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

Éomer and his companions as well as their horses, their land and their riding boots (plus everything else they wear or own) belong of course to the Tolkien Estate. I only borrowed them.

I don’t really have an idea yet where this will go. As I’m not the most light-hearted fluff-writer (yes, I hear my trusted readers laugh), I’d say PG or PG-13 should do it (mainly for some grossness in this first chapter and some adult themes later on).

This one is a surprise even for me, as usually, I need at least a half a year to one year break after writing a novel, and „Banishment“ was my longest story by far. Yet Young Éomer was very insistent that he’d not be forgotten. He wants to make himself be heard, and so I’m trying to write down for you what he is telling me. This will have several chapters, but don’t expect another epic of me (yet). It will take some time until I’m ready for another one, so I hope that in the meantime, you’ll have fun with this one, and if you do (or don’t), let the author (me) know about it. J

Enjoy! This one is for Dwimmerlaik, because where would I be without her wonderful help and advice?

The voice was but a whisper in Éomer’s ear, and he held his breath, feeling his heart’s thunder in his chest as he focussed on the deer before him over his drawn arrow. Almost within range now, and the breeze still blowing into his face so that their scent would not give them away. Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked it away, concentrating on the point between the deer’s third and fourth rib where his arrow was supposed to go. Directly to the heart, guaranteeing a quick death.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Tolgor’s cautious nod and understood. Exhaling oh so quietly, Éomer shifted his weight slightly to edge around a fallen tree, when sudden alarm broke out in the foliage above them. The buck’s head shot up.

His fingers let loose, simultaneously knowing that it was not a killing shot as his bow had not been fully drawn. And yet as the beast fell to the ground on the clearing, twitching twice before it lay still, Éomer could not help feeling the exhilaration of the hunt as he straightened.

“We got it!” he exclaimed and beamed at his teacher. The older rider smiled back.

“Aye, but it was close.” Looking up to the still ongoing disturbance in the branches above them, Tolgor slung his bow and stepped up to their prey with Éomer on his heels. Silently, the two men regarded their work, and the younger man’s excitement shifted to mild disappointment when he saw that it had not been his shot that had killed the beast. His arrow stuck in the buck’s shoulder while his experienced comrade’s had half disappeared in the deer’s chest, piercing its heart.

For a moment, Éomer’s gaze remained fixed on the animal’s large, dark eyes, already glazed over with death, and he marvelled how quickly the change from radiant life to cold, dead corpse had happened and understood with sudden clarity that such knowledge did not only hold true for deer. His features grew pensive as he stooped to retrieve his arrow, already feeling Tolgor’s knowing gaze upon himself.

“So, Éomer son of Eomund, tell me: what lesson did you learn from today’s foray?”

“That one has to be constantly on one’s guard, because a life is quickly taken?”

“Aye,” Tolgor nodded, now bending to retrieve his own arrow. “That would be one. What else?”

“What else?” Knitting his eyebrows, Éomer stared down on their prey while his comrade began to bind the buck’s legs together. Behind them in the trees, the noise reached new heights, and a moment later, he caught the brief glimpse of a squirrel as it raced up the branch to escape the angered birds whose nest it had robbed. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know… to always be prepared for anything?” He looked at his arrow, and the furrows on his brow deepened in displeasure with himself. “The noise surprised me. My bow was not fully drawn when I loosed the arrow.”

“Yes. And if this deer had been an orc, it would not have stopped it. If you do not kill an orc with your first shot, they’ll keep coming at you. No matter if you are deerstalking or hunting for orcs, you need to be constantly alert. Without the necessary body tension, you can kill neither prey nor foe.”

Looking up, Tolgor saw the young rider’s disappointed expression, and his smile returned as he shook his head and straightened. “That aside, it was a much better effort than last week’s. Our brothers will be pleased with us today for enriching their dinner. Come on, young man. Let’s carry our trophy back to the camp, and then you can show me what you have learned concerning the preparation of the meat. The Captain should be almost back by now with Arnhelm. We’ll throw him a welcoming feast!” He helped Éomer lift up the buck and laid it around his shoulders, smiling as the apprentice rider puffed up his cheeks in effort. “Too heavy for you, young man? Should I help?”

“I can manage,” Éomer interrupted him firmly, and deliberately took the first step. Aye, the beast upon his back was heavy, but he was determined not to fail. The heat of embarrassment still flushed his face when he remembered Captain Elfhelm’s words about how Éothain and he first needed to fill out before they would be allowed anywhere near any orc. Of course the two friends had insisted that they were ready for the challenge, but their indignant objections had only resulted in charitable smiles from the surrounding warriors.

“Trust me, you’re not,” Elfhelm had assured them, and – upon seeing the young men’s frustrated expressions – drawn his sword with a sigh. “Come on, attack me.”

Uncertain whether he had heard his Captain right, Éomer had exchanged a sceptical glance with Éothain, who had likewise hesitated.

“Come on, you two!” Elfhelm had invited them again, impatiently. “Draw your swords. Attack me… and don’t hold back. Let me see what damage you can inflict when you mean it.”

Still uncertain, Éomer had drawn his own blade, aware of the expectant circle of warriors that had suddenly formed around them from seemingly out of nowhere, and with a shrug, stepped forth while Éothain had still hesitated. Not knowing what to do – he certainly didn’t want to hurt his commander – he had stood in the circle with the sword in his hand until Elfhelm had raised his own weapon and attacked him. Just in time Éomer had brought up Gúthwine for the block, but the Captain’s force had knocked the blade clean from his fingers and sent it sailing in a glistening arc through the air where it embedded itself into the ground, much to the merriment of the observing riders.

The next moment, Éothain had made his move – and was blocked and pushed backwards with such power that the son of Céorl stumbled over his own feet and landed hard in the grass on his behind to even louder laughter.

“Well…” Elfhelm had then concluded upon sheathing his sword, and his gaze had admonished his warriors not to show their amusement too openly as he did not want the two young men disheartened. “I think we can say for now that you are not yet ready for the orcs. But with a few more months of sparring and some additional pounds of muscle on your frames, this will change sooner than you think. Patience, young lords. Your time will come.”

The memory of Elfhelm’s lesson still stung, but it had also revealed to Éomer why he and Éothain had been appointed the most gruelling tasks– chopping fire wood, carrying water and the likes –day after day ever since their first day with the éored. There had been evenings, especially during the first two weeks, when his whole body had ached after he had been finished with his chores, and he had fallen asleep on the spot immediately after the evening meal, barely able to get to his feet the next morning.

That was not longer so. A month with the Riders had strengthened his body in a way that Éomer felt he could even take on the heavy buck they would have for dinner although they had left their horses about a quarter league behind. Also, he found himself increasingly often looking for additional work now after he was done with his chores, wanting nothing more than to turn his lanky, boyish frame into that of a warrior as quickly as possible. While he had grown a fair bit over the last year and promised to become at least as tall as his father, the son of Éomund was still painfully aware of his too-slight build whenever he compared himself to his brothers-in-arms.

“I understand that you want to grow muscles fast, Éomer,” Tolgor voiced his thoughts as if they had been scribbled onto his brow for everyone to see, “but if you break your back, Elfhelm will have my hide. You cannot have the body of an experienced warrior over night; some things cannot be rushed. You are not even fully grown yet. Come, let me give you a hand with this. There is no one here to see us, and that is indeed an extraordinarily big buck. I would have trouble carrying it, myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he grasped the animal’s antlers. Silently conceding that his comrade was right and swallowing his pride, Éomer shifted part of the weight to the older man, and together they carried their trophy back to their waiting horses.

As they slung the deer to Tolgor’s saddle, Éomer stared for a moment in the direction of their camp, a sudden flutter of excitement stirring in his stomach. Tonight, Éothain and he would finally get to know a member of their éored they had not met yet, and one of their most esteemed warriors at that. Widely acknowledged as one of the Mark’s best scouts, Arnhelm of Aldburg had been wounded in the éored’s last fight before their two recruits had joined, and would complete their numbers tonight. Éomer could not wait to meet the man. Arnhelm was one of the few true heroes of the Rohirrim these days, along with Erkenbrand, Lord of Westfold, and of course his cousin Théodred. With fascination he had listened to the men’s campfire tales over the past weeks, in which their scout had always played a significant part, proud to call such an esteemed warrior his brother-in-arms. So, today finally was the day when the man of those heroic tales would actually take shape for him. He could not help smile with anticipation as he turned to Tolgor.

“Do you think Arnhelm will share his knowledge with us, Tolgor? I heard that some scouts prefer to keep their secrets to themselves, although I could not imagine why.” He glanced at the older man, who had already swung into the saddle.

With a deep intake of breath, Tolgor turned his steed around. “Well, Elfhelm said that he wants the two of you to learn from him, so I’m sure he will make that clear to Arnhelm. Perhaps he will not show you everything, but I would not worry about this just yet. You’ve got years of learning ahead of you until you will have acquired even the basic knowledge of what it takes to survive out here, and before you would even be able to understand the finer points of scouting… However, you should not expect too much of Arnhelm just yet. Serious injuries can sometimes change a man, and he might need some time to get back to his former self. My best advice for now would probably be to leave the man alone until he seeks you out.”

Tolgor turned away casually enough as he kicked his heels slightly into his stallion’s flanks, but there had been something to the older man’s tone that gave Éomer pause. Or had it been something in the healer’s gaze? Whatever it had been, it had stirred up an unpleasant feeling in the son of Eomund; some strange tension as if he were a tightly-drawn bow. For another moment, Éomer stood and stared at his fellow rider’s back, then – upon Tolgor’s curious glance back over his shoulder, he snorted and swung into Stormwing’s saddle himself, dismissing the notion as wrong. With a click of his tongue, he directed the mare alongside Tolgor’s massive bay, and together, the two Rohirrim left the forest.

The camp was already established, and a massive fire burning merrily in the middle of it, above which an empty spit only seemed to wait for the meat they brought, as the two riders approached. With an expectant smile upon his lips, Éomer scanned the grazing horses on the other side of their resting place, but he could not make out Elfhelm’s long-legged bay among them. He let his eyes sweep over the plains beyond the little pile of rocks that shielded them from potentially unfriendly eyes, and sighed with contentment. Aye, this was the indeed the life he had been dreaming of ever since he had first taken a sword into his hands to become a warrior. Although night was slowly approaching, the sun still shed its light upon them on this perfect summer evening, lending everything a golden finish, and the endless sea of grass before them swayed in the warm breeze as it stretched all the way to the horizon.

Éomer could not remember when he had last - or if he had ever, even - felt such a deep love for their land. Who in their right mind would want to live anywhere else? And who would not choose this life if the choice was his? ‘It is not always like this,’ an inner voice immediately made itself be heard, the voice of reason he did not want to hear on this perfect summer evening. ‘You will find out about the dark side of this life soon enough. There is a price to be paid for evenings like this.’ Éomer’s smile wavered a little as he watched the path of a hawk – or a falcon, he wasn’t sure as the bird was too high up – until he was barely more than a black dot in the sky, but then he detected Éothain among the faces that were turned toward them, and his good mood returned. The hunters had been successful, and what a good feeling it was to hear his comrades’ appreciative comments as they steered their horses through them.

Tolgor turned around in his saddle and looked at Bard, who had uttered the question.

“We both killed it, Bard. It appears that the son of Marshal Eomund is a fast learner. Soon, you will ask him for advice!”

The warrior, nearing the end of his second decade and built like a bear, snorted and chuckled in approval as he shifted his gaze to Éomer.

“Well then, well done, lad! Be sure to come to me later on and we’ll have a drink together!”

Blushing, Éomer nodded his thanks to the man and was more than grateful to escape the general attention and occupy himself with unsaddling his mare when they stopped. For a while, the noise behind him died down as the men returned to their various tasks. Quickly Éomer freed Stormwing of her tack and laid the saddle aside to dig an apple out of his pocket, which he offered to the mare in payment for her loyal service. One hand caressing the animal’s silken ears as she lowered her head to take it from his palm with soft lips, Éomer whispered his thanks to her, then he patted the muscled shoulder and quickly stepped aside when with a loud whinny, Stormwing bolted, head and tail held high, to join the other horses.

For a moment, Éomer followed her path with a vague smile upon his face, until Tolgor’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Well, young man… now that you were over-showered with praise for your kill, how about preparing it for the spit? Your fellow riders are hungry.”

“Aye,” he nodded, turning around, and his smile became a little strained as he accepted the knife from the healer. Knowing all too well the reason for his displeasure, the older man patted him on the back as they turned toward the buck.

“You will quickly get accustomed to it. Trust me, Éomer, you were not the first recruit to retch when he found himself up to the elbows in entrails for the first time in his life. Just don’t do it today. It would be shame to throw this away.”

He managed not to retch, but only barely so. And still, while he prepared the buck for the spit under Tolgor’s supervision, his stomach once again felt like the hot, throbbing centre of the universe, and Éomer was more than glad when Bard and one of the other riders – he had not yet learned the names of all one hundred and twenty five men – came to carry the cleaned carcass to the fire. Swallowing hard against the nausea, Éomer stared at his blood-covered arms with revulsion, just wondering how he would get them clean again when Tolgor gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“Well done, young man. Now, all that’s left to do is bury the entrails, and then you can go and wash yourself. No more lessons for today.”

“You’re on second watch tonight, with Gaer. See that you get some sleep before that. Not like last time, when you looked as if you were about to fall from the saddle all day long.”

“”I hate second watch. How do you do it?” Éomer wondered as he thrust his little shovel into the loose ground to dig the hole. “How is it that everyone can sleep almost immediately whenever they lie down? I have no problem with first or last watch, but--”

“-- to come to rest first and then get up in the middle of the night, be wide awake again for a few hours and then immediately go back to sleep again, aye, that is difficult at first,” Tolgor admitted. “But you’ll learn that just like everything else. Sooner or later, your body will remember these turns, and it will claim what it needs only when you permit it. It’s the cat’s way of sleeping: close your eyes and you’re asleep, open them, and you’re alert. It will soon become second nature to you, too, don’t worry.” He turned his head when there were sudden shouts from behind, and quickly discovered the reason for the excitement on a nearby hill. “Well, it seems that the Captain is back in time for the evening meal after all.”

Beside him, Éomer straightened; his excitement suddenly back. A tangle of hair fell into his face and he smoothed it aside absent-mindedly with a bloody hand, leaving a broad, dark smear on his face as he stared at the two advancing riders with his heart in his throat. There was no mistaking Elfhelm’s powerful frame as the Captain of Aldburg approached; amiably chatting with his long-time brother-in-arms by his side, but it was the rider beside him who quickly became the sole focus of Éomer’s attention. So, this was Arnhelm. This was the scout whose incredible skill had ensured victory for their éored more times than anyone could count.

“Éomer, look!” Éothain’s excited voice reached his ear from behind. “That is Arnhelm…and Ravenwing! Béma, look at his stallion! He must be eighteen hands tall at least! He is even taller than Éon!”

Silently, Éomer agreed as his eyes briefly strayed from rider to steed, taken with by the horse’s smooth movements. At that moment, he believed all the tales he had heard about the scout’s steed: how Arnhelm had trained the colt to tread lightly even before he had broken him in, and how that black stallion stayed quiet and calm even in the most precarious situations, displaying the ultimate trust in his rider and that way, allowing him to get closer to the enemy than anyone else would ever have dared. He believed it all now because the stallion moved with a grace Éomer had not yet seen among their horses; almost like a cat Ravenwing moved; the confident stride of a predator on the prowl while his black hide glistened in the setting sun. He was awed.

Éomer’s gaze returned to the warrior, who had by now advanced enough so that his face could be distinguished beneath his helmet, and although Arnhelm appeared to be older than he had figured him to be – ‘Much older; he must be at least ten or even fifteen years older than the Captain!” – his weathered features impressed the young man just as much as his steed had done. One look was enough to assure him of the scout’s extraordinary skill, for his gaze had the intensity of a hawk. Although he appeared to be completely at ease, even laughing now and lifting his hand in greeting over his comrades’ welcome, Éomer was certain that there was little that escaped Arnhelm’s attention – including, perhaps, the ants which had discovered the buck’s messy remains to his feet… which reminded him of his task. He could hardly welcome one of Rohan’s greatest heroes while he stood up to his shins in deer-guts.

Barely looking at what he was doing, Éomer frantically dug the hole deeper and quickly shovelled the bloody pile into it while the riders closed around their returning comrade. There was much relieved laughter and good-natured bantering when the scout dismounted and found himself unable to unsaddle his horse, because everyone wanted to be the first one to welcome him back among their ranks.

Feeling like true outsiders for the first time since they had joined the éored, Éomer and Éothain stood just outside the circle of warriors, watching.

“He seems to walk well enough again,” Éothain stated after a while, although he could barely see the man among the others. “Was it his shin or his thigh he broke in the fall?”

“His thigh, I think.” With a last look at his work, Éomer decided that it was good enough and tossed his shovel over to where he had stored his saddle. “And two ribs, because he ran into a pike. Thank the gods it did not penetrate his hauberk, or he would not be here today.” Instinctively, he looked for the tale-tell dent in the scout’s armour when an opening formed among the men, but Elfhelm’s next words took his mind off that:

“Come on, old friend, and welcome our new recruits! I’m pleased to say that two very promising young men joined our éored last Midsummer, and they are very excited to meet you. They hardly talked about anything else this past week. We were all already tired of hearing your name!” With a broad smile, Elfhelm steered his friend through the riders toward them.

Éomer felt his mouth go dry, and he could tell from Éothain’s suddenly rigid bearing that his friend felt equally nervous about meeting one of the Mark’s most esteemed warriors. No longer did he hear the éored’s din behind them as he stared at his Captain, his breath caught in his throat and involuntarily squaring his shoulders as Elfhelm introduced them.

“This is Éothain, son of Céorl. In the past month, he has proven himself a fast learner and promises to become an extraordinary archer.”

“The son of Céorl? Céorl of Edoras?” Arnhelm asked, his voice deep and impressive, and to Éomer, the man seemed impossibly tall as he towered above them. Up close, he now saw the dent in the man’s cuirass, but quickly lowered his gaze again.

“Aye, my lord.” Éothain said, and his voice sounded strangely strangled by excitement. And, after a deep breath: “It is an honour to meet you, Lord Arnhelm.” Éomer understood only too well that those words were probably everything his friend had been able to utter, and he worried whether he would get any sound at all through his dangerously tightened throat upon his turn. He did not have to wait for long.

“And this is Éomer, the son of Marshal Eomund. If it had been his decision, he would probably have joined us years ago; he’s a very eager young man and already very skilled in the use of his weapons. Once his skill is met by the necessary weight and strength, the orcs will run when they will merely hear his name.”

Elfhelm winked at him in encouragement, but Éomer did not see it, because he found himself staring into the scout’s keen grey eyes, and what he saw stopped his breath for real. For a second, Arnhelm’s pupils seemed to widen in shock. Not noticeably, not to anyone who did not hold eye contact with the scout then, but Éomer caught it and suddenly, he felt as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been emptied over him. He could not speak, not for the life of him. Had Arnhelm truly flinched at his sight?

“Éomer?” Elfhelm’s voice sounded irritated by his silence, and yet as Éomer desperately wracked his empty head for the words he had been meaning to say, the look in the grey eyes before him changed again, and along with them, Arnhelm’s entire expression turned to stone.

Was it truly hatred he saw in the scout’s eyes? But why? Éomer’s thoughts raced. He had never even met the man before! And yet what else could that sudden hard glint in the warrior’s gaze be? His heart pounding against his ribs like a crazed animal, Éomer saw himself helplessly extend his hand in lieu of the words of welcome he had meant to say before his brains had decided to suddenly die on him.

Arnhelm regarded it with the same enthusiasm he would have held for a steaming pile of warg excrements upon the plains before he looked him in the face again and said in a cool, dry voice: “I think not.” He turned away, the spell of the moment broken as he slowly made his way back to his waiting horse. “It is getting late, old friend. Let’s unsaddle our horses, and then eat. I can already tell by the smell that this is going to be an extraordinary feast.”

“Aye,” Elfhelm replied with a last, admonishing glance at Éomer before he followed the scout. “We spared no effort to welcome you home in the right manner. This is going to be an evening to remember!” The two warriors disappeared in the crowd.

“Why did you not welcome him? That was disrespectful. You cannot seriously expect a warrior like Arnhelm to shake hands with a recruit, much less in the state you’re in! I mean… look at you. You still got deer blood all over you!” Éothain wrinkled his nose. “It’s even in your face!”

Could that be it? Éomer wondered. He had not yet had time to wash himself after his return and was painfully aware of his condition. He knew he reeked, and yet shouldn’t an experienced warrior like the scout be accustomed to blood and guts? Apparently, Éothain had not seen what he had seen, that cold, hard glint in the older man’s gaze. The initial shock in Arnhelm’s face when they had first locked eyes. And Elfhelm’s reaction, too, seemed to indicate that the Captain – usually an extraordinary perceptive man – had missed their strange exchange. So had he imagined it then?

“Come,” Éothain’s voice finally reached him through his dazed shock. “Let’s get you cleaned up, or you will have to eat alone tonight. There’s a little stream just behind the rocks…”

Darkness had fallen over the plains of Rohan, but where nightfall usually indicated the end of all activity after a long day, it was on this night the signal for the Rohírrim to lift their jugs in a repeated toast to their returning brother-in-arms and indulge in the festivities. Many raucous drinking songs were belted out into the night, the ale which they had acquired a day earlier at the nearest settlement flowed plentifully, and the buck Tolgor and Éomer had caught was quickly reduced to bones. Their scouts had found no traces of orc-activity in the area, the weather was warm and dry, and for a few hours, all worries were wiped from the warriors’ minds. Tonight was a good night.

Together with Éothain and Tondhere, a young rider who had joined the éored two years earlier and understood only too well how left out the two friends felt on this first celebration of their comrades, Éomer sat in a niche outside the circle of singing and laughing warriors, not knowing how to feel or what to think. For days he had been looking forward to this night, but now that the fire flickered brightly and the songs and laughter of his brethren chased back the darkness, he did not feel like celebrating at all. Éothain, who gave him an inquisitive glance from time to time but found his silent questions ignored, suddenly rose to his feet.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get me another jug of ale before it is all spent.”

“It would be your fourth,” Tondhere grinned. “And while I will admit that it could also be my eyesight, I feel more inclined to believe that it is in fact you who is already swaying.”

“Are you indicating that I know not how to drink?” Éothain narrowed his eyes, but his comrade was hardly impressed by his poor challenge.

“It would be frightening if you did at the age of sixteen!” he replied dryly, but then dismissed the son of Céorl with a throwaway gesture. “Ah, but what am I saying? Those are the experiences only life will teach you, not words. Go and drink until you pass out, if that is what you want, Éothain, but don’t be offended if the entire éored laughs at your misery tomorrow! To the gods of Ale!” He lifted his own jug and downed the remaining contents with two long gulps, followed by a massive belch.

For a moment, Éothain stared at the compact rider with revulsion, but then he shrugged and left his comrades sitting in search of the glorious golden liquid. Still smirking, Tondhere turned to Éomer.

“So, your friend is already an experienced appreciator of the Eastfold’s brews, is that right? I wouldn’t have thought.”

Éomer’s mouth twitched as he followed his friend’s path until Éothain’s shape melted into the many silhouettes before the fire.

“He wouldn’t listen to me, either. Like you said, this is one experience he needs to make for himself.” He looked down at his own jug, which was still half full.

“You already made it, I gather?” Tondhere, who had followed his gaze, asked curiously. “Or why would you hold back tonight? You’re still on your first ale, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Théodred got me drunk on the ‘Day of Recognition’,” Éomer admitted slowly, and, after a brief pause, added: “I did not like it.”

“Well, but you need to keep practising! A Rohír who passes out after a single pint will a disgrace for any self-respecting éored. The Captain would be very disappointed to have you do this to him. And as I know that you would not want that--”

Decidedly less amused than Tondhere and also rapidly growing tired of their conversation, Éomer nodded at the jug in his comrade’s hands.

“Since he has you to be proud of, I’m not concerned.” He picked up his empty plate and rose to his feet. “I will have a look if there’s something more to be had of the apple pie. It was good.”

“Apple pie?” Tondhere’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh well, I forgot… You’re only sixteen. It will take a while yet before you will come to appreciate the wonder of a well-brewed ale.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Without another word, Éomer stepped out of the niche. Before him, some of the men were just stroking up a bawdy song to the laughter of the rest, and for a moment, he stood in the shadows and watched them, suddenly feeling very much alone. These men were brothers, kin forged by the sweat and tears and blood they had shed for each other in their many battles. They had risked their lives for their fellow riders, had gone through hell and beyond, and they would continue to do so until the end of days, their friendship an intimidatingly high wall for any outsider seeking entry.

“Éomer! He, lad!” a deep voice to his right suddenly belted out, and as Éomer sought for its owner, he found Bard the Bear gesturing for him. “I owe you a drink! Come over and let me pay my debt!”

“Yes, come over!” Tolgor agreed, and shakily stood up. “We’ll make room for you! Come on, brothers, make some room for the man who made it possible that you had some meat on your plates tonight!” He lifted his tankard. “To Éomer!”

“To Éomer!” the others tuned in happily – and rather drunkenly, Éomer observed as he waded through them, his face burning with embarrassment. Thankful that the darkness hid his crimson complexion, Éomer arrived at the little space by the fire the men had cleared, and at once found himself in Bard’s bone-crushing embrace as the man slobbered an ale-flavoured kiss upon his cheek.

“I love this lad!” Bard declared enthusiastically, and almost cracked Éomer’s ribs with his appreciative squeeze. A tankard was pressed into Éomer’s hand, and for a moment, he stared at it as if he did not now what it was used for, until Bard’s attention returned to him. “Come on, lad, we’re brothers now! Drink with me! Like this!” He grabbed Éomer’s arm with the jug and bent it around his own to the whooping shouts of the others. “Brothers to the end!” He set the rim against his lips, waiting for the son of Eomund to repeat his vow.

Éomer did not disappoint him. His heart beating rapidly with the unexpected joy of unexpectedly been granted entry into the communion of warriors, he locked eyes with the big man.

“Brothers to the end!” he said with all seriousness, meaning it with every fibre of his being, and drank to the cheers and applause of the éored. Then another heavy slap landed on his back, and he almost spewed out his ale.

“You’re all right, lad!” Bard laughed. “You got a problem with anything, just come to me, and Bard the Bear will fix it for you!” He turned around. “Who else wants to drink to brotherhood with the son of Eomund? Now is the time to do it!”

A foot was prodded against his side, not hard, but insistently. Unwilling to open his eyes, Éomer grunted something unintelligible and drew his blanket over his head in a useless effort to disappear from his unseen torturer. Yet only a moment later, the blanket was snatched away from him.

“Come on, son of Eomund, rise and shine! The morning meal is waiting for you, and then we must be off. If I have to come back one more time to get you, it will be with a bucket of water!”

At this threat, Éomer finally decided to risk an eye – and winced in pain when the sunlight assaulted him with thousands of tiny daggers it stabbed into the soft matter inside his scull. Quickly covering his eyes, he rolled on his back and groaned, but discovered to his dismay that this position did nothing to improve his condition. Somewhere further behind, he heard the same voice that had woken him admonish another late sleeper.

“Oh…” he groaned again, rolling back on his side. “…gods…” Cautiously massaging his temples with the hand that shielded his eyes, Éomer took stock of his condition and quickly arrived at the result that he was a mess: his head felt as if an orc had used it all night as a training object for his club; his hair seemed to have been transformed into a thousand needles someone had separately stuck into his skull, and the taste in his mouth could not have been much worset if a warg had used it to mark its territory. He had barely finished the thought when his stomach decided that enough was enough. He leaned over and retched.

“Well, well... look who had too much ale last night although he said that he was not in the mood for a celebration!” The voice sounded hatefully alert and, at the same time, so full of glee that Éomer decided to risk another glance. Of course, it was Tondhere. “Anything I can do for you on this fine morning, Éomer?”

“Yes,” Éomer growled. “Go and find a pile of dung and stick your head into it, but leave me alone.”

“Tss tss…” Tondhere shook his head in feigned shock. “I’m sorry, but I cannot do that. Tolgor sent me to get you moving. If you’re not up until he comes back, you will get wet, believe me. I’m talking from experience.” He waited for a reaction, and when none come, extended his hand. “Come on, Brother, I’ll help you up. See that you get to hop into the stream before we leave; it helps.” He pulled the young man to his feet with one quick move and winced sympathetically when he saw Éomer’s grimace of pain.

“Why do you always have to talk so much?” the son of Eomund muttered, only waiting for the moment when the top of his head would fall off. That it would fall off seemed to be solid fact the way the little blacksmiths inside his skull kept pounding against it from the inside. Tondhere grinned.

“Oh well, you should know me by now, Éomer: that’s the way I am. My mother always said that if they ever killed me, my mouth would have to be killed separately. But perhaps it will help you to remember that pain is temporary, but Brotherhood is forever! Last night was worth the headache, believe me. Welcome to the Brotherhood of Warriors!” He clapped Éomer’s shoulder and then looked at something behind him, his grin even broadening. “Béma, your friend Éothain looks even worse than you this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d have to tie him to the saddle today for him to stay in it.”

Curious, Éomer started to turn around – and almost lost his footing again as his sense of balance made another quick disappearance. Tondhere shook his head.

A little later, all members of the éored were up and moving, and between some good-natured bantering, camp was broken in a swift and efficient manner. Standing by his already saddled mare, Éomer dug around in his saddle bags and produced an old, wrinkled apple out of them, which still looked considerably more appealing to him than the bowl of porridge he had been handed for breakfast earlier. Unable to tolerate its mushy consistence when he seemed barely able to keep the contents of his stomach inside, he had handed it to Éothain, who had likewise looked appalled at the grey stuff, and decided to opt for a sparser meal this morning.

Ignoring the many amused glances of his fellow riders, who all looked enviably sober to him although he had seen each of them down more ale than he and Éothain combined, the son of Eomund chewed on his apple while he unconsciously warded off Stormwing’s tentative efforts to snatch it from his hand.

“You’ve had breakfast,” he muttered with his mouth full. “Now leave me mine.”

A piercing shriek to his right immediately followed by laughter suddenly claimed his attention, and he detected Éothain among the horses, one arm still extended but quickly jumping back when the black stallion before him thrust his head in fury. With surprise Éomer saw that it was Ravenwing, and certainly, as he observed the scene further, he discovered Arnhelm close by, laughing as he motioned Éothain closer. With no small amount of jealousy, Éomer watched as the scout calmed his bold steed and then grasped Éothain’s hand to lay it on the stallion’s brow. Although Éomer could only see the back of his friend’s head, he could well imagine Éothain’s enraptured expression as his fingers circled the small white spot between Ravenwing’s eyes. He hardly felt his mare’s begging nudge.

