And yet Gríma had to admit though that his female opponent and object of desire regained her composure remarkably fast. With an apologetic glance at Elfhelm, Éowyn nodded.

“Provided that it is I who will give it to him, and that you allow me to treat his wounds!”

Ah, such pride! Wormtongue knew that it was ridiculous, but he felt proud of the woman he had loved ever since he had first set eyes upon her. Even under the grimmest of circumstances, she refused to give up her dignity. Well, perhaps it was the key to her acceptance if he allowed her to keep it intact. Surprising himself with this sudden benevolent thought, Gríma inclined his head just the slightest bit to indicate that her proposal met with his agreement.

“Very well, my Lady, I accept. I will let you feed and tend the Captain afterward, but only if your behaviour during the meal leaves nothing to be desired, that much must be clear. Even the faintest escape or assault-attempt, and poor Elfhelm of Aldburg will have to sleep with an empty stomach yet again.” With a meaningful glance at the warrior, Wormtongue lifted an eyebrow. “It is your decision, my Lady.”

She had walked up the stairs on legs that felt like two wooden sticks after the long time she spent in the draughty coldness of her cell, the memory of the despair in Elfhelm’s eyes as they took her away a pain as sharp as a wound inflicted with a sword. Éowyn had tried to lay it all into her gaze when she left: that she would be back. That yes, she was doing this for him, but just as much for herself, too, as she would go mad if she’d be forced to spend the days in this black pit alone. That she simply could not let her pride be more important than his life, the life of the last friend and protector she had left in this world. She saw the understanding in his gaze before she turned around, and yet the expression of defeat in Elfhelm’s fevered eyes was unbearable. The Captain of Aldburg, her brother’s mentor who had always believed in their victory even under the worst circumstances, had given up hope.

As she approached the door to the Hall, Éowyn involuntarily straightened. What would she find once she entered? The pride of the Éorlingas brimming with Dunlendings desecrating its ancient sanctity and all members of the Royal Household killed? She steeled herself for one of the most unsettling experiences yet, determined to keep the mask of indifference on her face for as long as a single enemy was around to see it. Even if they were defeated, the Gods forbade that she would grant their enemy the satisfaction of seeing her despair. No matter what Gríma Wormtongue would conceive to get to her, she would be at a place he could never reach.

Upon the Counsellor’s call, the door was opened and she stepped into the hall and into the first daylight she had seen in two days. It was muted as it filtered through the high windows into the vast room, and obviously the sun’s last greeting as it went down for the night, and still it felt like balsam on her scorched soul, only for a brief moment but immeasurably precious because it lifted the shadow from her heart.

Then she saw them. Staring at her and greeting her with mocking shouts in their hard, strange language, Wormtongue’s Dunlending brethren sat, lay and stood around in the ancient throne room wherever there was space. In between their lairs of blankets and sheets and ancient rugs they had gathered from the other rooms, Éowyn noticed stacks of boxes and sacks and vessels, and she understood at once that the enemy had barricaded Meduseld against the citizens of Edoras to wait… for the White Wizard’s army. So it he expected it soon. The revelation of what it meant was a punch to her gut and robbed her of her breath. When would they be here? Where they already on the way? Were kinsmen right now slaughtered by the hundreds in the Westfold? Her knees shaking, Éowyn stumbled on as Felrod prodded her toward Gríma’s private chambers.

“Oh look at her! Isn’t she a price indeed?” a deep voice rumbled, then exploded in laughter. “Now I understand why he has done it!”

“It was I who led you undetected all the way through the Mark,” the man next to him, a short but heavy-set and hairy brute said. “I think that I earned a reward for that deed! Perhaps the Counsellor will allow me a night with her when I ask him.” More laughter.

“Ah, but you would break her with your clumsy hands,” the first man retorted. “The Counsellor doesn’t like his possessions damaged. Better take one of the kitchen wenches instead, or he will be mad at you!”

The banter went on while Éowyn concentrated on not listening to their horrible suggestions. Her heart pounding like a trapped animal against the walls of its cage, she barely heard Gríma when he hastened to open the door of his chambers for her.

“Here, my Lady. Please enter!” He looked at Felrod, who seemed delighted by his appointed task to steer Éowyn inside. “Seat her in one of the chairs by the window while I’ll have the table prepared! And watch her closely!” And with a glance which could not have been more serious, Wormtongue left to instruct the kitchen for the meal that would mark his victory.

“So, you see that I am not so evil after all. I hope you enjoy that meal. Is it to your taste, my Lady?” Wormtongue took another sip of the King’s best wine which he had ordered to celebrate this special occasion and kept it in his mouth for a prolonged moment to savour its exquisite taste before he swallowed. All the while his eyes feasted, too, on the most beautiful woman he had ever been granted the grace to met no matter where his journeys had taken him in his youth. The woman who now sat on the other side of at the table now and shared the evening meal with him, something of which he would not have dared to dream only days ago. All was happening so fast now, his triumph was so complete tat she still seemed to him an apparition rather than of flesh and blood, and the urge to touch her and determine whether she was real was almost overpowering, but Gríma reined himself him. This was only the very first, hesitant step toward the highest goal he had in life. Defeating the Rohirrim on their own turf and handing over the Mark to his true master was nothing compared to winning the woman he had longed for ever since he had first laid eyes upon her seemingly an age ago. He did not want to ruin with impatience what he now had.

And what exactly was it that he had, Gríma mused while he observed Éowyn as casually as he could, still revelling in her beauty and grace even after two days spent in the dungeon. They were alone in the room and dining together, yes, but only a fool would ignore the fact that she was not here of her own, free will, and that underneath the table, her feet were tied to the heavy chair on which she sat. She ate with a spoon, for he had not yet dared to give her knife and fork, knowing exactly what he had to expect if he granted her anything she could even remotely use for a weapon. The meal had been accordingly adjusted to a plate that held bite-sized pieces of roasted meat, two slices of freshly baked bread together with an assortment of cheese and a few slices of last autumn’s apples and pears. The cup in front of her held the best wine the Mark had to offer. Compared to what people usually had to eat in the cold season, it was a feast, but of course Éomund’s daughter cared little for the precious food under the given conditions. She was here because she wanted to help Elfhelm. Gríma understood. And still Éowyn’s rigid bearing and the way she ignored him by concentrating on her plate bothered him too much to remain silent.

“Look at me!” he demanded as he sat down his cup with more force than necessary, and the next moment, those unbelievably deep blue eyes were directed at him, their expression void. “I asked you a question. Wouldn’t you deem it polite to provide me with an answer, my Lady?”

Her face a bland mask, Éowyn said tonelessly, discarding all snide remarks that danced on her tongue for a heartbeat: “Yes, it is to my taste, my Lord.” ‘Elfhelm! You are doing it for Elfhelm!’ she reminded herself forcefully. “You have come so far, now do not ruin it!’ Once more she lowered her gaze as she helped herself to another piece of bread to gather the remains of the spicy meat sauce. Only why did she suddenly see Éomer’s angered face in front of her inner eye?

‘What are you doing, Éowyn? You are taking your meal with the man who ordered Théodred’s and my death? You break bread with the man who betrayed our trust to wipe out our entire people?’

She swallowed and felt her eyes beginning to burn and heat flushing her cheeks in a scorching bout of shame, the emotion so strong that she had to put down the bread and lower her head in hope that the curtain of her tangled hair would hide her distress. Just to do something that would not prompt her host to proceed with his conversation, she picked up the cup and took a sip of the wine. And the entire time, she felt Wormtongue’s attention focused upon herself. At first, he had tried to only occasionally look at her, but now he was staring at her like a hawk at the mouse the moment before he folded his wings together to drop from the sky.

“I do realise that it is hard for you to sit here under the given circumstances, Lady Èowyn” her adversary now began, as if he had looked inside her head and read her thoughts, and his voice sounded disgustingly compassionate and did not fit to his intense stare. The last thing she wanted was the Worm’s pity, whether feigned or genuine. “You are only here because you want to help the poor Captain of Aldburg, and not because you want to be here. Do not believe that I do not understand you. And yet I am wondering whether it is really such an unbearable thing to have your meal together with me.” Her eyes met his fleetingly before she resumed staring at the mysteries on her plate, and behind her façade of feigned detachedness, Gríma saw disbelief at his question. He dismissed it with a gesture. “Don’t be afraid, I do not expect an answer, as I know that your tongue has been tied by the circumstances. I do not want to pressure you into saying something you would regret later. But think about it when you are back in your cell. It doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to suffer in the darkness. It is not my wish to lock you up, any more than it is yours, but so far, you left me little choice.”

She knew what he was steering at, but remained silent. Gríma would view it as encouragement if she participated in his – so far – one-way conversation, and answering him would endanger her goal of helping Elfhelm. It was easier to remain still than to watch her words, and the way frustration, shame and rage boiled within her over being forced to this parody of a meal among friends, made it foreseeable where an attempt to enter into a conversation with Gríma would end. With a last bite of bread, Éowyn laid her hand upon the table to indicate that she was finished, and looked up.

“I fulfilled my part of the bargain. Will you honour yours now, my Lord?” Her heart sang at the sight of Wormtongue’s disappointment.

“So you do indeed prefer your cell to my company, my Lady?” He took a deep breath, and his eyes narrowed. For a moment, Éowyn feared that she had angered him after all, but then he nodded and slid back with his chair. “Very well, have it your way. I know that Captain Elfhelm is waiting for you to return, even if it was not his wish that you shamed yourself like this.” He came to his feet and slowly wandered around the table to her side. She tensed. “Think about it, Éowyn.” His mouth was now close to her ear in a confidential whisper, saying her name without the title for the first time ever, and the next moment, she felt his fingers glide through her hair. She shut her eyes, clenched them shut, in a desperate attempt to endure his touch. It was almost over; she could not ruin it now at the last moment! And he knew it, and was taking advantage of that fact! Curse him!

“All that I ask for is your presence, my dear, and nothing else. We could take all our meals together from now on. And perhaps, if things go well, I will even allow you to stay in your chambers instead of your cell, how would that be?” It sounded like Heaven, except… it would leave Elfhelm suffering alone in the dark. She could not do that. Again his fingers glided through her golden tresses in an awkward, gentle caress that sickened her.

“Please, let me tend the Captain now,” she forced herself to say, her voice husky, and the next moment, his hand was gone.

“As you wish, my Lady. Felrod?” All suggestive play, all confidentiality suddenly vanished from Gríma’s voice as he turned around to face his henchman when he entered the room upon his master’s shout. “Take the White Lady back to the dungeon. I will send someone after you with healing supplies for the Captain. Watch her while she tends and feeds him.” He looked down at her. “Oh, and just to make myself clear: Elfhelm remains chained at all times. I do not trust him. It would be just like him to play the weak, wounded warrior only to do something stupid once he sees a weapon within reach. I would hate having to kill him, and I am sure, the Lady Éowyn would hate it as well.” With a last meaningful glance, he turned away from her, not bothering to look as the Halfblood untied the King’s daughter from her chair and led her out.

It was still dark when Éomer stepped out into the chill air, but behind the transparent vapour of his breath he could already see the stark contours of the surrounding mountains against the slowly brightening sky. Dawn was on its way, and they had to leave. Despite his still weakened condition, he was glad to move on. Too much time had he lost here in this valley, forced to inactivity while the Kingdom was threatened and Éowyn in deadly peril. There was another reason for his brightened mood this morning: he was looking forward to riding with his men again and to feel their deeply embedded loyalty after days of loneliness and doubt. Forced to choose between their King and their Marshal, they had decided to trust in him, not caring that their choice turned them into outcasts themselves. The gratitude he felt was too great for words, and he hoped that his expression told the warriors its true extent when his gaze wandered over their smiling faces.

And yet at the same time, the warm feeling around Éomer’s heart was chilled by a sense of foreboding that assaulting him anew at the sight of his selfless brothers-in-arms. Would he lead them to their death? Would any of these brave men survive and return to their families? This was more than an ordinary skirmish they were headed for; this battle would decide the fate of the Mark. For a moment, the Rohir felt too stunned by the realisation of his responsibility to move on, his legs literally glued to the ground. It was only when he heard Aragorn call out for him from behind that he woke from his mesmerised state, and as Éomer turned around, he saw his saviour emerge from their hosts’ bedroom and head straight for him with long strides.

“Éomer?” Questioning eyes mustered him as Aragorn came closer. Éomer did not even try to hide his discomfort, knowing that the perceptive ranger had already sensed it. Yet to his relief, the older man did not comment on it, but tried in fact his best to brighten his spirits. “I looked after Osred again. His wound is clean, and it should heal without complications provided that he rests. Freya knows enough about healing to ensure that he will recover completely from this injury. Do not worry.” Thankful for the information and glad that the other man left it at that and did not ask for the true reason for his uneasiness, Éomer nodded. The keen grey eyes glided over him now. “And what about you? Do you feel that you will be able to stay in the saddle for an entire day? Or for two days even, as I have heard?””

“I will have to,” Éomer said tonelessly, dreading the prospect of the long ride to Erkenbrand’s domain even though he chafed to be on the way. He turned his back to the waiting warriors of his éored, adamant to show no weakness. The Rohirrim needed a strong leader if they wanted to defeat the White Wizard; they could not afford to doubt. “Saruman will not wait until I am ready to meet him. If we come too late, it will be the Mark’s doom.” And Éowyn’s...’ With a small nod, he acknowledged Thor’s presence as the Halfblood walked up to them with a tall white horse on the reins. “Yes, Thor?”

“My Lord Éomer, I can report that your éored is ready to leave.” The Half-Dunlending inclined his head and then pointed his chin at the horse. “This is Dralíon; he is Gunthard’s steed. Gunthard agreed to share the saddle with Aldor so that you may ride his horse. I thought since Firefoot is wounded, it would do him good to be spared at least some of the effort of the journey, as you will surely need his full strength again once we give battle.” He saw Éomer’s gaze travel over the stallion. “Oh, and I also managed to get a sword for you. It is Tolgor’s. He says that he is better with the bow anyway, so you could have his blade until we reach Captain Erkenbrand’s domain. Unfortunately, we do not have any spare mail for you, but I am certain that the Captain will be able to help you out with that… as well as with any additional armour and weapons you might need then.” He extended his hand with the scabbard, and Éomer accepted it with a thankful nod. Drawing the sword to test its handling, he was satisfied to find that it lay much better in his hand than Freya’s the night before. It would do for the task at hand. He laid a hand onto the Halfblood’s shoulder.

“I thank you, Thor. As always, you thought of everything. I am glad to count you among my éored.” Shifting his attention to the waiting riders, Éomer felt a sudden impulse and raised his voice: “And I thank you, too, each and every on of you! When I was expelled from Edoras, I thought I was left with nothing, and although I should have known better, I was uncertain whether you, my brothers-in-arms, would not accept the verdict. After all, it came from your King, even if all of us know by now that although it was his mouth that uttered those words, their origin was Gríma Wormtongue. The filth first killed the Prince, and then he rid himself of me... or so he thought. He thinks that our soldiers are simpletons who have no mind of their own and will never question the King' words or be interested in the truth behind them. In the case that the henchmen and orcs he sent to finish me off failed, he counted on you to do his bidding.” He inhaled deeply and raised his chin. “But your loyalty runs deeper than the enemy ever anticipated, and you proved him wrong! No matter how intricately that filth may spin his nets, Gríma Wormtongue will never be able to drive a spike between us Éorlingas, and that makes me proud!”

“Forth Éorlingas!” over three dozen voices answered him, and a sudden rush of heat flooded Éomer’s veins. He had not intended to hold a speech, but the words wanted out now, his emotions so powerful that it was impossible to hold them back.

“The intention behind the Worm’s actions was to leave Rohan unprotected for the time when his true master sends his army. He probably thinks that he has achieved this aim, and his haughtiness will be our advantage! While Saruman still waits for the perfect time to launch his assault on us, we will assault him instead and meet him unprepared! We will kill the wolf while it still sleeps in its den. Will you ride with me and rid the Mark of this plague once and for all, my brothers?”

Roused by his own speech and encouraged by the determination in the warriors’ features, Éomer raised his sword.

“For the Mark!” A many-voiced war-cry answered him and in the twilight, deadly steel glistened as the swords’ owners held them up against the sky. The Rohirrims’ declaration of resistance rang out into the dawn, and for the first time, Éomer felt the first spark of hope he had felt in a long time stir inside of him. These men were eager to fight to end for their cause, and it would be no different with the rest of their forces they’d meet in the Westfold. Their soldiers had suffered through the hardest times and had seen many of their kin and friends slaughtered; they would tear themselves in two to bring the offenders to justice. So what if Saruman’s army outnumbered them vastly; his men had a noble cause to fight for, which was more than the orcs could ever claim. They were killing machines without a home to defend, and it would make all the difference. No enemy had ever defeated their fully assembled éohere, and once the thunder of ten-thousand horses would be unleashed against the foul brood, the only choice left to them would be whether they wanted to vanish underneath the horses’ hoofs or flee. Once again Éomer’s proud gaze swept the ranks of his riders before he lowered his arm with a deep breath and sheathed his sword. “Let us ride!”

He took the reins from Thor, who regarded him with a strange mixture of awe... and something else. Éomer understood.

“Saruman will not only have orcs in his service. It is very likely that you will have to fight against your kinsmen.”

The younger man regarded him silently for a moment longer, and a shadow wandered over his face. Then his gaze hardened.

“I made my choice years ago, Marshal. This is my side now, and I stand by my decision. You will not have to worry about me.”

“I know, and I did not mean it this way. I trust you, Thor. You have long proven your worth. To me, you are no less Rohír than any of these men, and I know for a fact that they feel the same about you. ” Éomer looked the man fully in the face to prove the honesty of his statement, and in response, the dark-haired man lowered his gaze while his face turned a dark shade of crimson.

“I thank you, my Lord. It means much to me to be accepted among the riders. Many of them suffered because of the deeds of my people, and I do not take their trust and respect for granted. I never will.” He cleared his throat and his gaze went over Éomer’s shoulder. With a little nod, he turned and left. Already knowing that it had to be Freya and her sisters who had emerged from the main building to bid them farewell, Éomer turned around, briefly seeing Aragorn’s encouraging expression from the corner of his eye before the Ranger likewise went over to where his steed patiently waited for him.

“So, it is good-bye again,” Freya said quietly, her voice unhappy. “I wish you could stay for at least another day. You do not look strong enough for that long ride yet, Éomer.” She stroked his cheek and he caught her hand to press it in affirmation that he was.

“It cannot be helped. And I have ridden in worse condition, so do not worry about me. It takes more to defeat me.” Why did he suddenly feel so awkward around her, with half of his brain occupied with the question whether he should embrace her or not?

“Will I see you again?” Large, grey-blue eyes met his in an anxious question whether he would be all right. “Will you return here after the battle?”

“With Béma’s grace, yes.” No need to tell her about their chances against the Necromancer’s army. “Provided you want me to return. Perhaps it would be better if I stayed away for some time… until Osred and you have decided what it is that you want.”

“Aye, you are right. Perhaps it would be better at first. We have much to speak about, and much to learn about each other which apparently, we did not know before. But don’t stay away for too long, because you will be missed, Éomer, and not only by me.” She cast a meaningful glance over to the other house where Halad and Fléadwyn just exited with her children in their arms. Following her gaze, Éomer pressed his lips together. Would the lad be all right in the wake of what he had experienced? Would he be able to put the gruesome incidents of that night behind him and live with them? He prayed to the Gods to bestow that mercy upon Freya’s brother. It would not be fair to have a gentle soul like Halad punished for his decision to turn to the family for help.

“If you mean that, I will be glad to return.” He extended his arm and laid a hand upon her shoulder blade, hesitantly at first, waiting for her reaction first. But when she looked at him and he saw the fear in her eyes, fear for him, he could no longer hold back and pulled her into his embrace and kissed her brow. After all, the chances were that this was their final farewell.

Tears brimming in her eyes which she tried hard to hold back, Freya pressed him against her, for a moment unable to let go of him… until at last, reason prevailed, and she forced herself to step back.

“May the Gods protect you, Éomer… you and your men… and us.” She swallowed, weighed down by the fear that all those riders before her were riding toward their death. “If you cannot defeat our enemies, there will be nobody left to stop them.” Only a heartbeat later, she hated herself for uttering these words. The burden Éomer carried was already heavy enough. He was a Marshal, yes, and a warrior with a fierce reputation… and yet he was still a young man himself, two years younger even than she. He was a young man who had been deserted by his kin and who had looked into a bottomless abyss himself only days ago. What business had she reminding him of what would happen if he failed? “Forgive me. I had no business-”

“You don’t have to apologise, Freya. Not to me, and not ever. Just look after your family for me while I’m gone. See that Osred gets back on his feet again.” He looked over her shoulder in the direction of the corridor, and for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Do you think I should… bid him farewell, too?”

“He is asleep, and I would deem it best not to wake him up. I will tell him, Éomer. Don’t worry. We will be all right.”

Satisfied with her affirmation, he turned toward the twins and kissed them good-bye as well.

“Willa, Wyndra… I’m indebted to you. Aragorn told me how much you did for me that night, too, and I will never forget. Do me a favour and look after your sister and your brother for me, will you?”

“We will. But you must promise us to return victorious… and unharmed. It was a great shock when we saw you half-dead.” Willa bit her lips, and her eyes looked big in her thin, pale face.

Éomer’s smile deepened, but it was a smile in which his eyes did not participate.

“I wish I could do that, but I’m afraid that it is not in my hands. I will try my best though.” With a grave nod, he turned away to face Halad and Fléadwyn who had walked over to join the rest of the family, still carrying the little ones in their arms. He ruffled the children’s hair. “Watch your parents for me while I’m away, will you? Keep them from doing foolish things.” Loégar nodded bravely while Edilda stared at him with large, sad eyes.

“Our dogs are dead,” she said then, apropos of nothing as only a child could do. Éomer met her gaze.

“Yes, but they defended your uncle and your father bravely. And I promise you, when I return-” ‘If I return…’ he corrected himself mentally, “…I will bring you new dogs, and you will teach them, and you will love them as much as you loved Ossa and Fang.” A little spark of hope lit up the girl’s eyes, even if their brightness still mainly resulted from brimming tears.

“Really.” Again, he ran his hand to the lasses’ hair, and then turned his attention to Fléadwyn, who met him with open arms and brushed a fleeting kiss upon his cheek.

“Be careful, Éomer. We want to see you again in our valley in better days.”

“And I will be glad to return, Fléadwyn.” He nodded at her rounded stomach. “Take good care of yourself, too. I want to see the new family member when I return.”

Éomer did not think so, but he remained silent as he turned at last to Halad. Somehow, saying his farewell to the young man was even harder than to all the others. Perhaps it was because after the battle, Halad understood best of them all how slim their chances were for a reunion; he saw it in the lad’s eyes as they embraced.

“Take good care of your family for me, Halad. You are their protector now, and a very capable one, too. I count on you to look after them.” The voice that answered him sounded thin with emotion and insecurity.

“I know you will.” Straightening, the warrior gave the young farmer an encouraging look from his superior height, then lowered his voice: “Will you be all right, Halad?”

“Aye.” It did not sound convincing, but Éomer loved the young man for his brave attempt to appear content. “I will do what you told me. You are right, after all: they are dead, and I am alive. We are alive. I will have to remember this.”

“And I am sure that you will succeed with this task, as well. You have proven a remarkably skilled pupil. You made me proud, Halad. You will always remain like a brother to me, don’t forget this.” It sounded horribly final and choked them both, and so, with a final clap on the young man’s shoulder, Éomer deemed at last that it was time to leave. A quick glance at the eastern horizon confirmed that the sun was on its way, and he put a foot into the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle of his burrowed steed. Firefoot, whose lead had been tied to the pommel of his saddle, looked less than happy over seeing his rider on the back of another steed, and his grumpy expression with the flattened ears painted a quick smile upon Éomer’s face as he turned toward his men: “To the Westfold. Thor, you lead.”

“This is what I wanted to avoid: that he uses me to get to you,” Elfhelm said and closed his eyes as he felt an unruly burning welling in them. The last thing he needed was to burst into tears in front of the woman who was in the middle of sacrificing herself for him, even if there was no measure to the depth of the shame he felt. For a while, deafening silence had filled his ears in the wake of Gríma’s exit, and before he had felt too desperate to speak when Éowyn had cleaned his wounds again and fed him the dry crusts of bread she had been allowed to give him. But with each moment that had passed after the echoing steps of their tormentors had vanished, the urge to speak up had grown more powerful, until at last, Elfhelm had felt that he could no longer remain silent. Did Éowyn know what her consent to sharing her meals with the treacherous Worm would inevitably lead to? She was too bright not to understand; King Théoden’s niece was an intelligent woman and well-acquainted with their captor’s obsession with her. She could not accept defeat and shame just to buy life for her failed protector, Elfhelm thought desperately. Why did she not understand that by consenting to their tormentor’s evil game, she destroyed what will of resistance was left in him? As the warrior looked up into the semi-darkness of the opposite cell, using up what strength was left in his feverish body, he saw that he had the young woman’s attention, even if she seemed to be reluctant to discuss her decision.

“He asks for nothing unbearable,” Éowyn replied in a flat voice that belied the emotion behind it, looking through rather than at him as if she feared that the warrior would see the lie in her eyes. “Of course I would prefer to eat my meals in your presence, or in my chambers even, but for as long as he asks for nothing else, I can well ignore him for the short time it takes to empty my plate and grant him his wish.”

“But it will not remain that way,” Elfhelm stated unhappily. “We both know that. The Worm is cunning and greedy, and he knows that he will get nothing if he makes you uncomfortable around him or even fear him during those first visits. He might behave now, but very soon, he will demand more from you, because he knows by now how desperate you are, and how afraid to end up in these corridors alone. If you ask him to feed me again tomorrow, he will take it further, and even further the day after tomorrow. He will touch you more and more often, perhaps even demand that…” He could not bring himself to say it out loud, but Éowyn’s tense expression told him that she understood. “He feels that he has you in his hand already.”

“And perhaps he has,” she agreed, but a sparkle of defiance suddenly lit up her gaze. “But he is wrong if he thinks that he is the only one playing a game. Trust me, my Lord, I had much time to think about this, and I firmly believe that I can use my power over him – which I undeniably have, or he wouldn’t have put so much effort into his plan – to good use.” She rose to her feet and grabbed the bars of her prison, pressing her tired but proud face against the cool iron as her piercing stare met Elfhelm’s. “I had a dream last night, Captain, and it led me to believe that all is not lost yet. I cannot say what will happen, or where my hope stems from, but we are not yet defeated. What proof do we have of what Gríma said that happened? Why should I believe that my brother is dead if all that I’ve seen was his bloodied cloak? Perhaps he is still out there, and even now routing the people against our oppressor to put an end to him tomorrow? And if it is not Éomer, then someone else will come and free us, and I want to be alive when it happens!” She inhaled deeply, and her voice was ripe with conviction when she added: “And I want you to live as well, Captain. It would be foolish to throw our lives away over a matter of pride. We need to hold on, however hard it may be, for once we are freed, Rohan will still need us. It is our duty to survive.”

Elfhelm regarded her for a long time while her words went through his head. How wonderful it would be to be granted the comfort of hope, or even a faint hint that there would indeed be a new morning following the dark night in which they were trapped, and yet he did not find the conviction in himself. He could not give Éowyn what she was asking for and averted his gaze when he answered: “Duty or not, I do not want to be the reason for that bastard to -- “ ‘…spoil your purity…’ “—put his filthy fingers on you. I once promised your brother to protect you should anything ever happen to him; and most certainly I cannot let you protect me instead!”

“But you will not break your oath by supporting my plan,” Éowyn insisted. “There are many ways of helping me, and your very presence in this dark hole protects my sanity. Éomer could not have asked for more! Trust in me, Elfhelm, I know what I am doing. If I get close enough to the Worm during one of my stays in his chambers, I will kill him! Gríma doesn’t trust me yet with anything I could use for a weapon and makes me eat my meals with a spoon, but sooner or later, he is bound to overlook something. If I convince him that he has broken my resistance, he will get more careless, and I will use the first opportunity I am granted to dispose of him. Do not worry about me, Lord Elfhelm. I can look after myself, and I have a goal. With your support, and be it only with your consent, we will not only endure, but emerge victorious.”

With growing duration of the ride, Éomer found his downbeat disposition of the days since his banishment wane, and the relentless assault of the sun that melted the snow was doing its share as was the presence of his éored. There were reassuringly smiling faces whenever he caught the riders’ glances, and each of them seem to think it his personal duty to tell their banished marshal what an honour he deemed it to still serve under his command. Their loyalty and friendship lifted Éomer’s spirit and strengthened his determination to lead his brothers-in-arms not to their death, but to victory against the enemy in Isengard. Despite the common knowledge that they were riding into battle, there was much light-hearted banter and laughing among the men and many a heroic song rang out into the clear air of the slowly fading winter. Rising anticipation painted a grim smile onto Éomer’s lips: no matter what awaited them on the other side of the river, the Rohirrim were ready to face it!

Shouts briefly claimed his attention as two of the éored’s scouts who had swarmed out to inspect the surroundings returned from their foray to report that they had found the ashes of more orc-carcasses slaughtered by their yesterday’s advance forces, and Éomer nodded with satisfaction as he turned to Thor.

“Your men were thorough. It should be impossible for Saruman to hear of our coming.” And yet he did not fully believe himself. As a wizard of the highest order, their enemy surely had some tricks up his sleeve yet no one would ever be able to anticipate, and it would be foolish to assume that the summoning of their forces would remain hidden from their watchful enemy’s eye. All it took to take away their advantage of surprise was one orc who evaded their forces, and those cursed things were too cunning for their own good, especially when they knew that they were being hunted. From the expression on Thor’s face, Éomer concluded that the Halfblood knew it, too.

“I wish that it were so…” And yet the way Thor’s dark eyes swept the surrounding mountains told Éomer all he needed to know.

“How many warriors will you be able to summon against him, what do you think?” Aragorn asked as he rode up to him, Gímli and Legolas following closely.

“We did not inform Edoras and those settlements close to it to not alarm the Worm, and in these dangerous times, no settlement can spare all of their men, so it will not be our full éohere that rides out to meet the traitor. I would be satisfied if eight thousand answered our call.” He cast a wary eye upon the Ranger. “You think that Saruman has many more orcs than eight thousand in his service, don’t you?”

“Alone the group that assaulted us at Amon Hên was over two hundred strong,” Aragorn said. “For a raiding party, it was very big indeed. I do not think that Saruman would have sent so many of them against our small group if he did not have a great number at his disposal.”

“And even if he lost many of his orcs at the Fords of Isen,” Thor added, “he will have replenished their ranks by now. I do not know where he keeps on finding them, but each time we defeat his armies, they are back only a little while later in even greater numbers.”

“He breeds them, just like the Dark Lord.” Aragorn’s features darkened. “The dark magic used to bring these vile things to life is not known to me, but they do not come into the world like other beings. They are manufactured.”

“Well, he can manufacture them as fast as he likes, I will gladly undo them,” Gímli rumbled whole-heartedly from his position behind Legolas and petted his axe affectionately. “Greater numbers did not help them against us the first time, and if your forces prevailed against this stinking filth for so long, they will surely not be defeated now. After all, Master Horse-Lord, you cannot die before we have settled a certain quarrel that we agreed to postpone due to more pressing issues.”

For a moment, Éomer stared at the dwarf in bewilderment, but then suddenly remembered their argument on the plains which had almost resulted in bloodshed. He laughed.

“Aye, I agree, Master Dwarf. We need to answer this very important question before I go to my forefathers. And what a glad duty that will be!”

“You have no idea,” Gímli said with a dreamy look that seemed curiously out-of-place on his rugged face. “That Lady… she is like the morning sun, without which everything would wither. She warms your heart and comforts your very soul. She is as glorious as life itself… only kinder. You must fall in love with her on first sight, or--” He sighed, and did not notice the amused glances his friends exchanged before him.

“—you will get your axe,” Éomer completed the sentence for him. “Aye, I understood you the first time you uttered that threat. We will see about it, but in the meantime, I beg you to remember that I already apologised for my rash words. I did not mean to insult the Lady of the Golden Wood, but merely mentioned what had been murmured about her and her realm for generations. I will be glad to learn better. Our world is surely in need of more good things; for there is more than enough evil roaming it.”

“Well spoken,” the dwarf nodded. “And I will wait with my judgment on you until you have seen her. But to see her, you must first survive this battle, so I will make it my personal duty to ensure that you will.”

Riding before him so that the dwarf could not see his big grin, Aragorn gave his Rohirric brother-in-arms a wink.

“You are a lucky man indeed, Éomer son of Éomund,” he said. “I doubt that any Rohír has ever had a better personal guard!”

Biting the insides of his cheeks to not break into a grin himself when the small warrior seemed to take his commitment very serious, Éomer inclined his head in a courteous nod.

“Then I will be honoured to fight side by side with you, Gímli son of Gloin. With the skill you already demonstrated two nights ago, you are an enemy the orcs will want to avoid, and together, we will make them run.”

“Aye,” the dwarf beamed. “But only until my axe and your sword find them!”

They rode the entire day without interruption, until the sun disappeared behind the mighty mountains peaks and the twilight thickened in the narrow gorge they travelled through. With the last light, they reached the farm that marked their destination for the first day, and with the consent of the owners who had already expected them thanks to the advance group of the previous day, the éored quickly settled into the barn. They saw to their horses and then indulged in a sparse meal of some thin vegetable broth and bread the farmers gifted them with, and which they enriched with stripes of dried meat from their travelling provisions. After the long day, the men were tired, but not tired enough to not engage in the telling of rousing battle stories to lift their spirits for the grim task awaiting them.

Seated with his back against a sack of dried corn, Éomer thoughtfully chewed on the meat while he listened to the conversations and laughter of his men, taking comfort in the rituals he had known since he had first joined their ranks. How wonderful it felt to be in their midst again, respected and cared-for. They were all one great family, a band of brothers who fought for their common cause with the same determination, looked out for each other and helped the one among them in need. Perhaps, Gríma had committed his greatest mistake by assuming that the warriors would blindly follow their feeble king’s words; perhaps this serious error of judgment would be his downfall.

A content smile playing around the corners of his mouth at the thought, Éomer extended his arm to stroke his horse who stood close by with his head lowered into the well-filled manger, but to his surprise, Firefoot shied away from his touch. As Éomer shifted his weight to lean toward him, the big grey stallion casually lifted his sinewy foreleg and shifted a bit to the left, out of his master’s reach without ever interrupting his meal. His strange reaction caused furrows of puzzlement on Éomer’s brow, and his hand sank as he stared at his ignorant steed, incredulous.

“Firefoot?” One ear twitched vaguely in his direction, but the stallion’s head remained in the manger. “Firefoot!” No reaction rewarded Éomer as he raised his voice in growing anger, except for some of the riders in the back of the barn who cut them a curious glance and then quickly turned back to mumble something intelligible that resulted in gales of laughter. Their merriment did nothing for their Marshal’s mood– in response to the added insult – now also felt his face burn. It could not be that this big mule of his had decided to make him the laughing stock of the éored because his master had chosen another horse for the ride, could it?

“I wanted to spare you because you are hurt, you stubborn grey demon!” Éomer growled when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aragorn approach with curiously cocked eyebrows. The older man’s gaze briefly travelled from the horse to the young Marshal and back before he lowered himself into the straw next to Éomer with a bowl of broth and a piece of bread in his hands.

“I have heard about the special bond the Rohirrim share with their horses, but you are not actually having an argument with your steed, are you, Éomer?”

“I would, if that big mule talked back,” Éomer grumbled with a fierce glance at the grey. “He doesn’t seem to understand that what I did today happened for his own good!”

“Well, we could change that.” The Rider raised his voice: “You hear me, Méara-Mule? I could spare myself a lot of trouble if I made you a gelding! Keep behaving like this, and I might just consider it!” This time, both ears flickered into his direction, and a large, dark eye briefly looked him over as if Firefoot sought to find out whether his master was serious. He even stopped chewing for a moment before he turned away at last with an exasperated huff, stomping one hind leg in protest. Aragorn chuckled.

“I suppose one must indeed travel to Rohan to find a horse that is jealous of having to share its master with another steed.” He smiled at Éomer, and at last, the younger man laughed with him.

“Aye. I suppose you are right. It must indeed seem strange to foreigners, the way we talk with our steeds. Their intelligence and consequently, our strong bond comes at a price, but for as long as it is nothing worse than jealousy, I will accept it without complaints.” One last time, he addressed Firefoot: “You hear me, Mule? You are lucky that I am your master! Someone else would have taken a knife and rid himself of this problem with a few well-aimed cuts long ago. You behave worse than a jealous woman!” He settled back against the stall wall, satisfied to have reclaimed authority. His glance swept the cluster of Riders further back, while the heaviness of exhaustion crawled up inside his body. In the wake of the long ride, his whole body ached and if it had not been for a deep-sitting restlessness, he would have fallen asleep on the spot. As Éomer stretched his legs underneath his woollen blanket, he became aware of the knowing glance with which the older man regarded him, and he was not surprised. If he looked half as beat as he felt, Aragorn had to be concerned.

“It was a very long day. Will you be able to spend yet more long hours in the saddle tomorrow?”

Éomer sighed, not looking forward to the prospect but knowing that there was no way around it.

“But we have already covered more than half the distance. Tomorrow will be a shorter day, and at its end will not be another night spent in a barn, but a warm bed in Captain Erkenbrand’s halls and a good meal. With that to look forward to, I will be able to endure whatever tomorrow may hold for me.”

“And yet you do not have to sleep in the straw tonight,” Aragorn said. “I suppose you do not want to leave your men, even if a warm bed would help in restoring your health. I am sure they would understand.”

“I am used to sleeping in the straw; it is no discomfort for me. If anything, it is even more familiar to me than sleeping in a bed. You should remember this from your time with our people… or were things different then?”

“They certainly weren’t, and like you, I always prefer the open skies above my head and the presence of my friends and brothers to any chamber I was offered.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you were wounded and almost died in the cold only recently, and a warm room inside the main house would do you more good than sleeping here in the hay, even if your men might appreciate the gesture.”

“Thanks to your healing skills, I feel much better already,” Éomer dismissed his concern. “There is no need to worry for me.” He slipped further down, now only resting his head on the sack he had leaned against and waiting for exhaustion to claim him. For a while, the two men sat together in silence and listening to the other riders’ conversations which slowly died down as the men went to sleep. Not able yet to find sleep himself, Éomer spoke at last.

“Certainly.” In the flickering light of the oil lamp behind them, the expression on Aragorn’s face was unreadable in the shadows.

“Why did you leave us?” Éomer was not sure why he brought the subject up, and as he saw lines form on the older man’s brow as if Aragorn did not know what to make of his question, he feared that he had angered the man. “From what my father told me and the tales I grew up with, Thorongil was much beloved by our people, and the main source of their hope in those dark days. The orcs diminished while you rode with our forces, and they feared the Rohirrim like never before. The years you spent here provided the Mark with some much-needed respite, but then you suddenly went away. What happened that made you leave?”

“It was not that I did not want to stay. Indeed I felt a great kinship with your people, Éomer, and loved them for their straightforwardness and generosity, but the time had come for me to resume the voyages which would further prepare me for my task. It was not my destiny to stay in Rohan.”

“No,” Éomer said to himself, shaking his head as he remembered their conversations at Freya’s farm. “You told me. You were born to oppose the Dark Lord.” He inhaled deeply. “I cannot begin to imagine the burden this destiny must have been; growing up with the knowledge that one day, you would be the one who had to unite the free people against Mordor. It must have been frightening.”

“My fate was only told to me when I was ready for it… or what they considered ready. Of course you are never entirely prepared to face such great responsibility. Not even today do I know whether I am ready to lead our people and face Sauron in that final battle which looms above our heads; I can only say that I will do my best to apply all the knowledge I gathered on my voyages to the good of us all. Whether it will be enough is impossible to tell.”

“It is hard riding into this battle knowing that even if we win, strive will continue. I cannot tell that to my men just now, you must understand. It would shatter their will and perhaps cause them to despair. We will need all our strength and all our skill, not to mention the favour of the Gods to defeat Saruman before we will be able to concern ourselves with the fate of realms other than Rohan. Our relations with Gondor have been difficult for a long time now, and not many of our riders will see the necessity to aid them in their fight if they didn’t aid us in ours. Since Gondor is reigned by Denethor, its’ people’s attitude toward us has changed. They look down upon us and think of us as peasants and simple people who can neither help them nor are worthy of being helped. It seems that the glorious days of Cirion and Éorl have been all but forgotten.”

“And yet our fate is closely tied together. One people cannot survive without the other’s help, and all quarrels among us must be laid aside where the greater good is concerned. It is unfortunate that the strong bond between Rohan and Gondor has withered for so many years, but we must and we will revive it, or all will be vain. To accomplish this, I will need your help, Éomer: convince your people for me, and I will see that Gondor welcomes you the way it should have been for all these years. If we do not stand together, darkness will devour us.”

The two lads were seriously out of breath as they ground to a halt in front of the astonished young Captain of Edoras. Éothain raised his hand.

“The tunnel!” Giselhere, the older of the two brothers, could only barely hold back not to grab the rider’s arm and pull him along. “At the back of the hill! We did not go in, but it seemed to be deep. I am sure that it is the one we were trying to find.”

From one heartbeat to the next, Éothain’s heart pounded against his ribs in excitement. Could it really be? He turned to Aedwulf.

“I will go with them. Get me five men quickly and meet us there, but tell them to remain quiet about it. No word to anyone! I think that we found most of the Worm’s spies by now, but we cannot afford to take the chance that Gríma finds out what we are up to. Also tell them not to run when you follow us, in case that the enemy observes us from the windows. Everything must look normal to them.”

“Aye. But be careful. If it is indeed the tunnel we are looking for, it may be swarming with Dunlendings, and they will not welcome you kindly.”

“Don’t worry, my friend, I will not enter it alone. Now quickly, get me those men!” He turned to the lads. “Show me what you found.”

“Well?” The boys had stopped, and yet as Éothain’s gaze glided over the rugged terrain at the back of the hill, he saw nothing that hinted toward a secret tunnel. “Where is it?” His expression darkened. “You are not just having your fun with me, are you? For we can truly not—”

“But my Lord, of course not!” Giselhere looked insulted, and his brother scowled at him too. They pointed at a spot toward Éothain’s feet. “You are standing right next to it. It is protected by magic, I think, for I have never seen anything like this. Look!” And with those words, he squatted and reached for the ground, apparently to grab a handful of the mushy snow…but in response to his action all of a sudden a black hole yawned at them in stark contrast to its surroundings. Éothain blinked in irritation. What devilry was this? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He bent over to inspect the dark narrows and had to agree with the boy: this was more than a little cave.

“It is because of this here! It was used to cover the entrance. We put it back in place because we were afraid that someone inside might notice if we removed it.” Giselhere extended his hand as if to give him something, but all that Éothain could see was a strange ripple in the air, like a small wave. Reflexively, he held out his hand… and felt the sensation of soft fabric on his palm. Unable to understand, he closed his fingers around it… and saw the thing shimmer in the colours of the ground beneath his feet where it touched his skin as if he could see right through his hand.

“I fell into the hole when I stepped on it,” the younger boy explained. “I did not see it either. What is it, my Lord?”

“I do not know.” Fascinated, Éothain searched for the fabric’s end and when he had found it, turned it this way and that while he observed how the colour changed depending whether he held it against the sky or the ground. He suddenly heard the boys gasp and looked up. “What is it?”

“My lord, you are… invisible!” Giselhere stuttered, pointing at him. Éothain looked down and suddenly saw it himself: where the blanket hung from his hands, a big hole seemed to gap between his shoulders and his legs. “Béma’s Beard…!”

He was still staring at the phenomenon when the sound of footsteps called him back into the reality of the early afternoon. He turned around.

“And have you found… it?” Aedwulf fell silent, and his eyes widened as he stared at the seemingly detached upper body of his brother-in-arms. The men behind him gasped in shock. “What in Éorl’s name is this?”

“I do not know, but it appears to be the reason why that tunnel was never found. I wonder whether it is a thing Gríma conceived or if the builders put it there. But where did they get such a magical thing?” Not wanting to distract his comrades further when he needed them to think, Éothain folded the garment together. He nodded at the hole in the ground. “It will help me to remain unseen when I go in tonight to see what the situation is in Meduseld.”

“We only have one blanket. And I will only take a first look. Once we know where Wormtongue keeps the captives, we will return and free them… and kill all who oppose us.”

It was the middle of the afternoon when the éored passed over the last ridge that separated them from the plains and their destination for the day. Already they could see the mighty wall of stone and wood which encircled the stronghold of Captain Erkenbrand, the Westfold’s valiant protector and one of the Mark’s most esteemed warriors. The settlement was smaller than Edoras or Aldburg, and yet its inhabitants were renowned for their ferocity in battle and fierce loyalty to their commander who had kept them alive for all these years despite the fact that they were living in the most endangered part of the Kingdom, only separated from the enemy by the fast-flowing waters of the Isen. The price for their continued survival had been great and many lives had been lost in the constant fight against the White Wizard’s raiding parties, and while strangers were regarded warily throughout the Riddermark, it was here where a traveller’s life was most at stake because the watchful riders would sooner kill him if they were not sure of his intentions than let him pass in good faith. Éomer could not help but feel a distinct twinge of unease as he directed his steed onto the path leading to the gates.

The alarm of a bell rang out into the air and echoed from the nearby mountains, and the wind carried the faint echoes of excited shouts toward the riders. They had been seen. With a little kick, Aragorn directed Hasufel alongside the young Marshal of the Rohirrim, and his keen eyes surveyed the proceedings before them as the gate was opened and a group of riders – numerous and fully armoured – exited the fastness. His eyebrows drawn together, he turned toward Éomer’s tense shape.

“I honestly cannot tell,” Éomer said lowly, equally disliking what he saw. Riders were still pouring out of the gate, and from the sudden silence around him it was easy to conclude that his men were likewise bewildered by their brothers’ unexpected show of strength. Why were they greeted by a battle-ready éored when they were coming as friends? He inhaled. “Erkenbrand never had any love for Gríma Wormtongue and his counsels, but it has been a while since I was in the Westfold and I do not know what might have happened here in the meantime. Everything is possible, even that he, too, fell prey to the filth’s rotten schemes and was replaced. We must be careful.” He turned to his men. “Stay alert! Something strange is obviously at work here, and I am not sure whether we will be welcomed as friends. I do not believe that we will have to fight against our kinsmen, but keep your hands on the hefts of your swords nonetheless.” With another glance at the riders’ uncertain expressions, he turned back and urged his steed on.

Meanwhile, the settlement’s warriors’ had formed a half-circle to the left and right of the opened gates; their weapons ready and their bearing rigid as if they dared the new arrivals to come closer.

“This does not look to me as if they are happy to see us,” Gímli observed from his place behind Legolas, and even the elf’s expression was concerned.

“I see two riders in their middle, still behind the gates. One of them rides a great white steed whose right ear misses the tip, and he is clad in a brown and green leather cuirass with the shape of a dragon on his breastplate. He carries a red shield, and from his helm, a crest of black horse-hair flows.”

“This is Erkenbrand,” Éomer said, squinting to see what the elf had seen and yet only barely managing to make out the indistinct shapes of the two riders at all. “So at least he was not replaced. The other one must be Grimbold then.” He took a deep breath, and then turned to Aragorn and Thor. “Follow me, but stop just outside of that éored’s reach, just in case. It is my presence that disturbs them, and my task to explain myself. If all they heard came from Gríma Wormtongue, then they need to hear my account of the real events before they will support us.”

“But then you will be unprotected,” Aragorn replied. “If all they heard came from the enemy, then they deem you a traitor, and your men as well. Are you certain that you want to take that risk?”

“They will not shoot me before they have heard me out,” Éomer said with conviction, his gaze fixed upon the two riders who came to a halt in front of the gates and awaited him. “I have known Erkenbrand for many years. He is fierce but just, and he will not come to a verdict before he has heard all the facts. He must know that the Worm’s accusations are false.” A side-glance showed him Aragorn’s sceptically raised eyebrows, and next to him, Thor looked equally concerned. He gave them a curt nod and urged Drálion forth, raising his arm to order his éored to a halt. “I will talk to them. Stay back, and don’t intervene unless it is utterly unavoidable. An armed dispute among our forces would be the end of the Mark.”

In a slow trot, the stallion carried him toward the waiting warriors, and Éomer’s stomach turned into a solid block of ice at the sight of their grim expressions. Had it been a mistake to come here? Would this indeed be the first time that Rohirrim slaughtered Rohirrim just because he had committed a serious error of judgment in thinking that they would support him instead of following the King’s verdict? Looking the soldiers he passed straight into the eye to let them know of their error with a mere glance, Éomer rode into their midst, the sound of his stallion’s hoof-beats and his breathing too loud in the strained silence. A prickling feeling began crawl up and down his spine to finally nestle between his shoulder blades as he passed the first riders who held their bows in their hands with the arrows fitted to the string. They would not shoot him like a rabid dog from behind… would they?

At last, he was close enough to make out the expressions of the two riders in front of him: Erkenbrand’s strong-boned, weathered face was unreadable, his emotions concealed behind a mask of cool anticipation while his steel-grey eyes observed the intruder with hawk-like intensity. The disposition of the man next to him was easier to determine: Grimbold Lord of Grimslade, an experienced and feared warrior of forty-seven summers who had been Théodred’s close friend, glared at him like wolf at a sheep the second before it tore out its throat. Éomer braced himself for the confrontation with the valiant warrior while he silently cursed the man who had brought him into the situation of having to face these men he regarded as brothers as potential enemies. With a slight tug at the reins, he signalled Drálion to halt.

“Westu Erkenbrand hál,” he said in greeting with a slight inclination of his head before he turned toward the other man. “Westu Grimbold hál. What need do you see to greet us with readied weapons? We are brothers, not enemies.”

It was Grimbold who urged his horse forth to meet him upon a hidden signal, while the Captain of Westfold stayed behind with his inscrutable expression still in place, saying nothing. Observing him. Irritated by the man’s strange behaviour, Éomer shifted his attention to the Lord of Grimslade. At least here he knew what to expect.

“You are not our enemy, you say, Éomer son of Éomund,” the broadly-built warrior said in a hostile voice befitting his expression and lifted his chin, glowering at the younger man. “And yet I must say that it takes some cheek to show your face here after all that happened. Through your rebellion, or neglect, or whatever it may have been that caused you to disregard Théodred’s summons, you put the heir to the throne into an early grave! Or was it indeed your plan to let our enemy slaughter the Mark’s best warrior in the time of our greatest need? Are you in fact in league with the traitor in Isengard?”

“You should know better than calling me a traitor, Grimbold!” Éomer had been determined to remain calm, but the man’s blunt accusations stirred up his anger. With a hard tug at the reins, Grimbold halted his stallion next to Éomer, rage and pain burning in his eyes.

“If you are not, then where were you when Théodred needed you? He had called for aid days before the enemy’s fatal charge came; he saw it coming. There was enough time for his call to reach Edoras and for you to ride to the Isen and help us stand our ground! Elfhelm answered it instead of you, and I dare say that it was the arrival of his éored that turned the tide at last and saved us from annihilation, but there was no trace to be discovered on any horizon of our Third Marshal! And still you insist that you did not betray us?”

“You do not know what happened,” Éomer pressed through his clenched teeth, finding it increasingly hard to contain his rising anger and not lash out at the rider, even if he knew where the man’s grief and frustration were stemming from. They were all on the same side, he reminded himself, an endless litany in the back of his mind that was in danger of being drowned out by the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. There was no telling what would happen if he rose to Grimbold’s provocation. The atmosphere was such that even the smallest spark would ignite a violent dispute among their éoreds, which of course was what the Worm had intended all along. Éomer was determined not to grant his enemy this victory, and yet the Captain of Grimslade did not make it easy for him when he shouted straight into his face:

“Alas, I do know what happened all too well, traitor, for I was there!” His face flushed with hatred as all restraint left him. And still Erkenbrand did not intervene. Why? Because he wanted to see Éomer’s reaction to the accusations? “Your cousin died in my arms! Théodred’s blood was on my hands while I attempted in vain to staunch the bleeding from his many wounds, and still I failed to save him. Do you want know what he said to me before he died? Do you want to hear your cousin’s last words? He said: “Hold the Fords until Éomer comes!” He saw the sudden wet sparkle in Éomer’s eyes which betrayed the young man’s pain, but could not bring himself to stop, for he was back in that moment when all hope had left him, his voice choked with emotion. “And we held them. Against all odds and at the price of many lives we held them. But you did not come. Where were you when we needed you the most? Orc-hunting? Obeying the same bloodlust which put your father in his grave and many of his men before him who paid the price for his hot-headedness although they did not ask for it?”

He did not see the strike coming. All of a sudden, a horrible thunder echoed through Grimbold’s head and he found himself on the ground while his horse bolted with a frightened shriek. The fingers he involuntarily pressed against his throbbing brow came away bloodied, and he noticed that his helm was no longer sitting on his head when the white horse before him reared. Frantically crawling backward, the warrior barely evaded its flying hooves and suddenly stared into Éomer’s furious eyes when the younger man jumped from the saddle and rammed his sword underneath his adversary’s chin. Stunned by the sensation of the cold steel against his skin and knowing that he would die if he so much as twitched, the warrior froze.

“Don’t shoot!” Erkenbrand’s voice pierced the stunned silence, but Éomer hardly heard him or the urgent rush of air indicating that the settlement’s soldiers had raised their bows at him.

“The only reason why I will not kill you for your words, Grimbold of Grimslade, is that you were my cousin’s best friend,” Éomer hissed, trembling with barely contained fury and tears burning in his eyes which he stubbornly ignored. “I know that you loved Théodred like a brother, as did I. We are united in our grief, although you will never know the full depth of mine. Perhaps I would talk like you and lash out were I in your position, and yet I doubt that I would choose to believe in the words of a proven liar instead of those of a man who fought by my side for more than ten years!” A moment longer he held the tip of his sword to the man’s throat, before his arm sank and he turned back to the still observing Captain of Westfold. “Lord Erkenbrand, I have always held you in high esteem and admired your gift of observation and the reading of people. You have known me from the cradle, and you have served together with my father for many years. Look at me now and tell it to my face that you do indeed think me a traitor.”

The hawk-like eyes focussed on him, and yet Éomer stood fast and met the warrior’s gaze with openness and honesty, his mind naked under the older man’s inquisitive stare. For a moment, none dared to breathe, until at last Erkenbrand raised his chin and his authoritive voice reached their ears: “Then pray tell, Son of Éomund, what the truth is. Our truth is that you did not come when your superior summoned you; that much remains undisputed. Théoden-King’s counsellor says that you disobeyed your ruler’s direct order to remain in Edoras to go orc-hunting instead, leaving our capital unprotected and thus not being available when our summons came which you knew would only be a matter of time. What good reason did you have for your actions, tell us!”

Sheathing his sword with a last glance at Grimbold who slowly regained his feet and bent over to brush the dirt from his garments with a dark look at his adversary, Éomer limped back to where Drálion patiently waited for him. He swung into the saddle to lend his argument more weight from the elevated position of the horse’s back. Nothing was won yet, but at least Erkenbrand was willing to listen to him.

“It is true that I left against the King’s orders to hunt down a great group of Uruk-hai which had been seen descending into the Eastfold from the Great Wall. The group was over two hundred strong and was headed for Isengard. My choice was between remaining in Edoras to await your summons and allow them to cross the plains unchallenged where their path would have taken them to several settlements not big enough to repel them, thus taking into account the loss of dozens if not hundreds of lives …” He gaze travelled from rider to rider to make sure that he was understood, “… or to pursue them in hope that we found them and disposed of them quickly enough to ride to your aid afterward, which was the decision I made. I sent word to Elfhelm to already make for the Westfold and help you, and then rode out with my éored to dispose of the enemy, for I was not willing to sacrifice our farmers without a fight. Yes, my orders were different, but only because Wormtongue wanted those orcs to reach their destination, and he wanted to weaken us further by burning those settlements to the ground. My choice was between the people of my ward and my cousin, and believe me when I say that it was one of the hardest choices I have ever been forced to make.” ‘Next to abandoning Éowyn when she needed me like she never needed me before!’ He swallowed in an attempt to collect himself. It seemed that Erkenbrand was listening to him, but not yet entirely convinced.

“We all know who has truly been ruling Edoras for these past years, and it is not the King! It may be his voice which utters the orders which undermine all that we’ve been struggling to uphold, but their true source is the traitor by his side; the traitor calling himself his counsellor when his aim is in fact the undoing of the Mark.” ‘And possession of my sister…’ “Théodred disobeyed him for many years, and so did all of us for the best of Rohan! I did nothing else when I rode against those orcs, but now the Worm’s hold over the King has grown so strong that he can whisper into his ear whatever he likes and Théoden will believe it… even if it means sentencing his own kin to death.” He looked Erkenbrand in the eye and squared his shoulders as he came to the end. “Kill me if you think you must, but then you will do Saruman’s bidding and not your King’s.”

The moment stretched. For the life of him Éomer could not have told what went through the other man’s head as they regarded each other silently. From behind, he felt the attention and anxiety of his own riders, instinctively understanding how hard it was for his men to stand back while their own comrades had raised their spears and bows against their own marshal. Never before had two éoreds faced each other like this, with bloodshed only a false decision or a twitching finger away. If battle erupted between them, it would be the Mark’s end. He waited, aware that his fate rested in the hands of his childhood idol now.

The faintest hint of a smile briefly wandered over Erkenbrand’s expression as he regarded him, but it was a smile in which his eyes did not participate, and the small nod he granted the younger man could hardly be named such when he said: “Very well. I will believe you for now, Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark.” Éomer’s relief was too great for words when he listened to the Captain’s decision, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the surrounding men take a deep breath as well when a weight fell off their shoulders. No one had wanted to fight against their own comrades. Ignoring their sudden low exchange, Erkenbrand continued. “Your reasoning seems sound to me, and I doubt that any of us would have decided differently if faced with the same choice. Alas, there are times when we can only choose between to evils, and abandoning our blood-kin for the greater good may very well be the most horrible thing duty can ask of us.” His words choked Éomer and brought up Éowyn’s image in front of his inner eye again. “I trust that you found and killed those Uruk-hai?”

“Aye. They are destroyed.” With a quick glance at Grimbold who had remounted and returned to his commander’s side, Éomer kicked his heels into Drálion’s flanks and brought the stallion up alongside the two men. “And what is more: on the way back to Edoras, I made the acquaintance of three powerful warriors who travelled a long and perilous way to aid us in our fight, one of whom has been known among our people for a long time under the legendary name of Thorongil! He is here now, riding with my éored.”

Gasps and surprised shouts emitted from the surrounding warriors and all heads turned toward the group of riders that waited on the path and only began to move now in response to Éomer’s gesture. Sceptical lines formed on Erkenbrand’s brow as he observed their approach.

“But this was a long time ago, Éomer, it cannot be the real Thorongil. The real Thorongil has to be an old man!”

“He is of Númenorean blood, so it is possible. And I believe him, even if he isn’t travelling under that name anymore. I have seen him fight; I have been under his care, and we have held many conversations which convinced me that he is telling the truth. I felt that he was different even when I first met him on the plains and knew nothing about him, and I would be surprised if you did not feel the same once you get to know him. Here he comes. Aragorn!”

Warily observing the surrounding men although he felt that the tension was at last vanishing, Aragorn directed his horse toward the three commanders and inclining his head in greeting, Legolas and Gímli following close behind. He gave Éomer a relieved nod.

“For a moment, I feared the worst. I could barely hold back your men when they wanted to ride to your aid.” He shifted his attention to Erkenbrand without missing the still dark expression of the man by his side. “You made a good decision to listen to him, my lord, for we can allow no quarrel among us if we want to prevail.”

“You are the warrior they called Thorongil?” the Lord of Westfold asked with the usual Rohirric directness. Aragorn knew better than to be insulted by it.

“Aye. I served the Mark under Thengel for a while when my quest led me here. I understand that it may be hard to believe for you, but I have not returned to reap whatever renown may be attached to that name. Yet perhaps it would help your decision to trust me if we found an elder among your people who has seen me before. I served in the Westfold for quite a long time.”

“I am sure that we can find one,” Erkenbrand nodded satisfied, and Éomer noted that the Captain seemed to react to the same strange thing he had felt upon meeting Aragorn on the plains. “I must apologise for our rude welcome, but it is hard these days for us to trust strangers. What name may I call you if you say that you do no longer travel under the name of Thorongil?”

“My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and my companions are Legolas of the Mirkwood realm and Gímli, son of Gloin. We have travelled a long way to aid Rohan in your battle against the evil forces of the West and East.”

After the exchange an unreadable glance with Grimbold, the Lord of Westfold extended an arm toward the gate in an inviting gesture. “And we will gladly accept your help, my lords. Be welcomed in the Westfold and please, if you will follow us inside, we can talk some more and share the evening meal as you must be hungry. It seems that a lot has happened that demands our immediate attention.”

Gríma was learning quickly, Éowyn had to admit as she concentrated on the taste of the measured sip of wine running down her throat. It had a slightly wooden aspect and went quickly to her head which was no wonder given her strained condition and how little she had eaten over the last days. She would have to drink it slowly, lest it would seriously impediment her ability to think, which grew ever more important these days. Right now, her adversary was studying her from the opposite side of the heavily laden table with the undivided attention of a predator stalking its prey. So far Wormtongue had learned that his efforts of keeping up a conversation were not appreciated and only resulted in his guest blocking him out and withdrawing even more into herself, so when he spoke now, he talked of things that needed no response, sometimes even humorous little anecdotes of his travels. He tried hard to make her feel more comfortable in his presence, and the truth was that Éowyn did feel less uneasy than the evening before, when she had sat on her chair rigid like a marble statue and just waited for the Worm to assault her. Since then, they had shared the morning and the midday meal and nothing else had happened than Gríma filling her plate and cup and behaving like the perfect host. He had not even tried to touch her hair again, apparently having sensed the anxiety caused by his closeness one evening earlier. Like so many times before, Éowyn wondered why he had not used one of his potions to break her will, and the obvious answer had surprised her: yes, his craving was as strong as ever, but after all that had happened, Gríma Wormtongue apparently still hoped that eventually, she would consent out of her own, free will. What a fool he was.

Avoiding his gaze as she felt an insane bout of laughter well up, Éowyn sat down her cup. She had been demonstrated the blackness of Gríma Wormtongue’s soul too many times to forget in this lifetime or the next; she had lost her brother and her cousin to his greed, and her uncle was as good as dead. When she had asked her captor to be allowed a brief visit, the Worm had denied her wish and yet had hinted that it was still a possibility if her behaviour toward him remained flawless for at least another day. She had fallen silent again and pressed her lips together, hating the degradation of having to beg and to swallow all signs of her contempt while the filth talked about a future they would not have together. Sooner would she die, but for now, Éowyn felt that she was using Gríma as much as he was using her. She would have to take it from here.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him cutting the piece of meat on his plate and then laying down the knife next to his right hand, and for a few heartbeats, she could not avert her eyes. It was a sharp knife, she noted, the first object in the room which would make a suitable weapon once she decided to act. But it was still out of the reach of her hands which were tied to the armrests of the chair with just enough length of rope to allow her to move her spoon between plate and mouth. She would have to be patient. With a soundless sigh, Éowyn took another mouthful of bread with which she had wiped the sauce from her plate, thankful for the silence. Yet no sooner had the thought crossed her mind when Wormtongue interrupted it.

“I am glad that you finally seem to feel a little more secure around me, my Lady,” he said in a low, confidential voice which made her shudder. The last time he had used it on her, she had almost fallen into a trance, unable to withdraw when her tormentor had put his face close to hers while he had whispered truths into her ear he could impossibly have known. “I meant what I said: we don’t have to be enemies. Things could be very different between us if you only gave up your stubborn resistance.”

“You mean we can be friends?” she forced herself to say before he would get angry at her again for remaining silent. Of course she knew what he really meant, and he knew that she knew. And still Gríma chuckled as if her desperate jest amused him greatly.

“Oh, I am sure that we will be very good friends once you have realised that I am not the evil man you picture me to be. I have emotions, too, my Lady. Compassion… and friendship… even love are no strangers to me, whether you believe it or not.” He paused to let the words sink into her mind. She felt slightly sickened by them. “They were buried underneath a mountain of bitterness imposed upon me by the way your kinsmen treated me, but each day now, I feel them grow stronger, and I honestly believe that I am ready to love again. All I ever wanted was to be useful to my people, and to be respected among them for my knowledge and loyalty. Yet all I was granted from the noble descendants of Éorl was disdain for no other reason than the colour of my hair. True, my father was a Dunlending, but there are many people of mixed ancestry in the Westfold, and their parents live among them like anyone else, never hurting anyone. And they are treated like dirt by your kind. They are the eternal target of your golden-haired children’s cruel jokes, and when they grow up, it is them who take the blame for everything that goes wrong. Mistrust and contempt follows them wherever they go, until they finally have no other path left to take then over the Isen, where they are welcomed with the same kind of disdain but this time for the Rohirric blood in their veins. You breed your enemies yourself, my Lady, and you can hardly complain about the hatred with which other peoples regard you. It is well-deserved. You were cruel to me, too, but as you see, I am willing to give you a chance.”

This time, Éowyn could not help herself; she looked up and her expression hardened.

“A chance? I don’t want to be granted a chance by you, Gríma Wormtongue. I hear a lot of self-pity in your words, but no responsibility. You were greeted with open arms by my uncle when you first took up your position. He trusted you – and you betrayed that trust by poisoning him and playing your evil games with us because you could not contain your greed!”

“I had no dealings with Saruman when I came here,” Wormtongue replied icily, and his pale eyes shot daggers at Éowyn. “It was you and your family who chased me into his arms with your open mistrust and your secret glances behind my back which you thought I would not see! May I remind you of the way your cousin and your brother treated me when all I wanted was to serve our people?”

Her wine cup fell and spilled its red contents onto the table cloth as Éowyn forcefully brought down her fist upon the table. For a moment, she was mesmerized by the redness, but when she looked up again, her eyes narrowed and their blue turned so cold that they looked like a frozen pond.

“Serve our people? You served them fine indeed! The moment that you set foot into Meduseld, you began to weave your nets and to play people against each other for your own advantage! You would not accept that I was not interested in your attention, so you forced me to concern myself with you through your intrigues and evil scheming! For years you tried to drive a spike between Éomer and Théodred, and between Éomer and the King, hoping my uncle would expel him so that you could get to me more easily! My brother saw into your heart the first time he looked at you, and he saw a greedy, selfish man who would pass over the corpses of those he had disposed of to satisfy his own craving. And yet here you sit in front of me, daring to wail in self-pity and say that it is all our fault? You only got what you deserved!” She was ruining it. Béma knew she had tried, but all restraints were suddenly swept away by a boiling red-hot flood of anger. On the opposite side of the table, Gríma narrowed his eyes.

“You are right at least in that regard, my Lady: I got what I deserved! I got you, and whether you come to me voluntary or not is no longer of concern to me, for you are mine now!” And with these words he jumped to his feet and rushed toward her. Frantically, Éowyn tore at her bonds, but it was to no avail, and as Wormtongue forcefully shoved her chair around so that she had to look at him, she collected all saliva left in her mouth and spit into his face.

“Then I hope you enjoy this, for this is the only thing you will ever get from me!”

“We will see about that,” he sneered as he reached around her head to grab a handful of the glorious golden tresses, tugging at them so hard that she had to lift her face to him with a pained gasp. Before Éowyn could draw another breath, Gríma pressed his mouth hard onto hers. She pressed her lips together, but it was too late for she could already feel his urging tongue in her mouth. What happened then was a reflex, a panicked reaction in the face of an assault: she bit down hard, and suddenly the thick taste of blood filled her mouth as Gríma recoiled with a pained noise. He drew back, but his lower lip was still caught between her teeth and she clamped them down with a feeling of triumph as she felt him twitch in pain. The next moment, something hard connected with the side of her head and the world slipped from her grasp. Plunging into blackness as if thrown into a deep well, the last thing Éowyn heard was Gríma’s voice yelling for the guard.

Following the former Third Marshal’s arrival, the warriors had first been appointed their rooms and given an opportunity to rest before they were invited to the evening meal in the hall. Over a table laden with freshly baked bread, thick potato soup and slices of pork marinated in honey and herbs the men had traded news from all parts of the Mark and – thanks to Aragorn’s presence – even from outside their realm until well after nightfall. Like the Captain of Westfold, Grimbold had listened to Éomer’s and Aragorn’s reports with a sinking feeling in his stomach, until at last he felt it impossible to remain quiet.

“But wouldn’t we stand a better chance of defeating them if we drew them to Helm’s Deep instead? Its walls have never been breached, and we could repel even an army of much greater number from their safety. If Saruman’s army is indeed readying itself for the final assault, then we should await it there and make them pay dearly for the attempt!” Furrows formed on his brow as he saw Éomer shake his head in response to his outburst. “Why not?”

“Alas, I fear that is not an option, or at least not one that we should consider. Aye, I agree that the odds of defeating Saruman’s forces might be better if we hide in the fastness, but by doing so, we would at the same time invite them to raid our unprotected settlements instead. They would be foolish not to avoid us for as long as we sit in Helm’s Deep, waiting for them and doing nothing. They are not noble, seeking only battle against an armed opponent. If we permitted them to move unchallenged from village to village, they could kill our stock and ruin our fields at their leisure to leave behind burnt earth until only at last, there would be nothing else left for them to destroy and they would come for us. Even if we defeated them in the end, we would quickly perish in the famine afterward. No. Even if it will most likely result in more deaths on our side, we must meet them before they pass the Fords, or Rohan pays for it. And we must ride soon, for I expect them to strike any day now.”

“To attack the enemy while he is still shaking off sleep?” Erkenbrand mused, stroking his beard in an unconscious gesture while he contemplated Éomer’s suggestion. Briefly, his gaze found Aragorn who regarded him silently over the rim of his raised cup. “And still Saruman’s teeth will be sharp once he has fully woken. We were already almost defeated by his creatures in the last battle, and he was not even there himself. It can only get worse if we attack him on his own grounds! None of us know the terrain, for it has been too dangerous for scouts on the other side of the Isen for quite a while. For the past weeks, we have seen great columns of smoke rise from the Wizard’s Vale, but we do not know what devilry he has conceived. Perhaps he even is laying a trap there for us, waiting for us to attack. No, I feel very uncomfortable at the thought of riding into his lair blindly.”

“But each day that we wait, his orcs multiply,” Éomer said. “The army we will face once he sets them in motion because he deems himself ready will be much greater than the one we would face now.” Erkenbrand leant forward, his elbows on the table, and the intensity of his deep voice filled the room.

“Perhaps that is so, but we would have the advantage of the place if we fought here, and it would be an immeasurable advantage! I doubt that Saruman would accompany his orcs into the Mark, but if we fight at Isengard, we will be within his reach. What could we do against the might of a wizard? Even if he didn’t have an army of giant orcs at his disposal, he can probably kill us all with a snap of his fingers. If Gandalf Greyhame were still alive and joining us in battle, aye, then perhaps I would see a chance, but you said he was killed under the mountains. So what hope do we have left?”

“The hope stemming from the knowledge that the Rohirrim have never been defeated once their united forces stood against an enemy. The hope coming from the knowledge that your people prevailed under the grimmest circumstances for more than five hundred years,” Aragorn answered instead of Éomer, in intensity equalling the Lord of Westfold as he put down his cup. “And the knowledge that your enemies still fear your hardiness and determination enough to have first attempted to weaken you from within before they dared to strike. You proved that attempt futile, and now it is time to demonstrate to your enemy that he was indeed right: that you cannot be defeated once Rohan stands united.”

Erkenbrand stared at him, but in his grey eyes uncertainty still lingered instead of conviction.

“But what about the wizard? We never faced a wizard before. How can we hope to defeat him?”

“You underestimate your own strength” the Dúnadan replied passionately, his gaze urging. “Yes, Saruman has powers which we cannot begin to comprehend, but even so, he is made of flesh and blood like a man, and he can be killed by an ordinary arrow like everyone else.”

“Perhaps that is as you say, Lord Aragorn. I will not doubt it, but don’t Saruman’s powers enable him to kill those presenting a threat to him long before they have advanced far enough to actually become a danger? For everything I know, he could let fire rain from the sky onto our heads once we approach his tower.”

“Everything is possible in battle,” Aragorn said cryptically. “But history is full of fallen warriors who deemed themselves undefeatable… not least of all the Dark Lord himself. In fact it could very well be Saruman’s self-assuredness which presents us with our greatest chance.”

“But even if we don’t know how great Saruman’s powers are--” Éomer interrupted forcefully “— I would prefer to die in battle, hewn by the enemy in an attempt to defy him than crawl on my stomach through the smoking ashes of the wasteland I once called my home and perish in the famine that would follow our hollow victory if we followed your suggestion. I don’t know how you feel about it.”

Leaden silence spread in the room; the only noise coming from the crackling of the flames in the fireplace. At last, Erkenbrand nodded.

“I don’t know, but we will have to do with those who come. I know that the Westfold forces suffered great losses during the last battles, but I feel confident that the Eastfold’s éoreds are still behind me, and that they are possibly already on the way. If we can summon five thousand spears, we might have a chance.”

“And yet it is a long way from the Eastfold to the Isen. How long will you wait for them? You said earlier that we need to make haste, lest the enemy will be ready for us despite our surprise attack.”

“Aye, and I meant it.” Éomer inhaled deeply, and his gaze travelled over the present men. “I will give the éoreds two more days. On the third day, we must ride, no matter how many have come by then. Something is telling me that even this might already be too late, but we will achieve nothing if we ride with only three éoreds. My errand-riders were sent east two days ago and will have delivered their message by now, and the people of your ward were alerted by our advance force yesterday. Tomorrow, we should see the arrival of the first éoreds.” He paused. “Now you know everything, Lord Erkenbrand, and I need to hear whether you will join us in this attack. Will you ride with us?”

“I no longer care. She wants it this way, she gets it, and I will enjoy it in a different way. If we cannot be companions, then we will be master and slave. She brought it about herself.”

Wormtongue’s voice sounded strained and muffled, and for a moment, disorientation was too great to remember what had happened when sensation crept back into Éowyn’s body. But when she opened her eyes and found herself still lying on the floor with her hands and feet tied to the overturned chair, she suddenly remembered what had happened and looked up. Her tormentor stood next to the door in discussion with the big Halfblood who had been acting as his right hand, and from his hissing speech and hectic gestures she concluded that he was still raging mad at her. With satisfaction, Éowyn watched as Wormtongue pressed an already bloodied handkerchief against his mutilated lip, and the taste of his blood on her tongue brought a faint smile to her face even against the violent throbbing of her head. She had hurt him. For the second time, she had drawn his blood and although it was clear that he would quickly avenge himself it was a comforting thought. At least she had and restored her dignity.

“—here in your chambers?” she heard Felrod ask when she shifted her attention back at the two men again. “You saw how dangerous she still is!”

“Tied and gagged she will no longer be a danger to me,” Wormtongue sneered with a quick glance at her, causing an involuntary shiver to race down Éowyn’s spine. What was he contemplating? Trying to escape her ties, she frantically moved her hands back and forth and hissed softly as the rope bit into the soft skin of her wrists. Quickly she had to admit that there was no way of freeing herself this way and she sank back, giving up in time to hear her tormentor’s next words. “But first, I want her to witness the effect of her assault. Go and tell your men to meet us in the dungeon. It is about time that our King’s haughty niece sees what pain her stubbornness causes other people!”

The sound of the footsteps was different this time; hard, quick and determined, and their urgency woke Elfhelm from the stupor in which he had spent the past hour since they had taken Éowyn upstairs. He knew at once what the sound meant and what was coming at him, and although the prospect of further torture chilled his blood, Elfhelm’s heart suddenly sang in triumph for he knew that Éowyn had not yet surrendered to the Worm’s foul game. Her will had not been broken yet, and no matter what would happen to him, that discovery alone was worth any amount of pain the Worm could inflict on hin. Perhaps they could not win against Saruman’s crooked minion, but they could bitter the taste of his victory by defying him even in their death. It was a comforting thought.

When the new Lord of Meduseld and his guards stopped before his cell and the big Halfblood unlocked the door, Elfhelm’s gaze went past his adversary who held in his hands a nine-tailed whip of leather with iron spikes at its ends.

“Get the tunic off him!” Wormtongue growled, and Felrod cut the bloodstained rags off his body with a broad, expectant grin on his face. And still Elfhelm spared him not a single glance. His gaze locked with Éowyn’s, he braced himself for the pain, and at the same time, smiled at her in encouragement. ‘I am proud of you, my Lady’, his gaze said, oblivious to the wet trails of the tears on her cheeks. ‘You did not yield, not even for my sake. Your pride soothes my pain, and the knowledge that his victory will be hollow allows me to die with a glad heart. He will be denied what he craves the most.’ He saw that she understood and felt comforted, until the cracking of the whip plunged him into a realm of pain.

Chapter 44: The Heirloom of a Great Man

OUTSIDE EDORAS

It was late when the fifty heavily armed men left the sleeping city and made for the back of the hill upon which the Hall of Kings loomed; now the fastness of the enemy in the very heart of their kingdom. They carried no torches as they carefully made their way to the entrance of the tunnel, not taking the chance that they might be seen from above even when the uneven path was hard to walk in the dark.

Éothain felt both excited and tense as they approached the hole in the rock. After days of forced apathy and the aggravating feeling of utter helplessness, he was finally allowed to act, and if the Gods were at last willing to look at them with a benevolent eye for a change, they would perhaps succeed in freeing the prisoners before the break of dawn. Would he be in time to save his father? Was Cèorl even still alive? With great effort, Éothain suppressed his rising anxiety as they reached their destination. Scanning the ground to find out whether the enemy had left his hideout since the afternoon and perhaps found their tracks, Éothain saw with satisfaction that the snow had thawed completely in the course of the last hours and left nothing but dry bushes and bare rock behind. The blanket which the lads had carefully put back in place over the hole looked still untouched and shielding the secret passage from unwelcome eyes. Unceremoniously, Éothain squatted and picked it up to the surprised gasps from those men who had not accompanied him during his first foray thus already witnessed the wonder of the magical blanket. He turned around to face them, aware of Aedwulf’s dark expression as he spoke in a low but insistent voice. It was obvious that the other man was not content with his plan, but to Éothain, it was the only option they had left to help the hostages.

“Wait here until I return. Under no circumstances will you follow me, even if I take longer to return than you may expect. We cannot risk that you are seen or heard, for our advantage of surprise would be ruined and the captives greatly endangered; you know how well noise travels in caves. I have no doubt that the Worm would hide behind his hostages as soon as he found himself under attack, and we must under all circumstances prevent that he reaches them before us. He will have no problems killing them when he finds himself cornered. If he can't win, then he will be content with causing even more suffering before he dies. Thus, we must first find out where he keeps his prisoners and, if we cannot secretly free them, then at least dispose of those who pose a threat to them. Once we decide to act, everything must go very quickly, and there will be no time for doubt. I will first go alone under cover of the magic blanket and find out more about the tunnel and how things are in Meduseld.”

“But what if you are killed in there?” Aedwulf voiced his doubts. “What if they sense your presence and capture you, too? We cannot afford that they take you from us; we need our leader! You must allow us to come to your aid if we hear a disturbance in that tunnel!”

“But then the Worm will kill the prisoners, Aedwulf, don’t you understand? He will use them to force us into a retreat… or worse, into surrendering ourselves, too.” A vision of Wormtongue holding a knife to Éowyn’s throat and shouting at him to lay down his weapons suddenly assaulted Éothain, and a chill raced down his spine.

“If they capture you, Gríma will know that his secret passage has been compromised and close it against us, so if we ever want to have a chance of freeing the hostages, we must attack tonight. Éothain, you know that it is so!” In a silent battle of wills, the older man bent his keen eyes upon his Captain, and at last Éothain nodded, however reluctantly.

“Very well. If I am seized; then do your best to free the prisoners and kill as many enemies as you can. But I will be careful, and it will not become necessary.” And with these words, Éothain laid a hand upon Aedwulf’s shoulder and his encouraging glance travelled over the doubtful faces of his men before he turned on his heels and lowered himself into the hole.

Blackness swallowed him like a great beast, so thick that he could not see the hand before his eyes as he sensed his way over to the left wall. In such complete blackness, he would not even need the blanket, but it would make moving silently on the uneven ground difficult, Éothain figured quickly while recounting what he knew about the Hillfolk who aided the usurper. They were well-adjusted to life in mountains and caves and great builders of tunnels themselves, but as far as he knew, they were still ordinary men with ordinary senses. They would not be able to see him in the total absence of light, and neither would they feel his presence through any other extraordinary sense for as long as he avoided all noise. They were men, not trolls. And still, would it hurt to wear the blanket? Throwing the feather-light garment over his head, Éothain looked back.

A narrow beam of starlight filtered into the narrows from the entrance, comforting him in this oppressive darkness. Éothain took a deep breath and silently proceeded further into the heart of the hill.

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

WESTFOLD

“May I make the suggestion to postpone the rest of our discussion to tomorrow? There is nothing we can do until the éoreds have arrived, and it is getting late. The way I see it, we can make no detailed plans until we know how many riders we will have at our disposal anyway.” Erkenbrand narrowed his eyes as his gaze travelled over the faces of the others to finally come to a rest on Éomer’s drawn features. “You look unwell, Éomer. Would you wish for someone to look after you? After all, it was only four days ago that those orcs found you. I could send for our healer.”

At the sound of his voice, life slowly returned to the young marshal’s eyes as if Éomer were waking from a deep sunkenness, and at last, he averted his gaze from the fire into which he had stared silently for a long time. With a deep breath, he ran a hair through his matted hair and shook his head. Yes, he felt tired. If he looked half as exhausted as he felt, it was no wonder that Erkenbrand had voiced his concern, but there was nothing that he needed except for a night of rest.

“That will not be necessary, Captain, thank you. I am only fatigued after the long ride, and a few hours of sleep will suffice to restore my strength. But I agree that we should end this council now. Or is there anything else that needs to be said which cannot wait until tomorrow?” His gaze travelled over the tired features of his brothers-in-arms, finding nothing but affirmation, and upon an unspoken signal, all rose to their feet. As he forced his weary body out of the chair, Éomer cast a sidelong glance at Aragorn and saw approval in the grey eyes before he turned back to the Lord of Westfold. “I trust it that my men were appointed rooms in your guest house?”

“Aye.” Erkenbrand nodded, a wry grin spreading unexpectatly over his bold face. “What kind of host would I be to let them sleep in the barn? Although I fear that there will not be enough space to give every rider a roof above his head once the éoreds start pouring in tomorrow… or perhaps I should rather hope for it to be so?”

“They will be content with sleeping on the floor, and I don’t think the men will object to sharing their rooms with their brothers-in-arms.” And yet Erkenbrand’s doubt caused a brief flutter of anxiety in Éomer’s stomach. What if the éoreds did not come? What if their captains’ disposition was the same he had found here upon his arrival: that he was indeed presumed guilty and a traitor, and that the word of their King was still the one the greater part of the Rohirrim followed? His lips thinning at the discomforting thought, Éomer turned toward the door. Nothing he could do about it now. He would have to wait and see.

Erkenbrand was already on way to open the door for his guests, when a sudden thought caused him to stop. “Wait, I forgot something.” He turned around, and his gaze found Éomer. “There is something I want you to have, Marshal. I planned to give it to the King on my next visit to Edoras, but now I feel that it is something that ought to belong to you.” For another moment, he mustered the younger man as if he were not completely certain about following his initial impulse, but then Erkenbrand turned toward to a massive wooden chest and opened its heavy lid; ignoring his guests’ inquisitive glances as he reached inside. When he straightened and turned back again, Éomer froze as he beheld the thing in the Captain’s hand, and his mouth went dry.

“Oh…” was the only thing that came over his lips as he accepted his cousin’s sword from Erkenbrand’s hand. Cautiously, his gaze held captive by the sparkle of the bronze decoration of the elaborately worked scabbard, he closed his fingers around the heft and unsheathed the blade, for a moment mesmerized by the cold gleam of steel in the flickering firelight. Except for a few slight dents, the weapon looked unspoiled.

“I know what you want to say,” Erkenbrand admitted lowly. “The weapons of our fallen belong with them. We usually do honour that tradition, but since Théodred was buried so close to enemy territory, it would have been only a question of hours until some stinking orc disturbed his resting place to take his sword away, and I do not think that the Prince would have wanted Rohirric blood spilled with his his weapon.” He cleaned his throat, aware of the storm of emotions that raged through Éomer’s soul while the marshal turned the blade in his hand, too powerful to allow the young man to utter a reply. “I cleansed it of the orc-blood myself, and it is in good condition. Your cousin made the filth pay a high price for their assault, but in the end, there were too many of them to overcome.”

With a questioning glance and a deep breath, he wordlessly asked Éomer whether he was ready to see the other items he had saved, and received a curt nod in response. When Éomer`s gaze fell upon the dented cuirass Erkenbrand now revealed from the chest, his complexion grew even paler, and his breath escaped him in an anguished burst. Slowly, as if afraid to touch it, he reached out and ran his fingertips over the carefully decorated breast plate in the shape of a rearing horse of red leather interlaced with green and gold. It was a sight so familiar to him that seeing it separated from its rightful owner caused another sharp jolt of hurt to assault him with unexpected ferocity. With a deep sigh, Éomer blinked away the tears. How often had he stood before his cousin as a young rider and felt awe at the sight of the fully-clad First Marshal of Riddermark, the man their warriors would follow until the end of the world? The man who had been like a brother to him? He did not know whether Erkenbrand awaited a reaction from him, but his head was empty and he could not speak just yet.

“I also have his helmet and coat of mail,” the other man spoke into his thoughts, his tone comforting. Éomer had never heard such gentleness from the fierce Lord of Westfold. “We took them off to reach his wounds, but of course there was nothing we could do for him. The mail is damaged, of course, but I suppose that I could have it repaired for you until we ride… if you wanted to wear it. You will need a set of armour anyway, and I think that your Cousin would be proud to know that you will take it back into battle for him.”

“…to avenge him,” Éomer said slowly, the lump in his throat gradually vanishing. He was still overwhelmed by emotion but already felt a sense of purpose and determination so strong welling up in himself he had not felt its likes before. Théodred’s sword felt right in his hands, as if it, too, were eager to become his ally and spill the blood of those who had violently separated it from its owner. When Éomer looked up at last, a light shone in his dark eyes that caught the other men by surprise. “Aye, Captain, you have known my Cousin well. He would have wanted that indeed.”

“Not to mention that it might seriously trouble Saruman’s brood to see their worst enemy, the man they thought killed, return at the head of the Rohirric army to avenge himself,” Aragorn added from behind. “Your sight alone might provide us with the advantage we need to defeat them.” He liked the determined look on the Rohír’s face, and it seemed to him as if the sight of his cousin’s armour had woken something in Éomer which he had not seen before; a sudden fierceness and unyielding will to succeed and to fight until the last drop of his blood had been spilled. Gone was the weary acceptance of his duty to sacrifice his men in a battle he could barely hope to win. The Éomer standing before him now was determined to emerge victorious despite the odds, and all thoughts of defeat had just ceased to exist for this young warrior.

While Aragorn stood and marvelled over the Rohír’s sudden transformation, Éomer once again ran his fingers over the breastplate’s weathered leather.

‘You saved me, Théodred. Death could not hinder you from coming to my aid when I needed you in that cave, and it could not hinder you from showing me the path I needed to take. I know you are still with me, and if you can feel my presence as much as I can feel yours, then hear me now when I swear to you by my life to avenge your death.’ His heart pounding from sudden excitement, Éomer faced the other warriors who still waited for his decision.

“Aye, I will be glad to take it into battle for him. Thank you, Captain. It means much to me.”

With an approving smile, Erkenbrand laid the cuirass back into the chest, but left the sword to its new owner.

“Then I will have it brought to our weapons master.”

It took all of Éomer’s will to avert his eyes from the folded garment, as he turned to leave at last.

“I would be honoured if you joined me for the morning meal tomorrow.” Erkenbrand looked questioningly at him and Aragorn. “And I would also be glad to make the acquaintance of your friends, Lord Aragorn. Please, tell them that I did not mean to be rude by not inviting them to our talks this time, but--”

“—the safety of Rohan can only be entrusted to those you know,” Aragorn ended the sentence for him. “I understand, and I am sure they as well do not feel insulted by your decision. Had your council-member not confirmed my identity, I am sure I would not have been here, too, and I would also have accepted that. Trust does not come easy in these evil times. Nobody understands that better than I.”

Erkenbrand nodded thankfully.

“I thank you for your understanding. But please, when you see your friends now, tell them that Rohan feels honoured to greet them among our forces.”

“I will. Until tomorrow, I bid you a good night, Captain.”

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

Grimbold walked with them to their quarters at the far end of the corridor. The door handle in his hand, Aragorn turned to Éomer, whose chamber was on the opposite side.

“It was not easy today,” a quick glance found Grimbold, to fast for the Lord of Grimslade to register. “… but you did very well, Son of Éomund. You managed to convince your brothers-in-arms, and my feeling tells me that many more will follow their example. When you go to sleep now, you should do so with a sense of pride. You achieved something extraordinary today.”

Too weary to think of a response to the high praise, Éomer could only nod.

“I assume I will think of nothing anymore once I lay my head down. I will fall asleep on the spot.”

The ranger laughed and clapped his shoulder.

“Then that will do, too. I see you in the morning.” And he disappeared into his room. For a moment, Éomer’s tired gaze lingered upon the door before he gave himself the mental push to make for his own quarters. With a meaningful twitch of his eyebrows, he shuffled over to the door and extended his hand when the Lord of Grimslade, who had obviously chewed on something to say while he had wordlessly accompanied them, called to him.

“Éomer…” His tone gave the younger man pause, and as he looked up with an expression of shame upon his weathered face, Éomer knew that the words which would follow were not easy to utter for the proud Westfold warrior. At last, the other man’s strikingly blue eyes looked straight at him in absolute openness. “I was wrong about you. I do not know if you can forgive my hard, unjustified words about you and your father, although I would greatly hope for it. My anger led me to say things I did neither mean nor wanted to say. Your father was greatly respected here in the Westfold as well--”

“I know that he was a hotspur, and I had rightly inherited his reputation in my youth,” Éomer interrupted him. “But while it is true that I did not always consider my actions back then, I had believed to have outgrown this weakness. I will not lie that your accusation hurt me greatly although I knew that the source of your anger was your grief for Théodred. I probably would have reacted similarly had our positions been exchanged.” Éomer inhaled and then raised his chin while his eyes quickly found the cut on the warrior’s brow. “You insulted me, and I dented your head for it. I would say that settles things between us.” He extended his hand in an offer for peace.

At first, his action was met with an incredulous look, but quickly, a relieved grin spread over Grimbold’s face, and he clutched the offered hand with an affirming nod.

“Aye, Éomer. I deserved it. Now let’s concern ourselves with punishing the enemy instead of each other, what do you say?”

Éowyn had stood and watched as Gríma’s minion tortured her protector, the complexion of her face so pale and her bearing so rigid that she seemed more like a very good imitation of herself made of wax than a woman of flesh and blood. Before her very eyes the spiked leather-tongues ripped open Elfhelm’s sweat-glistening skin, leaving long swollen cuts on his body from which dozens of tiny red rivulets ran down his muscular frame and flowed together at the seam of his breeches, their number multiplying with each crack of the whip. Not once did she break eye-contact with Elfhelm in a desperate attempt to lend him strength, but at the same time, something inside her broke.

Thankfully, the warrior’s weakened condition allowed him to escape from torture into the merciful arms of unconsciousness quickly, and when no further reaction could be had from the prisoner, Gríma at last lifted his hand and bade Felrod to end the punishment. With his bloodied handkerchief still pressed to his hurting mouth, the Counsellor slanted a calculating glance at his captured trophy before he addressed the big Half-blood.

“Enough, Felrod,” he muttered, each movement of his injured lip torture. “Save your strength for later when he is awake again. For now, I only want you to lower him to the ground before you leave; far enough for him to sit… and for the rats to reach him. After the feast the White Lady granted them two nights ago, we would not want them to starve, now would we?” Again his pale eyes looked for Éowyn’s reaction, but where he had expected to see her flinch, the King’s niece stared through him with an emptiness to her gaze indicating that her mind wandered through an entirely different realm deep within herself. Or was she feigning not to have heard him? “Gúthlaf, Drâbok, Trollgâr, accompany the White Lady to my chambers and tie her to the bed, both hands and feet. Blindfold her, too… and apply a gag. She will not bite me again.” He stared into Éowyn’s emotionless blue eyes. Could it be that he had broken her at last? Had the punishment of her protector detached Lord Éomund’s haughty daughter from reality? He could not believe that her control went so far that there was not even the slightest widening of her pupils at his open threat, not even the slightest twitch of a muscle in her face. With a last glance at the unconscious Elfhelm, Gríma turned around. “Follow me.”

She walked up the stairs with unseeing eyes. Like a puppet with no will of its own she moved when they steered her through the corridor and the hall, hardly even hearing their voices. Deep inside, Éowyn was aware that things were about to get even worse for they had not locked her into her cell again, but were taking her back to her tormentor’s chambers, but she registered that fact in a subconscious way, unable to act or even feel anxiety. Her mind was somewhere else, observing and entirely detached from her body as they crossed the hall.

Laughter and sniggering rose from the Dunlendings who occupied the Throne Room. Éowyn did not listen. She heard Gríma’s barked order to his guards as he held open the door for them, but the words made no sense to her. Back at the Worm’s chambers. They looked like they had left them: her chair still upturned, and the red glistening stain on the white table cloth where she had spilled the wine. ‘Elfhelm…’ He had tried not to cry out when the whip hit him, for her sake, but already the second lash had been too much in his weakened condition, and the sight of his torment had shattered Éowyn’s soul. All the blood running down his body, glistening in the light of the torch… she had to avert her eyes, could not bear to look at the stain. They pushed her into the adjourning room, toward the huge four-poster, the sight of which finally revived her fighting spirit. She knew what would happen once they succeeded in tying her to it.

“No. No!” She dug her heels into the carpet, but they simply shoved her forth along with it, the fabric folding around her feet. “Let go of me!” She fought against the guards, desperate to escape their cruel grasp, but her feeble attempts only amused them. From behind, Gríma sneered: “I was nice to you. You laughed at me, and you bit me. You reap only what you sowed, Daughter of Éomund.” He looked at the guards. “Tie her to the bedposts, arms and legs spread.” Yes, now at last she understood the situation, Gríma noticed with an satisfied smirk. The pain in his mutilated lip quickly caused him to abandon it, but he saw with delight how Éowyn turned linen-white and a violent shiver grasped her.

“If you touch me, whoever will catch you in the end will skin you alive,” the shieldmaiden brought out although there seemed to be hardly enough air in her lungs to form the words. The room spun around her and a deafening buzz sound built between her ears as a chill so cold that it froze her very core grabbed her. Desperately she hoped to feint, already sensing the cold fingers of unconsciousness touching her, and yet she tethered on the edge, unable to cross into protective darkness as her worst nightmare turned into reality.

“Don’t tell me that you still believe in a rescue, Lady Éowyn. We both know that you are alone now. Nobody will help you, and nobody will come for you, and you will be mine for as long as I decide to let you live. And I intend to make that a very long time span indeed. I don’t know whether you will enjoy it, but I will. I know I will.” A curt nod, a quick shift of his attention to the guards. “What are you waiting for?”