“Here,” Éomer said absent-mindedly and held out the rest of the apple, unable to take his eyes off the scene before him. Yet even as he stood and watched, Arnhelm suddenly turned his head, and the amused smile upon his face froze. It did not drop from his lips but hardened, as if the scout were a sculpture hewn from stone, and its friendly warmth no longer reached his eyes. For the longest moment, they stared at each other, Éomer uncertain and hoping for a sign from the warrior that he, too, would be allowed to admire the black stallion from up close, but the scout’s expression remained blank. There was no wink, not the slightest sign of acknowledgement. And then Arnhelm turned around again, and all Éomer could do was stare at his back and wonder what it was about him that seemed to pose such great offence to the man.

With a deep inward sigh, Éomer shifted his attention back to his mare as he desperately tried to contain his disappointment.

“At least you will always be my friend, Stormwing, will you not?” He planted a quick kiss on the mare’s nose which she didn’t seem to mind and then slipped into the saddle to steer her away from the scout. For a moment, he thought he felt a warrior’s stare upon himself, but found none of the men paying him attention as they set their horses in motion all around him.

“How’s your head today, lad?” Bard’s rumbling bass reached him from behind, and he turned around. “Think you’ll be able to hold yourself in the saddle all day?”

“For as long as I need to,” Éomer replied, and in fact it turned out that his bleak thoughts were a far greater nuisance during the day than his throbbing head…

They reached the confluence oft Mering and Entwash shortly before sunset; a very long day on horse back coming to an end especially after the celebration of the previous night. The Riders were glad to dismount and raise camp even if the ground was marshy and they were pestered by myriads of midges whenever they stood still for even the shortest time. Also, the grass had grown very high and reached up almost to their hips, leaving the warriors uncomfortable, as it would provide excellent cover for any beast or orc trying to sneak up on them. As an additonal safety measure, Elfhelm had ordered two more guards and told the men to spread their horses in a circle around the camp, as their experienced allies in this eternal war would sense danger much quicker than their masters.

As he absent-mindedly squashed another company of the tiny bloodsuckers on his neck, Éomer allowed himself a brief moment to let his gaze wander over their surroundings. Due south, the mighty peaks of the Ered Nimrais ruled the horizon, the highest of them – snow-covered even in summer and a beacon that was visible even from Edoras – was majestic Halifirien, the mountain where their people’s first king – his ancestor - had sworn his oath to the man who had made them the great gift of the Mark.

Despite his fatigue, Éomer felt a shudder of awe race down his spine as he stared at the holy mountain which he had never seen from up close. It was also not a place for every commoner to walk. In ancient times, only the Kings of Gondor and their successors had been allowed to its top, and the Stewards after them. The mountain had belonged to Gondor then, but everything had changed with Cirion’s great gift. Nowadays, Halifirien and the forest it oversaw were considered part of the Mark, although the beacon wards on its top came from both realms, and except for kings and stewards, only the armed forces were allowed on its paths. So far, Éomer had never seen the beacons lit, and another chill spread through his veins when he imagined how it would feel to see the fire burst to life from the terrace of the Golden Hall in Edoras. With all the sincerity of his sixteen years, Éomer found himself praying that that day would never come.

Another midget sting – this one on his right eye lid – brought him back to reality, and he blushed when he found that while he had been daydreaming, Éothain beside him had almost unsaddled his horse by now and was looking questioningly at him.

“Is everything all right, Éomer?” the son of Céorl asked, pausing. Shaking his head as if to clear it of the cobwebs of his daydream, Éomer resumed his battle with his mare’s tack.

“Me neither. It is a majestic mountain, isn’t it?” He released his gelding with a clap on its muscular hind quarters and looked around. “I hope the Captain will have mercy on us today. I do not feel as if I could chop even a twig. I’m not even certain that I have enough energy left for the evening meal, although I am really hungry.” He noticed that Éomer was not paying attention to him anymore and followed his gaze to where Arnhelm released Ravenwing. Not knowing how to feel as the warrior’s head turned toward them, the son of Céorl held his breath. The scout had been friendly to him, and yet he knew how much pain his rejection had caused Éomer on the past evening. And while at first, Éothain had believed that the reason for this had been his friend’s filthy state, he had also seen the cold looks Arnhelm had given Éomer over the camp fire during the celebration, and the way he had ignored him only the past morning. The unvoiced question of whether he wanted to come closer to touch the stallion again was clearly edged into the warrior’s lined face, but this time, Éothain pretended not to have seen it as he turned away. Éomer had been his friend for five years; and friendship demanded loyalty.

He was just about to ask Éomer whether he should help him with the mare, when he suddenly noticed his friend’s tense stance und understood what the son of Eomund was about to do. For a moment, Éothain considered calling him anyway, to keep him from making a mistake he would regret.

‘But perhaps, it will solve the problem. Perhaps, their quarrel will be over if Éomer apologises, for whatever it was that caused offence.’

Bracing himself for he did not know what, Éothain looked as Éomer made the first, hesitant step.

Éomer’s heart beat in a frenzied rhythm as he walked toward the scout. He had not the slightest inkling whether it was a good idea to confront Arnhelm, did not even know what he wanted to say to the man. He was acting on impulse, something he had always done in his childhood days and seldom regretted. But he had never encountered such hostility toward himself before. And yet perhaps, he hoped yet without conviction, he was misinterpreting the warrior’s behaviour, perhaps the solution was easier than he thought. If he swallowed his pride and apologised although he was not even aware of any fault… perhaps that would change how his hero felt toward him.

Arnhelm was still unaware of his approach, his back turned toward Éomer as his gaze glided over the vast marsh lands of the confluence, and for a moment, Éomer did not know how to proceed. A brief flutter of uncertainty raced through his head – “I should not do this. I did nothing wrong.’ – but before he could back away, the scout turned around and saw him standing behind him - and flinched again!

‘Perhaps it is just because I caught him unawares…’ Éomer did not believe himself, but he lowered his gaze nonetheless and bowed in submission.

“My Lord Arnhelm, please, will you accept my apologies for my behaviour last night? I had been looking forward to meeting you for a long time, and I fear that excitement--”

“It is not your fault, Éomer of Aldburg,” the older man said, each word seeming to cost him unbelievable effort. “However, there is also nothing to be done about it, and it would be best if you stayed out of my way, as I do not want to cause you grief.”

“Did you not hear me, recruit?” Arnhelm straightened, and his tone grew harsh. “I do not wish to speak with you. Go and help raise the camp, every hand is needed because it will be dark soon.” He marched off. Lifting his head as he turned around, Éomer stared at the disappearing scout in utter consternation.

“And it is nothing you would understand,” Arnhelm growled back over his shoulder without stopping. “So, forget it and heed my words: stay out of my way!” Aware but uncaring that all of the surrounding riders had witnessed his dispute with the youth and looked at him in wonder, the scout walked away.

Swallowing, Éomer stared at the scout’s back as he felt a hot wave of rising anger consume him. Unaware that his hands had balled into fists by his side, he stood and battled to keep his wildly bucking temper restrained. He was a recruit, and it would not do for a recruit to follow an esteemed member of the éored to shout at him. As the lowest of their ranks, he had no rights. And if Arnhelm thought that, as son of a Marshal and nephew of their King, he was looking to get respect and rank presented to him on a plate, he would have to clench his teeth and bear the man’s contempt until he had proven him wrong.

The wave of red-hot rage abated slowly and Éomer turned back to his waiting mare, when this time, he felt the distinct focus of a measuring pair of eyes and shifted his head – to find Elfhelm staring at him.

‘That’s it,’ Éomer thought with sudden despair. ‘As soon as we return to Aldburg, he will send me back to Edoras and tell Uncle that his nephew did not treat his men with the bidden respect. I shamed the King!’ The thought punched the breath from his lungs, and a black hole seemed to open right before him. ‘What will I do if I’m not allowed to become a rider?’ With burning eyes, he stood and stared at the man who had assigned him to his éored, but until he turned away again, the Captain’s gaze denied interpretation…

Most Riders had quickly withdrawn to their lairs after the evening meal – tribute to the rousing celebration of the night before – but Éomer could find no sleep. No matter how he tossed and turned on his blanket, or stared at the stars in hope that their comforting light would allow him to follow his snoring comrades into the realm of dreams, the thought of his confrontation with Arnhelm kept his mind racing.

What had he been supposed to do differently? What had his mistake been? Had he not been respectful enough when he had addressed Arnhelm? But they could not seriously expect him to crawl on his stomach and lick the man’s boots, did they? At least Éomer had never heard of such a thing. Again and again he saw the scout’s cold look before his inner eye and heard his angered answer like most of the riders. His face burned as he remembered their confused, questioning glances, and before he had turned his back on them, he had even thought to see pity in some of the men’s eyes. He did not want ‘pity’. He despised ‘pity’. ‘Pity’ was something reserved only for those who could not help themselves, not for aspiring warriors like him. He was no lad of ten years anymore! And still, Éomer had to admit with a deep, but soundless sigh, he could not deny that he was, in fact, helpless. He was at a loss, questioning himself as much as the man who had given him such misery, and even Éothain’s well-meant attempts over the evening to brighten his spirits had only resulted in him withdrawing even further.

Unwilling to discuss his wretched state of mind even with his friend, Éomer had claimed to be unwell to excuse himself from the evening meal, and the broad grins of many of his comrades had told him that they had held the ale responsible. That had been fine by Éomer, but of course, Captain Elfhelm had not been fooled as easily, and Éomer had felt his knowing gaze he had dropped onto his lair, glad for the cover which the high grass provided to him.

With a deep sigh, he turned on his other side again. The noise of the crickets drowned out most of the sounds around him, but like the distant rustle in the grass moving toward him, the son of Eomund barely heard them. His mind was occupied once again with a scene he had coincidentally observed earlier that evening, while he had been grooming Stormwing. It had taken him a while to discern the voices of Elfhelm and his scout as they stood among the horses, caught up in a quiet but nonetheless intense discussion and apparently having overlooked the very object of their conversation behind his mare. Quickly, Éomer had dropped into a crouch when he had heard them, straining his ears although he had not been certain he wanted to hear what the men had to say…

“You should have told me!” Arnhelm had not shouted, but the intensity in his voice had left no question about his state of mind. The man was very obviously agitated.

“And I did!” Elfhelm had justified himself, just as intense. “But it was before your injury, and you must have forgotten about it. Yet I do not recall you voicing any concerns then.”

“Probably because I had other things on my mind. So yes, I forgot. You should have reminded me.”

“Why? What would you have done then, leave the éored over a recruit? What difference would it have made?”

“At least I would have had more time to acquaint myself with the thought… and with the thought that he looks just like his father. It is something I needed to know, Elfhelm!”

“Are you telling me that you would have had no problem to ride with the son of Marshal Eomund if Éomer did not look like him?”

“I cannot say, but it certainly would have helped.” Arnhelm had lowered his voice by then, and Éomer had barely understood his next words. “It chokes me whenever I look at the boy. It is not a conscious decision; it simply overcomes me, and I cannot change it, no matter what you say, Elfhelm. I have known Eomund when he was that age; their resemblance is uncanny! So if you care for the lad as you claim, do him and me a favour and keep him out of my path. I mean it! Do not try to force something that is clearly not meant to be.”

A rustle in the scarp had told Éomer that the scout had turned away, and he ducked deeper, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping on his superiors. For a moment he had waited for Elfhelm’s reply, but none had been uttered...

As he rolled on his back to stare at the stars again, Éomer went over the fragments of the discussion he had overheard once again, his emotions mixed. He felt vague relief because apparently – despite his initial fears - he seemed not to be at fault here; the scout’s quarrel appeared to be with his father only, and apparently, Elfhelm did not share his view. And yet Éomer could not help wondering what his father had done to turn an experienced warrior like Arnhelm, who was at an age when he should know better than to blame the son for the sins of his parent, into such a dedicated foe. He was not certain that he wanted to know the answer.

Éomer’s gaze grew distant as his mind drifted back to the happy days of his childhood when Eomund had still been Third Marshal of the Mark. Whenever the watchtower’s bell had announced the return of the Riders, Éomer had been among the first to welcome the warriors home. How proud had he been to see his father ride in front of them, leading them, erect and imposing in his bearing until his gaze found his family and the sternness in his eyes melted into love. Yet in the years since Eomund’s death, Éomer had to his dismay learned that his father’s renown was not unanimously regarded as spotless. No one had ever spoken openly to him about this delicate subject, but although he had been a young boy when Théoden-King had taken them with him to Edoras, Éomer had noticed several times how passionate discussions seemed to suddenly stop when he had approached the men, only to be picked up again once they thought him far enough away. Only upon his increasingly determined questioning had Théodred finally relented and given him what Éomer had perceived even then as a considerably softened account of the reproaches voiced against the great Eomund of Aldburg. It had been then when he had first perceived that perhaps, the world could not simply be divided into good and bad; black and white; that there were many shades of grey between these two opposites.

Reluctantly, Éomer returned to the reality of the marsh lands, biting his lip as he realised that after all these years, he was probably about to find out the truth; a truth he feared to hear. His father had been his greatest hero from his early childhood days on; the paragon of everything Éomer aspired to be: a loving man to his children and wife, a passionate protector of his people and a valiant and much respected warrior. Would he learn now, after sixteen years, that Eomund of Aldburg had, in fact, not been the shining example of Rohirric virtues he had always taken his father to be?

Another rustle disturbed the high grass around him, and this time, Éomer heard it. He jumped to his feet, Gúthwine in his hands and ready to defend him when the thicket was parted - and Tondhere emerged from it. With a curiously cocked eyebrow, the other rider cast a quick glance at Éomer’s readied blade before his gaze travelled upwards to his face.

“Bad dreams, Éomer? I understand it is a challenge to sleep in this terrain, but would you mind not cutting off my head, please? I still need it, whatever else you may think.”

“Gods…” An almost painful surge of relief swept through Éomer’s veins. Forcefully exhaling, he sheathed his sword and cut his comrade a reproachful look. “What did you expect if you sneak up on me like this, Tondhere?” he hissed quietly, not wanting to wake Éothain who slept close by. “I thought that--”

“—I was an orc?” Tondhere shook his head. “They’d be quieter. In fact, I made as much noise as I could, to ensure that you would not mistake me for one, but of course you would not know the difference yet.”

“What do you want?” Éomer grumbled, embarrassed to be reminded of his inexperience even at this nightly hour.

“The Captain sent me to see whether you were sleeping. Since you are obviously very much awake, he told me to lead you to him. He wants to speak with you. Come on, it’s the end of my watch and I would like to get a few hours of sleep before we move on.”

Barely slowed down from the initial fright of the nightly disturbance, Éomer’s heart jumped into his throat again as he picked himself up and followed his comrade through the grass.

‘So, here it comes: Elfhelm is going to tell me that he will send me back to Edoras, or at least to another éored, because I am nothing but trouble. And he is telling me now because he wants to spare me the shame of having others overhear our conversation. What else could he want in the middle of the night?’

It sounded convincing. Unlike his scout, Elfhelm appeared to be a decent man who would not humiliate a comrade - even a recruit - in front of others, and yet Éomer found no comfort in the prospect of having his inglorious fate told to him in privacy. Like a sentenced man on the way to the gallows he trudged behind his older comrade with hanging head, and not even the sight of the éored’s horses as they lifted their heads to watch them pass could brighten his spirits. At last, Tondere stopped and lifted his arm to indicate a dark shape on the hillock before them, its head barely visible over the gently swaying grass.

“There he is,” he said, and, with a look at Éomer’s fraught expression, clapped his shoulder. “It will be all right, Éomer. No need to be so tense. Go, he’s waiting for you. We’ll see each other in the morning.” He walked away.

With a deep breath, Éomer shifted his attention back to the dark silhouette before him and gave himself an inner push. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible... Taking heart and inwardly swearing to himself not to come apart before his commander even if his worst fears turned out to come true, Éomer climbed to the top of the elevation. Éon, Elfhelm’s long-legged war-horse, regarded him for a moment with pricked ears, but then decided that the young man was nothing to worry about and stuck his head back into the grass. Below them, the marshy plains of the Entwash-delta glistened in the silvery moonlight all the way to the horizon, but the son of Eomund had no mind for its beauty as he came to a halt beside his Captain.

“Lord Elfhelm, Tondhere said you wanted to speak with me.” Not daring to establish eye-contact, he missed the compassionate expression upon the older warrior’s face.

“Aye, Éomer, that is right. I had a feeling that you might be awake, and thought that the reason for your sleeplessness needed to be addressed. Come here; sit down with me, young man. And relax, I am not going to eat you.” Elfhelm patted the ground. Still tense despite the warrior’s calm manner, Éomer obediently lowered himself into the grass. From the corner of his eye, he found Elfhelm looking at him, but still dared not to meet his gaze openly. The Captain was almost twice his age; his knowledge and experience vast, and respect demanded that he spoke only when spoken to, so Éomer remained silent. Before him, the fast-flowing waters of the Mering stream sparkled in the moonlight like liquid silver.

“It is beautiful up here, isn’t it?” Elfhelm said after a moment of prolonged silence, and Éomer nodded, not knowing what to reply. “So peaceful… viewed from here. And yet even as we speak, there could be a band of orcs crawling through the grass to slit our throats…” He looked at the young man by his side, and a wry smirk formed on his lips at Éomer’s sudden frown. “Not tonight though; don’t worry. The horses would have sensed them already, and there has been little to no orc-activity in the last weeks in the Eastfold. Still, young man, you would be well off to remember what Tolgor taught you yesterday, as he told me upon your return…”

“To never let down my guard,” Éomer whispered dutifully, then bit his lip. “Aye. I learned that lesson.”

“You will not have learned it fully until you once forgot it,” Elfhelm replied evenly, and his gaze found back to the plains below. “If you survive that incident, only then will you have fully understood that lesson… and yet many die because they have not been ready for it. Life is the cruellest teacher, for it seldom forgives mistakes.” He exhaled. Another awkward moment passed, and Éomer felt his stomach clench in expectation of what the warrior would tell him.

“Your father… he learned this lesson very early in his life. And he was reminded of it time and again in his duty as protector of the Eastfold. He was also taught another lesson, one even bitterer…” Elfhelm was aware of Éomer’s questioning glance as he stared at the river, scenes of the past passing before his inner eye. “Sometimes, even when you are on your guard, you cannot change your fate… or that of the people around you. Sometimes, the odds are so highly against you that victory is beyond reach, and all you can do is flee and save as many of your men as possible.” He inhaled deeply, and briefly surfaced from memory to solemnly regard the young man beside him who listened with baited breath. “It was a lesson Eomund hated to learn, and it made him bitter. He would not accept it lightly.”

“Théodred told me once that some people thought of Father as too bold,” Éomer said slowly, the memory of the conversation with his cousin still in his ears after all these years. “I sensed even then that he wanted to spare me from the full truth, but I dared not ask him further that day. It was something I did not want to hear.”

“I am not even certain that your father could be condemned for what he did,” Elfhelm said, his expression pensive. “Certainly, I would not have been his best friend if Eomund had mindlessly disregarded the safety of our éored. Your father cared for his men very much, and each death aggravated him endlessly, as you doubtlessly know. Some people – people who did not know him – said that he was trading blood for renown, but I know that this was not the truth. The problem was an altogether different one: each death that he could not prevent made Eomund bitterer, until he would strike back against the enemy as hard as he possibly could whenever he saw the chance… to the point where sometimes, he would forget all need for caution. The orcs knew about this streak in his character, and laid a masterful trap for your father… one he could not have possibly ignored.” Without warning, Elfhelm’s gaze became piercing. Silently his gaze asked Éomer whether he wanted to hear more.

“It is why Arnhelm hates me, isn’t it?” Éomer brought out through clenched teeth. “That so many died who need not have died. He is one of those who think Father only wanted to further his glory.”

For a moment, Elfhelm hesitated. Was it the right measure to tell the young man before him of the events that had cost Eomund’s life, for he knew it would be devastating to the son of a man who had always wanted to become like his father. But yes, he decided quickly. Éomer needed to know. The problem with Arnhelm would not be solved if he did not understand its source.

“Arnhelm’s wrath stems from two separate incidents,” he began slowly. “The first one was that Théoden-King appointed your father the position of Third Marshal, although he was younger and less experienced. It took Arnhelm a while to overcome his disappointment, although Eomund did everything in his power to demonstrate his appreciation for his scout’s skills… but then Arnhelm’s son was killed in that fateful last attack that also claimed your father’s life.” From the corner of his eye, Elfhelm saw Éomer blanch. “The boy was only a year older than you are now, Éomer. He was still an apprentice and not ready for battle; Eomund had always taken care that Gilbéard would never be in the first row of attack, but whoever coordinated the orcs’ attacks at that time knew what he was doing…”

He turned toward the boy, held his gaze. It was important now to make the young man understand, to not turn the pride and love held for his father into shame.

“You see, Éomer, that our éored had done great damage to the enemy, especially through Eomund’s boldness. By going against the rules and seeking pursuit even if it did not seem wise, we destroyed many orcs who had not anticipated our appearance, and they feared us like no other éored in the entire Mark. We were unpredictable, and I firmly believe that this very unpredictability saved many more lives than it claimed, because hardly any orc dared to enter the territory of Eomund of Aldburg while he was in charge.” Again he paused, but Éomer’s gaze urged him to continue.

“Your father posed such a great threat to the orcs that they finally decided to focus on him, no matter what it took… and they laid their trap masterfully. I am still convinced it was no orc who conceived it, that it must have been a man’s plan, although I could not think of anyone who would have helped them. They used Eomund’s bitterness and his reluctance to accept defeat to lure him into their deadly trap, even if it cost them many lives to spring it.” Shutting out the pain that was still connected to this memory, Elfhelm held eye-contact with the young man before him, aware that his words would be even harder on the boy who had lost his father in the events he recapitulated.

“What was it that they did?” Éomer all but whispered, torn between wanting to jump to his feet and run away to escape Elfhelm’s poisonous words, and staying until he knew the full truth in hopes to find long-delayed closure.

“For weeks, small bands of orcs assaulted our settlements and herds, killing and maiming in the worst way only to disappear from sight before they could be brought to justice. They never stayed in a place long enough to be found, and their attacks were like needle pricks, designed to drive Eomund into a state of rage where he would forget all about caution if he were ever given a chance to pay the enemy back in blood… and when they finally gave him that chance, they saw to it that it would be on their condition. The small band that had assaulted the village lured us into rough terrain, allowing us to kill them one by one and pursue the survivors… all the way to where the rest of them lay in wait. And when I say “the rest of them”, Éomer, I mean it was a small army. Our éored stood no chance, and it was a miracle that not all of us were killed… It was also the first time ever that orcs had used such cunning strategy. Usually, they fight barely different than wild beasts, so we were not prepared for their trap.”

“You said that Arnhelm tried to warn my father,” Éomer said weakly, and Elfhelm nodded.

“Aye, and I did, too, although we could not put our unease into words. We could give Eomund no valid reason why we should abandon pursuit, and so we followed them further and further into the mountains and only sent back a rider for reinforcements. Arnhelm’s bitterness is, I think, just as much directed against your father as it is against himself for failing to see the signs of the coming assault. He feels he killed his own son as much as he blames Eomund for his death… whom he could not accuse personally, because Eomund was also killed in the assault. For all these years, Arnhelm has never been free of this pain, and now that he sees you, who is almost the exact likeness of Eomund in his early years, he can no longer contain it although he knows he is wrong to unleash it against you.”

For the longest time, all Éomer could do was stare at his Commander, speechless, as everything about the scout’s behaviour became clear in his head. He slowly shook his head, not knowing what to say, and ran a hand through his hair in a helpless little gesture.

“And how could you have? Still, one cannot punish the son for his father’s mistakes; Arnhelm knows so himself, and I am certain that he loathes himself for his behaviour… which might be part of the problem. He is even harder on you because he feels ashamed.”

Looking back to where most of their comrades were still peacefully asleep, Éomer inhaled deeply. Gods, what was he to do now?

“They thought you were too young to hear and understand the full truth back then. And I shared their opinion,” Elfhelm admitted quietly. “You went through much when your parents died, and when you had to fight to find your place in Edoras. These were hard battles for a young man, and your Cousin and Uncle did not want to burden you even further with this knowledge. I still believe it was the right decision…” He narrowed his eyes as he saw something in his recruit’s gaze he did not like.

“Do not condemn your father now, Éomer. I know he was the man you wanted to be when you were grown, and believe me, it is still a worthy goal. There is no man on these green plains who is beyond failure, although we would rather not admit it. Éomund was not, and neither am I, nor you, or Arnhelm. We do our best every day, but sometimes, no matter how much we weigh a decision, our choice will be wrong. And the hard truth is that the consequences of failure get harder with rank. A simple rider’s mistake will usually only cost him his own life; whereas a marshal’s error of judgement might result in many deaths. It is the responsibility we must bear, Éomer. Some people might say that we commanders lead a life of privilege, but it comes at a high price. Your father erred, and men died. It happens every day in this war. It is tragic, but it cannot be avoided.”

Éomer turned away, his emotions in an uproar. He knew that he still loved his father, still felt pride over being his son, but how was that pride justified when Eomund of Aldburg’s mistake had put many riders in their graves? He also felt thankful toward Elfhelm for finally unveiling the truth about his father’s last ride, and at the same time, he wanted to shout and to beat him for holding it back and leaving him unprepared for Arnhelm’s wrath. He buried his face in his hands, wishing for a deep black hole to open before his feet and swallow him so he could disappear from this complicated, painful world.

“And what now?” he finally muttered, dispirited. “What am I to do now? Avoid Arnhelm like he said? Or wear a sack over my head each time I cross his path so that he won’t have to look at my face?” He looked at Elfhelm in search for advice, utterly overwhelmed and confused by everything he had just learned.

“I suppose the decision is yours, Éomer,” the older man said, and a faint but encouraging smile crept upon his lips. “I must admit that I did not foresee this problem; I had thought that Arnhelm would be reasonable enough to understand that his quarrel was with your father, not with you. Yet obviously, emotion is stronger than common sense in this case, and I am not sure myself what to do with the two of you. While I understand Arnhelm to a certain point, and do not want to force him to take you as his pupil, there is only so much I am willing to tolerate from him. You were appointed to this éored so that you could learn from the best, and I also promised Théoden that you would get the best education I could possibly offer you. Arnhelm is undoubtedly the best scout at least in the Eastfold. He is also slowly approaching the end of his active duty, and his injury might even shorten the time he has left with our éored. I will not lie, Éomer: I want you to ride with him, and to learn what he has to teach… but it will not be easy to overcome his hostility. It will take courage. Are you ready to fight for this knowledge?”

Éomer stared at him. Scared, but not shrinking from his captain’s piercing gaze. It was a challenge Elfhelm offered him; his first serious challenge since he had joined the éored.

‘You will not get your titles handed to you on a plate just because of your lineage,’ his father had told him every time they had sparred together, every time when he had been close to giving up because he would never best a grown warrior in battle. ‘On the contrary, you will have to fight for them even harder than anyone else would have to. The blood of Eorl flows in your veins, and it wakes high expectations in the people’s hearts. You are expected to become a leader of the Rohírrim; a warrior the enemy will run from when they merely hear your name. It will be a stony path to leadership for you, but I will prepare you for it as best I can. You’ve got it in you, Éomer, if you are not afraid to claim it.’

With a deep breath, Éomer woke from his reverie and squared his shoulders, and he saw the approval in Elfhelm’s eyes when he said with conviction: “Whatever it takes to become a warrior, I will do it.”

When the sun rose over the horizon on the next morning, Éomer found to his surprise that sleep had found him despite the heavy issues he had discussed with his Captain in the dead of night. Much had been going through his head after their conversation, but somehow, Elfhelm’s revelations had also helped to put his mind at ease although he still felt sorry for Arnhelm. When a warrior as experienced as the powerful Captain of Aldburg admitted that not even the greatest hero was beyond mistake, it had to be the truth, and Arnhelm had to know it, too. Éomer assumed that it would still take time to make his peace with the fact that his father’s mistake had cost the lives of many men, but it had comforted him to hear that an always considerate and cautious man like Elfhelm thought of the accusations against the former Marshal of Eastfold unfounded. Inwardly he swore to himself to only listen to his Captain in these matters from this day on.

As he sat up and plucked the grass from his hair, Éomer’s gaze involuntarily searched for the scout at the place where Arnhelm had build his lair on the previous night, but the older warrior was nowhere to be seen. As he looked further, a warm stream of hot air was suddenly blown against his neck and painted a quick smile onto his face as he turned around.

“Good morning, Stormwing…” Éomer blew his breath into the mare’s nostrils and laughed when her lips groped gently for his face. “”No, lass, I’m not your morning meal! There’s plenty of juicy grass all around you; why won’t you try that instead of your master? It will taste much better, too, I’m sure.” He shoved the grey head back and rose to his feet when the sound of a massive yawn claimed his attention. Grinning, he turned around. “I hope you won’t mind when I say that you look as if one of our herds stampeded over you, Éothain? Also, you snored like an overfed warg last night. I had to move away from you to find some rest at all.”

Éothain, rubbing his head with a miserable grimace, paused to glower at his friend.

“There will come a day when you will feel like this, Éomer, and I will make sure to be there and mock you. Thank you for reminding me why we are best friends!”

“You two!” a voice called out at them, and when they turned around, they saw Tolgor standing close by with an expectant expression upon his weather-lined face. “When you are done horsing around, see that you get something in your stomach and ready your horses! You’re riding with the Captain today!”

“With the Captain!” All misery suddenly forgotten, Éothain jumped to his feet. “Whereto, Tolgor? Or are we not supposed know?”

“It is a surprise, but you will surely miss it if you don’t hurry up!” the older warrior barked in feigned gruffness, but then he winked at them before he turned away.

With wondrous expressions, Éothain and Éomer stared at each other for a moment longer, until at last, Éomer gave himself a push. This promised to become a wonderful day, and he would not miss it for the world.

“Come, Éothain’s let’s jump into the river! I don’t know any more about Elfhelm’s plans than you, but something tells me we will like them.”

A little while later, the two recruits stood by their saddled horses and watched their Commander and Tolgor approach with their horses on the reins.

“Good morning, you two! Tell me, young lords, do you feel ready to do your rounds?”

“Do our ‘rounds’, my Lord?” Éothain asked politely, yet utterly clueless what Elfhelm’s words might imply. With an amused glance at Tolgor, Elfhelm gestured for them to climb into the saddle.

“It is what we came here for; one of our chief duties. We ride across the Eastfold and ask the people in the settlements whether they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, or what else they may have to report… and if they have a problem, we will see that we solve it for them.” Again he winked at Tolgor, utterly confusing his two apprentices with his strange secrecy. “Ah, but why am I telling you this? I suppose it’s best to simply show you. You can leave your belongings here, because we will stay here for another night.” Shifting in his saddle, Elfhelm surveyed for a moment the activities in the camp and found to his satisfaction that the other groups were likewise ready to leave. “We’ll be riding northeast. Lead the way, son of Eomund!”

For a while, the four Rohírrim rode silently side by side, and nothing disturbed the peaceful atmosphere of the river-delta on this perfect summer day. The air was ripe with the scent of flowers, grass and water, and the constant noise of the cicadas accompanied them, occasionally broken by the cries of birds as they passed high above the riders’ heads. A slight breeze enveloped them and sent ripples through the high grass. Although it was still early, it carried the promise of another hot day. As Éomer tilted back his head to look at the clouds, Elfhelm followed his gaze.

“Well, Éomer, you have been riding with us for more than a month now; let’s hear what you have learned so far.” He saw the young man tense and smiled. “What will the weather be like later today, what do you think?”

Eager to prove his newly acquired knowledge to his commander, Éomer regarded the sky for a moment longer, Tolgor’s voice in his head as the warrior had lectured him on their forays about the different forms of cloud and their effect on the weather.

“The clouds are high, so it won’t rain soon. But they are also very thin and moving fast, which hints at strong winds above, so the condition is likely to chance over the course of the day.”

“The winds… uhm…” Éomer narrowed his eyes in concentration as he followed the path of the clouds. “They’re travelling north, which means that the wind is coming from the sea. In the summer, it means that it brings air laden with moisture. One can already feel it. If the mountains don’t keep back the clouds, there could be rain later today, possibly even a thunderstorm.” He cut a quick glance back to Elfhelm and saw Tolgor nod in agreement behind him.

“Very well, young man. I see you have been listening. Now, what should be kept in mind in the case of a thunderstorm? Éothain?”

“One should avoid mountains and hilltops, also level plains where a rider would be the highest point. One should also avoid solitary trees, as lightning likes to strike there, too. Narrow mountain paths are likewise dangerous, as heavy rain can cause rockslides, and wet, bare rock might turn slippery. It is also not advisable to ford rivers when they are swollen from the rain. Best would be to seek shelter in a settlement or cave, if such is available, or in a forest or a niche in the foothills of the mountains. One has also to be alert for increased orc activity, as they will sometimes move during the day if the sky is overcast enough. They like to attack when it’s raining, too, because the sound of the rain will provide them with additional cover.” His heart pumping in his chest with excitement, Éothain looked at his commander… and felt relief when he saw the pleased smile on Elfhelm’s face and the approving nod the warrior exchanged with Tolgor.

His comrade cocked an eyebrow in approval and regarded his apprentices with undisguised satisfaction.

“Very good, you two. It is nice to find someone actually listening to my words for a change.” He winked, and then hurried to clarify: “Of course I was not implying that you were among those never paying attention, Captain!”

“Good you made that clear, old friend, or you would have forced me to think of a punishment,” Elfhelm growled in mock-anger. “And it is much too warm today for any serious thought. I actually hope there will be a thunderstorm today, because the last month has been far too dry. Except for the river’s immediate surroundings, the grass has been burned by the sun all over the Eastfold. Soon there will be nothing left to eat for the horses.”

“The horses!” Abruptly Éothain’s expression lit up in excitement. “Isn’t this the part of the Mark where one of our largest herds is kept?” He looked at Éomer, and saw his excitement mirrored on his friend’s face.

“They are indeed, and it is why I chose you two to accompany us. The herd we are going to visit is one of the very noblest in the entire Mark; the amount of méara-blood in it is perhaps only exceeded by the great Shadowfax’s herd. It is one of our greatest treasures, and that is why we must ensure under all circumstances that they are well.”

“I’m sure they would if they were allowed to, but it seems that their master has different plans for our horses, because for the last two years, they have been stealing more and more of them, and always the black ones.” Furrows appeared on Elfhelm’s brow now, too, as the warrior stared at the land beyond the river. “I do not want to imagine to what evil use they are being put, but I fear that one day, we will find out.”

“And as far as I know, that is still the truth, at least under ordinary circumstances.” Elfhelm slanted a dark look at Tolgor. “But we do not know what the Dark Lord does to them, or which means he has to bend their mind to his will. We can only see that we protect them as best we can.” He craned his neck, and suddenly, his expression brightened considerably. “See, there they are!”

His outstretched hand pointed to where the marshland gave way to the firm, green meadows of the Eastfold, and Éomer’s eyes widened in awe as he beheld the seemingly endless mass of moving shapes upon them. He shook his head, barely believing what he saw.

“Aye. Last time they were counted, their number was close to three thousand. Like I said, this is one of our main herds. And Thunderbolt, their leader, is perhaps only surpassed by Shadowfax in nobility. He is, in fact one of his sons and like his sire, a feast for the eyes. Wait until you see him.”

In single file, the four riders approached the horses, and many noble heads were lifted and ears pricked at them as they neared.

Just as he spoke, the nearest group broke away from them in a panicked gallop, and a shrill shriek warned the rest of the herd who regarded the visitors with unmistakable wariness.

“They are very skittish,” Éomer wondered, and Elfhelm nodded thoughtfully, his good mood gone.

“Indeed. I hope it is not a bad sign. Ah, there is Bréolaf!” He directed his stallion the little camp that was now visible behind a soft rise, consisting of no more than four tents. The herders had already spotted them, as they stood together and waved in welcome, and at their feet, the guard dogs danced around and barked furiously at the strangers. Still, as they approached, Éomer could not shake the impression that these people looked just as tense as their horses, and once again his eyes strayed to the horses behind them for a possible answer.

“Captain Elfhelm!” The man Elfhelm had already pointed out came forth to meet them, and from up close, the worry in his deeply lined face could not be overlooked despite his joy to see the riders. “Béma must have sent you! Or did you meet Wigláf? But he rode west, not east.”

“Your son? We did not see him. Why, what happened that you sent him for help?”

“There was an attack on our herd five nights ago. Orcs.” Bréolaf shook his head. “They took eight black horses; mares and stallions, before we discovered them. But that is not even the worst tidings…” He inhaled. “They wounded Thunderbolt when he tried to protect his herd. I’m not certain that he will survive.” His gaze briefly came to rest on Éomer and Éothain before he shifted his attention back to Elfhelm.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath….!” Elfhelm muttered, and at once sought for the stallion on the plains, but could not detect him. “How badly is he wounded?”

“He took an arrow to the chest. It did not look to me as if it went in too deeply, it probably only sticks in the muscle, but he won’t let us come near to remove it… and you know what orcs do with their arrows.”

“Aye.” Elfhelm ground his teeth, and, upon his recruits’ unspoken question, elaborated. “They smear them with dirt, so that even small wounds they inflict will kill.” He inhaled, and his gaze found Tolgor. “We must attempt to remove it. We cannot let one of our best breeding stallions die. Not without a fight.”

“And a fight this will be, Captain,” Bréolaf warned. “Thunderbolt may be weakened, but he can still defend himself… as will other members of his herd. We already tried.”

“Well, but now there are the four of us who can help you. And Tolgor can treat the wound. Come, Bréolaf, saddle your horses. Let’s lose no valuable time. Every moment that this orc arrows sits in Thunderbolt’s flesh is one too many.”

It took them a while to spot the stallion among his nervously moving kindred, but when at last, the eight riders had the méara cornered, the sight of the noble creature grieved Éomer greatly. Darker than his sire Shadowfax, Thunderbolt’s hide had the colour of a tarnished silver coin; brightening on his rump and darkening toward head and legs. His thick mane and tail though were of pure white, and Éomer could imagine the glorious sight when it frothed around the stallion’s muscular neck in a full run.

And yet it seemed painfully clear that the horse before them was unable to run. After Bréolaf’s report, the men had expected a long and difficult chase, but in fact all they had needed to do was discourage the stallion’s brethren when they had first formed a protective circle around their leader, but with the help of the herders’ hounds e, the other horses had been chased away. Now it was only Thunderbolt himself who was left to deal with, and yet herders and warriors alike knew that the hardest part of their work still lay before them.

Although the stallion still held his beautifully formed head high in open challenge, the grey of his fur had darkened with sweat from the previous chase, and his shoulders and neck were lathered with foam; even Èomer’s unexperienced eye could not miss how hard the horse was heaving. Mane and tail stuck to Thunderbolt’s wet hide in dirty strings, and the way the horse was quivering indicated that he could barely remain on his hooves. Obviously, the infection in his body had weakened him greatly. Éomer’s stomach clenched into a painful knot as he lowered his gaze to the stallion’s chest. The black arrow-shaft protruded from the muscle like a wicked thorn, swinging left and right with each of his moves. While the son of Eomund agreed with the herder that it had not penetrated into the horse’s his body far enough to hurt organs, he also saw the hideous lump that had formed around it. He swallowed, overwhelmed with pity.

“I swear, if we ever catch the orc who did this, I will cut him into very thin stripes… from the feet upwards, so he will feel it until the very end!” Elfhelm growled, at the same time knowing that he would never find the culprit. He unslung his rope and looked at his comrades. “Let’s begin. The quicker we are done, the sooner the poor creature can rest.”

They spread in a half-circle, readying their ropes. Thunderbolt snorted as he perceived the change in their demeanour, and stomped his hooves against the ground in a powerful threat. With a deep breath, Bréolaf urged his horse a few steps ahead and held up his hand to stop the others. “Wait!” He shifted his attention to the stallion.

“Excuse us, mighty Thunderbolt! We mean you no harm and would not touch you under other circumstances, but the arrow must be removed from your body. Please, allow us to do so.”

“Thunderbolt is a pure-blooded méara,” Elfhelm explained lowly, his eyes glued to the scene before him. “It is said that they understand the language of man. In any case it cannot be wrong to try it.” A shrill shriek cut him off as the stallion jumped toward Bréalaf in a feigned attack. The moment the horse turned away from him, Elfhelm cast his rope, and the sling slipped over the grey’s head. On the other side, two of the herders mimicked his tactic, and Tolgor followed.

“Hold on!” Elfhelm shouted and quickly slung his rope around the pommel of his saddle. Furiously, Thunderbolt fought against the slings around his neck, but the four men at their end had spread out and drawn their ropes tight, leaving the stallion with no space to move. “Very well! Éomer, give me your rope. Éothain, give your’s to Tolgor!”

Intimidated by the fierce struggle the méara put up despite his weakened condition, Éomer handed his rope to Elfhelm.

“Méaras are wild and proud creatures. They don’t usually suffer getting touched, not even when they are healthy. The only ones allowed to ride them will be the King of the Mark and his descendants, and even then, they will first have to prove their worthiness to their steed. Yet I believe that Thunderbolt would let us treat him under different conditions, but he seems to be running a high fever. He is not himself now.” He gave his recruit a measuring glance. “Your father always said that you had a special way with horses. That they respond well to you. Is that true?”

“Yes or no, son. We have no time for long answers. We will try to keep the stallion under control, but it would help if someone calmed him while Tolgor removes the arrow. Can you do that?”

“I will try,” he said, his mind reeling, and looked with wide eyes at Éothain. Elfhelm chose him to approach such a splendid creature?

“Good.” Elfhelm weighed the sling in his hand. “Éothain, hold yourself ready. I will see that I get this around one of his front legs so that he cannot kick us, and then give it to you. Hold it tight.”

“Aye, Captain.” Éothain swallowed, painfully aware of the responsibility of his position.

Before them, the stallion undertook another desperate attempt to flee, and as his hooves left the ground, the sling fell over his left leg. Quickly pulling it tight, Elfhelm gestured Éothain closer.

With a nervous nod, Éothain did as bidden while his Captain slid from his saddle and clapped his stallion’s shoulder, and the experienced war-horse understood and stepped backwards until the rope fastened to his saddle sang with tension. To his right, Tolgor followed his example, and Éomer watched in awe as Wildfire mimicked Éon’s movements.

“Very well. Bréalaf, Éomer, come…” Cautiously, the four men approached the captured méara. Through the curtain of his long mane, Thunderbolt watched them warily, but his head hung low now, as if he had spent all of his great power, and his hide was dark with sweat. “Tolgor? Standing or lying?”

“Let us try it standing. He appears weak enough to me, and I would not want to risk that he injures himself in the fall.” The warrior did not look up as he washed his hands and knife with the brandy Bréolaf had given him.

“Peace, mighty Thunderbolt,” the herdsman whispered, and the grey ears flickered toward him before they flattened again against the horse’s head. “We are not the enemy. We only want to help you.” By now, they were close enough to hear the stallion’s laboured breathing and see the pumping of his flanks. He was at the end of his strength. The herdsman unfolded his rope and looked at Elfhelm. “Can you distract him for me, Captain?”

In answer, Elfhelm waved his arms and stepped to the side, drawing the méara’s gaze as Bréalaf made his move – and slipped the sling around the other front leg, then threw the rope over the stallion’s back where Elfhelm caught it and pulled until Thunderbolt had to lift it under loud protest. He cast the end underneath the horse’s rump where the herdsman caught it and held it tight until one of his comrade’s relieved him. Then he unfolded the halter he had brought, finally daring to approach the stallion now that he could no longer kick. Despite the grey’s weak attempts to evade him, he quickly drew it over the horse’s head and held on tight, quickly joined by Elfhelm.

With a keen eye on the méara’s moves, Tolgor unsheathed his razor-sharp skinning knife and approached the stallion from the side. While Éomer hesitantly followed him, the warrior extended a hand and laid it on the horse’s shoulder, at once feeling the quivering. He shook his head.

“He trembles, but I cannot tell whether fear or fever causes it.” Cautiously, his fingers approached the wound, and the stallion became rigid underneath his touch. “Éomer? If there is any magic you can do with a horse, now is the time to let it work.” He felt the powerful muscles twitch beneath his palm as the stallion tried to kick out against the strain of his ties. “Shhh, Grey One… allow us to help you.”

Intimidated by the méara’s massive frame and the many scars in his hide that told of Thunderbolt’s violent rise to leadership, Éomer came to a halt just beyond the horse’s reach, his heart pounding in his chest. In his own way, the stallion was as much a warrior as they were – more so, perhaps, if the scars were any indication. A red-veined eye rolled at him, and Éomer’s stomach clenched. He had never before handled a wild horse and was not certain at all that Bréalaf and Elfhelm could hold the stallion if Thunderbolt suddenly decided to bite him.

‘They understand our words, Éomer,’ Elfhelm’s voice reverberated in his head. “These are no ordinary horses.’

But then he saw something in the wild eye measuring him, some kind of recognition, and it amazed him. Suddenly, Elfhelm and the others did not longer exist. It was just him… and the méara.

“Forgive us, great Thunderbolt,” Éomer began, and noticed how the grey ears turned in his direction. “We apologise for using our ropes against you, but you leave us with no choice if you continue to fight. That arrow in your chest must be removed, or it will kill you.”

Tolgor’s fingers reached the wound, first circling the arrow and then cautiously gliding over the hideous lump. If there was still fight left in the stallion, it would come now. He hesitated.

Éomer inhaled, aware that the stallion’s attention was still focussed on him.

“The procedure will be painful…,” he continued, and while he had first thought it strange to address the stallion in the same way Bréolaf had done, it now felt completely natural. There was no question in his mind anymore that this creature understood him, and that it knew something about him which made it listen to what he had to say although he was still an apprentice. Éomer could not begin to guess what that something was, but now was not the time to solve that riddle. “We apologise for that, as well, but it cannot be avoided. Let us save your life, please, for it means much to the people of the Mark.” Following a sudden impulse, he reached out.

“Éomer, no…!” Elfhelm hissed in dismay. Before his inner eye, he already saw the young man’s fingers severed by the enraged stallion… but Thunderbolt held still. Like a statue the noble creature stood, and not a muscle moved as Éomer’s hand – his right hand, even! - touched the silken nose and came to rest upon the stallion’s lips. Elfhelm held his breath, aware that all that stood between Éomer and the end to all his dreams of becoming a warrior was one false move. “Éomer, what are you doing?”

“Take my sword-hand as pledge of our sincerity, great Thunderbolt,” the son of Eomund said without sparing his Captain so much as a glance. He seemed to be in a world of his own, barely aware of their presence. “We will not betray you. Trust in us, I beg you… as I trust in you.”

Horrified and fascinated at the same time, Elfhelm watched on, aware that the others were waiting, too, mesmerised. Still the boy’s hand was pressed against the stallion’s mouth, neither one moving. Suddenly, Éomer smiled.

With deep furrows on his brow, Elfhelm exchanged a quick glance with Tolgor, who looked uncomfortable at the prospect of standing in the direct line of a kick if they freed the stallion’s leg. Against his fears, he nodded… and slowly let go of the méara’s halter.

The herdsman followed his example, and together, the two men slowly stepped back. And still Thunderbolt did not move.

“Who is that boy?” Bréolaf murmured under his breath, but Elfhelm only shook his head.

“Later. Éothain, and the others, too: release your hold. Give your ropes slack.”

“You can begin now, Tolgor,” Éomer said, and with his free hand, removed the halter from the stallion’s head; taking his sword hand merely long enough from the méara’s mouth to complete this task.

With a deep breath, the older man went to work. With one fast incision, he opened the lump upon the stallion’s chest, and a thick yellow liquid seeped out of it at once. The skin around the wound twitched briefly, but otherwise, the stallion moved not a single muscle. Cautiously, the warrior grasped the arrow’s shaft… and hesitated.

“I will have to clean the wound with the brandy now before I can remove the arrow. It will burn.”

His lips a tight white line in his face, Tolgor drenched the cloth in his hand. He inhaled… and then pressed it into the cut. This time, the muscles around the arrow worked, and a deep grunt rose from the stallion’s chest in response to the pain – and still all four hooves remained on the ground as if they were rooted in stone. He did not pause to think about it.

“I will have to make one more cut, and then hopefully, the arrow will come out.” This time, Tolgor did not wait for Éomer’s approval; with a quick motion, he led his skinning blade through the flesh. Even before the wound could start to bleed, he loosened the hideous arrow with one twist of his wrist and dropped it to the ground. “It’s out. I will have to use the brandy once more, and then sew the cut shut.” He was given no answer, and – upon a quick glance back, continued. Not once did the stallion move until he severed the last thread and stepped back. “I’m done.”

Éomer did not look at him. A dreamy smile played around the corners of his mouth as he reached out to remove the slings around the stallion’s neck, at last taking his sword-hand away from the reach of Thunderbolt’s teeth.

“We will release you now, Grey One,” he said “- and thank you for your trust. Hopefully, your wound will heal quickly now.” Under the wondrous expressions of riders and herdsman alike, he stepped back, the ropes in his hand. For another moment, the méara stallion continued to regard him with great calmness… until at last, Thunderbolt snorted and turned away, almost casually, to rejoin his herd.

For the longest time, none of the men knew what to say; they only knew that they had witnessed a miracle. Then Éomer turned around, and the expression on his young face bespoke his own bewilderment as the trance ended.

“How did you do this, lad?” Bréolaf whispered and shook his head in denial of what he had just seen.

“I do not know.” Almost excusingly, Éomer looked at him, clearly feeling uncomfortable to be the focus of the grown men around him.

“I think I do.” All heads turned to Elfhelm, who suddenly wore a faint smile of dawning recognition upon his face. “But I have never seen it before. Of course, this has to be the answer to the riddle!”

“It is common knowledge that méaras only answer to our kings and their descendants… so the answer is flowing through your veins, Éomer: it is the blood of Eorl. Thunderbolt accepted you because you are a descendant of our greatest king.”

“But I am not a king,” Éomer objected, his confusion no less. “I am barely a Rider yet.”

“It makes no difference to the méaras. You are of royal blood, Éomer, and you are second in line to the throne of the Mark. You are still young, and no one knows what the future holds for you, but it is not altogether unlikely that you will be King of Rohan one day.”

Éomer blanched, and from the depth of his soul, sudden anger rose in him as he looked his captain defiantly in the eye.

“I will never be king! It is not something I would even want! Uncle will rule for many more years, and after him, Théodred will take his place! I will be roaming the plains, protecting our people, the way my father did!”

Elfhelm nodded, not wanting to object when the young man before him had only just begun to come to terms with the loss of his parents. That Éomer could lose the rest of his family just as easily, was of course always a possibility in their eternal war, but one the older warrior would refrain from voicing at this moment. The lad was smart; he knew the ugly truth himself, no matter how desperately he tried to deny it. No one was safe in these hard times; Éomer’s heated reply bespoke that fact all too clearly.

“I hope for us all that your wish will be granted, Éomer,” Elfhelm said simply, and then turned to Bréolaf who still stared at the son of Eomund in open wonder. “Bréolaf, may I leave our two recruits with you for a while while Tolgor and I go looking for orc tracks in the vicinity? Even if I don’t believe it, they may be still around.”

“Why can we not accompany you?” Éomer and Éothain protested simultaneously, but the Captain of Aldburg shook his head. “You will learn about the art of tracking, but not today. As we don’t know whether those orcs are still around, it would be better if Tolgor and I went alone… and you do not want to tell me, gentlemen, that you would want to miss an opportunity to wander among the méaras? It is something very few are granted, take my word.” And, with a glance at Breólaf, he added: “Show them what there is to see and tell them all about the history of this herd. I am certain that – once you’ve started – they will be so fascinated that they will have forgotten all about those orc tracks before we’ve even passed out of sight.”

It turned out that Elfhelm had been correct. Although his recruits followed his path with their eyes in disappointment until the two experienced riders disappeared behind a gentle rise, the rest of their visit to the méara herd left the young men from Edoras awed by the wonders of the Mark. Following Bréolaf in his tracks as he led them among the horses, Éomer and Éothain listened with growing fascination to the history of this great treasure. They learned about ancient bloodlines, famous sires and mares from the time when the Mark had still been young, and the fierce intelligence and endurance of the descendants of Nahar, steed of Béma.

Once they saw Thunderbolt in the distance among his brethren, looking their way with pricked ears before he turned around to chase away one of the yearlings who had boldly approached him to test his newly discovered strength. And when the old herdsman had led them to the sheltered place where the mares nursed their newly born offspring, the two young men had been helpless to suppress the broad, happy grins upon their faces as they stood amidst curious foals who fought for the right to be first to suckle on their visitors’ fingers.

It had been an enchanted afternoon, and among the horses, Éomer had lost quickly all sense of time. When Tolgor and Elfhelm returned, the sun had disappeared behind a curtain of high clouds and the young men had revelled in the hospitality of the herdsfolk as they sat by the fire with bowls of steaming stew upon their laps, utterly content. As Bréolaf’s wife had insisted that none of the warriors left without a good meal in his stomach, they had all eaten together, and only when the shadows had lengthened and announced that afternoon would soon turn to evening had Elfhelm insisted to ride back to their camp.

“How could Thunderbolt know about my ancestors?” For while, the four Rohírrim had ridden silently side by side, each of them occupied with another aspect of the past day’s events, but at last Éomer found that he had still had questions that even by the herdspeople had not been able to answer. “I mean, of course I heard it before that méaras are the king’s steeds only, but how do they know who is one? They do not smell it, do they?”

For a moment, Elfhelm regarded the eager young man with astonishment, before he exchanged a quick glance with Tolgor.

“That is a good question, Éomer… and I’m afraid that I cannot answer it. Méaras are creatures we believe were sent to us by the gods. How do they know what they know? Possibly because they are – in their own way – gods, too. Perhaps, Béma talks to them and tells them what they need to know. We cannot say. We can only accept that they will recognise us for who we are, and that must be enough. For my part, I’m quite satisfied to leave that mystery untouched… just like the one about the Ghost Horse.”

“The ‘Ghost Horse’, Sir?” Éothain inquired, and Éomer, too, furrowed his brow. This time it was Tolgor who answered.

“’Sleipnir’, the Ghost Horse, aye. He is said to be a wanderer between the worlds of the dead and the living. Whenever a warrior dies, his soul will be brought to the halls of his ancestors on the back of the pale stallion.”

“I am not certain.” Tolgor’s gaze was thoughtful. “’Sleipnir’s existence is widely believed to be a myth, but in the past, I’ve treated wounded men who claimed to have seen him when they were on the brink of death. And I am not the only healer who heard these tales.” He exhaled forcefully and shook his head, as if to clear it from the cobwebs of a distant dream. “But perhaps we should not speak about death on such a fine day.”

“It was a fine day,” Elfhelm corrected him with a glance at the black mountain of cloud above the peaks of the Ered Nimrais. “It seems to me that today, we will witness a rather violent end of the drought. I would not be surprised if the éored is already on the way to the shelter.” Even as he spoke, the darkness before them was illuminated by the fiery tongues of an orange lightning. The wind blew steadily into their faces, and it was hot as if it came from a furnace. Elfhelm narrowed his eyes.

“This could get dangerous if it doesn’t rain soon,” Tolgor voiced his thoughts aloud. He turned to their two listening recruits. “The weather has been far too dry this summer. Lightning could easily cause to the plains to burn in a fire we won’t be able to extinguish. Many settlements would be endangered, and of course the herds, as well. It has been a while since this last happened, but we’ve had it before.”

“In any case, we should see that we reach the camp, soon.” Elfhelm urged his stallion into a gallop. “I do not like the sight of this at all.”

While the weather on the way to the méara herd had been pleasant, the conditions on the way back worsened with every league as the four riders chased toward the confluence. Before their very eyes, the tower of black clouds grew until it swallowed all daylight, and what little was left turned into a sickly pale yellow. The air tasted and smelled strange, and the wind picked up further until it became a storm that blew dust into their eyes until they could barely hold them open. Lightning upon lightning streaked across the black sky now and the at first distant rumble of thunder was now so loud that each growl sounded like the voice of a mighty dragon about to swallow the world. And then the rain came.

With the force of a waterfall that had been blocked and suddenly burst its way free, the torrent fell from the sky in frightening amounts, and the storm hurled the drops into their faces like tiny daggers. Whereas Elfhelm had at first looked forward to the rain, he cursed it now, as the ground to their feet turned into a roaring river from one moment to the next, the dry earth unable to swallow the masses of water.

As the mounds where they had pitched r camp finally came into view, the four riders could make out the indistinct shapes of only two of their comrades, waiting for them although they were already drenched to the bone.

“The others already made for Firien Wood,” Gunthard shouted over the roaring thunder as they approached. “Arnhelm told us to wait here for you. They took your belongings with them.”

They raced through the storm, hunched over their horses’ backs in a vain attempt to find at least a little cover from the elements, and the rain fell so hard now that their surroundings disappeared behind the watery curtain. Ducked behind Stormwing’s neck, Éomer concentrated on murmuring in a calming tone to the skittish mare, hoping to calm himself, too, in the process. They were in the storm’s eye now, lightning upon lightning chasing across the sky and the thunder growling like a hungry wolf, and the shelter of the forest at least another hour away during which they would be elevated targets in the middle of a flat, wet plain. He had barely ended the disquieting thought when, with a loud hiss, the twilight turned blindingly bright and a white streak embedded itself into a pile of rocks to their right. Stormwing broke to the left with a shrill shriek, bumping into Éothain’s gelding so hard that the bay almost lost his footing. For a moment, Éothain beheld his friend’s frightened expression in the pale light, then darkness enveloped them again.

The ride seemed to take forever, but at last, long after Éomer had lost all sense of time and direction, they reached the first trees of the forest and sat up in relief while the storm above them raged on. One hand patting his mare’s wet neck in silent thanks, Éomer met his commander’s questioning gaze as Elfhelm shifted in the saddle.

“Now, that was quite spectacular, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” The warrior paused for a moment longer to orient himself in the twilight and wipe the water from his face, before he directed his steed onto a path to his left. Wet and miserable, his recruits followed him.

“I hope that my saddle bags survived this,” Éothain muttered to no one in particular. “If all my belongings are as wet as I am…”

“If you waxed them as you were showed, they should be all right,” Tolgor answered, and already a faint smile formed on his features at the first glimpse of a fire before them. “Otherwise you will just have to sit by the fire until you’re dry again… See, there are the others!” He urged his horse into a quick trot, and a moment later, reached the camp their brothers had erected underneath a large overhanging rock. The four returning riders were greeted with relief and gleeful remarks over their wet state, and although he was likewise drenched to the bone, Éomer felt instantly better when he slipped from the saddle and led his mare to where the other horses had sought shelter beneath the dense foliage of the forest. As he fought with the buckles of the tack, he suddenly noticed movement from the corner of his eye and looked up.

It was Arnhelm, apparently returning from a brief foray into the forest to ensure that their surroundings were as deserted as they looked. The scout came to a halt a few paces away, and his keen eyes pierced Éomer with the same intensity as on their first meeting, leaving the young man him to feel naked underneath the warrior’s cold glare. For a moment, Arnhelm continued to stare at him, before the warrior shifted his attention to someone behind Éomer.

“You told him what my problem with his father was, Elfhelm, didn’t you? I saw you talking with our recruit last night… as if you didn’t wish me to see you.”

“I found it necessary to let Èomer know the reason for your hostility, yes,” the Captain replied evenly, stepping up behind his pupil. ”Would you rather have preferred to leave him in the dark about your motive, no matter how misguided it is?”

“’Misguided’, you say” Arnhelm narrowed his eyes. Above them, thunder rolled and reverberated from the mountains, but f the men did not seem to notice. “I lost my son to his father’s bloodthirst. But of course, you would not understand the way I feel, Elfhelm. When we return to Aldburg, you will go home to your wife and children. Your family is awaiting you. You know nothing about the sharp pain of losing a loved one! How it tears a hole in your soul you will never be able to fill. “

“I lost many of my comrades and friends in our fight, Arnhelm!” Elfhelm’s voice hardened. “Friends I considered family, and yes, before you ask, I considered Eomund of Aldburg one of them. But I don’t walk around and accuse innocent boys of sins they have not committed! Just as I don’t accuse Eomund himself. You know how I think about that incident.”