All sense of time and direction had long left Éothain as he moved through the darkness like in rat in a subterranean maze. For a while, the narrow tunnel had climbed steeply over stairs roughly hewn into the rock, and although he held both hands outstretched against the walls to steady himself, Éothain had stumbled repeatedly, once only narrowly avoiding a long fall to the bottom of the stairs. With a shudder, he imagined how his fate would turn out if he broke his leg in these hostile confines, envisioning himself trying to crawl back to the exit before he was discovered by the enemy.

Suppressing the thought with enormous effort, Éothain forced himself to concentrate even more on his senses and on using the information they gathered: the cold draft of air blowing into his face, the dripping of water through fissures in the bare rock, everything could tell him something of import if he only listened. At last, the first disturbance of the thick silence that enveloped him except for the sound of his footsteps and suppressed breathing reached his ears. His heartbeat in his throat, Éothain stopped and closed his eyes; both hands pressed against the wall to his left as he strained to hear.

There were several voices, deep and guttural, exchanging ‘pleasantries’ in the rough language of the Dunlendings. Impossible to determine how far they were still away, but they sounded at ease, sniggering and belting out the dirtiest rhymes Éothain had ever heard until suddenly, excited shouting erupted between them which was abruptly ended with a pained yell and a sharp admonishment. In the darkness, the young Captain curled his lip in disgust. They were fighting over food like a pack of wild dogs. And the people of Gondor regarded the Rohirrim as savages? Carefully, he moved on. Further ahead, the tunnel performed a sharp left turn, and suddenly the scent of roasted meat wafted toward Éothain. What was that? A secret chamber deep within the heart of the hill? It sounded as if the Dunlendings were camping in the tunnel, and a weak flickering light indicated indeed that a fire had been lit up ahead. Éothain’s tensed as he proceeded with even greater stealth, and involuntarily he tucked the blanket firmly around his body.

He should have known better than to hope that Gríma would leave the defence of the tunnel to chance, counting on its secrecy. Well, he had not assumed that the crook would leave it entirely unguarded, but that he would leave an entire host of his people to guard it… The path lead him around another curve, and suddenly the fire was so close that Éothain could see his surroundings for the first time since he had lowered himself into the hole it. The voices of the hillmen were very close now.

Nervously, Éothain’s fingers dug into the blanket. It was one thing to find such a magical thing and be astonished by it; it was an altogether different thing to entrust ones life to it. But this was what he had to do now, there was no room for doubt. With a deep intake of breath, he rounded the corner – and instantly dropped into a crouch as he beheld the shapes of several hillmen gathered around a fire. The light stung in his eyes, and yet Éothain saw that the nearest foe sat about ten steps away at an intersection where the path split into three tunnels, his back turned toward Éothain and his teeth closed around a greasy piece of meat he held in his hands. There were eight more of his kind assembled around the fire, eating like pigs with little chunks of food in their wild beards and the folds of their garments, quarrelling among themselves for the best pieces. All of them carried swords, spears and bows and quivers of arrows of Rohirric make, and they were clad in mail.

A silent curse left Éothain’s lips. So Gríma had emptied out their entire weapons chamber to supply his army with it, and yet the question remained how skilled the Dunlendings were in the use of anything different from a club. Still it quickly became clear to the son of Céorl that it would be next to impossible to storm Meduseld by using the tunnel, magical blanket or not. The narrow path would force them to move in single file, and even if the enemy was not well-versed in the use of a sword or bow, they would be hard to miss as they squeezed through the fissure, unable to defend themselves.

He had not yet completed his evaluation when a shout from the darkness of one of the connecting tunnels claimed his attention.

“Leave something over for you?” one of the Dunlendings rumbled, and the others laughed. “You know how it is, Dorlâk: you come too late, you get nothing! It’s not my fault you have to sit with the old skeleton tonight. You left me nothing when it was my turn, so what do you expect?” Grinning, he ripped another chunk of meat from the bone in his hands and washed itte down with a swig from his water skin, spilling half of the liquid over his face as he did so to end his statement with a resounding burp.

Éothain narrowed his eyes in disgust, not delighted by his discovery that the filth had apparently set up an elaborate chain of defence to alert everyone of possible intruders long before these could ever hope to make it into Meduseld. Even if they somehow succeeded in disposing of the eight Dunlendings down here – they could hardly hope to achieve this deed without a sound, and a single shout would alert the men at the other end of the tunnel. And who had that beast called an ‘old skeleton’? The King? His friend Éomer had once mentioned the existence of the tunnels to him, and while he had said nothing about their exits and entrances, it had been clear to Éothain then that the endeavour behind building these escape ways had solely been undertaken to save the Royal Family in the event of an attack. Thus the three tunnels connecting here. One from the King’s and Queen’s chambers which were connected, one from Éomer’s room and one from Éowyn’s. Éomer was not here, and Éothain did not think that the hillmen, however rude their appearance seemed, would call the golden-haired daughter of Éomund an “old skeleton”, so it had to be Théoden-King indeed the man had talked about. Gods… what had they done to him?

‘At least he is still alive’, Éothain primanded himself not to lose focus, when suddenly, a low growl reached his ears and something he had taken for a shabby old pelt on the Dunlending’s legs raised its head. Luminous eyes sparkled in the fire as the dog held its nose into the cold draft. Éothain froze.

“What is it, Scatha?” the beast’s owner asked and squinted with narrowed eyes straight at Éothain. “Heard something?” Shoving the hound from his shins, the guard laboured to his feet while the others now also turned their heads. His heart pounding like a hammer in his rib cage, Éothain crawled speedily backwards until the rock shielded his retreat. As fast as possible without making a noise, he fled down the precarious stairs, an itch building between his shoulder blades where a deadly arrow would go.

“It’s just another bat the old fleabag smelled,” one of the hillmen yelled from the fire. “Or a rat. Should have left him at home. It’s getting tiresome!”

Halfway down the stairs, Éothain heard the man round the protrusion behind which he had lurked and hunched down with the blanket covering him in the fading light, not moving a muscle.

The broad shape stood rigid at the end of the stairs, intently staring into the growing darkness where Éothain crouched and waited with baited breath for the man to leave. After what felt to him like an eternity, the tall Dunlending grunted something unintelligible and turned away. For another moment, Éothain could not move. He pressed his eyes shut as a painful wave of relief washed over him. There was no doubt that he would have stood no chance of escaping a group of Dunlendings in a wild chase through the mountains heart. With a last glance back, he finally rose to his feet again to make his way back to where his men were waiting, and his expression was grim. His foray into the enemy’s territory had brought only the realisation that Gríma Wormtongue had indeed thought of everything. No matter whether they attacked the barricaded doors of the Golden Hall or the tunnels underneath, getting to their adversary’s hostages before they could be used against them seemed impossible… and yet somehow, they’d have to find a way.

Éowyn did not know how much time had passed since they had tied her onto Wormtongue’s bed. It seemed like an eternity since Gríma’s henchmen had blindfolded and tied her to its posts, her arms and legs spread as their master had ordered. She had fought at first, waking from the stunned shock in which the torturing of Elfhelm had left her in time to make the men’s task more complicated, but at last having to surrender to the hillmen’s brute strength. Her arms hurt where their fingers had dug into her flesh in an iron grasp, leaving hideous black bruises upon her fair skin. Her head still throbbed from the Worm’s punch like a rotting tooth, and yet all was nothing against the abysmal fear she felt over being at her enemy’s mercy, the helpless subject of his sick desires. When would he come to ravage her? There was no one left to protect her now, not even Gríma’s pitiful urge to try and win her heart despite of everything he had done to her and her family. At last, it seemed that he had understood the true extent of the contempt she felt for him, and that the only way he could ever have her was by force. So he would take her by force. It was only a question of time now.

A frightful whimper wanted to leave Éowyn’s throat, but with a last exercise of her will, she swallowed it, not wanting for Him to hear the sound of her fear, even if she didn’t think that he was in the room. It had been silent since the guards had left, and she had heard her tormentor’s voice from the adjourning room sending them away with further orders before the sound of the closing door had ended their conversation. She had not heard him coming back yet, and yet more important, she did not feel his prying eyes upon herself; something for which she had developed an accurate sense in the course of the years. No, she did not think that he was in the room with her, silently sitting in the chair by the window staring at his helpless victim while he contemplated the many ways he would demonstrate his power to her. The thought chased another chill down her spine.

The sound of the door opening cut through her contemplation like a knife. Éowyn’s muscles tensed as she involuntarily held her breath, and frantically she tore at her bonds even though her wrists and ankles were already chafed bloody from her last futile attempts of freeing herself. It was the desperate fight of a wild animal caught in a sling at the sound of the approaching hunter. A moment later, the bedroom door opened, and she heard someone halt in the entrance. His accursed breathing, the sound of the wood groaning underneath his weight as he stood and watched her, the sensation of his gaze made her flesh crawl. Another whimper rose in Éowyn’s throat, and this time, all attempts to hold it in proved vain. She could almost hear his cruel smirk at the sound of it.

“Afraid, my Lady?” Gríma said, taking another step into the room. It did not escape his attention how rigid she lay on the bed, not even her chest moving because fright had robbed her breath. “Do you not wish now that you had behaved differently toward me? You did this to yourself with your foolish pride. Just like your brother, you do not learn until it is too late.” His tone was condescending and superior, but his words were slurred because his injured lip was giving him trouble speaking. Under different circumstances, Éowyn would have felt comforted by the sound of the Worm’s pain, but the only emotion she was capable of now was primeval, bone-chilling, heart-stopping fear as she felt her adversary advance.

With a half-suppressed sigh, Wormtongue sat down on the mattress right beside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut like she had done that terrible night of her childhood when a great host of orcs had assaulted Aldburg while her father’s éored had been on patrol. All night they had heard the beasts scurry around the houses, trying to break in while the few warriors left for the defence of the city fought a loosing battle. Trembling in her mother’s embrace, she had pressed her face into the silken softness of Théodwyn’s night robe when the grunting noises from outside came closer and closer and the sound of heavy footsteps approached their door, hiding within herself in typical children’s behaviour: if she could not see the monsters, then perhaps the monsters could not see her? The night’s horrors had abruptly ended with the return of the éoreds, but who would come to her aid now?

Cold fingers touched her face. Unable to breathe while a dull sound built between her hears and promised the end of the ordeal by taking her into the realm of unconsciousness, Éowyn clenched her teeth around the gag in her mouth.

“So afraid are you of me… and yet I only want to help you. For now.” The fingers rested on the lump which had formed on her temple, and caressed it with a butterfly’s touch. “I did not want to hit you, Love, but you left me no choice.” Something even colder than his fingers was pressed against Éowyn’s skin, and she flinched. It was a piece of ice, wrapped into a cloth. Gently, Gríma circled her temple with it – and then lowered his face to kiss her cheek. She shuddered in helpless fear. His voice sank to a confidential whisper and his warm breath was on her skin as he said: “We have all the time in the world now, my Lady; there no need for us to rush things. We will be together for a very long time…”

“There must be a way! I do not care how, and I do not care how many men will have to participate in the plan, but it cannot be that the enemy holds our hall and the Royal Family captive within it, and we can do nothing!” Éothain shouted, at last at the end of his patience, and the others regarded him with silent frustration. Outside, dawn was already breaking, and after hours of intense discussion, they had not yet come up with a plan that seemed sound to all of them. “I say we take our chances with poisoning the dog. We prepare a bat or rat and leave it in the tunnel for him to find, and as soon as the dog is dead, I use the blanket to sneak by the guards and kill the ones in the King’s chambers while you dispose of those at the intersection. Then--”

“But what if the dog won’t touch the bait?” Aedwulf objected as he had when the plan had been brought up for the first time. “They smell poison. He won’t eat something that smells strange to him.”

“Then we must take a poison he can’t smell!” Éothain fumed. “Ask Yálanda! She is well-versed in leech-craft; shouldn’t she know how to make such a potion?” His friend raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yálanda is a healer. I am pretty sure that brewing poison is not what she focused on in her journey to wisdom.”

“We will ask her nonetheless,” Gelbrand, one of the older warriors whose always calm and considerate demeanour Éothain had always greatly valued, let himself be heard. “But we should try to come up with something better, just in case.”

“We must get rid of the dog before we can concern us with anything else. I will gladly walk through all of Meduseld under cover of the blanket to search for the hostages, but for as long as the dog can pick up my scent, being invisible will not help me.”

The men regarded each other silently, aware that their young commander was speaking the truth. Over Éothain’s shoulder, Aedwulf saw the silhouette of the Captain’s mother leaning against the door frame in the beginning dawn. Shadows hid her expression, but the warrior had seen the wife of Céorl repeatedly over the last days and noticed with a feeling of utter helplessness how grief and fear had left their marks on the once proud woman. He did not know how much of their discussion Glenwyn had overheard, but it was time to come to an end now. There was no need to increase the woman’s aggravation by giving her the idea that her son would walk straight into the snake pit alone only protected by a magical trick no one really trusted. Acknowledging the Glenwyn’s presence with a small nod, Aedwulf rose to his feet; his glance bidding the others to follow his example.

“Then we will find a way to achieve that,” he said over the ruckus of sliding chairs and the rustling of garments as the Riders came to their feet, shifting his attention back at Éothain. “I will go now and see whether Yálanda is already up, and will be back for my report when I have spoken with her. Everyone else, however, should go home and see that they get some rest. This was a long night, and we will all need our strength in the days to come. I agree that the last incidents make it hard to sleep, but no one will be helped if we collapse from exhaustion.” He sent a particularly warning glance over the table and was glad to see the little acknowledging nod Éothain granted him in return before he turned to leave.

“Thank you, Aedwulf,” the younger man said lowly, laying a hand on his kinsman’s arm. “You are a very good friend. It is hard to listen to reason when your own father is in the hands of the enemy, and wounded, too. If it were not for you, I would probably have done something foolish already.”

“You do not have to apologise, Éothain,” the older warrior said, a compassionate expression on his weathered features. “I understand how hard it must be for you to wait. Patience is not one of the virtues we Rohírrim are famous for, but we have no other choice than to exercise it now. When we strike, our plan must be better than Gríma’s, and while I despise the filth as much as everyone else, I must admit that he is a brilliant strategist. It will not be easy to come up with something that will surprise him… but we will do our best.” He clapped Éothain’s shoulder. “Please, my friend, see that you get some rest; you look terrible. I will be back as soon as I know more.” He disappeared with great strides, and for a moment, Éothain stared at the space he had occupied with unseeing eyes before he closed the door and turned around. Glenwyn slowly walked into the room, her fingers clenched in the wooden shawl around her shoulders.

“Can your father still be alive?” she asked, her flat voice terribly bereft of hope. Éothain swallowed and in walking up to her, laid his arm around her shoulders.

“The Worm has taken these hostages for a reason, Mother, otherwise he could have simply killed them,” he said, desperately wishing to find a way to make his own voice sound more convinced. “They are his insurance against us, and he won’t touch them until he has achieved his aim. He would be a fool to do so.”

“And what is his aim?” No, his mother was not fooled so easily. “Why do they still sit in Meduseld? Why did they barricade themselves in the hall instead of leaving through that tunnel you mentioned under cover of the night? What are they waiting for? Their army to arrive and slaughter us?”

‘Aye, that is right, although I fear that it will be even worse. Dunlendings we could hope to defeat, but Uruk-hai…’ Éothain pulled his mother’s slender body closer instead of an answer. She had seen the preparations they had taken to secure the city; she knew the answer very well. “He will not win, Mother. I promise you this. Whatever the next days will bring, we will be ready for it.” The hopelessness in Glenwyn’s gaze said all he needed to know.

It had taken Gríma endlessly to slip into a restless sleep after the incidents of the previous evening. Anger and pain – mostly pain – had kept him awake for a long time after he had retired to his bed for the remaining hours of the night, and not even the presence of his long coveted trophy by his side had calmed him down enough to find rest easily. After a mere few hours of a shallow, disturbed sleep, Wormtongue suddenly sat up with a sharp intake of breath, chased through his dream by the image of a dark shape with blazing eyes and a glistening sword in its hand which faded only reluctantly as he woke. The half-uttered cry stuck in his throat caused his injured lip to explode in agony again, and involuntarily, he touched it – and froze at the feeling of the bizarre form beneath his fingertips.

His heart in his throat, Gríma all but jumped from the mattress and hurried toward his mirror, and the sight of his own face stunned him. Despite his efforts of cooling his mutilated lip all evening, it had now taken on the shape of a balloon, the sensitive skin so tightly stretched over the swelling that it looked about to burst. The raw bite marks of Éowyn’s teeth were surrounded by an angry red hue that had developed around the black stitches, and a clear liquid seeped out of them. The entire left side of his mouth hung down and looked as if it were about to rot off his face. A cold chill paralysed the Counsellor, but then a sudden fit of red-hot fury washed it away.

Turned on his heels, he glowered at the prone figure on the mattress. Éowyn was still oblivious to his upset state of mind; if anything, it had taken her even longer to finally fall asleep until at last by the first light of dawn, utter exhaustion had overwhelmed her and taken her away into its dark realm. Just looking at her made Gríma’s insides churn. This had been the second time in a few days that wench had marred his face, and this was the moment he had chosen to make her pay for it!

As fast as his feet carried him, Wormtongue made for the other room and thrust open the door, startling the guard in front of his chambers, who jumped and only narrowly avoided getting hit in the head.

Frowning at the strange request but knowing better than to ask when his master was in such foul mood, the guard hurried to supply the Lord of Meduseld with the item he had asked for, and for all his effort, did not even receive thanks. As the door closed into his face behind Gríma, the Dunlending stared at the wood in utter bewilderment, until at last he shrugged and blamed the strange incident on the Counsellor’s wound. Gríma’s mouth had looked nasty, and surely he was beside himself with pain from his half-separated lip. Involuntarily, the guard’s mouth curled into an amused grin. Bitten by a woman while attempting to steal a kiss. A woman who had been tied to her chair, even! No wonder his master was furious. It was a tale to share with the others by the fire once he would be relieved of his duty.

Inside his chambers, Gríma stood before the bed with the heavy bucket in his hands, still fuming as his furious gaze wandered over Éowyn’s unmoving shape. For a moment he hesitated, but at last anger triumphed and with a single move, he ripped away the woollen blanket with which he had covered her the night before. The draught of cold air upon her skin was enough to make the young woman stir, but before she had a chance to wake completely, Gríma dumped the contents of the bucket upon her.

“See what you have done to me, wench!” he shouted into her face, spittle and blood showering her cheek as the stitches in his lip tore entirely. Beside himself with pain and fury, he ripped the blindfold from Éowyn’s head and shook her, oblivious to the stark terror in her eyes. “Look at me! I swear, you will pay for this, wench! You will pay for this!” He thrust her back onto the mattress, not even remotely satisfied by having utterly terrified his hostage when he was still in a world of hurt and would probably be disfigured for life. Involuntarily, his hands curled into fists by his sides – and then he hit her with the bucket. In a half-circle it spun through the air and forced an anguished yell as the hard rim connected with Éowyn’s ribs.

Stunned by his violent outburst, Wormtongue froze. The scene before his eyes was that of a nightmare: his beloved Éowyn, the noble White Lady of Rohan whom he loved so much that it hurt, lying on his bed where he had wanted her for all these years of longing – but everything about it was wrong from the way her eyes were squeezed shut and the moist trails of tears running down her face; her teeth digging into the gag in her mouth and her jaw clenched and trembling with terror, all the way to the ties on her bloodied wrists and ankles and the drenched shift plastered to her body which shook in terrified sobs. This was not what he had imagined in his dreams; this was a madman’s deed. And still, as Gríma’s horrified gaze glided over Éowyn’s bare legs and then further up over her flat stomach and on to the gentle mounds of her breasts underneath the drenched shift, he could not deny an urgent stirring in his loins. Gods, that woman was so beautiful! Why did she have to be so stubborn? He would never have turned to Saruman if she had loved him! It was she who was responsible for his treason, why would she not see that? And yet, perhaps it was not too late yet for a change; perhaps if he—

His train of thought died before it could fully develop. No, things had definitely gone too far to turn away from his new master now and commit yet another breach of trust by returning to his service for the sons of Éorl. He knew all about Saruman’s plans; perhaps his wisdom would put the Rohirrim into a position to withstand the wizard’s forces if he shared his strategic knowledge with them, and perhaps, if he saved her people and redeemed himself, Éowyn would forgive him?

With a disillusioned snort, Wormtongue shook his head. No, what was he thinking? It was far too late for that. Too late for regrets, and too late for love. While the prospect of serving the Lord of Isengard for the rest of his life frightened him to the core, it was clear to Gríma that his betrayal against the Horselords could never be forgiven, and that he would die the ugliest death imaginable if he only gave them the faintest chance at vengeance. No, he was doomed to wander the earth alone and unloved; the pawn of a master who despised him despite everything he had achieved, and the nightmare of the woman he loved with all of his heart instead of being her lover. Her body was his for the taking, but the one thing which had drawn him to her from the beginning, that wonderfully wild and proud spirit no one but he understood, would never be his. It was time to come to terms with that realisation now.

For the longest time, Gríma stood unmoving beside the bed, torn between his contradicting emotions while blood ran down his chin. He wiped it away mechanically as he stared at Éowyn with endless sorrow in his eyes. When she opened her eyes again and her anguished gaze found him, the bottomless terror in the wide blue pools was more than he could bear, and abruptly, Gríma turned on his heels and fled the scene of his shame.

Temperatures had dropped again. It was the first thing Éomer noticed as he gradually rose from the embrace of a sleep so deep, he did not even remember a single dream. Not bothering to open his eyes at first, he drew up the blanket to his chin and hid his bare arms underneath the thick warm wool, lazily rolling on his back. The bruise on his right side still made the movement somewhat uncomfortable, but thanks to Aragorn’s intense and skilled care of the last days, it had already started to fade and change from a crippling injury to a mere inconvenience. By the time they would ride into battle, he would hardly feel it at all even with all the armour on top of it, Éomer thought, and this at last was the thought which woke him completely. The battle, yes. They had arrived at Erkenbrand’s domain, and there were many preparations to be made, and many things waiting for his attention.

He opened his eyes – to broad daylight. The strength of the sunlight and the angle at which it fell through his window caused him to sit up with a jolt. Could it truly be past midday already? But as Éomer swung his legs over the edge of the bed and his gaze fell on the fireplace, he saw that the logs he had fed the flames just before going to sleep had turned into to cold ashes, and a sudden bout of anxiety assaulted him. Béma, why had they not woken him?

Cursing, he washed himself with the help of a bucket full of cold water someone had placed within his chambers while he had been asleep. Quickly he slipped into his borrowed garments and stormed out of the chamber in search for the others, again cursing as he beheld the advanced position of the sun through the windows he passed. He found the great hall empty except for a few servants and stopped the one closest to him.

“Can you tell me where I find the Lord Erkenbrand and his guests who arrived yesterday?”

“They went to the armoury a while ago, my Lord,” the elderly man said, lowering his gaze. “I have not seen them return yet.”

“Would you need someone to walk you there, my Lord?” the man behind him asked hesitantly. “I’m afraid you might not be granted entry otherwise.”

“What do you mean? Has the word not been spread yet that the King’s verdict has no longer authority in the Westfold?”

“I am sorry, my Lord…” The man seemed mortified by his heated rebuke and desperate to be somewhere else instead of the object of his Marshal’s anger, and with a deep breath, Éomer reminded himself to calm down. He was not wearing his Royal garments, and not all members of Erkenbrand’s household knew him well enough to recognise him without his distinctive armour. He nodded.

“Oh well, it won’t hurt if you accompany me, I guess.” His stomach rumbled, and instinctively, Éomer pressed a hand against his middle. If it was past midday already, it was no wonder that he was hungry. The servant had heard the noise, too, and with a little smile, offered:

“If you will wait for me hear, my Lord, I will quickly instruct the kitchen to prepare you a meal while we are gone. You can eat then upon your return.”

“Lowéar, my Lord.” The man bowed his head. “At your service. Now, if you will please wait for me here, I will quickly be back.” And upon Éomer’s appreciative nod, he disappeared with great strides. Following his path with his eyes for a moment, the Marshal then stepped over to a window and looked outside.

The sun had just disappeared behind the mountain tops, casting a shadow across the land, and from the west, a thick layer of clouds hurried urgently toward them, promising another change of weather. From the hall’s elevated position, the streets of the settlement looked crowded as people went about their way. At one point, a cluster of them had formed with more people joining it even as Éomer watched. Creasing his brow, he strained to find the reason for the commotion, but then Lowéar already returned. “Your meal will be ready in a little while. Lord Èomer. If you are ready now, I will take you to the armoury.”

A big grin suddenly spread over Éomer’s face. He had discovered what - or rather who - had roused the people’s curiosity and could well imagine the Ranger’s discomfort over being the focus of so much loving attention. He turned to the servant, in whose eyes the irritation over his sudden amusement could not be overlooked.

“I thank you, Lowéar, but it is no longer necessary. I think I have found at least the Lord Aragorn, and I suppose that his friends will not be far.” He looked back to the crowd which was still growing. “I will be back for that meal you offered me so kindly though.” With a little nod, he indicated the cluster of people to the man. “I will be down there in case that Lord Erkenbrand may be looking for me. Thank you.” Quickly, Éomer limped toward the exit where clear, fresh air greeted him as he stepped outside. Yet with the next gust of wind, the distinct odour of horses reached his nostrils, and his grin widened. Ah, this almost felt like home again!

Sensing the guards’ attention, Éomer gave the men an acknowledging nod and then walked past them, down the winding path toward where he suspected Aragorn and his friends.

“Éomer! Éomer!” he suddenly heard his name called, and as he looked, his gaze wandered over the joyful faces of men, women and children welcoming him back in his position as their chief defender. A beaming smile upon his face, he inclined his head in greeting, and almost fell when two lads hardly tall enough to reach up to his chest flew toward him and embraced him while a thick-furred dog of an indefinable kind jumped barking around his feet.

“Éomer! You are back! We knew it could not be true what they said!” the taller of the two boys shouted, his expression one of honest happiness. Returning his smile, Éomer ruffled the thick flaxen hair. He had known Grimbold’s sons since their birth, and occasionally taught them a trick or two with the sword whenever he visited the Westfold. “We are so glad that you have come!”

“And I am glad to be here, Gaerwyne, and to be welcomed in such a hearty manner. It is as if I have woken from a dark dream.” He picked up the smaller boy and held him up. “You have grown a lot since I last saw you, Déor, and you are starting to get heavy, too. Has it really been so long since my last visit?”

“It was last fall,” the lad beamed. “And aye, I have grown. Soon, I will be as tall as my brother… even taller maybe.”

“Hah! You will never be taller than I! Nor will you ever best me with the sword!” His attention turned back to the warrior. “Do you have any new tricks to teach us, Éomer? We have grown very skilled in the last feints and parries you taught us, so it would be great if we could learn something new.”

“I am sure I have, but I’m afraid it will have to wait at least for another moment.” Éomer pointed toward the crowd. The number of people it consisted of still seemed to grow. “I need to talk to my friends, first, and the captain of my éored. I will send for you later when I have the time. Will that do?”

“Oh, great!” The younger one clapped his hands, enjoying his view from the elevated position on Éomer’s arm.

Gaerwyne’ eyes widened in excitement as he followed his gaze, and he turned to accompany the warrior as Éomer continued on his path.

“They say that Thorongil had returned! Is that true, Éomer? So he is indeed a real man who lived and not just a hero from a tale?”

“Oh, I assure you that he is a very real man, indeed, Gaerwyne, and in fact most men of whose deeds you hear in our tales and songs have really lived. He and his friends, who are also mighty warriors, will help us against our enemies, and we can count ourselves very lucky to have them on our side.”

“But where has he been all this time?” Déor asked and stretched his neck in an attempt to see something over the heads of the crowd. “And which one is he?”

“Come with me.” Groaning, Éomer set the boy down. “But I’m afraid you have to walk. You are growing too heavy for me… and also a future Rider of the Mark can’t let himself be carried around anymore.” A lad on either hand, he approached the crowd, and was also instantly recognised.

Now the faces turned toward him and hands were extended for Éomer to touch and shake in reassurance as the son of Éomund slowly made his way through the crowd. A warm feeling spread through his body in reaction to the people’s warm welcome. It had been different upon his arrival, when their expressions had been tense and insecure with their King’s words still looming in their minds.

“Marshal Éomer!” Garulf, one of Erkenbrand’s captains, stepped into his way and offered his hand with a big smile upon his hawkish face. “In the name of my riders, may I express how glad we are to see you alive; and that we will gladly follow you into battle. It is about time that snake in Meduseld gets his neck snapped!”

“Once we have disposed of his master in Isengard, he will be next,” Éomer growled with determination, and clapped the man’s shoulder. “I thank you, Garulf. It was hard to be doubted.”

“Nobody doubted you, Marshal, let me assure you of that. All knew that it was the Worm’s doing. Whoever saw the Prince and you together knew that each of you would have done all in his power to save the other. This time, it was not in your power. But you might be able to avenge him!”

“Count on it, Garulf!” The warrior stepped aside and cleared the way to where Aragorn, Gímli and Legolas expected him. The ranger seemed to be in a conversation with the older council member who had identified the Dúnadan the previous afternoon, exchanging fond memories of their time together. Éomer grinned. “As you see, our people have not forgotten you, Aragorn. It doesn’t matter under which name you choose to travel.” He felt the two lads by his side stiffen and, his injured thigh not yet allowing him to squat, bend down to them. “Here are two valiant warriors of the Mark who wanted to see the mighty warrior Thorongil from up close. – Go.” With an encouraging glance, he sent the two suddenly very shy lads forward, and Aragorn welcomed them with an big smile upon his kind face.

Amused Éomer observed the lads’, fondly remembering the many nights his own father had told him of the valiant deeds of the foreign warrior Thorongil. No, he would not have behaved differently than Déor and Gaerwyne upon meeting a living legend.

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, little lords,” the ranger said warmly and extended his hand. Hesitantly the older boy took it, afraid that this strong hand would squash his little fingers like a fly. “May I ask your names?”

“I am Déor, Grimbold’s son,” the smaller lad beamed with all the blessed directness of youth, and moment later, his brother introduced himself, too, not seeing why he shouldn’t dare to speak when Déor did not find it necessary to mind his manners.

“And I am his brother Gaerwyne.” Aragorn’s handshake was firm, but cautious, and the lad grew more courageous. “I – I mean we, we have heard so much about your great deeds, my Lord. Surely we will defeat our enemies now that you have returned to help us?”

“We will do whatever is in our power to ensure that,” the Dúnadan replied earnestly, and with a gesture, introduced the elf and the dwarf to the great amazement of the boys when the sound of distant horns from behind the city walls interrupted him. Beneath the clear sound, a mighty rumble now reached their ears, and the next moment, the bell at the top of the tower of the guard rang its alarm into the air. Aragorn’s eyes met Éomer’s in sudden excitement. “This sounds to me as if someone heard your summons, Marshal. Shall we take a look?”

“Are you jesting?” Éomer was already on his way over to the watchtower, only hesitating briefly upon setting foot upon the ladder when a warning pain raced through his injured thigh. “On second thought, I think I will meet them outside the gates.” He turned toward the stables, followed closely by the ranger while the crowd’s attention now focused on the proceedings outside.

In the muffled twilight of the stables, Éomer found his borrowed steed quickly and mounted Dralíon, ignoring the disgruntled snort that came from the neighbouring stall as he buried his hands in the thick white mane.

“Stop behaving like a jealous wench, Firefoot! Why don’t you enjoy the respite while it lasts? It will be over soon enough.” Not bothering to look back, Éomer shifted his weight and kicked his heels into Dralions side to turn around, again quickly followed by Aragorn who had mounted Hasufel. Outside, the people had already wandered over to the open gate to await the arriving warriors. They passed through them, and from the corner of his eye Éomer beheld Erkenbrand’s tall silhouette as the Lord of Westfold stood on the terrace in front of his hall, his gaze directed east toward the rising din of the advancing army.

Éomer’s heart sang as he emerged from the gate to find himself in an already vast camp of Westfold éoreds who had arrived during the day, only to see a great number of Riders advance in a broad line on the road.

“They are still very much your men,” Aragorn said by his side. “They received your call and they follow it. You are still their leader. Do you see it now?”

“I do indeed. How could I ever doubt the great Thorongil?” An unbelieving smile played around Éomer’s lips while his eyes focused on the advancing forces. Béma, how many riders were they? The great group looked as if it consisted at least half of half the Eastfold’s éoreds. Banners rippled proudly on the wind as the horses approached the gates, the thunder of their hoofs reflected powerfully by the nearby mountains until the very air vibrated under their charge. Picking up their energy, Hasufel and Drálion shifted restlessly beneath their riders, bursting to join their kin and run, and with a few soothing words, Éomer calmed his stallion while he petted the muscled neck and watched in awe how his wildest hopes were coming to fulfilment. Behind him, Erkenbrand’s guard left the village, and the next moment, Grimbold halted to his left side, a pleased expression on his face.

“These are the Westemnet’s forces, and some of the Eastemnet’s, as well. I see Brand’s banner. There!” He pointed his finger at the Golden Sun upon Green. “It looks like most of them have come. Well done, Éomer! If the Eastfold forces follow your summons as well, Saruman will have his hands full once we attack.”

“I fear that his hands are full, Captain,” Éomer gave back, and a shadow fell upon his face at the thought. “Full of tricks we cannot anticipate yet. I agree that it fills my heart with joy seeing that so many have come, but we will need every single man to defeat the Necromancer, and many will not return to their loved ones.”

“Alas, I fear you are right.” He inhaled deeply and then raised his chin. “But all see the necessity of this battle, and they are eager to follow you. Perhaps, if we defeat the filth, we will finally have peace.”

Éomer remained silent at that, avoiding the Captain’s gaze. What good would it do to tell Grimbold now that even if they emerged victorious, the battle against Saruman was only the smaller one of the conflicts they were caught in? During their council, he had concentrated on the war against Isengard because it already required all their attention, and any distraction from it could prove lethal. Sauron would have to wait until they had the time to concern themselves with him. Éomer did not look forward to the moment when he would have to disclose this particular bit of information to the two Westfold warriors. Remaining silent about it made him feel like a liar.

A familiar feeling told him that Aragorn had sensed the shift in his mood and was looking at him in an attempt to find out what had happened, when another din from the bell of the watchtower cast him back into the reality of the afternoon. Just as Éomer shifted in the saddle to find out what was happening, the éoreds before him performed a sudden turn to the left and accelerated.

“What in Éorl’s name--” He fell silent as he beheld the group of riders coming at them from the direction of the Fords. “Who is this?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Grimbold growled and kicked his heels into the flanks of his steed, preceding them as their group set itself into motion, following the éoreds. “Although I cannot believe that they are friends if they succeeded in travelling through the territory controlled by Isengard.”

With a meaningful glance at Aragorn, Éomer followed him. The host of riders was still distant, but even now he could see that there were at least thirty of them, and he had to agree with the Lord of Grimslade. Thirty riders were too many to have travelled unnoticed through Saruman’s territory; the wizard must taken notice of their passing… and apparently, he had allowed it. What did that mean? Suddenly very aware of the weight of Théodred’s sword on his hip, Éomer watched as the éoreds fanned out to encircle the strangers, their spears and swords ready to be used, and soon, their horses obstructed his view. What was happening within the circle? Would there be a fight, or did the foreigners understand that they would stand no chance against the battle-ready Rohirrim?

“Grimbold!” He urged Drálion on and brought his stallion alongside his brother-in-arms. “Let me handle this.” He could not tell why, but a strange feeling had befallen him, and he decided to follow his intuition as he turned around to Aragorn. “Come with me!” His order met with no protest from the Westfold warrior. Though doubtful what to make of the situation, Grimbold moved aside as Éomer and the Dúnadan cut their path through the circle of riders. Erkenbrand’s acknowledgment had effectively reinstated Éomer as their marshal, and as such, it was his call to make and his responsibility what ensued.

Many doubtful glances found Eomund’s son as he moved with Aragorn through the cluster of horses and battle-ready warriors toward the captured strangers, the atmosphere strained to the point where a single misunderstood gesture would result in a bloodbath.

“Marshal?” A warrior with an impressive red beard and fierce green eyes regarded him hesitantly. “I thought that Captain Erkenbrand--”

“Not now, Brand. Let us talk later.” With a nod, Éomer bade the man to stand aside, and at last, Brand cleared his path, allowing him for the first time an unobstructed view of the group of riders in their midst. Even from seeing only their horses, Éomer could tell that he was looking at strangers from afar, because their beasts looked stout and ragged with unusual thick, long fur, and were obviously not of Rohirric breed. Then his gaze found the men: none of them had drawn their swords and their hands were held out in a universal gesture of peace. Like the breed of their horses, their raiment, too, was uncommon with their heavy grey, hooded cloaks they unanimously wore, but at the same time, there was something familiar about them; a certain dignity and unspoken wisdom that reminded him of--

“We mean no harm to the Mark and its people,” their leader said, facing him, and his earnest grey eyes only intensified the feeling of familiarity. “Please, will you lay down your weapons and hear us out?” Then his gaze went over Éomer’s shoulder and his eyes widened. A joyous expression spread over his weathered, proud face. “Aragorn! What an unexpected joy to find you here! We were looking for you!”

Confused, Éomer turned around, but the ranger did not even seem to notice his questioning glance as he urged his steed into the circle, his features mirroring the joy of the man before him. And while realisation hit Éomer, he heard his friend’s glad shout: “Halbarad! Brother! Can it really be? What brought you to Rohan?”

Murmur rose from the surrounding Rohirrim, and over the din of voices, Éomer asked: "So you know them?"

"More than this, we grew up together! They are my kin, Éomer. Together we fought for many years to keep our borders safe from the Forces of Evil, and I developed most of my skills in their service. Please, let me introduce you to Halbarad, my brother in all but blood. Halbarad, this is Éomer, son of Éomund of Aldburg and Third Marshal of Riddermark."

"The son of Marshal Éomund?" the other ranger asked and measured Éomer again as if he suddenly saw him with different eyes. "Now that you say it – I see the resemblance." He inclined his head in a courteous nod. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Marshal."

"As I am honoured to make the acquaintance of my friend’s kin, Halbarad" Éomer replied, and then shifted in the saddle to address his men. "It is all right, they are friends! Sheathe your weapons." He looked at Brand. "I will address you and your riders later, Captain, and all your questions will be answered, but for now, I would greatly appreciate if you left us to our talks. I assume that your men must be eager to pitch camp after the long ride, so may I suggest that you see to that now and afterward meet me in Captain Erkenbrand’s halls to discuss matters?"

The older warrior eyed him intently for a moment, but at last, Brand gave him the nod Éomer had been waiting for.

"Very well, Marshal. I will look forward to it." He turned his steed. "Rohirrim! Make for the city. We are no longer needed here!"

The tight circle of warriors quickly dispersed, and at last, the éoreds thundered toward the city walls, leaving behind only Éomer, Aragorn and Grimbold with his guard and the host of strangers. Directing Hasufel alongside Halbarad’s steed, Aragorn’s gaze travelled over the faces of the men with whom he had braved many skirmishes, and suddenly, his expression brightened in surprise.

"No one could hold them back once they heard their father’s order to find and help you with the completion of your task."

"Are you jesting?" One of the indicated men rode forth, and as Éomer bend his eyes upon him, he realised that he was looking at another elf. Keen, ageless grey eyes easily endured his muster as the being came closer. For the life of him, Éomer could not have guessed how old the other was, but his whole bearing bespoke a deep-lying dignity and a self-assuredness that made the Third Marshal suddenly feel like a child again. "Wherever there is the promise of cleaving orc-heads from their necks, that is where we are found." He looked at Aragorn and lifted his chin. "We could hardly allow our human brother to face them alone… and reap all the glory."

"Elladan!" Leaning to the side, Aragorn embraced his elven brother. "I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to see you! If you want to cleave orc-heads, you have come to the right place at the right time. There is always need for a skilfully wielded blade here." He turned toward the other elf, who patiently waited by his brother’s side. "And you, too, Elrohir! How wonderful to see you!" He inhaled deeply and sat back in his saddle. "So Elrond sent you?"

"You know Elrond," Halbarad explained. "He was being his usual, mysterious self when he summoned me, but yes, he told us to go looking for you and join your forces, and he said that you were possibly to be found in the land of the Horselords." He smiled at Éomer’s confused expression with which the Rohír regarded the two elves. To the unaccustomed eye, the sons of Elrond looked absolutely alike with their even-shaped features, their grey eyes and their long, dark hair which – only partially tamed by braids – flowed over their backs. "So, seeing your preparations for battle, I assume that we could be of use to you, because every man will count if you ride against Isengard. We just passed through Saruman’s realm, and it was brimming with orcs flocking for the Wizard’s Vale."

Éomer’s expression darkened upon hearing his fears confirmed, but before he could think of an answer, Grimbold jumped forth with one: "It would be most interesting then to learn how you managed to avoid them. How could such a great group of riders not be spotted by an enemy equipped with keen senses?"

All heads turned toward the stout Westfold Captain. While the frown on some of the Dunedain’s faces was hard to miss, Halbarad answered the Rohír’s challenge with a wary smile, his keen grey eyes studying the other man’s expression as the atmosphere suddenly thickened again.

"We evaded them by travelling mostly during the day, Captain, as it is well-known that orcs usually flee from the sun’s face. Of course there are other dangers to be considered, but it is our usual business to evade the enemy’s eye. At night, we sought shelter in hiding places established many years ago by warriors greater than us. As rangers, stealth is what ensures our survival. It is our main skill and our greatest advantage."

"Enough of this!" Éomer interrupted heatedly and glared at Grimbold as if asking the man whether one cut on his brow was not enough. Silently warning the Captain to remain quiet, he turned back to the ranger. "I apologize, Halbarad. The past weeks were difficult with many assaults on our realm, and it is harder than ever for us to trust strangers. Yet when Aragorn calls you a friend, that is good enough for us and we will gladly welcome you among our forces. The Gods know we are in desperate need of allies these days, and in this spirit, may I invite you and your brethren into the city for further talks in a more pleasant atmosphere? I assume that you must be wearied after your long and perilous journey, and it looks as if it is going to rain soon. We Rohírrim may be more cautious than we used to be, but there is still little we would hate more than being called bad hosts." He gestured toward the still open gate. "Please, Gentlemen, if you would follow us?"

"It is impossible to estimate the exact strength of Saruman’s army, but the Misty Mountains were crawling with orcs on their way to Isengard when we passed through them. I fear that they will exceed your forces by many heads once they have fully assembled." Halbarad’s gaze travelled from Aragorn’s face over the sceptical features before him. For the final discussion of their strategy, the Lord of Westfold had invited the captains of the arrived forces into his halls for the evening meal, and now the warriors sat at the round table and exchanged their tidings and opinions.

"We have only yet begun to summon the éoreds; more will come," Éomer revealed, his insides clenching at the Dunádan’s report. "By tomorrow evening, we hope to have at least five thousand spears ready. You said that an exact estimate was impossible, but perhaps you can tell us whether you think that this might be enough to defeat the enemy?"

"I am doubtful," Elladan spoke for Halbarad, and heads turned his way. "Word of the bravery and fierceness of the Rohírrim in battle has travelled even to us at Imladris, and no doubt it is in Saruman’s mind also. His strategy must be to counter your advantages – courage, skill and determination – with the sheer numbers of his armies. On our way to Rohan, we gave Isengard a wide berth and thus did not see what forces Saruman has already summoned there, but it is beyond question that it grows with each day that passes."

"So you were indeed right," Erkenbrand said with a glance at the young marshal. "Every day counts."

Exchanging a dark glance with Aragorn, Éomer muttered: "It cannot be helped then: we must ride tomorrow! We cannot afford to wait for the Eastfold forces. When they arrive, they must follow us as quickly as possible, but we cannot await them here."

"But our éohere counts hardly more than two thousand men yet! We will stand no chance against the enemy with so few warriors!" He looked at Elladan, then at the others, silently urging them to understand.

"More will come," Aragorn assured him from the opposite side of the round table. "If you wait until noon tomorrow, there will be more men to follow you." He looked at Halbarad. "How long does it take from here to reach the Fords?"

"Half a day. And from there it is approximately another three hours’ ride to Isengard."

"If we leave by noon tomorrow, we could reach the Isen well before nightfall and pitch camp there for the night on Rohirric soil, protected by the river. The next day, only a short distance will be left to ride before we meet the enemy, and our horses will be fresh for the battle." He inhaled. "It would be almost ideal." But the Éomer’s expression said something else.

"It is not ideal, but I fear that there is no way of avoiding camp altogether. We cannot ride the entire distance in one day and then give battle, but the risk of our éohere being detected while we arrive at the Fords in daylight is too great; there are other evil things in the Necromancer’s service besides orcs, and they move during the day."

"Crebain," Halbarad nodded. "Aye, the skies above the Misty Mountains are alive with their swarms. They come suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, and detect you before you can hide. We only narrowly escaped them ourselves several times on the way here."

"So that means that we must ride under cover of the night, even if that is the orcs’ preferred time," Erkenbrand summoned, not liking the idea at all.

"It is also not ideal, but it would seem to me the lesser evil," Éomer mused. "To discover an army of five thousand riders during the day, those birds would not even have to be in our vicinity. No, I fear there is no other way." He inhaled. "The path to the river may be uneven, but our horses know them, and they are experienced in this kind of terrain. But I do not know about yours." His questioning glance met Halbarad’s and then travelled on to the elves. Next to a pure-blooded Méara like the great Shadowfax, the elven horses were the finest steeds he had ever laid eyes upon, but these days, taking things for granted could easily cost one’s life.

"They know how to move by night also. You will not have to worry about them," Halbarad assured him, and then raised his chin as he looked at Aragorn. "Which reminds me: we brought Roheryn with us. We thought you might have needs of him on this errand."

"As always, you have thought of everything, brother," Aragorn nodded with satisfaction. "I could use him indeed." He cocked a brow at Éomer. "Your beast is not the only predator with four hooves. I already pity the orcs who come between us." The remark at last earned him an honest grin from the young Rohír.

"Very well. I will remember to keep count of the orc-heads Firefoot smashes then. Let’s make this a competition."

"I accept!" Grinning, the two warriors exchanged a handshake over the table, much to the bewilderment of the others. The situation was grim, but what would they change by sitting here dour-faced, inwardly already surrendering? Wasn’t it infinitely better to go into battle with hope still alive in their hearts?

"Would it be possible to participate in your competition? For I do not think that there is a horse upon Arda’s beautiful face which has killed more orcs than mine," Elladan suddenly asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes, taking Éomer entirely by surprise. So far, the young marshal had only been subjected to the detached demeanour of these mysterious beings, but he liked their new side which was just revealing itself to him. So elves did have a sense of humour!

"Except for mine," his brother threw in and eyed his twin with his chin lifted in challenge. Except for Éomer who was delighted by his discovery, the other Rohirrim at the table exchanged highly irritated glances at the seemingly pointless banter, but it was Gímli’s voice which interrupted the befuddled silence with a hearty snort:

"No matter how many orcs your beasts will kill, my fellow brothers-in-arms, they will not even come close to the damage my axe is going to inflict on the scum!"

"And not even remotely close to the death toll my bow is going to ask of them," Legolas added evenly, one eyebrow cocked as he regarded the dwarf haughtily from his superior height. For a moment, the strange friends stared at each other, Gímli glaring, the elf with his usual composure, until Aragorn summoned it up:

"It would seem to me as that there will hardly be enough orcs for all of us." His remark earned him a chuckle from most of the present warriors except for Grimbold and Brand, who could find nothing comical in the matter they were discussing, and seeing their sour faces sobered Éomer at last. Clearing his throat, he returned to the bidden seriousness.

"Very well; I will adhere then that each of us will kill as many orcs as he possibly can; I am content with this plan. Is it furthermore agreed upon that we will set out tomorrow shortly after nightfall, to pitch camp at the Fords of Isen for a few hours? And that we will cross the river still under cover of darkness to arrive at Isengard with the break of dawn? This way we could make the most use of the daylight, as I don’t think that – even under best circumstances - the battle will see a winner quickly. If we attack later, fighting may well continue until after nightfall, and that would be the orcs’ advantage, all the more as they will be fighting on their own grounds." Looking around to find what the others were thinking of his plan, Éomer saw Aragorn nod in acknowledgment.

"And we can help you by cleaning the hostile river-shores from enemy spies while we camp there!" Halbarad offered. "For this is the greatest strength of the Dúnedain: we know how to move stealthily in hostile territory by night, and how to kill silently. It is how we protected our borders for many years against the Forces of Evil, although we were outnumbered most of the time."

"It is a very valuable service my kinsman is offering you," Aragorn said meaningfully, his gaze on Grimbold, but it was Éomer who answered, while at the same time he searched for consent in Erkenbrand’s eyes and found it.

"And we will gladly accept it, Halbarad. I thank you." Extending his thanks to the elves by the ranger’s side, Éomer fell silent. Like the other present men, he felt it, too: they were ready. For a moment longer, the warriors regarded each other silently, the weight of the task before them heavy on their hearts. At last, Erkenbrand gave the signal to disperse by sliding back with his chair and getting up. There was nothing left to say, and so the warriors left to seek their chambers for the night with weak hopes of finding rest.

Éowyn did not feel it when they laid her onto the bed again after having unfastened her ties and allowing her to go and relieve herself and change her drenched shift – all under the prying eyes of the big Dunlending and his comrades Gríma had sent. Wormtongue himself, however, had been strangely absent for most of the day, not even around to take advantage of finally being able to see her undressed for the first time, but Éowyn did not wonder. She allowed herself not a single thought as she slipped out of her wet garments with hands that shook so badly that she dropped the replacement repeatedly before she succeeded in pulling it over her head. She did not pay attention to Felrod’s hungry black eyes upon her body, nor did she register the hillman’s lewd comments as she stood uncovered before him.

Éowyn did not fight as they led her back to the bed and dutifully tied her wrists and ankles to the posts again… and when that had been accomplished and the Worm’s henchman sat down on the mattress beside her with a barked order to his two comrades to leave them alone, her heartbeat did not accelerate even though it was clear what would happen. Her mind had detached itself from her body and left it to its destiny; hiding in a place deep within herself where nothing could ever reach her. The expression in her eyes void of emotion as they stared against the ceiling, the only indication that there was still life left in the White Lady of Rohan was her steady trembling; an automatic reaction of her body she neither felt nor cared about, let alone was able to suppress.

As the sound of the closing door reached Felrod’s ear from the adjacent room, he laid his big, rough hand onto Éowyn’s stomach and grinned.

"Finally, we have a moment to ourselves, sweeting," he breathed into her ear in a low voice, not in the least disturbed by his victim’s ghastly empty expression. His hand travelled further up to linger for a moment on her breast, then it moved lazily on to the bare skin of her throat. Enjoying the sensation of her heartbeat against his palm, Felrod kissed the sensitive spot below Éowyn’s ear. "Tell me, Goldenhead, what shall we do with it?" He received no reaction, none whatsoever. His hand slid down Éowyn’s throat and into her shift, and his grin widened. "I have an idea, and I have the feeling that you would enjoy it very much… and even if you didn’t, you would not betray me to my master, wouldn’t you, sweeting?"

He plastered her cheekbone with kisses, then proceeded to the corner of her mouth while pressure built steadily in the nether regions of his body. Suddenly Felrod hesitated, and looked again into the disturbingly empty eyes before him, remembering well what that delicate woman had done to his commander. The gag was still in his other hand; he had not applied it yet because of his plan to take advantage of his hostage’s helplessness. Éowyn did not look as if she was even aware of his presence although he lay practically upon her. Still uncertain what to do, his hand increased its pressure on her breast, kneading the sensitive flesh with his rough fingers as he waited for her reaction, yet Éowyn continued to lay limply on the bed like a puppet.

Not knowing what to make of the situation, Felrod creased his brow. It was wonderful to feel his power over her, but still it would have increased his pleasure if there were at least some life in that body he was in the process of ravaging. Otherwise, where would be the point if that haughty thing didn’t feel his domination? While he still paused and stared, unsure of how to proceed, the door behind him was suddenly opened and a sharp gasp reached his ears.

He jumped to his feet, his face burning as he retracted his hand and turned around to face his master, but the damage had been done; he saw it in Gríma Wormtongue’s pale blue eyes.

"Out of my sight, now!" Saruman’s right hand trembled with barely suppressed fury, and the sliding dishes on the wooden tray he carried added their noise to the scene like the rattle of a poisonous snake the moment before the bite. Faster than he had ever moved in his life, Felrod rushed toward the door, his heart pounding in his chest. How could he have been so foolish to let himself be caught? And how would his master punish him for it? As he passed Gríma, the other man halted him with a little sidestep, his eyes narrow slits in which a cold fire burned. "Stay where I can find you. We will have to speak." Swallowing, the big Halfbreed nodded and lowered his gaze as he all but fled the chambers.

“What do you mean, she can’t say?” Éothain stared in incomprehension at his captain, feeling his stomach plunge. “How can Yalanda not know? She is the one who knows about herbs and potions; how can she not have a recipe for--”

“- a tasteless killing potion?” Aedwulf slowly shook his head. “You know the answer, Éothain. She said that she will try to brew us something, but she could not say when it will be ready. Apparently, it is not easy to find a potion which a dog’s superior senses cannot detect. She will do her best, but we must be patient. Lady Glenwyn…” he nodded his greetings at Céorl’s wife whom he saw over the shoulder of his friend, wrapped in a shawl. He shifted his attention back to Éothain, touching his friend’s arm. “There is nothing we can do for now, except wait, no matter how hard it is.”

The young Captain exhaled forcefully and evaded the older man’s compassionate gaze.

“I am failing them,” he growled through his clenched teeth, despising the feeling of helplessness which threatened to overwhelm him. “I am failing my father, and the King, and Éowyn…and Éomer. Éomer most of all. I promised him to protect his sister should anything ever happen to him, and now the Worm has Éowyn in his clutches and what am I doing? I am sitting here, doing nothing while the filth torments her!”

“That is not right,” Aedwulf said with quiet intensity. “You prepared the city for a possible assault. And upon your orders that tunnel was found; you risked your life exploring it so that we even have a plan now of how to take advantage of that discovery. We are doing what we can, Éothain, but it cannot be denied that Wormtongue is a capable opponent, and any measures we take must be well-prepared. You are doing all that is in your power, and your men look up to you for your leadership; believe me when I tell you this. You are being too hard on yourself, my friend, and self-doubt will not help us in this case. You must believe in what you do… as do we.” He squeezed Éothain’s arm and wanted to add more, but the distant din of a bell interrupted him. The two men stared at each other.

“I will be back, Mother. Don’t worry. Stay inside!” Throwing his cape over his shoulders, Éothain stepped into the thickening twilight and closed the door behind himself before he and Aedwulf rushed toward the square. Just as they rounded the corner, the mighty gate opened with a strained groan to let in two riders, and as Éothain stepped forth, he recognised the first man’s white horse. His brow creasing, he briefly looked behind the man, but there was nothing to be seen on the path, not a trace of the forces from Aldburg he had sent for two days earlier.

The older warrior’s bearded face bore a thick crust of ice and he looked half-frozen when he turned toward the Captain of Edoras and dismounted.

“It seems that Aldburg cannot spare its éoreds these days, Captain. They received a summons from the Marshal the same day I arrived, and now their Riders are on the way to the Westfold. Did they not ask you as well?”

“The Marshal ?” Éothain’s heart skipped a beat as he exchanged a quick glance with Aedwulf, who looked equally excited. “Which marshal? You do not mean Éomer, do you, Gelbrand?”

“Aye, Captain, I do indeed. The messenger said that Éomer had sent him. Apparently, Thor’s éored found him on a farm in the White Mountains; wounded but alive, and obviously well enough to take things into his hands again. It seems that battle is at hand in the Westfold, and that it might well be the one fight that determines our fate. I cannot believe that our éoreds were not summoned too! Perhaps the messenger was intercepted by the enemy?”

For a moment, Éothain could not speak; the feeling of relief flooding him was so overwhelming, he could only stare at the bringer of the good tidings.

“Béma be praised!” Aedwulf exclaimed before Éothain had found his voice again, and he turned around to where more people had gathered on the square to look for the reason of the alarm. “Marshal Éomer is alive!” The crowd erupted in cheers, and Aedwulf turned back to his waiting kinsman. “You bring great tidings, Gelbrand! At last, there is now a glimpse of hope on the horizon. But to answer your question: no, no one has come to summon us forces yet. I find that strange also.”

“Perhaps Éomer did not want to run the risk that Wormtongue learned about it,” Éothain let himself be heard. “If he took refuge in the mountains, he cannot know about the state of things here, and if he plans a surprise attack on Saruman, he needs to make sure that Gríma cannot warn his Master. The Snake would have smelled something had he seen our riders leave.”

“Then that must be it.” Aedwulf narrowed his eyes. “We will need a few men here to storm Meduseld, but the others we could surely send to the Westfold. They will need all help they can get.” He looked at the Eastfold warrior. “If it is not too late for that already.”

“I’m afraid that I do not know more than you, Captain Aedwulf. All I can tell you is that Aldburg’s éoreds left an hour after the summons came. But you are right; I suspect it cannot be wrong to send our men after them. They were told to travel on the mountain path to avoid undue attention, and they will not be able to move quickly on it. Surely our riders could overtake them by using the road, but…” His gaze went up to the Golden Hall. “You said something about ‘storming Meduseld.’ So I take it that the Worm still holds it?”

“Aye, nothing has changed. Gríma and his minions barricaded the Golden Hall against us, and the King and the members of his household are still held captive within it,” Éothain said darkly and registered the other warrior’s dismay. “Essentially, we are holding him captive, but we have not yet found a way to move against him without risking the lives of the hostages… and the filth’s strategy tells me that he is waiting for Saruman’s army to assault Edoras and release him once they killed us, but if Éomer is rallying our forces in the Westfold to meet them there, he will be waiting in vain.”

“Depending on the outcome of that battle, of course,” Aedwulf added grimly. “Aye, we must send every man we can spare, perhaps it is not too late yet. I will alert the Riders at once… with your permission, Captain?” He looked at Éothain.

“Aye. Please do that, Aedwulf. And tell them to make haste and ride through the night.”

“How many men will we need to…” Aedwulf interrupted himself, but Éothain had seen his little nod toward the Hall.

“Fifty should stay here. That should be enough for our purposes.” He turned to Gelbrand. “Once all preparations are finished, we will make short shrift of the traitor.”

“Aye, I do, but it will take some more time. Come, Gelbrand, let me accompany you to the stables. You look as if you have use for a place before a fire and a warm meal, and I will not keep you longer from your home than necessary. We can talk some more on the way.”

The rap at the door sounded hesitant and insecure, and Gríma narrowed his eyes as he lifted his head, knowing who it was. Taking his time to reach for a napkin and carefully dab at his mouth, he finally bade his visitor to step in, and a very submissive Dunlending half-breed entered the room.

“Felrod,” Wormtongue said, intentionally lengthening the pause between words to torment the man as he folded his hands on the table. All night had he pondered what the right punishment would be for the incredible deed at which he had caught the guard, but the truth was that he still needed the man; it would not do to dispose of Felrod entirely or even to annoy him by severely disciplining the brute, no matter how much anger Gríma still felt.

What if Felrod had followed through with his plan of ravaging Éowyn, what if he had reaped what Gríma had denied himself yet for hope that it would someday be given freely? His audacity could easily have destroyed his Master’s precious prize. Straightening on his chair as he laid his fork aside, the Counsellor regarded his squirming servant with a detached expression of superiority before he issued a theatrically deep sigh.

“Felrod, Felrod... tell me, what am I to do with you? When we first met each other, you asked me for food, and I gave you food. Then you asked for power, and I gave you that as well. I led you into the heart of your enemies’ realm and allowed you to participate in their downfall, and yet this is how you would repay me? By trying to steal the only thing I said I wanted for myself?”

The hillman said nothing, and his eyes were lowered submissively, not daring to meet the cold blue of Gríma’s gaze.

“Had I listened to yesterday’s rage, you would not be here today. I would have had you thrown out and left at the mercy of the Strawheads, Felrod, and trust me, they would have killed you very slowly. But that is not want I wanted, and so I spent a sleepless night thinking about it. You can have the entire Mark once our Master is through with its inhabitants, and yet you still seek to steal from me, the man who put you in the position to exact your revenge upon Eorl’s children for five hundred years of misery. Tell me, Felrod, what would you do in my place?”

The half-breed swallowed, and his voice sounded as if it had to be pressed through the granite of the White Mountains to come to Gríma’s ears.

“I did not think. I – I never meant to steal from you, Master; never.” At last, Felrod risked a glance; his face flushed with embarrassment. “Please, I hope you can forgive me. I will always be grateful for what you did for my people. Always.”

“And this is the way it should be,” Wormtongue stated coldly, disappointment colouring his tone. “But this is now the second time you have betrayed the trust I set in you.” He shook his head. “I am at a loss, Felrod. I do not know what you could possibly do to remedy this breach.”

“I know it won’t, because you will not go near her again.” It was time to announce his verdict. Sliding back with his chair, Gríma rose to his feet, and his voice sounded firm when he announced: “I need more time to think this over, Felrod. Until then, I do not want to see you in the hall, lest I’d forget myself. You will go down to the intersection and help your men to guard the tunnels, relieving Mordred of his duty, as he has not seen the daylight for days. Until further notice, you will stay down there, out of my sight. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master.” Felrod bowed, vaguely relieved. “I thank you for your mercy, and I swear that I will never disappoint you again.”

“In your own interest, see that you keep your promise this time.” Dismissing the man, Wormtongue turned his back on the guard, and Felrod understood and left, glad to leave. His expression grim, Gríma’s eyes rested for a moment longer on the depiction of a hunting scene on an ancient wall-hanging. It was time for Saruman’s army to arrive. Things were starting to deteriorate in Meduseld; the threads of order starting to slip from his grasp. He had brought them this far, and now that there was nothing further to do than sit and wait, foolish ideas were starting to flood his servants’ minds. Could he be sure that they would spare him once they saw the wealth of the Royal Household and greed got the better of them? His eyes narrowing, Wormtongue’s gaze travelled at last to the open door leading to his bedchambers. Now that he was finished with the unpleasant business, it was time to collect his reward and feast his eyes on the woman he loved again.

Yet when he made his way over to Éowyn, the sight of her could not cheer him up as he sat down on the mattress beside her to run his fingers through the golden tresses. So fair was she. So fair, and yet so distant. How could that be? Where had the courageous young woman gone he had admired for so many years? All that seemed to be left of the brave, haughty shieldmaiden who had inspired him to his act of unparalleled betrayal was an empty shell. Where was that untamed spirit he loved so desperately, this wild thing no other but he had seen and understood? Had he involuntarily crushed it with his ungoverned anger? Had he destroyed the very thing he loved? And if it was so, how could he ever forgive himself?

“Come back to me, my sweet,” Gríma whispered lovingly, his fingers gliding over Éowyn’s cheekbones, but apart from the constant trembling, he was not rewarded with a reaction. She had taken the water he had carefully administered her, but not the food, and when he looked into those scarily void, blue eyes which seemed to look right through him, it appeared to Wormtongue that Éowyn was not even aware of his presence. He swallowed, suddenly very afraid. “Come back to me, my Love. I swear I will be good to you from now on. Don’t be afraid of me.”

But she continued to lie beneath him, unmoving except for her steady shivering. Removed from the world.

Éomer had woken to a strange day: it had smelled differently, the air leaving a hint of iron on his tongue as he had sat up in his bed, muscles tense just upon opening his eyes. Battle already cast its long ugly shadows upon the day, and the dull rumbling that reached his ears through the window from the overcast skies only befitted the atmosphere as Éomer rose to join the others after a long night spent of little sleep. In less than a day, blood would be spilled and the fate of the Mark would be decided. At last, the waiting was over.

He had washed and dressed quickly and then joined the other captains for the morning meal, finding the atmosphere at Erkenbrand’s round table dominated by the same tension he felt himself. Where only last night there had been playful banter, most of the warriors ate in silence, preoccupied with their own thoughts, and the few words spoken were hardly more than requests for items on the table. Erkenbrand had reported that he had ordered scouts to search the vicinity for orc-spies, determined to keep their secret safe until they rode, and Éomer had nodded, welcoming the idea.

Thor, who had hardly been visible since their arrival, had been first to leave their table, and the discomfort the young man felt at being in the place where the hatred against his evil brethren was the strongest was obvious on his dark features. Excusing himself with mention of the many preparations to be seen to until they would ride, he had quickly left the table, eager to rejoin his éored who would not greet him with mistrustful glances.

Following the scout’s path with his eyes, Éomer had felt sorrow for the young man whose blood doomed him to be a perpetual wanderer between two worlds with neither one fully accepting him. Over the last days, Éomer had received his own taste of the feeling of not having a home, and he had not liked it. To escape his brooding thoughts, he had likewise excused himself quickly and made for the stables, on the way there pocketing some apples from the table to bribe his steed whom he knew would give him a hard time after the last days of neglect.

Twilight greeted him as he entered the long building, and for a moment, Éomer stood and revelled in the familiar scent while he watched the bustling activity among the many stablehands who readied the horses entrusted to their care for the ride. More than once he had to quickly step aside when young lads laden with heavy tack passed him; the atmosphere reminding him vividly of a bee-hive in the first beams of the spring sun. It took a while before his presence was noticed, but then he became quickly the object of general attention and Hrothgar, the oldest and most experienced of the stablehands approached him with a wry smile upon his face.

“Marshal Éomer! May I express how good it is seeing you alive and leading our Riders into battle again?”

“Thank you, Hrothgar. I feel very fortunate to be here and to see that the Éorlingas still trust in their instincts rather than in dubious words from a proven liar.” He nodded at the stall where he could see a grey back. “I hope your lads didn’t have too much trouble with my obstinate grey beast?”

“Oh, now that you speak of it… we managed to fill Firefoot’s manger, but that was pretty much it.” He cleared his throat and meaningfully cocked an eyebrow. “He let no one near him for a grooming, or to tend his wounds. But there is no reason for concern; they seem to be healing well, otherwise we would have called you. I am sure he will be glad to see his master.”

“I would not necessarily count on that,” Éomer remarked, pursing his lips, and with a clap on the man’s back, left the stablehand standing as he approached his stallion while the men and lads in the building paused in their work to see how their Marshal handled the animal which had given them such a hard time.

Clicking his tongue to let Firefoot know of his presence, Éomer reached the stall wall and rested his arms upon the wooden barrier.

“Good morning, Grey One,” he greeted his horse’s behind, which was all he could see of the stallion. “It has come to my ears that you have recovered enough to be your usual, difficult self again, and I see that it is true, or why would you ignore me?” His effort was not graced with a reaction, and Éomer nodded, understanding the challenge. The half-méara was still sulking and determined to ignore his master, and for a while, Éomer allowed it while he observed the stallion’s movements with a keen eye, especially interested in the way Firefoot used his injured shoulder. With relief, he noted that the horse did not favour the foreleg, although the little movement the stall allowed could not be a true indication of the stallion’s ability. “So you insist on finding out who of us two has the thicker head? I accept.”

Grey ears flickered back in response to his voice, and a very quick glance from a large dark eye briefly sized up Éomer, but still Firefoot seemed to have no intentions of acknowledging his master’s presence in any way. The Rohír remained calm, not having expected things to go differently. In the five years since the Grey had become his ally in their perpetual fight, he had experienced the stallion’s by now legendary stubbornness and ill moods more than once; and in fact those were the very traits which had endeared Firefoot to him from the very start; aside from the horse’s unyielding loyalty and protectiveness. The half-méara burst with character, and to win the loyalty of such a proud and willful creature each day anew was a task Éomer was more than willing to appoint himself, and always left him deeply satisfied. In the end, Firefoot would come to him as he always had, forgetting his pride while still making it look as if only this last time were he willing to exercise mercy on his unworthy master. Éomer knew what it took to convince the stallion. He took out one of the apples he had snagged from the breakfast table and rubbed it against his shirt, then took a big bite out of it - and was rewarded when the grey head turned around.

Aware that he and his horse were the object of undivided interest of nearly everybody in the building, Éomer chewed calmly, his hand with the apple hanging over the wooden barrier. Lifting his head, Firefoot drank the air with quivering nostrils and stretched his neck, the large eyes measuring his master intently while the stallion tried to decide what to do. Unblinkingly, Éomer took the next bite, noticing with silent amusement how the grey ears twitched at the sound. A low, deep noise emitted from the depth of Firefoot’s broad chest as the horse shook his head indignantly. Éomer felt an insistent tug at the corners of his mouth. Who in their right mind could not love such a horse?

“I won’t throw it into your stall. You will have to come to me, like it or not, you big, grey mule!” He lifted the apple to his mouth again. A violent snort burst from the stallion’s throat as Firefoot stretched his neck even further to smell the delicacy in his master’s hand. Again he threw his head, the thick mane frothing around the heavy muscles, and suddenly his forceful stamp echoed in the building. The apple halting before his mouth, Éomer raised a brow. “Can it really be so hard?” He took another bite, and this time, the stall wall shook under the impact of Firefoot’s hoof as the half-méara voiced his protest.

“Here!” Éomer extended his arm, knowing that triumph was his; he could tell it as he watched his squirming steed. The stallion was pawing the ground, still protesting - and begging at the same time. “Take it.” Pushed forth by some unseen force, Firefoot slowly came closer. Still a few steps distant, he halted and stretched his neck again, as if hoping that he could get the delicacy without having to approach his master. Making himself as long as possible, much to the amusement of the observers, Firefoot’s lips closed with an audible snap just befor of the apple.

“Aye, he is. But he is defeated, and he knows it.” His eyes still on the stallion, Éomer saw how the massive grey body before him expand with a deep intake of breath… which was expelled in a last violent snort of protest. Eagerly, Firefoot took the last remaining steps, and with an honest smile, Éomer gave him the treasure in his hand before he reached up for the stallion’s ears. Enjoying the sensation of the silken fur against his palm, he allowed his hand to slide down to rub the broad brow. “See, this was not so hard to do, now was it?” he muttered under his breath, glad over their reconciliation. His fingers brushing through the long dark lock that fell into Firefoot’s face, he gently began to untangle the thick mane while he pulled the big head closer to blow air into the nostrils. “Did you really think that I didn’t love you anymore, just because I rode Drálion for a few days, you big, brave, jealous fool?”

Slipping into the stall, Éomer’s hand glided over the dark hide to the stallion’s mighty shoulder, carefully caressing the area around the three parallel gashes. A thorough inspection of the thick crust of dried blood that had formed on the injuries confirmed Hrothgar’s words: the wounds looked innocuous and well on the way to healing. It seemed that nothing spoke against Firefoot carrying him into the battle. Affectionately, Éomer petted the mighty body.

“Now you have seen the wound for yourself, Marshal,” Hrothgar made himself be heard. “Do you agree it seems to heal well?”

“Aye, it looks good enough. But I will take him outside for a little ride nonetheless to warm him up and see how he moves. He is probably a little stiff after the days in the stall.” Éomer hooked his fingers into Firefoot’s halter and fastened a rope to it.

“Shall I bring you a saddle then? If I remember correctly, there was none on his back when you arrived.” But Éomer dismissed the offer with a gesture as he opened the stall door.

“I will not need one now. But I would indeed be grateful if you could supply me with full tack before we ride, aye.”

“Very well.” Hrothgar nodded, respectfully moving aside as the big grey stepped into the aisle. “I will leave it here on the stand, so that you find it upon your return.”

“Thank you.” With a curt nod, Éomer shifted his attention back to his steed. “Come, let us get a taste of the day.” He led the stallion through the open doors, and grey light greeted them. Distant rumble from the clouds above their heads prompted Éomer to crane his neck, and what he saw brought a shadow to his face. Yet it was not the weather which troubled him even if the storm front on the horizon looked as if it would make their ride an unpleasant experience; it was an even darker cloud that circled the skies above the settlement and the adjourning war-camp, alive with the din of thousands of harsh voices: they were Crebain, the White Wizard’s inescapable spies. Thousands of them. They were being watched.

For a moment longer, Éomer’s gaze followed the circles of the big black birds while he silently asked himself what Saruman would conclude from his allies’ observations, and then he jumped at the sudden alarm of the watchtower’s bell.

Ignoring the malicious cawing birds above his head, Éomer’s heart sang with joy as he directed Firefoot through the gate and beheld at once the sight of the vast camp beyond the city walls. He looked around in wonder, still barely able to believe that so many had followed his call despite Wormtongue’s poisoned words. As he slowly advanced, heads turned his way and the Riders pointed at him and waved, shouting their greetings which Éomer gladly returned. And yet the warriors’ friendliness was not the main reason for the fast beating of his heart; it was the long line of riders still on the road and carrying the banner of a stylised white horse-head upon green toward the camp. The Eastfold had finally come!

Soon, the clear sound of their horns pierced the air in salute, and again the warriors in the camp shouted with joy, this time over the appearance of their eastern kinsmen. Urging Firefoot into a slow trot as he did not want to demand too much of the stallion on his first outing after the injury, Éomer approached the éoreds. How many riders were there? A thousand at least, he estimated, and together with the forces already camping before the city walls, they would form a formidable éohere. For the first time, the possibility of their victory no longer seemed fantastic.

With a little kick into Firefoot’s flanks, Éomer directed his stallion toward the grey horse at the head of the arriving host, whose rider now turned to him in recognition with the expression of honest, heart-felt joy on his red-bearded face.

"Findarras! Old friend!" Clasping hands, the two warriors regarded each other with the fond affection of long separated brothers who had found together again.

"When we heard of the verdict, I feared for a moment never to see you again," the lanky Eastfold Captain said with a deep breath and shook his head as he measured Éomer. For another moment, his blue eyes rested on the last traces of the cuts on the younger man’s brow before he inquired cautiously: "Arnhelm said that you ran into orcs?"

"I did not so much run into them than had the Worm send them after me. First his henchmen, and when I sent them back to him bleeding and weeping, he set his master’s orcs upon my track. He did not leave my death to chance, for he was right about one thing: when I return to Edoras, I will kill him slowly… and painfully." A sudden shadow fell on Findarras’ face at the mention of their capital, alarming Éomer. "What is it, Findarras? Do you have tidings from Edoras? How are things there? Please, you must tell me!" His gaze swept the approaching riders, but he could not detect the great bay horse he had hoped to find among them. Instinctively his stomach clenched into a knot. Not really wanting to ask the question when he already sensed the dispiriting answer, Éomer knew that there was no way to avoid it: "Elfhelm has not come with you?"

"He did not return from Edoras." He saw the dismay in Éomer’s eyes and felt equally helpless. "Two days ago, shortly after Arnhelm brought us your summons, Éothain sent us a messenger, too, asking for support as he suspected that Edoras would soon be the target of an attack…"

"And he was right about it, only that we will now intercept that army before it can even move into the Mark," Éomer explained. "We will ride today after nightfall. I know that this won’t give you and your men much time to rest after the long ride, but--" Findarras’ dismissive gesture interrupted him in mid-sentence. "What?"

"I am worrying about that, Éomer, you know that our men and horses are hardy enough for such efforts. But Éothain’s messenger said something else that troubles me deeply: no one in Edoras saw Elfhelm arrive… although there can be no question that he must be there, for they found his horse on the plains, waiting for his master. The Worm must have arrested Elfhelm secretly, avoiding the people’s attention... and he seized power over Meduseld and barricaded the hall against our people with the aid of the Dunlending forces he somehow led undetected into the city. Béma alone knows how he accomplished that deed."

"Aye. I could hardly believe it myself when I heard it. And it is even worse…" Findarras braced himself, not really wanting to give Éomer the horrible news when his commander needed to focus on the battle at hand, but it was something the son of Éomund needed to know. "Gríma holds Éowyn and Théoden-King captive in the Golden Hall… along with other members of your uncle’s household. Céorl was seen there as well, and I think it would be reasonably safe to assume that--"

"—Gamling and Háma were captured, too," Éomer ended the sentence for him, his expression grim. "Like Elfhelm, you mean. Captured… or killed. Béma…" Forcefully exhaling, his gaze went to the eastern horizon, unfocussed. All had turned the way he had feared, and once again, the pull of the Lonely Hill seemed to be almost too strong to resist. How could he ride in the other direction now when he was needed so desperately in Edoras?

"Éomer?" Findarras brow creased with concern as he touched his Marshal’s arm.

"Aye, I heard you." Éomer shook his head to clear the cobwebs of the nightmare images from his mind. "I loathe saying it, but it cannot be helped for now. As hard as it is, but we cannot allow ourselves to be distracted from the battle. Alone to defeat Saruman we will need the Gods’ benevolence before we can even think of concerning ourselves with this problem. It is a decision I was forced to make days ago, and I tell you, Findarras, that it pains me still. But there is no other way; the Master must be dealt with first before we can see to the disposal of his minion." Éomer’s tone and expression hardened upon saying those words, leaving the older warrior with a clear indication of his friend’s disposition.

Understanding Éomer’s turmoil, Findarras nodded as he followed his marshal’s gaze, even if nothing was to be seen at the horizon. Above them, the enemy’s birds of ill omen still circled the forbidding sky while their many thousand eyes observed each of their movements to report it to their master; the din of their cries adding to the distant rumbling thunder. The sight of the swarm chased a shudder down the warrior’s spine – it was too easy to imagine those beasts sitting on the corpses of the fallen, pecking at their open wounds. Forcefully shoving the images back, Findarras inhaled. "Perhaps it helps to think that Wormtongue will not kill Éowyn. I am sure of this at least. All these years, the filth worked so hard to get her under his influence; he will surely not kill her now that he has finally achieved his aim. Or believes that he has. We will prove him wrong. He will not succeed."

"No, he won’t." If possible, Éomer’s expression grew even grimmer. "I agree that he won’t kill her… but he can do worse things to her. Far worse things of which I dare not even to think." Brusquely, he averted his eyes, turning Firefoot around as his gaze swept over the growing camp. "Béma, how can she endure it? And how can the Gods allow it?" he muttered under his breath, desperation threatening once again to overwhelm him. ‘Aye, Osred, it is indeed a privileged life I lead. Would you do the same in my place? Would you abandon Freya and your children to serve your land?’ The thought was worthless, and yet he was powerless to suppress it.

Not knowing how to comfort his friend, Findarras cleared his throat. "If we are still alive after the battle tomorrow, and if I am somehow still able to stay on a horse, I will accompany you to Edoras, Éomer, even if they’ll have to tie me to the saddle. We will all ride with you. We will free Éowyn… and the King. And the others. We will not come too late."

"I thank you, Findarras. It is appreciated. I will try to believe it." He lifted his chin and inhaled deeply, shoving the torturous images in his mind back to where they would not hinder him from leading their éohere to victory. "See that you and your men get some rest. There won’t be many opportunities to replenish our strength before we meet the enemy tomorrow."

The day was growing old as Éomer followed Erkenbrand through the corridors to the armoury together with the other captains. At last, the time had come to prepare for battle and to clad themselves into mail and artfully decorated cuirasses of steel and leather to meet the enemy. For a while, the arrival of the Eastfold éoreds had lifted everyone’s spirits, but when twilight thickened beyond the windows of Erkenbrand’s halls, tension among the warriors grew to the point where all were glad to finally be on the way. None talked as they strode down the corridor.

Lost in his dark thoughts, Éomer passed through the door after the Westfold Captain, barely seeing the servant who held it open for them. Provided he survived, he would take whoever was left and ride east for as long as Firefoot remained on his legs and he was capable of staying on his back, through the night and storm and snow if needs be. Victory would be worthless if they defeated the Necromancer only to arrive in the City of Kings to find his blood-kin and friends slaughtered. It could not happen. He would not allow it.

"Marshal?" From Erkenbrand’s questioning expression, Éomer concluded that the man had already addressed him previously without response. "Will you follow me, please? I have something special to give to you." At last being granted the younger man’s attention, the older warrior turned to Aragorn, a gesture pointing toward the servants waiting to help the Riders into their armour. "Gentlemen, please help yourself to whatever our armoury can supply you with. My men will be glad to assist you in eery way."

The Lord of Westfold observed them for a moment longer before he shifted his attention back to the waiting son of Éomund and his Captain Grimbold. Upon his imperceptible nod, his weaponsmaster Gorthard stepped forth with a heavy bundle in his hands which he unfolded now.

"The Prince’s armour, my Lord." He looked at Éomer and inclined his head. "I repaired and polished it myself, and I am honoured to give it to you now, Marshal. May it bring you luck and help you to lead our forces to victory."

His voice too tight for a reply, Éomer could only nod his appreciation, his gaze glued to the shining rings of his cousin’s mail shirt, and for the first time ever, it dawned on him: if he survived and they returned to Edoras to cast out the usurper, they would in all likelihood find his uncle dead or at least demented for the rest of his life because of the poisons of Grima Wormtongue. Théoden would be unable to further lead their people – and so he - Éomer son of Éomund - would be next in line. He would be king. A band of steel suddenly tightened around Éomer’s ribs. He – a king? It could not be. Théodred had been groomed to succeed Théoden; Théodred had possessed the political skills needed for that position; it was something Éomer knew he lacked and yet had never earnestly tried to acquire. He had been born to roam the Mark on the back of his horse in protection of his people, not to sit in a dark hall and engage in the same sort of net-weaving he had always despised.

"Èomer?" Erkenbrand’s voice seeped into his concious. The Lord of Westfold had sensed his discomfort and regarded him with furrows forming on his brow. "Is aught wrong? Have you decided otherwise, perhaps, and don’t want to ride in Théodred’s armour anymore? I can give you another one, although I think that you were right by saying that your cousin would want you to wear his’."

"It is not that," Éomer at last managed to say, forcing the paralysing thought into the back of his mind. With a deep breath, he accepted the weaponsmaster’s gift. "I thank you for this, Gorthard, and I will be honoured to carry it into battle again."

"As I would be if you allowed me to help you with it, my Lord" Grimbold said by his side, barely daring to meet the younger man’s surprised gaze. "If you have forgiven my harsh words, I mean. As Théodred’s brother-in-arms, we always helped each other into our armours, and I would be glad to be allowed to continue this tradition with our new commander."

"I know what it means to you, Grimbold, and please know that it would be an honour for me, too, to keep that tradition alive." From the corner of his eye, he saw Erkenbrand’s satisfied expression. "I do not have the words to express how much I appreciate your gesture, Captain. By giving me Théodred’s armour… I feel that I am riding into battle together with him again." He looked at his fingers resting upon the metallic rings. "I can feel his presence."

"Then we will have nothing to fear tomorrow, for your Cousin was a mighty man of war... and so are you, Éomer son of Éomund, despite your youth." He laid a hand on Éomer’s shoulder, and when he spoke, his tone had never sounded more serious: "Lead us to victory, my Commander!"

It was an hour later when the warriors left the armoury, clad in long shirts of mail and elaborately worked cuirasses and cradling their helmets of similarly sophisticated craftsmanship under their arms. Despite their usual preference to go into battle lightly, even the elves had chosen a few well-considered items from Erkenbrand’s well-equipped shelves and looked ready to take on the White Wizard’s challenge. The only member of their fellowship who had not instantly found what he needed was a still disgruntled dwarf, who now wore a makeshift coat of mail the weaponsmaster’s assistants had hastily shortened for him, but which still gave him the feeling that all it took to make the iron rings burst across his chest was a deep breath. Concerned whether the garment allowed him enough freedom of movement, Gímli swung his axe to test the feeling, thus forcing a surprised gasp from Halbarad, who barely evaded the blade at the last moment.

"Careful, Master Dwarf! I would greatly appreciate if you kept your bloodlust restrained until we meet the enemy," the ranger said, a wary eye on the still whirling weapon, and Aragorn also gave his short friend an eloquent gaze. "There will be enough orc-heads to split for you by then."

"But you were in no danger," Gímli objected indignantly, patting the blade like one did with a dear friend. "I know how to handle my weapons. I would never have cut you. What?" He saw Legolas’ haughtily raised eyebrows and glared challengingly at his friend.

Before either the elf or the rangers could offer a reply, Erkenbrand, Éomer and Grimbold stepped out of the armoury, the last ones to exit, and stunned silence could be heard from the Rohirrim captains as they caught sight of their former Third Marshal in their Prince’s armour. Sensing their bafflement, the Lord of Westfold exchanged a quick glance with the young warrior before he lifted his chin and announced in a firm voice: "Before we ride, I want it to be understood that it will be Marshal Éomer who leads us into battle in Prince Théodred’s stead. The Worm’s verdict has been proven to be part of the White Wizard’s conspiracy, and all accusations against Éomer son of Éomund are hereby declared void in my house. I will follow the Marshal into battle without second thought. If one of you objects, then now is the time to speak out!"

All remained silent, and still the men’s gazes were full of wonder as they beheld the vast change in their Commander’s bearing. Éomer stepped forth, and even Aragorn had to take a second look to confirm that the determined and fierce-looking warrior in the shining armour before him was indeed the same man as the anxious, guilt-ridden and doubtful rider he had saved in the mountains seemingly an age ago. The man he was looking at now seemed older, more mature, as if part of the armours’ former owner’s presence had taken possession of Éomer to guide him, and when the Rohír’s dark eyes glided over him, he gave the young man an encouraging smile, showing him how pleased he was with the unexpected transformation. The warrior had become a leader.

The storm had developed over the course of the afternoon, and now the wind ravaged the plains before the mountains like a hungry predator and assaulted the warriors in the camp from all directions at once. And yet it was not the wind that robbed Éomer of his breath as he exited the Lord of Westfold’s halls: it was their own army at which he was looking from the rim of the terrace. Still the view over the vast flatland behind the city walls, filled with hundreds of tents and thousands of warriors and horses was one of the most impressive sights Éomer had ever been granted in his life. In the flickering light of the campfires and torches and the cold blue of lightning bolts on their way to the ground, it looked as if the assembled Riders covered the plains from the Isen all the way to Anorien. Even if it was hardly so, the very sight of their éohere filled Éomer with hope.

“Béma, look at them!” Grimbold’s brought out, in doing so voicing the thoughts of his brothers-in-arms who stared in similar awe at the largest Rohirric army which had ever assembled in their lifetime. An army he would command, Éomer suddenly remembered, and for a moment, the sheer weight of responsibility threatened to crush him. Struggling to force some air back into his lungs, he then took the first step onto the causeway, at the foot of which he saw their horses being held ready for them in full Rohirric battle-armour. True to his nature, Firefoot was restlessly dancing around in an instinctive reaction to the energy around him, and for a moment it looked as if the stallion would succeed in breaking free from Hrothgar’s hold, but quickly the experienced stablehand changed his grip and evaded the following kick to seize control of the situation again. Although his steed’s antics were usually a well of amusement for Éomer, they failed now to bring even the hint of a smile to his serious face.

As he proceeded down the ramp, he looked up into the swirling dark clouds to scan the sky for their enemy’s spies, but it seemed as if darkness and the unfavourable elements had at last chased the birds away. And still Éomer felt deep unease when he thought about them. Through his winged messengers, Saruman knew now beyond doubt that their éohere had gathered, even if their scouts and the Dúnedain had done their best during the day to hunt down his spies in the vicinity of the fastness. Until nightfall had called them back to their master, the Crebain had remained just outside the reach of even the warriors’ strongest bows, mocking them with their unceasing cries while they rode the stormy skies unhindered. So, Saruman knew that they were here, but the question remained whether he truly anticipated that the Rohirrim would dare to attack him on his own grounds. There was no way of telling, but in less than a day, they would know.

None of the warriors spoke as they walked with great strides to their horses, lost in their own grim contemplation. Everyone was alone with himself before battle; Éomer had experienced it many times before when his éored had prepared to engage the enemy. There was nothing to do for anyone to help his comrades with the confrontation of their fears. Everyone had to find his own path to courage in the face of death, and his own reasons for challenging the Grim Reaper. It was the deep breath before the plunge; the last effort of the mind to concern itself with the horrible events awaiting them before it would be replaced by the warrior’s instincts.

Coming to a halt beside his horse, Éomer’s fingers glided in brief greeting over Firefoot’s nose below the face-plate, and immediately the Grey ceased his nervous dance.

“It is now that I need your courage and strength more than ever,” the Rohír whispered into the pricked ears of his steed, and the stallion became very calm, an unmoving grey statue in the flickering twilight as he listened to the familiar voice of his master. “Bear me to victory, my friend.” Éomer knew that the stallion understood instinctively that they were riding into battle, the additional weight of the armour he carried a sure indication of what would follow. All stubbornness fell from him as Firefoot readied himself to become once again his master’s greatest ally. Accepting the reins from the old stablehand, Éomer mounted quickly and turned the stallion toward the gate.

“Return safely and triumphantly, my Lord,” Hrothgar said as he stepped back. “Our good wishes accompany you and those you take with you into the enemy’s land!”

“I thank you, Hrothgar. If it is in our power, we will return.” From the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that the others had mounted as well, and with slight pressure of his thighs urged Firefoot forth into the cordon formed by the women, children and elders who would stay behind. He did not want to imagine their fate if they failed. First in line on their path to the gate, Éomer recognised Grimbold’s family, and the sight of the mingled awe and fear on the boys’ faces tore so heavily at his heart that he averted his gaze. He could afford no weakness now, even if it suddenly felt like only yesterday that he had stood among these people as well to bid the Riders farewell, not knowing that the next time he would see the great Marshal Eomund of Aldburg, his father would be dead.

‘Help me, Théodred,’ Éomer thought as a sudden fit of despair threatened to carry him away, briefly closing his eyes as he sent his prayer to the realm of their forefathers. He knew that his Cousin was listening, sensed the older man’s reassuring presence with every fibre of his body. ‘You counselled me wisely thus far; but now I need you more than ever, Cousin. Give me the strength to lead them and guide me to the right path!”

His gaze fixed on the dark line of mounted riders awaiting them behind the gates, Éomer heard the citizens cry out for their leaders, and yet he dared not to look at them for fear that the sight of the desperate hope and fear on the people’s faces would hinder his concentration. Their Riders had followed his call, and now his task was to turn their fear into fury.

As if to underline his thought, a sudden thunderclap erupted from the angry sky, the rolling echo sounding to Éomer’s ears like a dragon’s roar while it slowly opened its maw to devour them all. Parrying Firefoot’s little jump he proceeded without even sparing the spectacle above his head another look, caught up in his own inner world as he rode through the scenery of an event he had witnessed in his nightmares countless nights before: the combined forces of the Mark riding out to meet the enemy in a last stand. If they failed, the Mark would fall. It could not happen. Exhaling sharply, Éomer suppressed the disquieting thought and spurred Firefoot. If this was indeed the last ride of the Rohirrim, they would go out in a blaze of defiance, unyielding while their hearts still beat and a single drop of blood still flowed through their veins, and if the enemy would still triumph over them, they would at least ask a high price for his victory.

But they were not defeated yet. They had to defeat the wizard, so that they could ride and save Éowyn. It was the one thought to hold on to now.

A hard glint suddenly burned in Éomer’s eyes, and his gloved fingers clenched around the reins. What business did he have to think of their defeat? It was time for the fulfilment of their vows, yes, and the time for their revenge. At last, he would be granted the opportunity to avenge the man whose armour he wore and who had been his brother in all but blood! A man he would never again meet under the sun, not in this lifetime. And he would avenge Éowyn and make the enemy pay dearly for the torment inflicted upon his innocent sister… and although much orc-blood had already been spilled by his hands in the years since he had joined the Armed Forces, Éomer was determined to ask more of it in payment of his parents’ death as well. The enemy’s debt had not been settled yet. Éomer’s gaze swept the line of Riders awaiting him, and he understood that every single one of them had someone dear to avenge. At long last, he would give them the long-awaited opportunity.

As they approached, gasps and shouts emitted from the men upon spotting his cousin’s armour and the distinctive helmet with the black horsetail.

As soon as he deemed himself well within earshot, Éomer reined in Firefoot and signalled the captains behind him to stop as he halted the stallion and removed his helmet, indifferent to the storm’s strength as it whipped his face with the strands of his hair which was of a much brighter shade than his cousin’s. Quickly the Riders realised their mistake, and their cries shifted into equally enthusiastic shouts for their Third Marshal, whose survival seemed no lesser miracle to them.

The sight of their waiting army woke him from his dream-like trance, and a powerful surge of energy suddenly flooded his veins. Earlier in the afternoon, the éoreds had been instructed to remain quiet and not give their commanders their usual greeting with the blowing of their horns lest the enemy heard them, but in the hours since then, the warriors had thought of a different kind of salute: when Éomer inhaled to raise his voice to them, the campfires suddenly reflected on thousands of swords stabbed against the blackness of the sky with a powerful rush of air.

“My brothers,” their commander began at last, moved by the gesture and still uncertain of what to say. The words came to him from out of nowhere before he could even think them up; they flowed through him and used him as a vessel to reach their warriors, and Éomer could not help but wonder when he heard his own, firm voice speak out. How often had he listened to Théodred’s rallying speeches, awed by his cousin’s ability to wake the fighting spirits of their soldiers and strengthen their courage until it prevailed even under the threat of overwhelming odds. Could he do the same? These men he was looking at had loved Théodred dearly; did they love his cousin as much? Or at least so much that they would follow him into hostile territory? While Éomer paused until the last soldier had settled down to listen, it got so quiet that even the lowly whickering of a horse in the last rows could be heard. For a moment, even the wind stopped.

“When you left your homes days ago to follow the summons of a man who was expelled and named a traitor to the Mark, a man accused of having condoned that his own blood-kin be killed so that he could seize the throne of Rohan for himself, you entered a perilous path. These are evil times in which our land is beset by enemies both from outside and within, and a single word into the wrong ear can easily cost one’s head, let alone disobeying our King’s verdict.” Éomer paused, and his gaze travelled over the rows of eagerly listening men while he felt the first raindrops on his face.

“Our King’s word is Law; it is as much a foundation of the Mark as the hill upon which Meduseld stands, and it was never questioned throughout our history. And yet the situation we are faced with these days differs vastly from everything we ever experienced, because this time, the enemy sits in our very home! To some of you it may be known, to some it may be not, but for many years now, Théoden-King’s mind has been poisoned by the White Wizard’s minion, the traitor who calls himself his counsellor! With the aid of his potions and his master’s evil spells, Gríma son of Gálmód, ‘Wormtongue’ as he is justly called by all who see through his façade of righteousness, enslaved our King’s mind. He turned our ruler into a weapon against his own people to weaken the Mark until none will be left to oppose his master’s army once it crosses the Isen. It was Wormtongue who planned Prince Théodred’s assassination, and he weaved his net with great cunning to dispose of me at the same time by blaming me for my cousin’s death. Using our King to do his bidding, the Worm then saw to it that I was banished and sent out into the storm alone and without weapons, hunted by his henchmen and Saruman’s orcs… and in case that they failed, Wormtongue counted on the authority of Théoden’s verdict, expecting you to execute me if you found me alive.”

His words evoked angry murmurs from the riders, but Éomer silenced them with a gesture and turned Firefoot around to face the other way to include all men in his address. Behind him, the other captains had formed a line and waited patiently, and a quick glimpse confirmed to the Rohirric Marshal that the older warriors seemed to be satisfied with his beginning. He shifted his attention back to their army.