“Aye!” Arnhelm snorted, disgusted. “You were the Marshal’s best friend; of course you would not want his memory soiled. And I also happen to know about the promise you gave him, the promise to make his son a warrior and keep him from harm.” His cold gaze returned to Éomer, who stood before him with balled fists, biting his tongue in order to restrain his anger. “But I can already see that the son has the same temper as the father! Look at him, Elfhelm! There is nothing your innocent recruit would rather do right now than wring my neck. He can barely hold back! Look at him!”

“And I can’t say that I blame him, Arnhelm,” he rebuked. “I feel rather tempted myself, to be honest. You certainly give him enough reason to hate you.”

“I am sorry that your son died, my lord,” Éomer brought out, his voice strangely strangled, as if he could barely hold back from shouting. “I regret that very much, as I’m sure my father would regret it were he still alive. As it is, he paid with his own life for his mistake. What else is it that you want?”

“I want you out of this éored,” was Arnhelm’s blunt reply. “Before anyone else falls prey to your father’s temper. You’ve got it in you, I see it in your eyes! It’s in your blood, this curse! I can see right through you!” He stepped closer, his gaze steel pinning the young man before him. “You want to become a warrior to avenge your father, and in your obsession to get even with the orc-scum, you will not care how many of your comrades die for your revenge! You must not be allowed to become a warrior!”

“Arnhelm! You’re forgetting yourself!” Elfhelm shouted and took an angry step forward to shield his quivering recruit from the older man’s wrath. “Leave the boy alone!”

Shaking off his hand with an angry step forward, Éomer answered the challenge, rage finally breaking the dam of his restraint.

“Aye, Lord Arnhelm, and I promise you that I will become a warrior, and I will have my revenge on the orcs, but not only for my father! It will be for your son, as well, and for every warrior who died in his duty for the Mark! You will not stop me! And if you insult my father one more time, I will have your blood for it!” Suddenly, his sword was in his hand, the razor-sharp tip resting with slight pressure against the scout’s chest in unmistakable threat. Part of Éomer stared horrified at his own gleaming blade, not wanting to believe what his eyes showed him. What was he doing? But then rage claimed him again, and all considerations vanished in the red-hot surge.

“Èomer!” Elfhelm barely dared to breathe. For a heartbeat, he considered disarming the boy, for Éomer could not see him where he stood. And yet all it would take for the young man to skewer his tormentor would be one quick move. If he misjudged the situation, it would end in blood. Behind his back, he could here the others approaching, alerted by their shouting. “This is not the way. Sheathe your sword immediately!”

“Look at your innocent young recruit now, Elfhelm! Was I not right? This is the boy you want give command over an éored in the future. One hundred and twenty riders, who will all have to pay the price for his hotheadedness! Are you sure you want to be responsible for their death? Do you want to be the one to tell their families when they don’t return?"

“Shut your mouth, Arnhelm; you did enough damage for today! Éomer, lower your sword! This will not solve anything.”

“I was eleven when my father died, and my mother died of grief shortly afterward!” Éomer shouted against the storm, and it was as if he had not even heard Elfhelm. The way his voice wavered, it was unmistakable that he was crying. “I suffered as much as you! I want to become a warrior to protect our people the best way I can, because I always heard their tales when they would come our house to ask Father for help! I wanted to become a warrior long before my father died! I thought you were a hero of the Mark; a man I could learn from and look up to, but you are worse than any orc could ever be! You know you are wrong to accuse me, but you do not care!”

“I am wrong, you say,” Arnhelm said evenly, as if the tip of Éomer’s sword were not pressed against his chest. “But then look at you. Take a good, hard look at what you’re doing right now, and tell me whether you deem it ‘normal’ to raise your sword against a fellow rider!”

“I will say it for the last time, Arnhelm: step back and leave the boy alone!” Elfhelm growled, and now there were also shouts from the other men telling their comrade to let off their trembling recruit. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You were cruel to Éomer from the moment you first set eyes on him, for no other reason than your quarrel with his father!” Eothain let himself be heard, enraged. “You are an esteemed warrior; you are supposed to be an example for others! It makes me want to spit to think that one day, I should become like you!”

For a moment, the scout turned his head, and what he saw gave him pause: the riders whom he had deemed to be on his side, were looking at him with barely contained contempt.

“Silent, Éothain. If you want a fight, Arnhelm, pick someone of your size!” Elfhelm raised a hand. “I was Eomund’s friend, and I still consider myself his friend even today. You might as well attack me, but certainly not a sixteen year old boy!”

Arnhelm narrowed his eyes, and when his attention returned to Éomer and the sword still pressed against his chest, he lifted a brow.

“Skewer me if you think you can, son of Eomund. But you might be in for a surprise!” And before anyone could react, the scout had drawn his own sword and knocked Guthwine from Éomer’s fingers, then briefly rested the tip of his blade against the young man’s throat. “This is how it feels. It is not pleasant, is it, to know that death might just be a heartbeat away. Be sure to remember it for the future.” And with an equally swift move, the deadly steel returned to its sheath.

For the longest time, the esteemed warrior and the unproven recruit continued to stare at each other, and although their faces were wet from the rain, Arnhelm saw the tears in Éomer’s eyes, and the muscles working as the young man fought for control.

“Your son is lucky to be dead, Lord Arnhelm,” the son of Eomund uttered at last with unmistakable effort, his chest rising and falling with his hard sobs. “This way, he is spared the sight of his father shaming himself by turning on a boy who was only a child when the event he is accusing him for took place. I doubt he would be proud of you.” He spat on the ground to Arnhelm’s feet. “And don’t fear, I’d rather be dead than serving in the same éored as you!” And before anyone could react, Éomer jumped onto his mare’s back and took off into the growing darkness of the forest.

The fading shouts meant nothing to Éomer as he urged his mare deeper into the forest’s darkness at breakneck speed. Occasionally, lightning penetrated the dense foliage with its pale shine, only to leave the world behind an even darker place, and thunder rolled over the skies and was cast back multiplied in a perpetual growl from the mountains. Eomund’s son barely took notice of the noise, nor did he care for the direction he was headed, as long as it led him as far away from the camp as possible. They would search for him, of that he was sure, but he would take all necessary measures to ensure that they would not find him. He would not return. Trying to become one with the blackness of the forest, Éomer relentlessly pushed his steed forward.

The éored had ceased to be his family away from Edoras. If he returned, he would only be subjected to further torment from Arnhelm while the others stood around and did nothing. The incident had made it clear to Éomer that his captain would or could not – it no longer mattered to him which of the two - stop his scout from taking revenge for the death of his son, so perhaps inwardly, and although he had claimed otherwise, Elfhelm felt that Arnhelm’s accusations were indeed justified. Èomer’s lungs tightened in a painful but soundless sob at the discovery how truly alone he was in the world.

For a moment, he desperately wished that Éowyn was here. Although she was still so young, she always knew the right words to strengthen his courage. Éomer sighed. In a way, their childhood had ended with the death of their parents. In the course of just a few weeks, loss had stripped them of their belief that good would always prevail against evil. They knew now about the harshness of life, and that carelessness could turn everyone into a cold corpse in the wink of an eye. What use was it to waste one’s time with child’s play when one could train for battle instead? And oh, he had fought so hard to join the Armed Forces!

After a month with the éored, Éomer had truly believed that the warriors had accepted him. With most of the riders, he had already drunken to Brotherhood. And now it turned out that they had only pretended to accept him in their company, while inwardly, their scorn for his father still throbbed like a foul tooth. Different from Arnhelm, common sense had held them back from unleashing it against their recruit themselves, and yet they had done nothing to stop the old warrior when Arnhelm had turned on him. To Éomer, their behaviour could only mean one thing: they agreed with the scout’s way of seeing things. Like father, like son.

So was the lesson to be learned that he was doomed to repeat his father’s failure, Éomer wondered darkly. Would his false decisions indeed put his comrades and brothers in their early graves? Was it all already written in his blood, regardless of the high goals he had set himself? Had Arnhelm been right, in fact, in chasing him away? Éomer’s lips became a thin, bloodless line as a powerful surge of desperation flooded his conscious.

In a sudden, violent impulse to escape from his dark thoughts, he kicked his heels into Stormwing’s flanks, and the mare responded although she could barely see their surroundings. The forest swallowed them.

“Éomer! No! Come back! This is no solution!” But the mare quickly disappeared in the darkness beyond the camp fires’ reach, and Elfhelm stopped and shook his head to himself as he turned around to his waiting men. “I need three groups with five men each! Follow him and see that you bring him back! Quickly! And be careful, this is orc-weather! The rest stays here in case Éomer returns. Éothain, you’ll remain here! It is bad enough to have one recruit lost in the forest… one who is even unarmed.” He bent over to pick up Éomer’s sword, and when he straightened again, his gaze found his still waiting scout. He squared his shoulders. “Congratulations, Arnhelm. You managed to dispirit a young man who trained to become a warrior ever since he could hold a sword. I hope you are satisfied with yourself. “

“I am not proud of myself, Elfhelm, but I did what was necessary to protect our brothers. See, it has already begun: you are right when you say that this is orc-weather, and that it will be dangerous for a man out there tonight. The youth’s hotheadedness endangers everyone who follows him. What if some of our riders come to harm in the search for him? Orcs only wait for opportunities like these, they wait for us to split up and become vulnerable, and sending our men out in groups of five won’t change that. The night, and especially the rainy night, is the orcs’ time. I understand that your promise to Eomund hinders you from seeing things objectively, but your decision in fact underlines everything I just said.”

“You see things ’objectively’, you say.” Elfhelm raised his voice, more than fed up with his scout’s line of reasoning. “It is strange that those very comrades you claim to protect see things rather differently. They do not feel threatened by a sixteen year old eager to learn from them; a boy they themselves will be able to form into the warrior the Mark needs him to become. In those weeks Éomer has ridden with us, the boy has collected nothing but praise from them. Whereas you, after only two days which you did not even spend in his company, have already given up without ever giving him a chance. It would seem to me that you do not trust in your own abilities as a teacher if you doubt that the lad has it in him to become a warrior!” Elfhelm moved closer, looking his brother-in-arms in the eye: “Let me give you a promise now, Arnhelm, one you would be well-advised to remember, for I mean every word: if anything happens to Éomer out there, it will be you who will have to explain the circumstances of his nephew’s death to Théoden-King. I doubt that the King would be very understanding. If I were you, I’d pray that we find the son of Eomund alive!”

A sudden thought entered his head and he turned to the awkwardly waiting Éothain. “I changed my mind, Éothain: you’ll accompany Tolgor and me. Your insight into Éomer’s way of thinking might help us to find him, but you must stay close to us at all times!”

“Aye, Lord Elfhelm.” Éothain lowered his head, glad to be allowed to help his friend. “I will get my horse at once.” He took off running, leaving the two older warriors to stare at each other in strained silence.

Elfhelm could see in his comrade’s eyes that Arnhelm had indeed forgotten the fact that the object of their quarrel was a member of the royal family. Was it truly dread he read now in the scout’s expression? He forced himself to calm down. Éomer would not be helped if they stood here for much longer, shouting accusations at each other. There would still be time for that once the boy sat safely among them by the camp fire. Now it was time to act.

“If anyone can find him even in these conditions, Arnhelm, it is you,” he said lowly. “Perhaps there is still time to correct your mistake… should you want to do that.” Elfhelm narrowed his eyes. In the flickering light of the camp fire, he saw doubt in Arnhelm’s expression. No remorse, but fear of what Théoden-King would do if his nephew was killed by orcs because he, Arnhelm, had provoked the lad to run away. Softly, the Captain of Aldburg added: “Think about it for a moment, Arnhelm. Do you really want to exact your revenge on Eomund by killing his son, the way you felt he robbed you of Gilbéard? Would you feel better with the knowledge that you sent a sixteen year old boy to his death? This is the question you should ask yourself.” Elfhelm inhaled, and, when no answer was offered, turned to fetch the reins of his horse Tolgor held out for him. He swung into the saddle and, with a last glance at the scout, led his group of warriors swiftly into the nightly forest.

After a league of wild flight, Éomer’s fury finally abated enough to allow his steed to slow down from her wild gallop into a trot, and finally, an exhausted walk. He knew not for how long they had raced through the darkness, fleeing from the voices calling from him and all sense of time lost in the growling thunderstorm and the flood of his emotions. Now the mare heaved with effort, and as Éomer clapped her neck in appreciation, his bad conscience assaulted him without warning. Stormwing had been carrying him a long way that day even before they had reached the camp, and she had every right to be tired. What was he doing here?

“I’m sorry, Little One,” he whispered under his breath and shifted in the saddle to check on his surroundings, but there was only darkness to behold. Involuntarily, his stomach contracted into a hard, cold ball. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Every glitter of wetness on the leafs in the lightning, every faint sparkle in the bushes could be orcs’ eyes and with a jolt, Éomer realised how utterly helpless he would be in the case of an attack. Elfhelm’s lesson the other day had made it painfully clear to him how much he was still lacking in swordmanship and strength, that he was anything but ready to met even a single orc in battle. And still, unconsciously, his hand crept down to feel the comforting solidness of his sword’s hilt… only it was not there. In sudden shock, Éomer stared at his empty sheath.

‘It’s still back at the camp! I did not even pause to pick it up! Béma…’

All of a sudden, the darkness around him seemed to thicken, and even through the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, it seemed to Éomer as if he could hear the muffled sound of stealthy steps, the rustle of something moving in the undergrowth, just outside his range of vision. Something malicious, something evil. A ring of steel tightened around his ribs.

‘Calm down! You are not a small child anymore that would see monsters behind every tree!’ he berated himself, to little effect. It simply was a fact that he was alone and lost in the forest in the middle of the night, the preferred time of orcs in terrain and conditions that suited them perfectly…. and unarmed except for his dagger and a bow of which he was not yet a master. Again Éomer shifted in the saddle. Perhaps, if he just rode on until he gained open ground, it would be wiser, even if it meant to expose himself to the elements.

‘Arnhelm would collapse with laughter if he saw me like this!’ his inner voice admonished him again. ‘I’ve been a member of the Armed Forces for more than a month now; didn’t I learn anything in all those weeks? For example about how to orient myself at night?’ Squaring his shoulders in an attempt to calm down, Éomer craned back his neck to look for a hole in the dense foliage. Perhaps he could detect at least a few stars among the clouds, or see the mountains in the light of the next lightning…

“Éomer!” A faraway voice reached his ears, too distant to determine who was calling for him, and from where. “Éomer, where are you? Come back!” His expression hardening, Éomer urged Stormwing on, away from it, although his instincts screamed at him to turn around and follow the sound to safety. He had his pride, and he would not crawl back to them and thus confirm to the warriors that he got frightened in the nightly forest. No, he would not allow them to find him.

Again Éomer checked his surroundings as they moved along the narrow path through the undergrowth, and his heart jumped into his throat as a sudden movement just beyond his immediate range of vision claimed his attention. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger as he stared into the darkness, barely daring to breathe. It had been something big, at least as big as a deer… could it have been an orc? He was still staring into the thicket when, with a vicious hiss followed by an ear-splitting crash, a bolt of lighting tore into the tree next to him.

It was too much for Stormwing. With a frightened shriek, the mare bolted as the tree exploded into fire, and for a moment, Éomer hung precariously at her side, unseated, and his fingers clawed into the white mane as he desperately fought to hold on. If he became unhorsed here, in the middle of the night, unarmed and alone… he’d be as good as dead. Whipped and lashed by bushes and branches as his steed raced through the undergrowth in sheer panic, he succeeded at last to pull himself up onto her back again and laid a hand onto Stormwing’s outstretched neck.

It was no use, Éomer realised immediately. Over the years, he had experienced his share of bolting horses, and once they were in this stage of utter terror, all a rider could usually do was to make sure they stayed seated and let the horse run until exhaustion finally stopped it. He settled back in the saddle, his hand still petting the mare’s neck in a useless attempt to calm her down, when with a horrible crunch, something collided with his head. Unconscious even before he hit the ground, Éomer did not hear as Stormwing disappeared in the distance…

“Éomer! Éomer, if you hear me, come back! Don’t be foolish, lad, we can talk about everything!” Elfhelm held his breath, and exchanged a concerned gaze with Tolgor before his fellow rider bent down to check for tracks, but one glance at the ground was enough for the experienced warrior to determine that any such undertaking was doomed to fail: the long, rainless weeks had hardened the soil to the point where it would not let the water in, which stood several inches high and efficiently obscured everything beneath it. With a deep sigh, he lowered his torch.

“It’s no use,” Tolgor muttered, pivoting on his heels although he already knew that the conditions made it impossible to follow their recruit. He shook his head as he straightened and looked at Elfhelm. “I hate to admit it, but the only chance to find Éomer would be by luck. There’s nothing here to follow – no tracks, nothing he dropped, and the storm has torn so many branches from the trees that it is impossible to determine which one might have been broken off by running horse and not the wind…” He shrugged and climbed back into the saddle while his Commander stared pensively into the darkness.

While his heartbeat raced like a small, frightened animal in his chest, Éothain stared at the Eastfold warrior. It could not be. They could not simply give up! What would become of Éomer if they left him to whatever evil roamed this forest at this horrible night? Without warning, Elfhelm’s gaze turned to him.

“You have known Éomer for a long time, son,” the warrior began. “What would he do, what do you think? Would he stay near the camp in these conditions, only wanting to give us a scare but not daring to ride too far into the darkness, or would he welcome its cover to put as much distance between him and us as possible before dawn? Is he truly trying to run away, Éothain?”

His fingers clenching around the reins, Éothain stared at the forbidding darkness for a moment as he sought for the answer. It seemed obvious to him.

“In the condition he was in when he left, I`d say Éomer is apt to ride all the way to Gondor without a single break,” he said, feeling that it was the truth even as he uttered the words. “His pride has been hurt, so I doubt that he will return on his own. I have never before seen him like this, Captain. Joining the éored meant everything to him, and to have been humiliated in front of these men he had thought to be his brothers… He is very upset.”

“Unfortunately, this is my impression, as well. Alas, the lad has indeed his father’s temper, even if Arnhelm is wrong when he says that it will not be possible to turn it into one of Éomer’s strengths. Let’s hope that your friend still has a chance to work on it when this night is over.” With the slightest pressure of his thighs and shift of his body weight, he moved his stallion on, and his men followed him.

It was the rush of the rain which sank into Éomer’s conscious, first. At first, it seemed to be only background noise, nothing he consciously noticed, but the noise steadily increased in volume until at last, his rational mind deciphered its meaning. And barely had he done so, that he also felt the water upon his face, and that he was drenched, his garments sticking to his body… and the bone-chilling cold. And yet with a jolt, all these sensations faded to nothingness when a horrible headache attacked him with all the savageness of a starving predator.

With an unconscious groan, Éomer laid a hand upon his throbbing skull, where his fingers found a lump of astonishing size on his forehead. It felt enormous, about as large as the egg of a chicken, at least, and hurt so badly that even the fleeting touch of his fingertips caused him agony.

With another groan, Éomer opened his eyes… to a thick, syrupy darkness. A wave of disorientation washed over him. Where was he? And what had happened? Why did he feel as if a mountain had been dropped upon him? He braced himself to sit up, but his body wouldn’t obey the command, and fiery explosions blossomed before his eyes as his headache performed a sudden transformation from ‘horrible’ to ‘crippling’.

Another bolt of lightning chased across the sky, and in its pale light, Éomer saw a dark shadow hovering above him. For a moment, shock stopped his heart…until with a sudden jolt, he realised that he was looking at a tree the storm had snapped off in the middle. The upper half spanned the lower path and had brushed him from Stormwing’s back. A brief, nervous laugh escaped Éomer despite the vicious headache. So, this had been his assailant – a tree! It certainly could have been worse. Now if he could only get on his feet again and find his horse…

Propping himself up with hands that felt already a bit stronger than when he had just woken, the son of Eomund somehow made it into a sitting position. Nausea overcame him almost at once.

“Gods…” Cautiously, he reached again for his brow, at the same time straining for signs that Stormwing was somewhere in the vicinity. But there was only the steady rush of the rain and every now and then, the sound of thunder, growing more distant each time it reached his ears. The storm was almost over- and he very much alone in the middle of a dark, hostile forest.

Éomer licked his lips, anxiously struggling with himself whether to call for his horse or not. Stormwing did not seem to be anywhere near, and the Gods alone knew whose ears his voice would reach if he gave his plight away now. And still, it would feel so much better to have at least one friend in this forbidding, horrible night…

He cleared his throat and inhaled, opened his mouth – and shut it again when the sudden sound of muffled laughter reached his ears. Breathlessly, Éomer listened. Who had found him? And how – Against the blinding headache, Éomer turned around, for a moment undecided whether to give his presence away or not, but then a low, guttural chuckle froze his blood, and a brief glimpse of yellow gleaming eyes in the darkness told the son of Eomund that it had not been his comrades who had found him…

Although Éomer had felt cold since the rain had drenched him on the way to the camp, it was nothing against the sudden chill that raced down his spine now at the sight of the enemy. The shock punched the breath from his lungs; paralysed him. For what felt to the son of Eomund like an eternity, his body disobeyed his mind’s frantic orders to get up and run as he stared at the eerie yellow eyes before him. Suddenly, their pale glow disappeared as the orc turned its head, and dimly, Éomer understood that his paralysis had saved him, at least for the moment. Wet and deep within the shadows with the wind coming from the wrong side, the orc had stared straight at him without seeing, and realisation how close his death had been sent the first tremors of shock through his muscles. Still, it was too early to relax, Éomer knew, for he could still hear his foe close by, whispering secretively. Which meant that there had to be others.

Horrified by the thought, Éomer withdrew further into the cover of the fallen tree. In the nearby thicket, he heard the orcs quarrel, and to his dismay he distinguished at least three different voices.

“—wonder what it is that made them forget all caution and run through the forest in the middle of the night, screaming their heads off,” one voice growled, distrustful. “They must have lost one of their own.” A malicious chuckle followed. “Perhaps we will find him first; then we can leave him, nicely prepared, for them as a message they won’t forget.”

“Or they know we’re around and it is a trick to lure us out of hiding,” another one hissed, and by now, it was close enough for its putrid stench to reach Éomer’s nose. Desperately fighting the retching fit, the young warrior breathed through his mouth. “Surely the herders have told them about our little excursion the other day.”

“Well, if it is, we will teach them that such tricks will always turn against them,” a third one cackled. “This is our night, Brothers! The rain covers our scent and noise, and the ugly strawheads will never know we’re near until it is too late. Even if we don’t kill them all, the twenty of us should be able to inflict some serious damage upon them. This night is the best opportunity against the enemy we’ve been granted for many weeks! If we put it to good use, the Master will be satisfied with us!”

Suddenly, the fallen trunk groaned and creaked above Éomer, and the young man clenched his jaws, only narrowly succeeding in biting back the horrified gasp as the orc paraded on the tree under which he had sought cover. Then the legs of another one appeared before him. If the creature ducked …

‘Béma, please! I will do your bidding in this life and the next, but let it not look under this tree!’

The stench thickened yet further, gagging him, and the way he heard the creaking of the ancient leather garments, Éomer understood that the orc was indeed almost close enough to touch. Although it was dark, he saw things dangling from the creature’s belt and knew at once that they had to be human bones. Orcs loved to wear their trophies; they loved to brag about their kills. Would this one soon have another, fresh set of bones to add to its armour?

“I took the freedom to send them ahead,” the orc-leader on the other side of the tree sneered with glee. “They will move in a big circle around the strawheads, and once they’re in position, we will attack them from all sides at once. If we all shoot at the same time, we should be able to bring at least some of them down, and rout the others. We will be long gone before they can organise resistance, let alone pursuit.”

Involuntarily, Éomer’s hand crept down to the hilt of his dagger, although he knew that in the case of his discovery, the blade would not help him much. What would they do if they found him, unarmed and alone, he wondered with horror. Would they kill him quickly, or try to use him in some terrible way to lure the éored into an ambush? If they tortured him, his screams would surely reach the riders, and whoever would come to his aid would die. Arnhelm had been right after all, Éomer realised with sudden dismay – with his hot-headed reaction, he had indeed endangered every single man of their éored!

“You make it sound easy, Grûshnig. Too easy, perhaps? I was hunted by the horse-lords before. It was not one of my better experiences. I was lucky to escape.”

“Well, but you are here today, are you not, Trôllnûg? Trust me, this will be a night to remember. Now come, or they will spring our trap before we can even lay it!”

The trunk shook as the orc jumped down, and a moment later, the rustle in the bushes told Éomer that his enemies had disappeared. Still he could not move. With his fingers clenched around his dagger, his eyes squeezed shut, the young warrior sat unmoving beneath the fallen tree, and battled the violent shaking which assaulted him now that the immediate danger seemed to have passed.

At last, tension began to diminish, and his cramped muscles to relax enough to let him draw deep breaths again. The violent thunder of his heartbeat gradually slowed, until finally, Éomer felt secure enough to crawl out of his hideout and come to a shaky stand. The orcs’ stench still hung in the air, but aside from that and their footprints on the ground, they indeed seemed to have left. A hand involuntarily feeling for his throbbing head again, Éomer turned in a slow circle. Aye, he was truly alone. No orcs… but also no Stormwing. In her panic, it seemed that his trusted mare had not even noticed that she had lost her rider. The gods alone knew where she was by now.

At the distant sound of his fellow rider’s voice, Éomer lifted his head, and dread overcame him with renewed vigour: aye, danger had passed – for him. For his comrades, the horrors of the night were just about to be unleashed. He had to warn them…somehow. He was responsible for this mess; what if any of them died tonight because of his lack of restraint?

‘Call out or sound your horn, and the orcs will be upon you in the wink of an eye!’ the voice of reason made itself be heard in the back of his mind, and although he knew immediately that it was telling the truth, he hated how cowardly it sounded. ‘Do you really think your brothers will be quicker to reach you than your enemies? Those orcs have only just disappeared; they cannot be far yet.’

As he stared intently in the direction from where he heard the faint shouts of his brothers, Éomer tried to make up his mind, yet inwardly he already knew that he would never be able to live with himself if riders died because of his foolishness. He would warn them… and run. Perhaps, he would make it.

Slowly, he unhooked the little silver horn – an ancient family heirloom, he remembered absent-mindedly, one of the few things he had taken with him from Aldburg when Théoden had taken them to Edoras – and set it against his lips. A deep breath… and then the horn’s distinctive voice carried through the nightly forest; a series of three quick signals announcing the presence of their enemies. For a moment, the world seemed to come to a stop, as if everything – even the trees – held their breath to listen, and Éomer himself felt unable to move while the knowledge flashed through his mind: ‘Now they’ll come for me.’

Breathlessly he stood for a moment longer, rooted to the spot, just waiting for the rustle in the bushes that would announce his imminent death… then suddenly, the lock of fear fell from his muscles, and the son of Eomund turned and ran…

The signal carried through the nightly forest, and for a moment, all activity ground to a halt. Wherever riders searched for the tracks of their lost member, heads flew up and half-muttered curses were spat as the warriors reached for their bows and instinctively moved closer together. Back at the camp, the men jumped to their feet and drew their swords.

Since he was still considered too inexperienced to join the dangerous search, Tondhére had not been allowed to join the groups, but even so he knew enough already to understand whose horn he was hearing.

“Éomer, Éomer…” He shook his head and inwardly sent a quick prayer for protection to Béma as he turned around involuntarily to see Arnhelm’s reaction to this development. Yet to his surprise, the scout was no longer where he had last seen him, and another quick look established that the old warrior’s horse had likewise disappeared. Raising an eyebrow to himself in wonder, Tondhére pondered the implications of his findings when the first search group returned to the camp.

“That was Éomer, wasn’t it? He has not returned in the meantime, I gather?”

“We heard the signal,” Tondhére confirmed. “Did you find anything at all?”

“Not a thing,” the older man growled as he threw his horse around and stared at the darkness beyond the campfires. “It’s impossible to find tracks in this weather, and even to determine from where the signal came will be hard. I can only hope that Éomer sounded his horn to warn us, and not because he is in danger himself. If those orcs are after him now, I doubt we will find him quick enough to help him. What a pile of stinking warg-dung that is! If anything happens to the lad, I will let Arnhelm know what I think of his bloody ‘revenge’, and I promise you that he will not like it!”

Shifting in the saddle, Bard cast a quick glance at his riders, who all seemed eager to follow where he lead them.

“We must reorganise; it is too dangerous for small groups out there tonight. Let’s find Elfhelm and the others and then see what we can do for Éomer! Hiya!”

South of the camp and closer to the mountains, Elfhelm and his riders regarded each other with growing dread, and even in the darkness, the Captain thought he could see the recruit in their midst pale.

“Gods, Éomer…!” Éothain’s fingers clenched around the reins while the warriors in his company stared intently into the surrounding blackness in an attempt to determine the source of the signal. And yet the rain had muffled the sound to the point where it seemed to come from all directions at once, also not helped by the reflecting, close-by mountains.

Squinting in a vain effort to penetrate the almost solid darkness, Elfhelm grumbled: “He must be close to the river and the mountains; else the signal would not cast an echo like this.” He unhooked his own horn. “We must gather on the way, we cannot wait for the others here, or it will be too late for Éomer. Follow me.”

The son of Eomund was afraid… deathly afraid, and far beyond the point where self admonishment to not behave like a scared little child would have succeeded. Instinctively, he knew that his temper had led him into very real danger this time. Although Éomer did his best to control the rising panic, there was just something about fleeing like a flushed deer that prompted his imagination to run wild with pictures of orc scores in pursuit, gaining on him with every step because they were much more accustomed to the terrain. Darkness was so thick in the nightly forest that he barely saw the trees in his path, and inwardly Éomer knew that the first hole in the ground would result in a broken or at least sprained ankle and seal his fate.

With a desperate effort he shoved the image away, but the sound of his own rasping, frightened breathing was hardly more comforting as he slowed to a walk and turned around in a doomed attempt to penetrate the blackness behind him. Where were they? How close were they? What if this very moment, dozens of black arrows were already fitted to the string in the surrounding bushes, ready to tear into him and punch the life from his body? The constant rain swallowed all noises in the nightly forest, and yet it somehow seemed to Éomer that there was another, heaver sound below it, caused by a great body of water, a fast-flowing river perhaps. The Mering? Was it the Mering?

The young man strained to locate its source when movement in the corner of his eye suddenly claimed his attention. On a branch above him, a big owl landed and glanced down at him with luminous orange eyes and mild boredom. It did not care for his fate, only saw him as an intruder of its realm. As he squinted at the bird, Éomer suddenly had an idea.

‘What if I climbed this tree? Perhaps the orcs will just run on, not expecting me to hide above them? I am so wet; perhaps they will not pick up my scent.’

A more distinct crackle in the undergrowth behind him ripped him out of his contemplation and stopped his heart; a deathly chill racing down his spine as he stood and listened for its source.

For a moment, his legs threatened to quit their service, and as he stood and stared, high, cackling laughter reached his ears from the other side of the thicket and Éomer knew at last that the hunt was on - he had been found. It was too late to climb up the tree; all that could save him now was speed, and so he ran toward the sound of the river.

As soon as he broke cover, the noise of his pursuers increased, as the orcs had understood that they, too, had been detected, and to Éomer’s dismay, he found that they were not only behind him, but also to his right, almost upon him. Pure, unadulterated panic flooded his conscious and sent a hot surge through his body. He accelerated, running faster than he had ever before in his life although he barely saw his surroundings, and suddenly, fear fell away from him. It was a hindrance, threatened to slow him while he ran for his life, and so his mind shoved it away into a corner while it concerned itself with his immediate survival. The river… it had been no more than instinct to head for it, the only point of orientation, but even as he ran, Éomer asked himself whether he might be able to use the Mering to his advantage.

Could orcs swim? Somehow, he could not imagine them to. If he reached the waters and made it through them to the other side, perhaps he would be safe? Hope barely began to dawn in his heart when gleeful cackling ripped it from his chest – from the thicket before him!

Breaking to the left, Éomer dived into the bushes. They clawed at his garments and lashed his naked face as he forced his way through them, slowed him down while the excited shouts behind him grew louder and louder. Suddenly, although he could already hear the Mering’s mighty voice, the river seemed impossibly far away. They were hunting him like a frightened doe now, he realised with dread. Now matter where he turned, he could already hear them closing in on him, fanned out in a half-circle to push him toward the river, certain of their prey now.

Once again Éomer set the horn against his lips, but before he could waste what precious breath was left in his lungs, the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he tumbled down the scarp. Gasping for air as he laid on his back, for a moment unable to move, Éomer beheld the luminous eyes of his pursuers as the orcs halted at the rim of the declension, staring down at him.

“Ooh, has it fallen?” one sneered in obvious delight. “Perhaps it has broken its legs, too! I am not in the mood for more running; I want to kill it!”

“If it has broken its legs, we can have some fun with it before we kill it,” another one cackled happily. “Do all the things we wanted to do to its brothers, now that it ruined our little trap!”

“And when we’re done with it, we’ll eat it,” a third one suggested as it started down. “I’m hungry. It’s been a day since we’ve eaten, and this one looks tasty!”

Paralyzed by shock, Éomer stared up at them as he blindly groped for his horn, but it was not within reach. The Mering’s voice was deafening now, the air full of moisture. It had to be close. The question was – had he broken his legs?

“Look, it still wants to call for help!” the first orc laughed and clapped its hands. “As if any of its brethen would hear it over the water’s roar. Ha, humans can be so foolish!” Suddenly, a long, crooked blade was in its claws as it slid down the slope.

They jumped - and in the face of certain death, Éomer suddenly found the strength to move once again. On all fours he turned around, pushing himself up and into a run, but already he saw the end of his path before him, and about eighteen feet deeper, the frothing, roaring rapids of the river. Aye, this was indeed the end of his path, he realised, and came to a stop at the rim of the cliff. A sudden, great calmness overcame him as he stared down.

“There’s no way out of this trap, lad!” the leader of the orcs shouted, and looking back, Éomer saw that the vile things had formed a chain that spanned the entire path. “No need to look! Better get used to the thought and ready yourself to die with honour, or your ancestors might kick you right out of wherever you go when you meet them in a moment. Let’s just see how much pain you can tolerate before you will plead with us to end it.”

The torrent had transformed the Mering into a wild beast. It was not the question whether orcs could swim; nobody could swim in the vicious maelstrom below the cliff. And yet Éomer was not afraid. He had made his choice.

“You will be denied the satisfaction of hearing me plead, orc-scum!” he said, meeting its eyes. “And whatever place it is that I will go to when I’m dead, it will still be immeasurably better than the one you must return to alive!” He stepped into the void…

For a while, only the river’s mighty voice could be heard as the orcs stepped up to the cliff and stared down into the frothing maelstrom.

“What a shame!” Trôllnûg snorted and shook his head. “That one would have been an easy meal. I did not even see a sword on this one. We should have riddled him with arrows, the way I suggested. Now what will we eat? I’m still hungry.”

“It could not be expected that this one would choose a coward’s death,” Târshak spat disdainfully, his eyes still on the violent flood beneath them although he knew he was hoping in vain. “The strawheads usually prefer fight over flight. Bad luck, if you ask me.” He looked up at his brethren. “So what will we do now, look for his corpse downstream? Or try to make it as far east as the night will permit? I’m not comfortable with those horse-lovers roaming the forest like a swarm of angered bees. They might just accidentally stumble over us.”

“Perhaps we can slaughter one of the horses,” his leader mused, already turning back toward the forest. “By the end of the night, once we’ve reached the caves. Not here. Too dangerous. Come, Brothers, the others are waiting for us.” He reached for a protruding root in the bank they had slid down when something punched against his chest. Surprised, Grûshnig stared at the arrow shaft which had nailed the armour to his body while the strong taste of blood filled his mouth, and he grasped it, uncomprehending, as his dimming gaze shifted to the top of the ravine. Briefly he beheld the dark figure that had hidden in the shadows, a black rider on a black horse. ‘Got careless,’ he thought, his last conscious thought before his knees buckled and he plunged into darkness.

Stunned by the shock, his brethren were an easy target for the rider who had found them, and two more fell where they stood before the others fled head over heels into the thicket, routed. For a moment, the forest fell silent again as its inhabitants listened breathlessly into the darkness, not sure whether the danger had indeed passed.

“Stay here, Anlaf, and keep your eyes open. I do not believe that they will return, but it won’t hurt to be cautious.”

Shifting his weight backwards in the saddle, Arnhelm gave Ravenwing his head as the stallion slid down the slope. With satisfaction he looked at the corpses of the three orcs, before his expression hardened again at the sight of a small, silvery thing on the ground. With a deep sigh, he dismounted and crouched down to pick up the beautifully crafted horn.

“Damnation…” he muttered to himself, and the cold hand of fear seized his heart. There was no question whose horn he was holding in his hands. And it was only all too clear what had happened here. A feeling of certain doom threatened to overwhelm Arnhelm where he stood, and his hand with his finding hung loosely by his side as he stared at the tracks that led to the edge of the cliff. ‘In Eorl’s name, lad, why did you jump into the river when I was already so close?’

“Is it Éomer’s?” Anlaf asked anxiously from his elevated position on top of the slope.

“Aye.” Following the footprints until they ended, Arnhelm ground his teeth as he looked at the churning river, and in his mind, he could already hear Théoden-King’s enraged voice.

‘You chased my nephew away from the security of the éored, in the middle of the night? Knowing fully well, or expecting, even, that orcs were in the vicinity to kill him? It is as if you killed him by your own hands – a boy of sixteen summers who never did you any harm! A boy second in line to the throne of the Mark; a boy who might have been my successor one day. If this is not treason, Lord Arnhelm, tell me what else I should call it! And tell me, what would your verdict be if you were in my place?’

Arnhelm swallowed. He had not wanted to get the lad killed; he had only wanted him out of their éored… and if he was honest, it had been more because of the anguish the boy’s uncanny likeness to his father had caused him than for any of his character traits; after all he had barely known Éomer. But had he not been right, too? Had the lad not proven his dangerous temper by running away and thus endangering all who would seek him in the darkness?

‘He is only sixteen years old. He has no experience. Of course he is still prone to fall prey to foolish decisions, after all, didn’t he join us to learn about the trade of war?’

The scout’s face flushed as he realised at last what he had done: he had shamed himself; he had shamed his father’s name, and he held no illusions that not even Elfhelm, his friend and brother-in-arms of many years, would defend him against King Theoden’s just fury if the boy was indeed dead. If he were lucky, Arnhelm thought darkly, he would only be banished from the Mark, but the hard voice in the back of his mind insisted that the King would not hesitate to order his execution. War-hero or not, this had been coldly calculated murder, even if he had not killed Éomer himself. With unseeing eyes, the old warrior followed the Mering’s path until the floods disappeared behind the next bend. ‘Perhaps…’

“So, what will we do now? If he’s not here… he must have fallen into the river,” Anlaf interrupted his dark thoughts, and his brother’s tone betrayed quite clearly that he knew about the likely consequences. Arnhelm wondered what his comrade really thought about the incident. That Anlaf was here searching for Éomer together with him in all secrecy was a good sign, but one Arnhelm had more or less expected. The warrior from a little village in the Folde had once been his apprentice, a young man he had groomed and formed into the rider the Mark needed. Next to Elfhelm, Anlaf was the one member of their éored of whose loyalty he had always been convinced… but perhaps, loyalty was no longer what he deserved?

Creases appeared on Arnhelm’s forehead as he stared into the distance. The Mering was not usually a savage river; it was only due to the torrential evening rain that the body of water below him was behaving like a mean-spirited beast. Its river-bed was mostly rock-free and shallow, so perhaps there was still hope.

“We will continue the search. Perhaps we will find him downstream on the river bank somewhere, alive. Surely Eomund must have taught his boy to swim.”

‘Certainly. The lad was still wearing his chain mail when I last saw him. With all that weight upon him, there is no way he would have survived a fall even into a quiet lake.’

Shaking his head to himself and feeling his comrade’s sceptical gaze upon himself, Arnhelm slowly made his way back to his patiently waiting stallion. Disdainfully he looked at the dead orcs to his feet, and barely paused long enough to rip his arrows from their already stiffening bodies, grimacing at the stench as he wiped the iron tips clean on the grass. The shouts of his fellow riders sounded closer by now, and for a moment, Arnhelm hesitated as he stood beside his horse, one hand on the pommel of his saddle to pull himself up. And yet inwardly, his decision had already been made.

“I’m not certain if it would not be better to rejoin the others,” Anlaf began hesitantly, but swallowed the rest when his Captain’s dark glance found him

“The two of us alone will have a better chance at finding the boy,” Arnhelm said and forced Ravenwing up the slope. “Éomer ran away from us; no doubt he will hide when he hears the whole éored thundering after him. No. If you feel uncomfortable about riding with me, Anlaf, feel free to ride back and join the éored, but I will follow the river.”

He did not mention that facing his comrades now would inevitably mean having them look at him as a murderer, and Arnhelm was not certain that he was ready for his comrades’ open disdain. No, he would continue to search for Éomer for as long as there was still hope, even if it seemed all too likely that he would return to the éored with the corpse of the drowned son of Eomund in his saddle. If this was indeed to be his destiny, he would face whatever the consequences were, Arnhelm thought grimly as he urged his stallion on into the darkness, and a moment later, he heard Anlaf turn his horse around and follow him…

Éomer had been prepared to die. He had stepped of the cliff knowing fully well that whatever awaited him below was only the less horrible of his two choices, but at its end would be the same result. And the icy water had stopped his heart for a moment; on its way from the highest peaks of the White Mountains, the Mering’s waters only warmed after it joined with the mighty Entwash, and the shock of submersion had punched Éomer violently in the chest.

Then the river had carried him away and whirled him around until he knew now longer which way was up or down, playing with him like a cat with a mouse, like a storm with a leaf. It had swept him against rocks and the riverbank, cruelly pausing until his numbing fingers tried to clench around protrusions and roots, only to tear him away again and suck the strength out of him with its cold embrace. His chain mail had drawn him relentlessly under, permitting him only at the shallow spots to break the water’s surface and breathe, but even so each breath he had drawn had consisted of more water than air, and his body had gone into convulsions.

The thought had been incredibly clear. There had been no panic, and no further need to continue the struggle as Éomer had surrendered to the Mering’s power. This death was still infinitely better than to be hacked to pieces by the orcs. While dying could never be pleasant, at least it was death by the hands of a friend, Éomer thought as the darkness began to close in around him and the river’s mighty voice faded away in the distance. And once he woke from this state, where would he be? Would it be a land of endless meadows and endless summer; a land that knew neither war nor strife and where his parents would gladly welcome him back under their roof? What a sweet, sweet dream that was…

And then even this thought was torn from his conscious, and only darkness remained…

Elfhelm would never have admitted it to anyone, but the cold and the tension and the constant fear for his ward began to wear on him. Although he could not see the moon through the dense foliage, his sense of time insisted that they must have been searching for more than two hours in the darkness of the forest, and yet the conditions had rendered it impossible even for their most experienced trackers to find a single hint of Éomer’s whereabouts. He knew it was hopeless, but giving up was not an option. They were looking for the King’s nephew; if the boy came to harm because they postponed the search until the sun was up, he would never forgive himself… and he would never forgive Arnhelm.

That the scout was not here now with them, dedicating his considerable skill to solving the situation he had provoked, was intolerable, and Elfhelm knew that even if the night would come to a good end, the incident would bring massive changes to their éored. What became of the old scout in the wake of this night would remain to be seen, but at this very moment, the Captain of Aldburg could not envision himself riding with the man even for another day. And if Éomer really was dead…

Through the trees the voice of the Mering’s fast-flowing waters guided them on when Tolgor suddenly tightens his reins and brought his stallion to a halt, lifting a hand.

Breathlessly, the riders listened into the night, anxious to find out what their comrade had heard. At first, there was nothing except for the voices of the forest, and as it remained quiet, the men regarded each other with growing uncertainty. Another false alarm? But suddenly they, too, heard it: a thin, distant neigh that rose just barely over the noise of the water. With a deep breath, Elfhelm straightened in his saddle.

“I certainly hope it is her.” Exchanging a brief glance of renewed hope with Eothain to his left, Tolgor shifted in the saddle and stared at the darkness beyond his horse’s pricked ears. Quietly, not wanting for the young man to hear him, he added: “And I hope that Éomer’s still on her back.”

Another neigh, already sounding closer, reached their ears and was answered by the other horses, and not long after that, the unmistakable sound of hoof beats could be heard and a disturbance in the undergrowth, the noise of something massive moving at speed through the bushes. Eothain could no longer bear the tension when he beheld the briefest flicker of a pale shadow moving toward them.

“Éomer? Éomer! Béma be blessed, we were so worried! You must never again…” He interrupted himself as the horse emerged from the thicket. Suddenly, there was no more doubt in his mind that his friend was dead. “No…”

It was Stormwing, but there was no one on her back and the saddle hung beneath her rump. Many bloodied scratches in her hide told of her panicked flight through the forest, and at the sight of her, the Riders fell silent.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Elfhelm muttered at last, trying to convince himself but failing to believe in his own words. Fighting the sudden weight upon his chest, he urged his horse forth and took the mare’s dangling reins. “What happened to you, lass?” he whispered, with one hand caressing the mare’s quivering nostrils. “Where is your rider?” His expert gaze glided over the scratches. “I do not see any injuries on her that could have been caused by orcs, neither arrow nor knife wounds. I think she bolted, and Éomer fell off.”

“Fell off?” Eothain found that he could barely speak through the growing lump in his throat. “He’s a great rider. Everyone in Edoras respects him for his skill on horseback, even the grown warriors! For Éomer to fall from a saddle…” ‘- it takes an arrow to his back,” he meant to say, but could not bring himself to actually utter the words. And yet in the flickering light of the torches, he saw that the others understood him well enough.

“We must not yet give up hope,” the Captain of Aldburg determined. “Let’s trace back Stormwing’s tracks; if it is indeed so that the son of Eomund fell and hurt himself, they will lead us to him. Let’s move… but keep your eyes open, the orcs’ time is not yet over.”

The urgent rush of water greeted Éomer as his conscious slowly began to rise from the dark maelstrom. For a time span he could not determine, the sound was his only perception although he could not even name its source. It was all around him, filled out his entire being and soothed him with its steadiness. It was like a dream, not connected to any conscious thought or accompanying sensation; it felt as if he floated through that noise, weightless, unsubstantial, and for a while, Éomer was satisfied with being a part of it.

Only gradually did it seep into his mind that there was more. There was the solidness underneath his hands of which he became by and by aware, the pressure of hard, smooth pebbles against his hands and face and the almost inaudible scrunching sound they made beneath his weight. His weight… aye. He no longer felt as he was part of the air, either. Something drew him down, pressed him against the ground.

The thought was accompanied by a sudden bout of chilling cold and the distinct feeling of wetness. Wet? He was drenched! From one heartbeat to the next, violent shivering assaulted Éomer, so strong it made his teeth clatter. Groaning, he dug his fingers into the gravel. Was this the afterlife? This cold, relentless misery? Where was the sun-flooded meadow they kept speaking of, the scent of flowers and spring? And where were his parents, were they not supposed to know that their son was about to join them?

Spooked by the sound of his own tormented groan, Éomer opened his eyes… and found himself enveloped in silver sparkling, with water lapping against his face. What was this? His lungs widened in a very conscious breath as the son of Eomund summoned his strength to lift his head. He was lying in a shallow pool, the water not even high enough to fully cover his hands, and the pale light came from the waxing moon above the mountain peaks.

Furrows of confusion appeared on Éomer’s brow as he slowly pushed himself up onto his knees.

‘So… I am not dead?’ Cautiously he turned his head – ‘It’s still throbbing; I ran against that tree…’ – and regarded his surroundings in silent wonder while it gradually seeped into his conscious that he had indeed survived.

‘Where am I?’ His gaze swept the mighty body of water between him and the opposite embankment. ‘Can orcs swim?’ There was no sign of his pursuers anywhere, no sound, no reflection of the moonlight in pale yellow eyes, and no gleeful laughter that disturbed the night followed by vivid descriptions of what they would do once they had overcome their prey.

‘Let’s just see how much pain you can tolerate before you will plead with us to end it.’

Involuntarily, Éomer’s heart beat faster at the unwelcome memory, and once again he let his eyes wander over the dark silhouette of the forest, tense as a drawn bow. ‘Perhaps they ran into the éored and were slaughtered. Surely Elfhelm and the others must have heard my signal and found them.’ Slowly, he allowed himself to relax, and he turned around to glance at the mountains south of him, although it seemed impossible to determine how far the river had carried him away from his comrades and the safety of their camp.

‘My comrades?’ Bitter laughter rose in his throat. ‘They never were, and never will be. They only pretended to accept me in their midst. I’m on my own now, and I will not crawl back to them on my knees. I can do without them.’ With another deep breath, Éomer at last struggled to his feet against the weight of his chain mail. His entire body pulsed and throbbed from the Mering’s cruel game, and yet even as he waded with heavy steps toward the riverbank, the young warrior felt with relief that against all odds, his nightly adventure had resulted in no serious injury. Perhaps, not everyone was against him.

Speaking a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had protected him, Éomer made his way over to where the first rocks marked the beginning of the mountainous terrain. It did not take him long to find shelter in a widened crack between them, and although there was nothing to make a fire with, the son of Eomund found that once he had shed his mail and huddled into the corner, the cold was no longer a problem. With his knees drawn up and his arms slung around his legs, the young warrior fell into an exhausted sleep…

“It is no use.” Elfhelm had been aware of that fact even before they had begun to follow the mare’s tracks hours ago, but he had not been ready to give up. He was still not ready to give up, but after hours of fruitless searching around in the dark, the time had arrived at last to listen to the voice of reason inside his head, for what it repeated in an endless litany was undeniably correct: they could do nothing for Éomer before daylight was up. Most of their torches had burned down and would barely enable them to find their own way back to the camp. It was impossible to find tracks in these conditions, even the ones Stormwing had made, and with bad luck, their combined effort would even obliterate what tracks there might have been. No, as hard as realisation was, they needed to exercise patience now.

In a laudible but ultimately doomed attempt to not let his men hear the hopelessness and frustration that he felt himself, the Captain of Aldburg turned to face his tired and exhausted riders.

“We only have a few torches left, and for all we know, the orcs could still be around. Their advantage over us is too great once it is completely dark. We must head back.” He saw Éothain’s dispirited expression and loathed himself although experience told him that it was the correct decision. “Come first light, we will continue the search with the full éored, and we will turn every rock and every leaf in this godforsaken forest until we have found Éomer; that is a promise.” He laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as he looked him in the eye. “Do not despair, son. We will find him, and if it’s the last thing I will do in my life.”

Bravely, Éothain fought back the tears hopelessness and exhaustion threatened to loose. He did not want to cry before these warriors, no matter what horrible images he saw before his inner eye. So instead he nodded, the lump in his throat too great to speak. He was thankful when Elfhelm turned away.

The Mering’s voice filled Éomer’s conscious whole; the river’s eternal song the background to the young warrior’s restless dreams. Again and again the son of Eomund raced through the nightly forest on his flight to the water, the orcs so close behind him that he felt their putrid, hot breath in his neck. Time and again, he tumbled down the ravine and found himself staring paralyzed into malicious, luminous eyes and saw the dagger’s deadly gleam in the orc’s hand before the river carried him to safety.

Then, for a while, the young man’s sleep deepened, exhaustion leading him to where no whatsoever dream could disturb the replenishment his strength; a place of silken, soothing blackness. Like a rock he slept for a few more hours, dead to the outside world, until at last, a gentle shake succeeded in waking him. Drowsy and disoriented, Éomer opened his eyes to grey twilight… and a face he recognised. And yet at the same time, his still sleep-numbed mind insisted that what his eyes showed him could not be reality.

“Father?” He barely dared to breathe for fear that even the slightest move would destroy the image of the man he still loved more than anyone in the world; the man he still missed every day although five years had passed since Eomund of Aldburg’s death. And yet while common sensed screamed at him not to believe in the unexpected vision, Éomer’s sight suddenly blurred as long held-back tears spilled over.

A warm, loving smile that was matched by the expression in his eyes lit up Eomund’s face, and when he opened his arms to his son, the voice inside Éomer´s head was silenced by the overwhelming need for comfort, and he all but thrust himself against his father’s chest. Yet the flood of words that wanted to burst from his lips, words he had been meaning to say for so long, was silenced by the enormous lump in his throat, and so instead he settled for pressing his face into Eomund’s garments, while silent, painful sobs shook his battered frame.

At once, memories of the happy days when his father had still been alive welled up in Éomer. How many times had he listened to that deep, warm voice with baited breath as it recounted the courageous deeds of the Mark’s heroes, seeing it all before his inner eye in the darkness of his room and silently sworn that one day, he would be one of those their people sang about before sleep finally claimed him.

How often had it explained the wonders of the world to him, from the smallest and insignificant things of his childhood to the rules of battle and the use of weapons. It had admonished him, encouraged him, lectured him, and it seemed to Éomer that all of a sudden, he recalled every single word his father had ever spoken to him as he shut his eyes to relish in the joy of the unexpected reunion. Strong hands ruffled his hair. He had hated that gesture in his childhood days because it had made him feel like a small lad when he wanted to be a fearsome warrior, but not so now. It was his father. His father!

“It is all right, Éomer,” Eomund soothed, stroking his son’s head. “All will be all right. I have come to help you.”

“I miss you every day, Father!” Éomer somehow managed to croak through his tightened throat, and still he clung to his father’s garments as if he never wanted to let go again. “I cannot do this without you.”

“Yes, you can, Éomer, and you have done very well so far on your own. I am proud of you, Son.” Eomund inhaled, and crushed him against his chest in confirmation. “One day, you will be a warrior our foes fear, but those things take time. You cannot expect to learn everything one needs to become a rider of the Rohírrim in the course of a few weeks... and unfortunately, it seems that my legacy is a hurdle in your path. I knew it would make things harder for you, but I did not foresee just how hard. It is something that I regret greatly, Son. You should not have to pay the price for my mistakes.”

Sniffling, Eomer fought against the flood of his tears in a brave attempt to compose himself. He was sixteen now; it would not do to cry like a small lad anymore… but how to do that when he felt both the overwhelming joy of the unexpected reunion and the full extent of his miserable situation at the same time?

“But perhaps Arnhelm was right,” he somehow brought out between two suppressed sobs. “I endangered the entire éored by running away in the middle of the night. The orcs were ready to ambush them; scattered as they were in the forest, I’m sure many of them would have died. And they could have died because of me! Perhaps it is for the best that I--” Suddenly, Éomer found himself looking into Eomund’s angry face as he was being held at arm’s length. The rest of the sentence died upon his lips. Alas, he knew that expression well.

“I will not hear that, Éomer! You are an apprentice rider, of course you still make mistakes, and the truth is that you will never stop making them; take it from someone who knows. With time, your experience will grow and help you prevent most of them, but we are all human. It is not our fate to be always right, no matter how hard we try. Do you think I wanted to lead my éored into that ambush? Do you think that Arnhelm never erred? When he joined the éored, he, too, had to learn the trade of war like everyone else. And even though it might be hard to believe for you right now, t in the end, what makes you a man are those very mistakes– if you survive them, you will have learned your lesson, so that next time you are faced with the same choice, you will make the right decision.. Just look at yourself, Éomer - you already learned last night’s lesson. Is it not so? Show me that you are indeed my son, and that the blood of Eorl flows through your veins, and say it loud and clear that you will not let Arnhelm dissuade you from the course you have chosen – the course to becoming a protector of the Mark! Say it, Éomer!”

Éomer’s heart beat a frenzied rhythm in his chest as he saw the anger in his father’s eyes, and for a horrible moment, he wondered whether it was directed at himself rather than the scout.

“I will become a protector of the Mark, but not in Arnhelm’s éored. I--”

“Yes, you will become a warrior, Éomer, and it will be in this éored. This is not Arnhelm’s command, and while Elfhelm was taken by surprise with the situation yesterday, I assure you that he will handle things differently today, and that your opponent is in for a rough awakening. You may think that everyone was against you last night, but that is not the truth. It is Arnhelm who will find himself alone in the rain once this is over. I know these men. Take my word.”

“I will not crawl back to them.” Stubbornly, Éomer lowered his gaze. “They did nothing to stop him. I would not know how to behave toward them after last night. I’d rather not see them ever again.”

“You’d rather run away from a difficult situation than fight for what’s yours?” Suddenly, his father’s voice sounded stern; his hands fell from Éomer and the young man cringed, knowing the sound of reprimand well enough to understand that Eomund was truly angered now. “I thought I’d raised a son who was not afraid of confrontations. A son who would not shy away from making understood that it was his god-given right to become a rider of the Mark, even if the path leading there was rocky.”

“I will become a rider, Father, but not in this éored. They made it clear that they do not want me among them. They do not respect me!”

Eomund rose to his feet, and from his superior height, his hard gaze pinned Éomer.

“And what should they respect you for, son? Noble blood alone is no reason for respect. Which great deeds have you already done for the men to respect you? And do you think you would be more respected in another éored if you eluded the problem you’re faced with in this one? Respect needs to be fought for, Éomer. You do not get it handed on a plate because of your lineage. I thought I taught you better. I did not foresee the situation with Arnhelm and I greatly regret it, but I always hoped that my son would grow to be a man who would not give up at the first obstacle on the path to his destiny… or am I mistaken? Éomer?”

Now Éomer’s face turned a deep crimson, his father’s words hurting worse than if he had been slapped. No words would come to him as he stared at the rough rock of his shelter, his head empty while he felt Eomund’s uncompromising gaze upon himself. His lips pressed together, he listened to the river’s voice in hopes that the answer to what he was supposed to do would come to him.

And while he waited for this to happen, his surroundings slowly began to take on a different quality: the sound of the Mering’s fast-flowing waters deepened, and cold crept into his bones. His seat on the rough rocks became uncomfortable as he felt the pebbles press against his flesh through his trousers, and against his face, and the air thickened to the point where it felt almost liquid.

Éomer opened his eyes, at once feeling a nasty crick in his neck from his awkward sleeping position against the rock. His head, too, still throbbed like a bad tooth, and one cautious touch quickly established that the lump was still on his forehead, although it had spread and was no longer as prominent.

With a deep sigh, Éomer turned his head, and with a pang of sadness, found that the space where his father had stood was empty. And still he could hear Eomund’s voice oh so clearly in his mind.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to win a fight against a man who had ridden with the Armed Forces for almost four decades? Where was he supposed to turn?

With unseeing eyes, the young warrior stared at the world outside the cave, still shrouded in a veil of mist through which the light of dawn slowly began to creep. In his subconscious, Éomer was aware that his garments were still wet and clung to his body, but strangely enough, he did not feel cold. Temperatures had risen again after the nightly thunderstorm, and now the moisture wafted in ghostly clouds into the air, lending the early morning a decidedly mysterious atmosphere.

With a suppressed groan, Éomer picked himself up and stepped out into the world of swirling white. The mist muffled everything: the water’s voice, the birds’ jubilant songs in celebration of the new day, and for a moment, Éomer was not certain whether he had not passed from one dream into the next. With sluggish steps, he walked over to the Mering’s edge with the distinct feeling of being the only human left in this world.

The water sparkled faintly through the mist, and with wonder Éomer beheld how far its level had fallen while he had been asleep. The wild beast that had almost drowned him only hours ago had calmed to a broad stream, and while it still flowed fast enough to make a crossing tricky, Éomer assumed that it was not utterly impossible anymore… and if he waited for another couple of hours, the river would cease to be a hindrance altogether if he truly chose to find the way back to his éored.

‘I cannot go back, Father,’ he thought desperately, and knelt down to refresh himself. ‘Why will you not understand?’ With the hollow of his hand, he shovelled water against his hurting brow, and for a moment, closed his eyes and cleared his head of all dark thoughts as he revelled in the sensation. Slowly the feeling of unreality abated, the past night fading to an unpleasant dream as daylight slowly brightened around Éomer. For a while, he was content with just sitting silently in the grass doing nothing and letting things happen to him as he took slow, deliberate breaths.

As he opened his eyes again, Éomer, to his surprise, found himself staring once again into his father’s face. With a sharp intake of breath, he sat back on his heels, his heart skipping a beat before he curiously craned his neck to regard the familiar features before him. Eomund’s intense gaze seemed to silently ask him about his plans. Those dark eyes they shared, and which were so remarkable because they were such an unusual trait for the people of the Mark, stared at him from the shallow pool to his knees, demanding a decision of him.

And as Éomer returned the stare, unable to supply the expected answer, the face before him suddenly started to shift. At first, the changes were only subtle – the fine lines around the eyes disappeared from the weathered face, the prominent cheekbones which gave away the warrior’s noble blood and bold temperament seemed less pronounced, and Eomund’s close-cropped beard disappeared to reveal a face Éomer finally recognized as his own. With sudden clarity, the young rider understood what it was that had shocked the esteemed Arnhelm into forgetting himself. His appearance left no question whose son he was. And yet, Éomer followed that thought further with growing anger, why should this be a reason to be ashamed? How many people had been saved by his father’s boldness and courage? Would that not be a much greater number than the deaths Eomund had not been able to prevent?