“Aye, I hear you, Sons of Eorl, and I understand that you are angry that someone should think this of you! So would I be if someone questioned my loyalty – and my wit. Perhaps it is not helpful when I tell you that even I was no longer sure of what to expect after having heard my death-sentence spoken by my own kin. I hoped that you would not heed the Worm’s words, but I had no way to be certain, so I evaded your settlements while I tried to decide on a course of action.” His gaze found Thor among the riders, and a distant smile passed over Éomer’s face at the sight of the scout’s serious expression. Specifically addressing the half-blood, Éomer continued: “I should have known better! I never seriously questioned your loyalty, but to see you here now before me in such overwhelming numbers...” He shook his head. “It means more to me than I could ever express. Your trust is the most extra-ordinary gift I ever received, and the Gods shall bear witness when I swear to you now by the blood of Eorl that I will do everything in my power to lead our forces to victory and free the Mark of its oppressors! Will you help me, I ask you?”

Again the swords were raised into the sky in affirmation, and more than a few cries were uttered as the men, following tradition, began to shout their allegiance as they were overcome by their emotions. But once again Éomer signalled them to remain quiet. His gaze wandering from one end of the line to the other, his confidence and the pride in his voice grew with each sentence now that he found nothing but determination and affirmation in his riders’ faces.

“The enemy’s army may be greater in number than ours, many times greater perhaps, but the Wizard’s soldiers have no goal! Orcs have neither friends nor families to defend or to avenge; they don’t have a home to protect, or wives and children to return to! They are mindless beasts bred for murder, and only fear of their master and the blood thirst of a wild beast makes them move, but until now, they were never faced with determination of the kind they will encounter now! We have reason to fight, and our will and purpose makes us ten times as strong as the strongest army the White Wizard could summon against us! No matter what awaits us beyond the Isen, we will send them right back to the black abyss whence they came!”

The words left the soldiers’ mouths in unison. Still heeding their orders to remain quiet, the vow emitted from the army in a single deep, low voice that sent a shiver down Éomer’s spine. Like a ripple in the water the vow spread through the crowd until the very air vibrated with its power. His heart pounding against his ribs as Éomer turned his head, he caught a glimpse of Aragorn behind him and – on the spur of the moment - signalled him forth before he turned back to his men. The rain intensified now, and the thunder rolled without interruption over the skies and from the mountains, but he didn’t even notice.

“Hearing your vow and seeing you before me with expressions eager to teach the enemy a lesson generations after us will praise in song, I am sure you don’t need further encouragement from me. However, there is one more thing I will tell you before we ride, for it was a great source of joy to me when I learnt of it.” Inhaling deeply, Éomer slanted the ranger at his side another glance, and a proud sparkle stood in his eyes as he announced: “Those of you who arrived earlier may have heard of it already, and yet perhaps it makes a difference to hear the rumour that passed through your rows confirmed: a mighty warrior has returned to aid us in our quest! I know that I am not speaking for myself by saying that this is one of the men whose legendary deeds inspired most of us to follow in his footsteps.” He gave Aragorn a curt, approving nod. “Thorongil, the ‘Eagle of the Star’ has returned to Rohan! He is wielding the ‘Sword that was Broken’, and he brought his brethren and his friends with him to fight side by side with the Sons of Eorl.”

For a moment, the Rohirrim regarded Aragorn in stunned silence before excited whispers began to pass through their rows, and Éomer urged Firefoot another step forth, lifting his chin as he came to the end of his speech at last.

“All of us heard of the prophecy, and I am asking you now: who do you think has the power to defy it? The Master of Isengard? I look at this man before me, and I do not believe it that a cheap conjurer will thwart destiny! We will ride together, and together we will crush Saruman’s army beneath our horses’ hooves, and when that is done and all his evil minions are slaughtered, we will tear down his tower stone by stone until he has nowhere left to hide… and then the traitor will pay for every single evil deed he ever committed against the people of the Mark. This I promise you now! Will you ride with me, Brothers, and rid our land of the plague that has befallen it, then raise your swords with me!” And Théodred’s blade glistened in the fire of the torches as he stabbed it into the sky… and with a rush of air, thousands more followed him in a powerful answer.

A deep restlessness had taken possession of Gríma. Too anxious to sleep, he stood by the window of his bedchamber and stared at the darkness beyond with unseeing eyes. Something was wrong; he felt it with every fibre of his body. Something had shifted, and from his initial victory, things were somehow taking a turn for the worse, although he could not offer a rational explanation for his feeling. The slow deterioration of his hold over Meduseld was not yet obvious, but his well honed intuition told the son of Gálmód that his Dunlending brethren were not taking the enforced inactivity during the barricade well. With each passing day their aggression had increased, until it had led to a first casualty earlier this past afternoon when a heated quarrel had erupted over nothing more than a piece of meat.

His lips a thin line as he stared at the stark silhouette of the Ered Nimrais, Gríma slowly shook his head. It was only a question of time until other incidents would occur, perhaps even more serious in nature. The wild hillfolk was not used to sitting in a place for days, their hands on their laps while there was nothing to do for them but wait. No, it could no longer be denied that his power over them was waning and that the situation slowly veered into unstable territory. It was high time that Saruman’s army arrived and freed them. Which was the other reason for Gríma Wormtongue’s wakefulness in the middle of the night.

For a moment the Counsellor woke from his brooding, and his pale eyes narrowed in another fruitless attempt to discover his master’s forces on the plains below. Where were they, and what could possibly have delayed them? Saruman had to know how precarious his situation was after seizing control of the Golden Hall in the heart of the enemy’s realm. He had to know that the state of shock they had inflicted upon the Rohirrim by their bold move would not last, and that it was likely that the peasant’s would eventually develop a plan to strike back the more time they were granted. Although their simple-mindedness was easily out-manoeuvred by finer strategy, the horselords’ legendary stubbornness usually tended to overcome all obstacles in the end. It was a phenomenon Wormtongue had witnessed many times during his service for their King, but not one he was keen on experiencing himself. He had done his part; now it was on Saruman to seize what he had prepared.

With a deep sigh, Wormtongue turned for another look at the reward for his betrayal, but the sight of Éowyn’s prone shape did nothing to cure him of his sinister mood. Who among their cruel gods had thought it a good jest to grant him the thing he craved more than even the air to breathe, but only after rendering it utterly useless? With all her protectors effectively eliminated, Éowyn was his’ now … and yet the only thing he would ever have of her was her beautiful, but empty shell.

Wormtongue clenched his teeth in frustration, but quickly gave up as the pain of his mutilated lip became too great. What had he done to deserve this? Life was not just. For years he had served his master truthfully and with unyielding loyalty, risking his very life, and this should be his reward? What use was Éowyn to him now that there would be no pleasure to be had from their love-making? Taking her lifeless body would be like ravaging a corpse.

Shuddering at the thought, Wormtongue turned back to the window to let his gaze travel over the sleeping city. A strange atmosphere of anticipation and secrecy lay over Edoras. For the past days, the constant din of hammering had risen from the lower levels to them, and the streets had been busy with people transporting heavily laden carts in all parts of the city. For a while, Gríma had followed their efforts and quickly established that the sacks containing food were brought to the upper levels, where they would be at least temporarily out of the enemy’s reach, while instruments and large wooden planks were carried down toward the fence that protected the city. The meaning of his observation was clear: Edoras readied itself for an attack.

So young Captain Éothain had indeed understood his hint. Gríma had thought the son of Céorl as too ingenuous to make sense of his casual remark, and his discovery had not troubled the son of Gálmód at first. But when his Dunlending guards had reported the sighting of a great group of riders leaving the city and heading west this afternoon without returning, an alert had sounded in the back of the Wormtongue’s mind. It did not fit Éothain’s preparations to send his men away under the threat of an attack, and it troubled him more than he was willing to admit. What did it mean? That the Rohirrim had somehow gotten wind of Saruman’s plans? Or that battle was already raging in the Westfold, and those riders had been sent as a last reinforcement before their army was defeated? And why had none of his spies of the nearby settlements reported to him even though he had equipped them with his master’s cloaks? Even if the Rohirrim were more watchful now, under cover of Saruman’s special garments they could have approached the tunnel in broad daylight to bring him their news, but the truth was that days had passed since he had last heard from the world outside the Golden Hall.

No, something was off. And yet he would have to wait and see what the new situation was before he could adjust his plans accordingly. Gríma’s expression darkened even further. Sitting around idly twiddling his thumbs was a situation he was not used to. Which army would it be he would soon discover on the western horizon? His master’s… or the enemy’s? If it were the latter, his path was clear: he would kill Éowyn and the King himself before he fled, and send his men to kill the other hostages in the dungeon. He would leave the Rohirrim nothing to salvage of their most noble house.

The hammering at the door sounded as if someone was trying to knock it down as Éothain hastened toward it. Outside stood an excited Giselhere and stared up to him with wide eyes. Irritated to see the young lad still on the street at this late hour, Éothain wrinkled his brow.

“But Captain, Yálanda sent me! She said it was urgent, and I should tell you to see her at once!”

“Yálanda sent you?” The lad’s family were the healer’s neighbours, and so it made sense that the old woman had asked the boy for the errand. “Wait, I’m coming with you.” Turning around to fetch his cloak, Éothain looked at his mother. “Yálanda wants to see me, Mother I will be back shortly; I promise.” He stormed out into the night, now as excited as the lad and barely even noticing the heavy rain. “Did she say what this is about? Did she find a poison?”

“I do not know, Captain, but she told me to fetch you at once, so it must be important.” Hope brightening his expression, Giselhere regarded the warrior. “But if she did… does that mean that we can free the King and the White Lady tonight?”

“It might so, Giselhere; if all goes well, it might be so. But let us first hear what Yálanda has to say before we make our plans.” Éothain inhaled and suddenly turned toward the boy as he remembered something. “I promise to let you listen, too, but first you must get Aedwulf for me. Do you know where he lives?”

The lad’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect of being allowed to attend a secret meeting.

“Very well. Then tell him to come and meet me at the healer’s house. Quickly!”

“We will be there even before you!” And with these words, the youth took off like a colt released from the stable after a long winter. With a heavy sigh, Éothain turned back to the steep path that would lead him to the healer’s house. The days when he had last felt excitement over something like a conspiracy or enthusiasm at the prospect of battle had long passed and been replaced by dread. In a few years, Giselhere would be old enough to join the Rohirrim himself, and he, too, would quickly discover that bloodshed was nothing to look forward to. From him, too, the innocence of youth would be ripped away by the brutal hands of reality.

On his way up, most windows Éothain passed were already dark, and as his gaze travelled up further to the looming shadow of the King’s Hall, a shiver raced down his spine. It was a strange sensation he felt, a prickling feeling underneath the skin of his head, and Éothain knew it well enough to understand that he was being watched. Straining to make out the pale face he expected to see behind the hall’s windows, the young captain narrowed his eyes. So what if Gríma saw him? There was nothing he could do. And why should he be alarmed if someone visited the old healer, even late in the evening? ‘Because he is cunning!’ an unwelcome voice whispered in the back of Éothain’s mind. ‘He will know that you are planning something, the way he always knows. You cannot fool someone who is a master in the art of lying himself!’

His expression darkening at the thought, Éothain moved on. If Gríma truly anticipated that his enemies would attack him through the secret tunnel, all their effort would be vain.

Not much later after Giselhere had returned with Aedwulf, the warriors sat together in the healer’s living room and looked expectantly at the old woman.

“I did. It may be a different solution than you anticipated, but it is the only way I could think of achieving what you needed,” Yálanda said wearily, the grief of the last days deeply engraved on her lined, weary face. Éothain regretted having caused the mourning woman even more distress with his urgent request, but what choice did they have? “Most poisons I know of are made of plants I do not have at my disposal at the end of winter, and even if I had, I could not guarantee that a dog could not smell them. But no animal will be able to smell glass.”

“Glass?” Éothain creased his brow and exchanged a quick glance with Aedwulf.

“I ground it into fine shards. They are fine enough to be hidden in the rat you brought me, but they are still sharp enough to inflict fatal damage. You told me that it was a big dog. That is well, for if it is hungry, it will probably swallow the rat in one piece, and it will be in its stomach before it feels that something is wrong. Then the shards will cut up its innards, and it will bleed to death internally.” Giselhere, who sat by Éothain’s side, looked slightly sickened by the healer’s explanation, and so the old woman lifted a brow and slanted the young Captain a disapproving glance. “It was not my decision that you should have to hear that, my boy.”

“Can you guarantee that the dog will die from this?” Éothain asked, ignoring her reproof.

“If the dog eats it, it will… but it may take some time.” Piercing blue eyes met him unflinchingly. “It will be a horrible death, Captain. If that is what you wanted, you can take the prepared rat with you right now.”

“I have no grudge against the dog, Mistress Healer, but it stands in our way, and if it is the only possibility to dispose of it, I will seize it.” Éothain turned to Aedwulf. “I can only hope that its Dunlending masters will not get wary once the glass does its work. We must plant the bait in such a manner that it will not raise suspicion… Since I have already been in the tunnel, I will do it myself. And if the plan needs time to work, we better move right away. Come!” Seeing Giselhere’s urgent gaze from the corner of his eye, Éothain shook his head as he turned to the lad. “You not, Giselhere. You will go home now. There is nothing left to do for you.”

“There is no “but”. Go home, or I will never again let you attend a meeting. I kept my promise. Now you must keep yours.” Slanting the lad a stern gaze, Éothain accepted the little box from the healer’s hands and opened it to look at the dead animal inside. It seemed ridiculous that all their hopes stood and fell with it. “Thank you, Yálanda. I hope that it works.”

“Be careful, my boy. I could not bear it if you, too, were taken from us after Élric and Éomer.”

“I will be. After all, this might be our only chance, and we will make it count. Yet it would certainly not be wrong to hold yourself ready for tomorrow. If we succeed in freeing the hostages, it is likely that they will need immediate help.”

“I will be prepared. Now go, and take our good wishes with you. The people of Edoras are counting on you to free us from our oppressor, Son of Céorl. See to it that Élric’s death will be avenged.”

Pouring rain had accompanied the advancing Rohirrim since the beginning of their ride, but although it was cold and the riders felt miserable in the wet conditions, the soldiers considered the raging elements sooner a blessing than a curse, because it concealed their approach. As he straightened in the saddle to listen for the murmur of the Isen’s fast rushing waters, Éomer cast a quick glance at the thickly clouded sky. The thunderstorm which had announced itself since morning was now upon them and ravaging the plains with hard, horizontal rain and violent gusts. The echoes of the angered sky’s growling were cast back and forth between the Misty Mountains before and the White Mountains behind them and drowned out all other noise including the sounds made by the mighty river he was trying to hear.… but also swallowing the thunder of the thousands of iron-shod hooves on the hard, still frozen ground as they slowly approached the border, until nothing remained than a dull vibration hardly audible over the raging tempest’s voice.

‘This is our storm,’ Éomer thought as he squinted into the darkness before him, his eyes only slits to protect himself against the driving rain. It was helpful to their cause, and still he could not help feeling disoriented and unable to tell how far they had already advanced and when they would reach their resting place. Neither moon nor stars were visible through the thick layer of clouds, and with the Isen’s own noise covered by the continuous rain, it was down to Éomer’s sense of time to estimate their progress. Barely able to see except for the short moments when lightning illuminated the night, all riders had entrusted themselves to their steeds’ superior senses to find the way, and the war-horses, used to such measures, understood what was expected of them and moved ahead in a single dark mass. Hardly anyone talked.

“It was a good speech,” Aragorn, who rode next to Éomer, broke the silence and nodded his chin in the direction of their army. “They are yours for whatever you will command them to do.”

“I can only hope that I am not sending them all to their death.” He sighed and stared at the steady up and down of his steed’s head rather than meeting the older man’s eyes. “This is different than commanding an éored.”

“I would imagine so,” the Dúnadan agreed. “And yet it is the fate of all leaders to bear that responsibility. It is a heavy burden, but you cannot think of that now. Battle would find them sooner or later, even if you didn’t ride, and now they are at least prepared to meet the enemy. They will have have a better chance at defeating him, but the outcome will be decided as much by fate as by chance and determination. Only part of their destiny lies in your hands. There are some things in life one simply does not have the power to influence.”

“Does this include you then, too, even if you have prophecy on your side?” Éomer asked with a sceptical glance at the ranger. Averting his gaze, Aragorn stared ahead although there was nothing to see in the darkness.

“The prophecy is no guarantee for our survival… at least I do not take it to be that. Each of us must do their best, or it might be proven wrong after all.”

“Has there ever been such a thing as a failed prophecy? One that you heard of?” the Rohír inquired, genuinely interested, but Aragorn regarded him warily as he contemplated possible answers to the younger man’s question.

“I haven’t heard of many prophecies to begin with,” he said at last. “But I do not want to find out if such a thing can happen, for if it does, it will mean the end of mankind… and of all other races, as long as they do not serve the Dark Lord.”

“And yet the outcome of our battle will only be a side note, you say.” A bitter laugh escaped the Rohír before he continued with a deep breath: “It is hard to accept that everything we might achieve could be proven vain if that Halfling you spoke of fails. If his’ is the main battle, then why did not you go to see it done? For surely there can hardly be a person more suited for such a precarious task than the great Thorongil?”

“It was not my calling.” Aragorn shook his head. “The Dark Lord has learned of my existence, for the prophecy has come to his ears as well. He is looking for me, and expecting me to oppose him. Someone outside the focus of the Great Eye may have a better chance at succeeding than I would have had. No, my task is a different one, even if I wondered about that myself. Life does not always follow the straight road, and neither do prophecies.”

“I suppose so, or my cousin would be leading this army.” Éomer fell silent, and for a while, the two warriors rode side by side without another word, caught up in their thoughts. Lulled into a stupor by Firefoot regular movements, Éomer was almost thrown against the stallion’s neck when without warning, the grey rammed his hooves into the ground. From one heartbeat to the next, the massive body became rigid underneath his rider as the horse sensed movement in the bushes before them, and only the stallion’s thorough training ensured that he remained silent under the threat of a possible attack. A hand soothingly on his steed’s neck, Éomer straightened in the saddle to find out what troubled his animal companion.

“What is it, Firefoot?” he whispered as he stared beyond the stallion’s pricked ears into the darkness before them. To his right, Roheryn seemed less concerned and even raised his head in joyful recognition as Aragorn halted him.

“It is the Dúnedain,” Legolas said even before the others had a chance to hear the rustle and the sound of light steps as a tall shape emerged from the bushes.

“Halbarad?” Aragorn narrowed his eyes and then relaxed as he recognised his kinsman, who had ridden ahead of the army with his company to ensure that their path would be free. “Are all of your company well?”

“Certainly.” Halbarad’s gaze briefly measured the advancing wall of riders before he shifted his attention back to his brother-in-arms. “We cleared the river bank for you, Marshal... both banks.” He looked at Éomer.

“Several. We made short shrift of them.” His hand still on the heft of his sheathed sword, Halbarad looked back to where the elven brothers were just emerging from the shrubbery. One of them, Éomer could not tell which one, was still cleaning his sword.

“Very well. Then I assume that the river’s edge is a safe resting place for us?”

Halbarad nodded, but Éomer could not shake the feeling that the ranger looked tense.

“Yes, at least for a few hours. We must stay alert though; one can almost feel the enemy’s breath in this place.” And again he looked back over his shoulder, clearly uncomfortable.

“Something troubles you,” Aragorn stated the obvious and dismounted, thus giving the sign to their well-instructed army that the first part of their journey was over, and the men began to distribute in search for a resting place as they followed his example. Leading Firefoot at the reins, Éomer followed the Dúnadan as he approached his brethren, and from the sides, he also saw Erkenbrand and Grimbold approach.

“I forgot to mention this earlier,” Halbarad admitted as he regarded them. “- but there is something peculiar at work here. I suppose it will be better if you see it with your own eyes to understand what I mean. I do not think that it is normal, but then perhaps I am mistaken.” He gestured for the captains to follow him as he led them through the bushes.

“Where are we going?” Erkenbrand asked from behind, and upon his question, it suddenly dawned on Éomer what Halbarad meant. Something was missing; something substantial to this place. It was too quiet.

“To the water’s edge,” the ranger said, carefully choosing his path through the thick undergrowth. “Or rather what is left of it. I haven’t been here for a long time, so you must tell me whether my worries are founded or not. I found this strange, for the way I remember the Isen, it was always a mighty river.” And with these words, he stepped out onto the river bank, and the leaders in his wake understood at once.

“What devilry is this?” Grimbold cursed as he stared at the thin rivulets searching their path through sand and rocks; the bed of what had been a broad, fast-flowing river not long ago. A thin veil of mist lay over the scenery, but it was too thin to conceal the extent of what had happened here. “Where has the water gone?”

“I gather then that it was not so when you fought your last battle here. But that was barely a fortnight ago.” Dismayed by their discovery, Éomer stared in disbelief at the dry remains of the Isen, and his brow creased as he followed the river’s former path to the invisible shapes of the Misty Mountains. Somewhere over there in the darkness lay Isengard, and a cold shiver raced down his spine at the mental image of Saruman sitting like a great spider in his web and waiting for them to come to him.

“When last we fought here, the Isen’s voice was loud and one could not hope to cross it except at its fords, and even then it was a dangerous undertaking.” Erkenbrand shook his head. “No, it must have happened within the last days; and it is clear to me that our foe did this to prepare the path for his army.”

“Aye.” Grimbold ground his teeth. “So that they can cross the river in greater strength. We cannot hope to hold the shore against thousands of Uruks crossing at the same time.” He stared down the river bed. “But how could Saruman block a river as mighty as the Isen? His magic must be strong indeed if he can do such a thing.” Renewed doubt surfaced on the warrior’s face.

“There are other means to block a river besides magic,” Aragorn stepped forth. “It says nothing about Saruman’s power.”

“Have you crossed the Isen lately?” Grimbold raised his chin, challenging the ranger. “It was a wild river, not easily tamed. I doubt that it could be …obliterated… like this solely by throwing rocks in its path.”

“The crebain told him of our coming,” Éomer said slowly, his gaze still unfocussed as he remembered the endless circling birds above their heads. “Through them, Saruman learned about the gathering of our éohere, and apparently he made his own preparations to meet us. And yet there is nothing we can do about it. Riding back is not an option. If we don’t attack tonight, he will attack us, and I doubt that we would be ready for his assault. It is no or never, and we will have to brave whatever obstacles he throws in our way.” At last he turned around to face the others, and looked into uncomfortable expressions. “The battle has already begun.”

“Which makes it even more important to rest while we still can,” Aragorn stressed, and he saw agreement in the other captains’ eyes. “The men not detailed for first watch should try to sleep now.”

“I doubt that any of them will be able to find rest, but aye…” Erkenbrand nodded and turned to go, his gaze summoning the other leaders to follow him when something came to his mind. “There are neither stars nor moon visible tonight. How will we know when to proceed?”

“We will know,” Elrohir assured him with a glance at his brother. “We can still see their light, and we will let you know when it is time to travel on. Until then, we will roam the other shore until we can be certain that we did not overlook any of the enemy’s spies.” It was obvious that the elf hoped to find others.

Accepting Elrohir’s guarantee with a silent nod, Erkenbrand laid a hand upon Grimbold’s shoulder in an unspoken question to accompany him back to their men. This time though, it was Éomer who called them back.

“Grimbold?” The young Marshal’s glance already told the Lord of Grimslade what would be asked of him, and in silent understanding with Erkenbrand to join him later, Grimbold stepped forth.

The older warrior cast down his eyes to spare Éomer the realisation that his pain had been noticed.

They only walked a short distance until Éomer could see the mounds of stone on the river’s edge where they were nestled underneath the sheltering trees and overlooking the Fords. His throat tightened dangerously, and he was glad that Grimbold expected no answer of him when he pointed out the one they had come for.

“Théodred said that even in death, he wanted to defend the fords, so we buried him underneath that tree.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Éomer nod and felt what it was the younger man needed. “He is sleeping there alone. Unfortunately, we could not grant this service to everybody, but if I hope that they will not mind being united in death.” His voice barely more than a whisper, the Lord of Grimslade added: “I will leave you alone with him now, but I will not be far. Promise me to call when you hear even the slightest noise.”

“I promise. Thank you, Grimbold.” As if drawn by a powerful force, Éomer slowly walked over to the mound on legs that did not seem to follow his conscious will. A tight band pressed his ribs together and made breathing difficult as he approached his cousin’s grave. This was different than in his dreams, even than in the one where he had been alone with Théodred and the remains of his éored were not strewn over the river bank and colouring the Isen red with their blood. This was reality: it was confirmed by the cold rain running down his face and by the mist of his breath lazily rising from his lips; it was proved by the hard, uneven ground and the grinding noise of the rocks beneath his feet. There were no surreal clarity and no majestic feeling of purpose soothing his pain now; this was the cold, hard truth, and the truth was that beneath these piled rocks before him lay the remains of a warrior killed in battle. It looked in no way different than the other mounds Éomer could see in the weak light of the clearing, but he felt the difference. Beneath these stones lay the person he had loved more than anyone in the world, except perhaps for Éowyn.

Only now as he stood before Théodred’s grave, his hands helplessly clenched into fists at his sides as a storm of emotion threatened to sweep him away, did Éomer at last understand the full extent of his loss. With shaking knees, he silently sat down in front of the mount to hold the death-watch for the man who more than anyyone else had turned him into a warrior.

Dawn was still far when the Rohirrim took to the road again, and although hardly any man had been able to find rest under the looming shadow of battle, all were alert and once again ready to challenge destiny. The atmosphere, albeit tense, was one of cautious optimism as the Riders approached Nan Curunír, the Wizard’s Vale. Fathers and sons, friends and comrades, all stood united in their bold charge against the enemy, blood-brothers to the end, and whose hope threatened to fail along the way was soon encouraged by those riding next to them. The subdued sound of thousands of hoofs on the marshy ground was low but rich enough to indicate the army’s true strength as they journeyed through the enemy’s realm.

Apart from them, nothing seemed to move. While the northern river shore was no barren land, it appeared as if it had been long deserted by creatures not in the Necromancer’s service. Devoid of life, the leagues stretched beneath them while the night seemed to hold its breath.

All senses strained for the slightest sign of the enemy, Éomer allowed his thoughts to wander back to the hour he had spent beside his cousin’s grave before he had walked through their rows to encourage the men. Knowing that he would not find rest during the brief break, he had used the time instead to revisit some of his most cherished memories involving Théodred and let them pass before his inner eye. With a warm feeling around his heart, he remembered how their cousin had comforted Éowyn and him after their father’s burial, and then again after their mother’s death. When Théoden had taken them with him to Meduseld, it had again been Théodred who had taken the uprooted children under his wing and helped his cousins to overcome their sorrow and disorientation in their new home.

Patiently he had listened to Éomer’s desperate vows of revenge and counselled him toward the right path to their fulfillment; with skill and patience he had taught him to master sword, spear and bow and – yet more importantly – his rash temper until Éomer had been ready to join the Armed Forces. And when they had fought together at last, no enemy had ever withstood them. They had completed each other on the battlefield: Théodred being the one with greater experience and strategic skills, against which Éomer had set his boldness and - once he had fully grown - his greater skill with the blade. Together, they had even withstood the foul influence from Meduseld no matter how hard the Worm had tried to drive a spike between them, and they had been the source of renewed hope all across the Mark. Their bond had been impossibly strong.

And now Théodred was dead, and Éomer felt as if a part of him had been hacked off. The realisation that he would never see his cousin again under the sun still hurt, and yet the hour of solitude at the Isen’s shores had helped Éomer to accept his loss and find closure. Théodred had died the way a true warrior could only wish for: in defence of his home and with his honour intact. Éomer felt that with time, he would be able to make his peace with that thought.

With a deep sigh, he woke from his musings. Nothing had changed. He was still riding at the head of the host, flanked by Aragorn to his right and Erkenbrand, Grimbold and Findarras to his left. Before them rode one of the elven brothers, and beyond him, the world still lay hidden underneath the same impenetrable mist that had obstructed their sight from the beginning of their journey through the enemy’s realm.

Once again Éomer shifted in the saddle to see the long snake of their forces move along the dry river bed. Although the moonless night and the fog’s eerie light hid half of their éohere from his view, the sight of their riders painted the amazed smile of a man who could barely believe his eyes upon the Marshal’s face.

“Aye, they are still there,” Aragorn whispered to his right, successfully reading the younger man’s thoughts. “They are real, and they are eager to fight under your command. Do not tell me that you are still in doubt.”

“About them? No.” Éomer shook his head. “About the enemy? Yes. Such thick mist is most unusual for this time of year, and it seems to me as if it thickens with each league we advance. Saruman is either trying to lead us astray, or he is planning to use its cover for an ambush. His orcs do not depend on eyesight, and while they may not be the best strategists, they are cunning enough to hide in such a way that the wind will not betray them to our horses while they wait for us. It worries me.”

“The elves will see them,” the Dúnadan calmed him, his gaze upon Elladan who preceded their host. As the only ones capable of seeing through the fog, the sons of Elrond together with Legolas had spread out in a line along their army to keep their surroundings under steady surveillance. Thor, who likewise knew the territory well from his former life among the Dunlendings, also came and went in his scouting errands as they penetrated deeper and deeper into hostile territory. So far, no signs of the enemy’s army had been found. “If we encounter so much as a single orc along the way, it will be dead the moment it raises its ugly head.”

“I hope so,” Éomer nodded and followed Aragorn’s gaze. “Do not misunderstand me, Aragorn; I do not doubt your friends. I saw how they slaughtered an orc spy at the fords while I was sitting at my cousin’s grave.” He narrowed his eyes as the memory of the scene came back. “It was impressive how well they worked together. With signs and glances only they chased the orc out of hiding, and when it broke cover and ran across the river bank in my direction, it was felled by their arrows before it could even reach the water... and when they found it still alive when they halted beside it, one of them stuck his sword into its stomach and watched as it slowly died.” The Rohír’s eyebrows twitched as he regarded the back of the being he was talking about. “I must say that I did not expect such behaviour from an elf. Aren’t they supposed to be… more noble than man?”

“And this question comes from a man who skewers his enemies’ heads and leaves them as a signpost beside a burning pile of carcasses?”

“Oh, he.” Shifting his attention back at the ranger, Éomer shrugged. “He insulted me. He was their chieftain and foulmouthed us all night during our siege.” He snorted. “In battle there are of course more pressing things to think of than personal matters, but when time permits and opportunity arises, I will remember when someone called my parents filth and me a cowardly simpleton. He only got what he deserved. I actually thought that his head made an exceptionally impressive signpost. Any orcs who come across it will think twice before they dare to proceed.”

“It was certainly a warning not easily dismissed,” Aragorn agreed, smirking as he remembered the morning when they had searched for signs of Merry and Pippin among the still smoking remains of the band of orcs. Things had looked dark then, but now that he knew that the two Hobbits were protected by a most powerful being, his heart was light enough to feel amusement over the young rider’s act of vengeance. At last, his attention focused once again on Elrohir. “I can assure you that my elven brothers have their own, very valid reason for hating all orc-kind, and they will stop at nothing to make them pay their debt in blood... as you see, the promise of bloodshed even brought them all the way to the Mark.”

“And I am of course most grateful for their aid... and for that of the great Thorongil. I cannot express what your presence means to my men. Did you see their faces?” A smile lay on Éomer’s lips, and yet his eyes bespoke the earnestness of his statement. Aragorn inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“I am equally honoured to ride with them. If anything can be achieved through our participation, it will be everybody’s gain and not just the Rohirrims’. This is no longer a question of separate countries; this is a question of good against evil; of men against orc. All on one side must stand united.”

“I agree. But that has always been the way of the Eorlingas, ever since Eorl’s great and blessed ride. It is Gondor who has forgotten about the oath; not Rohan. They do not see that the Mark’s plight will soon become their own predicament if they don’t help us.” He inhaled and lifted his chin. “You have given us hope, Aragorn; once again, and in a battle of wills, it is a weapon not to be underestimated. If Gondor’s future king rides with our éohere, it will be an unmistakable sign to both the enemy and to your own kinsmen. If we win this battle, Gondor and Rohan will once again stand united; and no enemy ever overcame us when that was the case… My men will fight differently now believing that they do have a chance.”

“Do not underestimate your own importance, Éomer. Your survival is as much a source of their hope as my presence might be, even a greater one perhaps. The enemy already sought to kill you, but he failed. It was another victory for the Mark, as important as any won skirmish.”

Nodding, Éomer once again shifted in his saddle, and his gaze glided over the swirling grey to the riders behind them. A vague feeling of unease settled in the pit of his stomach at the discovery that each time he looked, he could see less of them. What if the fog became so thick that they could no longer see each other? Just like he had anticipated, Saruman seemed to have his hands full of tricks, and this was only the first one. What other obstacles would the White Wizard throw into their path?

With the growing duration of their ride, conversation died between the warriors as most soldiers’ thoughts focused on the battle awaiting them. What would happen once they reached the Wizard’s Vale? Would they even be allowed to enter it, or would they be intercepted by the enemy at a strategic point under the cover of their master’s fog?

The first faint hint of dawn was visible upon the eastern horizon as Éothain emerged from the tunnel. Aedwulf and the others regarded their commander with undeniable relief.

“There was a lot of movement,” Éothain explained while he carefully covered the hole with the blanket again. “I had to hide several times and wait until they were gone until I could proceed and plant the bait near the intersection. Now the dog must only find it. I hope it is hungry. If the plan fails... we must attack them regardless. We cannot wait much longer, or the hostages might be dead before we can even attempt to free them.” A critical glance at his work left him satisfied. “Come, let us go. Like Yálanda said, this will need a while to take effect.”

“If we have to attack them while that dog is still alive and able to alarm the, we must be very quick,” Aedwulf pondered as the warriors slowly made their way back to the sleeping city.

“Yes. We will need to be lightning quick no matter what. Of course it will make things easier if we can attack them from two sides, but if not, then we must find a way to dispose of them regardless.” Éothain lifted his eyes to stare past the city walls to the western horizon. “I only wish I knew what is going on in the Westfold. Whether they are already fighting or... whether it is already over.” ‘What if Éomer’s army was defeated?’

“We will find out about it one way or the other, I suppose. There is nothing left to do for us.”

The first messengers of morning painted the horizon a brighter shade of grey when the Rohirrim approached the last gentle rise leading up to their enemy’s fastness, and curses and shocked gasps flew through the host as the wizard’s dark tower materialised out of the mists before them. Like a magical beast its bold silhouette loomed above the warriors; its spiked head rising from the low-laying fog into the starless sky like the neck of an ancient dragon whose head and body they could not see yet. A dragon that would breathe fire upon them as soon as it became aware of their presence.

“Gods…” Éomer exhaled as his glance climbed up the tower of stone, all air pressed out of his lungs by the horrible sight. As the other side of the Isen had been hostile territory for as long as he could remember, none of the riders had ever seen Saruman’s fortress with their own eyes, except perhaps for Thor. Which, thinking about it, seemed lucky, because Éomer doubted that many of his men would have followed his summons had they known what awaited them at the end of their journey.

What he could see of Isengard against the slowly brightening sky and through the clearing mist appeared to be utterly indestructible and made his plan look like the greatest folly ever conceived. Behind the fortifications still covered by swirling whiteness, Orthanc itself seemed to be hewn out of the sheer rock by the hands of giants. Never in his life had Éomer come across a more forbidding sight.

“How in Béma’s name are we supposed to conquer that?” Erkenbrand murmured as he fought with his fidgeting horse, his eyes as wide as those of the others as he regarded the encircling wall in consternation. “I do not even see a gate, or an entrance of any kind.” He had not ended when the foreboding sound of flapping wings reached their ears, and the next moment, a massive dark cloud rose from the mountains behind the fastness to descend upon the Rohirrim. Crebain. Thousands and thousands; circling high above the warriors’ heads and announcing their presence to their master with their malicious cries.

“Over there!” Elladan suddenly shouted and pointed at a spot to their left where orcs began to spill from a narrow opening in the wall, hardly more yet than silhouettes to the eyes of the rest of the riders. “We are just in time.”

“Then we must take it, even if I do not like it,” Éomer growled and threw Firefoot around to face his men, in whose expressions he found his own doubt mirrored.

“It looks like a trap,” Aragorn said quietly, his eyes wandering from the orcs over the tower and up to the birds above them. “It is obvious that Saruman expects us. These orcs are his bait to lure us behind the wall, where we will be trapped once we are inside.”

“I agree, but it cannot be helped. If this is the only way, we must take it. Once we are inside, we will spring his trap from there.” For a moment, Éomer regarded his captains’ sceptical faces, and for a heartbeat, the temptation to call off the attack which could only result in the utter annihilation of their éohere almost overwhelmed him. With the next, he pushed it aside and committed himself to the excitement flooding his veins. “To you éoreds. The enemy is waiting for us, and we must not let him wait.” With a knowing nod, he clasped hands with Aragorn. “Time to face the darkness, my friend. With Béma’s help, we will emerge on the other side.”

“Have courage, Sons of Eorl! This is what we came for! Our enemy hides in his tower because he is too afraid to face us! Let us tear it down stone by stone and drag him out of his den like a fox by the hounds. Death to the traitor!”

He kicked his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and sent the stallion into a hunting gallop; the sound of the grey’s hoof beats soon drowned out by the rising thunder of their army as it descended the slope like a wave of wrath…

Faster and faster Firefoot raced down the slope toward their enemies, seemingly flying through the mist that dissolved his grey form. His own heartbeat a powerful drum in his ears and the rush of air drowning out all sounds except for the thunder of their army, Éomer crouched in the saddle and gave the stallion his head. Firefoot needed no motivation to accelerate; after many years they had fought together, the mighty war-horse knew what his rider expected of him and took to the battle with the ferocity of a predator, his hooves pounding the ground in a frenzied rhythm as he rapidly closed the distance to their foes.

Soon, shouts rang out from the indistinct silhouettes before them as the orcs became aware of the deadly avalanche of riders racing toward them, and at last, Éomer straightened in the saddle and dropped the reins to unsling his bow. The first wave of arrows was loosed against them, and Firefoot broke to the left, evading most of the deadly hail except for two bolts deflected by his armour. Then Éomer was ready to shoot, and the arrow he released felled a hulking orc-chieftain a moment before most of his brethren collapsed under the first wave of the Rohirrims’ attack. Quickly he followed it with another one and then slung the bow again to unsheathe his sword instead, close enough now to see the remaining foes clearly.

The survivors of the first attack raised their weapons again, and their eyes glared hellfire as they took aim at the riders over their crossbows, now likewise inflicting the first victims among the hostile forces. Yet it did not help them as they were ridden down a moment later, and those who did not perish under the hooves were dispatched with spears and swords. Unstoppable in their approach, the Rohírrim made for the gate which was already in the process of being closed against them by the enemy.

“Run! Run! Faster! Ha!” Although Firefoot was already going at breakneck speed, Éomer kicked his heels into the stallion’s flanks again, overcome by seething battle-rage now that the time of waiting was finally over and all that he and the people of the Mark had suffered from the enemy’s hands could be avenged. The accumulated fury of many years and especially the last days filled Éomer’s entire being and left no room for fear. This filth had killed Théodred, and now they would pay for it! Never once did it enter his mind that he could die, too, as they charged through the open gates into the encirclement.

“I greet you, Sons of Eorl!” a deep voice greeted them that seemed to come from all sides at once. “It is too kind of you to come and spare my servants the effort of attacking you in your homeland, when it will be much easier to annihilate your forces here. Prepare to die!” Without warning the fog lifted, and the sight presenting itself to the riders on the fastnesses’ territory chilled their blood: they were on a narrow road leading up to the tower, but to its sides, great holes yawned in the ground from where a fiery red glow emitted and backlit a long line of hulking shapes standing next to the rim. Warg-riders! Scores of them!

It was the moment when the sun’s pale face first appeared on the eastern horizon, and yet its yet weak light did not wake hope in the riders’ hearts as it reflected from thousands of blackened blades and crude armour of bones and skin. It also illuminated the terrain, and its rugged condition was enough to frighten even the most optimistic among the warriors. Cursing, Éomer stared at the moguls and protruding rocks and roots on the ground as he urged Firefoot to make way for the remainder of their army still on the other side of the wall. They needed to spread out in order to fit their entire army inside the encirclement, and yet the sight of the bad terrain filled him with fear.

“This is no territory for our horses!” a voice next to him shouted in dismay. “We cannot fight here!”

“We will have to,” Éomer growled, suddenly doubting his plan as malicious laughter reached his ears, far too loud to belong to an ordinary man as it rolled over their heads like thunder.

“Did you honestly believe that your attack would surprise me, Son of Eomund? Or that your ‘new friends’ would be powerful enough to stop me? How should the ‘Heir of Elendil’ succeed where Elendil himself failed?” Saruman laughed. “How very arrogant of you! It seems that in all these years of our feud, you have learned nothing… which is the very reason why Gondor and Rohan will soon be bereft of life…and you will precede your people!” He raised his staff, and a blinding white flash erupted from its tip. Instinctively Éomer threw Firefoot to the side as a burst of heat raced past them, and further behind, screams suddenly pierced the air along with the horrible stench of burning flesh. “Kill them all!” And all of sudden, the earth shook from the shouts of a great army they could not see yet.

“Legolas!” Aragorn cried out as he saw his friend take aim at Saruman, but as if he were wiping a fly aside, the Istar waved away his arrow, and the elf was catapulted from his horse by an invisible force. Yet Éomer could not observe the scene further as he suddenly saw himself confronted with problems of his own.

“Warg-riders!” he cried as he saw the orc-wolves charge, closing the distance between them with great leaps. Above a toothy grin of death, infernal bloodlust blazed in their yellow eyes, and in a moment, they would be upon them. “Form a line, quickly! Bows!” In an instant, his own bow was in his hands and a hail of arrows tore into the enemy’s lines and felled three of the nightmarish beasts before they had advanced enough to attack. “Disperse! Stay in motion!” Éomer could not tell whether his men heard him over the din, but when he kicked his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and directed the stallion in a parallel line along the enemy, Findárras and his men followed him.

A brief glance revealed that many of their riders had still not made it through the narrow gate, and those hesitating to direct their horses onto the bad terrain beside the road were now pushed forth by those following them, many losing their footing until the ground near the entrance was covered with struggling, squirming bodies of fallen horses and men alike. It was mayhem; the signal for the enemy to charge. Black and numerous like ants, Saruman’s army of Uruk-hai suddenly spilled forth from the holes in the ground where they had hidden.

“Éomer!” Panic coloured Findárras’ voice, something Éomer had never heard before from the stout Eastfold-warrior, but it was clear what his friend meant: right in their path, a flood of Uruks suddenly emerged from underground and awaited them with their intimidating blades raised to hack them to pieces. Too close to evade and unable to turn back because of the wargs on their heels, Éomer’s reaction was sheer instinct as he threw the stallion around to race at the orc at the end of the line. The creature’s eyes widened under the threat of being ridden down, and for a brief moment, it hesitated – long enough for Firefoot to accelerate. Suddenly, the grey body tensed underneath Éomer, and the stallion’s hooves left the ground.

Instead of slashing at them and risking being buried beneath the horse’s bulk, the orc did what Éomer had anticipated: it ducked, and a heartbeat later, they had passed it and the orc was ridden down by Findárras who followed in his wake as they broke through the enemy’s lines. But now the wargs were close, and Éomer changes from bow to sword for close-quarters’ battle.

With an audible clap, massive jaws just missed Firefoot’s haunches as the orcs’ leader directed his steed after Éomer, and the foul stench of the beast’s breath assaulted the Rohír’s nostrils. The stallion’s reaction came fast: another tensing, and then a vicious kick with both hind legs out of a full run; shattering the warg’s bones. The predator roared in pain, and as the orc-wolf was too distracted to react when his targeted prey suddenly broke to the right, it could not evade as Éomer dispatched of its rider with a mighty swipe of his sword.

The next moment, he was almost unseated when Firefoot stumbled on the uneven ground, and before he had righted himself in the saddle again, the next warg was already upon him. A crude black blade crashed against the pauldrons protecting his shoulder and the impact travelled through Éomer’s arm and almost knocked the sword from his hand. Encouraged, the orc lashed out again with a vicious laugh, but fell to the ground when its thrust missed because Éomer had abruptly checked his steed. Rearing in protest, Firefoot’s hooves thrashed the air and then came down with shattering force upon the orc’s body. Another foe dispatched, but a quick glance established that the entire space between the tower and the wall was now crawling with more Uruk-hai than Éomer had ever seen, and still more emerged from the holes. It could no longer be ignored: they were outmatched. They had waited too long.

On the other side of the road where they had evaded the wizard’s firebolt, Aragorn and the Grey Company had gathered in a protective ring around Legolas, fighting together to keep the enemy at bay while the elf climbed back into the saddle, still stunned and shaking his head as if to clear it from the cobwebs of Saruman’s mighty spell.

“Gímli?” He held out his hand to the dwarf who had fallen with him, but the short warrior just shook his head.

“Nay, leave me here. Fighting from a beast’s back is not the way of the dwarves. I prefer to stand on my own two feet!” Not even waiting for a reply, he stormed toward the wall of approaching Uruks.

“Let him,” Aragorn said as he directed Roheryn alongside his friend for a quick examination. Apart from some superficial abrasions and bruises, Legolas seemed well enough. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. He could not harm me. Watch out!” And with a lightening quick move, the elf unslung his bow and shot an arrow at a foe that had penetrated their circle, piercing its chest. With a pained roar, the beast crumbled to the ground. Exchanging a meaningful glance, the two friends spurred their steeds to join the rangers in their fight against the ever increasing press of orcs.

“They are too many!” Halbarad shouted over the din, and simultaneously dealt a mighty strike to an orc-chieftain’s neck. “They come out of these openings faster than we can kill them!” A crossbow was aimed at his face and he ducked at the last moment, having caught the movement with the corner of his eye.

“We must stay together!” Aragorn raised his voice as he raised Andúril. A beam of the rising sun’s strengthening light fell upon it and illuminated the sheer steel as if it were a torch of white fire, and for a moment, the orcs before him hesitated as if they beheld his true nature. It was a moment too long. The next moment, they crumbled to the ground, headless; their lives claimed by the Flame of the West, and the Dúnedain charged into the hostile army like a battering ram when a violent quiver shook the earth. So powerful was the jolt, so loud the noise that it halted the battle, and suddenly, orcs and men alike, stood frozen with their swords and lances raised for the deadly strike. A consternated silence fell over the battlefield as the combatants turned toward the source of the noise which now repeated itself, and again the ground trembled.

“What is this?” Halbarad whispered under his breath, his gaze directed at a point behind the great wall. He saw it himself, and yet he could not believe his eyes. Aragorn heard him not.

Irritated, Éomer looked up. He had felt the strange jolt, too, and turned his suddenly skittish stallion around to see what had halted the enemy although the Uruks had almost been upon them. Had unexpected help arrived, or was their enemy about to unleash yet a new devilry against them? Again the ground shook beneath him, and now he heard it, too: a deep rhythmic growling that seemed to rise to their ears from the very core of the earth, yet strangely resembling a language. His fell gaze upon the slope before the wall – the slope which had been barren under their horses’ hooves only moments ago. Now it seemed as if an entire forest has suddenly sprung from the soil. He blinked, refusing to believe what his eyes showed him.

“It cannot be…” Findárras gasped beside him, terror-stricken and his eyes wide as he stared at the towering trees suddenly surrounding Isengard, many of them so big that it would take several men to span their trunks and gnarled from age. They were ancient trees – and yet that was impossible. “Where have they come from? What devilry is this?” Even as he looked, the scene grew more absurd when several of the trees bent to pick up rocks from the ground and then straightened again.

And while both armies stood and watched, paralysed by the unbelievable turn of events, a hail of rocks was unleashed against the wizard’s fortress.

“Take cover!” A shadow passed over his head as a gigantic rock crashed into the side of Orthanc and buried orcs and riders when it was repelled by the black granite. “Behind the tower, quickly!” He had not ended when the first wave of panic-stricken combatants pushed back from the surrounding wall, toward them. “Back behind the tower! Run!”

As Éomer still watched, the trees – or whatever they were – suddenly moved forth and simply stepped over the high wall or destroyed it with vicious kicks, sending debris flying through the air. Firefoot danced beneath him, and only the whites showed in his eyes as terror threatened to overwhelm the great war-horse.

“We are doomed,” Éomer heard a voice mutter into the rising din of screaming voices, and as he turned his head, he saw that it was Erkenbrand. Blood flowed freely from a cut on the older warrior’s arm and his face was smeared with it, too, but the Captain of Westfold did not even seem to notice his wounds. “What can we hope to achieve against such powerful magic? Even the trees bow to the White Wizards’s will now!”

Unable to anwer, Éomer watched as the next being stepped over the wall and then bent down to swipe its branches in an angry blow through fleeing Rohirrim and orcs alike. That act of violence broke the spell, and suddenly the combatants backed away in a single wave from their new, common enemy, routed.

“Rohirrim! To me!” But it was vain; for nobody could hear him over the screams of men, horses and orcs and the roar of the enraged trees. More rocks rained to the ground, their impact shaking the earth as they extinguished life without distinction. The orcs fled toward their underground tunnels, except for a few who fought even yet to emerge from them to shoot at their new enemy with arrows of fire. “Findárras! Gather your men and--”

A sudden shadow fell on Éomer and he craned his neck to glance at the bizarre shape that towered above him and blotted out the sun. For a moment, he thought he saw eyes amidst the gnarled bark, and a hole that opened below it, and the next moment, a deep voice that seemed to come from the roots of the earth itself cut through the din of panicked shouts and shrieks.

A gigantic foot was raised. Instinctively, Éomer threw his weight to the right to steer Firefoot out of harm’s way – and found himself ignored. Wild with terror, the stallion shrieked and then suddenly bolted toward their attacker’s gnarled legs as a terrible creaking sound raised over the panicked din. Still trying with hands, feet and voice to calm his animal ally, Éomer suddenly saw thick branches swing toward him. He ducked - and was forcefully knocked from the saddle by the impact of a tree-trunk against his chest. The next moment, Éomer found himself in the mud between dozens and dozens of legs, unable to move or even catch his breath. A quick glance down revealed a deep dent in the metal of his breastplate, and as he wiped his gloved fingers over his likewise burning face, the glistening wetness on the leather did not surprise Éomer. Even through the gloves he had felt thick welts on his brow and cheeks, and his helmet was gone, too, ripped right off his head by the angry tree. All these things he registered the wink of an eye, then shock passed and Éomer picked up his sword which had fallen not far away an. As he fought to rise, Éomer spent the first breath he could to draw on his horse’s name:

But the stallion had already disappeared in the panicked crowd and was nowhere to be seen. There were only orcs now, running toward him. Cursing as he righted himself and found his body a throbbing mess, Éomer pivoted to look for his men – and paused as a great shadow fell upon him. Instinctively, he dived to the side, not even pausing to look, and the next moment the ground shook as a massive tree-stump rammed the foul brood before him into the earth, missing him by a hair’s breadth.

A hand consisting of twigs and gnarled branches raked through the fleeing crowd and squashed those not fast enough to evade like flies. Hurrying to his feet again, Éomer stormed away from the enraged being that seemed to make little difference what it hit, and from somewhere Aragorn’s voice reached him even if he could not see the ranger in the chaos.

Éomer found his friend’s words hard to believe, but he could not longer concern himself with the thought because he suddenly found himself the focus of a new press of orcs flocking toward him in their flight from another tree. Yet as the tree suddenly turned a different way, the beasts quickly overcame their panic and lifted their crude blades as they beheld the Rohirrim in their path, many of them like their Marshal unhorsed and some wounded.

“To me!” Éomer shouted, spotting Findárras and Thor among them. “Stay together! We must try to reach the wall!” He could say no more for now the enemy reached them. Like a black flood they crashed against the Riders of the Mark and drove them back with brutal sweeps of their two-tipped blades, splitting shields wherever they met resistance. Not having a shield himself, Éomer sidestepped his adversary’s strike, and sparks rained down as their blades meet. The impact travelled up his arms and almost knocked the weapon from his hands, and the Uruk, sensing its advantage, immediately began to use its massive weight against him. Relentlessly it pushed Éomer back, trying to force him off his feet on the uneven ground or to push him into the next shaft, and its ugly head with the impressive jaws hovered before Éomer with an expression of cruel amusement. With a quick jerk, it raised its arms to free its sword for the killing strike, but Éomer followed the movement and kept the blades locked between them – and suddenly let go. With a growl and a cloud of of vile-smelling breath, the beast jumped at him – and impaled itself through the chest as Éomer turned his sword with a flicker of his wrist. Black blood gushing from its fanged mouth, the orc collapsed and its heavy carcass pulled the hilt from Éomer’s fingers and buryed the blade beneath it.

Even as he stooped to retrieve his weapon, Éomer knew that it was already too late: two more orcs already stormed toward him, triumph sparkling in their yellow eyes over seeing their adversary disarmed. Frantically, Éomer pushed against the dead Uruk while he feverishly looked for another weapon to use.

“Khazad ai-menu!” he suddenly heard a well-known voice shout, and a short warrior jumped in front of him, wielding an axe. “Die, filth!” Too startled to react, the first orc stared at the blade suddenly buried in its gut. Dropping its sword, it clutched the terrible wound and fell to its knees while the dwarf already concerned himself with its brother. Two more strikes were exchanged and blocked by the combatants before Gímli’s third attempt at last penetrated his adversary’s defence. Aiming low while he ducked the enemy’s strike, the dwarf severed the beast’s left leg and it crashed to the ground where it was quickly finished off.

Meanwhile Éomer had managed to free his sword and wiped the hilt against his breeches to clean it of the slippery black blood. When Gímli threw a quick glance over his shoulder to see how his friend was faring, he gave the dwarf an appreciative nod.

“Your aid is much appreciated,” he said while they both backed away from the swell of enemies rushing toward them, hoping to reach the relative safety of the wall for protection from behind. “I shall not find it easy to repay this dept.”

Gímli snorted, and a fierce grin spread over his face. Together with the large smears of orc-blood marring his frame, it gave the short warrior a rather grizzly appearance.

“I gave you a promise, Horse-Lord, and I intend to keep it. I need yet to hear your judgment on the Lady of the Golden Wood. Perhaps you should not thank me just yet, for if I do not agree with it, I might cleave off your golden-maned head myself!”

Even under the threat of more enemies rushing toward them, Éomer could not hold back his own amused grin, but before he could think of an answer, battle reclaimed his attention.

Behind them, the Ents meanwhile concerned themselves with the Wizard’s tower and paid little attention to orcs or riders as battle erupted with new force around them. Their root-like hands ripped great boulders from the ground and hammered them against the walls of Orthanc with a force that shook the earth. And yet the ancient fastness withstood their attack. Triumphant it stood against them, undaunted and mocking their attack, and every now and then, bolts of fire streaked through the air as Saruman defended his fortress from the lofty heights of the platform between the four spikes where he could not be reached. More than one ancient being burst into flame and had to abandon the attack, running toward the close river bed to extinguish the fire only to find the Isen’s water’s gone. Maddened by their torment, those walking torches ran across the plain raining fire upon the combatants, and panic ensued once more.

Swept to the other side of the embattled plain of Isengard where Aragorn and the Grey Company tried to direct their warriors away from the raging Ents, Legolas suddenly paused as he turned his steed around, and his eyes widened.

“Nay… it cannot be! Aragorn! There! Do my eyes deceive me, or is it indeed Mithrandir?”

Alarmed by the elf’s perplexity, Aragorn turned Roheryn and followed his friend’s gaze toward the gate.

“It is him!” Elladan stated for them, and looked at his human brother with a sceptically raised eyebrow. “But did you not say that he fell in Moria?”

“At least that is what our eyes showed us,” the ranger muttered in wonder while he stared at the figure on the white horse that passed through the battlefield like a ghost and killed all orcs too slow to evade him. There could be no question that it was Gandalf, and yet logic defied it. Could it be his ghost, perhaps, returned from whatever realm lay beyond death's gates to finish what the Istar had begun in real life? Even under the bright light of the rising sun, the shimmer surrounding his former friend seemed unnaturally bright, and a shiver raced down Aragorn’s spine. The Ents did not attack the mysterious rider, which left but one conclusion: it was the wizard who had summoned them. The realisation woke Aragorn into motion, and he straightened in the saddle and raised his voice: “They are on our side! Clear the battlefield! Give them space!”

“Behold the White Rider!” Legolas cried for all to hear. “Mithrandir has returned! Mithrandir has come to our aid!”

“And he rides Nahar!” one of the Rohirrim next to them added, incredulous. “It must be Nahar, for who has ever seen such a steed?”

Stabbing their swords against the sky in renewed fighting spirit, the Riders cheered.

The wondrous shouts travelled through the entangled armies over to where Éomer had at last gathered his men. He could not guess what had happened, how Gandalf Greyhame should still be alive although Aragorn had told him that he had seen the wizard fall into the abyss, but it was clear to him that the White Rider’s steed was not Nahar, Father of Horses. Yet it was hardly a lesser descendant of his race, and easily the noblest horse on the face of the earth in these evil times: It was Shadowfax the Great, Chief of the Méaras, and so swiftly bore he his master over the plain filled with battling warriors that he seemed more like a disembodied ghost than a real being. The sight of the white stallion stirred hope in Éomer’s heart, and yet the Rohir knew that even with the wizard’s aid, their army would be hard-pressed to overcome an enemy so numerous that still more emerged from the pits of Isengard.

On the contrary, although their forces had gathered to four larger groups consisting of several éoreds each to attack in a more coordinated manner, the Rohirrm found themselves inevitably driven back toward the yawning red maws in the ground where certain doom awaited them. Just as Éomer looked over his shoulder to estimate the distance, a column of hot steam escaped from the closest shaft with a furious hiss, and for a moment, the warrior feared that their enemy kept even worse things than orcs in his secret pits. It was believed that all dragons of Middle Earth had been slain long ago, and yet Éomer almost expected to see one rear its ugly head and breathe its deadly fire at them. But instead of a dragon, only more orcs emerged. Which was ill enough considered that they were already outnumbered at least three times by the enemies already above the ground.

Still on foot as Firefoot was nowhere to be seen in the chaos around him, Éomer commanded another sortie, and his men joined him when he stormed forth to gain distance from the dangerously close abyss. With a mighty strike, he slew the nearest orc and jumped over the collapsing carcass –only to find himself eye-to-eye with the biggest Uruk he had ever seen. With a delighted bellow, the creature spread its arms in mocking invitation, much like its brother had done in the cave-fight which had almost cost Éomer’s life. Full of self-esteem, the thing stepped forth, the intimidating weapon in its hands smeared to the hilt with Rohirric blood, and as it yelled its challenge in a cloud of stinking vapour, hideous fangs glistened in a maw wide enough to swallow a man’s head whole.

“Come on, Whiteskin!” the Uruk roared and dropped into a crouch. “You are mine!” The aberration at him, and yet Éomer suddenly found his attention caught by a sudden sparkle on its bare, massive chest. A cold shudder raced down his spine as he recognised the thing even before he could see it clearly: it was a golden amulet in the shape of the sun on a green leather band – and it belonged to Théodred! A sudden heat flushed Éomer’s veins, a rage so powerful, so searing hot that it swept away all common sense like a rockslide. This thing had killed his cousin! With a furious growl not unlike what one would have expected to come from his adversary, Éomer charged.

Their swords met with bone-shattering force; the Rohir’s eyes blazing no less than the Uruk’s as they stared at each other over their entangled weapons. Pushing and pulling to gain the better position, Éomer soon felt that he stood no chance against the raw strength of the orc. And the thing sensed it, too: its grin widened and revealed an intimidating set of pointed teeth as it threw itself against its adversary with all of its strength – but suddenly found all resistance gone as the human warrior pivoted and evaded to the side. Unable to halt as momentum carried it forward, it stumbled, but even as it extended a hand to avoid the fall, Éomer’s thrust caught its side and opened a deep gash across its ribs.

Infuriated, the orc roared and thrust its bulk around with incredibly agility to lash out a wild strike and land on its feet again with a roar: “Don’t touch him! He’s mine!” The blackness inside of it spilling over the grotesque armour of skin and bones, the Uruk advanced, and with its entire weight behind its two-handed strikes, relentlessly drove Éomer back toward the yawning red mouth of the fire pits. “Die, Whiteskin!”

There was no means of defence against the crushing force of his attacker. His arms aching from the sheer force of the Uruk’s blows, Éomer stumbled backwards, and while the growing heat behind him alarmed him of the near pits, he was powerless against his foe’s onslaught, barely able to defend himself let alone counter the attack.. Those rushing to help him were intercepted, even Gímli, and he stood alone against an enemy of twice his weight. Again the amulet on the Uruk’s armour sparkled in the fire, and its golden sheen prompted a last surge of defiance from Éomer. ‘Théodred!’

This filth would not defeat him! As the black blade swung toward his neck once more, he did not raise his sword to meet it, but dived to the ground. Rolling over his shoulder he lashed out even before he regained his feet – and cut off the beast’s feet just above the ankles. Roaring in agony, the Uruk collapsed like a felled tree, and Éomer raised his cousin’s blade for the death strike that would avenge Théodred when an ear-splitting roar suddenly rang over the battlefield:

The shout effectively stopped all fighting, and all heads turned toward the group of Ents clawing at the piled rocks behind Orthanc. The warriors did not even have time for a prayer when the boulder which had blocked the Isen’s path gave way and the water came…

For a moment, none moved. None breathed; and a great silence spread over the battlefield as men and orcs alike stared at the flood thundering toward them. Then panic set in.

Moving as one, man and beast turned from the deadly peril and raced toward the walls of the encirclement in hope to reach the higher ground before the flood would crush them. Weapons clattered to the ground, no longer important where a greater danger than the other army loomed, and who came off their feet in the chaos were trampled by those behind them in the mad flight toward the few stairs, their terrified shouts drowned out by the churning flood.

Throwing his wearied body around to follow his men, Éomer suddenly felt an iron grasp around his ankle. Yet even as he looked down, another orc crashed into him, blindly running from the water, and knocked the sword from his hand into the fleeing crowd – and out of his reach. “No!” Stunned, Éomer’s gaze fell on the powerful hand that held him captive, and the yellow eyes sparkling behind it.

“You stay here, Whiteskin. You die with me.” For the eternity of five heartbeats, Éomer stared at his adversary in stunned shock – and then the world turned into frothing, churning hell.

Once unleashed, the Isen claimed back its territory with the ferocity of a starving predator. In vengeance for its captivity, it lashed out at everything in its path; making no difference between objects or living things as it sprang from its prison to crush wood, brick and bones. Those who had freed it alone possessed the strength to withstand its fierce onslaught, and still the Ents had to hold fast and sink their root-like hands and feet into the bare rock behind Orthanc to remain standing while the world around them turned into a frothing white maelstrom of death.

Yet nothing smaller than the ancient tree-herders could hope to stand against the violent torrent, and orcs, men and horses alike were knocked from their feet and towed under and carried away by the furious river. Tossing them around like children’s toys, the Isen crushed the fleeing warriors with the debris of shattered buildings and the dam that had restricted it, to sweep their lifeless or still feebly struggling bodies into the shafts and pits that interspersed the court of Isengard. From one moment to the next, the din of battle was replaced by the shrieks of the dying and the river’s mighty voice.

Numbly watching from his elevated position as his army was being annihilated by the force of nature, Saruman the White stood on the platform between Orthanc’s iron crown, and the understanding slowly settled in his mind that his great plan had been thwarted by the unlikeliest, most unthinkable event. For years, no, decades had he prepared his trap with incredible cunning and care and worked toward this very day, and the Rohirrim had even been foolish enough to fall for it by thinking in their unparalleled arrogance that they could attack and defeat him on his own ground. They would have posed no threat to his gigantic army of Uruk-hai, and even with the Heir of Elendil he could have dealt. But to see Gandalf now ride to their aid; Gandalf, whom he had believed dead after having witnessed his plunge into darkness in the Palantír, was a shock. How could the old fool return alive from his battle with the Balrog, and on top of that, bring with him the ancient tree-herders who had minded their own business for centuries and kept out of man’s path for so long that their very existence had faded to mere myth? And how had he succeeded in rousing these creatures which had never shown interest in other races’ affairs before? It was something Saruman could barely believe even though his eyes told him differently.

In helpless frustration, the old wizard ground his teeth, and a spark of contempt burned in his dark, cunning eyes. The Palantír had deceived him … or could it be, in fact, the Dark Lord himself who had manipulated the Seeing Stone to show his servant only what he wanted him to see? Had the Great Eye read his thoughts and seen the greed for power behind his servant’s presumably blind obedience? Had it discovered his secret plans for the Master Ring, and decided to let him fall now that Sauron felt that he no longer needed his aid? The bitter taste of betrayal filled Saruman’s mouth. Yes, Sauron had betrayed him, and he had used him against his enemies as only one of his many weapons. And although it was too late now to offer his service to the other side in revenge, Saruman hoped that the Dark Lord would pay for this betrayal, even if it meant that the stubborn horselords, who were laying his fortress to waste far below him should emerge victorious.

Still unable to grasp the full extent of his defeat, Saruman stared down at the water frothing up Orthanc’s walls, and suddenly beheld a white figure on a white horse making its way toward the tower’s locked entrance. A bright aura surrounded Gandalf and kept the water at bay as he approached the stairs, and with a last glance, Saruman brusquely turned away from the sight to go and meet his nemesis. Yet no matter how their duel ended, he understood at last that his part in the war for dominion over Middle Earth had ended.

The Isen’s floods assaulted Éomer with the force of an avalanche, and for a moment, the Rohír felt as if he had been punched in the chest as the ice-water engulfed him. As if he were a pebble in a mudslide, it knocked him to the ground and swept away, no matter what he did. Vaguely aware of the dozens and hundreds of others – Rohirrim, horses and orcs alike – frantically struggling around him, Éomer clawed for something to hold on to, but the churning water quickly rose over his head and the weight of his armour pulled him down without mercy. A terrible grinding noise filled his senses as the world turned into a violent maelstrom.

For a short moment, his head broke through the surface long enough to draw a hasty breath, and over his own choked gasp Éomer suddenly registered the deafening thunder behind him. At once he understood his new peril: there would be no rescue from the bottomless pits into which the water was plunging; all who went over the edge would die. Realisation had barely settled when he was suddenly pulled under with a violent tug at his leg. Turning around in the frothing water to find the source of the assault, Éomer quickly discovered a dark shape below him: his adversary was still there; its powerful hands still closed around his ankle, and the challenging expression on its face left no question that the Uruk intended to drown him.

Instinct took over. With a vicious kick in the orc’s face, Éomer tried to free himself, but suddenly all air was knocked from his lungs when the current smashed him into a solid barrier with bone-shattering force. Stunned, he could only watch as the structure behind him caved in and rained blocks of stone down on him and his adversary. One of them landed right next to him with a muffled thud and he stepped on it, trying to make it to the surface against his adversary’s efforts to keep him submerged. Another stepping stone helped him to get his head out of the water, but the situation had not improved as he found himself in the middle of the current now, pressed against the remains of the building behind him while the torrent frothed into his face. No air! Already his lungs were burning and his body beginning to numb from the cold, but still he could not move!

Even as he fought for the single breath that would prolong his life for another moment, he was again pulled under. So that bloody orc was still alive. Although Éomer could barely see more than a blur of his opponent in the churning water, he kicked out again – and suddenly his other leg was grabbed as well. White explosions blossomed in front of his eyes and obscured his sight further; the fire in his lungs torturing him and pleading him to open his mouth and breathe, and yet no matter how hard Éomer struggled, the orc’s grip was like a bear-trap around his ankles. The way the beast held its position in the torrent indicated that it had been caught by the collapsing structure and was unable to free itself – but it was still determined to take its enemy along to its wet grave.

Éomer had different plans. The stinking filth would not be his end; and it certainly would not hinder him from riding to Éowyn’s aid! Pushing the brief flutter of panic back into his subconscious, he suddenly gave up resistance and allowed the orc to draw him closer – and just as the beast bared its fangs to sink them into his flesh, Éomer drew his dagger and lashed out. A black cloud rose in response to his thrust, a vile stench assaulted his nostrils, and suddenly his hand with the dagger was seized. Managing to slip out of his glove just before the orc’s jaws clenched around the leather, he switched the blade to the other hand and buried it to the hilt in the beast’s eye. For a moment the fingers around his ankles squeezed his bones painfully together – then at last, their grip broke. A heartbeat before the current seized him again, Éomer reflexively reached out for the shiny thing at the orc’s armour, and his fingers closed around Théodred’s amulet and tore the leatherband from the beast’s neck. Only then did he push himself up – and broke through the surface with a choked gasp, the chill air incredibly sweet as it flooded his lungs. He felt a brief burst of triumph – and then the current took him away.

Lucky enough not to be in the immediate path of the flood, Aragorn nonetheless still stood in the rising water up to his waist, helping those near him to the stairs leading to the wall’s crest and defending their refuge against those orcs foolish enough to try their luck there as well. Together with several of his Dúnedain brothers and Rohirrim, they formed a protective circle, and soon the enemy’s forces backed away in search for another way to safety, making easy targets for the men and elves already on the wall who ended their lives with a rain of arrows.

Many warriors barely seemed to have enough strength left to climb the few stairs onto the wall as they stumbled toward Aragorn and his men, many holding injured limbs and bleeding as a result of both Saruman’s and the Isen’s wrath. All were helped up, but space was quickly becoming sparse, and especially the terrified horses were becoming a problem as they knocked several men into the torrent again before they could be calmed.

Just as his gaze went up to where Halbarad helped the distribution of refugees on the narrow path, Aragorn saw a heavy grey horse rear behind his kinsman. His warning shout came too late: only the whites in its eyes still showing, the steed shied away from its rider’s hand, and accidentally pushed the ranger over the edge – backwards!

Ellrohir who stood close by dived after the falling ranger, but his reaching hand missed, and before Aragorn’s horrified eyes, his Dúnadan brother plunged head-first into the water. Frantically pushing through the stream of refugees to where Halbarad had disappeared, praying that he had not broken his neck in the horrible fall, Aragorn suddenly heard Legolas shout: “I see him!”

An instant later, the ranger rose to the surface, but his movements were sluggish and weak, and it seemed to require all of his remaining strength just to pry his fingers into the fissures of the wall and hold fast against the vicious current. Then Aragorn saw the dark red line running from his temple down his face.

“Halbarad! Hold on, I am coming!” From the corner of his eyes, he saw an orc starting for his barely conscious kinsman and knew that he would never make it over in time. His searching glance found the speared body of a Uruk drifting nearby. Yes!

“I have him!” Legolas shouted from the wall, and Halbarad’s assailant staggered under the impact of an arrow in his thick neck, but he did not fall, and now he was within reach! With a triumphant roar, it lifted its blade over its head, and Halbarad’s dazed gaze cleared at last in the face of deadly peril. Helpless, he stared death straight in the eye – but it was his opponent who suddenly fell against the wall with a surprised grunt. In incomprehension, it stared for a moment at the thick wooden shaft that suddenly protruded from its chest – and then its knees buckled, and it collapsed with a choked gargle and was carried away by the river. Closing his eyes as dizziness and relief overcame him simultaneously, Halbarad leant his head against the rocks, his strength and conscious waning. He did not hear his friends’ shouts from above.

Instead of waiting for the outcome of the battle, Elrond’s sons had quickly become active themselves, and while Elrohir already lowered a sling to their endangered friend, Elladan calmed the spooked horse responsible for Halbarad’s fall and tied the other end of the rope to its saddle. And still the ranger did not react.

Aragorn was close now, one last orc between him and his kinsman. It was no match for Andúril’s fury, and the Heir of Elendil passed it even as the beast collapsed. The next moment, he reached his injured friend and, sheathing his sword, grasped the sling to pull it tight around them both. Unconscious, Halbarad’s head sagged against him as another orc started toward them.

“Aragorn! Watch out!” Legolas’ voice, alarmed. A white-feathered shaft passed right in front of Aragorn’s face, and the beast roared, hit in the neck. The next moment, the rope gave a hard tug and they were hauled up into the safety of the pathway. Quickly Aragorn slipped out of the sling, breathing hard as he felt for his friend’s pulse. He found it, strong and steady, and sat back, too relieved for words.

“How grave is his injury?” Elladan inquired one eye on the unconscious Halbarad and one on the mayhem inside the court of Isengard. He had not finished when the ranger gave a low moan and opened his eyes.

“You fell and hit your head,” Aragorn answered his confused question, a relieved smile on his face as he eyed the cut on his friend’s temple. While it might need stitching later on, it did not look like a life-threatening injury. With a deep sigh, he patted the Dúnadan’s shoulder and looked up at the inquisitive faces around them as he rose to his feet. “I do not believe that serious damage has been done, but stay here until you feel better. Most of the battle seems to be over anyway.”

Stepping over to Legolas with a thankful nod, Aragorn turned to let his gaze sweep the chaos of the encircled plain, and his expression darkened as he saw the men and horses still fighting in the flood, beyond their reach.

“Saruman’s army is destroyed, but I fear that this assault has cost the lives of many Rohirrim as well.”

“And yet more may have survived because of it,” the elf replied, and he nodded toward the wide breaches the Ents had trampled into the wall. Many riders had regrouped there; those who had been lucky enough to escape the floods as well as those who had not even made it through the gate before the mythical creature’s had attacked. “The territory was not suitable for a fight from horseback, and they were already vastly outnumbered by the forces over ground, and yet many more were still emerging when the water came.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps this was their only chance for victory, however high the cost may be. There is Gandalf!” A slight smile spread over his face as he nodded his chin toward the tower which stood in the midst of the rubble like a solemn guard, unscathed even by the Ents’s might.

They had barely detected the wizard on the narrow stairs when a blinding blast erupted from his staff, and the door of massive rock gave way.

“So he will wage battle with Saruman again,” Aragorn said lowly. “Yet I do have a feeling that things will go differently this time. Something has happened, the power has shifted. Do you not feel it, too, mellon-nin?”

“Indeed I do, even if I cannot explain the reason for this feeling.” The blue of his keen eyes suddenly darkened as Legolas’s gaze returned to the flooded plain, and Aragorn understood. With a sudden jolt of anxiety, he remembered how Gímli had charged into battle. He had not seen him since, and could not detect him on the narrow pathway now. Neither could he see Éomer.

“Come and let us help those who did not make it to safety yet.” He received an affirming nod and turned away to organise the rescue of those still fighting for their lives below, inwardly fearing that next time he would see the resilient dwarf and the wilful young marshal of the Rohirrim, they would both be dead.

Éomer’s strength faded rapidly in the ice-cold water. To his left, the waterfall’s thunder and the furious hiss of the steam rising in a great column from the nearby pit drowned out all other noises as he was swept toward the death-bringing maw. Fighting to keep his head above the water against the weight of his soaked armour, Éomer reached for a hold, but whatever his numb fingers touched was also in motion and moving toward the abyss like he. Closer and closer the drop-off came, and it seemed to him that the Isen was mocking his feeble attempts to save himself from its fury. Again he was knocked against the shattered remains of a building, and the impact spun him around. For a moment his searching fingers closed around a metal beam, but with an anguished groan, it gave way and his grip slipped on the smooth surface. Nonetheless Éomer held on for dear life even though the water welled up against his face now and made it impossible to breathe. Yet breathing could no longer be postponed, and as he opened his mouth in reflex, liquid and air simultaneously rushed down his throat and threw him into a violent coughing fit – which resulted in him swallowing even more water. While he still fought, something heavy collided with him, and his fingers at last lost their hold on the iron pole. Once again Éomer found himself shooting toward the abyss, and by now its thunderous voice was so loud that it even drowned out the furious pounding of his own heart. Right before him, the world ended in a steaming cascade.

The body of a drowned horse passed him and disappeared over the edge, followed by several still struggling Uruk-hai and Rohirrim. The water was shallow now, hardly high enough to reach his hips had he found the strength to stand, and yet there was no withstanding the vicious current as it carried him toward the opening. Two more Rohirrim were swept past him and disappeared, their mouths opened in a scream that could not be heard over the Isen’s roar.

And closer still! Below him was now the black maelstrom churning in the dark depths of the pit, and in panic, he rammed his heels into the ground once more. Blindly groping for something to save him, Éomer’s fingers suddenly found a wooden shaft, and he held on – and blinked as he turned his head to see what had delayed his fall: it was a Rohirric spear, and it stuck in the flank of the biggest warg he had ever seen! The sight once again robbed him of his breath.

Fighting like all around it against the flood, the beast turned its head as it felt the additional weight tear at the wound in its side, and a cloud of stinking breath assaulted Éomer’s senses as the creature roared its fury into his face. Then it snapped at him, but the horrible fangs closed just in front of Éomer with an audible clap. It could not reach him. Half-choked by the beast’s infernal stench, the Rohír fought to hold on, instinctively understanding that however unlikely, the great orc-wolf was his only hope for survival. Hand for hand, he forced his numbing muscles to pull himself closer to the beast’s powerful body until he could grab a handful of the wiry mane. In response to his touch, the warg growled again and twisted its long neck to snap at him, but Éomer had already dragged himself onto its back, where he clung now like a big blood-sucking bat.

Irritated, the beast tried to turn around and grab him, but its attention was quickly claimed by a heavy beam that was knocked against its ribs and pushed it back several steps toward the abyss. Its head with the massive jaws lifted high from the water, it dug its long claws into the ground and began to move against the current, snorting and grunting from the massive effort, the muscled shoulders rippling under Éomer’s body. The Rohir looked back to the steaming drop-off, and wile he was relieved that the beast seemed to have temporarily forgotten him, it did not escape his attention that their progress was slow, almost non-existent. Would the beast’s strength suffice to carry them both to safety? And what then? If the warg decided to devour him once it had reached safe ground, Éomer saw not how he should hinder it, unarmed as he was. But it was yet a concern beyond the most immediate threat, and so he shoved it aside and concentrated on holding on to the massive body beneath him. Not far before them, a construction of iron beams rose from the water, and it still looked solid. Involuntarily, Éomer pressed his thighs around his strange steed and shifted his weight to steer the orc-wolf toward it, and the miracle happened: the beast responded!

‘Come on, fell beast,’ he prayed silently, while the distance to the ledge slowly grew. “You can do it. Carry us both to safety… and then we will see who kills whom.’

The warg was spent; Éomer felt it with every fibre of his body. As an experienced rider, he knew how the first signs of a steed’s breakdown felt: first the rasping, deepened breathing, quickly followed by muscle tremors, slight at first but worsening with the continuing effort until the inevitable happened… and the beast beneath him grunted and snorted without interruption now. Its already broad chest pumped like a pair of bellows as the orc-wolf stemmed itself against the vicious flood with growing desperation.

Again it was hit in the side by a heavy piece of debris and pushed back; again it lost some of the hard fought-for ground before it could dig its claws in and stop their slide... and again its laboured breathing worsened. The roaring waterfall was still not far behind them, and the river sounded even hungrier to Éomer’s ears although it had already swallowed hundreds of lives. Helping his exhausted steed as best as he could by shoving the obstacle out of their way, Éomer attempt to urge on his mount, but the mountains of muscle beneath him quivered without interruption now. They would not make it. The cold and the current were taking its toll even on the fearsome orc-wolf, and the moment quickly approached when its numbing muscles would simply cease their service and disobey the strong will moving them. The beast was defeated, even if it did not know so yet.

Straightening on the warg’s back, Éomer frantically sought for a solution, and his gaze darted around their surroundings. It was clear that the structure he had first determined as their goal was beyond their reach, but to their right, a pile of debris had formed where several beams lay wedged against each other and divided the flood like a beaver dam. It was closer, but looked unstable and in order to reach they would have to cross another long passage without shelter against the full strength of the current. The Rohír was sceptical whether his steed had enough strength left for the task, but it very much looked like their only hope. With a deep breath, he shifted his weight, and the warg reacted, laying its trust into its rider.

On the wall the warriors who had escaped the floods were quickly caught up in the rescue of their still struggling comrades. Shooting orcs from the safety of the path and at the same time throwing ropes to exhausted men, the drenched, shivering Rohirrim were one by one pulled from the water and wrapped into thick blankets which had been found within the fortification. Yet nothing could be done about their horses, and many of the rescued warriors stood on the wall’s crest, and their hearts cried out as they were forced to witness helplessly how their trusted steeds were pulled into the pits.

Even as he pulled another exhausted rider from the water, Aragorn’s gaze darted over the flooded battlefield, but there was still no sign of either the dwarf or the young marshal. Beside him, the keen eyes of Legolas and Elrond’s sons searched the rapids as well, to no avail. A fatalistic voice in the back of the Dúndadan’s mind whispered insistently that the two had long been spilled into the enemy’s underground pits, and yet Aragorn refused to give in to despair. The plain was vast, and it was almost impossible to keep an overview of the situation. Perhaps the two had even escaped to the back of Isengard in time to evade the main current. Yet inwardly, he knew better. In the thick of battle, that was where the son of Éomund and the son of Glóin had most likely been when the flood had assaulted them. His expression darkening further, he threw his rope over to the next struggling rider in the water.

At last, the moment had come: still like a statue, the warg stood in the torrent, the last of its strength concentrated on just holding its position with the mighty claws dug into the ground, the fearsome head lowered in effort. No longer could it move forward, and the manner in which the great body beneath Éomer trembled and shivered told the Rohír that the point of its surrender to the Isen’s onslaught was imminent. He could no longer wait. The pile of rubble was close now, only barely beyond the reach of his arms as he leant to the side to see whether he could already reach a dangling piece of chain. Just as his fingertips brushed against the iron links, the great body beneath him gave a rasping huff and broke away.

“I see the Marshal!” Legolas shouted, and his words sent a jolt of excitement through Aragorn. “Over there, where the debris divides the water!” He pointed toward a figure which could hardly be made out through the frothing flood. Sitting on the back of a warg – a warg? – the Rohir leant heavily to the side and reached – and plunged into the foaming water as his steed was suddenly carried away.

“No!” Grinding his teeth is helpless frustration, Aragorn’s eyes darted over the surface – to find to his immense relief Éomer’s struggling shape as he pulled himself toward the blockade. Hooking his elbow around a bent pole, the young marshal secured his position, but it was clear that he would not be able to withstand the cold and the current for long. They needed to act now.

“We must do something.” Unconsciously, Aragorn already coiled his length of rope while he looked around for another one. Unasked, Legolas handed him his own, but shook his head as he looked over to where the Rohir was fighting for his life.

“I would shoot the rope to him, but he is out of range. The rope is too heavy; it would pull down the arrow before it could reach him.”

“Then I will bring it to him.” The Dúnadan’s tone indicated that he would tolerate no objection. Quickly he knotted the ropes together and tied one end around his waist, but whereas the Rohirrim next to him looked up with renewed hope on their faces, his elven brothers creased their brows.

“You cannot do this, Estel!” Elladan exclaimed, his expression and tone incredulous as he grasped Aragorn’s arm. “Your existence serves a higher goal; you cannot risk your life, even for a friend! The free people cannot afford to lose the Heir of Elendil to their fight against the Dark Lord! If you die, everyone dies!”

Although he slanted him only a very quick glance, the sudden fierceness in Aragorn’s grey eyes took the son of Elrond aback.

“I will not stand here idly and watch him drown, Elladan, and I will not discuss it: move aside!” And with a violent twitch, he freed his arm.

“But you might need help,” another voice joined their argument, and as Aragorn looked up, he looked into the face of the dark-haired Captain of the éored who had come to their aid at the farm. Thor, he remembered the man’s name. “I could help you by ensuring that nothing happens to the rope, or that it gets caught somewhere.”

Aragorn nodded in appreciation of the man’s mindfulness. “Aye, Captain, that would indeed be helpful. I would be glad to have your help.” Wordlessly handing the Half-breed the rope, Aragorn once again met his brothers’ challenging gaze. He was not about to back down, even when Elrohir shook his head in a disapproving manner now, too.

“By doing this, you are risking everything the people of Middle Earth have fought for, Aragorn! All paths you travelled in life led you toward your confrontation with the Dark Lord; you cannot endanger yourself even for a friend when the fate of all of Middle Earth stands and falls with you! As hard as it might be, you must stay focussed on the greater good!”

“The Rohirrim are with us in this fight, and many of them died for ‘the greater good’ today. They did not ask whose fight this was; and I refuse to simply sacrifice them.” He turned to Thor, who had in the meantime fastened the rope around his middle. “Are you ready?”

“Aye. We can go.” The Half-Rohír sat down on the wall, ready to lower himself into the water. For a moment, the struggle of wills between Aragorn and his elven brothers continued; then the ranger’s gaze suddenly softened, and he pressed the other end of the rope into Elrohir’s hands.

“I will return, Brother; have faith in me. Here, I give you our lifeline. I suppose there is nobody better suited to guard it than you. Don’t let go.” And with the faint of hint of an encouraging smile, he turned around and lowered himself into the flood.

His brow furrowed as he silently shook his head to himself, the elf stood for a moment longer, until at last he turned around and quickly tied the rope around one of the wall’s battlements, accepting that nothing he said would change his brother’s decision. Aragorn had made his decision, now it was his task to see that nothing happened to his brother.

Cold. So cold. It sucked the strength from his body, pressed the air out of his lungs and numbed his muscles, and Éomer knew that he would not be able to hold on for much longer. With each passing moment, it got harder just to lift his head above the water and breathe, and if no miracle happened, he would simply have to let go and succumb to the Isen’s rage like his steed before him… or perhaps he would be crushed by debris once the pile of rubble to which he held on collapsed. Like a living thing it shifted beneath him in the current, constantly moving and groaning as pieces were torn away and swept off by the torrent. Just as he looked up again, another loud blast from inside the tower sent shockwaves through the ground and resulted in a sudden violent shift in the rubble. For a horrible moment, it seemed to Éomer as if the pile was leaning toward him, but then it settled back and a brief cry could be heard from the other side as something massive tumbled down and into the water.

Again he scanned his surroundings for a way out of his predicament, when from the corner of his eye, he beheld a brown shape helplessly struggling in the torrent, being swept his way. Without thinking, Éomer reached out – and his fingers closed around the figure’s battle harness. One great effort, and then the warrior was close enough to hold fast to the pole which also held him, and the next moment, a frozen-looking dwarf regarded him from underneath dripping wet eyebrows. There was gratitude in Gímli’s frightened eyes, but the short warrior had no breath left to thank him, and his face had already taken on an unhealthy blue complexion.

“They’ll come for us,” Éomer somehow brought out, but without belief in his voice. “Hold on.”

“Can… cannot…” the small warrior stammered, his eyes wide with the knowledge that they would die in the flood like the others. “Too cold…”

“See… see if you can pull yourself up… that ledge …” Even as Éomer indicated it to the dwarf, the rubble shifted again, and the block of stone which had protruded from the water and promised at least temporary refuge tumbled away. And they were moving, too, he noticed now, too exhausted for dismay. Slowly at first but quickly gaining speed, the entire construction of wood, stone and iron was being pushed toward the drop-off.

“Éomer--” Gímli gasped as he, too, woke to their predicament. Understanding that this was indeed the end, the two very different and yet also very alike warriors stared at each other – when something landed between them with a wet sound. Dumbfounded, they stared at the length of rope, for a moment unable to react.

“Take it! Éomer! Take the rope!” a familar voice reached them over the thunder of the falling water, and as they turned their heads, a tired smile spread over the dwarf’s bearded face.

Before the river could carry it away, Éomer’s fingers closed around the sling just before another concussion shook the ground. An anguished groan rose from the debris as it was pushed against another obstacle in its way toward the abyss, and a tremble ran through the unstable pile.

“Here, quickly.” Breathlessly, he threw the sling over Gímli’s head and then slipped into it himself. A quick glance revealed that there were others in their vicinity, clinging like them to their moving hold and understanding that they were floating toward their end. In a desperate attempt to save at least one of them, Éomer reached out to the closest man. “Give me your hand!” But just as he strained, the rider looked him in the eye with a grateful, exhausted smile – and disappeared in the flood. “No!”

The tremors worsened, and at last, their hold came apart with a thunderous crash. Unable to react, Éomer stared at the sharp-edged rock tumbling toward him, when he was brutally yanked back…

The rest of his rescue was a blur. Water, coldness; deadly chill. The cries of the dying and the river’s angry voice, and below it all, the dull, irregular vibrations of the wizards’ fight in the tower. Obstacles against which he bumped, spinning him around until he lost all sense of direction. No longer the master of his own fate, Éomer resigned himself to just holding on to the dwarf in a desperate attempt to keep both their heads above the water. It was all for which he had energy left… until at last, the rope tightened once more around his waist with a painful jerk, and they dangled in the air. A moment later he found himself lying on the hard ground, and the only sound in his ears was the clattering of his own teeth.

“Blankets! Bring me blankets, quickly!” Aragorn’s face hovered above him, dripping wet as well and his lips moving in an anxious question that seemed to reach Éomer from the distance of another realm. “Are you all right? Éomer?”

He wanted to answer, wanted to lift his friend’s concern but was let down by his voice. He nodded – and was understood. Relief lit up the ranger’s grey eyes as he closed his fingers around the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “It is over, Éomer. You are safe.” The next moment, something heavy was spread over Éomer, and he was propped up against the wall and wrapped into thick fur by many helping hands.

It was embarrassing to be handled like a small child, but at the same time, the slowly spreading warmth felt so good, Éomer did not even try to object to being fondled. Next to him, Gímli, too, was quickly wrapped into thick furs, and as he looked up, Aragorn and Thor likewise slung thick capes around themselves.

“W-w-where…” he began, his teeth still clattering so badly that he quickly gave up the effort of making himself understood.

“We found sheds and common rooms inside this fortification,” Aragorn answered his unspoken question. “Apart from these furs, there were many more things we will need before long. I sent those not able to help with the rescue down to light fires for your men to warm themselves and see whether they can find something to cook some broth with. We cannot have them die of exposure after surviving the flood. You should go there, too, as soon as you can walk.” Suddenly distracted, he turned around.

And now Éomer felt it, too, the repercussions of heavy steps shaking the earth. It felt different than the irregular vibrations still emanating from the black tower behind them, and thus could only mean one thing: the trees were coming back. Alarm prompting him to sit up with a gasp, Éomer suddenly heard an astonished exclamation: “They are picking them out of the water, look! They’re saving them! Someone must have told them at last that we are not the enemy!”

“Let me look!” With warmth, enough life had returned to Éomer’s body to rise to his feet with the help of a young rider nearby. The sight he was granted when he stood was indeed most peculiar: their previous attackers waded through the slowly sinking floods like gigantic, misshaped herons, and their large hands sifted the water to pick up men and horses and carry them to safety. “What changed their mind?” he mused quietly, inwardly expecting to wake from this strange dream any moment.

“I think I know who did,” Legolas suddenly said into the stunned silence, and a joyous expression brightened his fair features. “Look, Aragorn! It seems that our friends were not content with staying behind in the safety of Fangorn – they had to play a part in war, too. And yet I am glad to see them here, and unharmed, as it seems.”

“Merry and Pippin!” the ranger exclaimed as he beheld the small shapes on the shoulders of the Ent who approached them with long, dignified strides. Looking down at their friends from the comfort of their elevated position, the two hobbits waved merrily, and generally seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits despite what they had just witnessed. Smiling quietly to himself, Aragorn shook his head. “Tell a hobbit to stay out of trouble, and this is what you get!”

“So these are the Halflings you sought to rescue when we met on the plains?” Éomer asked, and his dark eyes looked in wonder at the little people on the tree’s shoulders. Movement to his feet briefly diverted his attention, and he extended a helping hand to Gímli who likewise seemed to be overjoyed at the sight of his long-missed companions.

“The little ones are all right, and saving us all, too! Who would have thought it? Come here, you rascals, and let me give you a big hug!”

“But you are drenched! It is too cold to get wet!” the one on the tree’s right shoulder protested, but a big, cheeky grin nearly divided his rosy face in two halves as he signalled his tall protector to lower him onto the wall. “You already met Treebeard, I believe?”

Not yet entirely trusting the situation, the Rohirrim backed away when the ancient being came to a halt before the wall. Only a short while ago, they had witnessed the fury of these strange creatures, now even if the thing – the tree? – looked docile – they remained tense and wary glances were exchanged between the warriors when the members of the fellowship which had set out from Rivendell seemingly an age ago fell into each other’s arms.

“And you as well, Gímli! You would not believe what happened to us! We have so much to tell you!”

“I would believe so, but first, let’s welcome each other like old friends ought to do,” Aragorn grinned and dropped to his knees to pull both hobbits into his embrace.

Éomer turned away from the strange group to grant them their moment of joy over what seemed to be a most unlikely reunion… and also, because he could not bear to see the joy on the faces of others when his own men had suffered dearly in the attack. His fingers clenched in the fur as his gaze swept the devastated court of Isengard; his knuckles turning white. The flood was beginning to sink now that most of the water had gathered in their enemy’s underground works, and the Isen had resumed to peacefully follow the bed it had carved for itself in uncounted years. And while the water sank, the full extent of the damage done to their éohere was slowly being revealed. It was a dreadful sight.

As he stared at the lakes which had formed in the pits, a shadow fell on Éomer’s face and a lump formed in his throat at the thought of how many of his kinsmen had found death in those dark depths. Had it been a mistake to attack Isengard? But what if the hostile had been allowed to assault the Mark? Would such an attack not have resulted in even higher losses of warriors and civilians alike? He sighed, involuntarily shaking his head. Did every commander feel such uncertainty in the aftermath of a lossy battle, even if victory was theirs in the end?

“Éomer! Éomer!” A tall figure pushed through the crowd on his left, and with relief Éomer recognised the Lord of Westfold, and the Captain of Grimslade right behind him. “Béma be praised, you are alive!”

“Lord Erkenbrand! Captain Grimbold!” Glad to see each other, the warriors clapped shoulders and measured each other with concerned glances. There was blood on Erkenbrand’s arm and side, and Grimbold’s face was smeared with it from a cut on his skull, but otherwise both men seemed well enough. “Did you others yet?”

“Findárras is well; he is with the riders beyond the wall, helping the distribution of food and dry garments. I could not find Brand yet, but it is far too early to determine who survived. Our riders are spread over the entire grounds, and it will take some time until a certain kind of order will be re-established.”

“Can you say something about our losses yet? Do you have an overview?” Éomer tensed in expectation of an answer that would pierce his heart, but Erkenbrand spared him.

“Not yet.” Following his gaze over the drenched battlefield, the older man’s expression darkened from the momentary relief over finding the son of Éomund alive. “It seems that because of the chokepoint at the gate, large parts of the éohere had not made it into the encirclement before the water came, so those are well. I already gave orders to share their blankets and help pitching camp and lighting fires. Their healers have already begun to help the wounded, too, but…” he shrugged and shook his head. “There are many to be treated. I told Findárras to send some messengers to the nearest villages for help and supplies and dry clothing, but it will be night again before we can expect someone.” Pressing his lips together as his gaze fell on a horse’s carcass which had been jammed between two rocks below them, he inhaled deeply. “As for how many men we lost in the flood, it is impossible to say yet. We will have to see. Perhaps it is not as bad as we think.”

“One thing is already clear though,” Grimbold grumbled darkly. “We lost many horses. It will be hard to replenish our ranks, even if their riders survived… which likewise remains to be seen.”

“I understand.” Once more Éomer allowed his gaze to sweep their surroundings, and yet his mind was already racing with the things to follow, the next steps he had to take in order to free the kingdom, even if they were not done here yet. Gloomily he stared at the black tower, wishing he could see what was going on inside of it. The blasts of thunder from there had ended, and he wondered what it meant. Was this indeed Saruman’s end? Or had he defeated Gandalf and was still capable of single-handedly wiping out the remains of their éohere, and even now brooding over a spell that would kill them where they stood? His lips a bloodless line, Éomer stared at the intimidating structure of their foe’s fastness. No, nothing had been solved yet. And yet he desperately chafed to be away.

“What do you think?” Erkenbrand asked, reading his thoughts. “Is he dead?”

“I suppose we will find out soon enough.” For a moment, his gaze came to rest on the group around Aragorn, and the joyful expressions on the faces of the ranger, hobbits, dwarves and elves pierced his heart. It was this kind of joy he hoped to experience, too, once he had freed the City of Kings and would at last be able to take Éowyn in his arms again… but what if she was dead? What if he passed through the city gates to find them all slaughtered; Gríma’s revenge for all the long years of his scorn? What if he came too late?

When his attention at last shifted back to the waiting Westfold warriors, a trace of his old determination and strength returned to Éomer’s voice. “I will stay here until we can be certain, but then I must-“

“I know,” Erkenbrand interrupted him, nodding understandingly. Éomer looked guilty, but there was no reason for guilt, because the issue drawing him away was very valid. The young man felt torn between his duty for their riders and his kin, but the task awaiting him in the eastern part of the Mark could not wait. “I know, Marshal. You must leave for Edoras to free our people from the Worm. Of course. You do not need to justify yourself.” He eyed the younger man sceptically. “Éomer, there is no question that I can take over here for you. Go and save the City of Kings from the Worm’s malice… if you are strong enough for the long ride. There are many leagues to cover between Isengard and Edoras, and I remember well that you were only just beginning to recover from your fight with the orcs when you arrived in the Westfold. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look like death warmed over. I cannot deny that I am concerned.”

“I will do whatever needs to be done, Captain, even if you had me to bind me to the saddle! Spread the word that I will ride in three hours, and that anyone who wants to accompany me by then will be most welcome. As most of our riders lost kin or friends because of the Worm’s scheming, I am certain that like I, they can hardly wait to get even.”

Gríma Wormtongue awoke to another grey day. What little light filtered through the heavy curtains had a leaden quality and was barely sufficient to illuminate the outline of his chambers, and yet he did not have to see to know that nothing had changed. Dreading to look at the monument of his shame, but at the same time unable to resist the instinct, he craned his neck, and his gaze fell on the woman sharing the bed with him. A tight band pressed his lungs together as he regarded the once proud daughter of Marshal Eomund of Aldburg. What had he done to the woman he treasured more than life itself? Trembling she lay beside him, unaware of his presence, unaware of her own whereabouts; unmoving, and not a sound coming from her lips. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was the only sign that there was still life in Éowyn, apart from the occasional blink. With his greed and lack of self-control, he had reduced her to a living corpse.

Flinching at the sight, Gríma noticed that Éowyn’s once glorious golden tresses had become a stringy mess through sweat and neglect. They were plastered to an eerily waxen, pale face which, with its sunken cheeks and dark circles, hinted at the gruesome story of her torment. But it were her eyes which told the full tale, and Wormtongue’s courage ended when it came to them. He could not bring himself to look at the terrible emptiness in these once deep pools of blue. The flame of pride and will which had lived there since he had first laid eyes upon the White Lady of Rohan was gone, and it was he who had – unwillingly – extinguished it.

Like that newly hatched hawk he had once found, back in the distant dreary days of his youth. The little bird had fallen from the nest and he had taken it home, determined to nurse it to adulthood and at last have something that would stop the other children’s mockery. For once, he would have something they would admire. But then the bird had refused to eat the worms he had tediously dug from the dry earth during a spring with almost no rain, and no matter what it self-apposed saviour had tried, the little thing had refused to open its beak… until at last, Gríma had pried it open by force and shoved the food down the falcon’s throat. The next morning, the hatchling had been dead, and the children’s mockery worse than ever.

With a sigh from the very depths of his soul, Wormtongue shoved the unwelcome memory aside, but the bitter taste it had stirred up in his mouth remained: apparently, whomever he loved ended up dead; it was just a question of time. Éowyn had been right in calling him a poisonous snake. He needed no venom for his evil deeds; many times he had not even meant any harm, but the fact remained that his very attention was deadly for the objects of his affection. It was not the first time in his life that Gríma silently asked himself whether it would not be better to turn his dagger against himself. Even if his Master’s army arrived and everything would turn out as planned – what was there left for him to expect from life? The only thing he had ever wanted was destroyed, and he would hate himself for it for the rest of his miserable life. There was no love to be had for him in this realm. Soon, Saruman and the Dark Lord would rule over a wasteland covered in darkness, and he would be living with this corpse by his side in eternal night. It was something to dread, not to look forward to, so why should he prolong his life?

With infinite caution, Wormtongue’s fingers caressed Éowyn’s fair skin. Once it had been of a radiant, pearly sheen, but now it, too, had been reduced to a flat sickly white with a grey hue, and not even the sensation of her body close to him could give him comfort anymore. No, it was a shudder he felt instead. He shared his bed with a corpse; a corpse which would soon become a skeleton, he feared, for it could no longer be denied that the young woman’s condition was deteriorating quickly. What little sustenance he had managed to get into her since she had slipped into this horrible stupor had barely been enough to keep her alive, but it would not keep her alive for long. Éowyn was fading away right underneath his fingertips, and it was the ultimate act of defiance. Had she not told him repeatedly that she would rather die than be his? Now even with her mind destroyed, it looked as if Éowyn was determined to keep her promise.

Utterly terrified by the thought of waking beside Éowyn’s truly dead body on a not too-distant morning, Gríma rolled himself away with a jerk and came to his feet, suddenly eager to leave his chambers. Numbly he washed himself and slipped into his clothes, and then all but fled the scene of his shame. And yet he felt no relief when the heavy door closed behind him. Although it was still morning, the grey daylight barely penetrated the heavy twilight in the great hall, and the shadows weighed heavy on his mood, the walls of even the vast throne room closing in on him to the point where Gríma felt barely able to draw another breath.

“Master?” the guard in front of the door to his chambers inquired cautiously, his heavy brow wrinkled over seeing his chieftain in such a distressed mood. “Is something wrong? Can I help?”

Still struggling to fill his lungs with air, Gríma turned to him. Gods, he could not afford to lose it right before his minions! Those Dunlendings, they were like wild dogs. As soon as they sensed a weakness in the other, they attacked without mercy. With an effort, he squared his shoulders.

“Did anything happen during the night? Anything I should know about, or which requires my attention?”

“Not that I know of, Master. I heard that they quarrelled again in the tunnels last night, but nothing serious from what I gather. There were only words.”

“I decide what is serious and what is not,” Wormtongue barked at the dumbfounded man and shot a sinister look at the door to the King’s chambers. “I will go and see for myself. In the meantime I want you to send someone to instruct the kitchen to prepare a meal for the Lady Éowyn: tea and porridge with plenty of honey. I will pick it up myself when I return.”

“Yes, Master. Certainly.” The Dunlending nodded eagerly, hoping that the ill-mooded man would soon be gone, but once again he found himself suddenly the focus of these threatening pale eyes.

“No one, and I repeat – no one - will enter my chambers while I am gone! Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, Master. I will see to it myself.” The guard had no idea what had put their leader into such an ill mood; whether it had been a dream of something else, but with growing duration of the siege, it could no longer be denied that his brethren grew less and less enthusiastic of serving Gríma son of Gálmód. With each passing day it became harder to find volunteers for the guard position in front of the counsellor’s own chambers, and it was obvious that something was troubling the once cunning and confident halfblood. They did not know what it was yet, but it frightened the hillmen. What if their plan had failed and now the Rohirrim were on their way to Edoras to avenge themselves? With a cold feeling spreading in his stomach, the guard lowered his eyes in submission, hoping to be left alone.

With a last threatening glance, Wormtongue left the man standing and strode over to Théoden’s chambers, but contrary to the previous days, he did not look forward to having to speak to the captured King. In the first days of the siege, it had been a very satisfactory reward to let the old fool wake from the poison-induced stupor in which he had kept him for the past years, and to rub the extent of his failure into Théoden’s face: how his people had paid with blood for their King to put his trust in the wrong man, including his own kin. In all detail had Gríma described the circumstances of Théodred’s death to the grieving King, and how by his own words, he had sealed his nephew’s fate. The unfathomable pain in the lined face had been a sweet delicacy; adequate compensation for the cruelty of the Éorlingas of which Wormtongue had been the target since his early childhood days.

But he had committed one crucial mistake: in the first wild surge of victory, Gríma had announced the arrival of Saruman’s army to the feeble King, and how he would lead him out onto the terrace to witness the slaughter of his kinsmen before he would be killed as well… but his Master’s army had still not arrived, and with each passing day, the triumph in the old ruler’s eyes became greater whenever he asked his tormentor for its whereabouts. As if the fool knew something he did not. But it was obvious now to Gríma that something in the West had not gone as planned, and he anxiously awaited the return of the two Dunlending scouts he had sent to the nearest settlement under the protection of Saruman’s cloaks last night to see what had happened to his spies.

Grinding his teeth as he steeled himself for yet another confrontation with the ruler of the Horselords, Gríma silently opened the door to the royal chambers; actually hoping that Théoden-King was still asleep and he could sneak past him without having to listen to the old man’s mockery. He hoped in vain.

“If that is not Gríma Wormtongue, my trusted counsellor!” he was greeted as soon as he stuck his head into the room. It was only a weak shadow of the King’s once powerful voice, but it sounded amused – a condition in which Wormtongue certainly had not wanted Théoden to be at this point of his plan. “And how considerate of you to try and avoid all noise! Is it because you did not want to disturb my sleep, or were you just trying to tiptoe past me because the army you promised me has still not arrived?” Gríma could not entirely suppress the twitch at this gleeful remark, and he knew that the King of the Rohírrim had seen it, because although still bound to the bed, a triumphant sparkle now awoke in Théoden’s eyes which he saw from the corner of his eye. “I must say that I am beginning to doubt its existence, old friend. But then again, I suppose I should not be surprised, because lies were all you ever told. If your promises were empty, so seem to be your threats.”

With a deep breath, Wormtongue forced himself to turn to the old man, and a malignant smirk contorted his mutilated lip as he lifted his chin in feigned superiority which required the last of his willpower.

“You may of course do whatever pleases you, my liege. If you think that there is still hope for your people, it will be an even more crushing experience for you to see them being slaughtered. The reason why my Master’s army is taking so long is easily explained though: they are thorough. It takes time to burn every single house and kill every single man, woman and child on their way here. Our army waited long for this victory, and now that it is in our hands, it is only natural we want to savour its taste.” He licked his lips and then stepped closer to the bed, resting his hands on the foot end. “Saruman’s Uruk-hai will not simply put your people to the sword, my Lord. No, they will make them suffer before they will allow them to die, and that will only be after the last drop of their blood has been drained from their white, gutted bodies. Creative slaughtering takes time. They will be here soon enough, believe me.”

The mockery vanished from Théoden’s expression, and yet the gaze of the old man’s grey-blue eyes was as steel as he met his captor’s challenge, and for the first time ever, Gríma felt vulnerable under the King’s scrutiny. Unexpectedly, a very thin smile appeared on the Rohír’s lips.

“Your plan has failed, and you know it. You can no longer fool me, Gríma Wormtongue!”

Flinching at hearing his despised nickname from the King’s mouth for the first time, Gríma straightened.

“Believe whatever you want, old man. The western sky is already black with the smoke of your burning settlements, and your denial will not rescue your people. I give them two more days until this hill becomes their funeral pyre.” He all but fled to the tunnel’s entrance, neither listening to what Théoden shouted after him nor acknowledging the questioning stare of the guard positioned there. “Come with me!”

Raising an eyebrow at his master’s distressed tone, the Dunlending did as bidden and almost crashed into Gríma as he unexpectedly stopped and turned around in the middle of the tunnel to ask in a strained whisper: “Has your brother reported back yet, Gâlâf?”

The man from a little settlement in the Misty Mountains understood that his master had wanted to get out of the King’s earshot for his question, and he wondered what this discovery meant. When they had seized control over Meduseld, Gríma had promised them that it would only take a few days until Saruman’s army freed them. But the days came and went, and all that happened was Gríma getting more and more anxious and his brethren more and more aggressive. Apparently, something had not gone as planned, and no one was being filled in. And yet as he saw Gríma’s hard expression, Gâlâf did not find the courage to ask, so he just shook his head.

“But Master, he only left last night…” ‘-how could he already be back?’ he had meant to add, but swallowed it when he was pierced by a sinister glance.

“Tell him to see me immediately once he’s back!” Gríma hissed, his eyes threateningly narrowed. “Is there anything else that requires my attention? I heard there was another quarrel last night?”

“Yes or no, Gâlaf? I alone decide whether it is worthy of my attention, not you!”

A deadly chill settled in the Dunlending’s stomach, and his hands began to tremble under the other man’s unrelenting scare.

“How?” The pale blue eyes were now only slits, sparkling with dread and aggression at the same time as Gríma leant toward his kinsman. “How did it die, Gâlâf? Was it shoot, by any means, or knifed? What happened?”

“Wolf says that it was the food,” he somehow brought out. “Gûndarg gave him some leftovers from their chicken, and shortly afterward, it was in horrible pain. Must have been a bone or so; they are dangerous. Wolf put him out of his misery himself.”

“Yes, Master. I know what you suspect, but nobody was in here. Nobody but us. They cannot find the tunnel; we hid it too well.”

“Hmm…” Looking over his shoulder although there was nothing to be seen on the other end, Wormtongue paused for a moment that felt like an eternity to the anxious guard. At last, he turned back. “I want the guards doubled for the nightwatch. And I want two men to guard the cave below the entrance from now on. They will be relieved every two hours. It may have been just a coincidence… but if it was not, we’ll be prepared.”

Deciding not to retrace his steps through the King’s chambers and thus risking another exchange with Théoden, Gríma turned toward the intersection. Very well. He would take the tunnel to the dungeon and first see how his other captives were doing and then head back to Meduseld through Éowyn’s chambers… and he would take an escort, just in case. Something smelled rotten in the Golden Hall, but no matter what was going on, if they thought they could surprise him, they would find themselves severely mistaken.

They were moving again. Not as fast as Éomer would have liked, but considering what horses and riders had been through earlier that day, it was a miracle that they were able to make for Edoras at all. The sun shed its eerie orange light onto the plains as it slowly disappeared behind the still white-topped Éred Nimrais, to make room for its silver brother ruling the night. Usually at this hour around dusk, the Rohirrim would begin looking for a suitable place to pitch camp, but not so this time. Although men and beasts felt the strain of the previous efforts, they would continue through the night and try to reach the City of Kings in time to prevent the worst.

Behind them, Orthanc had long vanished from sight and the Isen’s mighty voice could no longer be heard in the distance; still their progress felt excruciatingly slowly to Éomer. Beyond Firefoot’s ears, the plains stretched far beyond the darkening horizon as they thundered over the brown winter grass, the low grumble announcing their presence to the settlements along the way. Several hours had passed since they had encountered the long treck of villagers on their way to Isengard, equipped with supplies, dry clothes, spare horses and carts for the transportation of the wounded and dead.

In the vicinity of their western-most settlements, several riders had approached their host to learn more about the past battle, accompanying their warriors a small part of the way until at last they had turned around to spread the tidings of the éoreds’ victory and Saruman’s death. When twilight thickened and the first stars emerged from the black skies, the host was alone again and trying to prepare themselves for the long dark hours ahead of them.

Their forces were more numerous than Éomer had hoped even in his boldest dreams: more than a thousand riders accompanied him on his way to the settlement of a very old debt. And despite general exhaustion and the worry for friends and kin they had left behind on hostile territory, the Rohirrim were eager to bring the traitor within their hall to justice; no doubt hoping to be allowed a strike or a punch themselves. Many of their comrades had fallen prey to Gríma Wormtongue’s evil schemes over the years, and now that the time for revenge appeared to have arrived at last, one thing seemed certain: once the sons of Éorl were done with the false snake in their midst, there would not even remain enough of Gríma son of Gálmód to feed the crows.

A grim smile curling his lips, Éomer involuntarily urged on Firefoot with the pressure of his thighs, yet contrary to his usual response, the stallion did not oblige. The grey’s leaps usually boasted with barely restrained power, but now they were short and hard and shook Éomer thoroughly, an unmistakable sign that even his steed’s great strength was beginning to fail. With a deep sigh and a bad conscience, the Marshal ran an apologetic hand down the grey neck and against his steadily growing anxiety, forced himself to settle back and allow his mount to determine his own speed.

And yet it was a hard test. Patience had never been one of Éomer’s strengths, and each additional moment he would have to wait until he would Éowyn in his arms again, hopefully unharmed, felt like an eternity. Still reality refused to let itself be ignored: like his rider, Firefoot had done more than his share in the past days, and had carried him through more than half of the Mark already. The grey had defended his master against wolves; he had gone through two battles and been wounded himself, and yet the stallion had never once protested against his rider’s demands. Éomer knew that there was an end to what he could ask of his the Half-Méara, as the grey’s entire great heart was already dedicated to the fulfilment of his will. They travelled as fast as was possible, for all except Shadowfax the Great himself who galloped to his right with Gandalf on his back, obviously never-tiring.

“I know, Firefoot,” he murmured apologetically, still fighting to contain his growing frustration. “You are doing your best, and I thank you for it, but as much as I would like to grant you a break now, we must continue for a little while longer while we can still see.” Once again he patted the foam-lathered neck, rejoicing at the sensation of the strong heartbeat beneath his fingertips. In the wake of the flood, he had feared the stallion dead, but to his great joy and relief, Béma had decided to give the great Grey back him.

Not having anything else to do than hold his balance on Firefoot’s back, Éomer’s thoughts returned to the aftermath of the battle…

Although both frantic and dreading to go and look for his horse at the same time, duty had directed his steps in a different direction at first: following Aragorn’s advice, Éomer had first sought out his kinsmen appointed the task of handing out what dry clothing was available. On his way through the crowded corridors, he had clapped shoulders and shaken the hands of many men he had feared dead, until at last he had been able to quickly change out of his drenched garments. Done with this minimal measure of self-preservation, Éomer had then headed out again to obtain an overview of the situation and their losses.

His path had led him through rooms and corridors of the fortification already crammed with wounded men, and still more were being brought in. Between the groaning and screaming warriors, the healers had frantically darted from patient to patient, their hands red with the blood of their comrades and kin as they tried to mend shattered bones and gaping wounds. After observing the spectacle for a moment in which horror’s cold fingers had frozen his spine, Éomer had forced himself to wander through the rows and encourage his unfortunate riders in an effort to lend them strength and hope for their new struggle. Briefly he had exchanged a few k words with Tolgor, his own éored’s healer, but quickly left the man to his task as the grim-faced Eastfold warrior had been in preparations to take off a young rider’s sickeningly twisted leg.

Mentally and bodily too exhausted to endure more of this unspeakable misery, Éomer had then all but fled the sickrooms to check on the situation outside, only to find it – if possible – even worse: in the time it had taken him to change his clothes and comfort his soldiers, the water level within the Ring of Isengard had dropped enough to reveal the corpses and carcasses of scores of drowned men, horses, orcs and wargs; a ghastly sight even for the battle-experienced eyes of the Third Marshal of Riddermark. The tree-beings had still waded through the shallow water in their search for unlucky Rohirrim who had suffered in their attack, but observing their efforts for a little while longer, it appeared to Éomer that only dead bodies were still left for them to pick from the sinking water. Silently he had stood on the wall and watched as their former attackers gracefully carried the victims of their rage to the breach in the stone encirclement, where the remainders of the éohere had gathered, to gently lay down the dead under the wary eyes of the surviving riders. Éomer’s soul had cried out at the sight of how many bodies had already lain there, strewn on the brown, dead winter grass. Completely absorbed in the horrible scene, he had failed to notice the figure standing next to him until the man had spoken.

“I wish I could have stopped them.” The deep voice had been familiar, but long unheard. Upon turning to face the wizard, Éomer had found Gandalf’s gaze on the field of battle below them, the ancient face deeply lined with sorrow. “I only overtook them when they already rushed down the hill toward you, and in their rage, they would not listen to me. In fact, I doubt that they even heard me. Much is needed to provoke an Ent to attack; they usually withdraw from a conflict rather than meddle in others’ affairs. It was for this reason that common knowledge of their existence had faded to myth over the centuries.” Together, they had followed another Ent’s rescue attempts, but again, the body that was lifted from the floods was limp, and with a sigh,Gandalf had continued. “As we have unfortunately been demonstrated, there is no stopping them once the dam of their restraint breaks. The Ents are a force of nature as powerful as a rockslide, but with the conscious to choose what to destroy. Unfortunately, you were in their way.”

“So it was not you who summoned them then,” Éomer had stated, unable to determine what it was that felt different to him about the grey wanderer from the man he had known for much of his life. A strange aura seemed to envelop the Istar; an air of power and strength the son of Eomund had never perceived before. The benign Gandalf Greyhame who had occasionally visited Edoras in the time of Éomer’s youth was still there, but there seemed to be a new depth to his capabilities.

“I?” The question had been accompanied by a raised white eyebrow. “No. From what I hear, it were Merry and Pippin who pointed them at Saruman’s treason, but of course it was impossible for them to foresee the consequences of their actions… or to understand that their timing was most unfortunate. Your people paid dearly for this attack, Marshal, and your loss may hurt even worse because of the revelation that their sacrifice might not have been necessary.” The Istar’s gaze returned to the battlefield. “I suppose the only good thing that can be said about today is that what you wanted to achieve has been achieved: your foe is dead.”

The bitter thought transformed Éomer’s mouth into a bloodless line. In an attempt to push it aside as it would not help in the fulfilment of his duties, he had pointed his chin at the round thing the wizard cradled in his arms. Wrapped in a blanket, it was quite obvious that Gandalf had not meant for anyone to see it, but Éomer found it impossible to suppress his curiosity.

“I was about to ask you, but now that you confirm it…” And with a little nod, he had asked: “So Saruman is indeed dead. Is this the prize you came for? Is it the thing you hoped to gain in the fight?”

With an apprehensive glance, as if he had hoped to be spared the question, Gandalf had shaken his head.

“It might prove valuable to our cause, but it was not my reason for coming here. That honour belongs to my old, alas misguided and greedy friend. Though only the lesser one of our foes, Saruman’s might would have been too great for your people, even if you had overcome his orcs.” With a sharp intake of breath, the wizard stared at the dark tower. “After stripping him of his powers, I offered to spare his life, because he was a friend once and because the Dark Lord’s evil spells corrupted many, not just him... but he chose death over such an existence. He killed himself.” Blue grey eyes had met Éomer’s in sudden threat. “I said that the thing I took might be helpful against his master…but I cannot deny that it is also bears a great danger, and I will not use it unless circumstances force me. There is not telling what might happen if it falls into the wrong hands, or is used wrongly…”

Uneasily glancing at the round thing, Éomer had wrinkled his brow. Sorcery was something that had always been met with scepticism in their land, and apart from not fully believing in it, he had no experience in the handling of such things. Even Gríma Wormtongue’s potions which were a powerful weapon were grounded in the ‘real’ world for him, the world Éomer could see and touch, but what was this little round thing in the Istar’s elbow? It appeared to be quite heavy.

“I suppose that I shouldn’t ask what it is then?” He had meant to say it lightly, but Gandalf’s unexpected warning glance chased a shiver down the Marshal’s spine.

“I must ask you to forgive me for not telling you, Marshal, but the secret will rest safer the less people know about it. Please, do not interpret my silence as distrust, but against the foe’s measures even the mightiest might fail. On the other hand, no one cannot tell what one does not know.”

“Fair enough.” Deciding to abandon the subject albeit he found his curiosity aroused, Éomer had nodded, and instead cut the wizard another measuring glance. He had to go and see Erkenbrand, but this needed to be addressed, first: “Gandalf Greyhame, I suppose that now is not the time to inquire about the fortune that gave you back to us alive, but at least I want it said that - contrary to my Lord’s demeanour - the Rohírrim are glad to still count you among our allies. Your last visit to the Mark did not exactly make you our King’s friend, although the source of Théoden’s anger may not be difficult to guess.”

As sudden as the threat had stood in the wizard’s eyes, it was replaced by a mischievous twinkle.

“Of course not, Eómer Eomundsson, and I thank you for your words. I am well aware that even without his so-called ‘Counsellor’s’ whisperings, Théoden would have been wroth with me for displaying such poor modesty in the choosing of my gift. Greediness will always invoke irritation, regardless of the circumstance. Yet as fast actions were called for, I was, alas, not at freedom to choose differently.” The twinkle in his eyes was suddenly accompanied by a distant, but honest smile as Gandalf’s gaze wandered over to a white figure on the plain behind the wall. ”If I can offer you any consolation for this loss, Marshal, it is that your King’s gift is indeed highly treasured. If it had not been for Shadowfax, things would be decidedly worse now for the people of the West.”

Following the wizard’s gaze, Éomer had raised an eyebrow and, with a wistful smile,said: “I always wondered how it would feel to sit on the back of the noblest horse of all Middle Earth... but he never allowed me to touch him.”

“I will not pretend to understand why he suffers me to ride him, and yet his acceptance seems comes freely. I never forced him.”

“And you could not force him to do anything against his will. The Méaras choose their riders, it has always been this way. The pure-blooded ones will only allow the King and his kin on their backs, and as you see with Shadowfax, sometimes not even them.” In silence, he watched as the white stallion approached the camp, and the sight of his busy warriors reminded him of the many tasks still waiting to be seen to. ”Yet I fear you must excuse me for now, Master Gandalf…”

“… but you are needed down there. Of course,” the Istar had nodded his understanding. “Now that your foe in the west has been defeated, I suppose that you will make haste to free your capital – and your King – as well, won’t you?”

“Aye. And we must leave soon, as reluctant as I am of leaving my men in the wake of this battle. But I cannot delay it.”

“Gríma Wormtongue’s days must surely be counted now, if I am not severely mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken, Gandalf Greyhame. Of course not. I hope that we can leave in three hours, and when we reach Edoras, we will bring the Snake to account for the long years of the Mark’s suffering, I promise you that. There will not be anything left of Gríma son of Gálmód once we are done with him.” Éomer inclined his head.“I would be honoured if you accompanied with us, Grey Wanderer. Your presence would surely be a great advantage in these unpleasant dealings.”

“And I will gladly ride with you, for the times are such that we can no longer tarry in our fight against the Dark Lord. Sauron must almost be ready to strike, and it is time that the forces of the West unite. I will need to speak to your King as soon as we reach Edoras.” At the mention of his uncle’s name, Éomer’s expression had suddenly hardened, much to Gandalf’s surprise. And yet he had understood enough to not inquire further when the young man dismissed him in a strangely tense tone.

“I will send someone to alert you before we leave. For now, I fear that I must first find out how many of our men survived the battle. If you will please excuse me…”

On Firefoot’s back, Éomer’s face darkened as he remembered how he had made his path through the field of rubble to which the court of Isengard had been diminished.

His expression an unmoved mask as he knew that his men needed a strong leader in order to endure the experienced horror themselves, Éomer had limped down the stairs to ground level. Exhausted himself and the pain in his injured leg and bruised ribs once again beginning to cross the border of the tolerable, he had waded through the shallow flood, tormented by the sight of their countless dead comrades whose mortal remains were being salvaged by the survivors for a proper burial. Dreading to think of how many more they would find once the water disappeared from the pits, Éomer had felt an overwhelming pang of guilt over having to leave his kinsmen to this horrible task while he disappeared.

Darkly he had glanced up at the black cloud of crebain, whose ugly cries still insulted his ears as they circled the battlefield in their endless spirals, only waiting for the moment when they would be allowed to feast on banquet spread out for them below.

Snorting with disgust as he felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, Éomer had observed the swarm for a while longer, the sight only strengthening his determination to not leave behind a single Rohír or horse for these scavengers to feed on. Their fallen would be taken back to the Mark once the villagers Erkenbrand had summoned arrived with their carts and spare horses, and would find their eternal rest in the soil of their homeland. It was not much they could do for these unfortunate men and their families, but at least they would not leave them back. Alas, for their killed horses, all they could do was drench their carcasses with the oil found in the chambers of the fortification and burn them.

On his way over to the broadest breach in the wall, behind which the remains of their éohere had gathered, Éomer had kept a wary eye on the Ents, but occasionally straying over the dead Rohirrim he passed. Several familiar features had been among them the sight of the pain and torment under which these men had died deeply engraved in their faces, until at last Éomer had felt the need to avert his gaze in order to remain in control.

His way through the debris also led him by the carcass of a grey horse, gently swaying in the by now gentle current, and for a moment, a tight band around Éomer’s ribs had pressed the air from his lungs. Unable to breathe until he had found the tack on the stallion’s limp body different from what Firefoot had carried, Éomer quickly left the dead animal behind… and still, with each carcass he had to walk around, his hope to find the Half-Méara still alive diminished.

“Éomer!”a familiar voice had at last reached him from behind the shattered wall, and as Éomer stepped over the last boulders, he had to his great relief looked into the face of his Eastfold Captain and trusted friend of many years, Findárras. ”Béma be praised, you are well!” Greeting each other like long separated brothers, the two men had embraced and then stepped back to regard each other. The red-bearded warrior’s face bore several bruises and swellings and his left eye was half-shut, but other than that and the stiff way in which he held himself, Findárras seemed well enough.

“How is it, old Friend?” Éomer had asked with an uncomfortable glance at the many still bodies behind the tall warrior. Their kinsmen had already covered the fallen with blankets, and still the sheer number of their dead left his blood frozen. “Do we have an overview of our losses yet?” Even as he spoke, another Ent had approached with a dead body in its branch-like hands, and they had stepped back, still distrustful of these strange beings whose fury had cost them so dearly.

Findárras’ relieved expression had quickly changed back to one of exhausted concern and grief upon following his friend’s gaze.

“They are still bringing the dead in, and I do not even want to imagine how many more we will find once the water is gone from the tunnels and pits. But I would count on at least five hundred men.” With a deep breath, the warrior had continued after seeing the same dismay that he felt on his marshal’s face. “I cannot yet say how many horses we lost, because many of them bolted when the trees attacked. We may yet find some of them alive and unharmed running through in the vicinity of Isengard… which reminds me of something. Come. I have a feeling you will like thi!” And with the faintest smile shining through his weariness and grief, Findárras had motioned Éomer to follow. Together they passed through the camp, past the rows of the fallen and through the crowd of riders busy with the building of fires and the treatment of their wounded, muttering hasty greetings as they came and went.

Comforted by the sight of his kinsmen’s care for each other, Éomer had observed their efforts for a moment longer while he followed the Eastfold Captain, and bumped into him when the man halted without warning.

Barely leaving Findárras the time to point at the improvised paddock to their left, a powerful neigh had suddenly pierced the air and instantly claimed Éomer’s attention. With a broad, incredulous smile upon his lips, he had turned.

“Firefoot?” For a moment seeing nothing else except for the great grey stallion who regarded him with pricked ears from behind the rope,, Éomer had quickly limped over to receive a welcoming snort and a hard nudge in the chest as the huge head lowered toward him. “Come here, you big grey coward! You are not even wet! Where were you when the water came, huh? Halfway back at Helm’s Deep, I suppose? You are a disgrace!” He pulled his steed closer, overjoyed over their unexpected reunion as his fingers slid through Firefoot’s dark locks and rejoicing in the warmth of the stallion’s breath. “Ran from a tree, did you? And left me to do all the fighting? Some fine companion you are!” An indignant snort answered him, and for a moment, Éomer’s worries had seemed far away.

“Well, the tree-things may have been too much for your steed,” Findárras had said as he had stepped up to them with an amused glance. “But that doesn’t mean that Firefoot was idle. I saw with my own eyes how he smashed in many orc-heads even after you were separated, and when the water came, it was your stallion who chased the other horses through the breach to safety. I would say that he is as much a hero of this battle as his rider.”

“Are you? Are you a hero indeed, Demon? Shall I believe him?” With a broad grin Éomer had ruffled the thick winter fur before stepping back to let his scrutinizing glance wander over his animal friend. “Well, if Findárras says so, I suppose I should, huh?” The stallion’s hide had been splattered with mud and orc-blood, and a brief inspection of the hooves revealed tatters of dark orc-hide and hair still sticking to the horn. Apart from the old gashes in Firefoot’s cheek and shoulder, which had looked well enough, Éomer had not found any other injuries on his steed, and finally allowed himself to relax. In the midst of all this misery, it seemed like a miracle that the Half-Méara had been given back to him alive… even if the grey demon seemed determined to eat his cloak.

“Aye, I love you, too, Big Brother, but I still need this, so if you please?” Shifting his attention back to the patiently waiting Findárras, Éomer at last remembered his other duties which could no longer be delayed.

“Over there, talking with Aragorn.” A questioning glance had found him. “Will you leave him in command here when we leave?”

“Aye. I want these men to be given a proper burial, even the ones in the pits. I do not envy the men who will have to go down there and look for them, but it is the least we can do. He will have to assign these tasks to his men, and I will leave him with the majority of the éohere for protection. Last thing we’d need would be for the Dunlendings to attack while our Armed Forces make for Edoras. We will have to concern ourselves with them eventually, but now is not the time. Come.” Looking over to where he had suddenly discovered the Lord of Westfold’s impressive shape, Éomer had motioned his friend to follow him back through the crowd. “When you say ‘we’, does that mean that you will accompany me?”

“Of course I will!” A shadow had darkened Findárras expression. “The entire éored is eager to ride with you, unless you wanted us to remain here… but the men are worried for Elfhelm, Éomer. As am I. If he fell prey to the Worm…”

With a tired nod, Éomer had clapped his friend’s shoulder as they made their way over to where Erkenbrand was organising his riders.

“I know how you feel, old friend, and I, too, pray that we will arrive at Edoras in time to prevent the worst. Now go and tell those who will accompany us to rest; we will ride the night through, and we will not be able to wait for those who cannot keep up with our host.”

Blinking, Éomer woke from his memories and found that darkness had descended upon the land whilst his thoughts had been occupied with the happenings of the passed afternoon. Straight as an arrow shot into the night, their host proceeded east upon the old road, the most direct way toward Edoras, riding close together. Although night had decked its blanket over their surroundings and shielded them from their eyes, Éomer knew that they were still in the Westemnet, and that many more leagues still separated them from their destination. It would be another long night…

Never had a sunset been anticipated with greater impatience in the City of Kings; the last hours of golden light from the cloudless sky nothing short of torture despite it having been the first clear day for quite some time. But when at last the shadows lengthened and darkness fell over the capital of Riddermark to cover the streets from potentially spying eyes, Áedwulf and Éothain gathered their éored on the square. Expectantly the warriors awaited their captains, eager to become active at last and deal with their foes as they saw fit after the long days of enforced apathy. Behind them stood the citizens, likewise armed with everything they had found which could be used for a weapon and hoping to be allowed a part in their foes’ downfall, and be it only to spit into their faces once their corpses would be thrown out of Meduseld.

An expectant cordon opened to allow the two captains into the crowd’s midst, and as Éothain ascended the platform next to the flag pole, the older warrior gave him an encouraging glance full of confidence. For a moment, Éothain’s eyes wandered over the marketplace and the many eager faces regarding him in anticipation of their orders; his whole body tingling with the atmosphere of raw and yet unchannelled power waiting to be unleashed against the usurpers. With a deep breath, he began, restraining himself to keep his voice low lest the enemy should hear him from the top of the hill:

“My dear friends and fellow kinsmen, I thank you for your attendance in such great numbers; it strengthens my confidence seeing the same eagerness that I feel in your eyes to free us from our enemy’s siege at last! I understand that all of you want to go and avenge those of your kin and friends you lost to the Worm’s schemes, but make no mistake: even if we have the advantage of surprise on our side, it will still be a difficult and dangerous undertaking! Chances are that yet more lives will be lost and more sacrifices must be made before the sun will rise over a freed Edoras tomorrow. Our enemy has holed up in Meduseld with his Dunlending brethren, and while the hillfolk has never been adept at close-quarter battle, it will not be easy to make use of our greater number and superior skill in the confined tunnels within the hill. We must also not forget that Gríma’s greatest advantage are his hostages.He still holds the King and the White Lady prisoner, and possibly even more members of the Royal Household as well; thus it must be our priority to ensure that they will not come to harm.”

“Where does he hold them?” a voice asked, and Éothain turned to the older warrior who had uttered it. “In the dungeon?”

“We do not know,” the young Captain said truthfully. “Yet for a variety of reasons we suspect that the King and Lady Éowyn are kept inside their chambers, while the others are being held in the dungeon – presumed they are still alive.” A sharp intake of breath from many mouths could be heard over the square. “For this reason, we must be extraordinarily quick and coordinated in our attack; once we are in the tunnels, there is no room for error. Áedwulf and I will now select the men who will accompany us, and I must ask everyone else who remains outside to be patient. We all want to rip off the Worm’s head, but please, do not walk up to the Hall just yet! Our foe is cunning, and for sure has he manned the windows of Meduseld with his guards. I doubt that they can see or hear us down here for as long as we keep our voices low, but a large group of you suddenly walkingup the path in the middle of the night would beyond doubt be noticed. One half of our éored will hold itself ready in the storage shed beneath the hall from where they can see the western windows, and as soon as we gain access to the Hall and the hostages are safe, we give them the signal. Only then will they attack the door and windows, and you are free to follow them. We will come at the enemy from two sides, and the Worm does not have enough forces to withstand us. But you must wait for the signal, or our attack might result in the death of the hostages. Most of you know which parts of the city can be observed from above, so make sure that you wait somewhere else. Hold yourself ready and be prepared, because then will be the time to repay our foes in blood for all they did to us.”

Éothain fell silent, and again his gaze wandered over the eager faces before him., a grim smile tugging at his mouth. He surely did not want to be in Wormtongue’s place now. Was there anything left to say, something he had forgotten perhaps, or was it truly the time to act now? He looked at Áedwulf, and saw the older warrior nod with a satisfied expression on his bearded face.

“Very well. All men of our éored stay here, and the rest of you, go and take up your positions. It is time.”

Midnight had passed when the sixty warriors Éothain and Áedwulf had selected for the attack through the tunnels made their way to the back of the hill. Together they had chosen those men most experienced at close-quarters battle and those most skilled with the bow, and sent the others to the shed to wait for their signal. Now the men followed them in perfect silence, their unseen approach favoured by the darkness of the new moon. A perfect night for an assault, but of course Wormtongue had to know that as well. Underestimating their foe would result in disaster.

As they approached the tunnel’s entrance, careful to tread silently on the rocky terrain, Éothain suddenly noticed a pale light emanating from their destination and lifted his hand. Immediately the men stopped and sought cover in the thick shadows, while their young Captain crouched behind the nearest rock and listened tensely into the night.

“What is it?” Áedwulf whispered into his ear, not yet having detected the source of his friend’s concern from his position behind Éothain’s broad back. “Have you heard something?’”

“There’s light.” Éothain pointed his finger at the soft glow. Moving his lips in a silent curse, Áedwulf likewise ducked behind the rock.

“Guards! That accursed filth! How can he have learned of our plan? I refuse to believe that there is a traitor among us.”

“I do not think that the Worm knows about it,” Éothain murmured under his breath. “He is simply being cautious. I suspect that it means our ploy with the glass worked, and that the dog is dead. It could be coincidence, but we both know Wormtongue well enough. He does not believe that such things happen at random. Perhaps he smells something, but he can’t be sure.”

“But what if he suspects foul play? If he positioned a host of Dunlending in that cave, we have a problem. Not that we could not defeat them, but we could hardly hope to do so unheard.”

“That is true, but I do not believe so either. Anyway, we will know it soon enough.” With a brief glance back over his shoulder, Éothain quickly found among the anxious faces of their warriors the one he had looked for: Léod, a serious young man of nineteen summers whose skill with the bow was only surpassed by his stealth. The man he needed right now, and the youth understood his silent order immediately, for their eyes had barely met when he already pushed through his bewildered kinsmen to report to his commander.

“It looks as if our foe planted guards at the tunnel’s entrance. You and I, we will go and make short shrift of them now; quickly and soundlessly.” Éothain cut the young man a scrutinizing glance. “Shall we go?” He noticed with satisfaction that he could not detect even the slightest sign of fear in the keen eyes before him.

“Áedwulf, you and the men wait here for our sign. Come, Léod.” Without a second glance, Éothain turned to go. With a curt nod at the éored’s second-in-command, the young warrior followed him, seeking his way through the treacherously loose gravel with the sure-footedness of a goat.

Silently they approached the entrance, now able to pick up pieces of a muffled conversation from below. Straining to understand the words, Éothain quickly established that there were only two different voices. Did it mean that there were only two guards to be dealt with? Or were there more, sleeping nearby perhaps, while those two they were hearing held watch? Again he held his breath to listen to their adversaries’ quiet exchange, but it was the guttural language of the Dunlendings that reached his ears, and he did not understand a word. Looking up, Éothain saw Léod silently shake his head to indicate that he, too, could not follow the conversation, but then he laid a finger against his lips and cautiously edged closer to the hole to take a glance inside.

His fingers clenching the heft of his sword, Éothain tensed. It was impossible to see anything through the magical blanket; the light which had betrayed the new arrangement seeping out only from underneath the loose edges. It complicated the situation tremendously: in order to not alert other potential guards, they needed to kill the two below them instantly, not allowing them a single sound. How were they supposed to shoot with such accuracy if they couldn’t even see their targets? Looking back to where he could make out Áedwulf’s dark shape, Éothain wrecked his brain for a solution, yet before he could think of a new plan, Léod returned from his foray and leant close to his ear.

“There’s only two of them,” he whispered, his words barely audible. “There is a small tear in the fabric through which I saw them. They’re armed and clad in mail, but they’re also sitting right below the blanket - impossible to miss. With an arrow to their heads, they will be dead before they hit the ground… or we could jump in and cut their throats, but that could result in a fight.”

“No, that is too risky. The entrance is too narrow to allow us both in at the same time. We’ll shoot them, but through the neck or the eye. Dunlendings have strong bones; arrows might not penetrate their skulls.”

“We’ll have to shoot at an angle then. Very well.” The youth nodded eagerly, already turning around to crawl back to the opening.

“I know how to shoot that way, Captain. I’ve done it before.” Silently, Léod made his way back, and with a last glance at the rock where the rest of their éored waited, Éothain followed him… and as he approached the faint glow of the fire, he felt at last battle-readiness flood his veins. ‘I’m coming, Father! Hold on but a little longer! I’m almost there!’

With infinite caution, the two Rohírrim positioned themselves around the hole, and Léod pointed out the tear in the blanket to his commander. His heartbeat pounding in his ears as he craned his neck to cast a glance inside, Éothain immediately detected the two Dunlendings below him. They were indeed wearing light armour, making a fast killing shot difficult… but not impossible. Slanting his scout an intense gaze as he lifted his hand, Éothain communicated his order with two quick gestures: he would take the right man… and they would aim at their enemies’ eyes. Nodding, the young man unslung his bow and fitted an arrow to the string without looking. Although occupied with his own preparations, Éothain could not help being impressed with his kinsman’s calm demeanour in the moment of truth. This was a man to keep an eye on, destined for great deeds in this war… provided he survived this night. With a deep, soundless breath, Éothain focussed on his target. They would have to shoot simultaneously.

The Dunlending was restlessly moving his head, looking nervous. And how right he was to feel this way, for these last breathes he took would be his last, Éothain thought with grim satisfaction; his eyes narrowed to slits. The string touching his cheek, he drew back the arrow and took aim, moving with the target ever so slightly and anticipating its next move. The eye was a small mark to hit, but now the son of Céorl felt the great calm he always felt before mastering a difficult shot. Béma was looking at him now; he could not miss.

As if sensing his peril, the Dunlending suddenly looked up – and collapsed in a lifeless heap as Éothain’s arrow embedded itself in his eye with a sharp thwack. A heartbeat later, his friend dropped to the ground as well. Briefly his fingers flexed in the dirt, then with a shudder, all tension left the man’s body. Outside, the two assassins waited with baited breath for the alarm that would away give their deed … but it remained calm. Cautiously Éothain lifted the blanket and peered down. The Dunlendings lay still now, very obviously dead, their remaining eyes staring unfocussed at the intruders. An unconscious smile wandered over the Captain’s face. It was only the first part of the rescue, but so far it was going well. Quickly looking up to motion the anxiously waiting éored over, Éothain lowered himself into the cave, taking the blanket with him as he would need it for the following, crucial part of their plan.

As Áedwulf and the others arrived at the cave’s entrance, Éothain preceded a few cautious steps into the tunnel to listen into the quiet while his gaze darted over the dark rocks. Only few torches along the uneven, precarious path had been lit, making the darkness in the tunnel almost complete. No doubt is was another precaution ordered by Gríma, as it would put intruders at a severe disadvantage against the hillfolk, who were used to moving through the bowels of the Misty Mountains every day. They’d have to watch their steps and the stairs.

As there was nothing else of interest to see, Éothain turned back to where his men were still lowering themselves into the cave. One glance at Áedwulf and a curt nod confirmed that so far, everything was going as planned, but it was clear to all of them that the difficult part of their rescue attempt was still to follow. With a deep breath, Éothain unfolded the magical garment in his hands… and threw it over his head, disappearing right in front of his soldiers’ eyes. He would precede and shield them from their enemies’ eyes in case of the unlucky incident they encountered them on their way up.

“Éothain?” Áedwulf asked quietly, his voice barely more than a breath, and deep discomfort could be seen on his face over not being able to see his brother-in-arms. Involuntarily, he reached out. Behind him, the men not yet acquainted with the garment’s effect although they had been told about it whispered excitedly.

“I’m still here,” Éothain murmured, and pressed one end of the invisible garment into his friend’s hand. “Hold on to this, but don’t pull. Are we good to go?”

The warriors readied their bows and stared at the void where they knew the son of Céorl to be. They were ready. Whoever they’d encounter on the stairs would be dead before he could utter a sound.

“Good. Now follow me… and watch your step; the ground is uneven. A single false step might be enough to alert the enemy of our coming…”

A horrible scream woke Éomer from a diffuse dream of fire, raging water and glimpses of a bloody battle, and he sat up groggily, his hand on the heft of his sword. For the longest moment, the son of Eomund stared into the darkness in profound disorientation, not at all certain whether the terrified scream had not been part of the nightmare that had haunted his sleep. Yet before he could decide, the cry was repeated, and this time, it did not stop. It was a sound of utter terror, freezing his blood as he jumped to his feet with his sword in his hand. Who was it? Who was attacking them? Gradually he became aware of a flurry of frenzied activity all around him; movements and shouts and the screams of terrified horses.

As he strode toward the clamour, Èomer’s memory returned with a jolt: they were still on the road to Edoras, somewhere in the Eastemnet. Although they had initially planned to ride through the night, exhaustion and the road’s bad condition had at last forced them to stop and wait for daylight, of which he could not yet see a sign on the eastern horizon. For how long had he slept?

The voice belonged to one of the two hobbits. A nightmare? But shouldn’t he calm down now that he had woken and found the source of his terror gone? Alarmed by the sheer terror in the Halfling’s shouts, Éomer stepped pushed through the cluster of warriors that had gathered around the scene.

“Pippin! Pippin, look at me!” Gandalf’s authoritative voice could be heard now. “Pippin!” The last shout died in an agonised sob. “It’s over. It’s gone. You are save. What happened, tell me, quickly!” And then, after a short interruption: “No. Tell me that you did not--”

“I-I-I… I only wanted to take one look, Gandalf! Please, I meant no harm!”

“And by now you ought to know that that is usually when the worst happens, Peregrin Took!” The Wizard snorted, and his tone changed from concern to anger in a heartbeat… and there was also an incredible urgency to it that troubled Éomer greatly. “Nevermind, since it has already happened – tell me what you saw.”

Clearing the crowd, Éomer beheld Gandalf and Aragorn kneeling on the ground next to the violently shivering Pipping, and the other Halfling – ‘Merry’, he remembered his name – knelt next to his friend, who sat hunched over and wrapped his elven cloak so tightly around himself as if the garment could make him disappear if only he did it right.

“Tell him, Pip!” Merry soothed his friend, one hand on the younger hobbit’s back. “If there is danger ahead, we need to know of it!”

“I… I saw the Eye…” a terrified sob. “I knew that I was not supposed to look into it, but I-I thought-“

“You thought?” Gandalf boomed, shaking his head in anger, but already concern was getting the best of him again. “I doubt that. When will you ever learn, foolish Took? It will be too late when your curiosity has put us all in the grave.”

Ashamed, the young hobbit lowered his eyes. “When I looked into it, I knew at once that I had made a mistake, and I tried to look away, but… it was impossible. I could not take my eyes from it, although I felt this evil presence reaching out at me and seeing right into my head and heart. And then it asked me who I was…” The men around him exchanged worried glances, and Éomer furrowed his brow, still not understanding what had happened, except that it had to be something serious. He could not remember having ever seen the Grey Wanderer so anxious.

In a brave attempt to calm down, Pippin swallowed the last sob and asked: “Was it the Dark Lord, Gandalf? Was it Sauron?”

“You already know the answer to that, Pippin, or you would not be so afraid. So rightly afraid, I must add. He has seen you, and knows our whereabouts now. The question is what he will conclude from this. What did you answer when he asked you for your name?” The anxiety in Gandalf’s voice troubled Éomer more than anything else. Even if he had no inkling of their new predicament, it was an easy guess that the hobbit had committed a most serious mistake by… doing exactly what? And what was that talk about the Dark Lord’s eye? He exchanged a worried glance with Findárras who stood close by.

“Nothing.” Pippin whispered, now as much terrified by the wizard as by his dream… or vision… or whatever it had been. “I told him nothing, or at least I hope so. I was too horrified to speak, or think… but I do not know what he saw. It felt as if he invaded my … my whole being… as if he sucked everything I knew right out of my brain…” Laying a hand on his mouth in dismay, the hobbit’s eyes widened. “What if he saw Frodo and Sam--”

“Shush!” Gandalf interrupted him forcefully, looking about to close the hobbit’s mouth himself for good now. “Do not speak of it aloud; because as you have just been proven, the night has ears! There is nothing we can do to remedy what has happened, except hope that our foe has not found out about them.” A worried glance was exchanged between him and Aragorn as the two very different warriors rose to their feet. Merry helped his friend up and, laying an arm around Pippin for he was still shaking, led him away. As they pushed through the observing Rohirrim, Éomer thought he heard Merry’s consternated sigh: “Why do you always have to do those things, Pip?” He did not hear the answer, because at that moment, Findárras’ claimed his attention with a question.

His mind entirely somewhere else while the Riders’ dispersed, chatting among themselves to make sense of the scene they had just witnessed, Éomer’s gaze remained on the Istar as he bent down and picked something up... something round, wrapped into a blanket. Something he had apparently deliberately waited to retrieve until no one would look… something Éomer had seen before. ‘It is a dangerous thing...’ Furrowing his brow he watched as the wizard quickly stowed away the mysterious object in the temporary safety of Aragorn’s saddlebags.

“I am not certain,” he remembered Findárras’ question at last, but held captive by Aragorn’s meaningful gaze. And yet their eyes had barely met when a hissed cry suddenly pierced the low murmurs of the dispersing riders. With distress the Marshal found that it originated from one of the always imperturbable elves.

Fear reverberated in the cry, and the discovery froze Éomer’s blood. What on Arda’s green plains could scare a first-born when even the battle of Isengard and scores of enemies had not? Listening with baited breath in an attempt to determine from where the danger approached, Éomer suddenly felt the short hairs on the back of his neck and his arms rise. A deadly chill crept into his stomach. “What is this?”

And then he heard it, too, and his men as well. Low at first and distant, rather a vibration than a noise, but quickly rising in volume as it approached: a dull throbbing sound, slow but rhythmic, like a giant’s heartbeat, and it seemed to Éomer as if the inken blackness around them thickened and contracted to give birth to a creature of pure evil. A foul stench suddenly assaulted his nostrils, and suddenly, their steeds bolted, wild with terror. With a rush of air, the Riders raised their bows at the sky even if it was impossible to make out a target.

The Elven bows sang in unison; and a heartbeat later the sharp thwack the Rohirric arrows followed. Once more the dull flapping sound reached their ears, by now sounding mighty and close – and then a terrible screech pierced the night, and the warriors dropped to their knees and covered their ears in a vain attempt to shut out the blood-curdling screech while their hearts froze in terror.

Through the panicked din, Éomer suddenly heard Gandalf’s shout in a strange tongue, and the Istar’s voice vibrated with incredible power as he raised his staff. A white flame shot up from its tip, and the pale light illuminated a nightmarish scene: a gigantic worm-shaped thing swooped down at them from the sky, leathery wings folded on its back and mighty talons spread to grasp whatever it could reach. As the aberration raced toward Gandalf, a horrible maw filled with sword-long pointed teeth opened to devour the wizard and inside a blood-red forked tongue twitched in anticipation – and then a pained roar shook the night as the bolt of lightning hit the creature’s chest, and mighty wings unfolded over the Rohírrim to hoist its bulk back into the air.

The second before the fell beast disappeared into the night again, Éomer caught a glimpse of a falling limb and a river of black blood raining down– and of Aragorn, who stood challengingly upright with Anduril in his hands. Then darkness swallowed them, and with a rush of foul air and a tormented screech, their attacker fled. In stunned shock, the warriors stared at each other in the weak starlight, and the dull flapping of the winged demon vanished in the distance before the power of speech at last returned to the men.

“What in Béma’s name was that?” Findárras burst out, his trembling voice an indication of the horror they had just witnessed. All eyes turned to Aragorn and Gandalf. A weak light still emanated from the Istar’s staff, barely enough to enable the men to see each other, but the wizard’s grave expression could not be missed.

“That, Sons of Eorl, was the first glimpse of our true enemy. It was one of the Ringwraiths; one of the Dark Lord’s mightiest servants… and I fear that there are more of his kind.” Gandalf’s brow furrowed as he looked at Aragorn. “So their Master has given them new steeds at last. It is certainly no improvement to our situation.”

“He came for Pippin,” the Dúnadan said meaningfully, his gaze resting on the two hobbits who stood among the Rohírrim with wide, scared eyes. “When Pippin looked into the Palantír, he revealed our location to Sauron… and as chance would have it, one of his foul servants was close by, perhaps on the way to Isengard to find out what happened to his ally.” He exhaled, for a moment seeing only the hobbit. “He thinks you have the Ring.”

“We must continue to Edoras immediately,” Gandalf said forcefully, his gaze seeking Éomer among the warriors. “We cannot linger here even a moment longer. If that wraith returns with his brethren…”

“How many more are there of these things?” Éomer asked although he was not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Eight,” Aragorn replied, and uncomfortable glances were passed between the Rohírrim as it slowly dawned on the men what they were up against in this war. “And I agree, we cannot remain here. We must leave the plains, even if we can only proceed on foot until dawn.” He, too, looked at the Riders’ Marshal , and all heads turned toward Eomund’s son in expectation of his orders.

Éomer’s decision was made easy by the revelation that they had no choice. Out here on the plains, there was no cover should their attacker return with reinforcements… and at the same time, the thought that these aberrations could assault their unsuspecting kinsmen at Edoras froze his blood. No, they had to reach their destination as quickly as possible.

His gaze wandered over the expectant faces of his men, the tension among them palpable, and at last Éomer took a deep breath: “All right; we’ll proceed… but first, we will need to find our horses.”

Éothain did not understand how it could be that, since he had first ascended the stairs, they seemed to have stretched to more than double their original length. Endlessly the narrow path spiralled upward in almost complete darkness; barely more than a fissure in the rock, and from his suppressed breathing and unbearable tension a nasty headache was beginning to pound behind the Rohír’s eyes. Stopping every few steps in a useless effort to loosen his muscles which vibrated under the unrelenting strain, the son of Céorl felt as if they had walked through the eternal darkness of the hill for hours until at last the long, soft curve leading to the intersection lay before them. Now it was only another twenty-six steps until they would see what destiny – or rather Gríma Wormtongue – had prepared for them.

Sensing Áedwulf close behind him, Éothain stopped and laid hands and ear against the rock, closing his eyes as he reached out with his senses. And he could hear it, however lowly: the merrily crackling fire whose faint flickering light illuminated the tunnel where they stood… the soft snoring of at least three men… and a deep sigh and lowly words spoken by someone who sounded very much awake. No sounds of a dog. Perhaps luck was on their side.

Briefly removing the blanket from his head, Éothain turned toward his men, and their concentrated expressions filled him with confidence. Aye, they were as ready for this task as they would ever be. With few gestures he communicated what he had heard, and that they had to expect at least two waking guards. If they would indeed not encounter more than five guards altogether at the intersection, their chances of disposing of them unnoticed by the enemy seemed good. In any case, his men knew what to do; their briefing had been thorough. It was clear who would follow whom into which tunnel, and who would shoot at the targets left or right they’d find. Since nothing else was left to say or do, Éothain disappeared under his camouflage again with a tense nod, and a moment later, the blanket in Áedwulf’s hand twitched as its wearer proceeded upstairs.

Felrod stared numbly into the twilight behind the flickering fire. Around him, his brethren snored like a pack of well-fed wargs, except for Gûthlaf who poked around in the fire with his empty iron spit, undeniably bored. Yet the big Dunlending hardly even perceived his presence. His thoughts were somewhere else, circling the one question that had occupied him for the past days without having found an answer: how could he have been so foolish to make his advances on his Master’s trophy although he had well-known that Éowyn was off-limits? Why had he not taken one of the scared kitchen-wenches instead for his pleasure? And how would Gríma punish him once Saruman’s army arrived and cleaned the hill and the lands around it of the strawheads forever? That there would be a punishment for his ill deed was out of the question for Felrod; after years in Gríma’s service, he knew his Master too well.

The big Dunlending frowned, and the shadows on his weathered, roughly-hewn face deepened. On the other side of the fireplace, Gûthlaf slanted him a quick glance from underneath his bushy brows, but knew better than to ask for the reason of his commander’s unease. It was dangerous to address Felrod when he was in such a fell mood, and Gûthlaf had learned his lesson weeks ago. So instead of asking, he shifted his attention back to the fire. Not that the others’ mood was much better, but at least they were sleeping now and not giving him any trouble. Despite Gríma’s promises, they were still waiting for their rescuers, and just yesterday the new Lord of Meduseld had brusquely stifled all questions concerning their army’s whereabouts, his pale eyes sparkling with annoyance as he shouted at them. Whether they believed him to be a liar, Gríma had asked, and none had dared to answer although there had not been a single man among them who did not doubt his words by now. Saruman’s hordes were on their way through the Westfold and would soon arrive to end their waiting, Gríma had promised once again, and then added with a meaningful glance that those who doubted him would truly be sorry by then.

His threat had been potent enough to suppress the hillmen’s silently brewing rebellion one more time, and yet Gûthlaf had seen something else in Gríma gaze besides his anger, and the discovery had troubled him far more than being unjustly shouted at: his Master was uncertain himself. With all his shouting and all his aggression, Gríma had not succeeded in concealing his own insecurity, and the revelation that their leader no longer seemed to believe in his own words had sent a chill down Gûthlaf’s spine. Without the White Wizard’s army, what would become of them?

The man from the Misty Mountains furrowed his brow as he pondered the possible implications. It was clear to them all that the Strawheads would strike back if they were given the time; history was full of such examples... and what they would do with an enemy who had insulted them to the core by taking their ruler hostage and desecrated the halls of their forefathers was something Gûthlaf did not even want to begin to imagine. Rapt in his own gloomy thoughts, he jumped as the sound of Felrod’s voice woke him from his contemplation. The big man rose to his feet and slanted him a contemptuous glance.

"I’ll make another round and make certain that the guards are in position... and not asleep." With a heavy boot, he prodded the man sleeping next to him in the side. "Wake up, you stinking rat! You’ve slept long enough!" A stern gaze grazed Gûthlaf. "If I catch any of you sleeping again when I return, you’ll not live to see the light of day, I swear!" And with that threat, he shuffled off into the tunnel leading to the dungeon. Gûthlaf’s black eyes followed him for a moment before he spat into the fire. He knew why Felrod had chosen that path even if he had tried to make his choice look arbitrary: nothing could lift his rotten mood better than passing on at least part of his misery to their captives.

Following the big man’s way until darkness swallowed him, Gûthlaf silently asked himself who Felrod would choose for his scapegoat tonight. Not that there was much choice left: since Céorl had passed beyond all torment, Elfhelm had undoubtedly become his Captain’s favourite, but in the course of the past days, his responses to his captor’s cruel assaults had weakened, too, and there was no doubt that the stout Eastfold warrior would be next to pass into the realm of his ancestors. That would leave only Gamling and a few insignificant servants for Felrod’s pleasure, as the King himself and his niece were off-limits. And what would Felrod do once this foul mood overcame him with no one left to take it out on; kill one of their own?

Not liking the prospects the least bit, Gûthlaf lifted his gaze to Wolf, the man Felrod had woken with his kick – when something in the darkness behind the man claimed his attention: it looked like a ripple in the air, a strange reflection where only darkness should have been. Furrowing his brow as he became aware of his comrade’s puzzlement, Wolf also began to turn around, and his hand went for his sword.

There were indeed no more than five men, three of them sleeping, and no dog in sight, Éothain noticed with great relief as he peeked around the corner. Béma was with them! Drawing back his elbow to give Áedwulf the signal, Éothain spread out his arms to hold the blanket like a sheet before them while his men took positions. On the narrow path, Léod and his older brother Falk dropped to their knees, and their arrows pointed at the two waking men. Using the space below Éothain’s raised arms, Gelbrand and Brytta aimed for two of the sleeping Dunlendings while Áedwulf targeted the remaining man over his shoulder. For a moment, the warriors stood like a strange monument of war with their bows readied for the shot – when the first Dunlending’s head flew up and his eyes narrowed, and Éothain knew that they had been spotted.

What happened then seemed to go very slowly, and he saw it all detail: the man’s eyes bulged and his chest expanded with the breath for the cry that would give them away while his comrade still turned around – and then the arrows punched into them, simultaneously released so that only one sharp sound could be heard, and with a dull noise, their dead bodies dropped to the ground. Flawless! His breath escaped him in an almost painful, relieved burst.

Stuffing the blanket under his belt, Éothain unsheathed his sword and stepped into the intersection to prod his foot against the closest Dunlending’s side. To his right, Áedwulf stuck his sword into another foe’s chest who had twitched weakly. Their eyes met, displaying both encouragement and tenseness at the expectation of a dismayed shout from a foe they might have overlooked. And yet it remained quiet. With another deep breath, Éothain turned toward the left tunnel, believing it to be the one leading to the King’s chambers. The one he would take. Well-briefed, their men split into three groups behind him without question, and they separated. The invasion of Meduseld was finally underway.

As they ascended through the tunnel, Éothain changed back from sword to bow, and shortly behind him, Gelbrand and Áedwulf, too, only waited for the first target that would present itself to them. They did not have to wait for long.

The question was cut short by their hail of arrows which also felled the men behind the questioner, and they stormed forth, knowing that whoever was left to guard the King’s chambers would now either raise the alarm or kill their prisoner, both of which they could not allow. They burst into the room, and in the twilight Éothain saw his assumption confirmed at once. From the embers in the fireplace, a red glow reflected on metal as a sword was lifted over a dark shape on the bed to his left – and then with a bright sound, it fell the tiled floor as Éothain’s arrow punched through its bearer’s chest. With his next arrow he killed the first Dunlending storming toward him, and then dropped the bow to go for his sword.

"Intruders! Intruders!" a voice yelled and suddenly ended in a pained grunt, and the night exploded into violence.

Gríma woke with a start. For a moment disorientated and not knowing what had ripped him out of his restless sleep, he straightened and listened breathlessly into the darkness. He had chosen the chair as his resting place for the night instead of his bed, because he could no longer bear to lie close to the living dead body of the woman he had desired and destroyed… and still he had it not found it in himself to leave her entirely and seek rest in Éomer’s deserted room or in one of the guest chambers. Neither had he ordered his men to carry Éowyn back to her own chambers where her sight would no longer distress him, for such an action would have meant admitting defeat to others beside himself. Even the not very bright Dunlendings would have understood the meaning of that measure, and although Gríma knew that he would never reach Éowyn in the secret realm to where she had fled, he was not yet ready to concede his defeat to his minions.

For a moment, his uncomfortable gaze wandered to her unmoving shape, almost having forgotten what had woken him – when the noise was repeated. His head jerked around, and without transition, his heartbeat accelerated as he listened breathlessly into the darkness. The noise was distant yet, barely more than a notion, and yet Gríma immediately understood what it meant: this was it, the attack he had expected. Somehow the enemy had found the tunnel, and now they came to have their revenge.

For a second, he sat in his chair, stunned, his stomach a solid block of ice and his legs two lifeless sticks attached to his body – and then a sudden panicked shout from within the hall loosened his paralysis.

Jumping to his feet, Gríma lunged for his closet. For a moment, the massive darkness within looked inviting, and he had to fight the urge to hide inside its roomy dimensions. It was what a frightened child would do, but the cunning voice in the back of his head knew better: of course they would look for him in there first; it was too obvious a hiding place. No, he had only one chance...

Preceding their group, Léod, Falk and Brytta stormed up the tunnel, ready to riddle whatever target presented itself with arrows. Yet despite the unmistakable sounds of battle erupting from somewhere behind them, their own path remained curiously free of enemies all the way until they moved aside a massive wall-hanging and burst into the large, dark room behind it. The large, dark – and empty – room. Quickly the warriors changed from bow to sword as they searched their surroundings: yet no one stood behind the heavy curtain or hid in the big wooden closet at the wall; nor where there any other secret niches or tunnels to be found behind the other tapestries... but there was a dark, unmoving shape on the big four-poster to their left. That the person had not even stirred upon their entry could mean only one thing, and on reluctant feet which did not want to carry him there for fear what he would find, the young scout walked over.

"Who is that?" Brytta asked behind him, and unanimously, the men pointed their swords toward the bed as if they feared that the shadow could suddenly jump at them. With a huge lump forming in his throat, Léod stared down upon the slender shape. Had they found the first casualty of Wormtongue’s malice? Whose chambers were these? The King’s? Had they found their dead King? Involuntarily holding his breath, he bent over the lifeless body – and suddenly drew in a dismayed gasp.

Heated and horrified curses were spat into the darkness, and for a moment, despair bore heavily down upon the warriors as they stood around the bed, their eyes lowered to escape the sight of their horrible find. The White Lady of Rohan... dead?

"Go and light the signal!" Brytta ordered the others, and they stormed off. "They are waiting for it outside!" He inhaled deeply, the pain in his gaze mirrored by Léod as he looked at the young scout. "Cover her and follow us. Quickly." Thankful to leave the room, he turned and left the youngest member of their group to his task.

Reluctantly, Léod stepped closer, and his insides twisted into a knot. He had not known Marshal Éomer’s sister personally, but Éowyn’s withdrawn, sad beauty and the inner strength radiated by her eyes had inspired many wistful thoughts among the warriors of Edoras although it had always been understod without question that the King’s niece was unattainable for commoners like them. There was not a man to be found in the city and beyond who would not have torn himself in two for the White Lady... and yet they had failed; she was dead.

A cry of despair rose in Léod’s throat as he stared into Éowyn’s expressionless eyes. How did they deserve this cruel fate that despite their courageous attack, all that seemed to be left to do for them was to cover the corpses of their killed instead of saving their people? Bending over Éowyn’s still shape, Léod grasped the blanket to draw it over her head... and paused. Again he regarded her intently. No, it was folly... or was it? What good would it do, despite giving him nightmares for the rest of his life? And still he could not help himself as he laid his hand against her slender neck, expecting to find her skin cold to the touch and her body slack with death.

Were the others also dead, he wondered. All members of the Royal Household? The King and his guard; Háma, Gamling and all the others who had disappeared after the Worm had seized control over the Golden Hall? Had they entered a tomb by storming Meduseld? A strong, regular pulse throbbed against his fingertips and Léod stared down, dumbfounded and for a moment failing to comprehend. The White Lady was still alive? But then why did she not respond? What had Gríma done to the King’s niece?

"My Lady Éowyn? Can you hear me? Give me a sign if you can." Intently, he stared at the still pale face hoping to see even a faint hint of an expression there, a wink or – he was not alone! Swivelling before he rationally understood what had alarmed him, Léod pointed his sword – at the void behind him. There was no one. Deep lines forming on his brow, he narrowed his eyes. What had it been? A noise? The fleeting feeling of warmth on the back of his neck, a careless breath? What? All his instincts cried out and alerted him of another presence in the room, and yet his eyes refused to reveal his foe. Dropping into a crouch, Léod stared into the darkness beyond the tip of his sword...

Still like a stone, Gríma Wormtongue stood with his back against the wall, and his fingers flexed around the hilt of his dagger. He did not breathe, did not even dare to blink as the young warrior stared right at him – and through him. The youth was almost within reach, the tip of his sword only few inches from Wormtongue’s chest, and for a heartbeat, Léod looked to Gríma’s eyes as if he were about to slash the air upon the slightest sign of a disturbance. Perhaps if he moved first, he would be faster, Gríma thought, his muscles tense with anticipation of the thrust with which he would cut through the Rohír’s neck. But he hesitated.

Breathlessly, Léod listened into the darkness through the thunder of his heartbeat. His whole body prickled with the notion of being observed, with the feeling of prying eyes upon himself, but try as he might, he could not detect the spy. There were not many hiding places in this room and they had already searched them all... all but one. Cautiously he knelt down to look underneath the bed... but found the space there empty as well.

Gríma’s jaw clenched, and his fingers around the dagger twitched in anticipation. It would be child’s play to cut the youth’s throat right now while he was on the floor and his attention distracted, and for a heartbeat, the urge was almost too powerful to resist. But then Wormtongue heard the others in the adjourning room and restrained himself. Even if he succeeded in killing the young man with one strike, the noise of the lifeless body hitting the ground would alert his kinsmen, and Gríma harboured no illusions that even if he made it into the tunnel before the Rohírrim found their dead comrade, his chances of survival would be slim.

Against all odds, they had found the entrance to the tunnels, which meant that they knew of the existence of the magical fabric by now. From there it was only a small jump to the revelation of what had happened and in the narrow pathway, there would be no evading the furious Rohírrim if they ever overtook him. Knowing his own awkwardness on the dark stairs, Gríma did not doubt that the warriors would be faster than he, and all his invisibility would not protect him from a well-aimed arrow or sword-strike when they found him. No, escaping that way not an option, as much as he wanted to leave the hated enemies with a last token of his hatred to spoil their victory.

And still he loved his own life more. Forcing himself to remain silent and wait for the assailants to leave the room and join the battle in the Golden Hall which he heard now erupting in the distance, Gríma waited. All which lay between him and a gruesome death was the thin layer of Saruman’s cloak...

"Léod! What is keeping you? Come quickly!" Falk stuck his head in the room, and upon his shout his brother jumped. "We gave the signal; fighting will soon commence. They need us in the hall. Perhaps we can even open the door for them."

"I’m coming." Straightening, Léod furrowed his brow as he slowly rose to his feet, reluctant to leave these chambers when his whole being told him of a yet undetected danger. And yet Falk was right: the room was empty, and their Captain needed them in the battle against the Worm’s henchmen. With a sad glance at Éowyn, he shook his head and turned to go... and suddenly whirled around to slash at the air in an impulse he did not understand himself.

His hand on the heft of his half-drawn sword, Falk took a quick step back. "Léod?" He narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"

His chest rising and falling with deep breaths, Léod took a last glance around. For a moment, he could have sworn that there had been someone else in the room; had almost felt the malicious gaze upon his back like the touch of a feather. It was hard to accept that his nerves apparently had played tricks on him, even if he usually wasn’t prone to such weakness.

Irritated by himself, Léod tried to push back the thought to clear his head for battle as he stormed out of the room, unaware that he was passing right before the foe he had looked for…

Tension fell from Gríma in a huge lump, relief so intense it was almost painful, and he had to shut his eyes. For a moment, he was unable to move. Whatever had prompted the young Rohír’s last furious slash, it had almost settled Wormtongue’s fate: missing him by the breath of hair, the blade had scythed through the air before him, and only at the last possible moment had Gríma succeeded to suppress his terrified gasp that would have given him away.

The door in the adjourning room opened and for a moment, the noise of fighting increased as the Rohírrim stormed out.

"You two, stay here;" Gríma - to his dismay – heard an urgent whisper just before the door closed again. "Guard her with your life!"

He waited with baited breath, but the warriors left for the protection of Éowyn’s hollow shell remained outside, and slowly, Wormtongue’s heartbeat slowed down enough for his mind to take command again. His mutilated lip a thin line, he stared at the prone figure on the mattress, and unconsciously, his fingers clenched around the heft of his dagger. There was still one possibility to turn victory into defeat for the proud, sure Eorlingas. Even if they succeeded in claiming back their cursed wooden barn from him, he would make sure that there was nothing else to salvage for them.

His dark eyes even darker with renewed purpose, Gríma stepped forth, and the dagger felt good in his hand as he silently approached the bed...

Like a madman Éothain scythed his way through the attacking Dunlendings, at last able to unleash the accumulated frustration and rage of many years against his enemies, and none could hope to withstand his furious charge. He made them pay for all the fear and hurt their people had endured during Gríma Wormtongue's secret reign. He made them pay for the banishment of his best friend and his own feelings of guilt over not having accompanied Éomer into exile; he made them pay for the shock over seeing his wounded father and Éowyn in their foe's grasp; and he punished them for Gûthlaf's assault on Maelwyn and for all the things he had forgotten over the years but which had caused him many grievous days and sleepless nights. It was a relief.

Hewing the hillmen like grass, Éothain quickly reached the big four-poster to which Théoden-King had been tied in a most ignoble position, and behind him, Áedwulf and his men dispatched the remaining foes in the chambers and then quickly locked the door to the adjacent Throne Room. Not a moment to soon did they reach it, for even as the snap of the lock reached their ears, the wood reverberated under the impact of the guards in the hall rushing to their brethren's aid. Angered and dismayed shouts and threats were yelled through the door, and the Rohírrim understood that it would not shield them from the enemy for long. Where were the other groups now? In order to overcome their adversaries, they needed to storm the Throne Room together from several sides at once, and in the ensuing commotion, hopefully gain access to the door leading outside to let in the rest of their éored.

After dropping his last opponent with a vicious thrust through the man's chest, Éothain quickly established that all foes in the room had been killed before he turned to his King with a respectful nod.

"Sire, we have come to free you, and all who are held hostage in the Golden Hall. Are you well?" Barely daring to look at his ruler for fear to embarrass Théoden-King in his helpless position, the son of Céorl sheathed his sword and instead drew a dagger to cut his ruler's ties.

"Now that you here, I feel much better than I have in a long time, Éothain!" Théoden said and grimaced as he rubbed his wrists, which were raw and chafed from the long time in ties. Even though Éothain only dared to look at him from underneath his eyebrows, he flinched at the sight of the King's gaunt, drawn features, which not even the faint smile that spread now over Théoden's face could brighten. "But tell me, Captain, did you not bring more men with you? For I fear that they are not enough to overcome Wormtongue's minions."

"Aye, my Lord; we thought of that: there are two more groups, each as large as ours, and they will enter Meduseld through the other tunnels, so that we will be able to attack them from all sides at once. Once we win the door to the terrace, we will let in the rest of the éored as well, which – I think, will be more than sufficient to defeat the filth. How many men has the Worm at his disposal, perhaps you can tell us?"

"I'm afraid I can't, for all I ever saw were the men the Worm appointed as my guards. I suppose the rest of them sneaked into the hall through the other tunnels. Gríma never mentioned their number, but even if he had, that piece of information would have been highly unreliable." He inhaled deeply. "Yet I doubt that there could be more than one hundred men in his service; likely even less." A loud bang from the door interrupted Théoden, and for a moment, the wood seemed about to burst under the impact. With a grim and determined look on his pale face, the King of Rohan struggled to sit up. Even in the flickering twilight, he looked weak and sick to the watching men, but an alertness of his gaze Éothain had not seen in years nevertheless gave the warrior new hope. Again the door bent under the assault from outside, and an ominous creaking reached their ears.

"It will not hold for much longer," Áedwulf warned and stepped closer, urgency written all over his face. "Sire, we must get you to safety! Can you walk?"

"I assure you that you will not have to carry me like a frightened child, Captain," Théoden said with all the dignity he could muster, involuntarily straightening. "Give me a sword, and I will be able to defend myself." And yet to his dismay, nausea overwhelmed him as soon as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and with a groan which could not be suppressed, he squeezed his eyes shut. "Béma, what has that Snake done to me? I will kill him with my own hands if I get the chance!"

Before him, Éothain and Áedwulf exchanged worried glances, but before they could reach a decision about their further course of action, the din at the door suddenly ceased and was replaced with dismayed shouts. Áedwulf grinned, as it was clear to him what had happened.

"The others made it into the Throne Room," Éothain explained excitedly to his King, and waved three of his men over. "Gelbrand, Aldor, Fyrth, you stay here. Guard our King with your life." The warriors inclined their heads in acknowledgement. On impulse, Éothain stooped to take the sword from the nearest dead Dunlending, registering that it was a Rohirric weapon originating from their own armoury, and handed it to Théoden. "My Lord, I must apologize for this is certainly not a worthy blade for the King of the Mark—"

"—but it will do until I get Herugrim back from Gríma," Théoden calmed him, inwardly cursing his own weakness as he accepted the sword from Éothain's hands. How much he would have given to accompany these brave men and avenge himself on his captors! But as if to emphasize his weakness to him, the twilit interior of his chambers spun again before his eyes, and he had to shut his eyes as he leant heavily against the headrest. "Go, Captain, and take my good wishes with you. Free our people from this filth! And please, if you can, find and protect my niece. I do not know what the traitor did to her or where he is keeping her, but--"

"We will, Sire," Éothain promised, but dreaded to find that he would not be able to keep his word. "No matter how well Gríma prepared his men, I am certain that they do not know more than the mere the basics of sword-play. None of those we encountered so far did, and I presume that the best of them were assigned the task of guarding you. These here." He indicated the dead Dunlendings on the floor, and then quickly strode over to the door where the others stood with their swords readied. A last glance found the three men appointed the protection of their ruler. "Lock the door behind us and do not open it until battle is over and you hear the signal." Sheathing his sword, he laid one hand on the handle and grasped the protruding key with the other. With a small nod, Áedwulf confirmed that they were ready. A deep breath, a tensing of all muscles – and out they went into the fray…

As battle erupted outside his chambers, Gríma came to a halt beside his bed, and it took all remains of his courage to look at the greatest failure of his life. His hand which had held the dagger so confidently and would not have hesitated to cut the throat of the young Rohírric warrior only a moment ago, trembled now hard as he stared at Éowyn's blank face. His beautiful lady, the grace of Edoras, was staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, unaware that death was but a heartbeat away. She was what he had lived for – and now she was the monument of his shame, the embodiment of his evilness proven to all who would see her. How had it come to this?

With a deep sigh, Gríma son of Gálmód sought the courage within himself to do what needed to be done for vengeance' sake as he sat down on the mattress beside the White Lady of Rohan. Éowyn had always seemed so strong, as if nothing, not even the worst atrocity he could throw at her could ever unsettle her, and secretly, he had cherished their endless controversies and deemed the King's niece a worthy opponent, well-deserving of his attention. Never once had he thought that his mind games could also destroy her.

Swallowing at the thought, Gríma nevertheless could not help himself: reluctant at first, but at the same time unable to suppress the urge, he gently brushed his fingers over Éowyn's cheek, a butterfly's caress none of those who knew him would ever have thought within his capability. As his hand slowly traced the outline of her gaunt face and the delicate curve of her mouth – how dry her lips were, how sunken her eyes! - the faint whiff of warmth rose from Éowyn's lips against his skin, and all of a sudden, her shape blurred before Wormtongue's eyes and his throat tightened. Suddenly, the hot wetness of tears trickled over his cheeks, and his hand with the dagger trembled more than ever. The guards in the adjacent room were all but forgotten. He and his lady, they were together in a separate realm now, a place no one else could ever enter, and how much would Gríma have given just to have her look at him… to beg for her forgiveness.

In a sudden, violent fit of self-disgust, he took his hand away as if he had burnt himself.

These were the last moments he would ever spend with the love of his life. This was farewell, not good-bye, and Gríma knew that this last image of his love would remain edged into in his mind and heart to the day he died. The thought cut through his insides like a knife. Did he really want to spoil his memories of Éowyn with the sight of her blood gushing onto the sheets? Did he want to ruin his memento of those glorious blue eyes by seeing them break? He swallowed, and fought against rising despair, unable to reach a decision. Éowyn's death would hurt the Rohírrim more than anything else he could otherwise conceive; it would cut them to the bone ... but it would also leave him dead inside. What to do? He had to be on his way, had to use the distraction of the battle outside for his own escape, or he would not leave Edoras alive.

But then again... what did he have left to live for once he was out of here? And what had she left to live for? With no parents, and her brother and cousin dead because of his scheming, the only kin left to her was the King… and after his enormous failure in the protection of his people, how would she ever be able to look at her Uncle with anything but bitterness, even if they both survived?

No, no matter whether his Dunlendings killed Théoden before the attackers would overcome them, Éowyn would forever hear her brother's death-sentence coming from his mouth. There was no way that she could continue to love the old man, and all others had been taken from her. His greed had left her bereft of all she loved. Wouldn't it indeed be more merciful under these circumstances to cut her throat or pierce her heart to give her a quick death, instead of letting her waste away until she would die from grief and despair? Even if Éowyn woke from that horrible state someday, wouldn't desperation sooner or later drive the proud shieldmaiden to take her own life? He could slit her throat now and spare her the agony.

Supporting his weight with one hand, Gríma bent over her, and breathed a tender kiss onto her pale, cold cheek.

"Farewell, my love," he whispered under his breath, and smoothed away a strand of Éowyn's once golden tresses… and, on impulse, cut it off. It pained him to look at it, but he could not leave her without a token of memory. Absent-mindedly, he stuffed it into his pocket. "If we cannot be together in this realm, we will be united in the afterlife. I will find you wherever you are, and prove my love to you. I promise that to you, my love. I swear it. Sleep well now, White Lady of Rohan."

Tearing his gaze from her face, Gríma set the blade against Éowyn's neck. Even in the thick twilight he thought he saw the pulsing of her heartbeat in the thick vein underneath her pale skin. His hand with the dagger trembled. There was still life inside her, although it would not be apparent at first sight. Éowyn's body was still alive, even if her spirit had been destroyed. Only a little more pressure now, and her end would come quickly. She would not even feel the cut in her present state. He inhaled deeply…

…and broke away, his hands trembling so hard that he almost dropped the knife. He could not do it. It was impossible. With an anguished sob, the former counsellor tore himself from the sad proof of his greed, hating his own weakness as he hastily grasped his cloak and disappeared in the deep blackness of the secret tunnel…

Elfhelm was unconscious. Dissatisfied with his finding, Felrod's fingers clenched the bars of the cell and his eyes narrowed in a stubborn attempt to find a hint that the Captain of Aldburg was only faking his feeble state. Yet even as he threw the bowl of stew at him which he had used earlier to tantalize the starving man with its smell, the wounded warrior did not react, and Felrod understood at last that he would have to find a different target for his accumulated frustration. Not that there was much choice left since Céorl had died, and torturing Théoden's old brother-in-arms, Gamling, was simply not as satisfactory. Although possessed of the same Rohirric willpower as his kinsmen, the man was already a few years past his prime and did not seem to Felrod like a worthy opponent… which also ruled out the other members of the Royal Household held captive. He could force himself on some kitchen wench and let her feel his frustration, but satisfaction was not to be had from the degradation of weaklings.

He had felt triumphant sending Éomer out to die in the wilderness. He had revelled in playing his devious tricks with Céorl for as long as the man had been responsive. Beating the Captain of Edoras to a bloody pulp in front of his shocked men had been one of his greatest rewards, and also telling the proud Elfhelm of Aldburg lies about how he had killed his friend, the Third Marshal, and of all the horrible things his Master had done to that haughty thing the people called the White Lady. No, torturing an old man could not even begin to compare with the breaking of such strong men as Céorl and Éomer and Elfhelm… but if there was no other fun to be had tonight, he'd make the best of it. With a derogative snort, the half-blood turned away from the sight of Elfhelm's prone body.

"If you think you can hide from me forever, you will find out you're wrong, strawheaded bastard!" Felrod sneered, and his fingers involuntarily flexed around the bar in an imitation of wringing the Rohír's neck. "I'll find something to wake you up, and next time I come, you and I will have lots of fun! That is a promise!" His mood even darker than before, Felrod pushed himself off and strode toward the corridor where the Captain of the Royal Guard was incarcerated… when a noise stopped him dead in his tracks. "What the--"

Swivelling and holding his breath, the big man stared at the black hole at the end of the corridor, the mouth of the tunnel leading down to the intersection. Someone was coming up the stairs, and by the noise alone Felrod could tell that it was none of his brethren. No, it sounded more as if an entire host was on the way to the dungeon, and from the faint echoes of battle the rock carried to him now it was an easy guess who was about to pay him an unexpected visit in the dead of night. A grim smile spread over his dirty face. Well, they were certainly most welcome!

A moment later, Felrod had unsheathed his sword –which had formerly been Céorl's blade, but dead men didn't mind losing their weapons to worthier owners– and scurried toward the opening with amazing stealth for a man of his build. Never once did it enter his mind to call for aid as he hid beside the tunnel's mouth, where the attackers would not see him until it were too late. Somehow Felrod doubted that the Rohírrim in their arrogance counted on meeting resistance on this secret path. Well, all the better for him. Expectantly he weighed the heavy blade in his hands, ready and eager to hew the first man the secret passage presented to him. The path was so narrow that it could be held by a single man against a vast group of attackers, and hadn't he, after all, come this way to inflict some bloodshed on the despicable strawheads? Apparently, someone up there had heard his silent prayers.

Felrod's grin broadened, revealing stained teeth as he tensed in the semi-darkness. The assailants were almost upon him now.

The shout was almost drowned out by the deafening clamour of battle, the grunting and swearing, the groaning and screaming and rustling of clothes, and over all, the bright hard sound of swords meeting, but Léod did not have to hear the words to understand his task. Together with Falk and Brytta, the most-experienced warrior of their group, he charged through the attacking Dunlendings toward the Golden Hall's barricaded entrance. On the other side of the dark throne room, he dimly made out more adversaries before the door that lead to the King's chambers, and their excitement could only mean one thing: Éothain had made it to Théoden's rooms!

Excitement lent him new strength, and with a fierce cry, the young man skewered the nearest foe and jumped over him in one fluent movement. The Captain's plan was going well: the enemy had been utterly surprised by their attack and unable to coordinate their resistance yet. Even as Léod turned toward the door to clear the obstacles away and open its wings for the rest of their éored which he could already hear outside, he saw from the corner of his eye the door to the King's chambers burst open and spill more Rohírrim at the dismayed Dunlendings.

"Léod, come! Help me!" Falk, his older brother by four years, shouted with an expression of utmost urgency on his face and pushed against the pile of heavy-looking sacks the enemy had used to block the doors from within. Shielded from the enemy by the rest of their group, they quickly cleared an opening wide enough to reach the strong iron bolt which secured the heavy wings. On the other side, the rest of their éored pounded against the thick wood, and Léod knocked his fist against it to give the warriors the signal just as a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wood beside his head with a sharp thwack.

For a heartbeat unsettled by the realisation how close death had been, the young scout looked at the projectile.

"Ready?" Barely acknowledging the fact that his brother had almost been killed, Falk adjusted his hands underneath the bolt, and together, the two brothers pushed it from its setting. The door swung open, and before them in the darkness stood more Rohírrim than they could count in a rush. "Come in, brothers, there are plenty for of them for all of us!"

From the corner of his eye, Éothain saw the great doors of Meduseld swing open, and a joyful shout escaped him as the rest of their éored stormed in. "Áedwulf, look!" It had worked; his plan had actually worked! Once the sun rose on the eastern horizon, its light would fall upon a freed Golden Hall, and after all the long years of oppression, they would finally be rid of the enemy within. Now all that was left to do was see to it that the hostages did not come to harm. Théoden-King was already safe and, although weak, in better condition than Éothain had seen him in for months, but what about the others? Where was Éowyn and his father and Elfhelm? And where was their last group, for he could still not see them!

A mighty strike felled another enemy and gave him enough time to catch his breath and cast a quick glance at his surroundings. He found the men of Brytta's group, and Baldor who charged into the Throne Room now with the ferocity of a starving warg, eager to draw his share of Dunlending blood… but he could not discover the group he had sent through the middle tunnel. What had happened to them?

"Áedwulf, follow me!" Together the two captains scythed their way through the crowd, seeing hillmen fall left and right as they moved toward the other leader who – as he became aware of them – quickly approached them. The enemy was all but defeated. "Brytta! You and your men have done great work! Did you discover any of the hostages yet?"

"Aye, we did," the battle-hardened warrior said and quickly backed up against the wall to protect his back. But despite their impending victory, his expression caused Éothain's stomach to clench into a painful knot. "We found the White Lady held captive in the Counsellor's room… alas, we could not detect a sign of the Worm yet. But he can't be far."

"And Éowyn?" Éothain barely dared to ask as his eyes strayed over to the door to Gríma's chambers. "Is she…" 'Alive?' – "…well?" To his dismay, the tall warrior suddenly avoided his gaze.

"Léod said that he felt a heartbeat, but…" Brytta inhaled deeply. "She was still and unresponsive when we found her… tied to the Worm's bed and clad with nothing but a shift." Even in the twilight, he saw his Captain blench. Of course it was clear to Éothain what this discovery meant. What the Dark Counsellor had most likely done to the King's niece. Trying to clear his suddenly tight throat, Brytta continued: "She looked horrible. I do not know what the filth did to her, but I fear that we must assume the worst. I left two men to guard her, but…" he shrugged, and added lowly: "If any others are left and still alive, I suppose we will find them in the dungeon."

For a moment at a loss for words, the three captains stared at each other, and only gradually did it seep into their minds that the battle in the hall had all but ended with their victory. Had they only succeeded in claiming back Meduseld to find their greatest fears confirmed? What good would their victory be if the White Lady had been savaged… and everyone else killed except for the King? With great effort, Éothain cleared his head and turned toward his victorious brothers… and still he could not detect a single man from Gléowyne's group. A horrible feeling of foreboding assaulted him as he raised his voice to his warriors.

"Rohírrim! I want every room searched; every guest chamber, every storage room, every sack and every vessel in the kitchens… King Théoden and the White Lady have been found, but the others are still missing, and Gríma Wormtongue likewise has not been detected yet! He must not escape! He cannot be far, for I do not believe that he foresaw our assault. He must be hiding somewhere! Guard every possible way out of Meduseld, and the rest of you, go and drive the fox out of its hole! If you can catch him alive, I would welcome it... however, I do not insist. Just keep in mind that you might not be the only ones wanting to let the Snake bleed for his crimes! It would be only fair to grant them their wish, too." He turned around. "The men of my group will follow me to the dungeon! Let's hope that we find the rest of the hostages there… alive!"

It was almost impossible to run down the stairs in almost complete darkness and neither fall over his feet or cloak nor panic, for his violently pounding heart was undertaking a serious attempt to burst his ribcage as Gríma fled from the ominous sounds of battle behind him. Those accursed strawheads! They had been all but defeated! Why could those stubborn peasants not remain on the ground for once and accept that they were beaten? What were they trying to prove, and to whom?

Flickering light before him stopped him in his tracks. The intersection. Holding his breath and clutching his cloak that had saved his life already once in the course of this horrible night, Gríma peered around the corner. His heartbeat thunder in his ears, he slowly elaxed. Except for the unmoving shapes of his dead Dunlending guards, the cave was empty, and quickly he made his way through the corpses of the hillmen. On Gûthlaf's upturned face, the expression of perpetual surprise was etged into his weathered features, and the man from the Misty Mountains would go to the grave with it. A derogatory sneer curved Gríma's mouth downward. Yes, this was what happened to those not constantly on their guard. A fool to the end, the surprised expression on his face giving away his stupidity for all who saw him on his last passage. It was not the expression he planned to wear on his deathbed, Gríma thought grimly as his eyes wandered over the dark stain at the pit of Gûthlaf's throat where the fatal arrow had gone. No, even though he had been defeated for now, he did not plan to let himself be caught. One not so far day, he would return to Rohan and avenge himself for this insult, and when he died sometime in the distant future, it would be deep satisfaction the onlookers at his burial would read on his face, and they would envy him his contentment. It was this thought which would bring him out of here, out of deadly peril.

Once more shaking his head as he regarded the sad shape of the dead Dunlending, Wormtongue's gaze travelled to Gûthlaf's sword – and on a sudden impulse, he knelt down to exchange his dagger for it. It would not hurt to arm himself appropriately with whatever he could find, even if in his eagerness to free Meduseld, the son of Céorl had apparently not thought about leaving any guards in these tunnels. All the better for him, Gríma thought as he hurried through the darkness. The way to Isengard would be long and perilious, and only the Gods knew the trials he would face until he would find safety at last in Isengard… provided it still existed.

Shivering at the thought of making it through all of the Mark only to find Saruman's fastness destroyed, Gríma all but flew down the stairs. What could possibly have happened to delay their army? 'Delay?' a nasty voice sneered in the back of his mind. 'Who tells you that it was not destroyed?' The very idea that the few scattered remains of the Rohírrim's éoreds could have forestalled the White Wizard's hordes was preposterous. The great battle at the Fords of Isen had cost the Horselords dearly; it was simply unthinkable that the diminished warriors had held the boarder against several ten thousands orcs. But then again, he had also thought that nothing could go wrong once he had barricaded himself in the Golden Hall with his minions and the Royal Family providing for their safety.

His eyes narrowed with disdain at the thought of why destiny all of a sudden seemed to have changed its mind about whom to favour, Gríma almost saw the guard at the cave's exit too late. Even as he ground to a halt, the man swivelled and drew his sword, alarmed by the noise behind him.

Although no warrior, Wormtongue understood at once what to do: strike while the element of surprise was still on his side! Before the guard had the chance to detect the strange shimmer in the air, Gríma jumped forth, and with a vicious slash through the Rohírs neck caused the man to drop his sword. As the warrior staggered back with both hands clutching the wound, Wormtongue stood silently in the darkness and observed his opponent’s death fight with a mixture of relief and cold satisfaction. At last, the Rohír crumbled to the ground with an anguished gargle, and his twitching ceased as life fled his body.

His heart beating like a drum, his murderer listened into the darkness. Could he have really been the only guard the young Captain of Edoras had left to stand watch? Had Éothain been so sure of his plan? As he waited for his breath and composure to return, Gríma did not moving a muscle, expecting momentarily to hear the anxious shouts of other Rohírrim or the sounds of approaching steps from outside. The guard’s demise had not been silent, surely somebody must have heard it and was coming to investigate… and yet miraculously, it remained quiet and finally, Wormtongue felt secure enough to cautiously approach the exit.

With a foot on the stepping stone which would help him to leave the cave, he sheathed his sword and craned his neck. Not a sound came to him from outside, and as he slowly emerged from the tunnel and pivoted, he found to his surprise his surroundings indeed devoid of life except for the distant shouts from the top of the hill. A surge of excitement flooded his veins, a white-hot burst of energy that pushed him down the rocky slope with amazing agility even though the night was already growing old and he had not slept a wink in the long hours since the sun had gone down. Could it really be so easy? Could it really be that his enemies had committed such a crucial mistake?