Slowly, Éomer sat back, involuntarily straightening and squaring his shoulders. Above him, the first small spots of blue sky appeared as the rising sun burned its way through the clouds, while to the east, the shadow of Halifirien’s dark peak towered imposingly above the mist-covered plains. A sudden idea began to form in the young rider#s mind, or perhaps it was not so much an idea as a simple hope: What if he made his way to where his ancestor had sworn his oath to Gondor; the oath that had provided their people with their new home? What if he made his way up to that holy place? Would Eorl’s spirit still be there? Would his ancestor welcome and counsel him on the direction of his future path? Who else but the greatest of the Mark’s kings could give him sound advice in this difficult situation?

‘And the guards?’ a doubtful voice made itself be heard from the back of Éomer’s mind. ‘Will they let me pass? What if they don’t recognise me as Eorl’s heir? And how should they know who I am?’ His eyes narrowed to slits as he stared intensely into the mist, Éomer took a deep breath as he felt conviction grow stronger in him. ‘I will concern myself with it then. Perhaps it will not even be necessary. Perhaps they will know it when they see me.’ For a moment longer, his gaze lingered on the distant peak … when out of the corner of his eye, there was the brief glimpse of movement, stopping his heart for a moment of shock, and he looked up.

… and into large dark eyes. The deer stood by the river’s edge, only a few paces away, and while its big ears were turned in Éomer’s direction to listen for signs of danger, the animal amazingly did not seem to feel threatened by his presence at all. An involuntary smile spreading over the young warrior’s face as animal and man regarded each other in wonder, and Éomer could not help being touched by the gentleness in the doe’s expression. He barely breathed, afraid that even the slightest sound would scare his unexpected visitor away and destroy the magic of the moment. Not even if he had still been in possession of his bow would he have brought himself to point an arrow at something so beautiful and pure, and the wondrous smile remained on his lips as the animal lowered its head to drink.

‘Is it a sign?’ he wondered silently as his gaze travelled over the animal’s slender shape. Such grace. The doe was still young, the white spots in its fur had not yet entirely disappeared. Perhaps it had never before encountered an enemy and thus did not know what a cruel, hard world this could be. Perhaps that was the reason for its unusual trust.

And yet Éomer had barely ended the thought when the animal’s head shot up in sudden alarm. It was not looking at him though, but staring intently into the slowly lifting mist on the other river bank, and while Éomer followed its gaze with baited breath, he, too, heard the muffled sound of hoof beats approaching the water.

For a moment, he sat rooted to the ground, too scared to move – ‘Do orcs ride? Could that be orcs?’, then the deer broke away and disappeared in the mist with soundless jumps, loosening Éomer’s paralysis. As quickly as the animal, the young man gained his feet and slid away to hide between the rocks…

“Still no sign of him. All right, I believe that’s it.” With a sigh, Anlaf tugged at the reins and brought his stallion to a halt at the river’s edge, his eyes sweeping the opposite shore. “It is time to admit it, Arnhelm: we must abandon the search and rejoin the éored, or they will search for us, too, when all they should concentrate on is finding Eomund’s boy!” Both his tone and expression left no doubt that this was where respect and allegiance to his teacher ended.

His captain stared at the rocky ground on the other side of the river, as if alone by intensity, he could force the tracks into the soil they were searching for. Nothing. All night they had ridden, and except for Éomer’s little silver horn, they had found nothing: no body, no clothes or parts of Éomer’s armour, no tracks… nothing at all. How much further could the boy have been swept away? Arnhelm’s instincts insisted that Anlaf was right, that they had to return to the éored… and face their brothers’ contempt. What would Elfhelm do when he saw him? Somehow, this was what Arnhelm feared the most. The Captain of Aldburg was a highly respected man, calm and just, and who for whatever reason received his scorn, deserved it fully well. Now that grim look would be directed at him, and somehow, Arnhelm doubted he was ready to face it. How had it come to this? What had possessed him to turn on an innocent boy?

There was sudden movement at the corner of his eye, and Arnhelm’s head snapped around. Instinctively, he brought up the bow – but when he saw what had caught his attention, he sat back in the saddle, relaxing. It was only a deer, and even as he watched, its fragile frame was swallowed by the morning mist. The old scout’s hands sunk to the pommel of his saddle, his powerful frame slumping. No, there was no use in delaying the inevitable. No matter what his fate would be, it was time to turn around and face it. Shaking his head to himself, Arnhelm turned around – and twitched at his fellow rider’s cold gaze.

Wracking his brain for an idea of how to proceed, faint hope surfaced in the back of his mind. Perhaps there was one more possibility to explore before he gave up.

“The water’s still too deep for a crossing,” he said. “It might be possible around noon. But I will not return to the éored without having cast at least a brief look at the other shore. I will wait here for the water to subside, while you ride back and report to Elfhelm. Tell him what we found last night and where we searched so far, and I will rejoin you as soon as I’m done here.”

To his own ears, his voice sounded reasonably normal, not betraying the doubt that he felt, but the expression in Anlaf’s eyes did not change – it told him that the younger man deemed him a coward, and his suggestion just another attempt to postpone righteous punishment. All respect the rider had once held for his teacher was gone.

“And you will search for Éomer alone? What if you actually find him, still alive? What will you do then?”

Arnhelm narrowed his eyes, not believing his ears. Just what was Anlaf insinuating?

“You could not possibly believe that he would come to harm through me?” he hissed. “When we just spent the whole night searching for the boy?”

“After last night, I am not certain of anything anymore, at least not when it concerns you,” the younger warrior gave back, as if he had not heard the hard edge in his teacher’s tone. “You provoked Éomer into running away, knowing fully well that orcs were around; no doubt you hoped they would find and finish him off… ridding you of the problem without having to dirty your own hands!”

“Then, when you realised what the King would do when he heard about your actions, you were desperate to find Éomer, but not out of worry, but because you feared Théoden’s wrath! I only joined you on this search because I thought that, if anyone could find the boy, it would be you. And now you want to send me from your side to continue the search on your own, and I cannot help thinking that perhaps, you saw something that I missed, and--”

“—that I would send you back so that I could kill Éomer if I found him still alive?” Arnhelm blanched. “This cannot be what you are thinking.” Anlaf’s expression told him that it was so. “Anlaf! This makes no sense; listen to yourself! Why would I kill Éomer when I’m afraid of Théoden’s reaction?”

“You must know that you will be sentenced for treason if the boy has come to harm. You might even be sentenced if we find him still alive, for the attempt alone. So why not finish what you begun and leave the Mark on your own, evading the trial, when you already know that you will at least be banished?”

“Anlaf!” Truly shocked, Arnhelm extended his hand to grip his companion’s reins. Not knowing what do say, he shook his head.

“What?” Anlaf asked coldly, his tone indicating that he did not care much for his teacher’s answer.

“I – I do fear the King’s verdict, you are right. And Théoden would be right to condemn me after what I’ve done. But I swear, Anlaf, that it was not my intention to get the boy killed or chase him away from the éored. I did not think. I – I only saw Eomund’s face before me every time I looked at him, and—“

“It is not much of an apology,” his former pupil countered in a toneless voice. “Most of us barely understand the grudge you harbour against Éomund himself, much less the one against his son. You should think of a better excuse once you stand before Théoden-King, or you might lose your head in the true sense of the word.”

“Anlaf, I regret what I did. I deeply, deeply regret it. Please, you must believe me! I was not myself last night.”

But it seemed that his fellow rider did not feel merciful today, nor that he was finished.

“Ever since you first met the boy you behaved in a way none of us could understand. Éomer’s been with us for a month before you came, and everyone in the éored likes him. He is eager and quick to learn and has no misgivings about doing the dirty work of an ordinary apprentice despite his noble blood... but he is only sixteen. He was ill-equipped to handle your cruel provocations. Gods, Arnhelm, you provoked him to the blood to bring out his temper, so that you felt justified for chasing him away! None of us could believe the way you acted last night. We did not intervene because that would have been Elfhelm’s duty, but I believed he was just as stunned as we were.”

Arnhelm’s face burned with shame, and at last, he averted his gaze, no longer able to look his former pupil in the eye.

“Aye. I shamed myself. I understand that, Anlaf. I lost my composure and unleashed my pain against an innocent boy, and I’m not proud of it. I wish I could change what happened, but it is not in my power.” He forced himself to loo up. “What may still be within my power is to find Éomer and bring him back unharmed. Believe me, if we find Éomer alive, I will be the happiest man under the sun. Please, grant me this last chance, even if you feel that I may not deserve it. Grant me this chance on behalf of Éomer. You said rightly that I might be the only one who can find him now.” Arnhelm realised that he was pleading now, probably for the first time in his life.

“I can imagine that you would certainly be the most relieved man if you found him still alive; I would not say it has something to do with happiness, though.” Anlaf shook his head, contemplating and still unconvinced. “I do not feel comfortable at the thought of Éomer and you alone.”

And yet when the younger man’s gaze wandered upstream as his hand crept down to his horn, Arnhelm knew that he would be granted that last reprieve before he finally would have to face the éored.

Considering his options, Anlaf lowered his gaze, the horn in his hands. Not unhooking it.

“All right. I do not know why I am doing this, but I will not call them yet. I will ride back instead and slowly lead them here, so whatever it is that you want to do, Arnhelm, I advise you not to lose any more time.”

The older rider swallowed with relief, and finally summoned the courage to meet his comrade’s gaze.

“I thank you, Anlaf. Your trust is greatly appreciated. I know I do not deserve it… but I mean to make up for it. I promise you to remedy the harm I did.”

“Promise it to the boy when you find him. If he even listens to you.” Simply by shifting his body weight, Anlaf turned his horse around and, with a last look at the opposite river bank, disappeared into the mist.

His back pressed against the rock that hid him from the scouts’ view, Éomer strained his ears to follow their heated discussion, but the mist muffled their voices to the point where he understood only unconnected words. And yet alone by the tone of Anlaf’s voice, he could tell that the esteemed Arnhelm of Aldburg was in the middle of receiving a fierce verbal lashing. A lashing by a man half his age, a man who had been his pupil and whose rank – under normal circumstances – would not have given him the right to address his captain in such a way.

‘Very well,’ Éomer thought, unaware of the grim expression of satisfaction that spread over his face. ‘Now he is the subject of his brothers’ unrelenting scorn. Let’s see how he likes it!’

Listening further, it seemed to Éomer’s surprise as if the old scout did not even defend himself. What did it mean? That Arnhelm understood at last what he had done… and regretted it? No, that could not be. He was probably only feigning to be ashamed of himself to get on the riders’ good side again. If only he could understand them better!

Carefully, Éomer peeked around the rock. In the mist, his comrades were but vague silhouettes on the other side of the Mering, and yet the young warrior understood immediately from the old scout’s bearing that Arnhelm intended to cross the river in continuation of his search. That was not good. The water was still too deep and flowing too fast, Éomer made out as he listened further, but inevitably, Arnhelm would end up on his side of the riverbank. And if he was still around, the scout would find him.

Narrowing his eyes, Éomer turned away and considered his options. Detection by Arnhelm had to be avoided at all costs if he wanted to pursue his current path to Halifirien, and by now, the at first only vague idea of consorting with his ancestor’s spirit had grown into a deep urge. Certainly the solution to his problems would come to him once he stood on top of the sacred mountain, opening himself to the wisdom of his ancestor Eorl the Young.

As his attention returned to his immediate surroundings, Éomer creased his brow. It seemed to him that the mist was lifting with the rising temperatures, but it would veil him for a while longer if he moved out now and treaded carefully. When Arnhelm crossed the river in a few hours, he could be long gone, and perhaps the scout would not be able to track him on the rocky ground. Aye, it was the right thing to do.

Once again he Éomer glanced around the rock, just in time to see Anlaf disappear in the swirling white; Arnhelm’s attention focussed on him.

On all fours, the young warrior crept behind the next rock, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. Soundlessly he inhaled as he paused behind his cover to look for the continuation of his path. The gravel looked loose, and no matter how hard he searched, Éomer could not find a way that promised to let him proceed soundlessly. Then something else occurred to him.

He looked back and saw it lying in a heap beside the little cave he had spent the night in. Arnhelm was already reduced to a blurred silhouette, still in the saddle and not giving the slightest indication that he would dismount any time soon, which would have provided Éomer with the opportunity to slip away unseen. He did not dare yet to move.

From somewhere within the forest rose the muffled sound of a horn into the early morning, claiming the warrior’s attention. Éomer recognized the opportunity at once. Quickly he dashed to the next rock and dropped behind its cover just as Arnhelm’s head turned around again.

“Come out if you hear me, lad. There is no reason to fear me. I am here to bring you back to the éored. Your brothers worry for you. And surely it cannot be your wish to be alone out here anymore; it is dangerous. ”

Biting his lip, Éomer felt a new hot surge of fury welling up in him. So, it was dangerous to walk alone in this part of the Mark, was it? So why then had Arnhelm not thought of that before he had provoked him to run away? Bitter, angry words rose in his throat, wanting out. He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, fighting to control his wildly bucking temper.

Yet no other sound reached him from the other side of the river; hopefully, Arnhelm had not really heard or seen him, but merely sensed motion and come to the conclusion that it had been an animal. With a deep breath, Éomer looked up. If he wanted to use the mist to get away, he could not afford to wait much longer. Once again, he peered around his cover – and found himself looking straight into the scout’s eyes through a momentary hole in the fog.

The little jerk the warrior gave as he sat back in the saddle told Éomer that the man had indeed seen him. So... what now? There was still the river between them, wasn’t there? Slowly, Éomer picked himself up, his eyes never leaving the warrior on the other side of the water.

“Éomer!” Arnhelm cried, and for once, he truly looked as he had been pardoned a moment before the ground dropped out beneath the gallows. “There you are! Praised be Béma, everyone is searching for you! They are terribly worried!”

Éomer inhaled and forced himself to calm down as he picked up his shirt of mail.

“So, you can ride back to them now and tell them that I am well. No need for them to search any longer. But I won’t come with you.”

‘Éomer! What are you doing?’ his father’s voice raced through his mind. `What did I tell you just last night?’ He shut himself to it as he slipped into the heavy iron shirt.

“Don’t be so mule-headed, Son!” Arnhelm shouted after him. “You cannot walk here on your own; you will never survive a second night in the wilderness! You don’t even have a sword!”

“I am not your ‘son’, Captain! And praise the Gods for that!” Éomer snarled, only briefly pausing to cast a scathing glance over his shoulder at the scout. There was more he wanted to say, so much bitterness trying to force its way out, but ultimately, he turned around and clamped his mouth shut. What use would it be to shout his accusations over the river? It would only delay him on his way to Halifirien. Picking his way through the rocks, Éomer spied the faint path leading toward the mountains, and the swirling white swallowed him.

“Éomer! Come back here immediately! You cannot do this!” Helplessly, Arnhelm watched as the object of his desperate search disappeared right before his eyes, and once again, hot anger washed over him. How could the boy do this to him? How could he not even grant him the chance to say his apologies? Did he not know what would happen if the éored returned to Edoras without him? “Èomer!”

He kicked his heels against Ravenwing’s sides, and the black stallion snorted explosively in protest, but his hooves appeared to be glued to the ground.

“What? Now you forsake me, as well? In the moment when I need you most?” Arnhelm pressed his thighs around the horse’s rump in an iron grip, pushed the stallion with all of his bodyweight toward the water – and almost lost his seat as the black broke away. Furious, the warrior bundled the reins and slapped them against the black neck – and at the next moment, found himself submerged in the icy water.

The cold punched the breath from his lungs as the Mering’s fast floods carried him away, the weight of his armour relentlessly pulling him under.

A burning pain spread in his chest as muscles cramped in reaction to the coldness, not allowing him to breathe even as his face briefly surfaced from the water.

Frantically clawing at whatever hold presented itself to him, Arnhelm forced his head out the flood. From the corner of his eye, he saw a great black silhouette moving along the shore and knew that despite what he had done, his horse was following him.

The river rushed around a corner, the froth of the rapids once again robbing the scout of his sight as he was thrown against a solid rock in water. The impact made every bone in his body groan, but it stopped him and allowed him to grab a tree root that protruded into the river; slowly, arduously edging toward the embankment… of the side he had come from.

Sputtering and spitting water, Arnhelm dragged himself out of the water and collapsed on the grass. With the rest of his strength, he turned upon his back and stared at the slowly clearing sky above him; understanding how narrow his survival had been. The Mering had made it clear that it would not suffer to be crossed just like people fancied; that it, too, like everything about nature, was a force not to be taken lightly and would take lives if it was not respected. It was one of the first lessons an apprentice in the éoreds learned, and its memory chased a grim smile over Arnhelm’s face. Perhaps he was not ready yet for service with the riders again. Perhaps, it would be better to resign from active duty until he had fully accepted the thought that the son of Eomund now rode with them… provided he would still somehow succeed in bringing Éomer back.

As he laid there and waited for his strength to return, his view was suddenly filled out with a huge black head, and with a weak smile, he lifted a hand.

“I’m sorry, Ravenwing,” he whispered, his voice rasping. “I should not have done that. You are the smarter of us two. Will you forgive me?” A soft snort told him all he needed to know.

Anlaf was wroth with himself. Replaying again and again the discussion with his former mentor before his inner eye, he barely had a mind for his surroundings as Hammerhand, his grey stallion, sought his way through the thick undergrowth of Firien Forest.

Why had he allowed Arnhelm to continue the search alone? Why was it that he had such a bad feeling about this? What if Arnhelm really found Éomer? Even with the best intentions, the lad apparently had everything it took to rip the old scout’s self-composure to shreds with only a few chosen words… and this time, there would be no one there to control their quarrel.

Yet, even worse, part of Anlaf was already convinced that if they found Eomund’s boy at all, he would be dead. Drowned by the river. Perhaps Arnhelm was certain of this as well, and had just sent him from his side to escape from the Mark before he could be sentenced for treason. Whatever it was, leaving him alone was the worst possible decision he could have made.

Tugging on the reins and halting Hammerhand, Anlaf shifted in the saddle. Looking the way he had come, he fought the growing urge to head back… and missed the massive shape that suddenly broke through the bushes toward him…

“Béma’s beard…!” Anlaf’s outcry was cut short when his stallion reared. Hammerhand’s neck crashed against his face, and his vision exploded into a great white fireball as he slipped from the saddle… and caught his foot in the stirrup. ‘Damnation…’

The grey accelerated, jumping away from the threat and dragging his rider along through the undergrowth. Frantically, the warrior twisted and moved his ankle while bushes lashed at his face and ripped his helmet from his head.

But a terrible growl from behind sent his horse into an even faster gallop and Anlaf desperately groped for his sword to cut himself loose as a massive dark shape appeared before him. With bone-shattering force, the rider was thrown against it, and the world slipped from his grasp…

Bard was a bear of a man; a fearless, formidable warrior who would charge right into the thick of battle without second thoughts, and yet Elfhelm could not recall when he had last seen his fellow rider in such an anxious state. As the éored approached the opening upon the cliff from where the warrior was calling, the cold hand of fear seized Elfhelm’s heart. Surely the expression of grim acceptance on Bard’s face could only mean one thing: he had found the boy, and he was no longer alive. He barely dared to ask as he stopped Éon and craned his neck to look at what Bard’s bulk was hiding.

“Éomer? No.” Bard shook his head, but the relief that washed over Elfhelm was short-lived when the man pointed toward the cliff. “But we found three dead orcs… and Éomer’s tracks leading to the cliff’s edge…” He inhaled. “They end there.” Bard fell silent, and his grim look found Tolgor, then briefly wandered over the other riders before travelling back to the river. Alas, it was clear to every member of the éored what his discovery meant. They knew from own experience that the Mering could turn into a wild beast in the rain. If the boy had fallen into the river with his armour on, perhaps even wounded by the orcs who had cornered him…

Exchanging a dark glance with his healer, Elfhelm slowly dismounted to see for himself, although he had no reason to believe that his comrade had overlooked anything vital. Alas, the tracks were all too clear and left no question about what had happened here last night. He inhaled deeply and forced himself to ask: “Do you think they shot him? Did he fall in, or did he jump, taking his chance with the river as the orcs would not grant him any? In that case, he could still be alive.” He saw his own doubt reflected in the younger rider’s eyes.

“I suppose it is possible. But even so…” Bard shrugged. “’The river is still swollen from last night’s rain. If Éomer fell or jumped in at the height of the flooding…” Again he shook his head, unwilling to continue. But of course, his brothers-in-arms understood only too well, and silent swearing could be heard among their rows.

With a heavy heart, Elfhelm turned his back on the tracks and stared at the dead orc to his feet.

“It was not Éomer who killed them. His bow is still at the camp… and there are horse tracks.” He looked up, brow creased. “Arnhelm? Could it have been Arnhelm and Anlaf?” A different image began to emerge in his mind, although Elfhelm was not sure that he liked it any more than the notion that Éomer had been killed by the orcs.

“You think Arnhelm and Anlaf left together looking for the boy?” Tolgor asked cautiously from his elevated position. His stomach was a block of ice. He knew what Elfhelm was contemplating, but could not bring himself to voice it aloud, so monstrous was the thought. Béma, how could it be that their world had been turned upside down in a matter of only a few hours? Until the past night, none of the riders would have deemed it possible that one of their own could turn against them. But had it really happened? Somehow, Tolgor still refused to accept the thought.

With a tired gesture, Elfhelm removed his helmet and ran a hand through his matted hair.

“I no longer know what to think, Tolgor. I must confess that I’m at my wit’s end. All I know is that Arnhelm provoked Éomer to run away in the middle of the night, and that it looks as if he found this place before us and possibly killed these orcs. Did he kill Éomer, too, to be certain that his plot succeeded? To ensure that the son of Éomund would never return? Or did he shoot the orcs only after they killed Éomer, and is now running from us? Together with Anlaf, I presume, because no one has seen him either since last night and if there is one man left who might be loyal to him after what he did, it has to be his former pupil.”

“I will not believe that Arnhelm killed the boy,” Tolgor objected. “True, he lost his head last night, but to actually go and chase after him with the intention to kill? If at all, I’d rather believe in the second version.”

“It doesn’t matter. He is not here now to answer that question, and we cannot be sure that Éomer is indeed dead. We must not give up yet.” Squaring his shoulders, Elfhelm felt a new surge of determination as he eyed the opposite shore. “Let’s find a place to span our ropes across the river. I will not leave here without having taken at least one look at the other shore.”

It had to be close to midday, Éomer assumed as he squinted at the slightly brighter spot where the sun hid behind a high veil of clouds. Determined to put as many leagues as possible between himself and Arnhelm before the scout crossed the river, he had followed the ascending path at a sharp pace, his muscles at first fuelled by fresh, hot fury… but now matter how hard he fought it, fatigue had begun to catch up with him. The strenuous last days, the horrors of the past night, his fall... everything that had happened had taken his toll on him, and it did not help that the last time his stomach had seen food now lay approximately eighteen hours in the past. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and the weight of his armour seemed to increase with each step that he took. While he had had at first only fleetingly contemplated it, Éomer was now at a point where it seemed no longer like madness to shed it.

‘Certainly. Walking through the wilderness with neither weapons nor armour, whatever are you thinking, Éomer? Whatever foe finds you in this state will probably never have made easier prey.’

He fought to ignore the voice of reason in his head, not even listening to it long enough to determine whom it belonged to this time. Strangely though, it had somehow sound like Éothain’s. Èothain? For a moment, the thought of his best friend stopped Éomer in his tracks. Looking back over his shoulder the way he had come, he slowly turned around. In his anxiety to escape from Arnhelm’s malice, he had completely forgotten about Éothain. What would his friend do if he did not return? What would Éothain think of him? Would he think him a coward for running away? And what was he doing right now, searching for him with the rest of the éored and in danger of running into another orc trap? Had he unwittingly endangered his best friend?

With a sigh that sounded as if the world had been loaded upon his juvenile shoulders, Éomer sat down on a rock, and his gaze travelled up the steep rock walls surrounding him. It seemed that no matter what he did, it was wrong. Running away from a confrontation, especially when one was the wronged one, was not what heroes did. Heroes faced their opponents and either made them see their error or forced them to see things their way. Heroes never backed down… so what was he doing here? He swallowed.

‘But I am not even a warrior yet,’ Éomer thought with increasing despair, his eyes on the part of the mountain path he had just walked. ‘How am I supposed to make that old fool see my way when not even Elfhelm himself could do it?’

‘But you are running away, Son,’ his father’s voice made himself be heard, and Éomer no longer had the strength to object. ‘I never dreamt that I would raise a son who would flee from a confrontation instead of claiming what is his birthright.’

Hot tears began to well up in Éomer’s eyes, and he shut them, ashamed of himself. Béma, what a mess he had gotten himself into. With the ball of his palm, he wiped his eye, desperately wishing for someone to talk to other than those stern voices inside his head. What advice would Théodred give him now? What would Éowyn say?

Éomer hung his head, knowing the answer. His sister looked up to him; he was her hero. There was no question that she would not understand the path he had chosen.

‘But Éomer,’ she would say in her usual blunt way, her brow creased in confusion, and as always, her opinion would sound much too adult for a girl her age. ‘You will not find Eorl the Young on Halifirien. He will not wait there for you. What advise do you hope to gather from a dead king, other than what you already know? You must stand up to Arnhelm, and even if you cannot make him see your way, claim back the respect of the éored. Arnhelm is only a bitter old man who is too stubborn and hurt to see, but if you continue to run from him, you will lose the others. Fight for your right and they will be with you, but no one sympathises with a coward.”

Éomer swallowed. So at last, the truth he had been running from all morning had finally caught up with him. A weary smile passed quickly over his dirty face as he lifted his chin. His little sister… Many times had they heard people say how alike they were, and yet when things counted, they were really quite different. Whereas he tended to blow off steam and lose his head – ‘I need to work on that if I ever want to reach anything; I must!’ – Éowyn tended to swallow her anger and cunningly developed a strategy to ensure she got her will in the end.

His smile broadened. Aye, Éowyn would one day make a fine strategist, provided Uncle allowed her into the council. How proud she would be to be the first female advisor ever in the Court of Rohan, especially since her wish to become a warrior like her brother would and could never be granted. Horrified, Éomer thought of lithely-built Éowyn struggling with the hardships he had come to know in his first month in the éored. Hardships necessary to build up muscles and strength, so that one hopefully not so far day, his sword strikes would penetrate orc armours like butter. Éothain and he had that perspective; with steady training, their lanky frames would gradually fill out as they grew into men, but it was not something Éowyn could hope for. No, no matter how much talent she possessed, his sister would never be allowed to wield a sword in battle against creatures easily twice her weight.

Blinking, Éomer’s mind returned to the present. So what now? Wait here for Arnhelm to find him? It would mean admitting failure to his opponent. It would be humiliating. But if he kept on walking towards Halifirien and the scout caught up with him, it would be the same. Perhaps the only dignified solution, Éomer figured as he craned back his neck to stare at the overcast sky, was to make his way back to the river on his own account, thus demonstrating that he was man enough to realise and correct his mistakes. A fine spray of moisture wettened his face.

More rain. Éomer creased his brow with displeasure. If this continued, the Mering would swell again and render a soon return to the éored impossible. It could easily result in another night on this side of the river, without weapons and without protection. What if those orcs were still around? A violent shiver raced down his back at this thought.

In a futile attempt to quench his thirst, Éomer opened his mouth and craned back his neck, but the raindrops were too fine yet, teasing him with a promise they would not keep. He realised that he did not know whether there was any water at all to be had on the path to the mountain. But he had travelled for hours, wasn’t he closer to Halifirien than to the river by now? The beacon guards would be there. They would have water, and provide protection. Perhaps it was the safer of the two choices.

With a groan, Éomer came to his feet, feeling thoroughly depleted of all energy even after the brief rest. ‘It is not so far anymore. I can do this.’ Gathering what was left of his will, he took his first step, his gaze on his feet, willing them to carry him up the path. ‘I can do this.’

“Morgoth’s stinking breath!” Arnhelm threw a dark glance at the sky as he adjusted his seat in the saddle. His already thoroughly rotten day promised to get even worse, if he read the dark front of clouds that moved toward him from the other side of the mountains correctly. Well, it was not as if he could get any wetter…

With a grimace, the scout tugged at the garments which still stuck to his skin although at least two hours had passed since he had finally crossed the bloody river. The current had still been strong and the crossing risky, but after having observed the Mering for several hours after Éomer had left, Arnhelm had found that the water level did not fall any lower. In fact it had started to rise again, and one glance at the dark sky above the Ered Nimrais had been enough for him to understand that the Mering’s floods were being fed by new rain further south.

Now that rain was upon him and further darkened his already grim mood. The mountains were a bad place to be at in the rain. It turned even minor streams into serious obstacles, paths became treacherous and slippery, and every now and then, a mud- or a rockslide would claim the lives of those who wrongly assumed that – in a world where conflicts were solved with sword, spear and bow - nature’s forces could be trifled with.

Increasing the pressure of his thighs, Arnhelm forced his steed into a steady trot up the rough path, his eyes on the steep slopes for signs of the boy. The sooner he found Éomer, the better. And if the boy still refused to come with him, he would force him to.

Another corner, the same sight: the path, barely more than a fissure between the steep scree slopes, winding upwards with no apparent end in sight and glistening with treacherous wetness. Twice Éomer had already slipped and painfully landed on his knees, and as he lost his footing for the third time, he remained on his shins and sat back. Desperation rose in his throat as it began to dawn on him that in all likelihood, he would not reach his destination before nightfall, and the mountains were a considerably more dangerous place then the Mering’s shores, from all he had heard. Aye, he should have turned back when he’d had the chance, but now it was too late.

‘It’s the punishment for running away,” he thought bitterly, no longer finding the energy in himself to get up when the weight of his armour all but glued him to the ground. ‘It is what I deserve.’ For the longest time, Éomer just sat there on the path, unmoving. Not knowing what to do. Until at last, without so much as a conscious decision from his mind, his hands crept up to the buckles of his armour, opening them. ‘Can’t carry the weight anymore…’

He slipped out of the carefully crafted cuirass, shedding it like a lizard crept out of its old skin. He barely looked at it as it fell to the ground and his fingers began to fumble with the ties of his mail shirt. Gods, he was so tired. And hungry. His entire body was a throbbing, aching mess, demanding of him to give it a rest, but even this was not the worst thing about his situation. Hot wetness welled up in Éomer’s eyes as he shrug out of his mail, his lips stubbornly pressed together in order to keep his composure against the overwhelming feeling of complete, utter loneliness.