Insane laughter rose in his throat as Wormtongue hastened down the hill, almost too powerful to contain. When he had first heard the rustle of clothes and the steps in the tunnel approaching his chambers, he had been certain that the time had arrived to pay for his betrayal. And even when the young Róhir had straight looked at him without seeing him, his brethren only a shout away in the next room, Gríma had not believed that escape would still be possible. But here he was now, under the open sky, and no one in sight who would stop him as he left the place of his defeat. But he would be back, oh yes! Now that his escape began to look like a distinct possibility, Wormtongue’s cunning mind already concerned itself with his return to the Land of the Horselords, and how he would exact his revenge on them all.

Invisible except for the rolling gravel and little splashes his feet caused on the wet ground, Gríma Wormtongue at last reached the foot of the hill and began his long journey west…

Éothain’s heart pounded like a hammer against his ribs as he opened the iron-wrought door to the dungeon and listened. On the long way down, only one torch was lit and its flickering light barely illuminated the stairs enough to tread safely. Intentionally? Perhaps some of the Worm’s henchmen had made for the dungeon instead for the thick of battle, because they figured their chances of defending themselves against superior forces would be better in the narrow confines below Meduseld? Was there a host of Dunlendings waiting for them at the next corner?

With a sceptical glance at Áedwulf, Éothain squared his jaw, and then set foot upon the first step. Aye, he heard something down there, but it was a distant noise and distorted by many echoes. Impossible to tell how many men were down there, but at least, they did not seem to lie in ambush. Treading carefully, the men followed their Captain down the stairs, inwardly steeling themselves for what they would find in the cells.

Felrod heard them coming, and his mouth curved in a cruel smirk. At last, he was surrounded. He had already gathered that he would not leave the Hall of Kings alive when the first noises of fighting from above had been carried to him through the rock. The tunnel before him, the only other way out, was still blocked by the other assailants, so he had indeed nowhere left to go except to the afterlife. He had hewn the first two warriors who had unsuspectingly emerged from the shadows, but he was no fool: a man could perhaps hope to hold the tunnel against a host of enemies for as long as he fought smartly, but he could not force his way through them. No, he would die here, in true Dunlending manner, beneath the ground, fighting to the end and hopefully taking as many of his enemies with him into the next realm as the Gods would allow him. Felrod could accept these prospects.

Listening to what was happening behind him while his eyes remained focussed on the tunnel’s exit, the big Halfblood renewed his grip around the heft of his sword. Whoever would come for him in the end, he would not make it easy for them…

The cells were empty as far as Éothain could determine in the twilight, and he creased his brow. Where had Gríma kept his prisoners… or had he indeed killed all except for the King and his niece? Were all other members of the Royal Household dead? And his father… was he…? He almost jumped when suddenly his name was hissed from the darkness to his left.

“Éothain? Gods, Éothain, is it really you?” A pale face emerged from the shadows, and at first Éothain did not recognise the emaciated man… but then, with a gasp, it came to him: it was no other than Gamling who stood before him in the nearest cell, bloodied fingers clenching the bars and the eyes in his dirty face widening with disbelief, which quickly changed to exhilaration. From behind Éothain heard the dismayed gasps and mutters of his men, and the cold hand of horror grasped his heart as he stared at the Captain of the Royal Guard. Gaunt and bruised, with dark circles underneath his eyes and his reddish-brown hair a matted mess plastered to his mangled face, Gamling looked like a living ghost as he stared at his rescuers through the bars, but it were those pale blue eyes which told the full tale of his torment.

Forcing a weak smile upon his face meant for encouragement, Éothain stepped closer and laid his hand upon his brother-in-arms’.

“Aye, Gamling. We are here to free you; the Worm’s henchmen above are already defeated. How many are down here, do you know?”

“I have only seen Felrod. He’s in the next tunnel on the right; it is him you hear. I do not know what he is doing there, but…” Gamling interrupted himself, and the joy over his imminent rescue suddenly vanished from his face. “Éothain…”

“We will soon be back with the keys and release you,” the younger man promised, a sudden bout of anxiety robbing his breath as if he already knew what his kinsman was trying to tell him. Although he did not want to utter the words, he suddenly heard his own voice hollowly in his ears: “Do you know what happened…?” He did not dare to finish his question, afraid of what the answer would be, but the pain in Gamling’s eyes told him all there was to know, and his hands clenched around the bars in silent desperation. “Please, Gamling, no. Don’t tell me that--”

“Éothain… I do not know for sure, but Felrod told me…” The old warrior inhaled deeply, reluctant to continue when he saw the pain in his rescuer’s face. And yet it needed to be said, for Éothain had to know. “Felrod claimed that Céorl died two days ago…” Something in Éothain’s expression broke in reaction to his words, and impulsively, Gamling laid his hand upon the young Captain’s arm. “It is possible that he lied, Éothain! The filth has been playing his devious tricks with us ever since his Master seized control over Meduseld; it must not be the truth! He would have said anything to break us!”

Éothain did not even feel Áedwulf’s hand on his shoulder as he straightened in the dark. It could not be, it could not be… but at the same time, he felt that it was so. There was this void within him, this unnameable ache in his soul as if a part of it had been ripped away forever.

He had to keep his composure, had to remain in control for as long as the situation was not resolved. He could break apart afterwards, but right now, his men needed him.

“Let’s go and give the swine what he deserves!” he growled as he pivoted sharply, and Áedwulf, a man he had known for many years and who, after Éomer, was his best friend, recoiled from the cold fury in his eyes. “Follow me!” He all but stormed down the corridor, and the heaviness of the sword in his hand felt good. It felt hungry for Dunlending blood.

“Felrod!” Éothain shouted as he stormed around the corner with great strides; his blade striking sparks as he drew it in a threatening gesture over the bare rock walls. “Come here and fight! Or are you too much of a coward to fight against a man who is neither bound nor wounded?” The hulking figure at the corridor’s far end turned toward him, and to his feet, Éothain saw the crumbled shapes of two of his men. The blood in his veins turned to ice-water. He had found the missing group... and the man who had delayed them.

“So you already know then that I killed your father?” Felrod answered his challenge in a calm, casual tone. He did not fear death. His ancestors would welcome him among them after what he had achieved, after the torment he had inflicted upon their eternal enemy, so what was there to be scared of? Behind him, the trapped Rohírrim moved in the tunnel, but Felrod understood instinctively that Éothain would not allow them to touch him. No, the young Captain of Edoras could be just as hot-headed as his friend, the late Third Marshal… but contrary to Éomer, who grew even more dangerous when riled, Éothain tended to pay for his loss of composure. Once rage replaced reason, the son of the late Céorl was vulnerable in battle, and thus Felrod ran his fingers alongside his bloodied blade with a menacing sneer. “This is his sword, by the way. Do you want to taste its bite?”

“Leave him, he’s mine to kill!” Éothain growled in a deep voice as he beheld motion in the weakly illuminated hole behind his opponent.

“Be careful, Éothain,” Áedwulf murmured behind him. “He wants you to lose control. Keep your head.”

“I will, but that pig won’t!” Renewing his grasp around the heft of his sword, Éothain cast his friend a gaze of steel. “Stay here. This is between him and me. No matter what happens, you will not intervene!” Áedwulf nodded with a heavy heart, and Éothain turned to face his adversary.

“Come here, lad!” the big Dunlending halfblood roared, approaching his opponent. The Rohírrim behind him were all but forgotten. Aye, he would die, but only after he had cut the arrogant son of Céorl into small, bloody stripes. “I killed your friend; I killed your father; and I killed the Chief of the Royal Guard! I broke Elfhelm of Aldburg, and the White Lady! What would I have to fear from a weakling like you?”

“Come and find out, swine!” Only few strides separated them now, and Éothain slowed down and dropped into a battle crouch. He lifted his sword before his face in a ritual greeting of his adversary, but behind the blade, his blue eyes sparkled hellfire. Felrod’s broad, malicious grin changed to an expression of anticipation as he likewise bent his knees and raised his stolen weapon. His cunning dark eyes did not shrink from the challenge; rather did he dare the son of Céorl to attack first. He did not have to wait for long.

No cry left Éothain’s mouth when he struck: fully focussed and cold bloodlust flushing his veins, his thrust came without warning and with the speed of a striking snake, and Felrod barely brought his sword up in time to intercept. The impact travelled up his arms, and before he regained his balance, Éothain finished his motion and sank his blade into his adversary’s shoulder.

Growling, Felrod knocked his sword aside, and his enraged expression left no question that the teasing was over. Blood flowed freely down his arm as he moved to retaliate, but his opponent had already evaded his clumsy attempt.

Éothain did not hear the cries, his concentration focussed on the big Halfblood and nothing else. He moved with the grace a cat; perfectly balancing himself on his toes as he struck and evaded time and time again, marking his foe with each of his slashes and thrust without wounding him seriously. It was the way he fought, relying on speed rather than the raw power of his muscles and weight as the heavier-built Rohírrim. Éomer, of course, had found the perfect balance between strength and speed, and there were hardly any men Éothain knew who could best his friend in their sparring matches. Yet as he lacked Éomer’s powerful build, the son of Céorl had developed his own fighting style and found it in the emphasis on speed. Only few of their heavier Captains could hope to match him once he took his gloves off, and on good days, Éothain had even beaten the King’s son as well the Third Marshal. Now he delved deeply into the wealth of his abilities to exact his vengeance on the man who had spilled his kin’s blood. A quick death would be too easy for Felrod; he would see to it that the man died as hard as possible. With another slash, Éothain opened a dark-red slit in the man’s left cheek.

Felrod realised quickly that he was out of his water. No matter how hard he struck to retaliate, how quickly he moved, his opponent was faster, and the hot wetness of his own blood already ran down his body from several deep cuts, drenching his garments and sapping his strength. He had underestimated the strawhead, he realised reluctantly and ground his teeth as he intercepted another strike at the last moment. From the youth’s light build, he had concluded that a few well-aimed thrusts with the full weight of his body behind the sword would suffice to shatter Éothain, but instead of cutting through the lad’s resistance, he had only hit the bare rock walls. Breathing heavily as he straightened once again, his narrowed eyes shot poisoned darts at the Rohír.

“Are you too much of a coward to stand and fight fair?” Felrod growled and caught Éothain’s thrust with his own sword. Their weapons interlocked between them, the two men stared at each other. “I never fought an opponent who ran away all the time… but I guess I should have anticipated that from you… forgoil!” A chunk of bloody saliva landed in Éothain’s face.

“Then you must have fought only rocks and trees so far, for I never fought against an adversary as slow as you! Even Uruk-hai are masters of the sword compared to your pitiful battle-skills! Have you never heard of footwork?” He jumped back to evade, but this time, his adversary had anticipated the move and followed, and with his full weight behind the strike, Felrod knocked the blade from Éothain’s hands.

Driven by rage and a sudden surge of triumph, the Halfblood crashed into his lighter opponent and rammed him against the bars of the cell with bone-shattering force – and this time, he saw the pain the young man’s eyes. Dropping his own sword, he drove an iron fist into Éothain’s stomach, now determined to kill the Rohír with his bare hands to make it more personal. And yet from the corner of his eyes, he already saw the Captain’s men dash toward them.

“No!” Éothain could barely breathe against the searing pain in his middle, but he lifted his hand to stop Áedwulf. “Leave us! This is between him and me!”

“Right you are, lad, and I hope you enjoy it!” And with a malicious grin, Felrod landed his fist in Éothain’s face. Something broke under his blow, and suddenly, the son of Céorl sank to his knees. Dazed and barely aware of his surroundings, Éothain sat on his heels, his eyes watering from the punch and blood gushing from his shattered nose. Before him on the ground, his sword sparkled weakly in the twilight and he extended his hand for it, but just as his fingertips touched the heft, his adversary stepped on the blade and pulled him up with one violent tug. Once more, he was hammered against the steel bars, and his breath escaped him in a pained gasp as Felrod’s hands closed around his neck. Suddenly, the Halfblood’s face was close before him, and through the fog before his eyes, Éothain saw the crimson rivulet on the Dunlending’s cheek.

“You want to play with me, lad? All right, I’ll play with you! Greet your father for me if you meet him in the afterlife; I hope it will pain him to see his son follow him to the grave so soon!” Felrod strained, and his strong fingers dug into his adversary’s windpipe. No breath. No… breath… Éothain clawed frantically at the hands around his neck, drew blood, but Felrod barely seemed to mind. “What now, strawhead? Now you’re squirming like a worm in the bird’s beak, but little will it help you. Look at me, so I can see your eyes break as you draw your last breath!”

His strong-boned face blurred in Éothain’s vision. ‘Father… the filth killed Father…’ Giving up his efforts of trying to break Felrod’s grasp, Éothain lowered his hands instead, and a heartbeat later, it was the big Dunlending whose eyes were suddenly bulging. For another moment, the iron pressure remained… and then the strength of his fingers slackened, and an anguished groan escaped from Felrod’s lips although he struggled to hold on. Hot wetness gushed over Éothain’s hand. He had buried his dagger to the hilt in Felrod’s abdomen and opened him up with a vicious jolt upwards.

“This is for Éomer…” he panted through his bruised throat, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs to form the words. “… and this is for my father!” And with another jerk, the blade cut further upwards until it met the resistance of his breastbone. Black eyes stared at Éothain in consternation and confusion – and then Felrod tumbled to the ground, and his movements slowly ebbed away in the growing puddle of his blood. For a moment, everything became very quiet.

Gladly leaning his back against the bars of the nearest cell, for he was not sure whether he would have managed to remain on his feet otherwise, Éothain stared at his father’s dying murderer, and a grim sense of satisfaction overcame him as he rubbed his hurting throat. A moment later, Áedwulf was by his side, steadying him.

“Éothain? Look at me, Éothain!” He did as bidden, moved by the concern in his friend’s eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. Aye, I am. Just give me a moment.” He wiped his mouth and stared numbly at the blood on his hand.

“It is nothing,” Éothain interrupted his friend, and his gaze found back to Felrod. The big Dunlending was still twitching, but his eyes were already beginning to glaze over with death. “It was worth it. I needed to kill him myself.” He grimaced as he drew his first deeper breath against the pain in the middle of his body. “It was my duty to avenge my father, Áedwulf. To avenge him… or to fail in the attempt.”

The older warrior nodded his understanding and, laying a hand on Éothain’s shoulder, looked up as the last warriors of their éored emerged from the tunnel. A quick inspection of their two kinsmen who had fallen under Felrod’s assault determined that there was unfortunately nothing to be done for them, and with a grim expression on his broad face, their leader stepped up to the two captains. His mouth curved into a derogatory sneer as he glanced at the dying Dunlending to their feet.

“I apologise, Captain. The filth was hiding beside the tunnel’s mouth, and the path was too narrow to evade him. Alas, I wish that--”

“Éothain!” an excited shout interrupted him, and all heads turned. “Éothain, come quickly! We found Elfhelm!”

The men looked at each other with dread. With a curt nod at Felrod, Eothain turned around.

“Take his keys and follow us. All others: search the cells! We do not know who else might be imprisoned here, or the state they’re in. One of you should go and tell the healers to make haste and come down here, too!” He left the men to their tasks as he quickly made for the group of warriors before the cell which held the Captain of Aldburg, Aédwulf close behind. Barely calmed down from the fight, his heartbeat accelerated anew for fear of what he would find in there.

“How is he?” Áedwulf asked as they reached their comrade’s prison, and he blanched as he beheld the prone figure on the other side of the steel bars: half sitting, half hanging in the grip of the iron shackles around his wrists, Elfhelm seemed lifeless. ‘No, no, no… not Elfhelm! Not him, too!’ His fingers clenched the bars, and it seemed to take an eternity until the right key was found to open the door. A moment later, he was at his brother’s side and felt for his pulse while Éothain waited anxiously for his verdict.

Shuddering at the sight of the swollen welts and open wounds that marred Elfhelm’s powerful frame, Áedwulf was nevertheless relieved when his searching fingertips found a reasonably strong heartbeat.

“He is alive,” he stated with a deep breath, and was about to turn to Éothain, when suddenly from before the cell, he heard the words he had dreaded to hear.

“Captain Éothain…” The voice was hesitant, and Áedwulf recognised it as belonging to one of the warriors who had searched the other corridors. Deadly cold turned his stomach into a block of ice as he looked up. Éothain knew what the man would say. He knew whom his men had found. Deep inside, he had known that this one time, Felrod had told the truth. “Captain, please, will you come with us? We--”

“You found my father, and he is dead.” It was not a question, and Éothain’s voice sounded eerily hollow as he turned around. The warriors’ eyes rested on their Captain in silent compassion, and yet none dared to speak as he made his way through them on legs which did not feel like his own. So, it was indeed true. His feelings had not lied, and neither had Felrod. They had freed Meduseld, but they had waited too long. “Lower the Captain to the ground and see that you find the keys to his shackles,” he heard himself say, but it seemed to reach him from the distance of another realm. “Get a healer to him quickly!” With a deep breath, he looked at Bard. “Is he dead, Bard?”

“It is hard to tell from outside, but he does not move. Perhaps he is only unconscious.”

No hope lay in his words, nor did Éothain feel any himself. Numbly he followed the man, and oppressive silence stole their breath as they made for the other corridor. Not a single torch had been lit in this cell row, and Éothain shuddered at the thought that his wounded father might have spent the last hours of his life in utter darkness. He tensed as his kinsman halted in front of the last cell before the wall and turned around, and in the flickering light of his torch, deep shadows danced on his face. At last, the moment he had dreaded had come.

“I know, Bard. Thank you.” Against his will, his feet moved forward, and as he turned toward the cell and waited for the door to be unlocked, Éothain already beheld the unmoving shape on the ground. ‘Béma, no…’

“Captain? Captain Céorl?” Bard tried to address the prone figure, yet without result. The door was opened, and taking his heart in both hands, Éothain walked in and knelt down to lay a hesitant hand on the fallen warrior’s shoulder.

“Father?” It only took one touch to determine that the body before him was rigid with death, and when Éothain cautiously rolled him on his back, he saw at last in the flickering light of the torch into his father’s broken eyes. He did not hear the sharp gasps behind him; did not hear the dismayed murmurs of his warriors as he ran his hand across the tormented features of the man to whom he had looked up all his life and who had shaped him in his likeness; the man who had comforted him whenever he had needed it, and who had encouraged and taught him his whole vast knowledge. The man he had loved from the very bottom of his soul… the man he had failed.

At last, the pain became too great to be contained as it swept like a tidal wave through him and up his throat, and Éothain’s anguished cry echoed through the corridors as he collapsed over his father’s dead body…

For Maddy! Thanks for giving me inspiration and great advise on everything I've ever wanted to know about Middle Earth... and healing... and tons of other stuff, too. ;->

When the pale sun rose over the morning mists, the land it illuminated seemed empty and bereft of life. Nothing moved on the endless plains of dead grass which had not yet begun to regrow after the long months of winter, and barely a bird could be seen in the sky. And yet the keen observer would nonetheless have detected traces of movement, of pebbles and little stones being pushed aside or pressed into the muddy ground by an unseen weight. The keen observer would have noticed the ripples in the puddles along the path, caused by reverberations of something invisible to the human eye… and then, perhaps, if his eye had strayed upwards, he would have spotted the strange shimmer in the air, like a reflection of sunlight on the morning dew, but well above the ground.

Yet to Gríma Wormtongue’s luck, there was no such keen observer, neither beast, man or elf in the vicinity as he hastened to put as many leagues between him and the City of Kings as possible. There was no question in his mind that, once the Rohírrim had recovered from the shock of having had their kingly hall barricaded against them and their ruler taken hostage, they would initiate a hunt of the likes the Mark had never seen for their enemy. In their quest for vengeance, they would turn every stone along the way until they had caught him, and for as long as he was on their territory, Gríma was certain they would find him eventually. Although usually straightforward in all their actions, he considered the Horselords cunning enough to employ dogs on their hunt, now that they knew of his magical cloak. That possibility posed a great danger to him. Dogs did not rely on what they perceived with their eyes. They hunted mainly by scent, and if they caught his’, his fate would be sealed, no doubt. A shudder raced down Wormtongue’s spine at the thought of what his end in that case would look like; he did not harbour any doubts that the simple-minded Rohírrim would undertake an extraordinary effort to come up with the cruellest way of bringing him to death. They would not simply put him to the sword and behead him, or hang him, oh no, it would be something much more creative and long-lasting, like tying him behind a horse and dragging him once through the entire Mark and back, until there was not even left enough of their enemy to feed the crows. At least that was what he would do in their position. The gruesome thought once again quickened his steps, even though he was by now close to exhaustion after hours of walking, in fact almost running, from the scene of his crime.

At first, Wormtongue had contemplated making for one of the nearest farms to steal a horse. And yet although riding would have meant to significantly shorten the time he’d have to spend in hostile territory, it would have unmade the effect of his cloak and heightened the danger of discovery. For hours he had weighed the pros and cons of this measure, torn between the urge to leave the Mark as quickly as possible and the knowledge of what would happen if he were captured, until at last, Wormtongue had reluctantly concluded that it might be saver to continue travelling in his current manner. On foot, he would need at least ten days, if not longer, to reach the Isen, instead of only two to three days on horseback. And yet while he did not look forward to having to spend such a long time in constant danger, Gríma felt that it was the right choice, for a fully bridled horse racing west without an apparent rider on its back would surely be investigated by the watchful Rohírrim in these times of war. Sighing as he wrapped himself tighter into his cloak, Gríma had at last resigned himself to the thought and settled into the stupor of the long walk.

The terrain had been treacherous all day, apparently only waiting to trip him and make him sprain or break his ankles, and more than once the thought surfaced that the very land itself was his enemy, trying to delay him long enough for its inhabitants to find him. Such contemplations were foolish of course, and yet Gríma found himself unable to suppress them. Cursing as he stumbled once again, Gríma laboured to make his way over the uneven, half-frozen ground, the patches of ice and mushy snow, through mud and over rocks and holes, his jaw clenched in stubborn resistance. If he hurt himself here, Gríma knew, he was as good as dead. As much as possible he stayed near the foothills of the mountains where the ground was a little harder and he would not leave as many footprints, and yet it also meant staying close to the road. That was unfortunate, yet so far, Wormtongue had not encountered a single rider on it all day, and his initial anxiety had vanished hours ago. Even his luck changed, in this rocky terrain, a horse’s hoof beats travelled over a long distance and alert him long before its Rider ever got the chance of spotting him. Provided he sat unmovingly beside the road protected by his cloak, they would pass right by without ever knowing how close their enemy had been.

It was long past midday when Gríma’s aching feet and general exhaustion finally demanded that he took his first rest. Cold and miserable at the thought that he had not even been able to organize some however sparse supplies for the long way, Wormtongue took a few steps off the road to sit down in the shadow of a rock which provided shelter from the icy wind. His pale eyes scanning the horizon underneath a cantankerously wrinkled brow, he wrapped himself tighter into his cloak and blew warm breath into his numb hands, stubbornly trying to ignore his growling stomach and throbbing feet.

And yet he had to concern himself with the problem, for he could not go for ten days or more without food. Sooner or later, he would have to run the risk and approach one of the settlements or a lonely farm along the way and try to find something there, and slip away again before they ever knew he had been there. Best to be done with it as quickly as possible, Gríma concluded reluctantly, because it would not help his cause if he waited until excruciating hunger weakened him and all of Rohan had been alerted of his escape to the effect that its inhabitants would investigate on every dog’s bark. He dreaded the undertaking, but saw no way to avoid it. His mood suitably darkened by the dangerous prospect, Gríma observed his surroundings from his sheltered refuge… when he heard it.

At first, it was only a lowly rumble, like the thunder announcing a distant storm hours before it unleashed its terrible force against those who had not understood its warning. And yet it could not be thunder, because the noise did not cease. It did not come and go in unsteady intervals, but increased in volume the longer Gríma listened, and as he held his breath and wrecked his brain for an answer to the noise’s origin, Gálmód’s son suddenly felt each hair on his scalp right itself. His heart suddenly in his throat and eyes widening although there was nothing to be seen yet, he jumped to his feet and a hot surge of energy raced through his veins.

Saruman’s army, at last! Only barely did he avoid a fall which could have easily resulted in a broken leg as he scurried down the slope toward the road to greet their forces, no longer caring about treading carefully. A broad grin formed on Gríma’s mutilated lips. Suddenly, the threat of death seemed very distant, because there could be no mistaking that the noise he heard was the marching of his Master’s Uruks! Hah! Those accursed strawheads thought they had won, didn’t they? Well, how surprised would they be when tonight, he would return with his army to watch them raise Edoras to the ground and kill every living thing within the city’s confines. How could he ever have doubted the great White Wizard?

With new energy, Wormtongue stormed toward the growing din, and in his pale eyes glowed a malicious sparkle as he imagined the dismay on Théoden’s face once the King of Rohan beheld the sight of a sea of orcs on his doorstep! With no help from outside, Edoras would be crushed underneath Saruman’s boot, and the Snowbourn would run red with the blood of the Rohìrrim! Ah, such great prospects; he could hardly wait to see them fulfilled! After the horrible night that lay behind him, who would have thought that already the following day would reward him with the opportunity to avenge himself? The Gods seemed to be in a truly strange mood these days, but he would not grudge them their mischievous play as long as he would stand on top of the lonely hill in the end and look down upon his slaughtered foes.

And with his excitement, the noise increased further from a distant rumble to a steady boom until at last, the army’s thunder shook the very earth and sent avalanches of pebbles and rocks raining from the mountain slopes. They were close now, so close in fact that Gríma knew he would see them as soon as he reached the top of the gentle rise before him. His heart sang with the powerful rhythm of their marching, and despite having walked without interruption and sustenance for long hours since the night, he suddenly found himself running up the road. Drunk with the feeling of sweet victory, he inhaled deeply to welcome his army – but the cry died in his throat.

These were no Uruk-hais. Before him and spread out for as far as the eye could see were Riders, more than he could count or even estimate in a rush, and they were almost upon him! For a terrible moment, Gríma could neither move nor breathe. Frozen to the ground, he stood in the middle of the road and stared in incomprehension at the scene before him, and his heart which had beaten with wild triumph only a moment earlier, now hardly seemed to beat at all. He saw everything in great detail, his doom coming at him: the horses, foam-lathered and their veins standing out from effort through their wet hide; their nostrils wide and eyes bulging as if they were close to collapsing; many of them with gashes in their sides and sprinkled with mud up to their rumps; the sight of war-horses who had gone through battle recently. Preceding them was a strong-boned grey stallion which looked awfully familiar to Gríma, although the rider on his back was not the one he had expected to see when he looked up.

Yet in a way though it was even worse, for while it was not Éomer on the grey’s back - which would have prompted Gàlmòd’s son to question his own sanity, because there was no way that the Third Marshal could still be alive after what he had unleashed against the man - it was someone else he had likewise not expected. Someone who had at least be as dead as the White Lady’s brother! And still, there could be no questioning his own eyes, and his eyes showed him a tall figure with a distinctive helmet on its head, from where a black crest of horsehair flowed. And when Wormtongue’s gaze fell on the splendidly crafted cuirass with the embossment of a rearing horse on the chest plate, he felt his sense of reality slip. This could not be. Théodred could not be alive! The tidings of the Prince’s death had come from Saruman himself, and his Master had never lied to him! So stunned did his discovery leave the son of Gálmód that he almost failed to clear the road before the Rider reached him.

Only at the last possible moment before he was run over, life suddenly returned to Gríma’s legs and he dashed to the side, causing the stallion to rear in protest. Even if the horse had not seem him, it had caught his scent and the rush of air caused by the sudden movement, startled enough to whirl its powerful hooves at the invisible thing before it and missed his back by the breadth of a hair. Hastily Gríma dived into a depression beside the road and hunched down while his heart undertook a serious attempt to burst from his rib cage. Had he been spotted? Would they come and look for him, trying to find out what had upset the grey beast?

The host halted right before him, and involuntarily, Wormtongue held his breath. Then the situation grew even stranger when the Rider in the Prince’s armour spoke with the voice of the Third Marshal.

“Hoh! Hoh, Firefoot!” the warrior soothed, a hand on his mount’s neck as he parried the beast’s sudden outbreak and simultaneously scanned the road for signs of a disturbance. For a heartbeat, piercing dark eyes met Gríma’s, and in shock, the son of Gálmód realised that it was indeed Éomer he was looking at. Neither blinking nor daring to breathe, Gríma stared back, until at last, the warrior shook his head to himself, his brow furrowed with confusion and he gestured his army to move on. Still and silent like a marble statue, Gríma sat beside the road as the Rohírrim passed, and the ground shook from their sheer number until after what felt to him like an eternity, the last rider disappeared behind the next rise.

Only then did it hit him, the realisation of how narrow his escape had been, and his body reacted: his fingers clenching in his coat until his knuckles whitened to stop his sudden violent trembling, Wormtongue sat beside the road, and all kinds of anxious questions flooded his mind. What had happened in the Westfold? How could there still be a Rohirric army left, and how could it be that it was headed by the Third Marshal? How could a plan that had been worked out so meticulously have failed? And, the most important question for now: what was he supposed to do now, which way should he turn? For the sight of the grim-faced Riders had finally driven the understanding home that he had seen the army that had destroyed Saruman’s forces. There was no longer safety to be found for him at Isengard; if he wanted to survive, he would have to turn a different way and disappear from the face of the earth as quickly as possible.

When at last his trembling ceased and it felt as if his legs would carry him again, Wormtongue rose to his feet, and his gaze glided over the empty plains while the riders’ thunder slowly ebbed away in the distance. Perhaps he would find a place to hide among his Dunlending brethren. They knew that – although in the King of Rohan’s service – he had worked against the Strawheads, serving their cause, and they would welcome him with open arms. Somewhere among their tribes in the mountains, he would find shelter, and while Wormtongue did not look forward to sharing their live in poverty, it would have to suffice until he was ready to return to the Mark and exact his revenge upon them all…

Something was wrong. Éomer felt it with every fibre of his body, with every single one of Firefoot’s steps bringing them closer to Edoras, and he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle as he had done repeatedly along the way. He was coming home at last; he should feel overjoyed and exuberant at the prospect, not as if someone had loaded sacks of meal upon his chest. From the moment when Gríma Wormtongue had expelled him, he had beaten the odds again and again by surviving first the ambush of his foe’s henchmen, and then the fierce elements and the orc-attacks at the caves and at the farm. Against all odds, he had led their éohere to Isengard and played a vital part in the destruction of their western enemy, many reasons to feel proud and triumphant over his achievements of the last days… and yet it seemed to Éomer as if a cloud hung above his head; a black ugly cloud that followed him every step of the way to cast its dark shadow upon him in unspoken threat. As much as he yearned to return home, at the same time Éomer dreaded to think of what he would find there.

“Your sister will be all right,” Aragorn spoke into his brooding, and Éomer slanted the older man a surprised glance. Had his thoughts been so obvious? How much of the ghoulish images that had haunted him during the endless night were visible in his expression? Exhausted to the bone, Éomer had repeatedly sunken into a strange state between waking and dreaming even while they had led their horses by the reins before daylight had spread over the horizon and they had mounted again, only to find his imagination taken hostage by his arch enemy. In his dreams, he had seen Éowyn dead and dangling from the gallows; hanged for her attempt to bring her brother help. He had seen her sitting in the darkness of the dungeon with her back against the bare rock of her cell, hugging herself and shivering uncontrollably, her face void of emotion as her captor sent his men down to fetch his trophy for another attempt of ravaging her and destroying her spirit.

Again Éomer’s fingers clenched around the reins as he fought against the resurfacing images. It could not be. It must not be! With a deep breath, he turned to Aragorn, as the man surely expected a reaction of him.

“She must be. Or…” He did not finish his sentence, not knowing just exactly what he would do if he found his worst fears confirmed upon their return to Edoras. What sense would there be left to his life if he failed the person he had sworn to protect from when they had first laid his newborn sister into his arms? His lips a bloodless line as he stared into the distance beyond Firefoot’s ears, Éomer battled against the flutter of panic which grew more powerful the taller the lonely hill loomed before them. Involuntarily, his gaze went up to the indistinct shape of the Golden Hall. ‘Are you well, Sister? Are you seeing us from the windows of your chambers as we round the last foothills and urge our horses on the last part of the way?’

A bright beam of light from the vast structure above Edoras had beaconed them for the better part of the day, and now, in the last rays of the sinking sun, the distant roof of Meduseld looked indeed as if it were made of pure gold. It was a flameless bonfire to welcome their army home and a sight that usually stirred joy in every Rider’s heart… and yet while no obvious signs of disturbance were to be seen from afar and neither smoke nor other traces of hostile activities to be detected, Éomer’s had long learned not to trust in appearances.

As the City of Edoras grew out of the plains before them, another thought resurfaced in his mind. It was one that had occurred to him only briefly before, but now that their return was imminent, Éomer suddenly found it impossible to ignore: the way things seemed, it was quite possible that in a few hours, he would be the 18th King of Rohan. Surely the Worm had killed Théoden once he had seized control over Meduseld and the old man had become worthless for him. With the son of Thengel gone and his heir slewn at the Fords of Isen, people would expect the blood of Éorl to return to the throne of the Mark. While Éomer could think of other things he would prefer to do with his life rather than being incarcerated in the twilight of the Golden Hall and concern himself with people’s complaints all day long, there was no question that he would step up if that duty was actually laid upon his shoulders. And yet he hoped he would be spared that fate. Had their people, after all, not banished him? Had they not turned their backs on him when the Worm’s henchmen had led him through the city, bound and undignified, tolerating without protest that a man who had repeatedly given his blood for their protection died in the winter storm? But then he thought of the farmer couple who had taken him in on that first cold night. And he thought of Freya and her family. They were not all like the citizens of Edoras, concerned only for their own safety. Those were the people he loved, the people he had vowed to protect, and he would continue to do so with other means if that power was indeed given to him.

With a sigh, Éomer woke from his musings. It felt strange to look upon Meduseld in the golden evening light, sitting there on top of the hill as it had done since Brego built it five hundred years ago as if nothing had happened, when the world had forever changed for him. For more than sixteen years, the great wooden structure had been a home to him and Éowyn, but now that they had finally advanced enough to see the mighty gates in the surrounding fence, the son of Eomund suddenly felt uncertain whether that feeling would ever return, or if Gríma had at least succeeded in despoiling the purity of this emotion for all time.

An inquisitive rap at the door diverted Théoden’s attention from Éowyn’s still shape. He was thankful for the interruption, as the pain and guilt over seeing his niece in this horrible condition were almost unbearable. For hours, he had sat by her side in the heavy armchair his servants had placed next to her bed upon his orders; for hours, he had held her cold hand and murmured soothing words of comfort, but he had not been granted a reaction yet. Oh, what had that accursed Worm done to her?

The healers had examined Éowyn thoroughly while Théoden had dressed in his royal garments and let himself be helped to the throne to listen to his men’s reports in an effort to return to duty. And yet what Éothain and Gamling told him of the happenings he had missed through the machinations of his treacherous counsellor had caused his blood to freeze and his heart to die. While he himself had been the puppet of an evil man, manipulated into making only the worst decisions for his suffering people, Théodred had fallen in the Westfold. His son… was dead, a victim of his father’s failure like so many others: like Céorl, the valiant Captain of the Edoras-based éored, who had been found in the dungeon, horribly battered…. Dead. Or Hámá, the Captain of his guard and trusted friend of many years, who had given his life in defence for his king and the royal family. And while not dead, others had likewise suffered terribly because of him, like Elfhelm of Aldburg or even his dear friend Gamling, whose gaunt, drawn features had given Théoden an idea of the scope of his suffering even if the warrior had tried his best to hide his bad condition from his ruler.

And he had exiled Éomer. In the middle of winter, he had cast out the lad who had been like a second son to him from the sheltering city without weapons or provisions, sent him out to die in the raging elements. With his own words, he had sentenced his nephew to death. A horrible black maw opened in Théoden’s mind whenever his thoughts returned to this part of the Captain’s report. He had caused so much suffering, not only to his people, but to his very kin. How was he supposed to live on with this guilt? There was not even a place here at Edoras where he could grieve for his dead son, no hope to find closure. Perhaps he would never find it… and perhaps, he did not deserve to find it.

Involuntarily, Théoden’s hand tightened around Éowyn’s fingers, and his gaze returned to her, suddenly blurring. His niece, too, had passed through a nightmare because of him, and although Yálanda had assured him that Éowyn had not been touched in that way, the young woman’s horrible condition hinted at the fact that Gríma Wormtongue had done more to her than simply tie her to his bed. Hoping to improve her condition by changing her surroundings, his men had cautiously carried Éowyn over to her own chambers, but so far, this measure had not shown the hoped results. Tears ran down the King’s face now, but he was not aware of his crying.

At least Éomer had survived. According to Éothain, his nephew had reached the Westfold and the shelter of Erkenbrand’s domain, from where he had summoned their forces for the battle against Isengard. And yet nobody knew what had happened since then. No messengers had reached Edoras yet with word of their forces’ triumph or defeat, and whether it would be an army of orcs or Riders they would soon see upon the western horizon still remained to be determined. From what Théoden had been able to comprehend in a rush, it was still very possible that Meduseld had been freed of Gríma Wormtongue’s hold only to be raised to the ground by Saruman’s forces a few days later if Éomer’s army had been defeated. And yet there was nothing they could do about it but wait. Théoden ground his teeth in frustration, despising his own helplessness. It seemed that the Worm had only allowed him to wake from the poison’s hold to see the effect of his horrible failure on his people.

The knocking was repeated, more insistently now, and upon Maelwyn’s rushed steps in the adjourning room and the sound of the opening door, the King of the Mark at last surfaced from his dark thoughts. He did not recognise the voice, but its urgent tone immediately alarmed him.

“Please, Mistress Maelwyn, I must speak to the King immediately. Is he still here?”

“Aye, he sits with the Lady. If you will wait here, please, I will ask him whether--” Maelwyn began to answer, but was interrupted by Théoden’s voice.

“Lead him in, Maelwyn,” he said, frustrated over being too weak to even rise to his feet to expect the man as befitting. When he saw the warrior, he remembered the young man’s name. “What is it, Léod?”

“Riders?” The unexpected tidings caused a sudden spark of excitement, and for a moment, Théoden felt almost strong enough to stand. Could it be? Could it truly be? “You are certain that they are Riders, not Uruks?”

“Aye, my Lord. These are our forces, and their sheer number would indicate that they were part of our éohere returning from the battle in the Westfold.” A smile of pure, honest joy stood on Lèod’s face, and it was all the answer Théoden needed. For a moment, the three people in the room regarded each other silently, too moved to speak, and for once, it was hope which spread over their faces, not dread. Did the return of their army mean that the dark days were indeed counted? “Shall I send out an escort for them, Sire?”

‘Could you see who heads the army? Was it Éomer?’ Théoden suddenly wanted to know urgently, but at the same time, the thought caused his stomach to twitch. What if Éomer had died in the battle? What if their foes’ schemes had robbed him of both his sons… and his daughter? And what if Eomund’s son was heading their army? His own uncle had banished him, had sent him away from the protection of his people to die. Would Éomer ever would forgive him, Théoden wondered, and the prospect of facing his nephew caused contradicting emotions to well up in him. Éomer had to know that it had been the Worm’s poison talking from his uncle’s mouth, and still… Trying to conceal his sudden anxiety for both the handmaiden as well as the young warrior before him regarded him with a questioning glance upon their faces, Théoden shook his head.

“If they continue at their current pace, they will be here by nightfall, Sire. Within the hour.”

“It will take at least half that time to summon the men and bridle their horses,” Théoden spoke to himself, before he looked at Léod. “No. Leave the men inside. But let the bell sound to bring the tidings of our army’s return to the people, and send whoever you can find down to the square. If it is true that they defeated our foe in the west, they should be welcomed accordingly…. and have Éomer sent to me. ‘… if he is indeed among the returning warrior.,’ His relieved smile disappeared as fast from his lips as it had appeared there. What would the next hours bring: Rejoicing… or more torment?

If the young warrior before him sensed his ruler’s dismay, he did not show it. His expression perfectly composed, Léod indicated a bow and turned to go.

The city bell’s silver sound rang over the plains and filled the hearts of the approaching Riders with joy. The men pulled their horns from their belts and put them to their lips to send a many-voiced greeting back to their waiting kinsmen, and although their horses – with the exception of the great Shadowfax - were at the end of their strength, they, too, suddenly felt a new surge of energy which transformed their tired trot of the last leagues into a heavy-handed gallop. As the gates opened, Aragorn cast Éomer an encouraging glance.

“It would appear to me that your worst fears will not be confirmed. These are your kinsmen behind these walls, not the enemy, and they seem to be in good spirits, too, which might hint at even better tidings.”

“Aye…” Neither did Éomer sound convinced, nor did his rigid bearing change. While his Riders cheered and blew their horns to celebrate their homecoming, their Marshal hid his increasingly contradicting emotions behind an unmoved mask, and only those who looked into his eyes would see the fear in them. As much as the younger man’s silent anguish saddened Aragorn, he understood that there was nothing to be done for the Rohír’s peace of mind until Éomer found his fears either confirmed or groundless. So he only nodded and then reined in his mount to fall behind the son of Eomund, to let him – befitting his status as the Mark’s highest commander – enter the city first.

The din greeting them was unbelievable, a solid wall of sound. The wide square was packed with people, and from every possible corner, still more citizens were rushing toward the open space to celebrate their army’s return, shouting the names of the returning warriors whenever another one of them was recognised. The horses, used to such crowds and too exhausted to waste energy they no longer possessed, neither shied nor gave any other signs that the noise and surrounding people annoyed them; instinctively they made for the ascending path that would lead them to the stables. Following common practice, only the warriors of higher rank accompanied Éomer into the city’s confines, as even the capital of Rohan would have been too small to accommodate over one thousand riders and their steeds. Yet as Éomer looked back, determination rose in him to personally see to it that each of his men who had to stay back for now would get a hot meal and a roof above his head tonight. It was the least service he could offer to these most loyal of his Riders after what they had done for him and their country.

“Théodred! Théodred!” the people now shouted joyfully upon seeing him, fooled by his cousin’s armour, and Éomer’s lips became a bloodless line as he directed Firefoot through the crowd. The grey waded through the people like a heron, unperturbed by the noise, but his rider’s unexplainable tension kept the stallion on his guard. With pricked ears, Firefoot’s scanned their surroundings with his large dark eyes, and his widened nostrils tasted the scents the wind carried toward him for signs of danger; his obvious alert keeping the people around them at bay.

As he observed his kinsmen’s reactions from the anonymity his cousin’s armour, Éomer could not help being overcome by a great bitterness. Would these people celebrate as much if they knew that it was their banished Marshal who had returned and not their beloved Prince? Had they not all turned their backs on him not even a fortnight ago, when it had been he for a change, who had had needed their loyalty and protection? ‘These are simple people,’ Éomer tried to remind himself, but the feeling would not wane. ‘They are no warriors. What should they have done against the Worm’s men… and Uncle’s orders?’ Perhaps that was right, perhaps his scorn was unjust, and yet he could not help wondering whether Gríma Wormtongue’s plan of dispatching his worst adversary would have succeeded had all the city’s occupants withstood him together. Or had they actually believed the accusations? Soundlessly sighing, Éomer shook his head to himself. If Théoden was truly dead… how was he supposed to be the ruler of a people who doubted him?

Suddenly eager to leave the crowd behind as quickly as possible, Éomer kicked his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, and the great Grey summoned the last of his strength to accelerate to a tired trot. Irritated by his action, the people scattered from the stallion’s path, and bemused silence spread among the crowd. No longer cheering, they watched as their Captains and a host of strangers in grey passed through their midst, only to huddle together and exchange bewildered murmurs once the warriors had passed.

Éomer neither cared, nor did he hear the hushed conversations rising behind them, for his gaze was now held by the Golden Hall’s towering silhouette. The night fires upon the terrace had already been lit and illuminated the ancient building’s elaborately crafted front, and in its shadows, he beheld the familiar figures of the Royal Guard. All looked as it should, the way it had for all these years before normality had ceased to exist for Éomer. Apparently Aragorn had been right and his kinsmen had already overcome the usurpers themselves… but the question remained: to which extent? Had the hostages been freed? Were they well? And had Gríma Wormtongue at last met his just end? As much as Éomer would rejoice at these tidings, there was also a part of him which would be left disappointed over hearing of his arch enemy’s demise. After all the Worm had done to him personally, Éomer had hoped to be granted the satisfaction of taking the filth to the sword himself.

With a jolt, the son of Éomund woke from his musings. It was useless to speculate; he would know soon enough… and in the end, all was secondary compared to Éowyn’s wellbeing. If his sister had come through the siege of Meduseld unharmed, he would sink to his knees and thank the Gods, and award the man who had had the joy of disposing of Gríma Wormtongue whatever he wished… but he could not see Éowyn yet, and that was certainly strange considering the great din of their arrival. Uneasily, he shifted in the saddle as silent dread tightened its hold around his ribs.

Their group came up on the broad space before the Royal stables just before the steps to the Golden Hall. Firefoot needed no signal from his rider to know that their long journey had at last found its end, and when the stallion stopped, Éomer slid from his back and patted the horse’s shoulder with a few apologetic words.

“Thank you, friend. I will be back later and repay my debt, but for now, I fear that you will have to make do with our stables master. Behave, for it is not the man’s fault.” Once more he clapped the grey hide and then turned around to hand over the reins to the man patiently waiting behind him. “Solgard…” The brief surprised twitch in the old man’s eyes told Éomer that the stable master had only recognised him now because of his misleading armour. Yet the man recovered quickly, and a joyful glow spread over his features. When he accepted the reins, he allowed his hand to linger on Éomer’s for a moment longer than necessary.

“Welcome home, Marshal. This is a great day of joy for Edoras and for the Mark. I trust that you were triumphant in the West?” The look in the warrior’s dark eyes confirmed his assumption, and a warm and truly glad smile formed on Solgard’s weathered features as his gaze wandered to Firefoot. “I already wondered what on earth had happened for the Prince to return on the back of your peculiar demon-horse, but here is the explanation. I should have known.”

The man’s joy was honest, and yet Éomer could not suppress the harsh voice in the back of his mind, asking him why the people of whom Solgard spoke had let it come so far to let their protector be expelled if his destiny had been of such concern to them.

“Thank you, Solgard,” he said instead with a measured nod, not wanting to alienate the man, and yet he had to struggle to keep the bitter thoughts from showing on his expression. Following the stable master’s look, Éomer added: “It is true, Théodred and he never got along, but then again, the Grey hardly suffers anyone else than me to approach him to begin with. Yet I must ask you to take care of him for me for now, as I am awaited in Meduseld... although I doubt that Firefoot has energy left to give you trouble. He did far more than his usual share on this errand, and I would that I could tend him myself, but...”

“No need to explain, Marshal,” Solgard replied eagerly and laid a hand on the stallion’s nose, surprised to reap no protest from the wilful beast. “I will give him my full attention. He is in good hands.”

“I do not doubt that, Solgard. Thank you.” Not waiting to observe as the man led away his horse, Eomer turned around and made for the stairs, vaguely aware that his companions had likewise dismounted and given over their steeds to the waiting stable hands. For a moment he could almost feel his kinsmen’s curiosity at the sight of their strange guests – had he ever seen a dwarf or an elf in Edoras before? And of course Gandalf Greyhame on the back of Shadowfax the Great alone was worthy of a commotion. Yet a moment later, all thoughts of them vanished from his mind at the sight of the lone figure on the foot of the steps.

It was Éothain, of course. Éomer sighed, at last overwhelmed by his conflicted emotions. He was glad to see his best friend alive and well, and yet this was also the man from whom – more than from anyone else – he had expected aid in his plight, if not by challenging the verdict, then by following him into exile. With the aid of his éored, or with just a few of their riders sent along as protection, none of the incidents that had followed would have happened. They would have killed the Worm’s henchmen who had come after him, and the orcs who had almost overcome him in the mountains would never have stood a chance. Yet for some reason Éomer could not begin to guess, Éothain had chosen to stay behind and do nothing, and to see his tall silhouette now in the twilight of the advancing night, an expression on his face which clearly indicated that he knew the meaning of Éomer’s dark glance, turned the warrior’s stomach into a knot. What was he supposed to say now? How was he supposed to behave? Did Éothain expect him to simply ignore the fact that his brother in all but blood had let him down in the time of his greatest need and overplay his feelings of betrayal for friendship’s sake?

Bracing himself for the confrontation he neither looked forward to nor had the mind to concern himself with for as long as Éowyn’s condition was still unknown, Éomer motioned for Findárras; but his gaze remained on Éothain, who seemed likewise uncertain of how to meet him.

“Aye?” The red-haired Eastfold-warrior stepped up to him, already knowing what his Marshal would ask of him as they had decided upon it before entering Edoras. Glad to delay the inevitable moment when he would have to address Éothain, Éomer turned to his kinsman, and for a moment, his gaze strayed to Aragorn and their other guests. Like all men who had gone through battle and then travelled the entire length of the Mark without interruption from Isengard, they looked wretched, but their arrival in the City of Kings had apparently restored enough of their energy to keep them on their feet for now. Their curious glances went up to the Golden Hall and then took in the magnificent view of the many flickering fires which had been lit below, and the stark contrast of the illuminated city to the complete darkness of the plains behind the fence.

“I will show our guests to their rooms and ensure that they lack nothing,” Fíndárras quickly offered, for Éomer’s distress could no longer be overlooked. The son of Éomund chafed to be on his way to his sister… and the fact that Éowyn was not already here to greet him did not bode well. “Go, Éomer. They understand, and I know how to handle this. Our meals and baths and whatevers should be your least concerns now. Find Éowyn, and give her my regards, too, please.”

“Thank you, Fíndarras.” With a grateful glance, Éomer turned to Aragorn and his friends, and when he saw understanding on their faces as well, inclined his head in silent greeting and made for the stairs… and Éothain. Just one more obstacle between him and Éowyn, and while part of Éomer was dismayed to be thinking of his friend as merely a hindrance, he knew at the same time that he did not have the patience now to hear Éothain out.

As he approached, he saw the same knowledge in the other man’s eyes that things between them had changed, that their foe had somehow succeeded in staining the purity of their friendship. And there was something else in Éothain’s stance that gave Éomer pause; something he could not name yet, but it caused his skin to prickle and his stomach to twitch: with his rigid bearing and his hands clenched into fists by his sides, Éothain looked as if he were about to confess a terrible secret… and deadly afraid to do so. Steeling himself for whatever he would learn now, Éomer came to a halt before his friend. For the longest moment, the two warriors regarded each other silently, until at last, it was Éothain who began.

“Éomer…” He inhaled deeply, and such pain and guilt stood in his eyes that for a moment, everything Éomer had meant to say lost its meaning. Éothain shook his head as he hunted for the right words. When his gaze found back to his waiting friend, only honesty and regret shone in his eyes. “We should have accompanied you. Your entire éored wanted to follow you into exile; I wanted to follow you, but…”

“…but in the end, nobody did.” The words had passed Éomer’s lips before he could stop himself, and he could see their devastating effect on Éothain’s face, but there was no satisfaction to be had from his friend’s dismay. He did not want to fight with a man who had been his closest friend for many years, much less when there were far more urgent things on his mind, and yet the dammed disappointment of the last weeks needed release. Although Éomer did not mean to be brusque, he knew that his next words would be received as that. It could not be helped. “We will talk about this later, Éothain. Where is Éowyn?” Still she was not here, falling around his neck and simultaneously laughing and crying with joy over their reunion, and there was only one possible explanation for it: his fears had not been unfounded. He did not want to hear Éothain’s next words… and at the same time, he could not hear them fast enough. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps…

But suddenly Éothain could no longer look him in the eye, and if Éomer had needed any more confirmation, it was this, the last straw. Never before had his friend avoided his gaze. “Éomer… I do not know how to say this…”

No longer knowing what he was doing, Éomer suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders.

“She is alive. She is in her chambers, but…” Éothain inhaled deeply, but the task did not get easier. “We do not know what the Worm did to her. Apart from a few bruises, Yálanda found no injuries on her, and she is sure that your sister has not been touched… in that way, but… Éowyn will not respond to anyone. She will not eat and barely even drinks, and does not react when being spoken to or touched. It is as if her spirit has left her body.” Éomer’s horrified gaze silenced Éothain, and a moment later, he found himself standing alone and closed his eyes in torment while Éomer stormed up the stairs to the hall. “Béma…,” he whispered.

Éomer did not recognize a single face among the Royal Guards at the door, but his frantic mind did not concern itself with this observation as he limped toward the entrance as fast as his legs carried him. It could not be! How could their Gods have allowed that his innocent sister was punished for whatever he might have done to offend them? The men’s welcoming words passed his ears unregistered as he rushed through the door they opened for him to be greeted by the warmth in the hall, which stemmed from a merrily flickering fire in hearth and the many lit torches. It all looked maddeningly normal down to the tapestries behind the wooden throne, as if he had never been away and the incidents of the last two weeks only a very vivid nightmare, and yet Éomer knew that once he passed through the door before him, the door to Éowyn’s chambers, the reality lurking behind them would be more savage than any foe he had ever faced.

The guard before Éowyn’s chambers tried to address him with a joyous expression spreading on his innocent young face.

“Marshal Éomer, may I just say how glad--” His enthusiastic welcome died in his throat as he looked his commander in the eye. No matter where the Marshal’s mind was, it was not here, but at a dark, dark place; a place the guard hoped he would never have to experience for himself. Hastily he opened the door and all but jumped to the side before Éomer would have walked right through him. “My Lord, the King is inside with--” He was rewarded with neither glance nor reply.

“Èowyn?” She was not here. Of course she was not here, if her condition was as serious as Éothain had explained. “Éowyn?” Éomer’s heart pounded in his chest like a fearsome beast trying to flee its cage as he turned toward the door to the bedchamber. ‘What have you done, Worm? You said you loved my sister, so how could you destroy her?’

Hesitantly he laid his hand on the handle, and for terrible moment, dread overwhelmed him. It stole his breath and froze him to the floor, unable to move. Unable to open the door and see with his own eyes what had happened. What if Éowyn was waiting for him on the other side with madness in her eyes and her mind shattered into uncountable shards by the horrors she had been forced to experience? With her wrists tied to the poles of her bed because her caretakers feared that she would use the first opportunity they granted her to take her own life? Éomer swallowed and closed his eyes, uncertain whether he would be able to stand such a ghastly sight.

‘Béma, please… I will do whatever you ask of me for the rest of my life, and for my next lives as well, but please… spare my sister! She has done nothing to deserve this fate.’

And with a deep breath, he opened the door… and realised that he had found her at last. It was unmistakably Éowyn’s slender shape beneath the bedspread, although Éomer’s view of his sister’s upper body and face was obstructed by a figure sitting beside the bed in a big armchair. When that figure turned around and washed-out blue eyes met his gaze, his sense of reality deserted Éomer altogether. A long time ago in another life, the man who had lived behind this face had been someone he had loved from the bottom of his heart. Not as a father perhaps, because at the age of eleven years, Éomer had been old enough to distinctly remember his true father when the King had taken them into his household, but once the immediate pain of the loss of their parents had passed, he had felt warmed by his Uncle’s care and love.

No, not in the world had Éomer expected a hale-looking Théoden-King at his sister’s sickbed.

The joyous smile which had first spread over Théoden’s features vanished when the old man beheld the strange look upon his nephew’s face. Although this was the first time in years that Éomer saw him freed from the Worm’s hold, it did not appear to the King as if his sister-son was glad to find him here. The realisation that he was unwelcome stung, and when his gaze dropped and he beheld the cuirass with the bronze rearing horse on his nephew’s chest, Théoden’s expression, too, turned to stone. How could this be? Was this a dream? A nightmare? Had Béma decided to let him wake from the darkness only to perpetually torment him for his failure with the discovery of his niece’s pitiful state and painful reminders of his son’s death?

Barely able to breathe through the tight ring around his ribs, Théoden stared mesmerized at the bronze horse on the familiar breastplate, and the pain of his loss once again assaulted him with sharp, merciless claws. An endless moment of leaden silence passed until he felt at last ready to meet his nephew’s gaze, and when he did so, the hard look in Éomer’s eyes added yet another hurt to the King’s wounded soul. Quite obviously, the lad who had grown to manhood under his nurture and care hated him now... and from what Théoden remembered from Gamling’s brief summarisation of the events since his descent into darkness, he had every reason.

“This is Théodred’s armour?” Those were not the words he had meant to say in greeting, and yet they escaped his mouth before he could stop himself, and their effect could be clearly seen on Éomer’s face as a hard glint flickered to life in his nephew’s eyes. His stomach seemed to drop into a bottomless hole as Théoden watched helplessly the rift between them suddenly widening like a yawning maw, a deep chasm impossible to bridge.

The sentence ended like a question, but it was none. Éomer understood, and instinctively squared his shoulders in a gesture of defence he had alas grown accustomed to over the past years. His gaze darkened. So the Worm was gone, but nothing had changed. What a fool had he been to think he would be welcomed here after all that had happened.

Exiled by his Uncle’s own words and sent away to die in the wilderness, he had against all odds survived, and he had returned triumphantly from battle after ridding the Mark of their mighty enemy in the west, and yet these were the first words that came to Théoden’s mind upon seeing him? Éomer swallowed and hid his bitterness behind a mask of stone. Did Théoden deem him to be a grave-robber? Did the King indeed believe that he would rob a man he had loved like a brother of his possessions? The man he had once been, the hot-headed, rash son of Éomund wanted to make himself to be heard, but the older, wiser warrior Éomer had grown into kept the upper hand. This battle was not worth the effort. There was precious little left of his energy after the long journey from Isengard, and what was left of it was Éowyn’s to have… it would be wasted on a man who had spiritually abandoned him long ago. His voice was toneless when he spoke at last, and only his sudden formality gave away his true feelings.

“Erkenbrand saved it from battle to give it to you, Sire, because Théodred was buried at the Fords, and he did not want your son’s resting place disturbed by the enemy to steal it. I was in need of amour for when we rode to Isengard, and I believed that my cousin would have liked the thought of me carrying it back into battle for him.” Éomers gaze went over Théoden’s shoulder, unfocused. He could no longer bear to look his Uncle in the eye. “And now I would like to see my sister.” ‘Alone!’ He did not say it aloud, but his tone was not to be misunderstood.

“Éomer…” Théoden sighed, and once again cursed the moment of surprise which had prompted him to utter these horrible words he had not even meant. And he cursed his weakness which prevented him from rising to his feet and embracing the wilful young man before him, the man who had been like a son to him, for when words failed, gestures bespoke one’s true emotions far more clearly than words ever could. And yet even if he had had the strength – there was something in his nephew’s stance forbidding such an attempt; something that warned him to even approach the son of Eomund.

‘I banished him! Of course he hates me!’ Théoden thought desperately. And Éomer’s rage would even intensify once he saw the horrible condition of his sister with his own eyes, and of course he would hold his Uncle responsible for that, too. A headache began to form behind the King’s furrowed brow as he struggled to stand, not willing to wait for his guard to help him leave the room when Éomer obviously wanted him out as quickly as possible. Right now, there was no sense in confrontation, in talking, not before the lad had been granted his time alone with Éowyn. Théoden understood.

And yet while he teetered shakily toward the door, his sister-son did nothing to help him. Like a statue Éomer stood in the middle of the room, and his gaze went straight through his surrogate father as he stared at his sister’s still shape with a sinking feeling of despair. He had been right to dread his homecoming.

Just before he passed his nephew, Théoden took a moment to stand and straighten with as much dignity as he could muster, and the expression on his face was honest and sad at the same time when he said: “I am glad you have returned, Éomer. I am glad you are alive, and I am proud to see you as the leader of our men. These were the words I wanted to say when I saw you, and I should have… but I only learned of Théodred’s death last night, and the wound is still fresh.” He inhaled, and it pained him to see that Éomer’s expression would not change. As much as he wanted to embrace the lad, he refrained from it, knowing that his affection would not be welcome. “Come to me later, Éomer, please. There is much to say between us, but I understand that now is not the time for it. I will be waiting for you in my chambers.” He inhaled again and waited for a reply, but when it became clear that none would be given, he nodded at last and left.

Chapter 66: A Battle of a different Kind

MEDUSELD

The last few steps over to where the prone shape of his sister lay took more courage than Éomer had ever needed before in his life. His heart pounding painfully in his chest the closer he came, he felt increasingly like wading through a invisible, thick, cold liquid, not air, until at last he reached the bedside of his unresponsive sister and lowered himself into the chair his uncle had just vacated. He did not hear the door closing behind Théoden or the roaring wind outside the window; nor did he register the growing darkness in the room or the warmth reaching him from the burning logs in the fireplace. Frozen in mind and body at the sight of his sister’s horrible state, Éomer slowly extended his arm to pick up Éowyn’s bony hand from the edge of the mattress. It felt cold to his touch, lifeless, and Éomer shivered at the sensation. His stomach plunged into a bottomless abyss as a great void opened before him. His nightmare had become reality. How he had feared this moment! He swallowed, and his throat tightened dangerously as he whispered:

“Éowyn? Little Bird?”

He saw no reaction to his voice on Éowyn’s face, not even the briefest twitch of the smallest muscle or the slightest sign of recognition. She barely even blinked. The blank expression remained in his sister’s gaze, and her deep blue eyes which had always sparkled with life and barely restrained energy looked flat and dead to the world as she continued to stare at the ceiling. She looked like a puppet, Éomer thought. A carefully crafted but abused and long neglected puppet, not like a human being, and desperation grasped his heart with the cold fist of horror as he gently squeezed Éowyn’s fingers in an attempt to warm her hand with his. He could barely speak anymore, and his words were almost inaudible even to his own ears as he leant forward to hold his face in her line of vision. Trying to force a reaction.

“I am back, Éowyn. I have returned. All is good, and our enemies are defeated. The Mark is free, and the Worm destroyed. The moment we dreamt of for so long has finally come. There is no more need for fear. Please, come back. Follow my voice if you hear me. Please...” Gently he stroked her cheek, his lips a bloodless line in his marred and dirty face as he fought for control. Gods, she looked so frail, as if the merest touch could break her. His eyes began to burn as his gaze travelled over Éowyn’s haggard appearance. Not in his worst nightmares had he ever seen his sister like this, nor could he ever have envisioned her this way. No matter what had happened to Éowyn in his horrible dreams since he had been banished, she had always looked the way he remembered her: strong, defiant and proud, as if nothing, not even the prospect of death itself could ever unsettle or frighten her. The contrast of this strong woman to the broken creature beneath his fingertips, this gaunt, bruised and abused young woman with the sunken eyes and dull grey skin was stunning, turning his blood into ice water and robbing him of his breath. His fingers glided through Eowyn’s tresses which Maelwyn had carefully combed earlier, but like everything else about her, they gave away her condition without mercy; the once golden sheen gone and replaced by an ashen tone. It looked dull and neglected, like a bad imitation of what it used to be, and touching the long, lifeless strands suddenly became too much for Éomer. He withdrew his hand so quickly as if he had burnt himself.

And suddenly there was warmth on his face, which was surprising because otherwise he felt chilled to the core, and when he reached up to find the source of the strange sensation, Éomer felt the wetness of his own tears. The very thing he had feared had happened: the Gods had allowed him to liberate the Mark from the White Wizard’s stranglehold, but they had asked the highest price for their allegiance. His triumph held no comfort for Éomer as he hunched over in the chair and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry… Oh Éowyn, I am so sorry…”

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

With the tray in her hands, Maelwyn slipped silently through the door and nodded her thanks to the young guard who held it open for her. Carefully she set her burden down on the table in her mistresses’ chamber and righted herself, her gaze already straying to the closed door behind which her poor lady lay, far removed from the world to escape the horrors she had been forced to witness.

The young handmaiden had heard all the good tidings that had spread like wildfire through the city: about their army’s great victory in the west and the finding of new and powerful allies. She had even seen their high guests and at once felt the air of confidence and strength the dark-haired man in their midst had radiated, and she had been relieved to see Gandalf Greyhame return to Rohan as well. And yet her greatest joy was that against all odds, her lady’s brother had returned from exile, too. Considering what they had been through within the past fortnight and the way everything had turned for the better when no one had expected it anymore, Maelwyn realised that her heart should have been singing with happiness… but she felt as tense as a drawn bow.

She had not met the Third Marshal yet after his return, but she knew that he was behind these doors. And she had seen the King’s face when Théoden had summoned her to tell her of his nephew’s arrival, and bade her to bring Éomer a meal to his sister’s chambers because he did not think that his nephew would leave her bedside anytime soon. The memory of her ruler’s obvious anguish caused Maelwyn’s stomach to clench to a painful knot. Despite his miraculous recovery, Théoden-King had looked broken when he had left his niece’s chambers, and Maelwyn was not sure whether it was because of Éowyn’s horrible condition or of whatever had happened between him and Éomer behind the closed doors.

On thing was certain though, Maelwyn thought unhappily as she sought for the courage inside herself to knock against the door: the man on the other side of these walls would be horrified by the state he had found his sister in; the closeness of the two siblings was no secret, and neither was Éomer’s protectiveness for the only family member left to him. To find Éowyn as a living corpse upon his return was something Maelwyn assumed could well drive the passionate warrior to desperate measures. She shivered at the thought, and out of fear for Éomer, finally stepped forth to rap her knuckles softly against the wood.

With baited breath she waited, but was not bidden to enter. She heard nothing behind the door, no movement, no voice… Yet she was not surprised. It was likely that Éomer hoped to discourage her from entering with his silence because he wanted to be alone with his sister. Her teeth digging into her lower lip, Maelwyn contemplated her options. The King himself had given her the specific order to care for his nephew; wouldn’t it be a violation of them to just leave Éomer to himself? And wasn’t it possible that the Marshal, however wilful and stubborn, was at a place where he needed to talk to someone? She looked back at the tray, where she had wisely placed a bowl of thick soup for Éowyn, too, just for the justification to enter the Lady’s bedchambers even against her brother’s wish. Picking it up now with a deep breath, Maelwyn repeated her knocking, and when again no answer came, she summoned her courage and opened the door to stick her head inside the room.

At the noise of the opening door, the man in the chair jerked around as if he had been hit, and for a moment, she saw the expression of utter despair and the wetness of tears on Éomer’s unguarded features before he stiffened and looked away. His voice sounded harsh when he said: “I did not ask you to enter.”

Maelwyn’s chest tightened at the warrior’s hostility and her heart raced, and yet she could not be angry at Éomer, for she knew that his tone was partly spurred by being ashamed that she had seen him cry. It did not matter that she saw nothing wrong with his tears, that it was in fact all too understandable that a man would despair over seeing a loved one in such horrible condition. The King’s nephew was a proud man, who had not allowed himself to let others see any of his weaknesses his entire life. His obvious torment saddened Maelwyn, but of course pity would be the last thing Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark, wanted. Yet compassion was not pity, was it, and how could compassion be wrong?

“Aye, my Lord, that I know, and I apologise for disturbing you. But it is time for the Lady Éowyn to eat, and also the King himself asked me to bring you a meal as well as he believed you must be hungry after the long journey. I wanted to let you know I left it on the table for you. It is still hot.” She waited for a reaction, but none came. With a deep breath, she continued: “The King also asked me to let you know that he will take care of our guests, and that there will be no council held tonight.”

Éomer stared at her as if he had problems understanding her words, and while she waited silently for his reply, Maelwyn had the time to give her Lady’s brother a more thorough look. She was dismayed at the gauntness of the man she had never known as anything else but one of their most powerful warriors. She did not know what had happened to the King’s nephew in the two weeks since his banishment, but if Éomer’s dishevelled appearance was any indication, the time had been at least as hard for him as it had been for them at Edoras. While her gaze travelled over his dirty, marred face and the dark shadows underneath his usually so intense eyes, the warrior slumped, and all energy suddenly seeped from his powerful frame. And still he avoided her gaze. His voice sounded flat, without pronunciation when he spoke. Hopeless. “I am not hungry.” The sheer sound of his despair cut Maelwyn to the bone, and against better knowledge, she stepped further into the room.

She saw now that he held his sister’s hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of Éowyn’s without interruption in an unconscious gesture, and the gentleness of the scene moved her deeply. She summoned the courage to advance another step, and still no protest came from the Marshal. Instead he surprised her by asking: “What did he do to her, Maelwyn? What did the filth do to my sister?” He swallowed and finally lifted his head to pierce her with his anguished gaze, and while the tears had stopped, the hopelessness of his expression suddenly caused Maelwyn’s own voice to shake. The Third Marshal looked and sounded like a man who had returned from battle to find his home raised to the ground and his kin killed.

“I cannot tell, my Lord,” she somehow managed to whisper. She looked at Éowyn. “The Counsellor expelled me from service only one day after you left Edoras; I only returned this morning after Éothain had defeated our foes. I have no knowledge of the things that happened in the Golden Hall in between these days, except for a few vague things I picked up from the other servants.”

He stared at her, incredulous.

“You mean that my sister was alone the whole time? What did you do that he expelled you, and could you not have been more cautious? My sister needed you more than ever! Was that not clear to you?”

His unjust accusation cut her deeply, and yet Maelwyn told herself to remain calm under Éomer’s piercing gaze. The man before her had gone through the fires of Angband himself, only to find his sister a hollow shell upon his unlikely return. Béma alone knew what horrible things had happened to him since his own uncle had banished him from the land he had always served truthfully, and in his despair Éomer lashed out at whoever was available. He did not mean it, she had to remember that. Straightening her shoulders, she summoned her courage.

“I was expelled for something I did for your sister, my Lord,” she said, calmly setting him right but avoiding his gaze. She had not wanted to tell him about Éowyn’s plan, but now that he had asked, she could not very well remain silent. “Your sister tried to send you your weapons to a secret place, but the Counsellor forbade her to leave her room. So she asked me to go and see it done for her.”

Her reply did nothing to calm the angry man before her.

“He forbade Éowyn to leave her room? And neither Hámá nor Gamling nor anyone else objected?”

Maelwyn understood his frustration. In hindsight, it sounded impossible even to her own ears, even she had witnessed it herself. They all had behaved as if under a spell, like mice at the sight of a snake. She shook her head and only hesitantly dared to look up. Gods, the Marshal looked angry, and her voice almost failed her when she asked: “Many things happened here while you were away, my Lord, and not all of them can be explained, at least not by a serving wench such as myself. But I do know that the Captains of the Guard challenged our foes… and paid dearly for the attempt, like most of the Royal Guard. Éothain told me this much.” A shadow fell on her face as she remembered their conversation, and the pain in Éothain’s eyes when he had told her of his father’s fate. She swallowed and lowered her gaze in expectance of further questions, but Éomer remained silent. “Did you receive the weapons your sister sent you, my Lord?”

“No.” Èomer drew his eyebrows together. “Apparently the Worm’s henchmen learnt of her plan, because they used it for a trap. Whom did Éowyn send?”

“It was Élric who rode out to meet you, my Lord.” If possible, Éomer turned an even whiter shade of pale, and Maelwyn braced herself for more of his anger. She would have preferred not to burden the poor man with all the bad tidings at once when he had barely returned, but of course she had to answer his questions truthfully.

“Élric?” The warrior inhaled air in a horrified gasp, not wanting to ask the next question, but asking it anyway because he needed to know. “And… did he return?” In his heart, Éomer already knew the answer, and yet the pain was sharp when the handmaiden shook her head. “Béma…” He ran a hand through his matted hair and over his face as if he could simply wipe away the bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to fell him where he sat. Not yet. Not while he did not know all that had happened here while he had been away. Who else had the Worm killed? All of his friends and people he knew his adversary cared about? To ensure that even if he was defeated in the end, it would be a hollow victory for the Rohirrim and the House of Éorl?

“Only his horse returned,” Maelwyn spoke silently into his dark thoughts, “-- but it had a bloody scrape in its side, and its saddle was gone.” She swallowed, her eyes burning when she remembered the dreadful day. “Éothain said that it looked as if someone had cut it off.”

Éomer closed his eyes. So they had caught Élric and tortured him into revealing their meeting place, for he knew that Bergfinn’s son would never have betrayed him otherwise. Yet another death to avenge in addition to Théodred’s as well those of the many riders they had lost over the years to the Worm’s scheming once he stood before Gríma. The evil that man had done to the Mark was beyond comprehension. And to think of what the filth had done to Éowyn… Éomer ground his teeth in poorly contained rage as his adversary’s pale face rose like a sick moon before his inner eye, and he balled his fists in helpless frustration. He would ensure that the traitor paid for every single one of his fell deeds; he would ensure that Saruman’s minion died the hardest death either man or beast had ever died in the history of the Mark. And he would not allow that the craven counsellor would close his eyes forever until he, Eomund’s son, decided that retribution was complete. If Gríma was not already dead. The sudden thought woke Éomer from his plans for revenge.

“Is Wormtongue dead? Or was he captured alive?”

Maelwyn shook her head regretfully. “I do not know, my Lord. I’m afraid such things are not discussed with a handmaiden, but I suppose that the guards will know, or the King.”

Éomer nodded, clearly torn by his desire to go and find out – and to stay with his sister, and while he battled with himself, Maelwyn got another good look at his dirty and bruised face and the expression of utter exhaustion in his usually so fearsome, intense eyes, and it became evident to her that the man before her was bodily and spiritually at the end of his strength. And she remembered something else. “My Lord, your meal… it will be cold if you don’t eat it soon.”

“I already said that I wasn’t hungry,” he repeated, yet without his usual strength, and nodded at the steaming bowl in her hands. “This is for Éowyn?”

“Aye.” Intuition led Maelwyn to ask: “Would you like to help me feed your sister, my Lord? If anyone can bring the White Lady back from the place where she is now, I suppose it must be you. Talk to her and hold her while I feed her, and perhaps she will find the way back to us.” The smallest spark of hope lit up Éomer’s eyes, and although he looked tired enough to fall asleep on the spot, the warrior nodded eagerly.

“Aye. Aye, that might be a good idea.” He looked at his sister, and the shadow that had lifted from his expression for a brief moment was back. “What should I do? Hold her upright?” His brow furrowed. “I need to shed my armour, first. Leather and metal are no comfortable resting place for her.” He rose to his feet with considerable effort and Maelwyn put the bowl in her hands aside because he clearly expected her to help him. Hesitantly she rose, not sure what to do.

“Just unfasten the clasps and buckles on the back,” Éomer instructed her, already fiddling with the clasps at his sides. “You will not be able to hold the armour; I will do that myself.”

“Aye, my Lord.” Tensing and intimidated at the thought of being so close to one of the most powerful warriors of the Mark, Maelwyn reached out and to her relief, managed to do as bidden without problems. “I am done, my Lord.” She stepped back, and a moment later Éomer shrugged off the heavy shirt of mail, and it thundered to his feet. He slipped out of the cuirass and stood now before Maelwyn only in his leather tunic and woollen shirt and trousers - all of which told clearly of the effort laying behind him. His brow still furrowed, he looked down at himself, no doubt aware of how filthy he was. A hesitant glance found Maelwyn, and against her timidity, she suddenly found herself smiling.

“I do not believe your sister will mind, Lord Éomer. Perhaps it will even help to reach her.” And what she had never received from the wilful young man so far, she received now: a small, but honest smile that warmed her heart.

“Whatever I can do, I will do.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, and with great gentleness, slipped his arms underneath his sister’s lithe body to lift her up until Éowyn’s head rested comfortably against his shoulder. As Maelwyn shifted her seat to the chair Éomer had just vacated and slid closer, she heard him murmur soothingly: “All is good now, Éowyn. There is no more need to hide. He’s gone.” A lump formed in her throat as she watched those powerful hands which could wield a sword with such deadly efficiency caress Éowyn’s face with a carefulness as if she were made of glass. Not wanting to intrude the intimate moment between brother and sister, Maelwyn concentrated on the bowl in her lap and took the spoon, and only when she felt Éomer’s gaze back on herself did she look up, and together, they tended the White Lady of Rohan.

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

“Éowyn? Éowyn! Come in now, the evening meal is ready!”

“I am coming, Mother!” She ruffled the foal’s bushy mane and reluctantly removed her fingers on which it had been suckling from its mouth. “I am sorry, Windfola, but now it is time for me to eat, AS too. You already had your meal, now get some sleep. There will be new lessons to learn tomorrow.” She rose to her feet and gave the little horse a slight shove in the direction of its mother, who stood close by and watched them calmly, a few sticks of hay protruding from her mouth. “Go!”

At first, her young playfellow looked as if it were about to protest, but upon a low huff of its mother the one day old foal stalked at last to the higher hay in the corner of the stall which would be its sleeping place. With a glad smile, Éowyn looked on until the little grey mare dropped into her bed, then she turned around and ran back the path to the house; with her almost seven years by no means less playful than the foal she would ride one day when they had both grown.

It was one of the rare evenings their family was united, and Éowyn enjoyed remaining at the dinner table for as long as she could drag out her meal to make the most of her father’s unexpected presence. Then Éomund brought them to bed, carrying his daughter in his arms and his son walking beside him with a lenient smile upon his face, and he told them the exciting tale of Fram and Scatha before he extinguished the candle and kissed them good-night. The warm sensation of love filling her wholly, Éowyn wrapped herself tightly into her blanket and closed her eyes.

“Good night, Éomer…”

“Good night, Little Bird…” She waited for his usual reply, but he remained silent. With her eyes still closed, she wrinkled her brow. No, it was not right this way. Did Éomer not know that?

“Good night, Éomer!” she repeated therefore, more forcefully. Surely he could not miss the meaning now, could he? Or had he already fallen asleep? But he had still been very much awake when their father had bidden them a good night; nobody could fall asleep from one moment to the next, could he? But still she was not rewarded with an answer, and it bothered her enough to open her eyes. What she saw came as utter surprise to her: she was no longer in the room they had shared in the blissful days of their early youth in Aldburg.

And yet Éowyn recognised her surroundings well enough as her eyes glided over the high ceiling to the opposite window. The world beyond the glass was dark, but in the flickering light of the lowly burning fire she saw enough of the heavy curtains and the wall-hangings to understand that she was in her bedchamber in Meduseld. She did not understand how the change had happened, but barely had she recognised her whereabouts when the implications of that change suddenly froze her to the core. No. No, it could not be that she was back here, in HIS realm! Was HE here, too? Waiting for her to move so that he could continue to ravage her soul? Was it HIS doing that she had been sucked away from her joyful memories?

Holding her breath, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped animal, Éowyn looked at the space beside her out of the corner of her eye. ‘If I move he will see it! Careful! Careful!’ But no one was there, and she relaxed a little. ‘But what if he sits in the chair?’ And so she turned her head just the smallest fraction – and turned to stone. As suspected, she was not alone in the room… or perhaps she was, for it could not be what her eyes showed her.

“Éomer…” It was not even a whisper, and from one moment to the next, her eyes were brimming with tears. Yes, it was her brother, her beloved brother who sat in the chair by her bedside, slumped in an awkward position that indicated how deeply he had sunken into the arms of sleep as he did not even try to correct it. Even in the flickering twilight, he looked gaunt; the cheekbones too prominent in his dirty face, and there were bruised and cuts on his brow and the side of his head, marring his features. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to wander through a sleep so deep that nothing could ever wake him again. And of course he would never wake again, and he could not be here. Realisation hit Éowyn hard. Éomer was dead. Dead - or in the hands of the enemy. At the mercy of a man who knew no mercy. The tears spilled over now, and she shut her eyes in torment and rolled on her back. It was a dream, or another one of Gríma Wormtongue’s cruel tricks.

No matter where she hid from the Worm, he knew where to find her and how to hurt her. Just when she thought she had finally found peace … Commanded by a force she couldn’t resist, Éowyn opened her eyes again. Éomer was still there, sleeping soundly in the chair where Gríma had sat and observed her. What if it was in fact Gríma? The thought hit her unexpectedly and chilled her to the core. ‘No, no, it can’t be!’ But of course it could be; she knew that it was not beyond her foe to torture her in this way. While she had hidden from him in the memories of her early childhood days, he had administered her one of his potions; it sounded like something a black soul like Gríma Wormtongue would enjoy: to sit there and watch her renewed pain over imagining to see her dead brother. But there was something she could do yet to resist her tormentor; he would not win! She had found the way once, and she would find it again, and this time, no trick the snake could ever conceive would bring her back.

And as the first weak light of the dawn turned the darkness before her window to grey, Éowyn turned toward the darkness within herself and let herself fall…

When daylight slowly crept over the eastern horizon, it fell for the first time in years upon a freed kingdom of Rohan, and together with the mild southern breeze that announced the arrival of spring, lifted the hearts of the citizens of Edoras after the long time of darkness. The people who took to the streets after the first cockcrow looked different than before; their expressions brightened by relief and renewed hope for the future shining in their eyes. Against all odds, their Riders had triumphed over the enemy in the West and destroyed his army, and the Worm’s stranglehold upon their land had been broken, so what could there be possibly left to fear?

And yet not every heart was all joyful; too many lives had been lost especially over the last dark year, and those whose kin and friends belonged to their armed forces who had ridden against Isengard anxiously awaited the arrival of the rest of their éohere. The returning Riders had spoken of great losses in the enemy’s land; and having to wait until they would know whether their loved ones were among the survivors was nothing short of torture for the citizens of Edoras.

Torn between relief and fear, the people began their day, and many a time their glances would rise from their tasks and wander to the western road in hope to see their returning army first…

Morning’s first light also found its way through the windows of the Golden Hall, where it woke Éomer from a deep, dreamless sleep. With an unconscious groan, the son of Eomund stirred in the chair to find his neck muscles tightly wound from the uncomfortable sleeping position. Stretching his arms quickly led to the discovery that the rest of his body was just as sore as his neck, and yet after all that he had been through, Éomer dismissed it as a mere inconvenience which would be forgotten as soon as he moved around and his body warmed up. Hoping against hope to find a change for the better in his sister’s condition, his first look sought Éowyn, but found her in the same position on her back as on the previous evening, and her gaze just as empty... except for one thing which painted a frown onto Éomer’s face: a thin trail of moisture lead from Éowyn’s eyes to her ears. She had wept. No matter where her mind was, wherever she had sought refuge within herself, obviously it was impossible even there for his poor sister to escape the horrors she had witnessed. Oh, how he would make the Worm bleed for this…

“Éowyn...” Éomer sighed, and raised her hand to his lips to brush a fleeting kiss onto her knuckles, his breath warm against her cool skin. In the back of his mind, despair once again unfolded its nightblack wings to assault him, and yet Éomer refused to give in to it. Perhaps those tears were a good sign as well, a sign that Éowyn was not as far removed from their world as everyone thought? Perhaps she even heard him when he spoke, but did not know how to return to her body to react? Perhaps if he only continued to speak with her, she would find the way back?

Shifting his weight onto the mattress beside his sister’s limp form, the warrior gently traced the path of her tears with his fingertips, then cupped her face with his palm as he urgently whispered: “Come back to me, Little Bird. There is no more need to cry. Follow my voice if you hear me, or give me a sign. Can’t you give me a sign, Èowyn?” His gaze intently on her face, his hand involuntarily pressed hers in hope for a reaction that did not come. For a few more moments he waited, his heart anxiously beating as he continued to focus on her unmoving face, until at last disappointment won. Reluctantly, Éomer shifted his gaze to the window, and with the realisation that the new day was well on the way, remembered his duties. As much as he would have wished to, he could not stay here beside her.

“I must leave you now, Éowyn, but I will not be far away. And I promise you that I will be back as quickly as I can. Do not be afraid to wake, Little One. There are only friends now left in these halls, the way it should be.” For another small eternity, Éomer studied the void in his sister’s large blue eyes although their emptiness chased a shiver down his spine.

Against all odds, he had prevailed in the wilderness and the numerous battles since his banishment, and while Éomer acknowledged that large part of that was due to the unexpected help he had received from his people as well as Aragorn and his friends, he also knew that he would never have made it through his trials without the necessary determination. His will and what he could achieve if he truly set his mind to it was already legendary within the Riders of his own éored; now it was time to focus on the one battle which really counted: no matter what it took, he would help Éowyn to find the way back. He would will her back to life, even if it were the last thing he would ever do.

“I’ll be back,” Éomer whispered and brushed his fingers over her cheek once more before he finally rose to his feet. No, he did not want to leave, even if Maelwyn slept close by and would take over his watch, but there were things to be taken care of before their council would assemble after the morning meal. Such as… remedying broken promises. With a last glance back from the door frame, Éomer made for his own chambers to get started on the many demands this day would bring.

His energy partly restored after hist first restful night since he could not remember when, Éomer slipped into his chambers for the first time after his return, and for a moment, experienced a feeling of profound disorientation as he shut the door behind him. Someone had been in here to prepare the rooms for their owner last night: there was a bathtub full of water, no doubt cold by now, a plate on the table with his likewise cold dinner, and a fire had been lit in the fireplace which had died down to glowing embers. It looked as if he had never even been away. As if the nightmarish fortnight he had gone through had been but a dream from which he woke only now, and the sensation would not diminish when Éomer slowly walked through his chambers, taking in the wall-hangings, the curtains and rugs with the growing urge of having to scream.

A quick glance into his bedchambers confirmed that it was no different there, but the sight which should have comforted him, unsettled him instead. So much had changed since he had left; it did not seem right that these changes were not reflected by his surroundings. Behind that next wall, his sister’s empty shell was struggling to live on, her mind shattered, so how in Eorl’s name could it be that he was made to believe that everything was still the same? ‘But not all changes are ill,’ he tried to cheer himself up. ‘The Worm’s gone, wherever he is. Saruman is dead.’ The thought failed to stir up joy in him.

A deep frown on his face, Éomer quickly walked over to his closet to pick a new set of garments, then washed himself with the help of the cold water and slipped into the new shirt and trousers. For a moment, the feeling of wearing his own clothes again for a change was comforting, although the need to leave these cursed chambers which somehow felt so wrong did not lessen, and impatiently he raked a comb through his wet and tangled hair… and froze when his gaze fell upon the face in the mirror. Just one look into the haunted eyes before him was enough to quickly turn away. He had to get out of here now before the atmosphere of hopelessness would suffocate him!

With a final knot, he was at last done, and Éomer all but fled the oppressive confines of his chambers. The Throne Room still lay in shadows when he rushed through the corridors, and only few torches and the fire in the hearth illuminated the darkness. The quiet was no less oppressive here as the new work day had not yet begun in the Golden Hall, and only his purposeful strides echoed through the empty hall as the warrior directed his steps over to the kitchens. Curtly nodding his acknowledgement to the few guards he saw along the way, Éomer extended his arm to push the door open, when the sudden sound of hushed voices from inside stopped him in his tracks.

A simultaneous, two-voiced shriek, and with a ruckus Éomer was sure had woken the entire hall, half the kitchen’s pans and pots crashed to the ground... or at least it sounded like they had. His eyebrows curiously, the Rohír slowly pushed against the already half-opened door– and found two mortified hobbits sitting on the ground amidst the spilled contents of the shelf they had torn from the wall. A lazy white cloud of meal enveloped them thoroughly and dismayed eyes stared at the warrior from powdered faces.

For a moment, the two Halflings were too shocked to speak, then, after a moment when all they could utter were helpless little gasps, the power of speech returned to both of them simultaneously.

“It was his idea!” They suddenly blurted out in unison, pointing at each other, and against his glum disposition, Éomer felt the almost irresistible urge to explode with laughter. Biting down hard on his tongue, he addressed instead the one who had deemed him as the slightly more sensible one from the brief encounter he had had with the Halflings, his voice deep in mock-sternness.

“May I ask what you are doing in our kitchens at this early hour, Master Merry? Especially since it is officially closed yet?”

“My friend here was hungry.” Merry, the one with the slightly fairer hair, replied with a dark glance at his blushing cousin. Under the Rohír’s curious observation, the two Halflings picked themselves up and brushed the white powder from their garments with what dignity they could muster, every now and then risking a hesitant glance at the towering warrior. By all rights, the Marshal should have been angry at them, even more so as the young man had appeared so grim and fierce on the ride from Isengard… but wasn’t there an amused sparkle they saw those dark, otherwise oh-so-serious eyes? Barely daring to hope that they would be spared the justified scolding, but deciding that a little self-criticism might help to pacify their host, Merry snapped at Pippin. “I told you to wait, Pip, didn’t I? I said ‘Let’s wait until the kitchen is open, and then we’ll go and ask them nicely, but no...”

The object of his chiding somehow managed to look indignant and guilty at the same time.

“It is not a crime to be hungry, is it? If you’re hungry, you’re hungry!” Pippin looked at Éomer as if he sought the warrior’s confirmation. “I mean, there is no point in trying to go back to sleep when your stomach growls at you like a wild animal. Only eating will help.”

“So it would seem,” Éomer did him the favour, and knitted his brows as he gave the mess the hobbits had created another thorough look. Slowly shaking his head in amazement at the destruction, he asked: “What were you trying to reach?”

Pippin followed his gaze and pointed up to where some large earthen pots stood on an even higher shelf, luckily still in place. The one he was pointing at was decorated with a clay bee. He cleared his throat. “That one up there.”

“The honey?” He could no longer help himself: a crooked grin spread over Éomer’s face as he stepped into the devastated kitchen. “I suppose we can call ourselves glad that you did not push that one down! Our kitchen master would have skinned you alive!” He took another step, leaving big footprints in the meal that seemed to cover the entire kitchen as if a late-winter snowstorm had found its way into the Golden Hall.

“Well, I suppose I could.” And with a wink at the surprised hobbits, Éomer extended his arm and cautiously lifted the heavy pot from the shelf. Putting it on the workplace for them, he scanned the large room for some leftover bread, when another stern voice ripped him out of his thoughts.

“Now what by Béma’s beard is this?” Although he had nothing to do with the destruction, Éomer felt heat creep into his face as he beheld Elfgyth, Meduseld’s resolute Mistress of the kitchens in the door frame, her meaty arms stemmed firmly against her hips as she stared at the supposed culprits. An incredulous look found him. “Marshal? Marshal Éomer?” The wrinkles on the woman’s face deepened with perplexity as she suddenly found herself confronted with a warrior in her domain. “What are you doing in my kitchen…my Lord?” she added hastily before Théoden’s nephew, who was known for his fierce temper, could demonstrate the same to her. But strangely enough, the young man looked more ashamed than angry. How long ago had it been that she had last seen him here in her kitchen, trying to sneak away with a piece of cake or whatever he could find to get on the good side of his horse? Not since his childhood days, she concluded, and her amazement only grew when her gaze wandered over his strange company. Now whose children were those, and what had Éomer to do with them?

“We must apologise, Mistress Elfgyth,” Éomer said after clearing his throat, his face still crimson with embarrassment as he eyed his even more guilty-looking companions. “—but our guests here were very hungry and tried to find something to eat without wanting to disturb your staff at this early hour. I would beg of you that you give them a piece of bread with honey, please, and of course they will be glad to clean up this mess themselves.”

“Aye, very glad!” the hobbits nodded eagerly, yet barely dared to look at the grim-faced, solid woman before them. “If you show us where we find cloths and a broom, we will do so right away. We are very sorry for this.” A thankful glance found their Rohirric co-conspirator.

“I will give you that in a moment,” Elfgyth replied, the wind taken out of her sails before her anger could fully develop, and her eyes focused on Éomer again, who had thought the opportunity favourable to sneak away unnoticed. “May I express how glad we all are to have you back, Marshal? We barely dared to hope for your save return.” And then she remembered. “Oh, and I am so sorry about your sister! We were all devastated when we heard--”

“She will wake from it. She will overcome this. Do not speak of her as if she were already dead!” Éomer’s gaze pinned her, and for a moment, the desperate force of his interruption took her breath away. The Hobbits, too, stared at the man who had just surprised them with his unexpected playful mood upon finding the mischief they had caused, and it appeared to them only now that the forbidding expression the commander of the Rohirrim had worn all that time had been born from desperation.

Her mouth almost hanging open with shock from being shouted at, Elfgyth stammered: “Please, forgive me, my Lord. I did not meant to imply--”

But Éomer was already pushing past her, on his hurried way to flee the attention only stopping briefly when he spied a basket filled with old, wrinkled apples on the kitchen counter. They looked as if they barely contained a drop of juice anymore, but they would be sweet and just like Firefoot loved them. “May I take some of these apples, Mistress Elfgyth?”

“For your horse?” she asked, still tense and fearful to rose the warrior’s anger anew. “Of course. Take as many as you like; we have sacks full of them.”

“Thank you.” His voice was flat again, and Éomer’s expression indicated that he felt ashamed over snapping at the woman when all she had wanted was to express her compassion, and yet no words of excuse would come over his lips. Elfgyth did not have to hear them to know that he was sorry; after all, she had known Marshal Eomund’s son ever since her King had brought him and his sister with him to Meduseld, and the young man’s mood had rarely been a mystery to her. For a moment, the image of the lanky thirteen-year-old from her memory collided with the sight of the powerful warrior before her, and suddenly she felt a burning sensation in her eyes. Even back then Éomer’s behaviour had never left any doubt about what his sister meant to him, and it was all-too-easy for Elfyth to understand that the sight of the White Lady’s condition had done to the man.

The pockets of his tunic bulging with apples, Éomer turned around, and with a nod, both silently apologised for his and excused himself from their company. “I will leave our guests in your care for now; will that be all right? They will not be in your way.” A questioning glance found the two Hobbits.

“No, we will gladly help you with whatever you give us to do.” Merry emphasised eagerly, and beside him, Pippin nodded with the same fervour.

“We will clean your kitchen so thoroughly that you will barely recognise it afterwards!” he quipped, to doubtful glances of the others. Éomer shrugged, and with a ghost of a smile that did not reach his eyes, looked first at the Kitchen Mistress and then the Halflings.

He left for the stables, but not before Elfgyth’s astonished “Another breakfast?” reached his ears.

“We were in the middle of the fray when the Tree-Druids of Fangorn suddenly entered into the fight. Many of our Riders lost their lives because our attackers would at first not distinguish between orcs and us, and when they released the waters of the Isen which Saruman had blocked, even more were killed in the flood… although it also drowned our enemy’s army. Gandalf Greyhame then saw to it that the traitor in Isengard came to justice. Never again will grief come to the Mark because of him.” For a moment, the memory of the battle silenced Éomer, and the cries of the dying echoed in his ears as he looked at the solemn faces around him. Their council – consisting of the recovered King of the Mark, Gandalf Greyhame, Aragorn, Fíndárras, Gamling, Éothain and Éomer himself – had at first shared the morning meal and then taken their seats in the Throne Room to exchange tidings and discuss their further course of action.

Not wanting to be a discourteous host, Théoden had seen to it that their other guests who would not participate in the council received a detailed tour of Edoras by members of his guard, before they would later reunite with their comrades and exchange information. So while elves, hobbits, dwarf and the Rangers of the Grey Company enjoyed an interesting excursion into Rohirric culture, their leaders listened to the many developments which had taken place in the Mark and beyond over the last weeks. Since their army had been engaged and triumphed in an enormous battle against the enemy, it had been decided upon that the incidents and developments leading up to this result needed to be heard before the happenings at Edoras would be recounted.