It took him a moment longer to realise that the rush of the rain was no longer the only noise that reached his ears. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer turned his head to look back the way he had come. The path was empty for the short length which he could see before the rocks obstructed his view, but the noise was still there, and it seemed close already. There was something below the rain, a hollow echo, a steady four-beat rhythm… hoof beats!

With a gasp, Éomer sat up. It sounded like a single horse, not an entire éored. Was it Arnhelm then? Who else should it be? No rider in his right mind would travel this path alone in this weather… except for someone desperate enough to find him.

His eyes firmly on the ground even if there were no tracks to be seen on the rock, Arnhelm was almost startled at the sight of the lonely figure that rose from the path before him. So, here he was at last, Eomund’s stubborn brat… now what?

He sat back in the saddle, suddenly rigid with tension while he took in Éomer’s forlorn appearance in all detail. In addition to looking like a drowned dog, an ugly dark bruise on his brow and several scratches marred the young man’s face, but it was the expression in his eyes which gave away Éomer’s disposition more clearly than even words could have. And still while they measured each other, Arnhelm could already see the familiar stubbornness return to the dark eyes before him.

“So…” Éomer began at last, with a hint of defiance but even greater exhaustion in his voice. “You found me. What now? Will you kill me? Do what you wanted to do when you first laid eyes upon me?” He advanced a step, and Arnhelm noticed that he had a rock in his fist. “I may be unarmed, but I will not make it easy for you.”

“I am here to bring you back to the éored, Éomer, whatever else you may believe. You cannot remain out here in the mountains alone and unarmed. You know so yourself, and I am tired of discussions. If you don’t come with me willingly, I will have to force you. What do you think you’re doing?” What was it that he saw in the lad’s eyes? Relief… and hatred… at the same time? Was that even possible? Out of impulse, he extended a hand. “Come.”

Arnhelm ground his teeth, feeling his composure beginning to slip away from him. He grasped his rope, his fingers forming a sling without even looking.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could easily have shot you in the back when you turned it on me at the river. Besides, you don’t have a choice. It would take you at least another day to reach Halifirien if you continue on this path… but you would not make it through the night. Get your mail and climb in the saddle, and then we’ll be on our way.”

When the young man did not even grace him with a reply, Arnhelm tossed the sling. It fell over Éomer’s shoulders and tightened before he could slip it off.

“You’re coming with me, son, like it or not.” Pushing Ravenwing backwards so that the rope remained tight, Arnhelm slid from his saddle and walked toward Éomer. If he had to knock the brat unconscious in order to bind him, so be it. It was high time this bloody, rotten day ended! He had almost reached the struggling young warrior when a loud grinding noise stopped him in his tracks. ‘This cannot be true!’

But it was true, and even as the two opponents turned their heads, the entire mountain flank seemed to suddenly jump toward them…

Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father

Chapter 12: "Aftermath"

The Mountain Path

Shocked into paralysis, Éomer stared at the deadly avalanche of stone.

‘So this is where I die.’

Movement at the corner of his eye told him that Arnhelm was making a desperate dash for his bolting horse, but the scout stood no chance, for only a heartbeat later, the rock slide was upon them, and the world turned into thunderous, grinding hell. The ground beneath his feet bucked like a wild horse and Éomer fell backwards, sliding down the hill on the river of mud and screaming in terror as he braced himself for the impact of the rock that would crush him.

But there was no impact. Instead, movement beneath him slowly ground to a halt, and the thunder of falling rocks ebbed until there was only the sound of the rain and trickling water again, and the occasional crunching noise of massive rocks settling into their new position. After the inferno before, it felt to the young warrior like the heaviest silence he had ever experienced.

For a moment longer, Éomer continued to lie on his back with his eyes closed, not believing in the treacherous calm. With baited breath, he waited for the pain to assault him, for surely he could not have survived this disaster without broken or crushed bones. Afraid to move, he counted his heartbeats. So fast, oh so very fast his heart beat in his chest, as if it were trying to escape the deadly peril on its own. Only very gradually it began to slow down, until at last, Éomer dared to draw his first, shallow breath. There was still no pain. He opened his eyes... to a grey sky.

Wetness on his face. Cautiously, he lifted one arm... or tried to lift it. There was still the sling around him, hindering his movements. But it was slack, its end loose, and slipping it over his head no further problem. Again, there was no pain. Still sceptical, Éomer wiped a hand over his face, expecting the moisture to be blood, but it was only water. For the longest time, the son of Eomund stared at his hand, barely daring to hope that he had indeed survived the rock slide entirely unscathed. Could it really be? Had the gods truly spared him despite everything he had done wrong for the past two days? Had he been granted a second chance?

Gathering his courage, the young rider sat up slowly. Dizzy from the lack of air, as he had still unconsciously held his breath for fear of the lightning bolt of pain from a crushed limb or backbone, he slowly took in his surroundings, and his eyes widened. The narrow gorge through which he had walked had all but disappeared, the path buried underneath rocks up to the size of small huts and deep mud. The mountain’s flank from where the mudflow had sprung had likewise vastly changed; a deep chasm now marred its surface like a flesh wound, and as Éomer stared numbly at the raw soil, he suddenly understood what miracle had saved his life: directly in his path, no further than perhaps fifty paces above his current position, a mighty bluff had diverted the deadly avalanche and shielded him from the stones. It appeared that, by sheer luck, shock had frozen him in the only safe spot on the entire mountain. Which brought another thought...

“Captain? Captain Arnhelm?”

His heart again in his throat, Éomer jumped to his feet, and his gaze darted frantically over the field of destruction for signs of the scout.

‘Gods, what if he is dead?’ he thought, and his skin turned to gooseflesh. ‘What if I’m responsible now for the death of one of the Mark’s most esteemed warriors?’

“Captain Arnhelm?”

A thin, distant whinny reached his ears, and as Éomer strained to discover its source among the debris, he beheld the shape of the scout’s black stallion further up the path. For moment, relief washed over him, until he noticed the horse’s strange posture. Ravenwing stood with hanging head, his left foreleg lifted and barely touching the ground. ‘No, no...’

With a lump in his throat, Éomer staggered forward on shaky legs which barely carried him, and on his way over to the injured horse, his anxious gaze again darted over his surroundings for signs of the stallion’s master.

“Captain?”

The pile of rubble beneath his feet suddenly gave way and Éomer slipped and landed in knee-deep mud. Swearing, the young rider reached for the nearest rock to pull himself out, but quickly found that the wet soil had the consistency of molasses and refused to simply let him go.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath, what else can possibly happen next? Did I not already say that I was sorry?” he uttered between ground teeth, and pulled himself out of the hole with what felt like the last power left in his muscles. Spasms of exhaustion shook his body as he sank to his knees, and for a moment, leant his head against the rock with closed eyes. ‘So tired...’

Then he heard the groan, and sat up straight on his heels. It had sounded close.

“Captain Arnhelm? Where are you? Can you hear me?” A low moan answered him and lent him new energy as he pulled himself to his knees. ‘At least he’s alive. – For now, yes. It seems that way. But for how long?’ a dark voice in the back of mind asked gloomily. ‘Do you seriously believe that there was another miracle, and that the Captain only hit his head? By the sound of this, is it not more likely that he is seriously injured?’

Yes, it was, Éomer admitted as he cautiously climbed over the obstacles in his way. But what was he supposed to do? It was not as if he could simply walk away... although Arnhelm probably expected him to do just that.

Straightening between the rocks, the young warrior suddenly hesitated. He had not wanted to be found by the scout. And most certainly had he not asked to be forced to go with Arnhelm, tied and slung to the saddle like a killed deer. So had the rock slide not, in fact, solved all his problems? He was free to leave and be on his way to Halifirien, and no one would ever know just what had happened here... if the scout died.

‘And how will you live with yourself if you do that?’ that voice asked him again from the back of his mind, and this time, Éomer identified it as his father’s voice. ‘Walking away from a wounded Rohir, knowing fully well that he stands no chance of survival without your help... is that the kind of revenge you’re after? Is this what the son of a marshal of the Armed Forces would do?’

‘He certainly had no problems with chasing me away into the night,’ Éomer defended himself, but his justification sounded hollow even to his own ears. ‘He wanted me to get killed.’

‘You don’t know that, Éomer. Perhaps, Arnhelm simply lost his head last night, and now he is trying to save the situation. Trying hard. Or why else would he have gone through all these pains to find you here, if not to correct a mistake which he recognised as such? If he wanted you dead, he could have killed you twice by now.’

That was true. Uncertain about how to proceed, Éomer stood for a moment longer, rooted to the spot, until another low moan woke him from his contemplation. The scout had to be here somewhere, even if he couldn’t see him yet.

‘What if he lies beneath these rocks, half-crushed, and what you hear are his dying sounds?’ Béma, wouldn’t that be horrible? Éomer swallowed, and the mental image which accompanied this thought chased a cold chill down his spine. ‘Even if Arnhelm is a horse’s ass, no rider of the Mark deserves such a fate!’

“Captain? Where are you?”

“H-here...” It was a pained whisper that answered him, and with his wildly beating heart in his throat, Éomer climbed around a pile of loose rocks the size of a horse... and found his captain. His breath caught in his chest, the young man stared into pain-filled grey eyes and knew at once that things were bad, for he could only see the scout’s upper half. Arnhelm’s legs were buried underneath tons of stone.

Unable to speak or think, Éomer stared at his fallen adversary, and the older man stared back.

For the longest time, the two very different riders just regarded each other as realisation seeped into their minds that at least one of them would die. Then, slowly, a faint, wry smile formed on Arnhelm’s lips.

“Well, son of Eomund...” He caught his breath and looked his apprentice straight in the eye. Blood freely flowed down his face from a cut on his cheekbone. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To get even with me?” A wave of pain wrecked his body, and for a moment, robbed him of the ability to speak. When it returned, the wry smile upon his lips broadened. “Are you satisfied with yourself now?”

Involuntarily, Éomer straightened and lifted his chin. So even now, they were still not done with this sad business, it seemed.

“I did not cause the rock slide, Captain, if that is what you are insinuating. And to answer your question: no, it doesn’t satisfy me to see you in pain, although in order to ask me that, I assume you feel that you deserve some of it. My father taught me better than that.”

“I suppose you are right,” Arnhelm hissed, and squeezed his eyes shut in a doomed attempt to push back the agony. “After all, Eomund never left the fate of his enemies to chance. He killed them outright. Wounding them was not good enough for him.”

For a moment, Éomer just stared back and fought the heated flare of his temper, hands balled into fists and a dangerous glint dancing in his dark eyes. ‘I should just turn around and leave him here!’ a strong, inner voice demanded, and he realised it as the one he had listened to for the better part of the past night and day. But something had happened on his path to Halifirien, hadn’t it? Had there not been a moment of clarity, and the decision to grow up and take responsibility for his actions? And was this not the right time to start?

Shifting his gaze to the rock that held Arnhelm captive, Éomer realised at once that it was far too heavy for him. There was no way of freeing the scout without the help of their éored, so it was clear what he needed to do, first. ‘But I might give him a little well-deserved scare, nevertheless!’

Without a word, Éomer turned away and began to climb down to where he heard the scout’s horse call for its master.

“Aye, run, son of Eomund! See that you get as far away from here as possible, because Béma is my witness when I swear that I will spend the rest of my days hunting you down should I come out of this alive! I must have been mad to come here and rescue you!”

It was hard to listen to Arnhelm scathing words and not correct him, his blood boiling in his veins, but Éomer remained silent. Only now that he approached the black stallion did he softly whisper: “Sssh, mighty Ravenwing. There is no need to be afraid of me, for I am not an enemy. Please, if you will, let me have a look at your wounds. I will do what I can to help you.” Behind him, the stallion’s owner still uttered senseless threats, but Éomer no longer listened. His attention was entirely focussed on the animal in front of him, which regarded him warily. If Ravenwing kicked and wounded him, it would most certainly be the end of all three of them.

“May I approach you now?” He straightened, arms loosely hanging by his side in an unthreatening posture. The black eyed him with nervously flickering ears, and he would have danced to the side if his left foreleg had not been rather useless. However, it seemed to Éomer that the bone was still intact, for while his lameness was obvious, Ravenwing did not avoid ground contact with his injured leg entirely. Cautiously, he advanced another step. And another one. Almost within reach now. Large dark eyes scrutinized him, but the stallion remained where he was. A sign of Ravenwing’s trust? Slowly, Éomer lifted his hand. “I promise I will not harm you, my friend.”

With widened nostrils, the black tasted his scent, eyes rolling in unmistakable threat. Éomer stood perfectly still, aware that it would take only a single move to spook the stallion while he felt his warm breath against his palm. At last, the silken fur of Ravenwing’s nose rubbed against his skin, and the young Rohir knew that he had won. As he caressed the stallion, a faint smile wandered over his face. It was a wonderful feeling to know that despite everything that had happened over the last two days, horses still seemed to trust him. It was like Thunderbolt all over again, a boost for his low spirits.

“Aye, Ravenwing, I know that you hurt, and that you would prefer to have your master tend you. “ Slowly, Éomer’s hand wandered from the black’s nose over the horse’s brow up to the now pricked ears, as he edged closer to the stallion’s rump. “I wish that he could do that, but as it seems, he is in an even worse way than you right now.” There it was, the thing he had sought, still attached to the saddle: Arnhelm’s horn. Quickly, Éomer unslung it, and with his free hand, clapped Ravenwing’s muscular shoulder. “I will see what is wrong with your leg in a moment, Black One, but first, I will need to call for help. Stay here, please.”

With a deep sigh, Éomer turned around, and then began to force his exhausted body up the steep, unstable slope.

“What are you doing?” Arnhelm’s voice reached him from behind the rock that held the warrior captive. “Éomer? Answer me!”

And yet instead of an answer, Éomer climbed up the sheer cliff until he was sure that it was impossible to proceed another step, and with a deep breath, sat the horn against his lips. The dark, imposing sound rang out into the void, carried further and echoed by the rock. Pebbles loosened by the powerful noise slid down the mountain’s shoulder, and for a moment, Éomer was afraid of causing another rockslide... but at least for now, the ground beneath his feet remained stable. Once again he sounded the horn until lack of oxygen made him dizzy, and then he stood and strained his ears for an answer... and there it was; a long, low sound, rising up to him from the plains and causing his heart to skip a beat.

‘They heard me! They’ll come! Everything will turn out all right now!’

He gave the signal that told the éored he had heard them and turned around, and for a moment, all weariness and exhaustion was forgotten as the son of Eomund clambered down the ravine. Help was on the way.

***

The River’s Edge

“What do you reckon, Éothain? Is it Éomer?” Staring at the other shore of the river, at the beginning wilderness of the White Mountains, Elfhelm barely dared to hope as he lowered his horn. “Would he call for help if he ran into trouble, even though he tried so hard to get away from us?”

The apprentice rider shook his head as he followed his Captain’s gaze, an iron band squeezing his lungs together at the thought of his friend in trouble. What trouble? Orcs?

“I do not know. After last night, I feel as if I barely know him at all. I would never have thought that Éomer would run from anything.” He exhaled, inwardly fighting to have his hope crushed by reality.

“Whoever it is, we can’t help him,” Bard the Bear added gloomily. “Not yet, at least. That signal sounded as if it came from halfway up Halifirien. Even without the rain, it would take at least another half a day to reach him.” He paused, not wanting to utter the next part, but it needed to be said, even if Elfhelm probably knew it himself. “But we cannot cross the river yet; the flood’s far too strong.” He looked back over his shoulder, and his mood darkened even further as he beheld the men who had gathered around Anlaf, whom they had found unconscious in the forest not far from here. “We must wait, or yet more will pay for Arnhelm’s folly.”

Putting his head back, Elfhelm cast a dark glance at the sky.

“By nightfall, these mountains will be brimming with goblins. And we do not know what happened to the rest of that orc group, either. I refuse to believe that there were only three of them. Orcs don’t travel the Mark in such low numbers.”

“I’m fairly certain that they didn’t cross the river though,” Bard replied, directing his attention back at his Captain. “Orcs can’t swim, and the Mering’s been tough game at least for the last twenty four hours.” His words failed to brighten his commander’s mood, and next to Elfhelm, Éothain, too, now looked even more dismayed.

“But if he’s in trouble now, what will happen to him once the goblins come?” He looked pleadingly at the older warriors. “We must ride to his aid, or there will be no one left to rescue tomorrow!”

“Believe me, young man, there is nothing I would rather do right now, even if we do not know whether the signal was indeed given by Éomer.” With a deep breath, Elfhelm forced himself to tear his eyes away from the mountains on the distant river shore and instead, meet the young rider’s gaze openly. “But Bard is right: the Mering’s no river to be trifled with. We will have to wait, or riders will die. We will stay here, and as soon as the flood drops, we will cross. It cannot be helped. For now, we must exercise patience. Chances are good that the beacon guards on Halifirien heard the signal as well and will come to his aid from their side.” He turned his horse around.

“Go and help raise the camp, Éothain. We will have to stay here for at least another couple of hours, and nightfall is not far off anymore. It would be good to have our fires going by then.” He looked at Bard. “If something needs my attention, you will find me at Tolgor’s side. By the look of things, Anlaf was the last one to see Arnhelm. Perhaps he will have valuable information for us once he regains consciousness.”

THE MOUNTAIN PATH

The afternoon grew old ere Éomer was granted the opportunity to sit down among the rocks for his long-delayed rest. While the son of Eomund had already been exhausted to the core even before his adversary had found him, adrenaline had kept him on his feet in the wake of the mudslide long enough to take care of the most immediate necessities. Yet at last, the moment had arrived where not even all of Éomers accumulated willpower could compete against the leaden fatigue that had settled in his bones. The young warrior leaned back against the rock, no longer fighting exhaustion, and for a moment, his eye-lids were too heavy to keep them up.

Gods, what a mess he had gotten himself into! Or Arnhelm, rather...or the both of them, to be entirely fair. Wearily, Éomer cast a brief glance at the scout to his right, lying still half-buried beneath the rocks only a few paces behind him, silent now. Whether he was unconscious, sleeping or merely reserving his strength, Éomer did not know, but he was glad that Arnhelm had ceased his verbal lashing for now. Perhaps because against his assumptions, his young adversary had not ventured on, leaving him lying helplessly for whatever foe eventually found him. As much as Éomer had at first been tempted to do just that, especially with the foul stream of curses the scout had unleashed against him in the wake of the catastrophe, he had found that such coldness was not in his blood, no matter how much he hated the man. It was simply something a rider of the Mark did not do.

Perhaps it was punishment enough for Arnhelm to be utterly helpless and dependent on the one he despised... to realise that his life was in the hands of the very boy he thought a danger to their éored. The thought should have given him satisfaction, Éomer mused, and yet he felt simply too exhausted even for that. After he had climbed and slid down the slope, he had first relieved the scouts horse of its tack and checked the contents of the saddlebags for anything useful, finding some dried meat, fruit, Arnhelm's half-empty water-skin and a thoroughly soaked woolen blanket. Not much to improve their situation. There was nothing to make a fire with, no tree or bushes around for as far as the eye could see, and even if he went to search their surroundings, Éomer knew, whatever wood he found would be wet and useless. If Elfhelm and the others had not found them until nightfall, they would be in for a cold, dark, lonely night... and there was no telling what beasts roamed the nights in this part of the Mark.

When he had reluctantly approached the fallen scout to see whether there was anything more to be done about Arnhelm's situation, the older man had remained uncharacteristically silent. Whether it was because he felt ashamed, or because of his pain, Éomer could not tell, but at least, the warrior accepted the blanket he was handed. Wool kept one warm even when it was wet, Éomer knew, and hoped that it would be enough to let the scout live through the night. If anyone died in search for him, he would never be able to forgive himself.

At last, Arnhelm had spoken, although he avoided eye-contact with the young apprentice rider.

"You could easily leave me here."

Uncertain of what to expect, Éomer's reply had been brief.

"I suppose."

"Then what keeps you?"

The son of Eomund paused. Where was this going? He furrowed his brow.

"Do you want me to leave, Sir?" Somehow, it was easier to address the older man in a more formal way. 'Sir' was not about respect, it was about distance. And it seemed that Arnhelm understood, for without warning, his grey eyes met Éomer's, and instead of rage, there was only confusion in his gaze.

"I want to understand, Son of Eomund. We are enemies, and yet you stay?"

"We fight for the same side." Éomer inhaled and met the scouts inquisitive stare openly. "The Mark needs its warriors. Nothing else is of import where the life of a rider is at stake and most certainly not the feelings of a recruit over having been wronged." He lowered his gaze to stare at his feet, and so missed the other man's perplexed expression. "I only do what would be expected of a man in a situation like this... and now, I will take a look at your horse."

Not waiting for Arnhelm's reply, Éomer had then turned his back on the older man and concerned himself with the black stallion. The leg Ravenwing had been favouring had felt warm to his touch, but to his relief, he had found neither broken bones nor any debilitating deep wounds. He had treated the horse by applying some of the cold mud to take the heat out of the wounded leg and finished by wrapping a wet bandage around the limp. Then, there had been nothing left to do but wait.

THE MERING'S SHORES

"I don't know what possessed him. I've never seen Arnhelm like this." Laid on a woolen blanket and made as comfortably as possible by his comrades, Anlaf gazed thoughtfully at his captain. His broken ribs sent debilitating waves of pain through his body whenever he breathed too hard, and so his words were merely whispers. "So... distraught. As if an old, poorly-healed wound was ripped open again."

"None of us have ever seen him like this. You are certain that he crossed the river?" Elhelm wrinkled his brow. "It sounded like his horn, so it might be him in fact who sent the call for help, and not Èomer."

"Aye. He bade me ride back and report to you about our findings, intent on crossing the river once the water level fell." Hissing as a new flash of pain shot through him, the wounded warrior added, through gritted teeth: "Curse that stallion! If the sight of a bear is already too much for him, then how am I supposed to ride him into battle against orcs?"

A weak smile tugged at Elfhelm's lips.

"Hammerhand is still very young and inexperienced. It will take a while until he has reached the confidence and skill you were used to from your old mount. Until then, you need to be more careful. You were lucky this time. Tolgor is sure that your bones will mend without consequences for your future, but if that bear had been an orc... " He cocked an eyebrow, not finishing his sentence.

Anlaf blushed.

"Aye, I know. I'm being too hard on my horse, it was my mistake, not his." Briefly he shut his eyes, and then looked past his captain. "Béma, I just hope the boy is still alive. If anything happened to him, Theoden-King will not have mercy on Arnhelm."

Elfhelms expression hardened at the mention of their king.

"Would you say that Arnhelm deserves mercy? After cold-bloodedly chasing an inexperienced apprentice rider into the night, knowing that orcs were in the vicinity? If I were Théoden-King and Éomer my nephew and dead when we found him... all that Arnhelm could expect from me was the taste of my blade. Take my word for it, Anlaf if it comes to that, you will not know your king from a raging orc!"

THE MOUNTAIN PATH

With a deep sigh, Éomer woke from his musings and craned back his neck to gaze at the sky. No change there, except that the grey seemed to have darkened since he had last looked. There was nothing to be seen of the sun through the thick layer of clouds, so a precise estimate of the passed time was impossible, yet it seemed to him that nightfall was not far away anymore. Where was the éored? What in Bémas name took them so long? After all, hadn't they heard and even answered his signal?

"Blow into the horn again," Arnhelm suddenly spoke after hours of silence, as if he had read Éomer's thoughts. "When they answer, we will know where they are."

There was something in his tone that made the younger man turn around.

"You do not believe that they are already near, Sir?"

The scout met his gaze unflinchingly.

"The river was rising again when I crossed it, and that was many hours ago. Since then, it has not stopped raining." He inhaled deeply before he shook his head. "We do not need to guess. Call them, and we will know for certain."

Wordlessly, Èomer unhooked the horn, suddenly afraid to use it. What if Arnhelm was right? What if their éored was still on the other side of the river, far, far away? Unable to help them in the case of ... problems? He swallowed, then furrowed his brow.

"If I send the signal now... won't others hear it, too? Others we wouldn't want it to hear?"

"If you mean mountain goblins - if there are any on this part of the mountain, they will already know about our presence. They have very sharp senses. If that is so, they're only waiting for darkness to come out. As for orcs, I wouldn't necessarily worry about them. Halifirien is dangerous ground for them, they rarely travel on this path. Anything else that hears the horn will rather run from the sound than approach it. So you might as well do it and know what the situation is."

With a last, doubtful glance at the scout, Éomer rose to his feet and one more time, struggled up the steep slope to sound the signal. The answer came almost immediately and crushed what hope he had secretly harboured. Arnhelm had been right, their fellow riders were still by the river. Half a day away. For the time being, they were on their own.

Slowly, fear began to spread its night-black wings in his mind as Éomer made his way back to their improvised camp, where a non-surprised Arnhelm awaited him.

"All right, son of Eomund. We should prepare for the night then. How skilled are you in the use of a bow?"

Èomer cast a dark glance at the bow beside the warrior.

"Éothain's the better archer. I'm better with the sword."

He was granted an almost imperceptible nod by the older man.

"Very well. So you take my sword." Arnhelm briefly fumbled with the buckle of his belt, and then handed the artfully crafted sheath with his blade to his hesitant apprentice. "It is the better solution, anyway, since I cannot move. We need to develop a strategy. It would help if we could build a fire, but I don't see how."

With a wary glance at the scout, Éomer accepted the weapon and sat down on the rock near his wounded comrade.

"I know nothing about goblins. Are they like orcs?"

"They're as ugly as orcs, but smaller,`" Arnhelm explained. "More cowardly, too, and not as adept at handling weapons any more advanced than a club or a sharp stick. As far as we know, they are not in Mordor's service; they only follow their own interests. They're mainly scavengers, attacking only wounded creatures, when they can be sure of the outcome because of their greater numbers."

Swallowing, Éomer cast an uncomfortable glance at their surroundings.

"So they are mainly moving in groups?"

"Always. I've never seen less than ten of them at a time. Usually, there are up to twenty or thirty in a group... and they move strictly by night. The most important thing is that we stay together. If they succeed in separating us - and they will try hard - they will kill us both. You must keep this in your mind at all times, Éomer, no matter what happens!" For a moment, Arnhelm's eyes burned with intensity, and Éomer made a silent vow to himself not to forget the scout's words. He nodded.

With creased brow, Arnhelm looked at the grey sky.

"We should have about another two hours before it will be dark enough for them to come out. Let's eat, first, we will need our strength. And then, son of Eomund, we'll see how we'll best prepare for them."

Chapter 14: The Heart of Darkness

THE MERING'S SHORES

“Captain? Captain Elfhelm?” a voice spoke into Elfhelm’s dreams, and at first, the warrior believed it to be part of the vaguely unsettling images that had haunted his rest. Until the voice spoke again. “Captain Elfhelm, the water’s sinking. Tolgor sent me to let you know that it might be possible to cross the river now.”

Drowsily, Elfhelm blinked at the young face that hovered above him and sat up, fighting to shake off the leaden exhaustion that had claimed him despite his concern for his still missing apprentice and scout.

“Éothain?” He took a deep breath and craned back his neck to look at the sky. There was still no star to be seen, the layer of cloud blocking most light from above, but at least the rain had stopped. Good. It was about time. He was sick and tired of being forced into inactivity when members of his éored needed his help. With an inward groan, Elfhelm picked himself up, surprised by the creaking of his bones. Was he getting old? In contrast to how he felt, the young man before him certainly seemed energetic enough to jump into the water and climb up Halifirien all by himself.

“The water has dropped at least two feet over the last three hours, “ Éothain reported excitedly as he followed his captain to the river’s edge. “Bard said that it might still be risky, but that it could probably be done.”

“Very well, young man. Then, finally, it’s time to act.” Elfhelm nodded, looking forward to get moving even if the river crossing would demand their full concentration. Among the men before him, he spied the healer and about ten other riders standing ready with their horses on the reins, waiting for him.

“Captain?” Tolgor nodded his head. “We are ready to go. We already saddled Eon for you, too.”

Bard the Bear emerged from the group and handed Elfhelm the reins of his horse. Clapping the bay’s muscular neck, Elfhelm turned to the eagerly waiting boy by his side.

“I know you want to come along, Éothain, but I’m afraid I’ll have to tell you to stay here with the others. The Mering’s no river to be trifled with, and only riders with experienced and confident horses can risk this undertaking. Be assured that we will do our best to bring back your friend.” He saw the disappointment in his apprentice’s eyes and clapped his shoulder. “You did much already, Éothain. Éomer could not wish for a more loyal friend.” And with these words, he turned around and swung into the saddle. “Findárras, you will wait here for our signal. I hope we will have found the son of Eomund and possibly, our scout, until noon.”

“Aye, Captain. May the gods protect you and the others on that path.”

“This is Halifirien, not Mordor, Findárras. By the look of things, the Mering should pose the greatest threat along that way. Hiya!” He turned the stallion around and pushed him toward the water. Without words, his warriors followed him.

THE MOUNTAIN PATH

Éomer opened his eyes to darkness. He could not tell what had woken him from his nightmare in which an invisible threat had lurked, waiting to make its move, and for a moment, disorientation washed over him. Was he still dreaming? Breathlessly, the young warrior listened into the night, and while he reached out with his senses, the rough pebbles underneath his hands and the hard rock against his back confirmed to him that what he was looking at was, in fact, reality. So what exactly was it that caused his stomach to clench into a painful knot in the middle of his body?

Only gradually it dawned on him: it was too quiet. It seemed like nothing was moving, no songs of nocturnal birds could be heard in the vicinity, no fluttering of wings, no calls of predators small or big, not even the wind’s voice in the gorge of their elevated position. And the rain... had stopped. Slowly turning on his back, Éomer looked up. The nightly sky was still overcast, but every now and then, little gaps opened between the clouds and allowed the moon to shed its pale light onto the sleeping earth... except that it felt not as if it was sleeping. It was listening, rather, with baited breath, for something to happen. He sat up.

“Captain?”

“Shhh,” came a silencing sound from Arnhelm’s position. “Not so loud. They can hear you.”