Éomer had reached the end of his narration, and his gaze wandered hesitantly to the old man on the dais. His King. His kin, no matter how he felt toward him. Just before he obediently lowered his eyes, he noticed even in the shadowy hall how pale and haggard Théoden still looked, and how reluctantly his gaze was met. Just as soon as they had made eye-contact, the old man’s focus shifted quickly to the White Wizard, grateful for the opportunity to escape his nephew’s attention.

“He was not always evil. I wanted to spare my old friend once I had taken his powers away from him, but he said that he would not want such a life and attacked me… deliberately forcing me to kill him. So yes, your foe is indeed dead.”

Satisfied, Théoden nodded, and reluctantly shifted his attention back to his Third Marshal, tensing as he did so.

“It is hard to say yet, Sire” Éomer admitted in a toneless voice, resorting to formality to disguise his bitterness over their still ongoing estrangement. “Unfortunately, we had to leave immediately after the battle because we could not be sure about the state of things back here. They were still counting the dead when we left; yet I fear that the final number will be in the hundreds.”

“I left Erkenbrand of Westfold in charge at Isengard and told him to follow us to Edoras with the rest of our forces as soon as possible, because we are still far from done. There is another foe to be taken care of, and by the look of things, he will be even harder to overcome.” Briefly Éomer sought Aragorn’s gaze for affirmation, and the Ranger nodded as he gave it back, like the others around them looking much fresher after the night’s rest. Éomer inhaled. “I expect them to arrive later today, or tomorrow at the latest, and I would suggest that we do not decide upon anything until the Lord of Westfold has had his say as well. We cannot do without his considerable experience in a council that might decide over the fate of us all.” He could see that the King did not take his forceful advice well, but he could not afford to be considerate now. If Théoden’s appearance was any indication of his true condition, it could not be expected from him to think of everything. If the old man felt insulted over well-meant advice, it was not Éomer’s problem. Too much was at stake here to remain silent for propriety’s sake.

“I agree that we need to hear the Captain before a decision can be made,” Théoden said at length, but still he regarded his nephew with suspicion, as if he waited for more demands in the guise of so-called ‘advice’, and the tension in the hall rose. “And yet I can only hope that what you say is true, and that Erkenbrand will be with us soon. In the light of the new threat you uncovered, we can ill-afford to sit around until the enemy strikes.”

Staring at the tiles to his feet, Éomer did his best not to let his mounting anger and frustration show on his face. ‘You hope that I am saying the truth? Do you mean I would lie to you?’ Théoden had not said much so far, but every time he had opened his mouth, his words deepened the rift between them, intentionally or not, and the sound of his voice alone chased endless shudders down Éomer’s spine. “Be gone, ungrateful curse to my house!” The echo in his ears was so clear that he had to look up to confirm that the King had not indeed repeated these words he had uttered upon having sentenced his nephew to death. Words which had hurt Éomer more than any sword could ever have. Blinking, he fought to concentrate on the White Wizard who had just seized the opportunity to speak.

“And yet I believe that we should have a plan ready for our further course of action before your captain arrives. One problem may have been solved, yet it was only the lesser one. A first small skirmish compared with the one that is still to come, and we must indeed make haste, for our foe will not wait for much longer. This much I know.”

“And yet it seems to me that we already paid dearly for even this small victory,” Théoden muttered and shook his head. “Perhaps too dearly to have any hope left for another fight. To imagine that we lost hundreds of our riders in the attack… Béma!” His gaze went over the warriors before him to the doors of the Golden Hall, his mind wandering. The doors had been opened to let in the fresh spring air, but in the light of the things he had heard, the King of Riddermark felt as if he could barely breathe. “I assume there was no other way to deal with Saruman …” The words were not intended for other ears, but standing closest to his King, Éomer heard them nonetheless, and his dark eyes narrowed in silent disgust as he continued to stare at the ground.

‘Do you think I would have chosen that path if there had been a better one? Do you think I care so little for my men?’ He remained silent. It did not matter whether it was because of his father’s reputation or still the result of Gríma Wormtongue’s manipulations his Uncle had chosen to utter these words; to Éomer they illustrated all too clearly the depth of the rift between them.

“Your nephew was faced with the hardest of choices, my Lord,” Gandalf’s voice spoke into his brooding, unexpectedly coming to his aid, and he turned to look at the wizard, who rose to his feet to lend his opinion the necessary weight. “Of course the Marshal could have waited for the hostile army at the fords, hoping that the Isen’s floods would help them to keep the enemy at bay.” He came to a stop beside Éomer and cast the young man an encouraging glance. “Yet that would also have meant to wait until Saruman’s army was ready to meet you, and as we heard, the river itself had already been blocked by our foe to the point where it no longer posed a hindrance to his forces. The orcs would have crossed into Rohan over a length impossible to defend by your riders, Théoden-King.” Straightening to his full height, Gandalf approached the dais and focused his attention on the listening King. “Your nephew chose to attack the enemy on his own grounds; a strategy certainly no less risky, but a risk he was well aware of and willing to take to keep battle away from your lands and your people. Faced with only those two less than ideal choices, the Marshal decided to follow the one which seemed to hold the slightly greater chances of survival, and hasn’t his triumph proven that his judgment was indeed good?”

Théoden’s gaze shifted uncomfortably between the wizard and Éomer, whose tense expression gave away his composition clearer than words could ever have. With a sharp sting, the he realised that the young man he had helped to grow to manhood underneath his own roof despised him. Or was it hate, even? Did Éomer truly hate him?

“Aye. Aye, you are right, of course, Gandalf Greyhame. Éomer’s judgment was sound,” he said at length, momentarily distracted by his disconcerting thought. He harboured no hope that his affirmation would soothe the angry young warrior before him, not even what he still had to say would perform that miracle. And perhaps it was only just that Éomer hated him. After all, the lad had very valid reasons for his disappointment, not least of all the sad incident in Éowyn’s bedchamber the previous night. In those few precious moments when they had first seen each other after Éomer’s miraculous return, he had committed a mistake which must have hurt his nephew to the core. Those terrible first words he had uttered upon seeing Éomer in Théodred’s armour… Théoden sighed soundlessly. How much he wished for an opportunity to take them back, for a chance to relive their encounter and greet his nephew in the proper way, the way he had originally planned. Inwardly steeling himself for Éomer’s hard gaze, the old King inhaled.

“You did well, Marshal. It is thanks to you that the Mark was freed of the most insidious foe it ever had to face, and although many lives were lost in that struggle, it may help the families to know that their kin died for a worthy cause.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from his nephew, but when none came, he rose from the throne with a deep breath and lifted his voice: “Under extraordinary circumstances, you proved your extraordinary loyalty to Rohan, Éomer son of Eomund, and such determination should not go unrewarded: not only do I declare the sentence which I spoke under the influence of our enemy’s poison void; I hereby name you First Marshal and Chief Defender of Riddermark… and heir to its Throne. A ceremony will be held in your honour in the square later today to let the people of Edoras know of this joyful event.” He drew his sword and lifted it up; a gesture that was immediately followed by the other present warriors. “Hail Éomer, son of Eomund!”

With an audible rush of air, the warriors rose and lifted their swords in greeting of the new First Marshal of Riddermark. Then silence fell, although it seemed to Éomer that there were only smiling and joyful faces around him. Even the guards further behind looked relieved over seeing their Marshal officially back in service. He did not know how to feel. First Marshal of the Mark… never had he dared to hope that one day, he would rise to the position of the mightiest man of the land after the king. That honour should have gone to Théodred, and Éomer would have been content with serving his cousin until the end of his days. And yet fate had been of a different mind.

The Prince’s death had changed everything, and ironically at the time when Éomer would have most needed what power he had had, the Worm had seen to it that he was robbed of it all… and with his verdict, the man before him had put the last nail into his coffin. Poison or not, the mere memory of Théoden uttering those accursed words – "Be gone, ungrateful curse to my house!" – still chased a shiver down Éomer’s spine. Was it just his Uncle’s bad conscience which led him to offering this position now to him? Did the old man think that he could bribe his way into his nephew’s goodwill? That all the indignities and insults Éomer had endured over the years by his very own kin would be forgiven and forgotten with the help of a title? Not even a fortnight ago, he would not have hesitated for another heartbeat to accept the offer, if only because it would have put him in a position to protect the people of his ward more efficiently.

But events of course had taken a different turn, and now Éomer was no longer even certain whether he wanted to be the leader of those who had accepted to have their protector sent to his death without so much as a single word of protest.

‘But what of Freya?’ he tried to convince himself otherwise, and her concerned face stood before his inner eye so clearly as if Osred’s wife were here with him in the Golden Hall. ‘What about the couple who gave me shelter in that cold first night although their decision could easily have proven deadly for them? And what of the riders who followed me into battle even against the orders of their king? They never doubted me, and they were willing to pay the highest price for their loyalty. Do I not owe it to them to accept?’

"Tell us, Éomer son of Eomund, do you accept the high honour and the responsibility of your new position?" The impatience in Théoden’s voice could not be overheard as the old man waited for his reply, and although Éomer was still uncertain of what to say, he lifted his eyes to meet the King’s gaze. An answer was expected from him, but he could not give it yet.

"Sire, I thank you for considering me for this position," he said stiffly, unable to remember an occasion in his life when he had felt more uncomfortable than right now under the King’s disbelieving – and increasingly angry - gaze. Although he had lost all respect for the man on the throne of Rohan, Théoden was still his ruler and commander, and for the sake of the Mark, he could not very well embarrass their leader before this council. Behind closed doors, when the things said would remain between the two of them – a situation which Éomer was certain would soon await him - he could be as blunt as he wanted to be, but this was neither the time nor the place to demonstrate his bitterness.

As he straightened his back, Éomer’s voice grew firm with conviction when he added: "And yet I would beg to be given a day for consideration, as a position of such responsibility can not be accepted lightly and on the spur of the moment."

‘You wanted that position all your life, and now you reject it only to humiliate me before these men?’

A hard glint suddenly flashed up in Théoden’s eyes, but Éomer did not shrink from the unspoken challenge. For an endless moment, the two men glared at each other like combatants before a fight to the death; neither one willing to back down, until it was again Gandalf who interrupted the tense atmosphere in an attempt to mediate between the two unexpected adversaries.

"Surely this small request can be granted, Théoden-King?" the Istar said soothingly, but found himself for a moment ignored by King and Marshal alike. At last, the Son of Thengel reluctantly turned his head to him, and the wizard continued. "We are still expecting the rest of your éohere; surely you will not send them out again for at least another two days? Even if the need for haste was repeatedly stated, we must take into consideration that your Riders will most likely have to give battle at the end of their journey to Gondor. They should be allowed to rest for at least a few days before they continue on their way east."

The other listeners nodded in affirmation at the Istar’s reasoning, and yet Théoden suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as if he were asking himself whether he had become the victim of yet another conspiracy. Why did everyone think they had to tell him what to do? He was free from the Worm’s influence; he could very well think of his own! And if there was one thing he had truly learned to hate in all the years with Wormtongue by his side, it was this feeling of being pushed.

"I do not remember having decided yet that the Rohírrim will even ride to Gondor!" the King of the mark raised his voice in barely restrained anger. "As far as I remember, old friend, the only decision we made thus far was not to decide about our further course of action until Erkenbrand of Westfold was here; but since we are speaking of it already: I must tell you that I do not feel much inclined to ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours at least once in all these dark years!"

"Did you not hear what Aragorn said?" Éomer pressed through his clenched teeth, and it was his luck that the Ranger intervened at that point and claimed the King’s attention before things could spin out of control.

"My Lord, Gondor itself went through difficult times these past years," Aragorn insisted calmly, but firmly, hoping to make the hostile man see that this was not the time to set off the services of the Mark against those of the old kingdom. "It is Gondor who shares a direct border with the enemy, and over the last years, our foe tested it ceaselessly with ever-increasing forces, binding the Kingdom’s power… whose armies protected not only their own realm, but all lands west of Anduin as they held off the enemy. Be assured that Gondor did its share for the Mark’s safety, my King, even if no tidings of these battles may have reached you! And be also assured that Gondor would have helped you against Saruman as well, had they been in the position to come to your aid, but--"

"And you would be wrong!" Théoden interrupted heatedly. "For I know for a fact that Denethor despises us! Whenever we sent for help, the Steward’s answers – provided we even received one - were short and brusque, as if the Sons of Éorl were not worthy of his attention! No, Lord Aragorn, no matter what you say, Gondor no longer cares for our old alliance, and I fail to see why our Riders should give their blood for them when we barely even know how to do to defend our own home!"

"This is the advice Wormtongue whispered into your ears, isn’t it, Théoden-King?" Gandalf spoke again. "It is only consistent with his other deeds that your Counsellor tried to weaken the old band of friendship between the two realms to first isolate the Mark until it was ready to fall to his Master, so that they could attack Gondor from two sides together with the Dark Lord’s armies!"

"In riding to Gondor, your Riders would be defending their home as well, Sire, and with more efficiency than if they fought alone against Mordor’s armies once Gondor had fallen!" Aragorn insisted. "For the Dark Lord’s might is such that no realm alone will be able to withstand him once he decides to strike. Our armies must unite, or Mordor has already won. There is no room for petty quarrels among us; we either stand together, or we fall alone. It is this simple."

"For you, perhaps, it is! Yet I believe that my men will fight more efficiently on their own grounds, where they know the terrain and the best places to assault our foes." Théoden’s gaze shifted between Gandalf and the Dúnadan, the expression of displeasure on his face deepening with each passing moment. Béma, he had barely been freed of one crooked advisor, and now everyone else thought they could bend him to their will as well? "And since you pride yourself with having served among our forces, Lord Aragorn, I suppose you know what it means to a Rohír to die so far away from home."

"And the Rohírrim would not be the only people who would wish to be buried in the soil of their home land, but sometimes, the protection of that home necessitates sacrifices. And having ridden with your warriors for years, I am in fact certain that they would understand the necessity here and be willing to make that sacrifice for the safety of their people." From the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Éomer shake his head in frustration, but before he could claim the younger man’s attention to hold him back, the son of Eomund literally exploded.

"This is the great Thorongil and not Gríma Wormtongue who stands before you, Théoden-King!" Éomer hissed, and his eyes sparkled with open contempt. "Since you claim to be free of the enemy’s poison, you should be able to tell the difference, my lord!"

His cutting remark sucked the air from the great hall, and suddenly, Éomer found himself the focus of six pairs of widening eyes. For an endless moment, all of the present were too stunned to speak, including the King himself. In disbelief and shock, Théoden stared at the young man before him, and his mind reeled with the painful realisation that somehow in the long years of his illness, his nephew had become a stranger to him – a stranger who no longer seemed to hold anything but disdain for the man who had raised him. Such hostility was in Éomer’s eyes – never had Théoden expected that the young man would forget himself in such a way before a council. Though always a hotspur, time and experience had helped the son of Eomund to use formality as a tool to reign in his temper on such occasions; that this implement he had learned to use with great effort failed him now only demonstrated to Théoden the true depth of the rift between them. It was as if they stood on different sides of a ravine far too broad to ever be bridged and with a wild river running beneath. A ravine that separated two lands which had nothing in common; not even their tongue, and where no matter what the first one said, the other one would misunderstand him.

What could he do? How was he supposed to react? Had anyone else committed such a blatant act of subordinate conduct, he would have been thrown into the dungeon immediately, and yet Théoden was aware that he could not very well incarcerate his own nephew, the man who had returned from Isengard as a hero... not again! Although deeply uncertain whether anything at all could be done to cure the breach between them, he decided that an effort needed to be made, and it needed to be made right now, before even more damage ensue.

It took a few moments before the power of speech returned to the King of the Mark, and when it did, his attention focused on the other warriors.

"Gentlemen, I am certain you agree that this might perhaps be the appropriate moment for an interruption of our council to cool our heads and allow all that has been said so far settle in our minds. We will assemble again in one hour; until then, please feel free to do whatever you like. If you are hungry or thirsty, please let Mistress Elfgyth know so, and she will gladly provide you with everything you need." Approving muttering answered him, and at last, Théoden met Éomer’s challenging gaze with a deep breath. The confrontation he had feared so much could no longer be delayed. "Marshal, you will follow me to my study. We must speak."

The two men’s steps echoed through the oppressive silence of the hall; their rushed urgency alarming enough to stop the members of the royal household they met along the way in their tracks. Feeling Éomer’s aggressive presence behind himself like an arrow that was pointed between his shoulder blades, Théoden-King pushed open the door and motioned the younger man into his study. Without sparing his Uncle a word or even a single glance, Éomer walked past him, his eyes firmly fixed on the wall hanging behind the King’s desk as if he had never seen it before.

With a short glance back at the empty corridor, Théoden shut the door behind himself and turned around, and in doing so, felt his whole body tense in anticipation of the ugly quarrel ahead of him. How was he supposed to begin? What was he supposed to say? For one thing was certain: for all the anger that was visible upon his nephew’s face, Éomer would not be the first one to speak. Rigid like a marble statue the son of Eomund stood in the middle of the room, unwilling to diminish his position by sitting down on the chair before the King’s desk and his gaze stubbornly directed at the wall before him. Very well, Théoden thought, then they would lead this argument standing.

"What is it that you want from me, Éomer?" he said, his tone, he hoped, reasonable and constructive. He did not want for this to become a shouting match with the young man before him, where sense would quite likely be substituted with mere volume sooner rather than later. Somehow, they had to find a way to cast aside their differences. "What is it that you expect me to do? I cannot do more than apologize from the depth of my heart for all that happened to you and Éowyn. Do you think it is easy for me to see your sister like this? Do you think it is easy for me to know that I was the one who issued what could easily have become your death sentence? I will live to regret my mistakes until the end of my days, but do you honestly believe that the council was the right time to vent your – however justified – fury at me?"

"Personal matters aside, and I don’t say that lightly..." His nephew’s voice was so deep and earnest that it chased a chill down the King’s spine. Never had Théoden heard Éomer speak like this, never. "Only moments ago, you shouted at the very man who saved me and risked his life more than once to help us in the defeat of our enemy in Isengard. You heard our reports; you listened to everything the Heir of Elendil and his companions and I learnt about the enemies’ intentions, and yet you insulted one of the greatest warriors who ever rode with our armies and shut yourself to his reason. When – if not now – should I speak up? Or should I have stood before you and silently nod my head while you committed another mistake that could easily result in our doom? I did so for years when I should have intervened, but I will not commit the same mistake twice."

His words were like well-aimed sword-strikes, like salt rubbed into open wounds, and the King had to avert his eyes from his nephew’s hateful gaze to collect himself before he could answer to the scathing accusation.

"Éomer… try to understand: it is easier for you to judge this man for you have already known him for a while. You fought by his side. I never even heard his name before last evening. I agree that he seems like a noble man--"

"He has the Grey Wanderer’s trust. And even if you did not trust Gandalf Greyhame although he was the one who killed Saruman in the end, you heard what I said! And still that is not enough for you. For many years Wormtongue disparaged me and sowed mistrust in your mind against me, and you would listen to him, for I saw your doubtful glances whenever I came to give my reports. And now it seems to me that despite the Worm’s defeat, he won at least in this regard, for although you are free of his poison, you will still not take my word." Théoden had no reply, and Éomer nodded as he found his assumptions confirmed. "Where is he, by the way?" he suddenly asked in a treacherously light tone. "In the dungeon, or dead? And if he is dead, who killed him?"

"He escaped." The words were like glass shard in the old man’s throat, for he knew that they would make things even worse between them. And he was right, for now his sister-son stared at him with stunned disbelief, until at length, Éomer closed his eyes and averted his gaze, slowly shaking his head to himself and muttering to himself with a bitter smirk: "I should have known…"

"You will hear from Éothain what happened when the Council commences," Théoden said with considerable effort. "He is not to blame for this unfortunate ending of the siege--"

"’Unfortunate ending’? You call it ‘unfortunate’ that our chief foe, the man responsible for the death of your son and creator of unspeakable misery for our people was not only not brought to justice, but was given a chance to find himself new allies and one day return to finish what he began?"

It was no use. The lad would attack every single word he said. In his need to lash out, it seemed to Théoden that Éomer cared little that he was not yet in full possession of the details, or whether his fury was in fact even directed at the right person.

"Éomer... please. Let us postpone this issue until you heard Éothain’s report. There is much information you are missing yet, and while I certainly understand your disappointment, I must ask you to believe me for now when I tell you that it was nobody’s fault... except for our foe’s. It was Gríma’s cunning which saved him, Éomer, and not our inability."

There was no conviction in Éomer’s eyes when he finally nodded, and Théoden understood that his nephew only agreed to his request because there were more pressing questions they needed to discuss than the circumstances of their enemy’s escape. Gríma was gone, and right now, there was nothing to be done to change that fact. There was, however, something to be done against the threat from the east.

"What about Aragorn then? Will you consider what he said, or has your decision already been made, and you will withhold our armies from this most important of battles because your hurt pride tells you to?" Éomer’s voice sounded flat, but Théoden could almost sense the tension with which his nephew awaited his next answer. He sighed from the bottom of his heart.

"I already said that I would consider it, Éomer; I never said that I wouldn’t. I am not yet certain about the path we should take, and while I do understand the urgency for a decision, I will cannot make it until I feel certain that it is indeed the right one. I spent the last years trusting a man who used me as his instrument to pursue our doom. As much as I would want to follow your suggestion: I will first need to learn to trust again. The decision I must make might affect the destiny of our entire people, Éomer."

"And how long should we wait for it, Sire?" That Éomer suddenly resorted to formality did not bode well with Théoden, for it told him that his nephew was in the process of withdrawing even further from him. "Until it is too late? For it seems to me that the way you have to walk is still very long, if only last night, you still mistrusted me enough to think that I would do such a horrendous thing as stealing the armour from the body of your dead son!"

It was another arrow into the King’s already bleeding heart, and although Éomer saw the pain in his Théoden’s eyes, he could not stop himself for his own heart was bleeding as well, and it had been cut to shreds by the very man standing before him.

"I… I never meant to imply that you stole Théodred’s armour. Éomer, you misunderstood me!" Béma, so much bitterness in the lad’s eyes! Where was the young man who had looked so proudly at him from the back of his horse on the day when he had joined the Armed Forces, Théoden wondered with growing despair. Where was the young man who had embraced him so heartily upon his return from his first year in service, laughing with happiness? "Éomer, will you not believe that I was overjoyed to see you alive and well?" It earned him only a snide remark.

"And I know there can be no apology for that, but perhaps you will accept an explanation." Hoping against hope, Théoden sought for a sign of encouragement in his nephew’s face, but Éomer remained silent, and his expression was a wall of stone. "I only learnt of Théodred’s death a few hours before you arrived, Éomer. I was unable to realise anything while I was under Gríma’s spell. I did not know that Théodred had fallen. Only yesterday morning was it reported to me that my son had been assassinated by Saruman’s armies, and while I do not yet know how it came to that, I fear that once again, Wormtongue used me to prepare his slaughter. I am responsible for the death of my own son, Éomer; that wound is still raw and fresh, and it goes deep. When I saw Théodred’s armour on you… the sight caught me unawares. I was not prepared for the pain of loss it stirred up in me. All I had meant to tell you vanished in that painful realisation that Théodred would indeed never return to me. Do you not believe that I would give anything to undo the hurt I caused you?"

"Would you?" Brown eyes pinned him. "So far, you did not even try to apologise for it."

It seemed to Théoden that no matter what he said, there was no getting through. In fact Éomer looked already tired of their conversation, for his gaze strayed not for the first time toward the door as if he hoped to allowed to leave as soon as possible.

"You did not grant me the chance yet. I asked you to come to my chambers last night when you were done in Éowyn’s room, but you did not come."

"Because I was not done there until this morning! And once this council is over, I will return there, and I will remain by her side until she wakes up!"

"And I do not blame you, but then why will you not accept my apology now? These accursed words which I deeply regret were a reaction to my son’s death which you misinterpreted. I had meant to greet you differently. Will you not believe me?"

The dark eyes before him narrowed in suspicion, then, hesitantly: "And what was it you wanted to tell me instead?"

"That I was glad to see you alive… and that I was proud that you never gave up even when you must have felt that all the world had deserted you. I know that I can never expect to be forgiven for the grief that had come upon you and Éowyn because of me, but I still hope that perhaps someday, you will find it in your heart nonetheless. What do you say, Éomer? Can I hope?"

And for the first time, the chill expression on the young face before him melted away, but it was replaced with something the King found even harder to bear: immeasurable sadness.

"I loved you once," Éomer admitted, his tone husky with emotion. "Not like a father, because I knew my father well and the emptiness he left when he died could never have been filled by another person… but I loved you. You helped us to overcome our grief, and I have only fond memories of the times I spent as a child here in the Golden Hall." He looked around, and yet what he saw seemed to give him no joy, for when his gaze returned to Théoden, the King understood without words that his plea was about to be denied.

"And yet it is for these fond memories that I do not find it in me to give you want you ask. You blame Gríma Wormtongue for the rift between us, when your trust in me faltered long before his poison turned you into his puppet. At first, there were only the words he whispered into your ear, and instead of throwing Gríma out, you listened to them. You grew to believe that I was in fact the snake in your house, and that I sought to steal the throne from your son. Théodred knew that it was nonsense, and he told you so repeatedly, but you believed neither him nor me. You chose to believe the Worm, and that was years before you finally descended into darkness."

"No, Éomer, that is not true. I do not know when Gríma began to poison me; abut I can say is that I would never have doubted you had it not been for his devious schemes!" But Éomer’s expression had hardened again, and for a moment, Théoden wanted to shake the bitter young man and force him to see the pain and regret in his soul. Yet his nephew's next words robbed him of his breath.

"It is very convenient to have a Gríma Wormtongue to blame for everything, isn’t it? You think that his evilness frees you of all responsibility. No matter what damage you inflicted with your words, it was the Worm’s fault. It is a cheap way out for you, for he is no longer here to object." For a moment, they stared at each other in silence, and it seemed to Théoden that he literally saw the shutters in his nephew’s gaze close, shutting him out… forever.

"To answer the question you asked me before the council," Éomer continued without mercy, his voice cold: "I will accept the position of First Marshal, if you still want to give it to me – yet only for the campaign against Mordor. I want no celebration, and for this, I have my own reasons. I will give back this title if I return from that battle, and I will leave Edoras and move back permanently to Aldburg, to be a marshal or a captain there for as long as people would want me there. Meduseld has ceased to be a home for me, and when Éowyn wakes, I will take her with me." He inhaled. "That is all."

Numbed by the enormity of what he had just heard, Théoden could only nod, and his voice almost failed him when he silently asked: "And how do you want to be treated from now on? As kin… or soldier?"

"I am but a common soldier to my King and as such, will do what is best for our people." Éomer lowered his head in a stiff bow, and Théoden understood. Despite the horrible feeling that a part of him had just died in this room, he walked toward the door and held it open.

For the continuation of the council, Éomer sat on the bench next to Fíndarras and listened to the reports of Éothain and Gamling in silent, helpless rage, his gaze fixated on his hands he had balled into fists lest he’d forget himself. It was the fault of these men that his sister had been forced to endure not only emotional pain beyond belief, but physical pain as well. None of them had said anything when the Worm had first incarcerated Éowyn inside her chambers and then even thrown her into the dungeon. Into the dungeon! His sister!

Only when it had been too late had the Royal Guard rebelled at last, and the late attempt to make up for something they should have done years earlier had resulted in their annihilation. The death of Hámá left a bitter taste in Éomer’s mouth. From the moment when Théoden had made Meduseld their second home, the even-tempered doorward and Captain of the Royal Guard had been their ally and confidante… and yet the son of Hárlond, too, had done nothing to get rid of the filth by his king’s side. It was a tragedy, but at the same time, Hámá had been one of the men mostly to blame for the steady increase of the Worm’s power; his demise in the end his own responsibility.

Silently Éomer shook his head to himself, unable to bring order to his mixed emotions. It would have made things so much easier to simply hate everyone, but he could not bring himself to feel that way. These were no evil men like Gríma; they had tried to do their best, their hesitation born from their conflicting duties. They had sworn fealty to Lord and Land... and yet the situation had called for a decision between the two, a decision they had been unable to make. They had meant well, but in the end, their hesitation had played into the hands of their enemy.

‘Hesitation... or cowardice?’ the voice in the back of his head sneered, and he could not silence it. Éomer’s gaze rested on the two men who were still delivering their report to their King and the members of the council, but his thoughts raced. While he heard Éothain’s and Gamling’s words and took notice of the incidents they described, his mind concerned himself with the question of why, of all the Rohírrim with power, only Céorl and Elfhelm had taken action. Their attempt had been made too late and only after the enemy had gathered his full power, but still these two captains had at least tried to remedy the dangerous neglect without considerations for their own safety. Éomer felt relieved that fate had decided to leave his friend Elfhelm alive, the man who had formed him into the respected warrior he was today, but Céorl’s death cast a dark shadow upon an already grim day, and he could only too well imagine how Éothain had to feel.

With a deep breath, the son of Eomund woke from his musings, and his attention re-focused on his long-time best friend. Although Éothain sounded composed as he recounted with Gamling’s help the gruesome incidents that had occurred within Edoras and the Golden Hall in his absence, Éomer sensed the deep desperation behind the calm facade... and could not help feeling for his brother-in-arms.

Although there was still the matter of Éothain’s betrayal between them – ‘could one really call it ‘betrayal?’ - the realisation of his friend’s loss was like a bucket of ice-water into the fire of Éomer’s anger, and while he silently sat and observed, the need for reconciliation grew ever stronger in his breast. Perhaps by forgiving Éothain... his own estrangement would be cured? Perhaps the sensation of having returned home only to find it replaced with something that looked alike yet felt bereft of its warmth would vanish if he allowed his friend back into his heart? So many questions, and no answers.

With a soundless sigh, Éomer tore his gaze away from his Éothain’s back. It was about bloody time this council ended. He felt Findárras’ eyes upon himself, but chose to ignore the unvoiced question and concentrated instead on what sounded like the conclusion of Éothain’s report.

"We found the guard at the exit of the tunnel with his throat slit, but unfortunately, there was no trace of Gríma Wormtongue to be found on the slope. Still I have not yet given up hope that we might catch him before he can leave the Mark, for I sent out Riders in all directions yesterday morning to alert all settlements of his escape. No matter where he goes, people will be looking for him." A hesitant glance found Éomer. "I also told the messenger I sent to Aldburg to bring Elfhelm’s consort with him when he returns. I am certain that it will help the Captain’s recovery to have her by his side." He received a thankful nod and turned back to his King, but it was Gandalf who spoke next.

"That veil Wormtongue used to hide the tunnel…was it his own, or where did it come from? Is it known?"

"It was one of Saruman’s gifts for my coronation, a long time ago," Théoden muttered disdainfully. "I even remember his words when he gave it to me, for I did not know what it was at first. He said that I might ‘find it a useful thing sometime in the future.’ Useful indeed, but not to us. It seems that the traitor prepared his assault on us even then!"

"I would not be surprised, for my old friend always planned rather meticulously and far ahead." The wizard sighed, and, after a questioning glance at the other council members, remarked: "I suppose that now all of us are truly in possession of the details we’ll need to decide upon our course of action tomorrow… or is there anything else we should know?"

All heads turned to the King, and yet while Théoden had already risen from his throne and inhaled to dismiss the warriors, no sound came over his lips. At first the men wondered and creased their brows in concern, but then they, too, felt the low rumble beneath their feet. For a moment, the warriors stared in incomprehension at each other, but suddenly their eyes widened, and for once joy lit up their expressions.

"That must be Erkenbrand!" Findárras beamed, and involuntarily turned toward the open door, barely able to restrain himself to not jump to his feet and see for himself when the weak din of the city bell reached their ears from below.

"Your éohere returns from battle, Théoden-King!" said Éomer and inclined his head to avoid eye-contact with the older man.

"And they return victoriously, Sire!" Aragorn added, noticing how every single door of the great hall opened to reveal the questioning faces of members of the royal household, and it seemed to the Ranger that a ray of light had unexpectedly found its way into the men’s and women’s hearts. A moment later, a cry from the open doors could be heard, and a guard stormed into the hall.

"Théoden-King, a great army approaches Edoras from the West! They are yet too far away to determine whether they are indeed our Riders, but the noise would lead me to believe that they are."

"Then let us greet them as befits the proud victors!" the King of the Mark said exuberantly, and for once, the burden upon his shoulders seemed lessened as he looked at the members of the council with renewed hope in his eyes. "Léod, see to it that the men are welcomed the way they should be! Send an escort out to meet them, and let the people know that there will be a celebration on the square tonight in honour of our victorious Riders!" He descended the dais and could not remember when he had last felt such excitement. "Now come with me to the terrace if you will, Gentlemen, and let us watch the arrival of our éohere! After the night through which we all waded, it should be a sight to behold!"

Éomer did not immediately follow the other men to the door, feeling no rush to see the army he had left only two days earlier although he felt relieved that nothing unexpected kept Erkenbrand in the Westfold. It was a good sign. And if there were enough of their Riders left to make the lonely mountain shake like this, perhaps not too many of them had perished in the battle after all. Perhaps things had looked worse in the wake of the flood than they had really been, and perhaps, it was time for him to look to the future with a little more optimism.

And yet how to do that when only a few doors away, Èowyn’s empty shell lay on the bed, dying a slow death? What worth was everything he had achieved if the prize was the life of the person dearest to his heart? No, the very notion of joy would remain beyond his reach for as long as his sister’s plight had not been cured.

A shadow fell upon him and interrupted Éomer’s train of thought, and as he looked up, the son of Eomund was surprised to see Aragorn standing before him with an expression on his face that was both curious and understanding.

"I will do that, but they will need some time yet before they’re here." With a silent sigh, the Rohír picked himself up – and grimaced, and in an unconscious gesture, his right hand went to his thigh.

Aragorn nodded slowly, his keen eyes missing nothing. At last, he pointed his chin toward the younger man’s leg. "Have you seen a healer yet?" Apparently, it was not something Éomer wanted to discuss; his curt reply told the older man so.

"You took good care of me. This is barely more than an inconvenience now, and I am certain that I will have forgotten about it in a fortnight." The Rohír began to turn away.

"Only if you don’t deny it further treatment." Sensing Éomer’s impatience, Aragorn laid a hand upon the younger man’s shoulder and looked him sternly in the eye. "Your thigh was pierced, Éomer; it is still a serious wound that can give you much trouble if you ignore it. As commander of the Rohírrim, you can ill afford to neglect your own health. Your Riders will look to you when they ride against Mordor, and they will need their Marshal to be strong."

In a flash, the impatient expression in the dark eyes changed to annoyance, a sudden reminder of the heated temperament slumbering beneath the rationality forced upon Éomer by his position.

"So you stayed behind to remind me of my duties? Then, my friend, let me assure you that I am well aware of them! If the days since we first meet should have told you something about me--"

"I did not doubt that, Éomer, and certainly not after all we have been through together... but I also know the tendency of warriors to care for all others, first, and forget about themselves," the Dúnadan interrupted before the younger man before him became seriously enraged. When they had rejoined the council, the tension between Théoden and his nephew had told Aragorn more than words could ever have, and he understood that in his despair, Éomer was ready to see an enemy in everyone now, even in the man who had saved him. " It is not only so in Rohan. But there are times when we must take the time for ourselves, too, lest we jeopardise the aims we set ourselves. Wouldn’t you agree?"

For the longest moment, Éomer stared at the man who had so quickly become a trusted friend although he had always been slow to trust. Then he snorted, and at last, a crooked grin spread slowly over his face as his rigidity melted away.

"Béma, are the Dúnedain always so sensible? It is not a trait in which we Rohírrim place great value. If we did, we would have lain down and surrendered a long time ago, for the odds were hardly ever in our favour." Again he shook his head, and looked Aragorn in the eye with resigned acceptance.. "Very well, I can hardly withstand the will of the great Thorongil, can I? As soon I can render it possible, I will get my leg looked after. Does that satisfy you?"

"’As soon as you can render it possible,’…" Aragorn repeated sceptically, his arched eyebrows giving away what he thought of Éomer’s answer. "I cannot say that your promise convinces me entirely, but…" and now a sly grin spread over his rugged face as well, and a glint of amusement flashed up in his eyes, "—I will see to it that you keep it."

"I am known to keep my promises, Lord Aragorn! Do I hear a challenge in your words?" Éomer narrowed his eyes; the friendly banter a welcome distraction from the heavy tidings of which they had just learned.

"Only if you make it one." Aragorn winked. "Yet I also recall that – despite the Rohírrims’ legendary stubbornness - they are also known to be possessed of astounding common sense when it is called for, and usually find the adequate measures for any given situation themselves... they must possess this trait, or your people would have vanished long ago. Not every situation can be solved by sheer force of will."

Again, the two warriors stared at each other – and then burst into laughter simultaneously.

"Damnation! I must admit that you battle with words just as well as with your sword!" Éomer inhaled deeply. "So... you stayed behind to appeal to my ‘astounding common sense’."

"And yet it was only the lesser of my reasons to wait for you." Without warning, the smile vanished from the Ranger’s face. "I learned of your sister’s condition this morning, and after hearing just now what she had to endure from your foes hand, I thought I’d offer you my help." He could see the effect of his words in Éomer eyes: for a brief moment, a flicker of hope flashed up in the dark brown pools... before scepticism quickly claimed them back. The son of Eomund did not yet allow himself to hope.

"Have you done such a thing before?" the Rohír asked cautiously, although his mouth was suddenly dry with excitement. " I do remember well how you brought me back from the brink of death, but… Éowyn’s condition is very different."

"Of course it is, and I will not lie to you: I cannot promise you that I will succeed in bringing her back, but if you’d let me look at her, I would try to do what is in my power to help her out of this state." He inhaled deeply, and - seeing the contemplation in Éomer’s eyes – added: "What have you got to lose?"

"Nothing. You are right." Éomer squared his shoulders as he came to a decision. "Come, quickly. They are all outside anyway; they will not miss us."

"Our army returns victoriously, my lady. Can you not hear them? Do you not feel their hoof beats as they approach? Very soon, they will be here. You can already see them from your window, my lady." Intently, Maelwyn searched for a sign in the blue eyes before here – the smallest flicker of recognition, the briefest twitch of an eyelid would do – that Éowyn heard her, but as before, the White Lady of Rohan stared into a distance far beyond anything the ordinary eye could ever see, and her fingers did not return the gentle squeeze Maelwyn gave them.

With a sigh, the young handmaiden righted herself, not yet breaking the contact. She had not expected a reaction, but still the pointlessness of her efforts began to tell on her.

"My Lady, if only I could help you ..." Again she sighed, and for a moment of profound helplessness and despair, Maelwyn’s gaze wandered to the window she had opened earlier to let in fresh air and the sound of the approaching army in hope the noise would do what she had been unable to accomplish. And yet it seemed to her more and more that nothing ever would, and that slowly but surely, her mistress would starve to death, her body following Éowyn to where her mind had already preceded.

Letting go of Éowyn’s hand, the handmaiden once again reached for the bowl of porridge she had placed on the nightstand. It was already cold, and although she had enriched it with plenty of honey and cream to make it as nourishing as possible, it seemed to her that with each meal, she managed to get less and less into her lady’s stomach. The young woman was fading away right before her eyes.

With burning eyes, Maelwyn took the spoon and dipped it into the white mush, then gently pressed it against Éowyn’s dry lips, angry with herself. It was too early yet to despair. They had to continue trying. Perhaps when the hunger reflex grew strong enough, Éowyn would take what she was offered.

"This is something good, Lady Éowyn," she whispered insistently, almost pleadingly. "I had it made especially for you. It will make you stronger. Please, will you not at least try it?" But the lips would not part. At last Maelwyn gave up and put the bowl back onto the little table, the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth. What to do? There had to be something...

A soft rap cut through her despairing thoughts, and moment later, the door opened to reveal her lady’s brother... and that charismatic man who had arrived with him the night before. Was he a healer? Was it possible that he—

"Any changes?" Éomer asked in a voice that told Maelwyn that he already knew the answer, and his eyes briefly flitted over his sister’s prone shape to the window to finally come to rest on her face. She shook her head.

"I am sorry," she mumbled, and quickly cleared the chair for him. "She will not even eat anymore. Including breakfast, I managed to get her to swallow perhaps two spoons full of porridge today, and it gets harder any time I try." She swallowed, and her voice dropped to a frightful whisper. "It is not enough to sustain her, my lord. Something needs to happen, a miracle, perhaps."

"Aye." Éomer’s eyes rested on Aragorn as he allowed the older man with an almost imperceptible nod to approach the bed. "I agree; we need a miracle." He did not want to get up his hopes, only to be shattered if Aragorn, too, failed... but he could not help himself, and he knew that the other man felt the pressure of his expectations as the Dúnadan silently slipped into the vacated chair and took Éowyn’s hand. "If there is anything you need..."

"Not yet. But I will let you know if there is." Aragorn’s gaze remained intently on his patient’s face as he laid his other hand on Éowyn’s brow. He saw it all: the fading bruises on the side of her head, the deadly pallor of her skin and the dark circles underneath her empty eyes... and her far-too-prominent cheekbones. Valar, this young woman looked so frail already, almost delicate, and her hand felt lighter than a feather in his grasp. For how much longer could she prevail, and where was her mind? Irretrievably shattered... or just withdrawn into herself, cut off from the world around her? It was the one question he needed an answer to... and with a deep breath, Aragorn closed his eyes... and reached out into the darkness.

On the other side of the room, Maelwyn stood, watching and hugging herself. She did not know what the stranger was doing to her lady, but a quick glance out of the corner of her eye revealed that Éomer did not seem troubled by it, not even when the man seemed to slip into a trance now by her lady’s beside.

"What is he doing?" she whispered underneath her breath, and fell silent again when Éomer laid a finger against his lips to quieten her.

‘Darkness. Such complete darkness. There was not the slightest shimmer of light anywhere, no matter where he turned; no indication that this black hole he suddenly found himself in even had an end, or that someone was living inside this blackness.

"Lady Éowyn?" he cried out, and reached out with his mind in an attempt to sense the young woman’s presence. "I am looking for the daughter of Eomund, sister to Éomer, Marshal of the Mark! Give me a sign if you can hear me! Your brother had returned, and your foe has been driven from the hall! There is nothing left to fear! You can come out of hiding now!"

He was not graced with an answer, and yet it seemed to him that something had changed. Had he not just heard the slight rustle of clothes further back, as if someone had shifted his weight?

"My Lady, I beg you: come with me! If not for your own good, then for your brother’s! Éomer is here, in the same room with us, and he is desperate to see you suffering like this. Will you not ease his worries by coming with me?"

Again there was no reply, but there seemed to be a sudden draft, pulling him further into the blackness. For a moment, Aragorn hesitated – and then he dug his heals in. No, it was too dangerous to follow that current without further preparations. He had heard of healers who had irretrievably lost themselves in their patients’ minds, never to find the way back. He could not risk that. He would return later, when he was better prepared.

... and woke to Éomer’s concerned face hovering before him. Great distress stood in the Rohír’s eyes, and with surprise, Aragorn felt the young man’s fingers digging painfully into the muscles of his shoulder.

"Aye, I hear you indeed, Éomer son of Éomund. And please, leave my shoulder in one piece, if you may. I will still need it in the days to come."

"You suddenly collapsed in the chair, and did not react when I addressed you. I- I did not know what to do." Creases suddenly formed on the other man’s brow. "But did you do?"

"To find your sister’s hiding place, I immersed myself into her mind." With each deep breath of fresh air, the darkness vanished from Aragorn’s mind, the cobwebs cleared from his eyes, and he found himself staring into a thoroughly confused Rohirric face. With a weary smile, he shook his head. "It is not relevant now how this technique works, but I think I might have felt something."

"You felt Éowyn’s mind?" Éomer did not know how to make sense of his friend’s words; it certainly went far beyond anything he believed in. But if it was the one straw to save his sister, he would grasp it, even if he did not understand it. "Did you... could you speak... with her?"

"Not yet, but I had a feeling she was there, hiding in the darkness. I did not dare to go in further unprepared, but we will be back, Éomer!" This time, Aragorn’s hand landed with a sharp slap on the other man’s shoulder. "We will be back, but first, I will need to get a few things together. Can you take me to your healer? I will need to see what herbs she has."

A hand gently shook him, and Elfhelm’s eyes snapped open… and he stared into a pale, freckled face. A woman’s face, neither old nor young and framed by tangled ashen locks. ‘Winfreda’, he remembered the name to that face. One of the caretakers in these houses, who, given the lack of patients at the moment, had devoted most of her time to him for the past day. She looked concerned.

"What… why…" His heart still raced like a frenzied beast inside his chest, and the rush of blood in his veins drowned out everything for another moment of profound disorientation. Only a heartbeat ago, he had been in his cell in the dungeon’s grim darkness, but now, the afternoon sun fell through the open window and the early spring breeze warmed him and carried the scent of horses and fragments of the birds’ singing to him. Slowly, the horrible images began to fade from his mind. "The Lady Éowyn… is she… I mean…"

"You had a nightmare, my lord. I thought it better to wake you." Winfreda waited until she saw realisation dawning in her patient’s eyes, and cast the Captain an compassionate smile. She did not want to imagine what the poor man had experienced in the days of his captivity that was giving a war-hardened warrior like him such terrible dreams. Best to distract him quickly and turn his attention toward more positive things. "You also have a visitor. Would you like to see him, or do you not feel ready yet? Should I tell him to come back later?" She looked back.

Elfhelm followed her gaze to the door… and blinked. Another wave of confusion threatened to sweep him away. This could not be… or could it?

"É-Éomer?" It had to be another dream… but then again, the linen under his fingertips felt quite real, and the fresh air upon his face did, too. He was no longer in the darkness of the dungeon, but in the Healing Houses, where they had brought him after Meduseld had been liberated from the enemy’s stranglehold. His memory of the things they had told him when he had first woken returned slowly, but still these did not explain how Éomer could be standing here before him, with that hesitant look upon his gaunt face as if he did not dare to enter without permission. Had Gríma not boasted about how Eomund’s son had stepped right into his meticulously planned trap? Had Éowyn not told him that the filth had triumphantly shown her her brother’s bloodied and torn cloak? "Is that really…but how can it be--"

"It is indeed me, old friend, and I will tell you everything you want to know in a moment, if you let me in." There was a strange expression on Éomer’s face, one Elfhelm did not immediately know how to read. All kinds of different emotions seemed to mix there, from dismay over relief, to simultaneous exhaustion and exuberance... but most of all it was defeat he saw there. Deep within Elfhelm’s mind, an alarm bell began to sound as he regarded his one-time apprentice with the disquieting feeling of looking at a man who no longer knew which road to travel. The son of Eomund looked lost.

The smile Elfhelm forced upon his face as he propped himself up into a sitting position felt false, and he was certain that Éomer saw right through it. "Of course, son! Come in, come! You must tell me everything! Béma, what a joy it is to see you!"

A little smile briefly lit up Éomer’s features as the younger man stepped into the room... and yet although he had barely woken, Elfhelm noticed that the young man’s eyes were not touched by it. They remained sad and dispirited as Éomer came closer, and alarmingly devoid of the passion Elfhelm had always known to live in those dark brown pools. He swallowed, for he had seen such expressions before: he was looking at the eyes of a man who had seen too much. For a moment, the Captain of Aldburg wondered what had happened to the man he had helped to grow into one of the Mark’s most formidable warriors... but then joy over their unexpected reunion won the battle for the reign over his emotions for the time being.

With a quick, both pleading and apologetic glance he found Winfreda, and to her credit, the caretaker understood his unasked request and nodded good-naturedly as she moved toward the door. She was glad to see her patient’s spirits revived the Marshal’s arrival, for it was well known among her kind that recovery was just as much a matter of a person’s will as of the healer’s craft.

"I will leave you to your business now, my lords, as it seems to me that you have much catching up to do. You will find me in the work room should you need anything, assisting your friend, Marshal." She looked at Éomer, who acknowledged her discretion with an appreciative nod.

Aragorn had not told him in all detail what exactly he had in mind with all the herbs and powders and potions he had taken from Yálanda while Éomer had followed his advice to let himself be treated, except that he needed a kitchen now to "build an anchor". While Éomer had not pretended to understand, he had taken the Dúnadan with him to the Healing Houses, where a well-equipped facility would be at Aragorn’s disposal while he himself would use that opportunity to visit a close friend... perhaps the only one he had still left.

For a moment, the two warriors waited in silence, each man lost in thought as they waited for the door to close behind the caretaker to grant them privacy. The little click with which the lock snapped shut seemed unnaturally loud in the thick quietness.

Slowly Éomer made it over to his friend’s bed and lowered himself into the chair beside it. From the open window, excited chatter and the sound of the bustling city filtered into the room, lending the atmosphere an air of normality he knew better than to trust. They had braved only one storm yet; the greater one was still brewing somewhere beyond the horizon, leaving them only this brief break to catch their breath. He inhaled deeply. Where to begin? So much had happened...

"You looked wretched," the Captain of Aldburg finished his scrutiny first, and just like he had read Éomer’s real disposition from the expression in his eyes, the fading traces of the battles his former pupil had gone through likewise had not escaped Elfhelm’s attention. "I do not yet know anything about the trials you faced out there, but that you made it through them to return to us in this manner… that makes me proud, son. Not many of us could have done it, I suppose." He laid a hand on Éomer’s forearm and gave it a firm squeeze. "I also heard rumours of you leading our éohere to victory against Isengard. You must tell me everything, for I know no details yet."

"And I will, but if you think that I look wretched, you should see those orcs who thought that four of them would suffice to attack a Marshal of the Rohírrim!" Éomer said wryly, and for once, honest joy stirred in his chest over seeing his friend alive. "You are the right one to talk about looking ‘wretched’ though! You look like something a Mûmak would find under its sole after a stampede!" He tried to sound light-hearted, but Elfhelm’s condition chased a chill down his spine… and he did not even want to imagine what else Wormtongue and his minions had done to his mentor and friend. Éothain had said that Elfhelm had almost died in the dungeon. That he had been unconscious when they had found him, and in the grasp of a violent fever. Too much of that was still visible upon the older man’s mangled face.

The thick welts and swollen gashes on Elfhelm’s cheeks and brow looked hideous, and a pattern of black and blue bruises marred what skin Éomer could see. There were bandages around his wrists, telling Éomer that his mentor had been chained to the wall, and he recalled Éothain saying that the Captain of Aldburg had been whipped and fiercely beaten numerous times. Shaking his head in helpless fury, Éomer uttered a silent curse. How could it be that they had allowed the Worm to escape after all he had done?

"Interestingly enough, I quite feel like that, too… but it will pass. Do not worry overmuch for me, Éomer; I’ve had worse in my life." Elfhelm shook his head as he saw the deep dismay in the brown eyes before him. "I know he got away, but it is no use thinking about the filth now when there are more pressing issues at hand. There will come a time for vengeance, I am certain of it. Gríma will not escape his destiny forever. The evil he has done will catch up with him, and one day, he will have to pay the price. I am not concerned about that."

With no small amount of jealousy, Éomer saw the conviction in Elfhelm’s expression. His own ability to believe and trust had died when he had found his worst fears confirmed upon his return to Edoras. Their gods – if they even existed – were cruel, and the price for their allegiance high. Béma had given him victory of their enemy, only to rob him of those he loved. What use was it to pray to such gods? Were one not better off relaying upon oneself?

"Wormtongue only got away because we were distracted. And now he is lucky because we have more urgent matters to consider to than chase after him, but once we have put an end to the threat in the east and concern ourselves with him, aye, I believe that no matter where he runs, we will find him, and if we’ll have to turn every stone in the Mark."

A wry smile curled Éomer’s mouth. Yet it had nothing to do with amusement, or approval; it was an expression of disbelief.

"If you do not believe in it yourself, then why are you even here? Why did you fight so hard to survive and even defeat Saruman, if you believe that all will be useless in the end? Why, Éomer?" He was not granted an answer. "It is not only because of your legendary stubbornness; I know you well enough. Aye, you did not want to grant Gríma the satisfaction of the triumph, but deep down inside, you must still have hope for a good outcome, or your will wouldn’t have carried our army to victory. Without hope, there can be no victory, Éomer, no matter what you say."

For the longest time, Éomer stared at him, and at first, Elfhelm thought he saw objection in the young man’s face… but the harsh expression melted away as the son of Éomund shifted his attention to a distance far beyond their room.

"You have always known me well, Elfhelm, sometimes better than I have even known myself." Éomer inhaled deeply, and life returned to his eyes as he thoughtfully regarded his mentor. "I fought for Éowyn. I refused to give up, because I knew what the Worm would do to her if I did not return... and aye, I suspect I was still hoping, then." And in a downbeat voice he added: "But I came too late." Suddenly his throat grew too tight to speak, and he had to avert his eyes as his eyes started to burn. The last thing he wanted was to break down before the man who had shaped him into the respected warrior of the Roírrim he was today, and whose both physical as well as spiritual strength had always been his great inspiration.

For a moment, Elfhelm could only stare at him in shock. Nobody had told him yet about the fate of Éomer’s sister.

"She might as well be." Alone uttering those poisonous words aloud hurt worse than any wound inflicted by a sword or arrow. ‘It is too early yet to despair!’ the voice in the back of Èomer’s head insisted, but it was not strong. ‘Aragorn will save her! Do you have so little trust?’ Aye, he could hear the Dúnadan rummage in the kitchen even through the closed door; he could hear his muffled voice through the wood, and yet... Éomer had to shut his eyes, for a moment overwhelmed by a tidal wive of desperation. "She… they found her in the Worm’s chambers after they had defeated his army… beaten and starved and unresponsive. Withdrawn from this world." He took a shaky breath and again felt Elfhelm’s hand upon his arm in an attempt to provide comfort.

"He did not… did he?" Elfhelm barely dared to envision the ghastly thought that welled up in his mind, much less voice his fear, yet Éomer understood him.

"Yálanda says that he didn’t, but it doesn’t matter, for whatever Gríma did, it destroyed her. All that is left of Éowyn is her empty shell, and if no miracle happens, her body will follow her mind in a few days, because we cannot get enough food into her to sustain her." Words failed him, and for a moment, Éomer stared at the hands he had folded upon his thighs, before the power of speech returned to him. He shook his head. "I did not fight for this, Elfhelm. Had I known I would find this upon my return, I would have taken the easy way." Éomer lifted his gaze, and the abysmal despair Elfhelm read in his dark eyes made him shiver. Ever from when he had first known the lad, it had been clear to him that Éomer would tear himself in two to keep his sister from harm. Having survived his trials only to find his sister a living corpse upon his return... it was enough to shatter any man’s beliefs.

For a moment, memory took him back to the dungeon, and Éowyn’s pale but proud face looked at him from the opposite cell. No matter what Éomer said, Elfhelm could not envision Éomund’s daughter as a broken, hollow shell. The woman he had known would never have given up, and her appeal to his strength still rung in his ears.

‘I had a dream last night, Captain, and it led me to believe that all is not lost yet. It would be foolish to throw our lives away over a matter of pride. We need to hold on, however hard it may be, for once we are freed, Rohan will still need us. It is our duty to survive.’

"Your sister is strong, Éomer. And she is brave. I refuse to give up hope yet, and neither should you. Éowyn was not even afraid when the filth took her with him, but accepted it as perhaps the chance to kill him... but of course I do not know what happened in his chambers. The last time I saw Éowyn, Gríma forced her to watch as they whipped me. He was raging mad then, and badly bleeding from his mouth. I assume she bit him when he tried to kiss her." A sad smile briefly wandered over Elfhelm’s face at the memory. "She was not broken then. But when I rose from unconsciousness again, she was gone." He inhaled. "Éomer… if only I could have done something more…"

"It was not your fault." Éomer shook his head. "You did what was in your power, which is more than can be said about everyone else, be they of the Royal Guard or my éored… including Éothain."

"Son, if I know one thing for certain, it is that Éothain would give his life for you any day. The two of you were friends ever since you joined our éored. No, more: you were brothers. If you doubt that, then--"

"Then why did he not accompany me?" Éomer interrupted him harshly, raw accusation colouring his tone that indicated how close to the bone his friend’s betrayal had cut. "Or at least sent a few of our riders after me for protection? He did neither! Like everyone else, he was too afraid to take that risk... like a rabbit before the snake!"

Elfhelm could not remember having ever seen Éomer so embittered. "Have you spoken to Éothain yet about this?"

"Only briefly. I was on my way to Éowyn then; I had neither the nerve nor the time to concern myself with him." Éomer averted his gaze, obviously not willing to dwell on the painful subject any further. Yet Elfhelm did not do him the favour of dropping it.

"And yet you should grant him that time, Éomer. Give him the opportunity to explain himself. He has been your best friend for many, many years, and you risked your life for each other more than once in the past. One was always there for the other, your loyalty beyond question. I still remember how Éothain helped you bury your horse after that orc-attack shortly after you joined the éored, although he was black and blue from the battle himself. Or how the two of you would lie in ambush together, and each would have the other’s back. Do you not believe that he might have had a good reason for what he did?"

"A good reason to betray his best friend?" Éomer snarled, and disdain sparkled in his eyes. "Can you name one? I tried to imagine it, but for the life of me, I could not think of one. I only know that – had our roles been exchanged- I would have accompanied him. And you would have done the same."

"And yet you should hear him out. Or do you want to give up on your closest friend so easily?" Elfhelm’s gaze rested on his former apprentice. "Do you not think Éothain suffers just like you? That he regrets, perhaps, his decision and would do anything to reconcile with you?" Éomer did not answer, and thick silence spread in the room. "And do you not want to reconcile, Éomer? Am I so wrong when I think I see that wish in your eyes?" Again he wasn’t rewarded with a reaction. "Éomer?"

"What do you want me to do, Elfhelm?" Éomer sighed. "Forget what he did? As much as I would wish to be able to do that, I just cannot find it in me." Unable to meet his mentor’s gaze, he stared at the window. "And it doesn’t matter anyway what I wish for, for I know it won’t be granted." He inhaled deeply and shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. "Do you not think that I would appreciate a friend by my side in these hard times? Someone to trust, no matter what happens? I thought Éothain was the one… and yet he deserted me in the time of my greatest need." Slowly, sadly, Éomer shook his head. "No, Elfhelm, you are that friend. You rode to Edoras without concerns for your own safety when the news of the Worm’s verdict reached you… because you knew that Éowyn was in danger. You risked what no one else was willing to risk… including the man I regarded as my best friend."

He saw the reaction in Elfhelm’s eyes and nodded solemnly. "Aye, Captain, it is not only you who is skilled in the reading of others. It is no secret to me that you came here to take Éowyn with you to Aldburg for me, out of Gríma’s reach. I still remember your promise to protect her if anything ever happened to me. I never doubted you would honour it if the situation ever arouse, and still… these were extraordinary circumstances, and you should know that I do not take your loyalty for granted. There are no words I can think of to express my thankfulness, Elfhelm, but I hope you know..."

"Don’t be foolish, son!" Elfhelm interrupted him gruffly, and felt heat spread over his face. "There is no need to thank me at all, for as far as I am concerned, for I consider the two of you my kin. I have known you from birth, and even if I didn’t promise to your dying father to watch over you, I would still have done so. And had I been here when that snake cast you out, I would have taken you with me to Aldburg as well, and the entire Eastmark would have stood behind you as one. By no means am I the only one who thinks like that. It doesn’t matter whether it is me, or Fíndarras, or Thor; the Eastmark will always be yours, and no matter what the future brings, you should never forget that. Promise me you won’t." He held Éomer’s gaze captive, his intensity almost burning the younger man... and emotion choking him. All Éomund’s son could do was nod his affirmation, but the gesture satisfied Elfhelm.

"Very well. But do me a favour and speak with Éothain, please. I would hate to see your friendship destroyed by the Worm. It is too precious a thing to give up lightly. You worry for your sister, and he grieves for his father. Both of you suffer, and I believe that you can help each other, if only you reach out. Speak with him, please, Éomer."

For the longest time, the two warriors regarded each other... until at last, Éomer nodded, although without conviction.

"There is a lot that requires your attention now that you have returned, of course. I understand. But don’t wait for too long. Don’t give bitterness the chance to settle in your heart, son." Again, Elfhelm pressed Éomer’s hand ... and sunk back into his pillow as a wave of fatigue overwhelmed him without warning. "Gods, I am really in a disgraceful shape these days," he muttered, barely able to keep his eyes open. "You will forget that you ever saw me like this. If word gets out that the Captain of Aldburg can be just as weak as any other man, I will have to face mayhem once I return to my éored. They’ll lose all respect." His eyelids grew too heavy to keep them open, but still Elfhelm thought he heard a chuckle beside him. Good.

"And we can’t have that," Éomer agreed. "Do not worry about me, old friend. If your riders should ever ask me about their Captain’s role in these happenings, I will tell them that you ate Gríma’s henchmen alive."

"Which I would have done had the odds not been rather unfair..." Elfhelm mumbled, barely able to concentrate enough to form the words. Another wave rolled over him, and suddenly, the world seemed very far away.

"I know, Captain; I know." For a moment longer, Éomer continued to sit on his chair and watched as his friend drifted off into the healing hands of sleep... then the sudden laughter of children from beyond the open window woke him from his absorption, and he rose to his feet. It could not be long now until Erkenbrand’s men reached the city gates, and he intended to be there, as befitting his new position as First Marshal of the Mark. And afterwards, he would return to Éowyn’s side to wait for Aragorn... and perhaps, hope for the miracle he did not dare to believe in.

It had been a long time since the proud city of Edoras had last had reason for a celebration, and even longer since Éomer had seen his fellow kinsmen in such exuberant mood. The last harvesting season had not provided the people of the Mark with much reason for joy, and four months earlier, the Midsummer festivities had been overshadowed by a battle that had cost the lives of many men. No one had been in the mood to celebrate, and yet out of a sense of duty, they had done so nonetheless, because it would have felt too much like surrendering to the darkness.

The sons and daughters of the Mark were a proud and stubborn people; well-known – and feared - for that quality even beyond the borders of their realm. Even in dark times they had celebrated their will to live, their bonfires beacons, and their songs messages for their enemies that their spirit could never be broken, and that, regardless of what their foes would throw at them, they would resist to the very end.

And yet even before his expulsion, there had been moments when Éomer had believed victory no longer within their grasp. To walk through these streets now and to see them lit with hundreds of torches and decorated with colourful ribbons, and to find the citizens laughing and singing and their children chasing each other through the alleys in this mild night that carried the promise of spring… it was unreal, like walking through a dream, and Fíndarras to his left seemed to think the same as they approached the brightly illuminated square together.

“Look at the fire!” the Eastfold warrior said and shook his head in wonder as he gazed at the flaming pile. “I cannot remember having ever seen a higher bonfire! This one must be visible for miles and miles, perhaps even all the way to Aldburg.”

“It’s a good thing there is no wind tonight, or we would be in danger of burning our own city to the ground,” Éomer chuckled, and the fire’s reflections danced in his dark eyes as his gaze swept the crammed space before them. With the arrival of Erkenbrand’s men, it seemed that the streets of Edoras were filled way beyond capacity, the activity positively reminding him of an ant-hive… and yet it was a cheerful ant-hive, where people laughed and greeted each other wherever they met.

Following his visit to the Healing House, Éomer had spent the rest of the afternoon in the solitude of his sister’s chambers, talking to Éowyn and helping her handmaiden – unsuccessfully - to feed her, and pondering the things he had learned from his discussion with Elfhelm. As Aragorn had told him that the preparations for his healing attempt would take a few more hours, they had agreed to join the festivities, first, and then head off together to the Golden Hall after the official part. Part of Éomer could barely stand the thought of having to wait even longer, and yet on the other hand, he dreaded going up. What if they failed tonight? Wouldn’t that be Éowyn’s death verdict?

With a mighty effort, he shoved the horrifying thought aside as he found those he had been looking for on the platform that held their flagpole and was usually used for announcements. He pointed them out to his brother-in-arms. “There they are. Beneath the banner.”

A smile spread over Findarras’ face as the red-haired warrior beheld the round table and benches overlooking the crowds, reserved for the King and his high guests and captains. Usually there was more than enough space on the structure on such occasions, but as most of their high guests had been accommodated there as well, it seemed to the Eastfold warrior quite tricky to move around without falling down. Surely the night would get interesting after the first pints had been downed. He grinned… and yet as they approached the stairs, furrows appeared on his brow.

“Aragorn?” Findárras was right; Éomer could not detect him either. But he could easily guess where the Heir of Elendil could be found, and that knowledge was the reason for the tension in his stomach, not the prospect of having to face the people who had betrayed him, once Théoden gave his speech. “No. He must still be busy, but I’m sure he will come once he’s ready. He knows I’m waiting for him.”

For a moment, Findarras’ light-hearted expression vanished, and he looked Éomer in the eye. “It is for Éowyn, isn’t it? Will he heal her tonight?”

“I do not know what exactly it is he will do, but whatever is in his power, he will try. We cannot afford to lose more time.” He looked away, glad to evading his comrade’s compassionate gaze when a close-by voice called his name.

“Thor!” It was indeed the dark-haired halfblood who had arrived the previous afternoon with Erkenbrand’s half of their éohere, and who approached them now from with a plate in his hands that was loaded with deliciously smelling roasts and vegetables. Looking down, Éomer cocked an appreciative eyebrow. “That looks quite appealing what you have there.”

“And there is more than enough for everyone, Marshal,” the scout laughed. As with everyone else, the extraordinary efforts of the last days still showed on Thor’s face, but his good mood seemed genuine. “Even for your unusual friends, although I must admit that I have never seen anyone eating quantities of food quite like that dwarf… or drinking. For one so short, he seems to have an extraordinarily large stomach, and he can certainly hold his liquor! Although the two other short ones are not far behind him, I suppose. Quite extraordinary. I’m only waiting for someone to challenge them.”

“Féofor, you mean. Aye, that would indeed be a spectacle worthy of the occasion… and I think for the very first time, our dear kinsman would lose.” Éomer smirked as his gaze found Gímli and his friends on the left side of the platform, in the process of downing their pints – and obviously not their first ones, judging from the wet spots on their shirts. “Yet seeing them reminds me of the fact that I did not eat anything apart from breakfast today. I’m starving.” An undignified growl emitted without warning from his middle, and he pressed a hand against his rump to silence it when suddenly, the roar of the fire and excited chatter of the people around them were drowned out by music.

“Well then, let’s see that we fill our plates before it will be entirely impossible to make it to the banquet through all these exuberant people, shall we?” Findarras laughed and began to push his way through the crowd over to the mightily laden tables. After a brief, but eloquent glance at Thor, Éomer followed him.

On top of the hill, Maelwyn stood by the open window and listened to the music and the sound of people’s singing and laughter the breeze carried up to her along with the tantalising smell of roasted meat. For a while, her gaze strayed wistfully to the glow of the great fire they had built in the square, and she asked herself what Torben would be doing without her. He had looked sad when she had told him this afternoon that she had volunteered to stay with her mistress for the night, and for a moment, she had felt bad. They had gone through such hard times, and today when everyone would be celebrating their liberation, she would leave her husband alone? It felt so very wrong, and yet at the same time, Maelwyn remembered Éomer’s gaze when the Marshal had asked her whether she would take care of his sister even on this special night. In his dark eyes, she had read the willingness to plead with her if necessary, and she had not had the heart to disappoint him… or force the poor man to humiliate himself.

Of course Éomer could have simply ordered her to stay, and yet he had refrained from that measure to appeal to her sense of duty instead. It was known to him that Maelwyn had her own family to look after, and that her husband and children would sorely miss her if she could not join them on this greatest day Rohan had seen for a long time… but he had been so desperate. How could she have denied his request?

Maelwyn sighed. The gratitude that had lit up Éomer’s eyes as she consented had been reward enough to compensate for the missed celebration, and after all, he had agreed to let her go home for the afternoon and spend at least the first hours of the festivities with her family, to be back on duty only after fall of darkness. She turned around, resting her back against the wall, and her gaze fell on Éowyn’s prone shape. They would be back later, her lady’s brother had told her; he and the dark-haired stranger who had examined Éowyn earlier, to undertake a most serious attempt to cure the White Lady of Rohan of her condition before she would slip beyond all help.

Part of Maelwyn felt proud that the Marshal had entrusted her with the preparations and wanted her to be present during the treatment, and at the same time, she dreaded the experience…and the possible outcome. What if they, too, failed? Would all hope be lost then, and all left to do for them would be to helplessly watch as Éowyn slowly starved to death? What would it do to Éomer to lose his sister in such a terrible way? She dared not think about it.

As she stood frozen with her back to the wall, a soft rap cut through her dark thoughts. Thankful for the distraction, Maelwyn made for the door and reached it when with another knock, a voice behind it asked: “Mistress Maelwyn? I have a delivery for you.” She opened… and saw the young boy before her whose family lived next to the healer’s house.

“Godhere, isn’t it?” Curiously she glanced at the clay pot in the lad’s hands.

“Aye, Mistress.” Careful as if the thing he carried would break if he so much as looked at it wrongly, Godhere handed his mysterious carriage over to her. “The Lord Aragorn bade me to bring you this. He said you were waiting for it and knew what to do.”

“I do indeed, thank you very much, Godhere.” The pot felt warm as she cradled it against her chest. “”Is there anything I can get you for your service? Anything from the kitchens, perhaps?” She lifted an eyebrow in suggestion, but Godhere surprised her.

“My only wish would be that you cure the White Lady, Mistress,” the lad said, and the seriousness of his young face almost broke Maelwyn’s heart. “That is all I want.”

“It is what we all want, Godhere,” the handmaiden said and ruffled the boy’s hair with a comforting smile. “And we will do our very best to make it happen; I give you my word. Now go back quickly to the square and enjoy the festivities. Since we have the honour of being graced with the presence of a real wizard, I am quite sure that you will get to see a few things tonight that you don’t see every day. ”

“I am quite sure of it. I was about your age when I saw one of Gandalf Greyhame’s fireworks, and believe me, it is not something you would want to miss.” Maelwyn smiled. “So, off you go, and if you see the Lord Aragorn, please tell him that I received this and will have everything prepared when he comes.”

“I will tell him, Mistress. Good night… and good luck!” For a moment, it seemed that Godhere wanted to say more, but then arrived at the realisation that everything necessary had already been communicated between them. Returning the handmaiden’s smile, he turned away and took off in the direction of the door like a colt released into the wild after a long winter.

Maelwyn observed his path until he disappeared behind the next pillar, before she turned around and shut the door with her back, already curiously lifting the lid of the pot to see what miraculous substance their dark-haired guest had sent her. It looked inconspicuous enough as she took a crumb of the sand-coloured paste between her fingers to examine it… but when its scent hit her nose, a jolt of energy suddenly rushed through her veins, and all exhaustion and tiredness fell from her. Amazed, she stared at her fingers… and then hurried to begin her preparations, and for the first time since she had returned to the Golden Hall to find her mistress in her current condition, something akin to hope stirred in her chest.

The moon had already risen and shed his silvery light upon the land when Théoden of Rohan rose from his seat. The festivities had being going on for quite a while already, and now that people’s stomachs had been filled and their first urge to exchange the talk of the day had been satisfied, he felt that at last the time had arrived for him to address his kinsmen.

Over the bustling crowd, his gaze found the musicians, and the experienced artists, knowing without words the meaning of their king’s attention, brought their song to an end and looked expectantly at the platform. At first, dancers shouted their suggestions for the next song at them, but quickly silence spread across the square as all understood why the musicians had stopped, and the people turned toward their waiting king.

His shoulders squared and his bearing erect, Théoden-King allowed his gaze to travel over the expectant faces before him, and his eyes sparkled with pride. Such life was still in his people even after everything they had been forced to endure in the passed dark years! Such extraordinary strength and will! Once again, they had beaten the odds, and tonight, he felt for the first time a stirring of hope that the Eorl’s descendents would persevere even through the great storm still awaiting them.

“My fellow countrymen,” he began, and all eyes looked up as his strong voice carried over the square. “Sons and daughters of Eorl! We have gathered here tonight to celebrate a very special occasion, perhaps one of the most joyous events in the history of the Mark: tonight... we celebrate the liberation of Rohan from Saruman’s yoke, and the end of our western enemy and those who helped him! Never again will we need to fear the traitor, for he is dead!”

Deafening cheers rose into the night, drowning out Théoden’s voice, but he was glad to wait and listen to his people’s unrestrained joy; for far too many years had passed since he had last seen them in this exuberant mood. A quick glance back confirmed that his captains and their guests had likewise risen and observed the scene with the same content expression. There were still traces of wonder and even scepticism in several pairs of eyes belonging to the leaders of their Armed Forces, as if the men did not yet fully dare to trust what they saw and expected to wake from this wonderful dream at any moment. Théoden could not blame them, for he felt much the same. It was only when his glance found his nephew that the King’s smile suddenly faltered, for even in this triumphant hour, Éomer refused to acknowledge him with even the briefest of glances, and for a moment, a shadow replaced the sunshine in his heart as the son of Thengel turned back to his people.

“The glory of this triumph belongs to our Riders, who – by following an old Rohirric tradition - once again refused to acknowledge the odds and beat the enemy on his own turf before he could assault us with his already gathered army. Men of all parts of the Mark fought side by side with no regard for their own lives, to protect what they value and love: their kin – you - and our land. Their victory confirms that even against overwhelming numbers, the man who knows what he defends will always have the advantage over his enemies. May they ride for all eternity! Hail to those warriors who returned and are with us tonight, and also to the many men who gave their lives for our safety! Never shall their sacrifice be forgotten!”

“Hail!” the crowd answered as one, and no few among them felt a shudder race down their spines at the powerful moment.

“Also,” Théoden continued, “I would like to express our gratitude to those who so courageously joined our forces although it was not their battle to wage. And yet perhaps it were Gandalf Greyhame and the Lord Aragorn and his brotherhood and friends who tipped the scales in our favour.” His gaze came to rest on Aragorn. “The people of the Mark will always remember their friends, Lord Aragorn, and whenever needs be, we will stand faithfully by the side of those who helped us, and when you call us, we will come.” He lifted his wineglass. “To friendship!”

They drank, and for a moment, a solemn silence hung above the square, and only the fire’s mighty roar could be heard. Then the people cheered, and raised their glasses again to welcome their new friends. Satisfied with their reaction, Théoden could nonetheless not avoid feeling a sudden tension take a hold of him. He knew that Éomer would not welcome the next part.

“There is one more thing to say before I will leave you to enjoy the music and the food and the little surprises we have in store for you later on…” He meet Gandalf’s gaze with a half-hidden smile that quickly vanished from his face. “But as we celebrate our liberation, it should not be forgotten that it was ultimately the will of one man who made it possible.” He felt Éomer’s gaze like an arrow trained on his back and yet calmly turned to meet his nephew’s gaze. There was no way around it, whether Éomer wanted it or not. The people needed to know that their marshal had returned and had been reinstated in his service to the Mark. “It was he who summoned our éohere at great risk for his own life, and it was he who led them to victory. Although in the enemy’s focus and a victim of his schemes, he refused to surrender, and his great love of Rohan drove him to relentlessly pursue his goal until his triumph was complete.” Théoden turned back to the eagerly waiting people, but the chill Éomer’s gaze had set in his stomach would not fade. “That man, of course, is Éomer son of Eomund, and I am proud to call him my nephew… and, from this day on, “Chief Protector and First Marshal of the Mark”!”

The crowd erupted into jubilations, applauding and shouting the name of their new First Marshal, and their relief could not be overheard. Théoden paused. This was as far as he had planned his speech, but suddenly, instinct told him to add something more, as this was most likely the best opportunity he would ever be granted, right here in front of his people. Perhaps that was what Éomer wanted, that his king humiliated himself, as he had humiliated his kin. With renewed confidence, Théoden inhaled and lifted his chin.

“Éomer… sister-son…listen to me now, and let the people of Edoras bear witness of the sincerity of my apology: much harm has been done to you because of the machinations of Gríma Wormtongue; machinations which, alas, used me as a tool to inflict this damage upon you. I failed to distinguish the truth from the Worm’s deviously constructed lies, and thus, I am to be held fully responsible for the hard trials you had to brave.” Stunned silence spread over the square. It was unheard of that a ruler had ever apologised or even only admitted failure in public, and they did not know what to think. Was it weakness? Was it courage? Was it something they wanted to hear from the man from whom, more than from anyone else, they needed a show of strength?

It did not make Théoden’s task any easier that the uneasy wariness he had first read in Éomer’s eyes seemed to shift into barely restrained contempt right before him. Béma, what was it that the lad wanted, that he killed himself? Was not even his uncle’s humiliation enough to extinguish the young man’s anger?

“I will live to regret my failure to the end of my days… and yet I have one hope, however small it may be: that perhaps, you might find it in your heart to forgive me. Not tonight, perhaps, and not tomorrow. But perhaps one day. Our foe’s evil plans already robbed me of one son; to lose both Théodred and you…” the power of speech left the King, and he could only shake his head. Still he saw the opposite of what he had hoped to find in Éomer’s eyes.

The crowd remained silent, and there were wet trails on many faces as they gazed up expectantly at their king and his nephew, hoping for reconciliation between the two well-respected men, but Théoden did not see them. With shock he realised that his emotions had just led him to commit an unforgivable mistake, or at least it was the way Éomer saw it, judging from his frozen expression: he had used the public to pressure his nephew into something he was not yet ready to grant.

For a terrible moment, Théoden feared that Eomund’s son would humiliate him in front of his people and deny his request, and he could not have complained. And yet despite his unmistakable, unfathomable disappointment, Éomer was too much of a warrior to do this to him, even if it was only the code of the Armed Forces which held him in line. The code was simple: the man before him was his king and leader. Public disobedience was unthinkable. His expression an unmoved mask as he lowered his head, Éomer bowed stiffly, and his pronunciation was flat when he said: “There is nothing to forgive, Sire. I live to serve my lord and land.”

There was a moment of silence, as if the people wondered how to take their Marshal’s declaration… but then the first cheers rose from the crowd, and all doubt vanished in a storm of enthusiasm. And yet Théoden knew better than to trust in their judgment, and his limbs felt like wooden sticks as he turned to announce the continuation of the festivities. He knew now that he had lost Éomer.

Maelwyn laid two more logs in the fireplace and carefully lifted the lid of the kettle that hung above the flames, satisfied to see the steam rise from the boiling water. It could not be long now before Éomer and the foreign healer returned from the square, and she wanted everything to be ready. As she straightened, the handmaiden’s gaze travelled over the chambers and the many pots and tea warmers she had arranged close to the bed, the paste Godhere had brought her evenly distributed in the vessels to be infused with hot water once the procedure began. She still wondered what the substance’s purpose was besides its obviously invigorating effect.

Slowly Maelwyn wandered over to the chair beside the bed and allowed herself to sink into the cushion, her gaze on her mistress. Éowyn’s eyes were closed for a change, and she was thankful for it, and yet the sight of her prone, pale shape had never been more deathlike. Even the steady rise and fall of her chest seemed diminished to Maelwyn’s eyes, and as she lent forward to take the cloth she had soaked with water saturated with the strange substance, fear again raised its ugly head that her mistress died before Aragorn could even undertake the attempt to heal her.

“Hold out just a little longer, my lady,” Maelwyn whispered as she gently wiped the cloth over Éowyn’s brow. “They are already on the way. Please, stay with us…”

As soon as the first opportunity had presented itself to him, Éomer had fled the platform under the pretence of having to pay the banquet another visit. And yet all appetite had left him after the charade Théoden had forced on him, and he had sought himself a niche which was not reached by the light to escape the people’s attention. As he stood in the shadow, observing the partying crowd with the distinct feeling of suffocation tightening his chest, he waited for Aragorn, whom he could see absorbed in an intense discussion with Gandalf. A chill spread in Éomer’s stomach at the sight of their serious expressions, and he could not shake the feeling that their brief respite was quickly nearing its end. What were the two talking about? Was the wizard for some reason opposed to their untertaking? Did he deem the risk too high for the Heir of Elendil, who played a central role in his plans against the Dark Lord?

Suddenly it was too loud for Éomer; there were too many people, and even if Éowyn had not been waiting in her chambers, he could barely wait to leave. He had meant it when he had said that he wanted no celebration, and since he had said so, his mood had even further deteriorated. As the musicians intoned one of their most popular drinking songs, the urge to leave became almost overwhelming, and not even the sight of the dwarf singing merrily along in a language he very obviously didn’t speak, a jug of ale in his hand, could bring a smile to the Marshal’s lips. What in Béma’s name was keeping Aragorn? What was so important that it could not wait? Again Éomer craned his neck to see whether the wizard and the ranger had already concluded their discussion, when the mention of his own name next to his ear caused him to jump.

“Éomer? Goodness, you startled me!” The woman before him laid a hand upon her chest to emphasise her statement, and then wrinkled her brow. “Are you well, son? You look slightly out-of-place here, if you don’t mind me saying. Not that I could blame you, of course, for I must admit that I feel rather out-of- place myself.”

It took Éomer a few moments to recognise the middle-aged, elegant woman, and suddenly, heat crept into his face.

“…elsewhere with your thoughts? Yes, I could see that. I came to congratulate you on your victory and your new title, but I suppose that you do not feel much like celebrating after what you found upon your return.” She lowered her voice. “Éothain told me what happened to your sister. Trust me, I understand very well that you do not want to be here. Neither do I, for that matter, and still it is our duty to show ourselves to the public on such an occasion. Today I curse it, though.” She turned away to let her gaze glide over the partying crowd, giving Éomer the chance to have a closer look at her. Although of delicate build, Lady Glenwyn had always radiated an inner strength and regality Éomer had found inspiring, but today for the first time, he could see the damage of the past dark days clearly in her lined face and the dispirited expression of her eyes. A stranger would perhaps not have detected the change, but to him, Céorl’s widow looked bereft of the positive energy that had always surrounded her. Today, for the first time ever since he had known her, Lady Glenwyn looked old. That she was even here to show herself only one day after having been received the tidings of her husband’s death was a sign that not all of her strength had departed her, and yet it pained Éomer to see her in this condition.

He inhaled deeply. “Aye, it is certainly one of those duties I could do without, as well.” Her attention returned to him, a sad, knowing smile playing around the corners of her mouth, and Éomer lowered his gaze. This was certainly not the right place or occasion for a conversation about their deceased or dying loved ones, and yet he could hardly slip away without giving the woman his condolences. “I learned of what happened to your husband only this morning. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathies, Lady Glenwyn. Céorl was a great warrior, and a good and loyal friend, and he will be sorely missed not only by his family.”

She nodded her head in appreciation as she took his hand, and looked him in the eye, and her gaze was both sad and proud when she said: “Aye, Éomer, that he was, and it is comforting for me to think that that is how he will be remembered by the people who knew him. I thank you for your kind words.” For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words, and sadness began to seep through the barricade of her composure. “I know that my husband would be content with the circumstances of his death… but he leaves a void that will be hard to fill. It will take time to get used to the thought that he is no longer there.” A little spasm shook her voice and she interrupted herself; falling silent before the pain escaped her control. Again her gaze strayed to the dancing crowd, those happy people who seemed to exist in an altogether different reality.

“One day you will be reunited,” Éomer replied, following her example. Somehow, it made it easier to say these things if they didn’t have to look each other in the eye and the see the pain there. His gaze found Aragorn and Gandalf, and it seemed to him that the two were at last coming to an end. “But you should not count the days until then. Céorl would want you to go on and find joy in your life again, not spending it grieving for him. He died for your freedom and safety. It is a great gift he gave you, Lady Glenwyn, and he would not want you to cast it aside. None of the men in my éored would expect, much less wish this of their loved ones.”

Through the veil of her unshed tears, a thankful sparkle lit up Lady Glenwyn’s eyes. “I know that, Éomer. Believe me, I do. But it helps to hear it said aloud. I know that he would want me to gone on and live a content life. But like you said, it will take time until I may be able to honour his request.” Suddenly she stiffened beside him, and at first, Éomer could not guess the reason… but then he beheld a familiar face before them, and wide blue eyes which shied away from his gaze as soon as their eyes met. A moment later, Éothain had disappeared in the bustling crowd again.

Slowly shaking her head, Céorl’s wife turned back, and when her eyes found him again, Éomer felt suddenly naked under her intense gaze… like the twelve year old boy he had once been, sitting in her kitchen with his friend Éothain and listening to Lady Glenwyn’s lecture when one of their adventures had ended with a broken arm and an ugly cut for her son.

“Lucky are those whose good friends are around to help them to stand up when life tripped them, and I count myself among them… and yet I fear that Éothain has no such help. He lost his father, and he lost his best friend, and he blames himself for that and suffers the pain alone.” Her stare seemed to burn Éomer.

What to say? Slowly, he shook his head. “My Lady… this is no easy matter to resolve. I feel for him because I know how it feels to lose one’s father, and yet…”

“You cannot simply forgive him,” she nodded. “And he wouldn’t expect you to. But perhaps you should know that his decision was made not easily on that horrible day. In fact, Éothain had already packed his belongings and was on his way to the stables to accompany you into exile…” She inhaled. “But my husband intercepted him. He told me that he all but ordered Éothain to stay in Edoras, for he himself was already on his way to ride to Aldburg to alert Elfhelm, and he knew what would happen if he left the city without the protection of a man he could trust. He was afraid that the Worm would take advantage of that situation to bring the entire city under his control. He could not allow for that to happen, Éomer. Éothain had to stay, although you must believe me when I tell you that he rebelled against his orders.”

Éomer swallowed. Behind Glenwyn he saw Aragorn move through the crowd toward him, and yet suddenly his mind was reeling with the news he had just learned. How was a man supposed to think straight under such circumstances? What was he supposed to do now? He shook his head.

“But then why did he not order a few of our riders to follow me? If not to accompany me, then at least to provide me with some weapons and food! But no one came.”

“The Worm was only waiting for it to happen, Éomer. His men controlled the stables and would not allow any of the Riders to leave that day, under pain of death. My husband only made it out because he had returned from patrol that morning with his men, and they had not brought their horses up to the stables then. Someone told him what was going on and he immediately went to search for Éothain, because he could easily guess that our son would want to leave with you. He managed to slip through their net, but there was no chance for anyone else to leave. Most of your riders have families, Éomer, and any attempt to ride to your aid would have been their own death sentence. Wormtongue had planned all this very carefully. I do understand that you feel betrayed, but there was no way for your men to leave Edoras.”

“No, of course not, and how could you? Yet Éothain knows all this, and he won’t accept it that there was nothing he could have done for you. He blames himself for everything that happened since they sent you away. He blames himself for his father’s death, and he blames himself for what happened to your sister, for he had sworn to protect her in your stead. He is utterly miserable and desperate, Éomer; I don’t think I’ve seen him sleep for more than just a few hours since you left. He is at the end of his strength, and he has no one to help him. I do not know whether what I said may change your heart, but I would beg you to consider. The two of you have been friends for a very long time. Surely even in all your bitterness, there must also still be the willingness to listen to what a good friend might have to say?” Once again she took his hand and gave it an insistent squeeze; her gaze never once leaving his. “You are a good man, Éomer, and so is my boy. It would be a shame to see the two of you sundered because of the Worm’s lies.”

Aragorn had almost reached them now, and slowed his steps as he beheld the intense quality of their conversation, courteously waiting where he would not intrude.

He nodded, and with a deep breath, said: “Tell Éothain to meet me in the Golden Hall tomorrow at noon. I cannot promise you anything yet, Lady Glenwyn, but… I will listen to what he has to say.” Gratitude lit up the blue eyes before him, and a thankful smile replaced the woman’s worried expression.

“He will be there, Éomer. He will be there. Now go and see to whatever it is that has been occupying your mind.” A side-glance found Aragorn. “I will not keep you any longer. Be well, Éomer, and be assured that the people of Edoras are glad to have you back. My lord…” And with a measured nod at the ranger, Lady Glenwyn disappeared in the crowd.

For a moment, Éomer stared into the void she had left, as if in a trance, before he woke at last to the Dúnadan’s questioning gaze.

The path up toward Meduseld seemed unusually long and – at the same time - too short for Éomer, as Aragorn and he ascended the slope in complete silence, both of them occupied with their own dark musings. At first, Éomer had contemplated asking his friend about his discussion with Gandalf Greyhame, not only to take his mind off the enervating thought of what they would do if Aragorn failed, but also because it had quickly dawned on him that the Ranger was pondering a question of great import. Yet against his own roused curiosity, he had decided against it, unwilling to distract Aragorn further from the task at hand when the older man was obviously already struggling to keep his head clear. Whether his tense disposition was due to the risk he was about to take by diving into Éowyn’s mind or because of what the Istar had revealed to him in their conversation, Éomer dared not guess, and the uncertainty also increased his own unease.

It was only when the noise from the square below them faded and Meduseld’s larage shadow loomed above them, that Aragorn finally chose to acknowledge his presence again. At the foot of the stairs, the Ranger suddenly came to a halt, and – with a strange expression upon his pensive face – turned to face Éomer. “Your uncle means well, Éomer. You know that.”

Éomer had been prepared for many things, but this was a comment he had not expected in their present situation. At first, no reply would come to him… but then slowly, anger began to stir in his chest, and in a tone that underlined his incredulity, he asked: “And just what makes you say that? And why address it now? For now is hardly the appropriate time to–”

“I realise that there are other things on your mind right now, but since none of us can tell what will happen tonight, I needed to bring it up,” Aragorn interrupted his outbreak before he could talk himself into a rage, and in his eyes flickered something Éomer did not like although he rejected the thought that Elendil’s heir could be afraid of his undertaking. “Even if all goes well, it seems that I will not be here for much longer. Your quarrel with your uncle diminishes your éoreds’ effectiveness in battle, Éomer, and I would deem it important that the two of you resolve that issue before you ride to war.”

Éomer’s gaze grew frosty, and a dangerous sparkle in his dark eyes made clear what he thought of Aragorn’s intrusion into what he deemed highly private matters.

“I thought that I demonstrated in Isengard that I am quite capable of performing my duty to Rohan even when I’m at strife with my king. You were there, Aragorn. You saw me, and yet suddenly, you doubt my ability to focus on the things that matter? I must admit, I do not understand… unless, of course, it was my uncle who asked you to speak with me. I would not deem that measure beyond him.”

“It was not your uncle, and I am not your enemy, Éomer,” Aragorn replied patiently, but then his gaze hardened as he lifted his chin. He had to make himself understood. “I realise that these are difficult days for you, but you won’t improve things by beginning to see foes everywhere. No, I addressed that particular issue because in comparison to our campaign against Mordor, your quarrel with Saruman was only a pale shadow, and if we want to brave this storm, we cannot tolerate to weaken our armies even in the least way. Our forces will only be as strong as the weakest link in the chain, and if the weakest link is the connection between the King of Rohan and his First Marshal… it might prove deadly for the peoples of Middle Earth.”

Éomer’s eyes were narrow slits, and his voice gave away his indignation at what he considered a serious insult.

“I already ensured my King of my allegiance for as long as he needs me, and anyone who knows me should know that I care about my Riders’ wellbeing, and that I would never do anything to weaken them in a field of battle. The only thing I asked of Théoden-King was to leave me alone with personal matters for the time being as I am not in the mind to concern myself with them for now. I do not see why this should pose a problem to our army. I’ve kept to the agreement we reached this morning; he hasn’t. It is Théoden-King with whom you should speak, not me.” He glared at Aragorn, his temper for a moment beyond his control. But suddenly he remembered something else the other man had mentioned: “What exactly did you mean when you announced that you would leave us soon? When? And where will you go from here?”

Now Aragorn’s expression grew strangely guarded, but even in the flickering light of the torches, Éomer thought that he saw a shadow fall upon his friend’s face. Something was afoot, something of great import and risk, and the man he had considered a new-found friend was apparently unwilling to trust him with the information.

“There is something I will have to see to before I can ride to Gondor,” the Dúnadan admitted at length, averting his gaze, and his uncharacteristical elusiveness worried Éomer even further. “I’m afraid we will have to travel there on different paths, as I might have to leave as early as tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” ‘And what becomes of Éowyn if you fail tonight?’ Éomer thought, although he already knew the answer to his own question. If Aragorn failed, there was nothing anyone would be able to do for his sister. She would die. With great effort he pushed the thought aside. It did not help him to keep a clear head, and a clear head was what he needed right now. It was unmistakable that Aragorn – the great Thorongil – was afraid of something, and the question of what could possibly frighten a man who had accompanied him into battle without so much as a second thought was something Éomer was not sure he wanted to know the answer to. And yet he needed to hear it. If there was an unknown danger that the Istar had discovered, surely it also concerned Rohan.

“You are following Gandalf’s bidding, aren’t you? I saw the two of you talking at the square.” Still uncomfortable, Aragorn nodded. “I can see that you do not want to tell me the details, but if we’re supposed to fight together, shouldn’t I at least know of our plan, even if it is someone else who developed it? Shouldn’t I know at least where we are supposed to join forces, and when?”

For another long moment, Aragorn remained silent, and Éomer could the Ranger fighting with himself, before, with a deep breath, the Heir of Elendil confessed: “I will take the Dimholt Road to Gondor. As to where or when we will meet, I’m afraid cannot tell you.”

At first, Éomer could only stare at his friend, bereft of words; his head empty. He was certain that he had heard right, and yet it could not be the truth. An insane desire to laugh rose in him… and disappeared as fast as it had occurred. Aragorn certainly did not look as if he were jesting, even if there was no way on Béma’s green earth that he had meant what he had just said. “You will travel that cursed way underneath the mountain? You will follow the ‘Paths of the Dead’? That is what Gandalf told you to do?”

Aragorn exhaled. “I know how it must sound to your ears. I am familiar with the legend of the Dwimorberg, and it is, in fact, the very reason for my journey. Trust me, Èomer, I am not looking forward to that experience, but I do not have a choice, and I have known Gandalf long enough to know that he will not lead me astray. He would not send me were there another way. Halbarad and the others will accompany me, if that’s any consolation for you. I will not go alone.”

“Word is that you could take an entire army with you into that mountain, and none of them would return,” Éomer said gloomily, his mind still reeling with shock, and his eyes unwittingly travelled to where the Dwimorberg’s threatening shape lay hidden in the darkness; waiting for them like a great, hungry beast. The man whose destiny was to challenge their greatest enemy was about to throw his life away without apparent need. What if the Grey Wanderer was mistaken? What if Gandalf, too, had been affected by the strange thing he had taken from his defeated former friend and had unwittingly become Sauron’s instrument in their destruction, like Saruman had? Hadn’t he admitted himself that it was a dangerous token he had taken from his former friend? And had not that incident on their way to Edoras, when one of the hobbits had apparently misused it, illustrated quite clearly how correct his assumption had been? With a frustrated sigh, Éomer shook his head. Just when he had thought that perhaps there was still reason for hope, destiny seemed determined to snatch it away from him again.

“Aragorn… none who ventured on that road were ever seen again under the sun. That mountain is said to be haunted by unspeakable evil, and even if it weren’t so, the danger of getting lost in the labyrinth underneath it should not be taken lightly. What could you possibly hope to gain by entering it?”

“The allegiance of an army we will need in our battle against Mordor.” Aragorn followed his gaze, his lips a bloodless line. For a moment, both men stood side by side, silently contemplating what had been said, then Éomer shook his head.

“I can only hope you are right, my friend, as for now it would seem to me that Gandalf Greyhame is asking you to throw your life away for nothing… and if the balance in this battle of power is already so fragile that we cannot even afford a quarrel between my uncle and me, then much less can we afford that our leader and greatest hope goes to his death without need.”

“I understand your concerns, Éomer, but it must be done. I lay my trust in Gandalf. In the long years I have known him, his decisions were always sound, and his strategy, for the most part, without fail. Of course a certain risk can never be ruled out where such great things as the destiny of a people, or even peoples, are at stake. We are at a point now where, not matter what action we decide to take in our fight against the Dark Lord, each of our movements has an impact on the outcome. We are in the weaker position, thus we must risk more to secure our chance of victory. Surely this principle cannot be foreign to the Rohírrim.”

“There’s risk, and there is madness, Aragorn. I am not sure which of the two your plan would fit.”

“I understand your scepticism, but if I am indeed to die underneath that mountain, then I am sure that my death, too, will serve a reason.” The Ranger’s gaze made certain that no matter what reasons Éomer would bring up again his intentions, they would not change his mind, and after a long look into those determined grey eyes, the younger man nodded at last, and accepted his friend’s plan even if he could not understand it.

Relieved to see the Rohír’s acceptance, Aragorn turned toward the stairs. “Come, let us go to your sister now.” And with a last glance that did not convey the amount of conviction Éomer would have liked to see from his friend in a matter of such consequence, the Dúnadan turned toward the steps. A moment later, Eomund’s son followed him.

The hours had come and gone without anyone else showing up after Godhere, and had the night not been bright and the moon shed its silvery light into the room, Maelwyn would have lost track of time as she waited in the chair beside her mistress’s bed. When at last the knock she had awaited with both anticipation and dread reached her ears, the young handmaiden jumped to her feet, and her heartbeat accelerated furiously in her chest as she briefly squeezed the lifeless, cold hand in her fingers.

“They are coming, my lady. This must be your brother.” She rushed to the door as quickly as her feet carried her, all fatigue suddenly forgotten when she opened and beheld the Marshal and his dark-haired friend on the threshold. “My lords…! Please come in; everything is prepared.” She stepped aside to let the men enter, and her stomach gave a nervous jerk when she noticed their tense expressions. Was it because of the undertaking they were about to engage in, or was there something else, she wondered briefly. There seemed to be an inexplicable tension between the two warriors, but then again, she could be wrong. After all, she remembered well enough the Lord Aragorn’s words about the risks involved in entering a person’s mind, and it was hardly a wonder that the men were nervous; she was probably mistaking their anxiety for anger.

“Has anything changed since I left?” Hesitantly, as if he were afraid to enter, Éomer looked into the adjacent bedchamber, and he swallowed as his gaze returned to Maelwyn. “Anything… in my sister’s condition?” He almost seemed to plead, but she could not give him what he wanted to her.

“She keeps her eyes closed now, my lord, but apart from that, I fear there has been no change.” Maelwyn shook her head. “I also tried again to feed her, but she will not take anything anymore, not even tea. But we are here to change that, aren’t we?” Heat spread in her face when the two warriors turned around to slant her a curious glance… but then Aragorn’s expression melted into a small, but nonetheless genuine smile, and she felt better.

“Indeed, that is what we are here for, Maelwyn. Come, let’s lose no more time. Is the water ready?”

“Please. But only half of them, yet. Keep the rest ready just in case that the procedure takes longer. I have never done this before, so I cannot say from experience how long it might take me to find her.”

They stepped into the bedchamber, and after a brief, wordless exchange, Éomer silently closed the door behind them. There was a strange scent in the air; an odour that had replaced the stuffy atmosphere in the room and crept up his nostrils to explode in his brain, making him wide awake, and he wrinkled his brow as he sought for its origin while Aragorn slowly approached the bed. As he slowly lowered himself onto the mattress beside Éowyn, the Ranger’s concerned gaze turned even graver when he picked up her and felt the coldness of her fingers. From outside, the distant noise from the celebration reached their ears, but it seemed to come from another reality that did not concern them.

“Gods, she looks like a wraith,” Éomer muttered as he looked over Aragorn’s shoulder, and his stomach clenched as he beheld his sister’s almost translucent appearance. Béma, she looked so frail… as if the wind could carry her away. “Is she even breathing?” He looked at Maelwyn, who paused on her way to the head end of the bed with sudden dismay in her widening eyes at the possibility that her mistress might have died in the short amount of time it had taken her to admit her rescuers into their chambers. Gently, Aragorn laid his hand against Éowyn’s lips, and for a moment, Éomer could imagine all too well how the Ranger’s voice would sound if he uttered the words he dreaded to hear. It could not be.

“No…” he pleaded, with whomever, his hands clenching into fists by his side. “Please, Éowyn….” He would do whatever their gods asked of him, if only--

“I can feel her breath, but it is time to get going.” Aragorn looked up. Quickly Maelwyn filled the rest of the bowls, and the odour spread in the room, thickened until it became almost unbearable. “Thank you, Maelwyn. Now close the window, please. And no matter what happens, you must see to it that the odour remains strong, for it is the anchor that will link me to this world once I am in Éowyn’s mind. I do not know how far I will need to go in, but it will help me to find the way back. It is my lifeline…” His gaze shifted from the handmaiden to Éomer and back, making sure they understood.

Éomer nodded. “What do we do if you are not back before we run out of this substance?” he asked, his eyes darting between his lifeless sister, Aragorn, and the steaming bowls on the nightstand and aroundt he bed. “How do we wake you?”

“You cannot. I must return before that happens.” He saw the young man’s gaze darkening. “But fear not, Éomer what I made should suffice for a quite while.”The Dúnadan forced an encouraging smile upon his lips despite the weight he felt upon his shoulders. He was very aware of the desperate hope Éomer placed in him, and very aware of how easily his quest could fail. As much as he would have liked, but he could not promise his friend success. Still, there was one thing he could promise: “I will do my best, Éomer. If your sister can be reached at all, I will find her, and together, we will bring her back. That I promise you.”

There was a faint flicker of hope in the Rohír’s eyes, and yet dread still seemed to hold the son of Eomund firmly in its grasp. Éomer wanted to believe that there was a chance, but there was no conviction. Yet he appeared to be thankful for the opportunity to participate in his sister’s rescue.

“For now, there is nothing, except seeing to the link. Make sure that it will not be broken.”

“It won’t.” Éomer exchanged a quick glance with Maelwyn, who nodded her agreement from her place by the window from where she had chosen to watch the proceedings now that her part had been done.

“I already heated more water, in case we need it.” She looked at the door, suddenly unsure, and inhaled. “Would you like me to wait outside, Lord Éomer, or…”

“I would welcome it if you stayed,” Aragorn said with a quick look at Éomer. “We might need your service at some point, and it might help your lady to see another trusted face once she wakes.” ‘If she wakes’, he corrected himself almost immediately, if only in his thoughts. He laid his free hand on Éowyn’s brow. “If the Marshal has no objections…”

“Good. Then I suppose it is time…” Aragorn met Éomer’s anguished gaze with a deep breath. “Come, sit here beside us. I do not know what will happen, or whether there might be anything for you to do, but it would be best for you to stay close, just in case.” He waited, watching as Éomer followed his suggestion. For a moment, the two men regarded each other silently, communicating more with that one look than they could ever have with words, until, with a nod, Aragorn turned away and closed his eyes. His breathing became slower, deeper, as he began to concentrate on the scent that would anchor him to the real world. It crept into his nostrils and down his windpipe into his lungs and from there into his bloodstream. Slowly, the crackling of the fire behind him subsided as he slipped into a trance.

Behind him, Éomer and Maelwyn exchanged a long glance full of hope and doubt as heavy silence spread in the room. All that was left for them to do now was wait. Somehow, that was the hardest part…

As before, Aragorn found himself complete immersed in a blackness so thick, he could not see his hand before his eyes once his conscious left his body and descended into the young woman’s mind. There were no stars and no moon to light his way, nothing to help his orientation as he drifted through the vast emptiness of Éowyn’s memories, except for the slight resistance of his lifeline. If, for whatever reasons, the connection was broken, it would get difficult to find the way back, but Aragorn forbid himself to even consider the possibility. Éomer and the handmaiden knew what was at stake; they would guard the link with everything they had, and for him it was time now to focus on the task at hand.

With nothing around to distract him, the Dúnadan concentrated on the image of the young woman he had come to seek in this realm. Slowly, her likeness appeared before his inner eyes… the delicately cut face, pale as snow, so vulnerable, bespeaking the torment inflicted upon her by the enemy…

‘Éowyn? Can you hear me, daughter of Eomund?’ Only silence answered him. ‘I have come to guide you home; there is no need to fear me. I am your brother’s friend!’

As before, he was not granted a reply… but suddenly sunlight replaced darkness, and Aragorn found himself in the middle of a dusty street… a dusty, deserted street. Slowly he turned around and took in the scenery, at once sensing that there was something strange about it: it was too quiet, and the surrounding houses appeared to be uninhabited, and neither people nor beasts were visible upon the streets. No noise was there to reach his ears, no voices, no shouts, no laughter, and the light, too, had a strange quality: it dulled the colours of the thatched roofs from their normal golden sheen to a sickly yellow, and the wood and earth to a flat, lifeless brown. Even the grass looked dead, like last year’s remnants after the snow had thawed from it, and yet the leaves on the trees he could see indicated that it had to be summer or spring.

With a deep breath, Aragorn began to walk down the deserted path, and his skin prickled with the distinct sensation of something eerily out-of-place. The air in his lungs, too, tasted stale and old, although it carried no scents he recognised, and as his gaze once again glided over the images of the houses with the backdrop of forest and mountains, he suddenly recognised his whereabouts: this was Aldburg, or at least an image of it. But the city looked faded, like a dusty tapestry from a long-passed century.

‘Lady Éowyn? If you can hear me, then please know that your brother sendst me; he worries for you. There is no reason to hide from me, for I do not intend to do you any harm!’’

He paused and waited without much hope for a reply. Whatever this version of Aldburg was, it was bereft of life. No birds soared in the sky, nor did the clouds move on the horizon. This was indeed only a fading image, a memory she had left behind. Éowyn was not here. Aragorn closed his eyes. Sight was of no use to him in these fake surroundings; if he wanted to find the woman to whom these memory belonged, he would have to rely on different senses. Leaving the dead city behind, he reached out … and felt a gentle pull. Not knowing what else to do, he submitted himself to it…

The sight of Aragorn’s limp body increased Éomer’s anxiety to the point where it became unbearable, and he jumped to his feet.

“Gods, this is madness…” he muttered, unaware of Maelwyn’s sceptical glance, and began to pace the length from door to chair, his hands restlessly working by his sides. Aragorn’s weight almost crushed Éowyn, and although Éomer had witnessed his friend’s trance once before, the procedure was still uncommon enough to transform his stomach and spine into ice. Of course he trusted Aragorn and his ability to judge any given situation; he had to believe that Aragorn knew what he was doing, and still the concept that one could leave one’s own body to go searching for someone else’s mind inside that person’s head… the very concept sounded insane.

As a true Rohír, Éomer believed in life after death, and that their souls would rise to the halls of their ancestors once their task in this realm had been completed… but he had never before occupied himself further with this idea, or its meaning. The concept of a soul was something far too abstract to be grasped by a practical-minded warrior, and he had always been satisfied with merely scratching the surface of his believes, content with learning the truth only once Béma called him home. There were, however, Riders in his éored who believed fervently, and who would never have thought to question Aragorn’s actions, and suddenly Éomer found himself desperately wishing for that kind of unbreakable conviction.

“He will find her, my lord,” Maelwyn spoke into his thoughts, and he stopped and looked at her, envying her the genuine hope he read in her expression. “He will find her and bring her back. Don’t doubt him!”

With wonder Éomer regarded her, and it seemed to him as if he saw his sister’s handmaiden truly for the first time. Never had he given the young woman more than a passing glance, and yet Maelwyn had fought this battle in her own way and demonstrated remarkable courage and strength in the face of danger… even by risking her life for him.

“If he does, it will be as much your doing as his’,” he said and slowly shook his head as he beheld the handmaiden’s stunned expression. “Maelwyn…I was not aware of how much you did for us. How much you risked. Even if it comes belatedly, but I want you to know that your loyalty is very much appreciated. You had the courage to do what many accomplished warriors were too afraid to do. While all froze with fear before Gríma Wormtongue, you defied him.”

“My lord, please…” Maelwyn felt heat spreading in her face. It could not be that the First Marshal of Riddermark was implying that he felt indebted to her. “This is absolutely not necessary. You and your sister were always kind to me. What kind of servant would I be if I did not return the friendship you offered me first?”

Despite the anxiety in his chest, Éomer suddenly found himself smiling. “You say that it is not necessary, Maelwyn, and yet it is my wish to express my gratitude. When this is over, come to me, and we will see just what I can do for you; there must be something that your heart desires, some little or even some big thing that would give you pleasure. Grant me the favour of rewarding someone who has proven her loyalty far beyond the call of duty.”

The very passion of his speech left Maelwyn at a loss for words. “My lord, if that is your wish…”

“It is indeed my wish, Maelwyn, and I will not forget it. There are busy days ahead of us, but I will keep this promise. Come to me when you know what you want… and forget about modesty! Your faithfulness is no small thing, and neither will be your reward.”

They regarded each other for a moment longer, and at last, the handmaiden dared to return the Marshal’s smile as she inclined her head and indicated a curtsey.

“Who am I to defy the First Marshal of Riddermark?” she said shyly, but laughing, and for a moment, Éomer laughed with her… until a sudden sound from the bed froze his blood.

Before him, a tear-stricken Éowyn was torn from her dying protector’s side, and despite her brief burst of outrage that resulted in a violent strike against the man who – according to Éomer’s descriptions - had to be Wormtongue, her expression was one of defeat when she was led away with the few survivors. Aragorn recognised Gamling. The badly wounded warrior who was rather dragged than able to walk by himself had to be Céorl, the Captain of Edoras whom they had found dead in the dungeon after their liberation, and the broadly-build, powerful looking warrior before him had to be Éomer’s friend Elfhelm.

Through the flickering twilight, Aragorn followed the ghastly procession to a door, and then further down a narrow, spiralling flight of stairs, and the sound of their steps resounded hollowly in the forbidding darkness. The stench thickened in the narrow corridor, and for a moment, Aragorn hesitated as he felt his link to the outside world weaken. There was no way of knowing how far he had descended into Éowyn’s mind, but it seemed to him that the link was almost stretched to its utmost capacity now, and any further progression would increase the risk of getting lost. He hesitated, briefly considering his options. And yet it was no question: after he had come so far, he would not turn back now… not without the one he had come to seek.

With a deep intake of breath, Aragorn proceeded. The people before him had already vanished from sight, and a new sound reached his ears: it was the sharp crack of a whip, followed by a muffled cry. Even before he turned the corner, the Dúndadan knew what he would find… and there they were, in front of an opened cell, Éowyn among them. There was blood on the side of her head, but Eomund’s daughter seemed oblivious to the injury as she stared mesmerised at the unfolding scene before her; her delicate face a pale mask dominated by large blue eyes which held a disturbing expression. Aragorn tensed as he understood that Éomer’s sister was being broken right before his eyes. For a moment, he was thankful that Éomer would never see these disturbing images.

"My lady?" he tried to address the frozen young woman, but again, found that he was only a visitor here, a ghost, doomed to watch but unable to change what he saw. With clenched jaw, he stepped closer to get a view of the proceedings within the cell. Wormtongue’s victim seemed lifeless as he hung from the chains around his wrists; his eyes closed and his head slumped. Dozens of red rivulets sought their way down over his sweat-beaded, bare torso between gashes and swollen welts. The nine-tailed whip his tormentor held in his hands had punished him horribly. ‘But he survived,’ Aragorn told himself. ‘His wounds were mainly superficial, and it was only the fever and starvation which felled Elfhelm. Did not Éomer say just this afternoon that his condition has already much improved?

With considerable effort he turned away from the warrior’s prone shape, but suddenly found himself alone in the dark corridor. Éowyn and her tormentors had disappeared… and yet he felt something. There had to be a reason why he had been brought here, a reason why these images were so vivid in contrast to the dead memory of Aldburg he had first seen. ‘She is still here’, he realised with a jolt, and as soon as the thought had hit him, he felt the current of another energy, the presence of another being. ‘She is reliving this nightmare time and time again, and her energy leaves this trail. All I must do to find her is follow it!’

Once again, Aragorn submitted himself to the invisible flow. The pull toward the black hole was strong this time. It looked forbidding, the darkness within impregnable, a gaping maw to the Valar-knew-where… and yet it was the path he would take. It called to him, dared him to try and free the mind it held captive and had no intentions to let go. Aragorn furrowed his brow. His link was still there, albeit weak. There was the very real danger of losing himself inside this tunnel or hole… and yet, the Heir of Elendil had never shrunk from any challenge, and so with a deep breath, Aragorn stepped into the darkness – and fell!

"Is it only me, or has the stench lessened?" Éomer cast a suspicious glance at the bowls. It seemed to him that there was barely any steam rising from them now.

"You are right, my lord; the water is cooling. Your friend has been gone for quite a while already. I have more boiling water ready, but I doubt that the substance he gave me would suffice for a third filling. He better finds her soon." With the help of a thick cloth, she took the kettle from the hook above the fireplace and made her round, while Éomer, damned to helplessly watch, resumed his pacing.

Something had changed. His fall had not yet ended, but where Aragorn had first had the impression of floating through a vast, empty space, the air seemed stuffy now, and as he extended a hand, he quickly felt the confinement of hard rock to both sides. He seemed to be in a fissure, a cave or tunnel, and where it would end was impossible to predict. Yet one thing seemed sure to the Dúnadan: at its end, he would find the one he had come to seek.

He had not finished the thought when his feet suddenly touched the ground. Straightening in the darkness, Aragorn listened, and to both sides his outstretched hands glided over bare rock. Even his own suppressed breathing sounded treacherously loud in these narrow confines, and he held it in an attempt to orientate himself. From somewhere, a muffled rushing sound reached his ears, too low to determine its source. Was it rain, or a river? Cautiously Aragorn edged forward, and soon had to drop into a crouch to proceed further into the further narrowing gap. By now he felt the distinctive energy of the other person close by, leading him like a beacon through the blackness. Further ahead, the sound of rustling clothes gave away the other’s presence, and he stopped and dropped to his knees, not wanting to scare her if it was indeed the White Lady of Rohan."My Lady Éowyn?"

"Go! You are not welcome here!" a high, frightened voice answered him; a voice that seemed to belong to a small girl Aragorn furrowed his brow. Had Éowyn sought refuge in a memory of her childhood days to escape the terror of Gríma Wormtongue?

"There is no reason to fear me, Éowyn. Your brother sends me. He is worried--"

"You lie! Éomer is dead; you said so yourself! Didn’t you torment me enough by showing me his bloodied cloak and boasting how well your devious trap worked?"

"I am not--""Leave me alone, Worm, or I swear I will…" The girl’s voice broke off, apparently for lack of an effective threat. If the man she feared could even follow her into her innermost sanctuary, what else was there she could do to escape his clutches? Anguished breathing reached Aragorn’s ears and wordlessly betrayed the desperate tears that lurked close beneath the surface of Éowyn’s composure. Pity overwhelmed him. How scared she was! He would have to be very cautious to overcome that deep, deep fear, if it was at all possible; just a single false word could have disastrous consequences.

"Gríma Wormtongue was overtaken and chased from the hall by your people, my Lady. I am a friend of your brother’s, and I am here on his behalf to ask you to return to us. The threat is gone from Edoras; there is nothing left to fear. Come with me and let yourself be convinced. Éomer sits right beside you, and it breaks his heart to see you like in this condition. The body you left behind is already very frail, and if you do not return to it soon, it is likely that there will be nothing left to return to before another day goes by. Please, my Lady, do not tell me that it is your intention to remain here until you die."

"And if I come with you, you will have your way with me, isn’t it so? I have learned to see through your lies and false promises in all those painful years since you first despoiled Meduseld with your presence; you cannot fool me anymore, Worm! Leave and find someone else with whom you can play your cruel games, or I will find another way to escape you… one where not even you will dare to follow me!"

It was chilling to hear such adult, disillusioned words spoken by a little girl’s voice, a girl who sounded no older than six or perhaps seven summers. Momentarily at a loss for words, Aragorn decided to give his surroundings a closer inspection. Perhaps it would help him to accomplish his task if he knew more about his whereabouts; perhaps they were the clue to convincing the woman before him that he spoke the truth. Further ahead, the cave appeared to narrow to the point where indeed only a small child would be able to slip through the crack, and seemed to end only a few paces away, because Éowyn sounded very close. As he listened to the now distinct sound of the rushing water that reached him from somewhere outside, Aragorn’s mind feverishly circled the question of why Éowyn had resorted to this childhood image of herself. There had to be a logical reason for this measure; one that could probably prove useful to him. He inhaled."My Lady… if you will grant me the opportunity to back my claim with proof, I will gladly provide it. Your brother is indeed here by your side, and if you are willing to listen to me for a moment longer, I promise to supply you with information only Éomer could have known. Information that will convince you that I what I’m saying is indeed the truth."

She hesitated, and for a moment, her tone sounded uncertain. "I doubt that you can keep your promise… but I will give you one chance. If I am not convinced though, you will leave and never come back, or I swear, I will make my threat reality."

"That is only fair, and I accept. My only request would be that you view whatever I present to you with an open mind, my Lady." This time, there was no reply, and so Aragorn focused his attention on the link. "Éomer?"

Aragorn’s voice seemed to come to him from the distance of another realm. It was barely more than a whisper, and yet it’s very sound chased a chill down Éomer’s spine. He swivelled, expecting Aragorn to be back from wherever his foray had taken him, but his friend still hung slumped over Éowyn’s likewise prone shape. And yet Éomer was certain that he had heard his friend speak.

"Aragorn?" He was not granted a reply. Éomer exchanged an anxious glance with Maelwyn, who had chosen to wait by the window, where the air was a little better although it was still closed; her arms slung around her slender body. The scent from the bowls was again so thick in the room that it stung in her eyes and nose, and absent-mindedly, she wiped away another tear from her watering eyes. From outside, the muffled noise of the ongoing celebration seeped into the room, and yet it might as well have taken place in another country. To the handmaiden and the warrior, the confines of Éowyn’s chambers lay in an entirely separate realm to which no others could hope to gain entry.

His lips pressed together, Éomer approached the bed. A while ago, Maelwyn had refilled the bowls with the remainders of the mysterious substance, and it was clear to them both that Aragorn would have to surface in the near future if he wanted to avoid the danger of which he had spoken. Again Éomer looked at the handmaiden, unable to further suppress his nervousness.

She nodded tensely, her fingernails digging deeply into the skin of her forearms. Éomer shifted his attention back to his friend and – not knowing what to do - cautiously extended a hand. This was all far too strange for him, too much to grasp. He had agreed to the Dúnadan’s unusual measure because he had been desperate, but that did not mean that he understood or believed in it… and with every minute of solid silence in this room, his unease grew.

"Aragorn?" He touched the Ranger’s shoulder, but quickly withdrew when suddenly, his friend spoke again.

"Aye." He nodded. "I hear you. I am right beside you." Éomer shot Maelwyn a quick glance, and his heart beat anxiously in his throat. As before, Aragorn did not move, and his voice seemed to reach them from a great distance. It was an eerie experience, strange enough to make Éomer’s skin crawl. The son of Eomund literally had to force himself to draw air into his lungs to speak: "Did you find Éowyn? Did you speak with her?" For another agonising moment, Aragorn remained silent, and Éomer bit his lip. "Aragorn?"

"I found your sister…" A wave of relief washed over Éomer; so intense that he had to close his eyes. ‘Béma…thank you! Thank you!’ "--but she won’t trust me yet. She thinks I am Wormtongue, and that I want to lure her back by lying to her about your return. She is convinced that you are dead, and I need proof that it is indeed you who is sitting by her side."

"Proof?" Éomer inhaled sharply and looked at Éowyn’s unmoving face, trying to will her to react. "What proof? How should I… Can she hear me where you are? Éowyn?"

"She cannot hear you. Not yet, but …" Aragorn interrupted himself. In the darkness, a sudden possibility came into his mind. "Wait. Perhaps she can, if she chooses to do so. Give me a moment. I will try to talk to her, but in the meantime, think of something that only the two of you know. Something Wormtongue could impossibly have learned of." He shifted his attention back to the silently waiting woman whom he could not see, but the energy of her presence was like a beacon. Even her growing mistrust he sensed. "My Lady…"

"Something only the two of us know..." Éomer repeated, feverishly racking his brain. How could it be so empty all of a sudden, whatever memories he was clutching at fleeing from his grasp like flies? "In Eorl’s name…" Again he stared at Maelwyn, but for once, this was something where the young woman could not help him. He would have to find the answer to this task himself. Something the Worm could impossibly have known… Since Gríma had on many occasions displayed uncanny knowledge about everything that happened in the Golden Hall or even the city, that seemed to leave only their childhood in Aldburg. What secrets had they shared in those long-passed days? What had they experienced that neither their parents nor any of their friends could have known about to pass it on?

Hiding his face in both hands to concentrate, Éomer closed his eyes. What was there they had never told their father or mother? Was there anything at all? Anything important enough to be remembered by him? ‘Think. Think!’

"When your brother has thought of something, will you seriously consider what he has to say, my lady?" Aragorn asked into the darkness. "Will you grant him that chance?"

Éowyn’s voice still sounded too calm for his liking, not yet ready to commit. She was still defensive.

"I am not yet convinced that I should," she said. "You invaded my mind. What thing should there be I could keep secret from you if you are already in my head? You probably only want to gain more time, whatever for."

"I promise you that this is not the case… but of course, I am well aware that I cannot force you to believe me. And I wouldn’t want to, because this is a decision only you can make. It might help you to find it to you have your brother’s voice to judge as much as his words, wouldn’t you agree?"

"That is for you to judge, my Lady. I do, of course, understand that - after those hardships you endured - trust is a hard thing to find in oneself, and an even riskier one to give… but let me assure you from the bottom of my heart that if you dare to take this risk, you will not regret your decision." Aragorn’s words silenced her, and for a moment, they sat in the dark while she contemplated his offer. Then, with a deep breath, she said:

"We already agreed that I will hear him… although I doubt that it is really Éomer. It is impossible."

Aragorn’s voice cut through Éomer’s frantic thoughts like a sharp-bladed knife.

"I must admit that could be Éomer’s voice," she said crisply. "But you could easily imitate him in your thoughts, couldn’t you? You know my brother rather well yourself."

Aragorn nodded to himself. He had not expected the solution to be easy. If Éowyn took after her brother even in the least bit, this challenge would take far more effort to be won. He focused his thoughts on Éomer.

"I’m not certain…" Éomer ran a nervous hand through his tangled hair as he focused on Éowyn’s lifeless shape. It was difficult to imagine that – even though she looked dead to the world, she apparently heard every single one of his words. All the more reason for him to concentrate, for her trust would not be easily won. His eyes focused on her far-too-pale face, he began.

"Éowyn, if you hear me…" He inhaled, and then decided to cut right to the chase. Perhaps he was imagining it, but the odour in the room seemed to have weakened. Their time was running out. ‘Flame’… " he said. "That was the name of your first horse. It was a very old, small blood-bay; the slowest beast on earth, and you used to fume at me because I delighted in winding you up about it. You even bloodied my nose in one of our quarrels." He fell silent, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists by his sides as he waited with baited breath for her reaction.

Aragorn, too, knelt in the dark with such tension in his body that sinews and muscles seemed to vibrate. Yet he did not have to wait for Éowyn’s reply for long.

"Everyone in Aldburg knew my horse; at least all our friends. And they witnessed countless times how Éomer teased me about its name. That is no proof. You will have to do better to convince me."

"She says that all in Aldburg knew of her horse and your quarrel. Can you think of something else?"

Éomer wrung his hands, exhaled forcefully with frustration, and from the corner of his eye, saw Maelwyn shake her head with despair. ‘Something else… something more secretive…’ He craned back his neck and stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Hundreds of random, unsorted images raced through his mind; memories from the first eleven years of his life. How they had laid Éowyn, wrapped into a blanket and barely an hour old, into his arms, and their eyes had met for the first time; brother and sister. The pride he had felt when his little sister, then only six years old, had been bitten by a horse and sat in the healer’s hut with her jaw clenched and tears shining in her eyes, but determined not to cry while the old man cleansed her wound. Brave little Éowyn. ‘Little Bird’ he had always called her softly, to the amusement of some of his older friends who thought that such sentimentality had no place in the life of a future warrior. He had not cared; after all, none of them had had any younger sisters themselves. And Éowyn had always been special, not to be compared with other girls of her age; her spirit proud and strong and vibrant, never afraid of anything. As wild as the fillies on the plains.

So, what was there that only the two of them had experienced? What… He inhaled sharply, and his heart jumped into his throat.

Aragorn ran his hands over the bare rock. "It is very dark in here. We seem to be in a cave. I cannot go in further, because it is even narrower where she hides. It could be an old den. I hear water rushing outside; a stream or a little waterfall, perhaps. Is it a place you know from your youth?"

"You are telling him too much!" Éowyn interrupted him, fearful and angry at the same time. "It is he who is supposed to provide the proof; not you!"

"Very well," Aragorn said, hoping that he had given Éomer enough clues to come to a conclusion. "Then why don’t we let him continue? You know where we are, Éomer, don’t you?"

An excited smile spread over Éomer’s face. He was certain he was right, for now he saw the scene before his inner eye with such clarity that the Snowbourn’s crystal waters seemed like a mudstream in comparison.

"You are hiding in the badger’s den, aren’t you, Éowyn? The orcs didn’t find you there, so you thought that you could also hide there from the Worm. Tell me I’m right!"

No sound came from the darkness before Aragorn, but this time, the Dúnadan took it as a good sign. At last, it seemed they had gotten through to Éowyn. Now she was indeed listenin to them, and the way it seemed, she was listening with baited breath. Éomer had at last succeeded in catching her attention..

"Go on…" Aragorn urged him. "What else can you tell us about that incident?"

"We were still living in Aldburg when it happened; and our parents were still alive. Éowyn must have been around six by then. It was late in the summer; a beautiful, sunny day."

The magical scenery of his hometown’s surroundings unfolded from Éomer’s memories with such detail that he almost felt the light, hay-scented breeze on his skin. The fields of grain around Aldburg had been golden in the sunlight and ready to be reaped, and the days had still been long. To the small children they had been, those days had seemed endless, each of them filled with new adventures. Only that this adventure had taken a frightening turn. He could still remember everything so clearly…

"We had ventured into the forest a little further than usual, almost all the way to the mountains. The blackberries were in season, and we wanted to surprise our parents with them. Usually we were required to take someone older with us for protection when we left Aldburg, but they were all busy that day, and we decided to sneak out of the city alone. I thought it would be no problem if kept my eyes open, and after all, all we wanted was to go and pick berries... but of course, we ran into orcs." Éomer tensed. The memory was still so clear… the sudden crackle of breaking branches in the undergrowth, the muffled voices, speaking in a language he didn’t understand but recognised at once…

"There were only three of them; a small scouting party. I suppose that was our luck. We almost managed to slip away from them unnoticed, but suddenly the wind changed and they caught our scent. I knew that with Éowyn, we could not possibly hope to outrun them, so we made for the old den along the way, praying it was wide and deep enough for her to hide in while I tried to lead them away. She almost got stuck when she climbed in and bruised herself badly, but it was a good hiding place. It was too narrow for them to follow her, although they tried."

"I was so scared that he would not come back," Éowyn suddenly added on her own accord, her voice hushed. "That they would catch and kill Éomer, and that I would wait for him in vain. I could hear them at the entrance, sniffling and muttering in their ugly language, but they soon disappeared when they found that they could not follow me. It seemed to take him forever to return, and I was afraid that they had caught him. I did not know for how long I should wait."

"It took me a while to lose the orcs and return to the den, and we returned to Aldburg only with the last daylight. Our parents were sick with worry because we had been gone for many hours and nobody had seen us, and I went to bed without the evening meal that night. We told them only that we had forgotten time over our play, but what really happened that day remained between Éowyn and me. We did not even tell our friends."

Éomer blinked as the memories of the distant summer day faded away and he found himself back in his sister’s bedchamber. And, shaking his head, he added with all the conviction he had ever felt: "It is impossible that Gríma Wormtongue could have learned of this, Éowyn! It is me! Will you not believe me now?"

In the darkness of the cave, silence grew so thick that it almost felt like a solid thing; a syrupy blackness that seemed to make breathing next to impossible.. And Aragorn felt something else, too, and it was alarming: the link grew weaker. There was no doubt. He had to speed things up.

"Aye…" Éowyn’s hesitant reply reached his ears. Where her voice had been cool and detached at first, she now sounded frightened and doubtful. She wanted to believe them, Aragorn could hear it, but the risk was so great…. "Aye, that is indeed the way it happened. And I don’t know how anyone, and especially the Worm, should have learned of it, but…" she inhaled shakily, and her voice dropped to a quivering whisper. "I’m so afraid. What if he found this memory in my head and uses it now to draw me out of hiding?"

"It is not so." Aragorn extended his hand. It was an instinctive gesture, one she would not see in the darkness, but somehow, he knew that she would sense it nonetheless. "I beg you, come with me, Éowyn. There is no more need for you to stay in this dark, hopeless place when all you want is to be reunited with your brother, and he is waiting for you to wake. The body you left behind is very frail now, and there may not be another opportunity for you return to it.. If you do not go back soon, you will starve to death. Dare to trust me, my lady. Your brother told me of your courage, and I know that you are brave enough to make this decision now. I understand that it will take a leap of faith… take it together with me, and I promise you: all doubt and anguish will leave you once you open your eyes."

"Do you not believe that I wished more than anything to follow you?" Éowyn replied in obvious torment. "Do you not believe that I yearn to leave this dark place? That I yearn to see my brother?" She interrupted herself… and suddenly, Aragorn felt the grip of small fingers around his hand. Her unexpected change of mind took him by surprise. Hesitantly, her voice so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin, she said: "There is only one more thing I’d ask of you before I accompany you… would you show yourself to me? I know that your appearance may be no proof either, for if you were indeed Gríma, surely you could choose any shape you liked to deceive me, but… perhaps even your choice will tell me something about the truth.."

"That power is yours," Aragorn said calmly. His deed was almost done, only one more step to take. One single step… and yet it was in all likelihood the hardest one she’d ever have to take. "This is your mind. You chose to hide in the darkness; so surely, it must also be possible for you to light this cave. To think of a candle or a torch or..." He fell silent. Surely she had the means; it all depended on her will now. And although he felt his link to reality wane further, he granted her the time to make her decision..

Éowyn remained silent… and then, a small flame blossomed from the darkness, incredibly frail against its grim surroundings. A lonely star in the blackness of the night. Its warm light illuminated an even frailer shape behind it: long golden tresses framing a delicately-cut face with high cheekbones; a face so noble and proud, with more than a hint at the passion and strength behind it, that Aragorn saw in it at once her kinship to Éomer… and yet it also bespoke clearer than words could ever have the trials she had underwent. Despite the dirt on her cheeks and brow, Aragorn was taken with the young girl’s extraordinary, solemn beauty. The greatest wonder though were her eyes – large pools of a blue so deep that he had only seen the like of it once in a treasured jewel, and they seemed to look right to the very bottom of his soul with a seriousness that seemed impossible for one so little. It was, Aragorn thought, as if within the child, he could already see the woman he had come to rescue.

"I have never seen you before," Éowyn said at last, and her questioning eyes widened a little with wonder as she regarded the man before her. "But you would not seem to me like a man Wormtongue would befriend."

"And I have never met Wormtongue, but from everything I have been able to gather, it would seem to me that he was a man I would not befriend, either." And suddenly his heart leaped in his chest when the grave little girl before him returned his smile ever so shyly.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer… and then Aragorn saw the fear in these incredible pools of blue shift into sudden hope. Her decision had been made, and the will to lay her destiny into his hands stood in her eyes as Éowyn lifted her chin with the smile still on her face, as she tightened her grip around his fingers.

"Aragorn?" Éomer did not know how to bear the tension any longer. It had been a while since the Dúnadan had last spoken, and he still did not know whether Éowyn had accepted his tale as proof. There was barely any steam rising from the bowls around the bed anymore, and the once penetrating stench of the substance had significantly lessened… and still Aragorn was still in trance! What if Elendil’s Heir was lost? What if he would never be able now to take up the fight for which he had been born, and which would define the destiny of all free peoples of Middle Earth? Had their only chance for triumph against the Dark Lord been destroyed because of a foolish man’s selfish desire to rescue his kin? Éomer felt all blood drain from his face as he stared at the lifeless shapes of Aragorn and Éowyn.

He narrowed his eyes, and at the same time, heard a sudden noise from the far end of the room when Maelwyn shifted her position. She had noticed it, too. Something had changed.

They were still not moving, but something seemed different about them both, their breathing deeper, and a sudden tension in their stance as if life were slowly creeping back into their bodies. Éomer barely dared to breathe.

"Lord Éomer…" Maelwyn whispered urgently from her position by the window, but he only lifted his hand to signal her that he had seen it, too. Even as he watched, the muscles in Aragorn’s cheeks and eyelids began to twitch ever so slightly, and his body slowly to shift away from Éowyn’s. His fingers flexed… and Éowyn’s, as well!

Éomer looked at her face, and while her skin was still white, it no longer held the deadly pallor in which they had found her upon their arrival. Life had crept back into her, and to Éomer’s eyes his sister almost seemed to glow with it. Could it be true? Could it be really true? He watched as Éowyn drew her first deep breath, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the way her chest expanded with the influx of air… and suddenly, his sight blurred and his throat tightened. He could not speak.

A slow, satisfied smile spread over Aragorn’s face as he opened his eyes. From the sudden rush of sensations that assaulted him – the tingling of his body as it slowly woke from the trance, the crackling of the fire behind him and the penetrating stench of the herbs he had used to create the link - he knew that they had indeed made it back… and Éowyn had followed him. Her strong grip around his hands told him that without doubt.

"We are back in your chambers, my lady. You can open your eyes now… it is safe." He felt Éomer’s gaze upon himself, piercing him, but did not yet dare to look away from the young woman he had brought back from the brink of death. Although it was the face of an adult woman he saw now before him, it seemed to Aragorn that he could still see the frightened little girl from his vision behind the grown-up features… and the way she had smiled at him just before they had left her dreary prison. He wanted to see that same smile now on the adult Éowyn’s face.

Her eyelids twitched, but she did not yet dare to follow his suggestion, just as she did not dare yet to let go of his hands, instead holding on to them as if they were keeping her from drowning. And yet at the same time, Aragorn felt her tentatively reaching out with her senses.

"What is this smell?" she whispered, and at those first, hesitant words, Aragorn heard a sharp intake of breath beside him. He could well imagine what the sound of his sister’s voice did to Éomer when the young Rohírric warrior had already in his mind prepared for her death, but he could not divert his attention now. Not yet. This was a precarious moment, Éowyn’s trust still a fragile thing easily to be shattered.

"Something that helped me to find you in the dark." Aragorn inhaled. "Lady Éowyn, if you trust me, then open your eyes now."

"Your handmaiden is here… and your brother. Right here with you. You already took that leap of faith, Éowyn; now it is time to look at your reward." He held his breath and felt Éomer do the same beside him. Although so very delicate, Éowyn’s fingers clenched around his hands so hard as if she wanted to crush them… and suddenly, Aragorn found himself looking for real into those deep blue eyes he had seen in his mind. They had been astounding even in the flicker of the one candle back in the cave, but here, in the brightly illuminated confines of her chambers, they were nothing short of a wonder.

And Éowyn continued to look at him in this way, the frightened girl still present behind the young woman’s eyes, silently asking him whether he would hurt her if she fully stepped out of hiding now. And with an encouraging smile spreading over his lips, Aragorn said: "You are home, my lady. All is well now." He heard a strangely strangled noise to his right and didn’t have to look to know that Éomer was crying. "Turn your head, Éowyn. Trust me."

She regarded him silently for a moment longer, and then, still with her fingers locked around his hands, followed his suggestion… and tensed. Slowly, Aragorn followed her gaze. There were tears on Éomer’s cheeks, two thin wet trails glistening in the flickering light, and yet even underneath the tears, he smiled. Something began to rise inside him from deep within, something so powerful that it had robbed him of the power to speak, but the love in his eyes spoke so loudly, nothing else was needed as brother and sister regarded each other.

"I have seen you before," Éowyn finally whispered, her words barely audible even in the quiet. "Sitting in this chair, watching me… I have seen you there many times. I tried to speak with you, but you would not answer me… and when I reached to touch you… you disappeared. It was only a dream." Éomer’s smile vanished, and great sincerity replaced it.

"You are not dreaming now, and I will not disappear," he said, his voice husky with emotion, and slowly extended his hand, palm upward. Inviting her to take it and convince herself.

Aragorn felt her grip weaken. Still Éowyn did not dare yet to entirely let go of her resuer, nor to accept her brother’s proposal, but she thought about it, trying to summon up the courage. And still those wondrous blue eyes held Éomer in their focus.

"Wormtongue told me that he captured you. He showed me your cloak, and it was pierced and soaked with blood. He…" she swallowed, for the memory was still too painful. "He threatened to torture you further if I did not obey."

Éomer swore silently. Had he known that Gríma would put his cloak to such evil use, he would have done everything to retrieve it from his hunters.

"His henchmen stole it from me. It was not my blood. Éowyn…" He shifted his gaze to her hand, and back to her face, silently begging her to take the final step to end all her doubt. "It is me."

She looked at him... took a deep breath… and laid her delicate fingers into his rough warrior’s hand, tensing. Waiting for him to disappear as he had before. But then she felt the warmth of his skin and the restrained strength of his grip, and her eyes widened. "Éomer... oh Éomer!" And she sank into her brother’s embrace, laughing and crying at the same time, Aragorn silently slid out of the room.

Early morning’s light filtered through the high windows and bathed the Royal Stables into warm twilight, but the men inside had no eye for its beauty as they readied their horses for the long ride and stored provisions and gear into their saddle backs. Already finished with Firefoot’s tack, Éomer paused and absent-mindedly rubbed the stallion’s brow as his gaze wandered through the ancient room. He had decided to take along Éothain and his Riders and accompany the Dúnedain to the crossroads and then head back to give Firefoot some much-needed exercise, so except for saddling his horse, there was nothing further to think of for him.

Involuntarily, he straightened, and the weight of his own armour felt comfortingly familiar. Although would only be a small gesture, Éomer felt the need to see his newly-found friend off in the right manner; a sign to Aragorn and his brethren as well as to their own people that - no matter what awaited them in the future - Gondor and Rohan would face it side by side. And what was more, the way back to the city would provide Éothain and him with the much needed time and privacy for their conversation... something he would have to try to focus on even if ever since he had shaken off sleep, his thoughts tended to return to Éowyn and her miraculous rescue.

For a long time, he had just held her in his arms after Aragorn and Maelwyn had discretely left the room, thankful just to feel her breath and the wetness of her tears upon his skin, to see the joy in her eyes over seeing him alive, and the sensation of the firmness of her grasp around his hand. She had been too weak to stay awake for long, but had – upon his insistence – at least made an effort to drink some of the honey-sweetened tea Maelwyn had quickly provided, and even eaten a few spoons of porridge, before her strength had given out. Then he had just sat by her side, content with being allowed to guard her rest, and when the sound of the fireworks outside had woken her once more, he had wrapped her into her blanket and carried her over to the window to watch.

A faint smile lit up his features at the memory how the golden and red sparkling had reflected in Éowyn’s widened eyes, until at last, Éomer returned - somewhat reluctantly - to the present. He wrinkled his brow. Too crowded; it was too crowded! Although the Royal Stables of Edoras were the largest in the western lands, even they had been unable to provide space enough for all the horses of Aragorn’s company, especially as the horses of the Edoras-based éored were also housed here. Thus most of the Dúnedain’s mounts had spent the last days together with their Rohirric kin in the large corrals at the lowest part of the city, but still there were so many men, lads and horses hurrying around, that the usually dignified place reminded Éomer of a beehive.

Among the Rangers whose horses had found accommodation here, he suddenly discovered Halbarad, apparently well recovered from his head wound. Even as Éomer’s experienced gaze travelled over the Ranger’s unusual but doubtlessly hardy animal, admiring its strong limbs, the Dúnadan – sensing his attention - looked up. The two warriors exchanged a smile and an acknowledging nod, then Halbarad continued with his preparations.

In the next stall, Aragorn packed Roheryn’s saddle bags for the ride, and once more Èomer paused to observe his friend. A deep, soundless sigh escaped him as he shook his head. This could have been such a splendid morning after the miracle they had achieved last night: Éowyn was alive and would recover; their enemies were defeated. Spring was on the way and the sun already ascending in a clear blue sky. There was so much cause for joy... and yet all that Éomer felt was dread, because the great warrior before him, the man who had become his trusted friend and who had rescued the one dearest to him in the whole wide world, was about to descend into a darkness deeper than a starless night. ‘I know you said this needed to be done,’ Éomer thought desperately, and a shadow wandered over his features as he tried to imagine what evil was lurking for Aragorn on the doomed path beneath the mountain, ‘and yet I wish there were another way.’

Would they see each other again and draw swords together against their common enemy? Aragorn’s expression betrayed nothing of his disposition, and whether it was because the Heir of Elendil felt confident that he would emerge victorious from the trials that awaited him, or whether he was just adept at hiding his thoughts, Éomer dared not say. Either way, he would not start the discussion again; if Gandalf felt the need to send Aragorn to that accursed mountain, he was sure to have his reasons; reasons which the marshal of a people, who had never had any dealings with the world beyond the one one could see and touch, could hardly hope to understand. Even more sceptical-minded than the average Rohír, Éomer did not even fully believe in the ghost horse that was part of their mythology; the white stallion who was said to carry the souls of their fallen to the halls of their ancestors. Following the Istar’s proposed course of action seemed to be entirely a matter of trust, but at least Éomer knew that if there was one thing that he was sure of, it was his faith in Gandalf.

A shrill neigh pierced the air from Shadowfax’s stall at the end of the stable, and Éomer turned his head. Would the Méara permit the hobbit on his back whom Gandalf wanted to take with him to Minas Tirith? Would he tolerate the additional rider? He quickly dismissed the thought. Shadowfax would do whatever the Istar asked of him. Although Gandalf was not his master – no man nor Istar would ever be able to claim this position for himself - the friendship between man and horse seemed strong enough to grant the wizard this additional favour. Somehow, it seemed to Éomer that Shadowfax had always been meant to become Gandalf’s mount; it felt like a piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. Éomer’s gaze lingered for another moment on the stall door, that hid the chief of the Méaras from his sight, surprised to feel a sudden stab of jealousy. No matter how useful to their cause Shadowfax’s friendship with the Istar would prove to their cause, it was not easy to understand why the stallion had decided to give his trust to a stranger rather than the royal family, as had been a tradition for centuries between the sons of Eorl and the méaras.

Still lost in thought, Éomer was unprepared for the hard blow that suddenly hit him between the shoulder blades. He stumbled forward and barely avoided to crash face-first into the stall door, then turned around with a sharp reprimand on his tongue... to meet Firefoot’s arrogant gaze as the stallion regarded him from the lofty heights of his superior position. Snorting in disbelief, Éomer picked himself up and shook his head.

“Your distraction was rather obvious, and we both know how your steed likes to be the centre of attention,” a familiar voice cut into their dispute from the neighbouring stall, and as he turned his head, Éomer saw Éothain standing there with an expression of cautious amusement on his face, helmet cradled in the pit of his elbow. And yet despite his little jest, his friend’s tense bearing told Eomund’s son that Éothain still felt uncomfortable in his presence. As the morning had been filled with formal affairs, there had not yet been time for their talk; no chance to settle their differences. If there were any differences still left to settle between them, Éomer thought with sudden pity. What he had learned from Lady Glenwyn had certainly opened his eyes... and thoroughly changed his perspective: he understood now all too well why Éothain had stayed behind, and approved of his friend’s decision as the right one; he even understood Éothain’s inner turmoil, for in a way, the decision the son of Cérol had been forced to make had certainly not come to him any easier than it had been for Éomer to choose between his sister and his duty to the Mark.

Aye, they still needed to have this conversation, but not to cure things between them. All that remained to be cured was Éothain’s evident self-hatred. Somehow, Éomer thought with a soundless sigh, he would have to find a way to make his brother-in-arms see the truth and convince him to forgive himself… still an ambitious task, for in certain regards, Éothain and he were almost scarily alike.

“Nothing of import.” Éomer shook his head. “I was merely wondering what Shadowfax might think of having to carry two riders to Mundburg. Even for the chief of the Méaras, it is a bloody long distance to Gondor with additional weight on his back; all the more as the road may be unsafe.” Shuddering, he remembered the fell black thing that had attacked them on the way from Isengard. Not even a horse as swift as Shadowfax could hope to escape those foul things when they dropped from the sky like oversized birds of prey, deadly talons spread to seize their prey and squeeze the life out of it. Still, after their last encounter, perhaps the Ringwraiths would think twice about attacking the wizard on the horse’s back.

There was no question now that the wheels had been set into motion, turning faster and faster, and it seemed that these days, not an hour passed without the surfacing of new risks and unpredictabilities. Aragorn and Gandalf would not be the only ones taking a high risk; one could only wonder what would await their own army once it left for Gondor...or those who would remain behind without protection. Like Éowyn,’ Éomer thought desperately. ‘Only last night, I almost swore to her never to leave her again, but in a few days, I will be gone again... only this time, my return is even more unlikely.’

Forcing himself to push the frightening thought aside, he reached for the reins, and for some strange reason, his mind turned to the wizard who seemed to have become their chief strategist. It was impossible to deny that something had vastly changed in the Istar’s bearing since they had last met, shortly before the Mark had truly plunged into darkness. Though the benign, friendly wizard Éomer had known from his youth was still somewhere underneath, an entirely different, powerful and determined aura surrounded the old man now, and the distinct notion that he would not hesitate to use his new abilities. The wise old counsellor had become a marshal. ‘He is our leader now,’ Éomer suddenly understood, and his eyes widened slightly at the realisation. “He and Aragorn, they are our main weapons against the Dark Lord. If they fail, all will go to hell.’

Again he stared down the aisle, just in time to see the stall door at the end open and the object of his musings emerge with Shadowfax following in his tracks like an obedient dog, although there was neither bridle nor saddle on him. With an unconscious grimace, Éomer noticed the distinct tension on the face of the Halfling who would accompany them. He could not blame Pippin: the prospect of having to sit on that volcano of a horse without the help of any tack seemed bad enough, even without the though of the danger awaiting them along the way.

‘Along the way…’ Éomer straightened. It was time to be on the way. A strange feeling of anticipation overcame him, as if he were about to ride into battle himself. ‘Not yet. Not for a few more days. But soon… very soon.’ He shook his head, inwardly berating himself. Once the fires called them to war, it would be a reason for dread, not for a celebration.

“Come, Éothain. Let’s go.” He exchanged a quick glance with Aragorn, who straightened beside Rohyren and patted the bay’s neck, giving him a barely noticeable nod to indicate that he was finished as well. Together, the two very different and yet also alike men strode toward the light of the opening doors…

They were greeted by the sun and enthusiastic cheers, and as Éomer shielded his eyes to squint into the light, he beheld the men and women of the royal household on the terrace and stairs above them. Still more people awaited them further down the winding path for as far as he could see, which was surprising as it was still early morning and last night’s celebration had ended only a few hours ago. Beside him, Aragorn also looked astonished.

“Your kinsmen are up early,” he stated with wonder, brows raised... only to weigh his head and wink a moment later. “But then again, I remember from my time among Thengel’s men that the Rohírrim always had a great reputation of being adapt at holding their liquor, to the point where they would challenge all who dared to doubt them… and I do not only speak of the Armed Forces.”

“Well, it is something we take as seriously as our weapons skill, and losing to a challenger is considered a great shame. Though I noticed that your own company were also no beginners when it comes to strong brews. A reliable source told me this morning that that the dwarf drank one of my hardiest drinkers under the table last night. His comrades had to dump a bucket of ice-water on him to get him out of bed this morning… and I dare say that he still looks quite destroyed, contrary to your friend.”

“Well…” Aragorn laughed. “Whatever enterprise Gímli takes part in, he’ll be in it with the greatest dedication. You won’t ever catch that dwarf at a lackadaisical effort.” They both turned their heads to meet the quizzical gaze of Gloín’s son, who had apparently noticed that the men’s conversation was about him, but stood too far away to understand their words.

“Should I be concerned then? If we defeat Mordor and he doesn’t like my verdict on his glorious Golden Lady… will I continue to be faced with a serious danger to my health?”

“A most serious danger!” Aragorn confirm and turned back in an attempt to grow serious again, for he had seen from the corner of his eye that Théoden-King and the Royal Guard were approaching. But underneath his breath, he murmured conspiratorially: “You might just have to lie to him to save your hide.”

“Rohírrim don’t lie!” Éomer said indignantly, his eyes likewise on the Lord of the Mark, although he was avoiding Théoden’s gaze. Thankfully, at that moment Gandalf stepped into his line of vision and shielded him from the King’s attention.

“Théoden-King,” the Istar raised his voice, and around them, the cheering stopped as all strained to listen. “At last, the time has arrived for us thank you for your hospitality and be on our way. The respite you granted us in your house was invaluable, but now circumstances call us, and we can no longer delay. War is coming.”

“And when it does, it will find us prepared. Be assured that if Gondor should indeed call for us, Rohan will answer. I wish you a safe journey, Gandalf Greyhame. It was a most fortunate fate that led you to us in the time of our greatest need.” Théoden turned to Aragorn. “The sons of Eorl are also indebted to you, Lord Aragorn. They say that help unlooked for is twice welcome, but never could we hope to gain such mighty allies in our fight. You came to help us in our plight, and now whatever may be in our power to aid you in your quest, we will do, for it for the good of us all. I beg you to forgive my rash words at the counsel, for in the wake of my counsellor’s treason, I was still wary and unable to see the truth, and that truth is that I have never seen a worthier man for the throne of Gondor. Perhaps, with you as its ruler, we will finally see the old friendship between our realms renewed.” The two warriors shook hands, and as he leant forward, Théoden lowered his voice: “Just make sure you travel safely on that evil road, because something tells me that the skill of Elendil’s Heir will be needed on the battlefield before long.”

“I thank you for your kind words, Sire, and my heart tells me that we will meet again. And when we do, I will bring hope with me.”

The two men embraced, and when he stepped back, Théoden’s gaze at last found Éomer. He lifted his chin.

“Be well, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and your men with you. Go and take the good wishes of the Éorlingas with you. As a sign of our new bond, the First Marshal requested to be allowed to accompany you to the crossroads with his éored, and I will gladly grant this. Farewell, my Lords. May we meet again in happier times.”

Under the cheers of the citizens, the long procession of horses and riders snaked down the hill. As every single man and woman knew that those men were not riding home, but heading straight into danger’s way, they shouted out their thanks, their good wishes and promises to include the men in their prayers, and their demonstration of faith brought tears to the eyes of many travelling in Aragorn’s company.

From his elevated position of Firefoot’s back, Éomer regarded his kinsmen with mixed emotions. He was satisfied to see that their people obviously understood the impact their newly-found allies had already had on the fate of the Mark, and glad to see Aragorn receive his deserved praise... and yet while the riders around him smiled and waved at the crowd, Éomer could not help feeling eerily reminded of the last time he had ridden down this path. No one had cheered then; they had avoided his gaze and turned their backs on him, casting him out of their protective midst although they knew about the wrongness of the accusations. Sitting rigid in the saddle, his stomach a block of ice from where the cold spread its long fingers into every last corner of his body, Éomer almost expected them to repeat their insult, even if the voice in the back of his head insisted it was nonsense. ‘They only did it because they were afraid of the Worm. When will you finally believe it?’

Aye, he knew that… and still it was easier to look over their heads at their surroundings. Right before them, the ragged peaks of the Ered Nimrais loomed majestically behind the city gates, still covered in snow… except for the one, dark peak in the distance, the evil mountain at the end of the Dimholt road. To Éomer’s eyes, it seemed to crouch behind its brethren like a hungry dragon, only waiting for the men on the way to challenge it to rip them apart with sharp teeth and claws. He slanted Aragorn a quick side-glance, but there was still no sign of fear on the older man’s face to be detected, as the Dúnadan nodded his appreciation at the people of Edoras.

On the eastern plains behind the gates, their éohere had erected a vast camp with hundreds of tents, and the sight of all the colourful flying banners could have been almost cheerful, if it were not for the thought that all these men and horses were waiting for war, and that most, if not all of them, would never return to the green meadows of their homes. Very soon, they, too, would travel on that Great Road beside which they rested now, once the fires called them; ten thousand riders and horses on the path to their destiny, the great battle of their time.

The sky above them was of a spotless blue, and yet as Éomer’s eyes strayed further to the eastern horizon, he beheld a strange darkness there, a formless twilight with a red glow from below, as if the clouds were stretching over a large fire.

“A storm is coming,” Gandalf spoke into his thoughts, confirming to Eomund’s son that he was not the only one who had noticed the strange phenomenon. Behind him he could hear, in fact, the men muttering as they pointed east.

“So that is already Mordor’s darkness?” he asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer. And as his reluctance was visible upon his face, the wizard spared him, although his expression could not be misinterpreted.

Pippin in the saddle before him blanched, and once again, Éomer pitied the Halfling. Obviously these little beings were far hardier than he would have believed, or they would never have made it so far south from their home, but still battle was no place for them. There were no ancient tree-beings this time who would carry them safely through the clashing armies; untouchable. His friend, although he had seemed both angry and desperate, had been right not to accompany him. Whether he would be safe here in the Mark was another question, but at least, he would live a few days longer if Sauron’s forces overran them.

“Yes, Peregrin Tuck; that is indeed where we are going. And yet perhaps it will comfort you to know that the great gates of Minas Tirith have never been breached. Although the city will be in Sauron’s focus, you will not find a safer place in all of Middle Earth.”

They reached the square, and from the mighty fence that surrounded the city rose the sound of many horns as the gate opened for them. Here most of the citizens had gathered, and they cheered and in their midst, formed a long corridor through which the riders moved… and with wonder, the men saw that the celebration did not end at the city’s boundary: Outside, the Riders of the Mark had mounted their horses as well and lined the road left and right, leaving only the barrowfield with the tombs of their kings of old untouched, and the sunlight reflected on the spears and lances that were lifted above their heads with a fierce war-cry.

It was a sight to behold, a sight that made Aragorn’s heart go out to his Rohirric brethren and even more than before, filled him with determination. These brave and loyal men could not die, and they would not die for as long as he, Aragorn son of Arathorn had even a single breath left in him. No darkness would be permitted to prevail against such passionate and selfless camaraderie; the Valar could not allow it. Suddenly, Andúril was in his hand, and its bright sheen was like a beacon as he raised it above his head.

“Riders of the Mark! My brothers! We must leave you now, but take my word for it: for as long we hold together, no Evil shall ever overcome us! Let us meet again on a field of victory!” He stabbed the blade against the sky, and a war cry erupted from many thousand throats, echoed and multiplied by the nearby mountains until it seemed that the land itself was shouting their vow. Swarms of birds burst into flight as they panicked, their cries adding to the din… and then, all grew very quiet, until all that could be heard were the hoof beats of the passing horses and the creaking of old leather as the Grey Company moved through the sea of Riders toward the road.

In silence they proceeded to the crossroads, too moved to speak after the incredible demonstration of faith the Riders of the Mark had given them, and many a head turned back to the vast camp outside the city gates until it disappeared behind a gentle rise in the ground. There it was at last; the broad path that would lead the traveller willing to follow it to its end all the way to South Gondor, or north until far behind the Misty Mountains.

With a tight feeling in his chest, Éomer checked his steed and cast a quick glance at Éothain, who immediately understood. Behind them, their éored fell into formation. He turned to the White Wizard.

“I wish you a safe journey, Gandalf Greyhame… and you, Peregrin Tuck. It was an honour to make your acquaintance, and I hope that sometime in the future, your paths may lead you here again.”

“That would be nice,” he said in a thin voice, clearly not accustomed to giving great speeches. “For my friend and I enjoyed the hospitality of your people very much. Please, I know that you will leave soon, too, but if you could see to it that Merry is safe… that would be of great comfort to me.”

“He will be as safe here as he can possibly be. Now see to it that you return to us in one piece, and with many tales of courage to share over another bonfire.”

“Aye.” It was a faint smile on Pippin’s lips, but it was genuine. “I will try to do so. And… thank you, my lord!”

A silent moment passed, a moment of awkwardness, where none of the warriors seemed to know what further to say, before at last, Gandalf turned to Aragorn.

“I will expect you in the east, my friend… with an army behind you that will make the Dark Lord’s forces run all the way back to Mordor, and further. You are the man to summon them; do not doubt yourself.”

“I will be there. Protect the White City for me until I come… both of you.”

They regarded each other, the Istar and the Heir of Elendil; uncertain whether they would be able to kept heir promises… then suddenly Shadowfax whirled around, and with a shrill shriek, he accelerated into a gallop no other horse on the face of the earth could hope to match. For a while, his rider’s billowing cloak could still be seen in the distance, and then they were gone.

“I assume that everything that needed to be said between us has already been said, Marshal… and yet I will not leave without telling you that I meant what I just said to your Riders: this is not the end, and not the last time we have met. We will see each other again, even if all the hosts of Mordor stood between us.”

They looked each other straight in the eye, hands clasped tightly in the warrior’s greeting.

“I will accept your promise, Lord Aragorn,” Éomer said solemnly. “And I will hold you to it. Or I will spend the entire afterlife hunting for you.” He inhaled. “Be safe…Brother.”

Abruptly he turned Firefoot around to reclaim his position among the ranks of his éored, and they stood in silent farewell, still as marble statues, until the last rider of Aragorn’s company had disappeared from sight.

“Only this last one, please, my lady. I will not go before you ate it!” Maelwyn insisted playfully, a smile on her face as she held the spoon up for Éowyn. “For how will you ever regain your strength if you eat like a little mouse? And your brother would be very angry with me, too. He was very insistent last night, and very serious when he ordered me to take care of you!”

“I ate as much as my stomach permitted this morning, Maelwyn. I promise to eat more later, but if I had one more spoon full right now, I will certainly burst. Please, have mercy with me; I can surely not make up for every dinner I missed in the course of only one day. Éomer will not know, and even if he says anything, I will tell him that you did your best.” Her gaze strayed wistfully to the window. It seemed to be a very nice day. A day to be outside and enjoy the sunshine. “Where is he, by the way? I did not see him yet.”

“The Lord Aragorn left with his company this morning, and your brother accompanied them to the crossroads. Hildegard told me that he was here looking for you before he left, but you were still asleep, and he did not want to wake you.” Maelwyn followed Éowyn’s gaze. “It must be almost midday, so I suppose he will be back, soon. Surely he will come and see how you are faring.”

Éowyn nodded, suddenly feeling an overwhelming craving for fresh air and light. Her eyes found her young handmaiden.

“I would like to surprise him, Maelwyn, and await him on the terrace when he returns. It will brighten his spirits when he sees me out of the bed, and also, I would really like to go outside and sit in the sun. I’ve seen enough of the Golden Hall for a while.” She pushed herself up and let her legs glide over the edge of the bed, meaning to stand up, but was immediately overcome by a wave of dizziness so strong she had to close her eyes and hold on to the mattress.

“Slowly, my lady… You only woke last night! You are still too weak to stand up without help! I understand your wish to be out of these chambers for once, but for now, we must be careful. Much can happen if you fall.”

“I will not regain my strength by staying in bed,” Éowyn insisted between bursts of hard breathing, and braced herself for the effort. Almost pleadingly, she looked at the woman before her. “Please, Maelwyn, help me out. My condition will much improve when I’m allowed to see the sun’s face again. With your help, I should be able to make it outside… and let it do its wonders Trust me, I know.”

Sighing, Maelwyn shook her head, but it was a sigh of relief. If Éowyn’s iron will was back, it surely had to be seen as a first sign of her recovery.

“Well, at least let me go first and arrange that a little corner is prepared for you on the terrace, before I come back and help you with your clothes. Do I have your permission, my Lady?”

“Aye, Maelwyn, of course. And thank you. I am aware that your task of looking after me is complicated by the fact that I am awake again, but please be assured that your care is highly treasured, and I promise you that the service you provided for my brother and me during those days of danger will not be forgotten.” To her surprise, Maelwyn blushed and averted her gaze in obvious embarrassment.

“What kind of a servant would I have been to abandon you, Lady Éowyn?” the young woman mumbled, starring at her shoes. She ached to go, uncomfortable as if she had accidentally sat down on a busy ant hive. “It was the very least I could do. I was honoured by your trust in me.”

“A trust well earned. You risked your life to help Éomer, although I had no right to ask this deed of you. I would not call that a small thing.” Éowyn’s gaze grew intense, and out of impulse, she suddenly laid her hand onto Maelwyn’s thigh. “It will not be forgotten, Maelwyn. I mean that… and now go and see whether there is not a sheltered, sunny spot to be had for the two of us on the terrace.”

“Provided you would grace me with your company while I wait for my brother to return from his errand?”

“Of course, my Lady. I’d be glad to. Now please, I beg you not to stand up on your own while I go and make the arrangements. I will be right back and help you.”

Firefoot’s breathing had subsided to a normal pattern as they approached the Snowbourn in a relaxed walk, and only the stallion’s sweat-glistening hide and the foam on his neck gave away the effort that lay behind him. After the Dunedáin had vanished from sight, Éomer had sent their éored back to the city before spontaneously challenging Éothain to a race to the river, providing his mount with the opportunity to burn off energy that had accumulated over the last two days he had spent in the stable. Always a fierce competitor, Firefoot had not allowed Scatha to pass, and when the other stallion had given up, had triumphantly lifted head and tail as he flew over the ground as if to mock his challenger.

Now both horses walked side by side along the river’s edge, reins loose, for once depleted of energy and thus providing their riders with the perfect opportunity for their difficult talk. For a while, the two friends rode in silence, still occupied with the rush of adrenaline from their race, but what had at first felt like mutual togetherness, changed very quickly to uncomfortable waiting, and Éothain’s rigid bearing reminded Éomer of his real reason for seeking the solitude of the river. Another glance from the corner of his eye confirmed to him that if he wanted their quarrel settled, it would be he who had to make the start, for Éothain did not seem inclined to speak at all.

“I had a conversation with your mother last night,” he began, but to his surprise found himself immediately interrupted, although it had seemed to him that Éothain’s attention had been focused on the far horizon, barely even hearing him.

“I saw you together. And I can easily guess what she told you, but no matter what she said--”

“There is no but, Éothain.” Éomer wished that his friend would look at him and see how much he meant these words. “Your mother was perfectly right: I was selfish. I only saw what the verdict meant for me; I did not consider what it meant for the people of Edoras, and that they would have been left at the Worm’s mercy had you indeed followed me into exile.” He shook his head. “I did neither know that Gríma’s men controlled the stables, nor that he had threatened death to the families of those who accompanied me. I knew none of these things, although they render my anger unjustified, especially when it concerns you. I am the one who must apologise.”

“Don’t. You have every right to be disappointed,” Éothain muttered, still avoiding his gaze. His expression, even in profile, seemed unusually hard to Éomer, almost hewn into stone. He could not remember ever having seeing his friend in this condition. “We have been best friends for over ten years. Friends help each other in their need, or what point would there be in friendship? What kind of a friend was I to let them chase you out into the storm, knowing that even if you survived the elements, Gríma would not leave it at that?” Éothain turned around, and in his eyes burned the cold flame of self-loathing and shame. “I knew that he would do everything in his power to have you killed, Éomer. And still I did nothing. I was ready to sacrifice you just because I was not man enough to follow my instincts. No matter what you or mother say, there is no excuse for that.”

Éomer held his gaze. “Aye, there is, Éothain, and you know it very well yourself: we are commanders of the Rohírrim, and as such, our first duty will always be to the people of our ward. We swore that oath on the day we joined the éoreds. Our first concern will always have to be those who cannot defend themselves, even – or especially – over personal matters. Thus--”

“But you were one of them!” Éothain yelled, and beneath him, Scatha gave a surprised jump, almost unseating him. Absent-mindedly stroking the grey’s neck, Céorl’s son righted himself: “At that moment, you were one of those needing protection! They sent you out without weapons and provisions, without the means to fend off enemies, or even just hunt to sustain yourself in the wild!” He shook his head, and his blue eyes pierced Éomer. “And don’t tell me that, as a soldier, you are less prone to being killed by the enemy; that is only true for as long as you carry appropriate weaponry. Without sword or spear, a Uruk’s or even an ordinary orc’s strength will always surpass every man’s strength.”

The memories of his own fight in the cave quickly flashed before Éomer’s eye, but he forced them back, dismissing them as not helpful.

“That may be so, but as Riders of the Mark, we also learned the many ways of evading the enemy’s attention. I was capable of looking after myself, Éothain; I was no helpless lad lost in the woods. And why should you have endangered your family by disobeying the Worm when your father was already taking action on my behalf? Your mother told me that Céorl left for Aldburg to alert the Eastmark’s éoreds of my coming, which he could only do because he had just returned from patrol that morning and not brought his horse to the stables, which were under the Worm’s control. It was impossible for you to leave, and it would have been wrong, Éothain, and you are well aware of this! Your resisted emotion and followed reason instead, although it was one of those decisions every commander dreads to make. Don’t think that I do not know how hard it is to make that choice, for I was in the same position. Had you not stayed to keep the filth at bay on top of Edoras, things could have turned even worse: then it would not only have been the Royal Household taken hostage, but the entire city, and many more would have died. You made the right choice, Éothain; get it in your head! A storm is headed our way, and we must all work together if we want to brave it. When we ride to war, we cannot afford doubt within our ranks. It is time to put this behind you!”

At first, it seemed to him that Éothain had another stubborn reply upon the tip of his tongue… but then he looked away. Thinking about what he had just been told, Éomer hoped as they continued their ride in brooding silence. Above their heads, two hawks were sailing the mild breeze, and their lonely cries carried far while they circled in endless spirals above a land on the verge of being reborn after the hard winter. He sighed, wishing for a moment to be one of them, with no concerns for what the next day would bring. Those birds knew nothing about treason or disappointment, about honour and duty; their only concern was to fill their stomachs and those of their offspring and survive from day to day. How much easier such a life had to be. But then again, what did those hawks know of love… and compassion… and joy? What good was a life without these things, and were not these experiences alone worth anything one had to endure to find them?

“Éothain…” he began anew, sensing that he had not yet reached his friend. “Believe me, I understand how you feel. I was faced with the same choice: that between Éowyn… and the good of our people. Though my head tells me that it was the right decision to first eliminate Saruman’s thread to the Mark before I rode to Edoras, my heart still bleeds because in the same breath, it forced me to abandon my sister, fully aware that Gríma would play his evil games with her. Everything in me called me home where she needed me… and yet I rode in the opposite direction. Trust me, Éothain, not a moment has passed since I first made that decision when I did not loathe myself for it… especially after finding Éowyn in this horrible condition upon my return.” Éomer’s gaze strayed to the distant hill, and the golden sparkle of the roof on top of it. “I did what had to be done, but the knowledge gives me no comfort.”

Éothain exhaled forcefully, and in addition to his self-hatred, a new expression of despair flickered in his eyes.

“I appreciate your attempt to comfort me, Éomer… but there is no such thing to be had for me, for what happened to your sister, is a result of my failure as well. I had meant to watch over Éowyn for you, thinking it was the least I could do when I had already failed to come to your aid. I had meant to do everything in my power to ensure that Éowyn did not come to harm while you were away…” Éothain swallowed and turned away from Éomer’s inquisitive gaze, and his voice dropped to a whisper filled with self-hatred. “You saw what became of it. My vows are worthless.”

“I failed my best friend; I failed your sister, our king… and I failed my own father. I put him into the grave because I was too scared to storm up that bloody hill and kill the filthy Worm where he stood! Instead I waited until it was too late to save him, and until it was almost too late for Éowyn as well! You were right to hate me when you came back, Éomer, and I am perfectly aware that you only speak with me now because it is for the good of Rohan. Inwardly, you despise me. Say it openly and spare me your false compassion!”

For a moment, Éomer could only stare at his friend in utter consternation, and his reply died on his tongue. Slowly, deep lines appeared on his brow as he shook his head in beginning anger, then he growled, barely able to restrain his temper: “That is just complete and utter nonsense! It is not pity I offer you, Éothain; it is understanding from a friend who experienced the same dilemma, but I swear that if you call me a liar once again, you will give me a genuine reason for our quarrel!” Reflexively, he corrected his seat as Firefoot shifted nervously underneath him in reaction to his sudden anxiety.

“You listen to me now, Éothain, and if you refuse to pay attention to a friend, you will pay attention to your marshal now: I learned something while I was away, and that is that sometimes, there are circumstances when not even our best intentions and skill can ensure the safety of those we love. That sometimes, the sacrifice of a few cannot be avoided for the good of many. Sometimes, despite all effort, it is impossible to save everyone!”

“I know that, Éomer. But in most cases, strategy and courage combined will defeat the enemy. I was unable to provide either.”

“Your father was a great warrior. So is Elfhelm. And yet both were powerless against the Worm. Our very King was turned into a tool for the Mark’s destruction against his will! Théodred, likewise a great man of war and a cunning strategist, fell victim to Gríma’s schemes! What does that tell you?”

Éothain remained quiet. Éomer could not tell whether his words were really heard, but he continued anyway, hoping that his own discovery would open his friend’s eyes.

“For many years, I simply refused to accept the idea that the filth could be our equal or even superior in his scheming, and it was this exact manner of thinking that enabled him to get us on our knees. We underestimated him. No, Éothain, as much as I hate Gríma Wormtongue, I have to admit that he was a cunning adversary. Do not seek the reasons for what happened within yourself; you did what you could under the given conditions, and I doubt that anyone could have done better. The Worm did not leave you with many options. In the end you freed Edoras; that is what counts.”

“So I should congratulate Wormtongue on his cunning strategy and forget those who died, is this what you say?”

“Don’t twist my words around,” Éomer growled, slowly but surely feeling his patience wane. Béma, he had known that Éothain’s stubbornness was secondary only to his own, but this discussion rapidly grew tiresome. If his friend was so determined to hate himself, what could he possibly do to make him see the truth? “Of course you should not congratulate him! Simply accept that it was a perfectly executed plan… and remember it for the future, so that no enemy will ever take advantage of us again. Gríma Wormtongue taught us a painful, but valuable lesson, and we would do well to learn from it. That is what I mean.” A sceptical look pierced him, but he remained steadfast under the other man’s scrutiny. At last, Éomer thought he saw a slight softening in the features before him.

“The Gods help me, I think you are indeed serious,” Éothain mumbled, more to himself than to Éomer, then he exhaled forcefully and looked away as if to regard something between his steed’s ears. “I do not know… I will have to think about what you said. It is not easy to come to terms with everything that happened, and to accept that there was nothing to be done about it. It is not really a trait we Éorlingas are known for, to accept things as a given.”

“That may be so, yet sometimes, it would be foolish to deny it. You know me, Éothain: Am I not usually the first one to question whether in a situation, something more could have been tried? This time, I truly do not see what else you could have done. Trust me, Éothain… and trust your mother; she knows it as well. Save the energy you put into hating yourself and use it instead to punish the enemy, what do you say, Brother?”

A very, very faint smile began to soften Éothain’s features, and although his eyes remained sad, Éomer knew that he had won when he extended his hand.

“It may take time…” For a moment, Éothain stared at Éomer’s offered hand, undecided. Then he accepted it. “But it sounds like a worthy goal, Brother.”

The sun was working miracles on her wounded mind, helping her more than any healer could ever have – safe perhaps the one who had rescued her from her dark hiding place. With a sleepy smile, Éowyn huddled more tightly into the furs and blankets Maelwyn had brought her to ensure that her lady would not catch death on her first time outside in many days. Dear Maelwyn, she had stopped at nothing to accommodate her every wish and make sure that she lacked nothing, running ceaselessly to and fro between the kitchens, Éowyn’s chambers and outside as she arranged everything to her satisfaction.

Then she had helped her into her clothes, and when they had been ready to leave her chambers, it had been Théoden-King himself who had gladly taken the opportunity to support his niece on the way out, taking a highly welcome break from his daily duties to sit with her in her sheltered corner for a while and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. Out here on the terrace, with the slight breeze that carried the scent of horses, hay and fresh grass and the sound of the busy city up to them, the oppressive darkness of the Golden Hall quickly faded to a distant shadow; an unpleasant memory Éowyn was determined to ignore although she knew that she would have to return to it all too soon.

But not yet. Not any time soon. Straightening in her seat, Éowyn picked up the teacup from the little table beside her and thoughtfully sipped the still hot liquid. Duty had called her uncle back into the hall a while ago, and so with no one to distract her, she had returned to her musings. Her uncle had looked sad when he had told her of all the things that had happened in the city and the Kingdom while they had been at the mercy of Gríma Wormtongue, and even when he had spoken of the good ones, the triumph achieved in the west and the return. He had not said why, but to Éowyn it was clear that his trouble was caused by something between him and Éomer. Tired and weak as she had been, she had not missed the change of her brother’s expression, the way his features had turned to stone last night when Théoden had opened the door to her bedchamber. Neither had she failed to notice Éomer’s suddenly rigid bearing when he left, barely acknowledging the man under whose roof he had grown up with another glance. Too exhausted to ask her uncle for the reason of their strife, she had slipped back into sleep, comforted by Théoden’s presence although she perceived great sadness in him, a notion which had followed her into her dreams… until they had become even worse.

Her dreams… Éowyn inhaled, and with a blink, attempted to force back the memory, but it was already too late. Of course, He had played a vital role in them as he first taunted her with the claim that it was indeed Éomer his men had captured in the mountains, only to suddenly throw something onto her blanket. In silent horror, she had seen that it was a severed hand, still holding a bloodstained sword… a sword she recognised. Then he had ravaged her, until she had woken.

“Gods…” An anguished whisper escaped Éowyn as she squeezed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to escape the horrible images and buried her face in her hands. The teacup fell and spilled its steaming contents onto the ground, but she did not even hear it as she fought with the rising surge of despair. It was over; Gríma was gone! There was no reason to burst into tears over something that had not happened! “Please, help me. Make this go away…”

Confused, Éowyn opened her eyes – and beheld the strangest creature before her: no larger than a child, but it was not a child’s face that was looking at her out of blue eyes with a mixture of sorrow, helplessness and compassion. Heat flushed her face over having been caught by a stranger in a moment of weakness, and yet as she looked on, it seemed to her that the short stranger’s interest in her was genuine. He wanted to help. And somehow, he looked lonely, too. Lost. Almost as lost as she felt.

“Aye, my Lady. Of course. My name is Meriadoc Brandybuck, but those who know me only call me Merry. I have come to Rohan in the Lord Aragorn’s company.”

“And they left without you?” Éowyn furrowed her brow. “How can that be? I do not assume that they have forgotten you?”

“Nay, my Lady.” Merry looked down on his hands, which were ceaselessly folding and refolding the seams of his shirt. “They did not. They were riding into danger, and…uhm… apparently they thought…”

“… that it was not necessary for you to experience it, too?” she offered, a knowing expression on her face. “They left you behind because they thought you had nothing to aid their cause? They considered you deadweight?”

“And yet they left you behind nonetheless, because they thought you could not be of use.” Éowyn lifted her chin, and suddenly, a hard spark of defiance came to life in her eyes. “Alas, I know that feeling rather well myself.” She nodded at the empty chair beside her. “May I ask you to take a seat, Master Merry? You must have seen many wondrous things on your travels with the Lord Aragorn, and if it would not be too much to ask, I would very much like to listen to your tale. We have something in common, I gather.”

It was past midday before Éomer directed his mount toward the winding path which led to the Royal Stables. After his talk with Éothain and satisfied with the result, the son of Eomund had followed a sudden impulse to take a detour through their camp to speak with Erkenbrand and show himself to the Riders whose Commander he now officially was. As before in the Westfold, when he had assumed his position as leader of their éohere, an incredible surge of pride and love for his fellow kinsmen welled up in Éomer as they cheered him, until that emotion was replaced by an even stronger sense of responsibility. These men were laying their lives in his hands; they trusted his decisions and would follow him to Gondor and further, if fate would demand it of them. And while rationally, Éomer knew that it would be impossible to bring them all back alive – indeed they would be glad enough if any of them returned from Gondor at all – the sight of the conviction in their eyes almost robbed him of his power of speech.

Erkenbrand had welcomed him with a knowing smile upon his lips, but the older, esteemed warrior had chosen not to comment on the emotion he had seen in his marshal’s eyes as he gave his report. It sounded good enough: after two days of rest, both horses and men had recovered from the battle in Isengard and the long journey through the Mark enough to leave whenever the fires would call them, and their number was – thanks to the errand-riders Erkenbrand had sent out on his ride from Westfold – still rising. If war came, it would find Rohan ready. Satisfied with Erkenbrand’s report, Éomer ordered his Captain to ensure that none of their riders would go to bed without a warm meal that night, which the citizens of Edoras would happily supply for their warriors. The day when the men would need their strength was fast approaching.

In high spirits, the son of Éomund had then turned back toward the gates, relieved to be done with the most important tasks he had set himself for the day, and eager to return to the Golden Hall to meet his sister. In which condition would he find Éowyn, Éomer wondered as the roof the ancient stables rose before him. Would she still be as weak as on the previous night, unable to sit up by herself and too exhausted to speak with him? Or had what little food she had already eaten partly restored her strength? He could barely wait to see her.

Usually, Éomer enjoyed taking care of Firefoot himself after a ride; the feeding and grooming usually providing him with the highly welcome opportunity to let his thoughts stray for a while whereas for the rest of the day, he usually had to remain focused on his many duties. Yet today, it seemed to take almost unbearably long to relieve the stallion of his tack, rub him dry and fill his manger with hay and oats, but at last he was done, and under the surprised glances of the stable hands, the honourable First Marshal of the Mark left the stables almost running.

As Éomer stormed up the stairs toward the Golden Hall, he already caught sight of an unusual arrangement – two chairs and a little table - on the western side of terrace, sheltered from the wind and with a seemingly endless view of the plains below, and a relieved smile spread on his face. Surely if Éowyn felt already well enough to sit outside, it had to be a good sign.

Barely stopping to acknowledge the door wardens as they nodded their greetings at him, Éomer approached the sheltered niche with long strides… and cocked an eyebrow as he realised that Éowyn was not alone. The remaining hobbit – Merry - was by her side, and just now carefully spreading a warm blanket over the fitfully sleeping White Lady of Rohan. Strangely moved by the little one’s caring gesture, Éomer silently stood and watched, not making his presence known. It began to dawn on him why Aragorn and his companions had gone to so much effort to find and rescue these Halflings. There was something about them that penetrated even the tough shell of a warrior, and it was not that alone by their very size, they reminded one of children. No, it was a notion of earnestness Éomer received from them that he very much liked; a sense of caring for others combined with the inability to lie. Although it would seem to the ordinary eye that a hobbit and a Rohír could not have much in common, it nevertheless began to dawn to the son of Éomund that there were more traits they shared than there were dividing them.

A puzzled frown spread on his face as he thought about it deeper. How could he feel so strongly about these Halflings when he had barely met, much less spoken with them? Éomer was still wondering when the object of his musings felt at last that he was being observed and turned around. A red hue crept into Merry’s cheeks as he beheld the warrior behind him, who had obviously been watching him for quite a while, and he lowered his eyes, as if Éomer had caught him at some forbidden thing.

“Lord Marshal… I mean, Marshal Éomer…. I…” He looked at the young woman beside him, who was still asleep. “I just thought… your sister is still so frail, and with the sun gone, I did not want her to catch death out here. I was merely being concerned.”

“And I thank you for your concern, Master Meriadoc,” Éomer nodded. “It is much appreciated. There was to little of that in those dark days through which we went.” His gaze softened as he regarded Éowyn. It was testimony to her exhaustion that she had not woken yet, although they were not whispering. “´My sister can surely need a friend who helps her to come to terms with the horrible things she endured… all the more as I will be gone again, soon.” He sighed, suddenly feeling sad as the thought settled.

“Aye,” Merry said, and he did not look more cheerful than the warrior before him. “To Gondor. To war.” He exhaled, and for a moment, stared into the direction Gandalf and Pippin had taken. There was nothing to be seen of them anymore, although the view was unobstructed for many leagues. He shook his head. “It seems that everyone is going there, and only the useless stay behind to await whatever fate eventually finds them.”

“Surely you do not mean what you say, Master Hobbit. I have not heard the entire tale of your journey, but if you made it from the far north all the way to Edoras, surely it was not only because your companions carried you on their shoulders. I saw with my own eyes the part you played in the downfall of Saruman. Do not belittle your deeds, Meriadoc Brandybuck. It would appear to me that it was largely your doing that prepared the ground for our triumph in the west.”

“And yet many of your riders died when the Ents attacked. I do not feel at all confident that it was the right decision we made.”

“But you did not know of our coming… and neither did we know of yours. It was an unfortunate coincidence that we arrived at Nan Curunir shortly after each other, without the chance to establish that we were both on the same side. It was not your fault. ” Éomer’s gaze briefly wandered toward the camp before the city gates. “And yet it is useless to speculate how things might have turned out had the Tree Druids not intervened. Saruman’s army was many times larger than ours, and the territory was better suited for their way of fighting. I would not have dared to attack them there had there been another way.” He shook his head, then gave himself an inner push. “As I said, it is no use musing what might have happened under different conditions. We must look ahead now, because that is where our future – or our doom – awaits us. You played your part in the proceedings already, and it was certainly not insignificant.”

“But why must it end here, when everyone else proceeds?” Merry insisted, and the anguish in his expression was unmistakable. “All my friends continue to contribute to the common effort, only I am told to stay behind like… an old person, or a child.” Defiantly, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I am no child, Marshal. I may not be tall of statue, but I am no child. I know how to use my sword, and I did so many times on the journey that lies behind me. Why am I not allowed to accompany you into battle?”

Éomer sighed. It was a discussion he had led many times before with his sister, and he was no stranger to the points Merry was trying to make. Involuntarily, his gaze strayed to Éowyn, but his sister still lay silent beneath the blanket, although he could not tell whether she was listening or sleeping.

“You think this an insult, Master Meriadoc, when it is, in fact, proof of your companions’ love. They do not want you endangered when there is no need for it. They want you to be safe.”

“Isn’t it rather so that every being that is no orc or troll or otherwise in Mordor’s service is endangered for as long as the threat in the east exists? At least that is the situation as I understand it, but of course, I am only a hobbit who knows nothing of war.” Again Merry’s gaze went to the distant horizon, and the bitterness on the innocent features made it hard for Éomer to look at him, so he followed his gaze. Yet what he saw could not soothe him, for it seemed to him that the formless darkness in the east had spread since the morning, and its very sight set a chill in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, the Rohír saw Merry’s head turn around. “Isn’t it true, however, that our chances of survival will grow, the more of us work together against that threat?”

“So you are desperate to ride with us into battle; that is what you want to tell me?” His gaze hardened. This was where all compassion ended. Merry had to understand of what he was speaking… that war was not an adventure. “Have you ever been in one, I wonder, aside from the one at Isengard which you only experienced from the lofty heights of a being the orcs did not dare to attack? You were but an observer in Isengard, Master Hobbit. The triumph achieved is partly yours because it were you and your friend who roused those creatures, but it was them who did the fighting, while you observed from the security of their branches. Let me assure you that the experience of battle is quite different on the ground, amidst scores of enemies racing toward you with their fangs bared and weapons raised to hew you to pieces. Where your senses are assaulted by orcish stench and the cries of your friends and kinsmen as they are being butchered all around you, and where the very soil beneath your feet is soaked and slippery with blood. Trust me, Meriadoc Brandybuck, it is not an experience you should aspire to make. Consider yourself lucky that you won’t have to…unless, of course, we lose. Then it will still be early enough.”

Unwilling to discuss the subject any longer, Éomer shifted his attention toward his sister. It worried him that, despite their intense discussion, Éowyn had still not woken, although it also seemed to him that something had changed in her breathing. Still he could not decide whether she was only pretending to sleep and instead listening in on their argument of a topic she was no stranger to herself. In that case, she would probably pick it up once they were alone. He did not welcome the prospect.

“Excuse me,” he said and put an end to his argument with the hobbit by working his arms underneath Éowyn’s body and picking her up. “But like you said, it is getting too cold for my sister out here in the shadow. I will bring her back to her chambers.” With Éowyn in his arms, light as a feather, he turned toward the awkwardly waiting Merry once again. “Please, do not misunderstand me, Master Hobbit: you are being needed here. I would be greatly relieved if you could be that friend to my sister she desperately needs, and I would greatly appreciate if you were there for her once I’m gone. Will you promise me this, so that my mind is at ease at least in this regard when I leave?”

For a moment, uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Merry contemplated Éomer’s offer. Then his shoulders slumped, and he lowered his eyes, defeated.

“Aye, Marshal. I will try to be a good friend to your sister.” He looked unhappy, but Éomer chose to ignore his miserable disposition, and his vow sounded true.

“I thank you, Merry. And I look forward to seeing you tonight in Meduseld.” With a solemn nod, Éomer turned around and left Merry standing, thus missing the look of sheer desperation in the hobbit’s gaze.

Brother and sister attracted several questioning glances, but Éomer did not pause to explain himself as he strode through the warm twilight of the Golden Hall, Éowyn in his arms. The benches were partly occupied by men and women in Théoden’s service having the midday meal, all of whom looked up from their plates to glance with concern at the strange display.

For a second, Éomer felt tempted to answer: ‘Until last night, Mistress Elfgyth, the Lady Éowyn was dying. How can you seriously expect her to be well only half a day later?’ But he remained silent and instead only quickened his steps to escape the general attention, curtly nodding his thanks at the guard who opened the door to Éowyn’s chambers for him. He had almost reached the bed when he felt movement in his arms, and a sleepy voice inquired:

“Putting you to bed, because you fell asleep outside, and with the sun gone, it is too cold for you there, Sister.” He gave her a little concerned smile and gently pressed her against his chest. “How do you feel, Little Bird?”

“Tired,” Éowyn confessed. She looked disdainfully at her bed. “A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise well. Please, will you not set me down, Brother? I slept long enough, and I will not get back my strength by lying on the bed all day. Tonight will be soon enough.”

“Would you rather like to sit in the chair then, perhaps?” he asked, already turning around.

“Aye. I’d like to look out of the window. But please, Éomer, do set me down. I can walk there on my own two feet; you need not carry me, I assure you. I am much better today.” She saw the doubt in his eyes, but then he complied – still holding on to support her. A wave of dizziness swept over Éowyn and for a moment, her grip on his arm tightened as she fought against it.

“Aye…” Her voice seemed to reach her own ears from a great distance, and she hated how weak it sounded. No wonder Éomer sounded concerned. “I am well… a little light-headed, perhaps but it will pass, the more often I do this. See?” She withdrew her hand, and with small, shaky steps, made her way over to the big armchair by the window while Éomer followed in her wake, ready to catch her if she fell. With an exhausted, but proud smile, she looked up, comfortably huddling into the blanket that he held out for her. He could not help but return it.

“I already walked a little this morning, but…” she inhaled. “I’m getting steadier. Some of my strength already returned, it seems.”

“I am glad to hear this.” And yet she still looks so very frail, Éomer thought, fighting not to show his concern too openly. Éowyn despised pity as much as he did, and she had never been the one to enjoy being coddled. In a way, she reminded him of some wild beast, which only got more foul-mooded the worse it felt and punished anyone not respecting its wish for solitude. Well, he felt certainly not inclined to get a taste of her claws today; too happy was he over their reunion. “Can I get you something? Did you have the midday meal already, or would you like to eat together with me? I must admit, I’m rather hungry myself.”

“I imagine you must be,” Éowyn said. “After all, you were gone all morning. Uncle told me that you accompanied our rescuers to the crossroads and saw them off.” Furrows appeared on her brow as she looked at him. “So the Lord Aragorn has left before I could thank him? That is a shame. What will he think of me?”

“You were still asleep when he left, but trust me, he would not want to be thanked. He would not even accept mine. It is reward enough for him that you live.” He turned around, an eyebrow lifted in question. “I have not seen Maelwyn yet. Where is she?”

“She looked tired, and so I told her to go home and spend the day with her husband and children. She did far more for me than I ever had a right to ask, and I feel well enough to not need a constant caretaker anymore.” Éowyn leaned back into the chair, and her blue eyes scanned her brother’s features as if she asked herself how much he knew of the happenings in Meduseld during his absence. Was Éomer aware that Maelwyn had risked her life for him? She could not tell. There was a strange guardedness about Éomer that reminded her of her Uncle’s behaviour earlier. She did not know its reason, although she had a vague idea. It was strange though, as if a part of Éomer’s personality was shut to her, whereas before she had always been able to read her brother like an open book. There was a notion of great bitterness that she sensed, and a reluctance to address the problem that had caused it. She was not sure whether she should ask him.

Meanwhile, Éomer seemed happy enough to concern himself with more immediate demands.

“Very well. Then I will get us something from the kitchens, if you will just excuse me for a moment?”

He disappeared and left Éowyn with a vague feeling of unease. With a deep breath, the daughter of Eomund turned her gaze toward the window. After the clear morning, the sun had hidden behind a layer of high clouds, and although the view of the mountains was still inspiring, the shadow brought back the memories from her dreams. Of course, Gríma Wormtongue had visited her again, even while she had been sleeping in her chair.

Suddenly shivering, Éowyn huddled even tighter into her blanket, but it helped little against the rush of ice water in her veins, as she cast a nervous glance to the back of her room. She could still feel his prying eyes on her, and his silken voice that had uttered such horrendous threats at her with the smoothness of poisoned honey still reverberated in her ears as if Wormtongue were standing behind her.

A black surge of despair welled up in Éowyn, and she hid her face in her hands as her lips began to tremble. No, she did not want to burst into tears when Éomer would be back any moment! Her brother had enough worries already; there was no need to cause him yet more concern with her torment, especially as he would be powerless against it.

“Go away, Worm,” she whispered into the silence of her room. “Why can you not leave me alone and find some other soul to torment?” And yet contrary to her plea, a pale, sneering face began to take shape before her closed eyes.

‘Did you honestly think it would be so easy to get rid of me, Daughter of Eomund?’ Wormtongue seemed to ask her; his expression bespeaking his amusement. ‘Have you learned nothing? I will always be with you, if not in body, then in spirit. No matter how hard you will try to deny it, but for the rest of your life, you will feel my eyes upon you, and when you lie down at night, I will lie with you. It is my prize, the one thing your kinsmen could not take away from me even when they chased me away! Better make yourself comfortable with this thought.’

“No. No!” With a gasp, she opened her eyes, and as before, the view of the snow-capped mountains greeted her… and yet it seemed to Éowyn as if, she could still see the fading outline of Gríma’s victorious smirk in the rough rock. It was the sound of the door which rescued her from the nasty daydream, and grateful for the distraction, she turned around in time to see her brother enter with a large tray in his hands. The tantalising smell of roasted meat reached Éowyn’s nose, and she forced a smile on her face. “Gods, Éomer…! You do not honestly expect me to eat all this, do you? I could not even have managed so before my illness!”

“Don’t worry, I will help you,” he announced generously and rubbed his hands, already feasting his eyes on the overladen tray as he handed Éowyn her cutlery.

Even if Wormtongue’s unexpected assault had just dampened Éowyn’s appetite, she had to admit that it looked good. There were several thick pieces of honey-glazed roast with sauce, an assortment of steamed vegetables, bread, and two steaming bowls of something that looked like creamy pumpkin soup, and while she was still taking it in, there was a rap on the door and Elfgyth appeared with yet another tray in her hands.

“And here we have your wine and juice. Lord Éomer, my lady…” she nodded at Éowyn. “Enjoy your meal.”

“We will, Mistress Elfgyth. Thank you.” Carefully, Éomer poured wine into their glasses and then sat down on the other side of the table. At the sound of the closing door he lifted his glass and looking at Éowyn. “What shall we drink to, Éowyn? To freedom? The defeat of our enemies?”

“’Freedom’ sounds good,” she said, and lifted her glass to meet his. In the back of her head, she heard Gríma chuckle. ‘Oh, but you know that you will never be free from me, my lady!’ Doing her best to ignore it, she met Éomer’s expectant gaze over the table. “To ‘Freedom’, Brother!”

For a moment, it seemed to Éowyn as if a shadow had suddenly fallen over Éomer’s features, and his eyes pierced her questioningly - ‘He could not have heard him! The voice was only in my head!’- but then he simply nodded and said: “To ‘Freedom’, Sister… may we all enjoy it when we sit here, one year from now, and look east with glad hearts.”

For a while, life was simple and good. Sister and brother sat together and ate, rejoicing in each other’s long missed company, and the silence between them was a good one. At last Éomer leant back in his chair, feeling ready to tell Éowyn the details of his time as an outcast in as neutral a voice as he could manage, and she told him of the things that had happened in his absence, although she stayed deliberately vague about the cruelties that had been inflicted upon her by the hands of Gríma Wormtongue. From the look in her brother’s eyes though, it was clear that Éomer guessed what she left unsaid, and inwardly, she sighed.

They knew each other too well. Despite his outward mask of indifference, Éowyn distinctively felt the bitter undercurrent in Éomer’s voice when he told her of his ordeal, and since he had known his sister as a brave and courageous woman who would not have slipped into the state in which he had found her for the reasons she had just given him, the truth was communicated only between the lines.

The breaks between their exchanges grew as both sought increasingly often the refuge of the view from the window to escape each other’s knowing glances, until all relief and cheerfulness had vacated the room, and silence spread between sister and brother; it hung above their heads like a precariously balanced rock, ready to fall and crush them. At last, Éomer gave himself a push.

“I should go,” he muttered, evading his sister’s eyes. “Éothain asked me to attend his father’s burial later today, and there are a few things that need my attention until then.”

“I would like to be there, too. Éothain did so much for us. Éomer, can you not take me with you? Please?” Her brother regarded her sceptically.

“I doubt that you are strong enough yet. The burial grounds are not exactly in the neighbourhood.”

“I could not walk there, no. I agree. But I believe that I could hold myself on a horse. And Windfola has a much easier temper than your stallion. Please, Éomer, this is important to me.” Her gaze pleaded.

Éomer did not look convinced, but he understood Éowyn’s desire. Éothain was a close friend and had been for many years, and among friends, it was expected that one stood by each other in times of need for as long as one could still move. It was an urge one had to answer. So despite his concern, he nodded, although it was with a heavy heart.

“All right. I will take you along. But you will be riding with me in Firefoot’s saddle where I can hold you should your strength give out. And I will not discuss it.” For a moment, he saw objection flicker in Éowyn’s eyes, the headstrong streak they both shared making an unexpected appearance – ‘Good to see it back!’ – then she consented, apparently having sensed that Éomer had already gone as far as he ever would. She acknowledged his offer with a nod.

“Thank you, Brother. This is something I must do, and I know that you understand.” She inhaled. “When should I be ready?”

“The burial will take place an hour before sunset. I will come to fetch you a little before that. You know how long it takes to get down there, so be ready in time.” And with that, Éomer rose to his feet. He picked up the now considerably lighter tray. “Maelwyn is at home, you say? Will she attend the burial as well?”

“I would think so. Éothain cares for her, and I’m sure that the same holds true for Maelwyn. She’ll want to be there for him. Why?” Éowyn looked up, but she did not receive an answer. She hesitated, suddenly tense. There was something she had meant to discuss with her brother since she had first witnessed the strange tension between him and Théoden on the previous night, and even more when she had perceived the old man’s sadness during their earlier conversation outside. It was something that needed to be addressed urgently, but was it the right time to do this now before the burial of a good friend? On the other hand, Éowyn contemplated as her eyes followed Éomer to the door, she could hardly afford to wait, because in the light of everything she had learned in the course of the last hours, it was likely that both men would soon ride to war, and then it would be too late. No, however much she feared it, she had to address this issue now. Bracing herself because she knew that Éomer would not take her intrusion well, Éowyn took a deep breath.

“Éomer?” He turned around. “Wait. There is something else.” Sudden wariness stood in his gaze at her strange tone.

“You and Uncle…” He tensed. Of course. He knew where this was going. “I could not help it, but… last night, when he came and you left my room, I felt the tension between you… and as much as you tried to tell me of the things that happened to you in the wild without emotions, I still perceived a notion of great bitterness from you.” She looked him straight in the eye. “You still haven’t forgiven him, have you, Éomer?”

His eyes darkened, and had she been anyone else, that look would have filled her with fear.

Éomer’s voice was low and cold, a dangerous glint in his eyes telling her to drop the subject.

“I will not talk about it, Éowyn. And least of all today. As I just told you, I have a burial to attend; do you not think that this is enough on my mind for one day?” Again he turned to go, meaning to cut off the discussion. But they were not siblings for nothing.

“When then?” This was too important, Éowyn reminded herself when she beheld the angry sparkle in her brother’s eyes over her refusal to give in. “You will soon ride to war. All kinds of things can happen on a field of battle. What if one of you is killed? Do you really want to ride sundered from the man who raised you like his own son?”

With such force that he almost shattered the tray, Éomer put it down on the table.

“You make it sound as if it were I who is to blame! Do I really have to remind you that it was he who banished me? Do I have to remind you of the horrible things he said to me?”

“It was Gríma who banished you!” Éowyn stated, in as calm a voice as she could manage. It would not help her case if she, too, resulted to shouting. “He used Uncle’s voice and body, but it was not Uncle who did the damage, and in your heart, you know this, Éomer! I understand that you went through many hardships, but it was not our Uncle who did this to you! Why will you not see this and forgive him?”

“Have you forgiven him?” Éomer asked instead, his voice deadly cold as he stepped closer. “Everything that Gríma did to you was also the result of his failure. Even if Wormtongue did not ravage you for whatever reasons, he could easily have, and that is because he was empowered by our Uncle whom you deem so innocent of everything that happened!”

“I do not have to forgive him because it never even entered my mind to accuse him!” Éowyn did not flinch from Éomer’s piercing glare, although he stood now right in front of her and stared down from his superior position with boiling intensity. ”It was the poison in him that did the harm. The poison, and the Worm!”

“And I ask you again: would you be so lenient with him if Gríma had raped you?” Éowyn blanched, sickened by the thought, and immediately, Éomer felt a pang of guilt. No, certainly this was not what he had had in mind when he had come here. He had not wanted to shout at Éowyn and stir up the memory of her ordeal, but she left him no choice.

“It would not have changed anything, Éomer, for I know that he was not the source of this evil,” Éowyn said, albeit more defensively now. Éomer’s gaze said that he did not believe her. She shook her head and inhaled. “You suffer, Éomer; how can you think that I do not see it? You try to hide your pain behind your anger, but it is in every word that you say, and in every look that you give me. It hurts you to be at odds with Uncle, and it hurts him as well. Do you not believe that Uncle would give everything to undo what has been done in his name? That he will live to regret his mistakes for the rest of his life? He lost his own son because of them, Éomer! Do you not think that this wound will torture him for the rest of his days? Is this not revenge enough for you? If it is indeed revenge you want, I dare not say. I can only hope it is not.” She could already tell that she was not getting through to him.

“I certainly do not get any satisfaction from Théoden’s current disposition, if that is what you mean, Sister; you should know me better!” Éomer sneered, enraged, then a sudden idea hit him and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion: “Let me guess: he ask you to plead with me, didn’t he? It would seem just like him, another one of his tricks. I told him to leave me alone, but he will not listen. I suppose a king is not used to having his will rejected. When next time you speak with him, tell our Uncle he is not helping his case by relentlessly pursuing me with this!”

“He asked me for nothing! He did not even mention your quarrel to me!” Éowyn snapped, now likewise enraged by her brother’s stubbornness. “And there was no need to, because I see with my own two eyes what is going on! It cannot stay like this between you, Éomer; it simply cannot!”

“So I should forgive him just because we might die with our quarrel unresolved?” Éomer snorted, disgusted. “You want me to forget what he called me and what he did to us so that he can die with a clean conscience, is that it?”

“I want you to forgive him because it is in your heart, Éomer!” Then she saw the look on his face, and suddenly it felt as if a horse had kicked her in the stomach. “It is not… is it?”

Silently, Éomer regarded her for a moment longer, and his expression made it clear to her once and for all.

“I did not say that I would never forgive him, Éowyn, but the truth is that I cannot tell yet if I can. My head agrees with you… but I fear that my heart is not ready for it. It is not only the banishment that stands between us; he listened to the Worm’s whisperings long before he fell into darkness, and you know that very well. Likewise, the things he said since my return have not helped to close the rift between us. I wish that I could put this behind me, believe me, because it occupies my thoughts when I should be thinking only about the coming battle. I wish it from the bottom of my soul… and yet every time I hear our uncle’s voice, my blood runs cold and it stops my breath, and in my head, I hear him calling me a ‘curse to his house’ again! I hear him blaming me for Théodred’s death. … And then I see his face before me when I stormed into your room, and I see the shock in his eyes over seeing me in Théodred’s armour, as if he honestly thought that I would steal it from the body of a man I regarded as my brother. No matter, what he said to excuse himself, I know the truth.” Righting himself, Éomer turned to make his departure at last. “No, Éowyn, as much I see the sense in your words and would like to follow them, I cannot find it in me, at least not yet. I’m sorry.” He looked at the tray on the table and nodded. “I will send Elfgyth to pick this up. Be ready when I come to fetch you.”

And with these words, he left, and all Éowyn could do when the door closed behind him was stare at the space he had left.

Without detour Éomer made for his study, the expression on his face and the firmness of his steps warning all who saw him that it would be a serious mistake to try and address the son of Eomund. Only after he had closed the door behind himself did part of the tension leave him, and his shoulders dropped from the involuntary defence position he had assumed in the quarrel as his eyes strayed through the sunlit room, for a moment aimless. Slowly he wandered over to the window and opened it to let in the breeze, hoping that it would help to clear his head and calm him down.

Deep inside, he knew that Éowyn was right. He would not be granted another chance for reconciliation once they were on the road to Gondor; if he wanted to have this issue resolved he would have to act now. The question was whether it was indeed what he wished for. Was it?

Staring unfocused down on the plains outside the window where the shadows grew longer, Éomer desperately sought for the answer. Yes, it pained him to see Théoden, because it stirred up the memories of the man he had loved as a boy. And yet so much evil had happened; such hurt had been done to him because of that love until he had learned to shut himself to that memory and always expect the worst, rarely leaving Edoras disappointed in this regard. Of course it had all been the Worm’s doings, but still… why had Théoden ever taken the filth in and entrusted him all that was dear to them? Why did he have to taint his own memory with something that felt so dangerously close to treason?

‘Are you certain that such a mistake could never happen to you as well?’ a voice in the back of his mind suddenly spoke up, and he blinked to rid himself of it. This was ridiculous! He would never have granted a slimy worm entry into the Golden Hall, let alone entrust him with the most powerful position in the Kingdom after the King himself! Where had Théoden’s judgment of character been on that day when he had made this fatal decision? One look had been enough for Éomer to immediately mistrust the unhealthy looking man from the western part of the Mark; the Dunlending blood in Gríma’s veins more than evident. If Théoden had – for whatever reasons – felt fond of that slumped-shouldered person, or pitied him, surely he could have found a different occupation in the Court of Edoras for him, but one simply did not make such a man counsellor of the king!

Again Éomer shook his head. Perhaps that was all very true, but it did not help him resolve the problem… which, viewed closely, came down to a simply question, really: was he ready to risk being parted in anger from the man who had raised him beneath his own roof? If it came to the worst, would he be able to live with himself if he survived? And if they both died, would their quarrel accompany them into the afterlife?

Éomer exhaled forcefully. This was a frightening thought. The people of the Mark usually saw to it that they resolved all quarrels with their loved ones or friends before they rode out again; it was something nobody needed to tell them, a natural urge to have one’s affairs settled in case one did not return. Nobody wanted to be remembered only with bitterness; it simply would not do. And he had loved Théoden once, had loved their Uncle for many long years…happy years at first, but they had turned bitter with Gríma’s arrival. And the trouble was, Éomer realised, that he still loved the older man, or else Théoden’s treason would not hurt him so deeply. What could he do to cure this pain?

A shout reached his ears from the beyond the window, and with another deep breath, he woke from his contemplation. The answer was there, and it was only logical. All that was required was a courageous, first step… a step he was not sure he was ready for.

Resolutely, Éomer turned toward his desk. Time was running away and the shadows lengthening on the plains, and there was something else that he wished to be done with before war called him east, a debt to be paid that was important to him. With a soundless sigh, Éomer lowered himself onto the chair and opened the upper drawer to take out a blank piece of paper. As he reached for his quill, thoughts of what he would write already occupied his attention…

“My little One. I am so glad to see you. Come here, Windfola! I missed you.” With a radiant smile, Éowyn slipped into her horse’s stall, unaware of the curious looks the present stable hands and her waiting brother were giving her. The men had all been beside themselves with joy over seeing their lady alive and on her feet, even if she still had to cling to Éomer for balance, and their good wishes had accompanied them through the aisle as they made for Firefoot’s stall. Éowyn had nodded her head at them, thanking them and letting the men know how much she appreciated their well-wishing, and despite the effort, a little colour had crept into her pale face, observed by Éomer with amusement and relief.

He readily granted her the time with her steed; they were still early. Aye, at last it seemed that Éowyn was well on the road to recovery, and silently, he thanked Aragorn once again. Wondering where his brother was at this moment and whether the Heir of Isildur would dare enter the Paths of the Dead at night because his company would not reach Dunharrow sooner, Éomer supported his elbows on the stall wall and watched Éowyn, revelling in his sister’s happiness. The afternoon would turn gloomy soon enough.

A heavy hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and he turned around, not believing his ears although he was certainly glad to hear the familiar deep voice.

“Elfhelm? You are out of bed already?!” The two warriors embraced heartily, and from the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that his friend and mentor was not alone. A surprised smile lit up his features. “Freela! So Éothain asked you to come?”

“Aye, he said that my man needed me,” the redhaired woman nodded, likewise looking overjoyed at seeing him. “He sent a messenger. Éomer, Béma be praised for giving you back to us! When the news of your banishment came, we feared the worst.” She opened her arms, and with a little abashed smile, Éomer lowered himself to her, his glare silently warning the grinning stable hands to make even the slightest sound. Freela, however, noticed nothing as she gently cupped his cheek with her hand and looked him in the eye. “I prayed for you, Éomer. Every night, I prayed for you… and for Elfhelm, too.” And with that, she let go of him to steal back the hand of the man she loved and comfortably leaned against him.

“Elfhelm? Elfhelm!” In the stall, Éowyn spun around, her eyes widening with joy. “And Freela, you have come, too!” Hastily she slipped out of the box and threw her arms around the man whose presence had comforted her in the darkest days of her life, her station entirely forgotten. Nobody seemed to mind. After all, these were no normal circumstances. “Oh Elfhelm… what would I have done without you? It was you who kept me sane in the dungeon. Without you, the Worm would have won.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. You are a strong and courageous woman, Lady Éowyn. You made me proud down there. No warrior could have endured this ordeal with more dignity than you did.” Elfhelm noticed Éomer’s questioning look and asked himself how much detail of their days in the dungeon Éowyn had shared with her brother. Probably not too much; the King’s niece knew well enough what such knowledge would do to the man who had vowed to protect her from all evil.

Éowyn’s fingers, light and gentle as a feather, touched one of the welts on his face, and deep blue eyes met his gaze with deep sorrow.

“Gods… he did this to you to punish me, Elfhelm. How can I ever remedy what he did to you?”

“There is no need to remedy anything, my Lady. The Worm was defeated and chased away, and sooner or later, when we catch him, I might have a bit of him before everyone else does. It is not your place to make up for the cruelty of our enemy… and know that the sight of you up and about does more to heal me than our healers could ever do with all their potions and salves.” He looked at Éomer, who shook his head at him; his brow wrinkled.

“You still look like death warmed over, Elfhelm. I cannot believe that Yalanda let you go.”

“What should she have done to stop me, throw herself at me? A good friend is getting buried; I’d still have to be chained to the wall of the dungeon to miss it. And since I’m not, well…” he shrugged and received a wry smirk from Éomer. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the stable hands light the torches. “I believe we should be on our way. Twilight is not far off.”

“Aye.” Éomer nodded and looked at Éowyn. “Should I saddle Firefoot, or…” He interrupted himself when he saw her disbelieving glance and lifted his hands in defence. “I was only asking!”

“I am not crippled, Brother. As long as they don’t take off my arms and legs, I will still be able to ride bareback… even your great beast!”

‘But only for as long as he behaves,’ Éomer meant to say, but a quick glance at his sister’s indignant expression told him that it would be better to let her have the last word for once. He cocked an eyebrow and ignored Elfhelm’s amused look before his friend turned toward his own horse.

Author's Note: It is almost done... I have been wrong before, but I think that the next one will be the final chapter of this epic after more than two years. So buckle up, take a cookie and milk and sit down for the second-last instalment of the adventures of Éomer, son of Eomund... and of course, if anyone who has not commented on the story yet but read it just the same, feels inclined to drop me a quick review, you would make a simple author very happy:-)

The square was already crowded when they arrived with the last light of the setting sun. Most or all of the citizens of Edoras had gathered, but contrary to the raging celebration of the night before, the people stood silently side by side, families and friends close together, and barely a word would be exchanged between them. They were here to pay their respect to the men who had died to defend them against the menace of Gríma Wormtongue.

Éomer narrowed his eyes as he reined in Firefoot. The men they were about to bury had died because their resistance had come too late. Such an ending could have easily been avoided if only they had acted years earlier. Even on the day of his banishment, Éomer mused, such resistance would most likely still have been rewarded with success, for he did not think that the Worm had already assembled his host of Dunlendings in the secret tunnels of Meduseld then. But of course, everyone had waited until there had been nothing left to avoid total defeat. As tragic as their deaths were, they had brought it about themselves. Which did not make this ceremony any easier.

Shaking his head to himself with a deep sigh, Éomer directed the stallion over to the platform, where one of the newly assigned Royal Guards extended his arm for the reins, but quickly backed off when the great warhorse flattened his ears at him, barely even noticed by those upon his back.

“Éomer…” Éowyn murmured before him, softly and – to his ears – with a great amount of dread. “Oh Éomer, this is horrible! There are so many of them, and I saw them all die! I was occupied with trying to reach Gríma then, but to seem them now, like this…” She interrupted herself, feeling that she had already told her brother too much of the things she had meant to keep to herself.

“You were there, when…” Éomer inhaled sharply. He had felt that Éowyn had withheld certain details of her ordeal during their meal, but had refrained from asking because he had not wanted to torture her by forcing her to relive her nightmare. “You were in the actual battle? When the Worm’s men seized command?”

“Right in its midst,” she admitted dully, aware that she had made a mistake by mentioning it. But now that it was out, she could hardly lie at her brother. Éomer knew at once when someone did not tell the truth, and he did not appreciate being lied to. “I could not sleep and stood by the window when Gríma’s men came up the slope with their prisoners, and I sensed at once that something was not right, so I raised the alarm.” She took a deep breath, lost in memory. “But of course, it was already too late.” Although Éomer sat behind her and she could not see his face, Éowyn felt his gloomy disposition over her tale. Was there perhaps something that could cheer him up? “At least I managed to cut up his face before they put me away. Quite deeply, too. Wherever he is now, he will carry that scar for life.” She thought she heard Éomer silently chuckle to himself.

“My sister, the wildcat,” he then murmured approvingly in her ear and pressed her against his chest when he brought Firefoot to a stop. “Now I cannot wait to meet the Worm again, just to see what you did to him!” His amusement was quickly ended, however, when his gaze fell upon the biers with the fallen warriors. No matter that these men were in the end responsible for their own death, they had still died in performance of their duty, he reminded himself. With a deep intake of breath, Éomer slid from Firefoot’s back and lifted his arms to help Éowyn down.

As he righted himself again, he saw Éothain and his mother standing by the bier farthest from them. On the platform, Théoden and Gamling and the newly appointed Royal Guards stood and observed, obviously waiting for the right moment to begin his speech, and for a moment, Éomer locked eyes with his uncle… and what he saw gave him pause. Outwardly composed as would be expected by their people, the old man’s anguish was visible in his eyes, only, and Éomer read abysmal guilt and shame in their watery blue. These men were dead, first of all, because their king’s error of judgment. Their trust in their ruler had put them in their graves. He could well imagine what a load on the older man’s back this recognition had to be. For how long had Hámá been Théoden’s trusted friend? Over twenty years at least… and now he was dead.

Breaking eye-contact, Éomer tied Firefoot’s reins to a hook, his lips a grim, bloodless line. It gave him no satisfaction to see the old man suffer like this, no matter what Éowyn thought. What use was saying “I told you so!” when the catastrophe had happened?

“Éomer?” Éowyn spoke into his dark thoughts as if she had read them, her slender fingers squeezing his arm. “Is aught wrong?”

“I was just thinking,” he replied vaguely, unwilling to elaborate. She probably knew what had prompted his mood, anyway. And, with a deep breath, he added: “I promised Éothain to help him carry the bier. Will you be all right walking with Uncle?”

If Éowyn had noticed his informal addressing of the man he had claimed to hate, she didn’t show it.

“Aye, of course, Éomer. We will follow you to the graveyard. It is not so far from here anymore; I can manage. Go to Éothain; he needs you now. I will see you later.”

Éomer nodded, and then briefly lowered his head to brush a fleeting kiss upon Éowyn’s brow, before he turned to the already waiting Elfhelm with an expression upon his face that told all who looked how much he wished that this evening was already over.

Together, the two warriors made their way around the platform and past the biers. Fifteen there were arranged before it, and the warriors upon them had been adorned in their full armour which they would take with them into the afterlife. Their kin and friends stood around them, waiting to carry the fallen to their final resting place, only accompanied by their friends and kin. The people’s expressions were composed, but their silence spoke louder than words. This was a dark day for Edoras and the Mark.

The last bier they passed on their way to Éothain’s family was Hámá’s, and here at last Éomer could not help but halt and stare at the man who had been so kind Éowyn and him ever since they had come to live in the King’s household. And although it was Hàmá who – as Captain of the Royal Guard - was to blame more than anyone else for this disaster, it was not bitterness Éomer felt now that he stood before the broken body of the man, but pure, untainted sadness, the way it should have been. He turned to the warrior’s widow, who stood behind him with her three almost grown children.

“My condolences, Lady Mildred. Your husband was a good man, and he will be sorely missed, not only by Éowyn and me. He was always kind to us.”

Mildred nodded, and from the sparkle in her eyes, it was obvious that only her iron will held her from spilling tears in public. Later, in the privacy of her home, she would allow herself to let go of that control and cry, but for now and for the sake of her children, she had to remain strong.

“Thank you, Éomer. It helps to know that he will be remembered in this way.” She inhaled and forced a weak smile on her face. “And it is good to know you safely among us again. I did not have a chance to tell you this sooner, but I want you to know.”

“Thank you, my lady.” From the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that Théoden was about to begin his speech, so he quickly excused himself and took the last paces over to where Éothain and Lady Glenwyn were already expecting Elfhelm and him. Beside them, Éothain’s captain Aedwulf stood with a stone-set look upon his face and his gaze on his fallen commander. They were the four who would carry the bier. “Lady Glenwyn? Éothain?... Captain?”

“Thank you, Éomer. This means much to me,” Céorl’s widow said, and there was a look in her eye that told Eomund’s son that she meant more than his promise to carry her husband to his grave. He nodded to let her know that he understood, and then stepped aside to let her greet Elfhelm. Although the Captain of Aldburg still looked pale too pale, Lady Glenwyn did not question his intentions to be one of the carriers. The two warriors had been friends for long years, and nothing short of having his arms hacked off would have kept the Eastfold captain from his duty.

“Your husband died in defiance of the enemy,” Elfhelm said lowly, when behind him on the platform, Théoden stepped forth. “He fought valiantly and made our foes pay dearly for their victory. He had a death a warrior could only wish for, honourable and dignified. Wherever his spirit is now, looking down upon us, I am sure that he is content with the manner of his passing.”

“Thank you, Elfhelm. Although I had not doubted it, it is good to hear it confirmed by you… and praised be Béma for giving at least you back to us alive. You were the best friend my husband ever had; a friend to the bitter end and unafraid to pay the consequences for your loyalty.” She took his hand and pressed it. “Know that it is a great comfort to me to see you among the survivors. The Mark needs warriors like you, and I am certain that my husband would expect you to carry on for him.”

“Whatever I can do to fill the space he left, I will.” Elfhelm meant to say more, but at that moment, Théoden began to speak, and all turned around to listen while behind the fence, the eastern horizon began to darken with the beginning of night.

“My fellow kinsmen,” Théoden said, and from his elevated position, his gaze roamed over the crowded square. “This is the second night in a row that we have come together at this place, only tonight, it is not in celebration. Tonight we are here to pay our respect to the men who gave their lives in defence of the Mark and to honour their achievement, for in the end, victory was theirs and their courage and loyalty in the face of danger shall never be forgotten.” His gaze briefly fell on the fifteen biers before the platform, and for a moment, his throat tightened, but when he spoke up again, his voice was clear and strong with conviction. “Fifteen men we will carry to their final rest tonight, but there were many more who fell to protect our land, far from here in the west. And although they will not be buried here, their sacrifice should be remembered, and I would beg you for a moment of silence now to honour their memory.” Théoden lowered his head, and in response to his words, thick silence spread over the square until even the low crackle of the fire in the guard tower could be heard.

As his thoughts returned to the horrible sight of their fallen after the water had retreated from Saruman’s fortress, Éomer stared unseeing at Céorl’s lifeless form. So many had died, and although Théoden had spoken of victory, he knew just as well that nothing had been achieved yet. Perhaps with this victory, the sons and daughters of Eorl had been gifted with a few more days to live before Mordor’s darkness would forever devour them. He hoped that their deaths had not been pointless.

With a deep breath, the son of Eomund returned to the present, and found himself looking at Céorl’s marred face. The Captain of Edoras had died because he had taken a stand. Now the Rohirrim were about to take a stand, and Éomer could not help but wonder whether they would pay the same high price. Briefly he wondered what Aragorn was doing. Was he still alive, and even now making his way through the cursed path underneath the mountain? Would he be able to honour his promise that they would see each other again and fight their enemies side by side, or had those words been spoken despite the secret knowledge that no measure they took would be enough to overcome the Dark Lord’s armies?

His brow deeply furrowed as he pondered these thoughts, Éomer did not react at first when the silence around them was disturbed, first by murmurs, then quickly by rising cries of dismay.

It was Éothain’s voice that woke him from his reverie as beside him, Elfhelm spat an ancient Rohirric curse. Instinctively Éomer knew what he would see, and still as he lifted his gaze southeast past the fence toward the towering shape of Halifirien, the sight of the blazing signal fire upon its peak stole his breath.

In the square, the silence grew deafening. None of the present had ever seen the beacons lit; not in their lifetime, and neither had their parents or their parents before them. None could even recall when last the fires had called the Riders of the Mark to war, and the month-long duty as warden of the beacon had always been regarded jestingly as something only for the lazy and cowardly.

Upon the platform, Éowyn involuntarily grasped her Uncle’s hand and squeezed it in a sudden urge to reassure herself of his presence. She, too, what the fire meant, and her heart froze at the prospect. Their army would leave with dawn. After a time of worry, Éomer had just been given back to her, and now she would lose him again, possibly forever. And Théoden, who had just woken after the many years he had spent under the poison’s influence, would he ride, too? She feared that it was so, that even though he was not yet in full possession of his strength again, their uncle would insist on heading their éohere on the way to Gondor to make up for his failure. Come dawn, she would lose the two men left of her kin... and there would be no one left in the accursed walls of Meduseld to help her in her fight against the Worm’s memory.

“Gods…” Éowyn gasped breathlessly, as the full significance of the fire punched her in the stomach. Suddenly, she found herself wrapped in Théoden’s arms.

“All is not lost yet, Éowyn,” he soothed although all colour seemed to have left his face, and his tone left no doubt that Théoden was aware that answering Gondor’s call for aid would mean to ride to his death. “Look at our riders. They already achieved a great victory, one that could not be expected, and they will triumph again, for this time, they will not fight alone. No enemy ever prevailed when Gondor and Rohan stood side by side.”

Éowyn’s throat was too tight to speak, so she only nodded. And yet somewhere deep within, she felt that it was different this time. That this time, there would be no victory against the storm which was about to be unleashed against them, and that those who would be left behind in the city tomorrow would wait in vain for their loved ones to return… until the enemy’s might crushed them as well. Only there was one question in Éowyn’s mind, claiming her attention: why wait for the bad tidings of their army’s defeat and empty the bitter cup slowly by first submitting oneself to the sharp sting of loss, and then wait broken-hearted and without hope for the enemy to arrive? Why not ride with their éohere and go out in a blaze of glory instead, perhaps even killing a few foes before the Riders of the Mark would forever be obliberated? Wouldn’t that be the better way to go? Better than sitting in the dark hall on top of the lonely hill, trying in vain to escape the haunting of her tormentor? Against her will, Éowyn’s gaze wandered back to the beacon, and she felt how the initial shock slowly changed into a persistent sense of doom… beneath which conviction began to grow.

Beside her, Théoden turned back to the waiting crowd with a deep breath, and it pained him to look into the grim, serious faces of his kinsmen. They had known that this hour would come, of course; their captains had prepared them after the councils held in Meduseld. With their éohere fully assembled before the city gates, they had even been awaiting it, in fact… and yet to actually see the fires lit as unmistakable sign that the Dark Lord’s attack on the free realms had begun, catapulted everyone into an altogether different reality. The wait was over, and war was upon them. A war that would bring peace at last… or extinction.

“You all know the meaning of this: it is Gondor’s call for aid,” Théoden began anew, not shouting, but in the sudden complete silence, his voice carried into every last corner of the square. “And only last night, I promised the man who is underway now to become its new king, the man who helped us to our own victory in the west, that the Riders of the Mark would answer it if it came. For the threat of which it tells is to us all, and only together will we be able to overcome it.” He inhaled, and with a last sweep of his gaze from one side of the square to the other, ended: “Now let us bury our warriors with the dignity and honour they deserve, and afterwards, I want you to gather your loved ones around you, families and friends alike, and take comfort in each other’s presence. Tomorrow at first light, we will ride.”

Upon his signal, torches were lit, and slowly, the level of noise rose when the citizens picked up their low conversations as they began to form the cordon through which the procession would move to the graveyard.

Éomer exchanged a grim look with the men around him. At last, Elfhelm shrugged and said: “Well, it is not as if we didn’t expect it. It was only a question of time, and the sooner the better, if you ask me. Waiting is not for me.” He stepped over to the bier with his fallen friend, and, with a deep sigh, laid his hand upon Céorl’s, which had been arranged in the usual way of the warriors with his sword upon his chest. At the grave, this would be given to his son. “Farewell, my brother. It was an honour to fight by your side, and I promise you to do everything in my power to protect the ones you loved. We will see each other again.” He let go and took the first handle.

“Your courage and devotion were always a great inspiration to me, Captain. It will not be easy to fill the space you’ve left, but your men will do their best. Rest well, my friend.”

“You were more to me than a brother-in-arms, Captain Céorl. I first came to know you when I was very young, and you taught me many of the things I needed to know about the ways of a warrior. Of all my inspirations over the years, your contribution was certainly not the least.” He paused, the image of the stern, powerful warrior before his inner eye as he lectured Éothain and him on the training grounds, then lowered his voice so that he could barely hear his own words: “You took action on my behalf even against the King’s words, unafraid of the consequences. I will never forget this.” He laid his hand upon the handle and looked at Éothain, who would bid his father farewell in privacy once they had reached their destination, waiting for his signal.

Éothain nodded and exchanged a brief glance with his mother, who would precede them and light the way with the torch.

To their right and first in the row, befitting his highest rank, Hámá was lifted up, and Éomer was not surprised to see Gamling among his carriers. Although the older man, like Elfhelm, still looked pale, he had insisted on being one of the four who would guide his friend to his final resting place.

“Now, together!” Éothain’s voice claimed Éomer’s attention. “One… two… three”! And with one simultaneous move, the four men brought up the heavy bier upon their shoulders. The Captain of Edoras had been a tall, powerful warrior in life, and now, heavy with death and the additional weight of his armour, Céorl was no easy man to carry, yet his carriers did not falter as they followed his widow through the cordon in the thickening twilight.

When Éomer made his way back from the burial grounds, darkness had already fallen. The streets of Edoras had emptied, and the few who saw him pass only briefly dared to look at him, for despite his outwardly composed appearance, the marshal’s tense bearing told all who knew him to leave Éomer alone as he walked with great strides through the outer streets of the city, in search for something or someone.

At last, the son of Eomund found the house Éothain had described to him, and with a deep breath, he walked up to the door and was greeted by the angry barking of a chained dog. Casting the animal a casual glance, Éomer took in his surroundings, for once shutting away his battling emotions that had been stirred up by the ceremony, the lighting of the beacons and the sight of his comrade’s lifeless body as he was lowered into the grave, while the widow and the son he left stood stone-faced beside him. He could not afford think of these things now, for the hours were running through his hands and there was still much unattended business to take care of before he would feel to have settled his affairs for the likely case that he did not return. He knocked, and a few moments later, the door was opened.

Obviously, the man before him did not recognise him at first, for his expression lit up only after a stretched, awkward silence.

“Marshal? Marshal Éomer?” The man seemed to be slightly younger than he, Éomer measured, and his broad-shouldered build told of his heavy work. For all Éomer knew, Torben was one of the metal-workers of the city, but he had not before seen Maelwyn’s husband. Furrows appeared on the other man’s brow as he regarded his unexpected visitor with growing confusion, before he quickly averted his gaze. Unlike his wife, the craftsman was not used to the company of the Lords, and it showed in his suddenly awkward stance. “What can we do for you, my Lord? Is it about the Lady Éowyn? Should I get my wife?” ´

From the safety of behind their father’s back, the couple’s children stared open-mouthed at their royal visitor, and with a sudden flash of memory, Éomer saw himself standing behind the door and gape with awe at whomever his father had greeted as high guests in their house. The fond memory brought a faint smile of remembrance to his lips.

“Aye, Torben, I would indeed like to speak with your wife, but it is nothing to be alarmed about. It is about a promise I gave her.”

The younger man’s expression bespoke his confusion, but he nevertheless nodded and, with a sudden pang of guilt, opened the door wide with an inviting gesture.

“Béma, Marshal, please excuse my manners! Will you not come inside while I fetch Maelwyn for you? Or perhaps you would like a cup of tea to warm you up? It is not yet entirely spring, after all.”

“No, it is not,” Éomer agreed, yet shook his head. “Thank you very much, Torben, but I fear that I cannot stay for long, for there is much left to prepare for tomorrow. This will only take a moment.”

“Well, if you say so…” Torben inhaled and looked over his shoulder. “I will be right back with her, if you indeed insist on waiting here.”

Éomer’s smile deepened. “I do. Thank you.” The children still stared at him, and he winked at them, in reaction to which their eyes grew even larger.

Chuckling, Torben took their hands and pulled them with him. “Come, you two. Let’s find your mother! And then it is bedtime for you!”

Still protesting, the little ones disappeared, and a moment later, Éomer heard light swift steps approaching.

“My Lord Éomer?” Maelwyn greeted him, quickly rubbing her hands against her meal-powdered apron as she had been working in the kitchen. “What a surprise! Is aught wrong? Your sister is well, isn’t she? I was surprised to see her at the ceremony already.”

“The speed of her recovery is indeed remarkable, but I am not here because of Éowyn,” Éomer quickly dispersed the handmaiden’s concerns and then reached into his pocket to reveal an envelope with the royal seal on its back. Confused lines appeared on the young woman’s brow as she saw it. “I am here because I gave you a promise last night; a promise I intend to keep. Here, I want you to have this.” He extended his arm, and with even greater puzzlement, Maelwyn slowly took the envelope, yet did not show any inclination to open it.

“My Lord, I do not understand. Whatever would you mean? I do not recall--” She interrupted herself, and suddenly, a dark hue crept into her face, and she gasped. “Marshal, please, no! I already told you that I do not expect payment for my service to your sister, aside from the usual. What I did for the Lady Éowyn came out of my own, free will. It was a favour for someone I regard, although I am but a commoner, not as someone who simply provides me with the means to sustain for my family; your sister is dear to my heart, my Lord. I know I am only a servant, but I care for your sister. It is not my place to call her a ‘friend’, but--”

“You are a member of the Royal Household, not a simple servant, Maelwyn, but that is not the point: you were there for my sister when she needed you, and you put yourself at risk for us and went far beyond the call of duty. This…” he nodded at the envelope in her hand, “is no payment for your service; it is a gift. It is a gift that comes from my heart, and if you rejected it, I would consider it a most serious insult. Go on, open it. I want to see whether its contents meets with your agreement.”

Her forehead still doubtfully wrinkled, Maelwyn carefully broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Behind her, Éomer briefly saw her husband curiously peak around the corner, but then he refocused on the handmaiden as she read his letter. It did not escape his attention that she suddenly stiffened, her breath caught in her lungs. With widening eyes, she looked up.

“My Lord, I … how could I even consider to accept this? She is one part Meara!”

“If you call yourself a ‘just a lowly commoner’ again, I will get angry,’ Éomer informed her decidedly, and pointed his chin at the paper. ”Besides, I already spoke with the herdsmen and informed them. The mare is yours, and the foals, as soon as they are born, as well. The birth of twins is very rare, but this mare had twins before and everything went well, so I assume that everything will be all right. I made some enquiries, and understood that the horse you own has seen far too many winters to be put to hard work anymore, and that your children share only an old, deaf pony. As a member of the royal household, you are, of course, expected to be seen only on a noble steed, which I hereby took the freedom of providing you with.” He stabbed his finger at her. “And don’t you dare to reject it!”

“Gods…” Completely overwhelmed, Maelwyn ran a hand through her hair, and then laughed when she saw the satisfaction in Éomer’s eyes. “Well, Marshal, I can hardly say ‘no’ when you stand before me like this, all imposing and determined, can I? I heard of the many fierce warriors whose will crumbled to dust once they were pitted against your powers of persuasion, so how could I, a gentle handmaiden, defy you?”

“You couldn’t,” Éomer confirmed with a smirk. “You are perfectly right in this, and so my advice to you would be to go and visit the herd tomorrow and get yourselves acquainted.” Without warning, the smile disappeared from his face, and Maelwyn found herself pierced by that intense look she had always feared even if it had so far never been directed her way. “There is just one more thing I would ask of you, Maelwyn.”

“Aye?” She barely dared to breathe. Whatever Éomer was about to demand, she had the distinct impression that it was something his life depended upon. “What is it, my Lord?”

“When I’m gone tomorrow, please be there for my sister. Continue to be her friend and confidante, because I know that she has not yet stepped completely out of the shadow that was left by our foe. She would not tell me, but I felt it. Éowyn will need your strength and compassion, all the more as I will not be there to supply her with it. Promise me this, Maelwyn.”

“Lord Éomer, I will gladly be there for your sister whenever she needs me; this goes without saying! It is my own wish to help her put the terrible things that happened to rest; it is not something you need to ask of me. Be assured that I will do whatever is in my power to let the Lady Éowyn heal in body and mind.” She paused, uncertain whether to follow her sudden impulse, but then gathered her courage and looked him in the eye:” Lord Éomer, when you ride tomorrow, please know that our very best wishes accompany you. Of course there can be no safety when you’re riding to war, but I hope that the Gods will hold their protective hands over you and our riders, and that you will return to us once again. Until then, you will be in our prayers.”

For the longest time, Éomer could but stare at her, and in her eyes, read the deep earnestness behind her words. Silently he thanked Béma that this warm and loyal woman would be by his sister’s side once he was gone, and a little smile curved his lips, although there was also a distinct trace of sadness in it. Alas, he knew their changes all too well. From what Aragorn and Gandalf had told them about the enemy, it was clear to him that it would take a miracle for him to see the sparkle of the Golden Hall’s roof from the plains again, calling him home. This was farewell, not good-bye. There was no need to tell this to the concerned young woman before him, though. The little smile still on his lips, Éomer bowed his head.

“Thank you, Maelwyn, for your good wishes. Let us hope that the Gods will hear them, for surely there can be no victory against the Dark Lord without them on our side. Be safe yourself, and promise me that – in case that battle should turn ill for us – you will ride with Éowyn and the others and make for Dunharrow. Do not stay in Edoras.”

“Aye, Lord Éomer, I will do so if it should indeed come to that. But I have every confidence in you and our riders, and the armies of Gondor. Like Théoden-King said: no foe ever overcame us when Gondor and Rohan stood together!” Out of impulse, she took his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. “You will return to us; I know it. Be well, Éomer son of Eomund, and ride to the fortune of us all… and know that your gift is greatly treasured. Thank you, my Lord. ”

And just like that, he left her standing, and Maelwyn stood and stared in the darkness after him long after he had disappeared from sight; Éomer’s envelope pressed to her chest. He did not expect to return, she had gathered as much from his words. Miraculously, their men had been given back to them, only to be taken from them again now, and if it were not for the back injury Torben had attained two years ago in a fall and which hindered him from riding long distances, her husband, too, would be leaving with next morning’s light. From tomorrow on, Edoras would belong to the women and children, and to the old and crippled. And together, they would wait with baited breath whether the army they would first see on the eastern horizon in a few days time would be theirs… or their foe’s.

The candle’s warm light greeted Éowyn as she opened her eyes. The flame burned upright, undisturbed by even the smallest waft of air, and for the longest time, the daughter of Eomund stared at it with unseeing eyes, the cobweb of sleep still enveloping her mind. It took her a while longer until awareness of the unusual quiet blew them away with a wild gust.

Without transition, her heartbeat catapulted itself into a wild rhythm, racing in her chest like a ferocious animal that had stepped into a trap. With a jolt, Éowyn sat up, the strange metallic taste of panic in her mouth telling her that somehow, while she had been asleep, the world had become badly unhinged. Her gaze shot over to the window, to see whether she could find the source of her disquiet there… but the muted twilight that seeped through the window seemed normal enough. Except that it had already been dark when she had returned from the burial to the confines of the Golden Hall, and the candle on the nightstand had already more than half burned down… and now by dawn, it looked barely touched again.

Frowning, Éowyn stared at the puzzle before her, and suddenly, her skin felt clammy and the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck righted themselves as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Something else was strange, too: if it was indeed already dawn, then why had they not woken her? Their éohere was about to ride to war today, and neither Éomer nor Théoden would leave without goodbye, especially when it was likely that this was the last time that they ever saw each other in this realm. Only that she could not hear anything outside. The preparations of an army as great as theirs was noisy, and all citizens would be up to bid their Riders farewell… but only silence was to be heard. No, something was wrong.

With a sharp exhale, Éowyn came to her feet and grasped her morning robe, tying the belt around her slender waist without looking while she rushed to the door. It, too, opened without a sound, although its hinges had creaked badly only the previous evening. Now the coldness in her stomach spread icy tendrils all through her body as a sense of foreboding filled her. There was no guard before her door, and as she stepped into the thick twilight of the great hall and looked around, Éowyn saw that it was the same with Éomer’s door further down the corridor. All of Meduseld appeared to be utterly bereft of human life… except for a solitary silhouette that sat huddled into a thick cape by the hearth. She knew to whom that cape belonged, but was nevertheless astonished to see Théoden here. Wasn’t he supposed to be with their army? Against her will, her feet carried her toward the lone man.

“Uncle?” The silence felt always liquid now, the air so thick that it almost choked her. “Aren’t you leaving with the men? What happened?” She reached for Théoden’s shoulder… when he suddenly turned around. What little air there was in Éowyn’s lungs, left them with a shocked gasp as she looked into Gríma Wormtongue’s mutilated face instead of her Uncle’s loving features. With all clarity she saw the marks of her teeth on his lower lip, and the black stitches where she had cut his cheek… and still, despite these wounds, her tormentor smiled, and it was a satisfied, self-pleased smile that instantly told her that his unexpected return was not the only bad tidings.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, fighting against the sudden light-headedness. She could not afford to faint now! “How did you get here?”

“Oh, but I am King of the Mark now. This is my place to be,” Gríma said coolly, and really, he wore Théoden’s silver circlet on his brow, and the sight was another shook to Éowyn.

She wanted to rip it from his head, but her hands felt limp beside her body, and heavy like sacks filled with rocks. She could do nothing as Wormtongue got to his feet, taking his time as he savoured every single moment that he saw the horror on her face. The smile became a cruel smirk, the one she knew only too well.

“You thought your problem would be solved by chasing me away, my lady, but Gríma son of Gálmód is not so easily defeated. I always reach my goals, Lady Éowyn. Always. I am actually surprised to see that you didn’t know that before.”

Hastily, Éowyn backed away and almost fell over her own feet which felt as if they didn’t belong to her body. Then suddenly, all paralysis fell from her and she spun around and ran toward the great doors, shouting. Even if there was no one in the hall, they could not all be gone. Even if Gríma had sneaked in through the tunnel somehow, then the guards still had to be outside.

“Guard! Guard! Help me! The Worm is back! Help me!” She burst through the doors, where stark grey light greeted her, neither belonging to day nor night. Everything looked false in it, like a faded painting… a painting bereft of life. It was not only Meduseld, Éowyn realised with sudden clarity that killed her panic; all of Edoras was deserted. She was the only one left. As her eyes darted frantically through the empty streets below her despite her bitter knowledge, slow, sure steps approached her from behind.

“You can scream all you like, Lady Éowyn,” Wormtongue’s silken voice dribbled into her ear like liquid poison. “There is no one alive who can hear you… at least no one you would want to be heard by.” In response to his last words, a guttural chuckle reached Éowyn’s ears and froze her blood, and she turned her head to look for its source.

‘It cannot be! They cannot be here!’ her mind insisted stubbornly, but of course it was as her eyes showed her. Numbly she stared at the towering Uruk-hai commander who watched her from the side of the terrace where she had always liked to stand and gaze at the endless plains below. Aware of her undivided attention, the creature bared its fangs in bellowing laughter, and a cloud of putrid stench assaulted Éowyn’s nostrils.

“The Dark Lord crushed your little, insignificant army under his boot as was to be expected,” Wormtongue whispered into her ear, brushing aside her golden tresses with a sickening gesture of familiarity he was not entitled to. “The realm of Gondor is no more. The realm of Rohan might endure if I so decide, but of course, it will be a different existence than before. I am its king now, installed by the mighty Lord Sauron himself, and you, my dear, head-strong lady, should thank me for choosing you for my queen, because this arrangement will surely make your life much more pleasant than that of your fellow kinsmen… at least of those who are not dead yet.”

Éowyn heard him, and the words felt like glowing embers in her brain, scorching her mind. ‘Éomer… Uncle…’ They could not be dead. Not like this, without a last blast of defiance that carried all the way from Mordor to the Mark. It simply could not be. But then she saw the heft of the sword on which the Uruk-hai’s clawed fingers rested, and the sight of the two golden horse-heads finally drove the deadly fact home, even if it’s usually bright sheen was likewise dulled by the strange light: there could be no mistake that this really was Gúthwine. In another lifetime, this sword had belonged to Éomer, and it had protected the people of the Mark. Now this aberration carried it, and its razor-sharp blade would be used kill their old, their women and children; all those had not ridden into battle. It was a thought she found impossible to accept.

“Then I’d rather be nothing!” Suddenly she found herself running toward the Uruk, who stared in surprise at her.

“Catch her!” Wormtongue’s voice could be heard behind her, suddenly in panic as if he had guessed her intentions. The hideous creature shot out its arm, and Éowyn ducked. The grasping fingers missed her by a hair’s breadth, but the Uruk was still blocking her path, and now it knew what she planned. It would not let her pass.

Mockingly, the thing snarled at her in a crude imitation of a chuckle, and flexed its fingers. Éowyn watched as they swung toward her. Then Gúthwine’s dull shimmer caught her attention, and with sudden clarity, she saw the way. A quick feint sent her foe in the wrong direction as she darted straight at him. Éomer’s sword – “Friend in Battle”, its Rohirric name meant, and now it would be her friend – cleared the scabbard smoothly as she pulled it away from its unrightful owner. A gleaming half-circle in the air, it separated the Uruk’s head from its neck, but from the corner of her eye, Éowyn saw many more of these things start toward her from the other corners of the terrace. There was but one thing to do now, although it was a shame that she could not take the Worm with her. With a hard smile upon her lips, Éowyn turned the sword against herself.

“You can have our land, Gríma Wormtongue,” she said, enjoying the expression of sheer panic in her tormentor’s eyes. “But it will be dark, and it will be empty of everything you want!” A violent push sunk the steel into her flesh. ‘It is Gúthwine. It is my friend.’ She held on to the thought as she fell to the ground, impaling herself further until she felt the steel exit through her back. Wormtongue’s anguished yell was drowned out by the loud buzzing sound in her ears, as if she had stuck her head into a beehive. A thick, coppery taste flooded up her throat. ‘I’m coming, Brother…’ she thought as the light faded. ‘I’m coming, Uncle. Soon, we will be reunited…’

With a shocked gasp, Éowyn sat up in her bed. For the longest time, she stared first at the burned-down candle beside her, and then at the darkness beyond her window, shaking violently.

“Gods…” She buried her face – her wet face – in her hands, choking. “Gods, please… let this be over!” Barely suppressed sobs shook her body, and for a moment, it was almost too tempting to give in to desperation… but slowly, composure returned. If she let go of what little control she had now, there was no telling where this would end. She had seen people so traumatised by war that they had lost all ties with reality. They were usually first pitied and later avoided, as no one wanted to be reminded of the horrors they had seen and the frailty of the human mind. She was determined not to allow herself this weakness. She would not give in to the nightmares… but to defeat their power, she had to get away from Meduseld. There was no way around it.

A few more steady breaths cleared her head and brought back control over her body. The shaking subsided enough for Éowyn to get to her feet and, grasping her robe – ‘It is the same as in my dream…’ – quickly made for her window. The cool air helped to blow away the webs of the nightmare, and the fact that it was night outside and not some sickly dawn not caused by the sun’s light comforted her. And still she could feel Wormtongue’s lingering presence, his prying eyes on her although he was not here.

Éowyn blinked his image away and turned toward her closet. She had to get out of this room, no matter how late. Its sanctity had been permanently despoiled; it was no longer a home to her. Hastily she picked out her old sparring clothes and put them on, before she all but fled toward the throne room.

The fire in the hearth was still flickering merrily, and from the activity she perceived from the kitchens and servants’ chambers, Éowyn concluded that she had not slept for long, two hours perhaps. Long enough for Gríma Wormtongue to get into her head again, anyway. Frantically she looked around in search for someone to distract her from the upwelling memories of her dream… and found a lonely hobbit sitting on the bench closest to the hearth, his thoughtful features illuminated by the flames. With a deep breath, Éowyn approached him.

“Aye, I remained here. I thought…” He lowered his gaze, as if ashamed to admit it, “I would have felt like an intruder there, I think.” A questioning glance found Éowyn. “I mean… there is nothing more intimate than saying goodbye to your loved-ones. You wouldn’t want a stranger to be there and see your grief, isn’t that so? At least that is how I would feel, I guess.” Awkwardly, he took a sip from his tankard.

Éowyn felt a small smile spread over her lips. Bless the little one, such decency and warmth were rare things to find these days. She felt instantly better as she sat down on the opposite bench.

“I cannot imagine that anyone would have found you unwelcome, but still… thank you. You are being very considerate; it is a trait not many have. A very welcome trait.” She looked at him encouragingly, but he did not return her smile.

“I suppose mostly I did not go because I feel somehow responsible,” Merry muttered darkly and looked into the flames. “Not for the men you buried today, but for those who died in the Wizard’s Vale. Your brother told me that he did not see it this way, and so did my friends, but still… it was horrible to see what the Ents did to them. They would not listen to us once they had decided to attack; it was out of our hands… and it was us who roused them.”

“My brother also told me that your actions might actually have saved many of his men,” Éowyn objected gently, recalling what Éomer had recapitulated during their shared meal. “He thought that the battle might have ended badly for his men had you not intervened.”

“Perhaps your brother was just being polite.” He looked up in surprised insult when Éowyn unexpectedly burst into laughter.

“Excuse me, Master Merry,” she chuckled, trying to contain herself. “You would be the first ever to accuse my brother of politeness! It is not something that would usually be said about him. When people talk about Éomer, they usually use words like ‘passionate’, ‘willful’, ‘determined’ and ‘fierce’ to describe him, and about his diplomatic skills, ‘direct’, ‘honest’ and even ‘blunt’ would be more appropriate. He would never say anything he didn’t mean. Trust me on this, Sir!”

“Hmm…” Merry made, but the young woman’s outburst of amusement seemed genuine enough considered how almost panicky she had looked when she had first approached him. Almost as if she had fled from her chambers. He wrinkled his brow and dared a more measuring glance at her. The shadow, albeit faded, was still there in her eyes, the dread of something unspeakable swimming behind their deep blue. Should he ask her about it? Was it his place? This was the King’s niece, after all, and he was only a little hobbit with neither a great name nor title. If there was something that he did not want to do, it was to annoy this poor young woman when her own peace of mind seemed such a frail thing.

“You ask yourself what brought me out of my chambers at this late time,” Éowyn took the question out of his mouth, and this time it was she who avoided his gaze. “Do you remember our afternoon’s conversation?”

“Every word,” Merry said truthfully. “It was the shadow of your foe, wasn’t it? That man who held you captive?”

“He still haunts my dreams. But it was even worse this time, because in this dream, our éohere had already left for Gondor… and they had been defeated.” She heard the hobbit’s sharp gasp and turned her head. “I fear for them, Merry… and yet I want nothing more than to ride with them and escape these haunted halls. I’d rather die on the battlefield in defence of my people than sit here and have that evil man rip my mind to shreds with each new dream. Do you understand that?”

All of a sudden, her blue eyes were like icy daggers that pierced Merry’s skull. But he did not shrink from her stare.

“My Lady, I understand you perfectly well, for it also the way I feel. It tears me apart inside to sit here, useless, while my friends are in danger and might need my help.” He looked at his hands, shook his head in frustration. “Of course I realise that I am only little, and that I could not possibly hope to make a difference--“

“Do not speak so!” Éowyn interrupted him heatedly. “Even a child’s hand can lead a deadly blade. And excuse me, Master Hobbit, but although you are short of statue, you do not seem like a child to me. You encountered enemies before and defeated them as you told me, and such experience alone would make you suitable for battle. Readiness and determination are not to be found only in a special race or gender. A Halfling could be a warrior if he had something to fight for, as could be a woman. Every sword is needed in this war… and yet, we are both excluded.” She shook her head, suddenly slumping as the full truth behind her words hit her. “I’d ride with them anyway, if I were strong enough. Under all that armour, no one would recognise me as long as I stayed away from my uncle or my brother… but it is vain speaking of that possibility when I know that I could not possibly hope to stay in the saddle for the long ride.” She brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen in her face, and her gaze darted through the twilit hall like that of a captured animal. “But I have to get out of here, somehow… out of Meduseld, or he will win after all.” Éowyn sank into grim silence.

For the longest time, Merry regarded the brave young woman beside him, and his mind raced. If he wanted to make the proposal, now was the time… but there would be no backing away from it once they were underway. No second thoughts.

“There might be a way…” he began hesitantly, and at once, felt her piercing eyes on him once again. “A way to ride with your army, I mean. If you truly want to--”

“You would not mock me, would you, Master Hobbit?” Éowyn asked, and her voice was sharp like a knife. “I thought I could trust you with this.”

“And you can, my Lady. I would never think of mocking you when we are in the same position. It is the truth: I might have a way for you to accompany your riders… but there would be one condition I’d have to insist upon, I’m afraid.” It was obvious that Merry felt most uncomfortable over setting conditions against a member of royalty, but Éowyn did not look insulted.

“That I take you along.” Her eyes observed him like a cat stalking its prey.

“Aye. Believe me, Lady Éowyn, I would not speak like this if I were not desperate.”

“It seems that we both know a thing about desperation, then.” Éowyn regarded the Halfling for a moment longer, trying to read him and finding nothing but utter truthfulness in his features… as far as she dared to judge a being she had never encountered before. Yet somehow, these Hobbits deemed her as incapable of lying as the Rohírrim themselves. With a deep breath, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me then how you think to achieve this deed. You are no wizard like Gandalf Greyhame, are you?”

“Nay, my Lady.” Even through his tension, a shy grin spread on Merry’s rosy face, and he looked down, trying to contain himself. “And neither do I have the healing powers of the Lord Aragorn… but my friend Pippin and I, we stumbled over something very interesting during our time in Fangorn Forest.” He looked up again, and found her listening. “We found a well… you did not notice the water’s special powers when you drank it at first, only that it seemed wonderfully cool and refreshing. But when we woke the next morning, our weariness was gone, and that was not because of the sleep. At that point, we had travelled a long and perilous way, and had just escaped from orc captivity a day earlier. Our exhaustion was such that you could not cure it with one night’s sleep… and yet when we woke, we felt ready to take on the world. Even that evil wizard in Isengard.”

“Enchanted water? In Fangorn Forest? Even if it were true, how should I get there tonight?”

“It is true, my Lady, and you will not have to ride to Fangorn because I took the liberty of saving some for my friend and me, knowing that our journey was not yet at its end. I’ve got the bottle in my quarters and can get it for you right now if you want. There is just one more thing…”

“No. That water… it has a side effect.” Merry coughed, squirming under the maiden’s piercing gaze. “Aside from curing weariness, I mean. If you drink it, it could be that, when you wake tomorrow,… uhm… how shall I say it?”

“Uhm… you might find that you’ve grown a little bit over night.” He exhaled forcefully and felt the heat of his blood as his face turned crimson with embarrassment. No, she did not believe him. She seemed to be wondering whether to laugh or be angry.

“No, of course not. Only a few inches. Like I said, we drank from it, too, and while we will probably be the tallest hobbits in the Shire when we return, I would think that our height is not too different from what is considered ‘normal’. It is nothing to worry about, really. I just thought I’d mention it, in case that….” He shrugged, unable to imagine why this should be the reason to discard her plans.

Silence stretched between them while the daughter of Eomund tried to decide what to believe, and the anxious hobbit already saw his only chance to come to the aid of his friends dissolve. At last, Éowyn righted herself.

“Well now, Master Merry… while I will freely admit that your tale sounds rather strange to my ears, I suppose that I do not really have a choice, do I? There is no other plan that could make it happen; we do need a miracle. So, I will try your precious Fangorn water, if you would be so kind to fetch it for me. In return, I will take you with me… if it works.”

“I will get it for you right away, my Lady! If you will wait here for me, then…” He noticed that her attention was suddenly focussed on something behind him, and turned his head… to see Éomer step into the hall. Anxious, he turned back. No one needed to tell him that Éowyn’s brother was the last one who should know about his sister’s plans.

“Come to my chambers in an hour,” Éowyn murmured under her breath. “Most of the servants should be in bed at that time. We will discuss things further then. You do not have any armour yourself, do you? Or a sword?”

“You should. I will see that I get something for you.” Without transition, Éowyn broke into a welcoming smile. “Éomer! Did you get things done? How is Éothain?”

“As could be expected after the burial of his father,” Éomer said, and absent-mindedly smoothed a damp strand of hair out of his face. He smelled of soap, telling Éowyn who knew his rituals before battle that he had been in the bath-house for the pleasure of a hot soak before they left Edoras tomorrow. The Gods knew when – or if – he would be given that opportunity again. The thought extinguished her smile.

“Master Merry?” Éomer nodded in acknowledgement, glad to find the hobbit apparently heeding his words from the afternoon, and also to see Éowyn readily enough accept the Halfling as company. His attention returned to his sister. “He was quiet, but I think he’s had enough time to come to terms with the pain of his loss, so when we ride tomorrow, he’ll be ready. Oh, I almost forgot: Maelwyn sends you her greetings. She’ll be back here tomorrow.”

‘But I will no longer be here,’ Éowyn thought, careful not to let it show in her expression. ‘At least not if everything works the way it should.’ Aloud, she said. “Thank you, Brother. I look forward to seeing her. Now tell me, should I go to the kitchens and order something to eat for my brother? For I do not think that they will be here for much longer.” She suddenly noticed the direction of Éomer’s gaze, and her heartbeat accelerated. He could not truly be contemplating… could he? She barely dared to hope.

“I’ll get something myself, later,” Éomer replied, and his brow furrowed as he stared into the twilight on the other side of the hall… where the King’s chambers were. “Is Uncle in his study, do you know?”

“He returned from the burial together with me, but I have not seen him since. Yet where else should he be at this hour? I assume he has quite a few things to arrange before he leaves tomorrow, and to leave those who stay with instructions.”

“Did he say yet whom he wants to take his place while he’s gone? Will it be you?”

“Me?” Béma, she hoped not! What was she to do then, disobey the King’s direct order? With all the plans in her head now about how to join their éohere, Éowyn realised that she had not even begun to consider this possibility… which was a very likely one. Wouldn’t it make her a traitor if she disappeared despite Théoden’s orders? To leave their people without a leader?

“I do not know. I haven’t heard anything. Why do you not go and ask him yourself, Éomer?” Éomer had been banished for the same crime, and even if there was no longer a Gríma Wormtongue present to enforce the law, Éowyn had to admit that it would be a serious breach of trust if she followed her urge after all. Yet what would it count if they would in all likelihood not return? There would be no future for the Mark if their army was defeated, whether she remained here to give orders or not.

Éomer nodded thoughtfully, but suddenly, he slanted her an inquisitive glance that caught her entirely unaware.

“Aside from knowing that your sister will be worried sick once you have left?” she asked instead, praying that her expression would not give her away… and that the Halfling would resist her brother’s powers as well. She knew Éomer’s skill at detecting lies well enough. “I suppose not.” The dark gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer, and she could almost see his scepticism… but thank the Gods, her brother’s mind seemed to be too pre-occupied with something altogether different, and he looked away again, taking a deep breath as he squared his shoulders.

“I’ll be in Uncle’s study, and then later, in my chambers. Come to me if you change your mind. Master Hobbit, I wish you a good night.” And with these words, Éomer left them sitting, and from the rigidity of his bearing, Éowyn concluded with silent joy that he was not seeing Théoden only to discuss matters of war. Whether he sought this conversation only to please her, or to still some deeper urge of his own, she dared not say, but it was a first step. Her eyes stayed on her brother until the shadows on the other side of the hall swallowed him. Then she turned back to the silently waiting Merry.

“Let us start with our preparations. There is much to be done yet if we truly want to leave with the Riders tomorrow.”

Here is it now, the final chapter of the story. It feels strange to part with it now after 2.5 years. I had a wonderful time writing it and got to know many wonderful people out there in Cyberland – Maddy, Stacy, Tiziana, Neu, Agape4Gondor, Sidonie and many others – and I hope to hear from everyone again when hopefully, my muse leads me to write another adventure.

For now, I want to thank each and everyone of you for staying with me all this time and for your encouragement over the last two and a half years.

As Éomer approached the other side of the hall, he saw a guard standing before Théoden’s chambers; a man whom he had never consciously noticed before and who seemed strangely young to be among those who guarded the ruler of Rohan himself. Pausing as he sought for a name to the face somewhere in his memory, Éomer furrowed his brow, and his obvious puzzlement was reason enough for the object of his bewilderment to approach him.

“My name is Léod, son of Folcard, Marshal. I belonged to Captain Céorl’s éored, until the king took me into service on the day of your return. As most of the Royal Guards were killed…”

“I understand. Yet your name sounds familiar to me, Léod, son of Folcard. I think I heard it before,” Éomer said, thoughtfully eyeing the man. “If I am not mistaken, Éothain told me that you were among those men who stormed Meduseld with him… the one especially gifted in the use of a bow, if I recall his words correctly. You were one of the first to follow him into the tunnels.”

Even in the twilight, the sudden dark hue that crept into Léod’s face could not be mistaken. Éomer could not help but knowingly smile to himself. It was a truly Rohirric trait to see one’s courageous deeds only as a necessity; no one committed deeds worthy of song to hear these sung, and none of the warriors knew how to react to praise other than with embarrassment. Apparently, everyone felt much more comfortable with the thought of singing only about their deceased heroes, as those men could no longer object.

“The Captain was too generous. I am by no means more skilled than others of my éored.”

Knowing better than to pursue the issue when the warrior already felt awkward, Éomer looked at the door on the far end of the corridor. He inhaled, still hesitant to follow his initial instinct. And yet this needed to be done. He needed a clear head before they rode into battle.

“It is not necessary. I will speak with him there.” Once more, Éomer regarded the man before him with great earnestness. “You were one of the few who took action against the enemy, which most were not ready to dare. I will not forget this, Léod.” And with a nod, he left the guard behind, no doubt feeling even more awkward now.

Before the heavy door to Théoden’s study, Éomer involuntarily braced himself. He did not know yet what he was supposed to say to his uncle, uncertain even of what he wanted to achieve with this meeting. He had neither prepared a speech, nor given any thought to how to begin. Unlike his cousin Théodred, words did not come easily to him, and diplomacy and politics had never been strengths of his. He wished it were different, perhaps then he would perhaps not feel quite as uncomfortable. He was still contemplating his best course of action when the door was suddenly opened from within, and a very surprised Théoden looked at him.

“Èomer? I mean… Marshal?” Théoden’s expression was both wary and – albeit to a much lesser degree – hopeful. “Did you come to let me know about the state of preparations?”

“Aye, Sire.” Even if it was not why he was here, and his tense stance betrayed that fact well enough, Éomer decided that it would be a good start; a chance for him to get his nerves in check before they addressed their quarrel. “May I come in?”

“Certainly.” Théoden opened the door further for his unexpected visitor and cast a quick glance at the young guard in the corridor, who gave him the little nod saying that everything within Meduseld was quiet, then he turned around and shut the door. His nephew’s rigid bearing had not escaped his attention as he strode back to his desk, and his vague hope that Éomer was here not only in his capacity as leader of their army received new nourishment.

“Please, Marshal, do take a seat.” Théoden gestured and slipped into his chair. “I take it that you spoke with your commanders? What do they say? Is everyone ready to leave? And have all come who were expected?”

In hopes to find his courage within himself while he stared at the tapestry behind the older man, Éomer gave his report. “I spoke with Erkenbrand, who oversees the camp outside the city gates, and he said that men and horses have recovered from the previous effort and are eager to ride… as eager as one can be when the destination is war. All know what is at stake though, and want to add their share in the rescue of the Mark. Provisions for the ride have also been distributed. Your éohere is ready to leave, my Lord.”

“What can you tell me about the Captain of Aldburg, will he be able to ride with us? When I saw him at the funeral today, I could not help notice that he still looked far from recovered.”

Éomer inhaled, and his gaze briefly met Théoden’s. “I agree that Elfhelm did not look well, but he was able to help carrying Céorl’s bier today, and I am convinced that nothing either of us could say or do would stop him from riding with us tomorrow. Not that I would even think of objecting. His great experience and strategic skills cannot be missed on the battlefield if we want to stand half a chance against the enemy.”

“Mmh,” Théoden nodded. “I believe you are right. The Captain of Aldburg is a very wilful man, and that strength will carry him as far as he needs to go. In that, he is not unlike other warriors I know.” His gaze strayed over to the window, but only darkness lay beyond the glass… and perhaps, if one looked close enough, a certain dark red hue on the far eastern horizon. The very thought of its possible cause it chased a chill down Théoden’s spine. What if Gondor was already a raging inferno of flames? Would they ride straight into Mordor’s fire? With a deep breath, his gaze returned to his waiting nephew.

“What chance do we have to defeat the enemy, what is your opinion, Marshal?” He was aware that Éomer arched his brows in surprise at the question. “Your friend Aragorn… he did not tell you anything more when you met him in the mountains than he told us here at the council, did he?”

“No, Sire. He expects a great army, many times greater than Saruman’s, but I fear that until we see it, no one - perhaps not even the great Gandalf Greyhame himself - will be able to tell what we are up against …. and yet maybe, it is for the better that none of us can imagine what creatures we might have to fight. Until a few days ago, none of our men ever encountered anything worse than a Uruk-hai or a warg; and yet on the way from Isengard, we were attacked by a creature so vile that our horses fled in panic. How this attacked would have ended if we didn’t have a wizard with us, I dare not think about.” He paused before he continued in an even lower voice. “Sire, you know the courage of our horses; it is beyond comparison. They will not even hesitate to attack a pack of wargs if we ask it of them. That thing… it was beyond anything we ever encountered, pure evil, and I fear that that was only one of the Dark Lord’s vile creatures awaiting us in the east. What our horses will do in a battle against such things, I cannot predict.”

For a moment, Théoden stared wordlessly at him, concern deepening the lines on his face. It had been clear to him before that the odds would be vastly against them in the coming battle, but to hear Éomer’s words now uncovered the full meaning of their undertaking for the first time. Of course, it was more than likely that the Dark Lord had far more vicious things in his service than Uruk-hai. Still, no matter what they would find, they would have to find a way to overcome them.

“Thank you, Marshal,” Théoden managed to say, his voice hoarse. “It is indeed a frightening thought, but we cannot let this make a difference. No matter what the enemy throws at us, we must face and defeat it. Somehow, we must focus the courage our entire people and put it in the weighing dish. Perhaps, that will tip the scales in our favour. Our hearts must carry us through our foe’s darkness.”

Looking down on his folded hands, Éomer sought for the right words to change their discussion to the issue that had initially brought him to this room. But how to begin? He inhaled. “Whom will you leave in charge here while we are gone? Have you decided yet?”

“Your sister will lead our people while we are away. I was on my way to tell her when you arrived. The Eorlingas still trust in your ancestor’s blood, and your own triumph certainly strengthened their belief in it even further. I do not doubt that they will eagerly follow Éowyn. I have every confidence in her. She will know what to do even if things turn ill. Wouldn’t you agree, Marshal?” His attention returned to the young man before him, and he thought he saw relief in the younger man’s eyes.

Éomer nodded. He could not tell why, but somehow, Éowyn’s behaviour during their short conversation in the hall had troubled him. This way, duty would keep her here, no matter what plans she might already have made in the back of her mind. ‘She is not even strong enough to walk down into the city and back again. What plans should she have made in this condition?’ It was the voice of reason, and yet, knowing Éowyn, the whispering voice in the back of his head would not cease.

“That sounds well. I agree that Éowyn is fit to take over, and it will give her something to do while we are away.” So, they had solved this problem as well and still they had not touched on the one that had brought him here, although the hour was getting late. If he wanted to reach a solution to the problem that plagued him, it had to be found now.

From the other side of his desk, Théoden regarded him with patient expectation as the silence once again stretched between them. Clearly he was waiting for the true problem to be addressed, although the expression of cautious hope on his face seemed frail. From his uncle’s face to the tapestry behind him, Éomer’s gaze swept the weakly illuminated room until it came to rest on the bottle of wine upon the desk.

“Would you like some wine before you go to bed, Marshal? I believe that there is indeed something that we should drink to.” ‘And it might very well be the last opportunity we’ll ever have.’ He had tried to suppress the thought, but it was inevitable.

“Please.” Silently Éomer observed as Théoden filled two glasses and handed him one. “To what shall we drink?”

It did not escape Théoden that his nephew avoided addressing him with either his title or as kin, as if he was uncertain what to do. Was that a good sign? He lifted his glass.

“How about “victory and the safe return of our riders and horses to the land they ride to defend?”

“To victory and safe return!” he said and drank, but even as their gazes met over the rims of their glasses, each man could see the doubt in the other one’s eyes… and the understanding that something important still stood between them, unsaid.

For another small eternity, they stared silently at each other; the only sound in the room the crackling fire behind them, then Théoden set down his glass, and his gaze became piercing. Even before the first word left his mouth, Éomer realised that it was now or never.

“Would that be all, Marshal? For the hour is late, and if we want to leave with dawn, it would be time to try and get some rest now. There won’t be much of that once we’ve left.”

Béma, why was this so difficult? Èomer had never been good at apologising, but this situation was worse than any pickle he had ever found himself in before. At last, he took his heart with both hands and exhaled. Straightening in his seat, he met Théoden’s inquisitive gaze.

“I did not come to discuss the state of preparations with you, Uncle, and I can see that you know it.”

Carefully, Théoden nodded his head and at the same time, registered with growing hope the informal addressing Éomer had used.

“I could tell what was on your mind the moment I opened the door, Éomer; in this regard you have changed little since your childhood days. Hiding your emotions was never your strength… which is a true Rohírric trait, and one that I will from now on always value highly after having been misused as the pawn of a crook for so many years.” A cautious smile lay only in his eyes. “I could sense your true intentions, but I was hoping for you to address it, first, because I had already said everything I could tell you. That I was proud of you, and how unfathomably sorry I was and still am for failing Éowyn and you in such a horrendous way. You would not accept my apology then, and although it broke my heart, I came to the result that perhaps, I did not deserve forgiveness. Perhaps, your scorn is Béma’s just punishment for my mistakes. Is that what you came to tell me?” With hope he saw the deepening furrows on Éomer’s brow.

“I had some time for thought myself today,” the son of Eomund began, hesitantly, and looked at his hands, as the words for his speech had been scribbled down there. “And I saw your horror at the funeral, when you were at last confronted with the hard truth. And I asked myself what I would do if I had committed the mistake to trust in a traitor, and have my people and my kin pay for my error of judgment. I asked myself whether I could truly be certain that I was above such a mistake.” He exhaled, and as he looked up again, he thought he saw moisture in his uncle’s eyes, although he could not be sure. Éomer’s throat tightened.

“I found…” Éomer hesitated. A great weight seemed to lie upon his chest. “I found, that despite everything that happened, that despite the long dark years of anger and frustration and despair… that I could not forget the man who sat by our side when Mother died. The man who took us in his arms and although there was nothing to cure our grief at this time, tried his hardest to comfort and shelter us.” Suddenly, Éomer’s voice grew firm with conviction as he straightened in his seat. “I could not forget the man who took us with him to Edoras, and – although his kingly duties barely left him any time – would always be there for us with compassion and advice. No matter how hard his day had been, he never forgot to be with us when we went to bed… This man, perhaps more than anyone, helped me to become the man I am today.”

“I do not want to ride into battle with this rift between us, Uncle. I do not want to die hating you, or you dieing thinking that I hated you, and thus grant Gríma Wormtongue even this small victory. No matter where the filth is now, he certainly thinks that even while his greater plans were thwarted, that he at least succeeded in poisoning what we feel for each other for all time… And the more time to think I had, the more I know it in my heart that I do not hate you, and that the love that I have always felt for you is stronger than everything that that snake could ever concoct.”

For a moment, Éomer’s confession left Théoden bereft of speech, but at the same time, a great, comforting warmth spread through his body, and this surge of relief was so powerful that he was not even aware of the tears spilling from his eyes.

“You always were like a son to me, Éomer, no different than Théodred,” he said when speech came back to him. “I never meant to hurt you, or your sister. That I did will forever remain a thorn in my heart.”

“No,” Éomer insisted, and rose from his seat. His expression was resolute, his weakness overcome. “Let us pull it out now. Let us ride as kin tomorrow, and forget the shadow of the past; the shadow of the Worm. His poison nearly killed us, but in the end, we defeated it. Let us remember only this. Uncle? Will you forgive me my anger?”

“Your anger was justified, Sister-son, there is nothing to forgive, at least not from my side. And I swear by my father’s honour that no one will ever be able to drive a spike between us again. Come, Éomer, and let us speak of this no more.” And with this, the King of Riddermark came to his feet and embraced his nephew like a long lost family member, and at least for the few hours they had left before the ride, everything was good.

The cocks’ crows cut through the darkness, even if barely a sign of dawn could be seen on the eastern horizon. Their cries announced the new day, the day the people had waited for and whose arrival they had feared at the same time. In the many cottages of the city, life began to stir as the warriors readied themselves for the ride, and their wives and children helped them, making an effort to remain strong as they did not want to make the parting any harder for their men than it already was. None could tell whether this was good-bye, or farewell.

Éowyn, too, heard the noises of the waking city, but contrary to the riders, she did not have anything left to prepare: she had finished with her own preparations under cover of the night, and now she sat – already fully dressed – in her chair by the window and waited for the knock that would tell her that the men were ready to leave. Then she would do what was expected of her: she would bid her uncle and her brother farewell, stone-faced and not allowing her tears to spill although she would in all likelihood never see them again. This part she would not even have to fake, because it would be a very real farewell. After all, Éowyn knew well enough that both men would send her back immediately if they ever became aware of her presence among the troops, no matter whether battle would be just about to commence. And she was realistic enough about their odds in that battle not to expect the riders to return.

Which meant that she would die, too, if she joined them, but the thought did not scare her. Had she not always yearned to ride with the warriors and do deeds worthy of song? Had she not envied Éomer his many opportunities to prove his worth? How infinitely better it would be to die among their riders on the battlefield in protection of their people, than to stay here, doomed to wait for the terrible news of their defeat, while at the same time, her mind became more unhinged with every dream that the Worm stole from her!

Not even Théoden’s orders to stay back and take up command about their people had shaken Éowyn’s belief in her decision. What good could she do here if their army was defeated? The warriors were riding to their final stand; if their éohere would be overcome, everyone’s fate would be settled, no matter what anyone left in Edoras decided. There would be no one left to ride to their rescue.

Impatiently, the daughter of Eomund rose to her feet and opened the window. A voice inside her head told her that dawn had to be on the way, and yet she could not detect it as her gaze wandered eastward over the plains. ‘Is it already the enemy’s darkness?’ A cold chill settled in the pit of her stomach, and she strained to push the unsettling thought aside, instead directing her gaze toward the stables, where – in Windfola’s stall – she had secretly deposited her sparring armour and saddlebags filled with provisons during the night. As soon as she had seen Éomer and Théoden off, she would run to the mares’ stables, change into her riding clothes and armour and head after them with the hobbit in her saddle and ignore everyone who tried to stop her. As it would take the éohere a while to get into motion, she saw no difficulties in that course of action.

She hoped that Éomer did not suspect anything, even if she felt inclined to count that fear among the unfounded. Her brother certainly had more than enough on his mind today to worry about her, even if the stare he had given her last night had suggested that he had sensed something. And yet how could he possibly suspect what she was about to do, Éowyn tried to calm herself. After all, what the hobbit’s water had done to her over night was nothing short of a miracle, and Éomer usually was not one to believe in miracles. If she did not feel the results herself even now, she would have believed it neither: even after this sleepless night – she had been too afraid to encounter her tormentor again in her dreams to try and go to bed - she felt more rested and energetic than she had felt in a long time. Ready to take on the world, as the saying went. Not even the thought of Gríma Wormtongue could change her disposition today.

Something else had happened, too… An unconscious smile wandered over Éowyn’s face as she rolled her shoulders and felt the unusual strain of the garment. Only last night she had laughed at the possibility, not believing in the hobbit’s words, although she had chosen the loosest dress she possessed… but it could no longer be denied that she had grown a little over night. Not much, she hoped, nothing that would catch people’s attention, and yet her dress bespoke the truth clearly enough. ‘It might make it harder for me to find a good husband when I return. Aren’t most men afraid of tall women?’ She giggled in sudden amusement. ‘Dear Merry, what would I have done without you? Forgive me my doubts. I will forever be indebted to you!’

A sharp rap interrupted her train of thought and she jumped, all giddiness vanished as quickly as it had occurred. This had to be Éomer.

The door opened, and her brother stuck his head into her chambers, eyebrows knitted in obvious surprise as she approached him.

She gave him a little smile, suddenly feeling weak in the knees at the thought that these were very likely the last moments they’d ever share with each other.

“I could not sleep, so I decided to get ready early.” She embraced him, and felt a telltale burning behind her closed eyelids. This was not fair! Éomer had just been given back to her, how could fate tear them apart again so soon? With a deep breath, she took a step back, inwardly reprimanding herself to keep her emotions in check. No one would be helped if she broke into tears now. “Are you on your way to the stables? Will you let me accompany you?”

“It will be a madhouse down there,” he said doubtfully, but looked glad over her suggestion just the same. Every additional moment they were granted was precious.

“Since when would I mind, Brother mine? Come, Firefoot is waiting for his master.”

All the way through Meduseld and even on the path down toward the Royal Stables, Éomer felt strangely disconnected from reality. His gaze swept the Golden Hall’s interior in the knowledge that in all likelihood, he would never see these sights again; not this time. He muttered his thanks and farewells to the members of their household, who had assembled in two lines before the door, forming a corridor through which he walked after his King and Gamling, and it felt eerily as if he were watching himself from outside. Like an disconcerting dream he could not wake from, all the more as no daylight fell yet through the high windows into the hall… but it was no dream.

Many of the servants were crying as they passed them, and over their suppressed sobs, Éomer heard Théoden’s reassuring words telling them not to despair, that nothing was decided yet. At one point, Maelwyn stood before him, pale and sad, and he gave her a little appreciative nod to remind her of her promise, and knew she had understood when she returned it.

Then the doors were opened for them, and they stepped out onto the terrace to the sound of many horns announcing to the city and the waiting warriors that the King was on his way. Despite already knowing what he would find there, Éomer’s eyes strayed to the east. “A dawnless day…” he muttered to himself, and a chill settled in the pit of his stomach despite the mild breeze. Beside him, Éowyn stiffened as she followed his gaze.

“Is this already the enemy’s doing, Éomer?” she asked silently, fearing his answer. “Is he so powerful already that he has extinguished the sun? ‘Béma help us if it is so!’ she thought with fright. ‘For what could we hope to achieve against such might?’

Still Éomer refused to give in to the dark thought. “It is but a layer of clouds, Sister. If the Dark Lord were able to do what you fear, then we would not be here anymore. He would have swiped us off the face of the earth long ago. He may be able to conceal the sun’s face from us, but he cannot touch it. He is no god; his powers are not endless.” ‘At least that is what I hope;’ he added silently in his head, and from the corner of his eye, saw Éowyn’s sceptical features and understood that she was likewise unconvinced.

Together they walked down the stairs and into the stables, where frantic activity had already broken out with stable hands and warriors preparing their steeds for the ride.

“The King! The King has arrived! Hail Théoden!” Solgard, Master of the Stables, announced, and for a moment, all activity ground to a stop.

“Hail Théoden-King!” the men shouted and unison and bowed, and the so-addressed inclined his head in greeting.

And with these words, the large building became a human anthill once again. Solgard stepped closer.

“Sire, we already readied Snowmane for you. Please, if you will accompany me and see whether you will find everything to your liking…”

“I am certain that I will, Solgard,” Théoden nodded, and turned around to Éomer and the others. “Step out of your stalls when you are ready, so we can leave in an orderly fashion.”

His commanders quickly disappeared in the stalls that held their own steeds, and for a while, not a word was spoken as warriors and stable hands busied themselves with bridles and saddles.

Resting her arms on the stall-door, Éowyn watched silently as Éomer concerned himself with Firefoot. Breghelm, his usual aid, calmly assisted him with the difficult stallion, who had long sensed the unusual tension among the men and danced around in the hay, barely standing still long enough to be saddled. She hoped that Merry waited for her in the mares’ stables. So far, no one seemed to have noticed the hobbit’s missing, and she hoped that it would remain so.

As Éowyn turned around, pressing her back against the wood, her gaze swept the long, twilit building. Such grandeur in these ancient halls, such dignity... She had always loved to be here, but today, the stables were a place of grief. With a soundless sigh, she forced the thought away and observed Éothain, who was saddling his Scatha behind Éomer. Behind them, Elfhelm prepared his long-legged bay while Freela stood before their stall with the same dread on her face that Éowyn felt in her chest. The two women exchanged a quick, knowing glance, and suddenly Éowyn’s throat tightened.

Was she mad to ride with the warriors? War was not an adventure; it was brutal, ugly reality, and although Éomer had reminded her of this countless times before, she realised that she had not understood him in fullness before, then the grim expressions of the Riders made it clear to her now. These were the faces of men preparing to ride to their death. Suddenly, she did not want them to leave, and she did not want to join them, not even to escape the Worm’s evil echo.

“Béma…” it escaped her in sudden horror; the surge of dismay stealing her breath. Behind her, Éomer looked up from his work and wrinkled his brow in concern, but he remained silent when Éowyn did not turn to him. Instead it was Éothain who asked: “Éowyn? Are you well? You are very pale.”

She looked over her shoulder and forced a smile upon her face that felt more like a grimace.

“Aye, Éothain. Thank you. It is just that…” she shrugged, at a loss, but he understood her even without words and nodded.

“I know. It is… all this.” The regarded each other for a moment longer in mutual understanding, before Céorl’s son returned to his task.

At last, all activity died down and the men opened their stall doors and waited with the reins in their hands for their king.

“Éomer…” Éowyn threw her arms around her brother, and at last, the tears she had sworn to hold back now flowed freely down her cheeks. The pain of separation was too strong. How could she let him ride to his death? “I know you cannot be careful in battle, but please, you must return! Brother…”

He returned her embrace, and brushed a gentle kiss upon her brow as he follow the trace of her tears with his fingers, wiping them away.

“If the Gods decide so, then we will see each other again, Little Bird. Keep Edoras safe for us while we’re away. Our people trust in you, and I know that their trust is justified.”

She could only nod, as the lie would not come over her lips. She was about to disobey Théoden’s direct order and desert those who depended upon her, and even now, she was lying to her brother’s face. Wasn’t that even worse than the betrayal of which they had accused Éomer?

“Éothain!” She embraced the young man who had grown up together with them, as well. “Come back to us, all of you. Every single one of you.” She looked into Elfhelm’s eyes further behind and knew already that her wish would not – could not! – be granted. Indeed the cold, hard truth was that they would be lucky enough in any of them returned at all.

“Behold, Théoden-King!” Gamling’s voice suddenly cut through the murmurs of farewell from the end of the aisle, and all faces turned toward the rider on the great white horse who had emerged from the stall in the very back of the stables. Snowmane’s hoof beats echoed through the ancient building as the stallion passed the stalls, and one by one, the King’s captains swung into their saddles and followed their commander in the order of their rank.

As he reached his waiting nephew, Théoden reined in his mighty horse and leaned down, a weak but nonetheless encouraging smile upon his face.

“Do not despair, Éowyn. This is not the end.” He held out his hand and she took it, looking up to the man who had raised her with moist eyes, but denied herself the comfort of further tears.

“Westu Théoden-hal!” she said instead, her chin lifted in defiance of her desperation. “Be well, King of the Mark. Lead our Riders to victory!”

For a moment, Théoden’s smile became more prominent, and pride sparkled in his eyes over his niece’s courage.

“That is the spirit, daughter of Eomund!” he whispered, only meant for her ears. “Hold Edoras for me while I’m away.” And with this, he let go off her hand and urged his steed on. With a deep sigh, Éomer directed Firefoot behind the mighty Méara stallion, and his last look found Éowyn before Gamling’s horse stepped into his line of vision.

Numbly, Éowyn backed away into Firefoot’s deserted stall, doomed to watch like all the others who had followed their loved-ones down to the stables, until one by one, riders and horses disappeared into the muted twilight of the dawnless day. For a moment, only silence remained as they listened to the quickly fading sound of hoof beats, then slowly, suppressed sobbing began to rise from those who had been left behind.

With a hard lump in her throat, Éowyn stared at the open stable door, frozen to the spot. She needed to go now, before these people turned to her and changed her mind. ‘Merry is waiting for me,’ she thought, and the mental image of the hobbit in Windfola’s stall, as he paced with growing nervousness now that he heard the warriors leave, broke her paralysis at last.

She stepped out into the aisle with her heart pounding like a drum in her chest, distinctively aware of the others’ stares but unwilling to acknowledge them, and forced herself to walk slowly until she reached the door. The place before the Royal Stables was empty. No one was there to see what she was doing. Abruptly Éowyn broke to the right, and all but ran to the mares’ stables further behind. How fortunate that their warriors only rode stallions; the building would hopefully be all but deserted. She pushed the door open and slipped in, holding her breath as she looked around – and expelled it again in relief. As she had hoped, the stable hands usually assigned to the mares had gone down to the square to see their warriors off. There was no one here to interfere with her plan.

“Merry?” she called as she rushed down the aisle, aware of the horses’ curious glances and pricked ears as she passed them.

“My Lady?” a thin voice answered her, the relief in it not to be missed as Merry stepped out of the stall. With satisfaction Éowyn noticed that he was already wearing the clothes and mail she had deposited for him in her mare’s box earlier. “I was afraid you’d change your mind! It is hard to keep track of time when there is hardly any daylight--”

“They only just left. I came as quickly as I could,” Éowyn said and silently thanked Béma when she spied her riding clothes and armour where she had left them at night. She looked back over her shoulder. “Would you mind…?”

“Oh… of course not. I’ll be waiting by the door.” Quickly he slipped out of the stall and left her to change out of her dress.

“I will not take long.” Her heart beating like a frenzied, captured beast within her chest, Éowyn furiously shed the garment and slipped into the linen shirt. ‘I’m a traitor! I promised Uncle and Éomer to stay here and take care of Edoras. What am I doing here?’ Now the woollen tunic and the deerskin breeches. In her haste she almost lost her balance as she put on her riding boots. Now for the mail. She fiddled with the bands that held it together, feeling time slipping through her fingers. Gods, this was taking too long! “Merry? Merry, come back! I need your help with the cuirass!”

She heard the hobbit’s urgent steps, and the next moment, he slid into the stall and tied the bands for her. Done. Now for Windfola!

“Can you hold her for me, please?” Éowyn said, the mare’s bridle already in her hands. “She dislikes the saddle, but today, I cannot spare it.”

“Oh well…” Merry stammered, as he regarded the tall horse. “I suppose.” Reluctantly, he accepted the reins from Éowyn.

“Just hold her tight.” Resolutely throwing first the blanket and then the saddle onto Windfola’s back, Éowyn quickly demonstrated to the huffing mare that she would not tolerate her protest today, and despite despite her fears, they were ready much sooner than she had anticipated. Solemnly, she turned to the waiting hobbit as she slid the helmet she had found in the armoury over her head. Not wanting to take any chances, even if it would have been rather unlikely to cross Éomer’s or Théoden’s path in a mass of ten thousand riders, she had not taken her own. This one hid her face well. She took a deep breath as she realised that this was indeed the point of no return.

“Now, Master Hobbit…tell me: is this indeed what you want to do? Ride with our forces and give battle when we meet the enemy? If you have concerns, I will understand.”

Merry seemed to grow as he squared his shoulders and looked her firmly in the eye. There was fear in his gaze, but his voice sounded strong with conviction when he said: “Nay, my lady. Let us ride together and help our friends.”

Éowyn could not help but smile over the little one’s earnestness. And she could not deny that it was a comforting thought not having to ride alone. To have someone with her who shared her secret.

“Very well. Then let us do so. Only one more thing I must ask of you before we join the éohere, and you must promise me this. It is important.”

“When we are among the riders, you must address me as “Dernhelm”. The Lady Éowyn will remain in Edoras. It is ‘Dernhelm’ who rides to war with the Rohirrim.”

“Of course, my Lady… I mean ‘Dernhelm’. I will remember it. But regardless of the name you will use, we should avoid your brother, I think, or he will know the truth despite that helmet of yours.”

“We will not meet Éomer.” She gestured for him to step closer. “Come, I will help you into the saddle. It is time.”

Again, all citizens of Edoras had gathered on the square, but there was a drastic difference to their celebration of a few days earlier when their riders had triumphantly arrived. The people were still. A horrible silence hung over the square like the hangman’s noose, and although they had assembled here not for the first time to see their army off, it was the first time that Éomer saw only fear in their peoples’ eyes. Fear, and despair,and grief for their parting family members. No hope. In some eerie way, it felt as if they were already dead.

He looked away in search of a more positive sight, through the open gate to where their éohere waited alongside the way, lances and armour reflecting even in the dull twilight and banners flying on a wind that felt already heated by the fires of Mordor.

“They do not expect us to return,” Elfhelm muttered darkly to his left, and although his stomach clenched at the words, Éomer did not know what to set against his Captain’s unusual gloomy disposition. “This feels like a bloody funeral march!”

“Well, then it should be our task to prove them wrong!” he said at last, unwilling to surrender to despair himself just yet. “Where not chances always against us? And yet we are still here.”

“We never fought against Mordor, and the Dark Lord himself,” Elfhelm grumbled, his eyes on the far horizon from where darkness still oozed across a leaden sky. “What are orks but beasts compared against evil itself? How can we hope to win?”

“We do not stand alone in this fight,” Éomer insisted. “History is on our side.” He was aware of the disbelieving glance his former mentor gave him, but did not honour it with a reply. Instead, he kicked his heels against Firefoot’s side to urge the stallion forward as they approached the gate. Above them, horns were sounded, and at last, the horrible silence pierced by a single clear voice as it broke out in an ancient battle song. For the first few words, it rose into the air alone, and people turned their heads to see who was singing it. Then it was picked up, quickly, by a second and a third voice. Like a ripple through the water, the song spread through the crowd, until warriors and citizens sung the ancient melody together, a mighty sound from many thousand throats rising into the sky like a challenge. It lifted people’s hearts, and the dread upon their faces was soon replaced by intensity and iron will.

They were the sons and daughters of Eorl the Young. Fate had never gifted them with anything, and they had never asked for anything. What they had today, they had acquired with courage and persistence, blood and sweat and tears. Surrender was not in their blood. If they were indeed to die on the eastern battlefield, if the Mark’s history was indeed to end, then it would be so, but the Rohírrim would make it an end to remember; a dignified, honourable end all those who survived Mordor’s onslaught would praise in their songs!

As they passed through the gate and the warriors beheld for the first time their armoured king on his mount, the song stopped and was replaced by the sound of hundreds of horns. Then the men stabbed their lances against the sky and shouted: “Hail Théoden-King! The King rides to war!”

Now Herugrim reflected in the twilight as the son of Thengel lifted it above his head in answer, his eyes gleaming with pride. Éomer barely recognised his Uncle as he rode up the older man; and it seemed to him that some strange spell had given Théoden back at least twenty years of his life. He could not remember having ever seen the King like this, and awe resounded in his voice when he asked permission for his rally speech, traditionally to be held by the First Marshal and leader of the troops.

Upon Théoden’s curt nod, Éomer urged Firefoot on until they came to a halt before Snowmane and his rider, and around them, knowing what would follow, the men fell silent.

“Riders of Rohan!” Éomer then cried, and his steed danced restlessly below him. “Oaths you have taken! Now, fulfil them all: to Lord… and Land! Forth Eorlingas!” And as his war cry was repeated by ten thousand voices, Firefoot reared. Then Théoden passed his nephew, and together, they accelerated down the path with the éohere falling into place behind them, and their thunder shook the lonely mountain and the city built upon it, and was heard for many leagues across the plains, announcing to the world that Rohan was riding to war.

Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer by Katzilla