“They?” Without warning, Éomer’s heart jumped into his throat, and his gaze darted frantically from rock to rock. But he did lower his voice. “The goblins? Are they already here?” No sooner had he ended that question when he saw the answer for himself. Two pale lights shone dimly in the twilight where he was looking, no more than thirty strides away. Two more right behind the first pair... and more behind those. Many more. All looking in their direction, unblinking. And now from further down the path, Ravenwing’s explosive snort reached his ears. So, the stallion had detected the danger, too. Éomer exhaled as anxiety flooded his veins, and he jumped to his feet, hand on the hilt of the sword the scout had given him.

“Not so fast, son of Eomund. They are undecided yet whether to attack us or not,” Arnhelm whispered, and Éomer quickly stepped over to the fallen warrior, seeing that the older man already had his bow by his side and an arrow in his hand. Just as he followed the warrior’s gaze, the dark shapes before them began to spread out in a half-circle around them. “For now, it seems as if there are no more than ten. Or at least, I can only see ten of them. I would be surprised if they waged battle at such low numbers.”

“Should I do something to discourage them?” Éomer bent to pick up a rock. With a bemused expression, Arnhelm’s head turned around to him, and a sour smile played on the scout’s lips.

“Like what? Throw stones at them? Stones will not discourage a band of hungry goblins. They are cowards, but if they’re hungry enough, stones will not stop them.”

“So we just wait?”

Urgent chittering reached their ears as the creatures moved around the slope, no purpose yet to their actions. Exploring their options. A few began to climb down toward the stallion on the blocked path, and Ravenwing gave an explosive snort that halted them. “What if more come?”

“Alas, I fear this is very possible. This is a rather small group of goblins; I assume they split up to find out where to make prey most easily. If the other groups find something better, they might just leave us alone. If not...” He left the sentence incomplete, but Éomer understood nonetheless. Trying to move his hurting body, Arnhelm suddenly let out a hiss.

“How is your leg, sir?” Éomer inquired, worried.

“It is not my leg that’s giving me trouble. As uncomfortable as it is, I think it is only caught under the rock, not crushed.” The older warrior’s expression contorted into a grimace of pain as he propped himself up with his elbows. “It’s this strange position.”

“Cramps, then,” Èomer stated, feeling helpless. There was nothing he could do to improve the scout’s situation that he had not already done. A moment later, Arnhelm rested his back once more against his saddle and inhaled, and again his gaze turned to the scurrying shapes on the slope.

“I suppose this will be a long night."

THE MOUNTAIN PATH - FURTHER BELOW

The ten riders and their mounts were drenched, but none of the men complained. They were concentrated, focussed on the rocky, uneven ground and at the same time, listening into the darkness for signs of danger. It was not the usual way of the éoreds to roam such complicated territory by night, but the ten volunteers to this mission were glad to finally move ahead. A highly battle-experienced, cunning group of warriors prepared for anything, they snaked up the mountain at literally neck-breaking speed.

Elfhelm’s muscles sang with tension as he stared into the night beyond his horse’s ears. He had given the stallion his head, fully trusting in Éon’s superior senses on this difficult way, even though he knew that they were moving far too fast for the terrain. From behind, a muttered curse reached his ear as one of the horses slipped on the wet rock, but they pressed on regardlessly. The river-fording had cost them more time than Elfhelm had calculated even under unfavourable circumstances. It had been a dangerous and arduous undertaking, but at last, all ten of them had made it to the other side, eager to proceed.

“Bard, sound your horn again. Let them know we’re coming,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Perhaps it will give us an idea how far ahead they are.”

“They sounded very far away this past evening,” Tolgor made himself be heard. “I expect that it will take us at least another four hours to reach them... provided the terrain does not get worse.” The powerful horn blow interrupted him, and he waited before he added: “All this wetness troubles me. The ground looks very unstable.”

“Aye, but it cannot be helped.” From somewhere in the distance, the answer to their signal reached their ears, and the warriors swore and shook their heads, for the signal indicated that their brothers-in-arms were in trouble.

“Morgoth’s stinking breath!” Bard’s deep voice rumbled. “I hope they did not run into orcs!”

“Orcs on Halifirien? Do you think they’ve grown so bold?” A cold shiver raced down Tolgor’s spine at the thought.

“They’re growing bolder with each passing day,” the mighty warrior spat with disdain. “It is about time they get taught a lesson they won’t forget so soon! Something in me hopes they’re still there when we arrive. I wouldn’t mind cleaving a few ugly heads from their shoulders tonight to make this worth our while!”

“It would be enough for me to find our two missing riders alive at the end of this path,” Elfhelm ended his heated outbreak. “Nothing else counts!”

THE MOUNTAIN PATH

“They are coming! That was definitely closer than last time!” Éomer lowered the horn and turned around to his fallen comrade, but Arnhelm’s expression did not mirror his sudden enthusiasm.

“Aye, I agree that they might have crossed the river in the meantime, but it was still not very close. And since the path is still wet and slippery, I assume that at least for the next three hours, we are still on our own... and here come more goblins.” He swallowed as he watched the arrival of the new threat, as they crawled over the rocks toward the slope. “I suppose there are not so many worthy targets available tonight, after all. We have their full attention.”

“So they will attack.” It was a statement, not a question. Éomer felt the blood drain from his face as he nervously renewed his grip on the hilt of his borrowed sword. It felt strange in his fingers, unfamiliar, and again, a flutter of panic stirred in his stomach. ‘Stay calm!’ he admonished himself as he slowly turned on his heels to observe how the newcomers began to fan out around them. So this would be his first test. If he truly wanted to become a warrior, he better passed it. ‘They’re only goblins, not orcs. They are half my size and cowardly scavengers. If I cannot defeat them, what am I doing in Elfhelm’s éored?’

Self-admonishment helped... a little.

“I suppose they will,” Arnhelm sighed. “Remember what I said, Èomer: they will try to separate us. If they succeed, we will both die. You must stay close to me under all circumstances!”

“Aye, Captain. I will not forget it.”

A sudden beam of moonlight broke through the clouds and bathed the mountain slope in a pale, cold light that chilled Éomer to the core. Around them, the goblins shrieked and dived for cover, angrily muttering in their ugly speech at the bright thing in the sky that hurt their sensitive eyes. But they did not run far.

“Draw your sword, Éomer,” Arnhelm hissed, suddenly excited, and Éomer turned around. “Draw it slowly, and try to hide your fear. Show them what will greet them if they move too close! They fear our steel.”

Hide his fear? How was he supposed to do that when his heart was practically jumping out of his throat? Èomer lowered his gaze and renewed his grip around the sword. For a moment, he closed his eyes and took a deliberate, deep breath. ‘I am of Eorl’s blood. I am the son of Marshal Eomund of Aldburg... and I will live to become one of the greatest warriors the Mark has ever seen! I will avenge my father, and I will protect the people of my ward. I will not become the prey of a cowardly group of scavengers, and neither will my brother-in-arms!’

Something happened. From somewhere, new energy seemed to flow into his body, and involuntarily, his posture straightened. Lifting his chin as he opened his eyes, Éomer felt how the last shadow of fear melted away in his conscious, and battle-readiness overcame him. Slowly he unsheathed the first third of the blade, turning to the side a little so that the moonlight reflected on the deadly weapon. Dismayed, urgent hisses from the shadows beneath the rocks told him that his message was being received as he freed the sword from its scabbard, held it in front of his face in the ancient, ritual greeting between adversaries.

For a moment, nothing happened. The goblins ceased their hectic movement and fell silent, all heads turning. As Éomer followed their gaze, he beheld a bizarre silhouette that, just as he met its luminous eyes, emerged from the crowd of crooked creatures and granted the young warrior his first clear look of its race. Calmly it stood in the moonlight, seemingly unperturbed by its brightness, and stared at the two Rohirrim in blunt challenge. It wore something the warriors could not see clearly, some kind of armour made of animal skins and bones, with a collar of massive pointed teeth around the neck that lent its humpbacked shape a decidedly threatening aura.

‘There are only two of you,’ its haughty gaze said, and by its side, the creature’s clawed fingers moved impatiently as if they could barely wait to grab their prey and rip the life out of it. ‘And one of you is wounded and trapped. We are many. We do not fear your sword, for it is the only one!’ It hissed, and instantly, the sound was picked up by its brethren, leaving no doubt to the two warriors that they were indeed completely surrounded.

Following his instincts, Éomer slashed the air with the blade in his hands, a fluid circular motion that demonstrated to the watching creatures that whoever moved within reach of that sword, would die.

“Well, come on then!” he shouted, eyes bent on the solitary shape before him. “You think you are strong enough to defeat two armed warriors of the Mark? We will gladly teach you better, scum!”

The chieftain hissed at him again and advanced another step, a move that was immediately followed by its brethren; their deadly ring tightening. Its clawed hand reached down to its hip to unhook an ugly, edged blade as it jumped forward, and Éomer lifted his own sword in anticipation of the enemy – when, with a pained gargle, the goblin unexpectedly dropped its weapon. Its hands went up to its unprotected throat, or rather, the shaft of the white-feathered arrow that suddenly protruded from there. As it slowly turned on its heels, Éomer could see that almost the entire length of the arrow had gone through the goblin, and only the feathers had prevented it from passing through entirely. A dismayed gasp was issued by their enemies as their chieftain first coughed up a mouthful of thick, black blood, and then fell to his knees, the light in his luminous eyes fading.

With a quick side-glance, Éomer met Arnhelm’s eyes, the expression there grim and determined as the scout fitted another arrow to the string of his bow.

“That should buy us some more time,” the older warrior said matter-of-factly, his tone indicating how much he loathed to be trapped beneath the rock to provide some lowly scavenging creatures with their one chance in life to kill a member of the Mark’s armed forces. “But I would thank Béma for leading our brothers up here well before dawn, or they might come too late.”

Note: Just some brief *casting notes* for your reading (I tend to imagine my stories like movies ;-)):

But it was true: over the length of possibly fifty paces, a massive mud-slide had carved a deep chasm into the mountain's flank and taken the narrow path with it. All that remained was a steep, unstable slope that in the moonlight looked suspiciously like a shortcut to the halls of the warriors' ancestors, and the ten Rohirrim shifted uncomfortably in their saddles and exchanged dark glances.

"That is what I feared," Tolgor murmured to no one specifically, but as he met his captain's eyes, he already knew what Elfhelm's rule would be. Of course, there was no real question. Like the Mering, this was just another complication to be braved. Behind that chasm there was still at least one of their riders needing help.

"No matter what, we will have to cross it," Elfhelm, unsurprisingly, said, and to his satisfaction, he saw nothing but approval and acceptance in his comrades' expressions. Yes, it was a risk, but it was a necessary risk. "There is no other course of action thinkable. Yet perhaps not all of us need to cross, and of course we will need to leave behind our horses... and someone to guard them. We will only take along a few things we may need. Some provisions, water, blankets... bandages, so we'll be prepared for anything."

"I will cross first." It was almost insult that sparkled in Bard's eyes as he looked at the disaster before them. How dare the force of nature oppose them when they were out to rescue their fellow riders? Grinding his teeth because there was no one to take out on his accumulating frustration over the situation, the big warrior slid from the saddle. "Let's knot together our ropes, and I'll take them over. It should make the passage much easier for those who follow. Captain? Do I have your permission?" He looked at Elfhelm and received the reluctant nod he had hoped for. There was just no alternative, and the man from Aldburg was – despite his size – known for his sure-footedness in difficult terrain.

"Be careful, Bard," Tolgor warned as he handed him his rope. "The ground still looks loose." He received a grim smile that told him how much his younger brother-in-arms ached to do something more than to just follow an endlessly winding path in his captain's steps; to do something that counted. 'Béma have mercy on any foe he meets along the way; he's apt to go right through them!'

"Béolaf and Déor? You will stay here with the horses and wait for our return," Elfhelm decided as he swung out of the saddle. "We will signal once we found Arnhelm and, hopefully, Éomer, as well. You will hear from us should we need your help after all." Accepting one end of the rope from Bard, he slung it around the pommel of his saddle and clapped the younger warrior's shoulder: "Like Tolgor said: be careful on that slope. Even with that rope around you, you're a heavy burden. I'm not sure Éon could pull you up should you slip."

"Ah, but Captain, I was not aware you were riding a pony! What a brilliant disguise!"

Elfhelm snorted, satisfied to find his men still in good spirit even after these gruelling last two days. "Insult my horse again and you will see what this will get you! Now get moving, you Eastfold loudmouth!"

Alarmed by Arnhelm's warning, the young rider whirled around, and his raised blade deflected the stone that had been aimed for the back of his head. Yet two had already found him since the goblins had returned with their changed strategy, and while they had not drawn blood, they had newly awakened the pounding headache of the last night he had all but forgotten over the pressing requirements of their emergency.

After their chieftain's death, their attackers had retreated for a while, shocked and uncertain whether to proceed with the hunt or not, thus granting the two Rohirrim a short respite Éomer had used to look once again for Arnhelm's helmet, which had been lost in the rock-slide. Now he regretted not having searched for it more intensively while it had still been light, and of course, his frantic attempt to find it in the rubble was doomed in the darkness.

As he retrieved Arnhelm's arrow from the corpse of the goblin, Eomund's son had paused for a moment to take a closer look at their dead opponent despite its revolting stench. It was true that this thing bore some resemblance to an orc, from its dark leathern hide and misshaped form to the two rows of pointed fangs, but there were also differences, like the larger eyes and lighter build that told of its nature as a nocturnal scavenger. In any case, it was hideous, and the various bones and shabby fur it wore as clothing or armour did nothing to hide that fact. Shuddering, Éomer had pulled the arrow from its throat and trudged back to the scout to wait for the inevitable.

The pause Arnhelm's shot had bought them had not lasted for long though, and when the goblins returned, it had quickly become clear that they had decided to use the advantage of their greater numbers to the greatest effect: again they had fanned out to encircle the two warriors, always just staying out of reach of the bow and alternatingly making their move. As soon as Éomer lifted his sword to fend off the attack from one side, the goblins behind his back would move closer, forcing him to spin around and chase them away, keeping him alert and on his feet without respite. Threateningly, they had stabbed their crude knifes and spears in his direction without moving close enough to actually engage him or to provide a target... and then they had started the stone-throwing.

With dismay, Éomer had quickly realised that he was helpless against that primitive tactic. Whenever he turned to ward off the rocks from one side, a hail of stones would rain down on him from behind, and it were not only the hits to his head that seeped his strength. Although the stones were not large, they were thrown hard, and even through his mail shirt, each impact he was not able to avoid caused pain, bruised him and stiffened him and slowed him down. With growing desperation, Éomer felt how it grew harder and harder to lift his sword, or to move fast enough with the weight of his armour on him.

He had already been at the end of his strength when Arnhelm had found him that afternoon, and while the emergency after the rock slide had – for a while – chased away his fatigue with pure necessity, he was by now rapidly nearing the point of breakdown. What little food there had been in the scout's saddle bags had not restored his energy, and the perhaps two hours of rest before the attack had likewise been a far cry from sufficient after the hardships of the last days and nights. If the goblins kept to their current strategy, it was clear where this would end: the moment he lost his footing, falling over his own feet because of fatigue, the goblin hordes would be all over him. Once he was down, there would be no getting up.

And that moment drew inexorably closer. Five times Arnhelm's bow had sung, each time taking a life with deadly precision when the attackers had felt bold enough to make their move, but by now, the enemy had adapted their strategy to move in a way that kept Éomer between them and the deadly archer. Stones rained down on the scout, as well, and as blood streaked over his face from two fresh cuts on his cheek and brow, the experienced warrior realised that their chances dwindled with each passing moment, while the rescuing dawn lay still far beneath the horizon.

"Captain?" Éomer breathed hard as he once again spun on his heels to survey the situation, and the creatures behind him jumped back with a shriek.

"You're doing great, Éomer. Your father would be proud to see you now. It's perhaps only two more hours until dawn, then we'll be safe. Take heart!" Arnhelm knew what he was saying, even if he had attempted to make it sound positive... to make it sound possible.

Two more hours? Two more hours of this? A cold shudder raced down Éomer's spine as he contemplated the scout's words, but he was not granted much time. Another glance over his shoulder revealed three creatures almost within arm's reach from his back which hastily retreated as he turned toward them. Yet this time, Éomer decided to follow them. It was intuition, a brief twitch of his growing warrior's instincts that told him to reclaim respect in this uneven battle. Two quick steps brought him within range as the goblins screeched and threw themselves to the ground, and with satisfaction, the young warrior felt how his blade sliced through something soft. A pained hiss rewarded his boldness and he jumped forward to finish off the wounded beast as it crawled away from his steel as quickly as it could.

But Arnhelm's words did not reach his apprentice, who – for the first time since the beginning of the attack– saw himself in the position to actually punish the enemy. There was already blood on his blade, now it was time to claim his first life.

He slashed down, but incredibly, the goblin flung itself backwards with sudden agility, evading the strike... and drawing him even further away. Too late Éomer realised their plan, and a cold chill raced down his spine as he spun around and saw the horde of goblins jump toward his wounded brother-in-arms.

"No! Captain!" He ran back, but instead of retreating as before, the creatures only straightened and lifted their spears in anticipation of his charge, and even as he jumped at them with swinging sword, Éomer heard them moving up behind him, tightening the circle. Moving in for the kill. 'Béma, help us!'

Another goblin fell to the ground with a feathered arrow-end protruding from its chest, but now the enemy was all around them, a bulging dark mass of advancing bodies in which their luminous eyes glowed with a sick green hue. With sudden clarity, Éomer understood that this was the last sight he would ever be granted as the creatures hissed at him in unison. And yet the final attack came from behind. As he heard the shifting of rocks under a great weight behind his back, Éomer spun around with his sword ready, determined to take at least his first assailant with him. Viciously he stabbed the blade against the towering dark shape – and found his strike deflected with the bright sound of metal against metal.

Unable to comprehend, Éomer stared at the silhouette before him, and from the recoil, his sword dropped from his fingers. A moment later, the son of Eomund found himself pushed aside and on the ground as his brother-in-arms charged past him. Like a force of nature, Bard came upon the goblins, and in the sudden moonlight, his swinging blade appeared like bolts of lightning as it punished the enemy. Three fell in his first fierce onslaught, and with dismayed shrieks, the creatures turned around to flee when a sharp swishing sound reached Éomer's ears from behind. Four more goblins fell with arrows sticking out between their shoulders, then darkness swallowed the rest as they escaped into the night. For a moment, their panicked shrieks could still be heard in the distance before a heavy silence fell.

"Bard? Elfhelm? Praised be the gods, you could not have arrived at a better time!" Sitting up with an effort, the older warrior watched as his comrades ascended the slope. To his left, Bard turned around, and the hard gaze that grazed him as the powerful warrior slowly walked back told Arnhelm all he needed to know about his fellow rider's disposition. He swallowed and fell silent, not certain what to expect.

"Are you all right? Éomer?" Coming to a halt before their stunned apprentice, Bard squatted down and, with a brief glance over Éomer's shoulder, acknowledged his captain's arrival before his measuring gaze fell on the young man's face.

"I am not sure," Éomer confessed, still disoriented by the sudden turn of events. "I suppose..." He received a grim smile and then hissed when his shoulder was painfully squeezed in admiration.

"You were a sight to behold fending off that scum, son of Eomund. I couldn't have done better in my first year. Now come, let me help you up. On your behind is not the position to greet your captain when he personally comes to your rescue." With one quick move, Bard pulled Éomer to his feet, and they turned around to face Elfhelm who had finally reached them and, to the younger man's embarrassment, threw his arms around his apprentice for an embrace that would not have shamed a bear.

"Éomer! In Eorl's name, never, never run away again, or I swear when we find you, I will wring your neck myself! That aside – I have never been granted a happier sight that of you here before me, on your own two feet! When we found those dead orcs by the river and your tracks leading up to the cliff, I was near despair. In my mind, I began to say farewell to my loved ones for I was certain that your uncle would cleave off my head if we returned to Edoras without you. Which reminds me..." With a last, keen glance at his recruit, a glance that showed endless relief over having found the young man alive and in well-enough condition, Elfhelm turned to the silently waiting scout behind them, and the smile dropped from his face as he became aware of Arnhelm's condition.

"How bad is it, Arnhelm?" He braced himself for the other man's answer, fully excepting that the rock had ground his old friend's bones to dust.

"The rocks keep me trapped, but hopefully, they haven't done much damage. I'm afraid I cannot tell; my legs are rather numb." The scout swallowed as he beheld the hostile glances the other warriors were giving over Elfhelm's shoulder. Bard especially regarded him with the same disdain he had held for the goblins as he spat on the ground and growled: "What a shame! It would have only been just to have you suffering for what you did to the boy! This whole situation is your fault!"

"Not now, Bard!" Elfhelm said sharply and with a deep breath. "This whole matter will be thoroughly addressed, but now is not the time to do it! We will see that we get Arnhelm out from underneath the rocks and then make our way back to the éored as quickly as possible. Ís that understood?" His admonishment was met by a sullen look.

"Bard!" Sparks seemed to fly from Elfhelm's eyes as the éored's leader straightened to his full height. "Béma knows I've had enough problems these past two days without you becoming another one! You will do as your commander tells you, or I swear you will get to know a side of me you didn't know existed! Am I making myself clear?"His gaze tore into the younger man's, and for the longest moment, the tension mounted as the two warriors regarded each other. Three years younger than his captain, Bard stood half a head taller than Elfhelm and had not received his byname "The Bear" for nothing. Combined with the legendary stubbornness of a true Rohir, it made the man from Aldburg a formidable opponent even for the most skilled of warriors. There were even rumours saying that Bard had once killed a Uruk-Hai with his bare hands.

For the eternity of ten heartbeats, a row between the two riders seemed inevitable to Éomer, but at last, the basic rules among the Armed Forces seemed to dawn on Bard through the red curtain of his anger. Elfhelm was his captain, the decisions to make and responsibility for them were his. He could not very well challenge his commanding officer without serious consequences. The dangerous glint in his eyes faded, until at last, the giant from Aldburg lowered his gaze and allowed his comrades to breathe again with relief.

"Aye, Captain. I forgot my place, and for that, I apologise...to you. Not to him!" A quick glance at Arnhelm to let the scout that this was not over.

Would this accursed night ever end? With a deep sigh, Elfhelm indicated his brother-in-arms to step over to his side.

"We will speak about this later, Bard. When we're all rested, and tempers have cooled. For now, I need you to push against this rock when I tell you to, but first, we must build some kind of ramp, or we might crush Arnhelm's bones after all. Tolgor, help me with this! Éomer, Brytta, Gerolf, you keep an eye on our surroundings. I do not believe that the goblins will return, but there's no reason to become careless now."

“They’re coming! I can already see them, Sir! There, they’re just fording the river!”

“I see them, too.” Findarras smiled at his apprentice’s show of unrestrained joy over the return of his friend, and it seemed to him that Éothain could barely hold back from jumping from the watchtower straight onto his horse’s back and ride like hell to Éomer’s welcome. Although the horn signal four days ago had told the éored that all missing members had been found, a fact that was confirmed later when seven of the ten riders who had ascended Halifirien in search of their brothers had returned with more detailed news, the red-haired warrior felt the last of his worries lift only now, when he saw the seven riders ford the Mering’s waters. His attention, however, returned briefly to the impatient young man by his side: “I assume you want to grab your horse and race over there as if all orcs of the Dark Realm are behind you. Am I correct, son of Ceorl?”

Éothain’s grin held more than a hint of abashment as he regarded his amused commander.

“Thank you, Sir!” And with a quick beaming smile, Éothain all but leapt down the stairs and vanished from Findarras’ site faster than the experienced warrior had ever seen his recruit move before. A moment later, his unsaddled grey gelding raced through the village as if there were a pack of starving wargs on its heels. Satisfied with the developments of the day, the red-haired rider turned back to watch as his brothers-in-arms drew closer.

Even from afar, he could already distinguish their different shapes – first was Elfhelm on his tall bay stallion, and the warrior by his side on the black horse had to be Arnhelm. It seemed to Findarras as he watched their approach, that there was an unevenness to Ravenwing’s usual elegant gait, and he remembered what Déor had said upon his return to the éored: that both the scout and his horse had been wounded in a rockslide, but that it was nothing serious. However, since the extreme weather had rendered the Halifirien-path from the Rohan-side impassable for a horse, it had been Elfhelm’s decision to further ascend until they reached the beacon-wards, and then make their way down on the Gondorian side of the mountain, where the path was older and more solidly build. Sending back all of his men except for Bard and Tolgor, the Captain had ordered the éored to make for Firien Village near the border to Anorien, and wait for them there. After the last strenuous days, the men had greeted Elfhelm’s decision with relief. It was not often they got a chance to laze about in the sun during their patrols.

And yet as he regarded Arnhelm’s dark shape for a moment longer, a shadow wandered over Findarras’ face at the thought of how the other members of their éored would welcome the man who, in their eyes, had committed an unforgivable cruelty. He sighed, not knowing himself how to feel about the incident. Or what to expect, let alone wish for. Like the scout, he, too, was a survivor of that fateful day when Eomund of Aldburg’s error of judgment had resulted in so many horrible deaths, and while he, like everyone else, had lost people he had loved, the horrors of that day had not turned him against his late commander. The trap had been laid with unprecedented cunning by the orcs. None of them had seen it coming, so even when he considered Arnhelm’s and Elfhelm’s vague unease during the hunt which the two men had been unable to back up with reason, Findarras had arrived at the conclusion that they had failed as a group, their entire éored without exception. All of them had wanted to hunt down those orcs after they had cruelly assaulted the village- it was unfair to solely blame their commander in the aftermath of the catastrophe.

He had been there when Arnhelm had held his dying son in his arms, had seen how the pain of loss and guilt gutted his brother-in-arms. He understood that the cruel death of one’s child could do things to a man no one ever wanted to imagine. But to unleash his revenge against a boy who was just as innocent as his own son had been...

Findarras shock his head to himself, not wanting to imagine what Elfhelm’s rule would be. Éomer seemed well enough as he rode behind his commander, no doubt overjoyed over the reunion with his mare Déor and Tondhére had brought to the lower end of the Gondorian path to Halifirien a few days earlier together with the other horses, but what would his disposition be? If he told the King about this incident, as was his right – his duty, even - Arnhelm would be lucky to keep his head upon his shoulders. And yet somehow, despite the cruelty of the scout’s deed, Findarras also felt for the older warrior. What could a man do against grief so deep that it felt like a sword embedded in one’s innards even after five years, a festering wound of the soul? Reason dictated punishment, but for the sake of the man who had never fully recovered from his loss, the red-haired warrior also hoped that Elfhelm would remain merciful. It was a fine line that needed to be walked, and Findarras certainly didn’t envy his friend his position today.

“It would seem to me that you have been missed, Éomer,” Tolgor smiled as he watched the solitary rider on the grey horse race toward them. “As it looks, Éothain didn’t even take the time to bother with any tack.”

“He doesn’t need it.” Moved by the sight of his approaching best friend, Éomer slightly shifted his weight to steer Stormwing away from their little group. “Captain, may I...?”

“Go and greet your friend as he deserves, young man,” Elfhelm answered with a quick glance back over his shoulder. “You are lucky to have him. He was very insistent on joining us in the search, and if I had not decided otherwise, he would even have been on the mountain with us.” He paused, his eyes briefly wandering over the approaching rider and the silent scout by his side who seemed more tense with every step they advanced, and then added: “Just remember, once we’re in the village, you will need to be with us. We cannot delay this thing.”

“Good. Then off you go!” A little smiled played around the corners of Elfhelm’s mouth as he watched Èomer spur his mare, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You still think the men will be satisfied with your solution?” Arnhelm spoke into his thoughts, his voice low, so that Bard and Tolgor, who rode behind them, could not overhear him.

“I dare not say. But we will know soon enough. Come on, let’s not delay it. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we will be able to put this entire business to rest.” Elfhelm regarded his old friend for a moment as he urged his horse into a trot. Never before had he seen the experienced warrior so tense. Come to think of it, he felt tense, himself. On the way back from Halifirien, he had used the time to consider all possible decisions, and, when he had found the one he had felt comfortable with, had spoken with Arnhelm, Éomer, Bard and Tolgor. It had been an intense evening, but none of the men had questioned his intended course of action, not even Bard.

On the contrary, all the way down the mountain, the big warrior had been uncharacteristically quiet, and it could not have been the prospect of having to spend the next weeks at Firien Village to coordinate the people’s efforts in the rebuilding of the mountain path. Hard work would be needed, but Bard had never been a man who shied away from physical effort; in fact, he had accepted his Captain’s rule willingly enough. So it had to be something else that was plaguing him.

Having known the warrior well ever from when he had joined their éored ten years ago, Elfhelm believed that his rider was at strife with himself, angered by his slip of temper after all these years he had worked on keeping it under control. A wry smirk crinkled the older man’s lips at the thought. Although they caused occasional problems, he firmly believed in the typical Rohirric characteristics – forthrightness to the point of bluntness, stubbornness combined with adamant loyalty to those who deserved it, passion and a strong sense of moral and justice. There was no question that there had to be consequences to the events of the last days, but Elfhelm knew that his punishment would have to be handed out with careful measure in order to not destroy his men’s spirit. He was certain to have found the right way to handle the situation, now they would soon see how the rest of their éored thought about it.

“Éomer! Praised be the gods, I cannot tell you how good it is to see you!” Rivalling even the sun with his beaming smile, Éothain thrust his weight to the other side to bring his gelding to a sudden halt beside his friend’s mare. With an indignant whinny, Stormwing laid back her ears to keep the big grey from bumping into her side, but her rider only laughed as he steered her out of the way. As they shook hands in the warrior’s grip they had seen from the other riders, the son of Céorl used the opportunity to give his friend a good, long, measuring glance, surprised to find something different in Éomer’s features than he had expected.

After what he had been through, most recruits would have returned thoroughly rattled, even shaken, to their éored, yet Eomund’s son looked strangely settled. Certainly, there were several fading bruises on his face, and surely more on his body that Éothain could not see and which told of his ordeal, but the expression in Éomer’s dark, often stormy eyes was calm and at ease. And there was something else about him, something Éothain felt impossible to put into words. A changed aura, perhaps, as if part of his friend had been left on the mountain side, while another, older and knowing part had replaced it.

“Aye, may I give that back, Éothain? My conscience kept plaguing me with the thought that, with my foolishness, I had endangered the entire éored...including you! I would have never forgiven myself if you or anyone had come to harm because of my idiocy.” The smile was still on his face, but from one heartbeat to the next, the expression in Éomer’s eyes turned serious. “They are all well, aren’t they?”

Éothain paused, but then decided to tell the truth, as Éomer would hear about the incident anyway.

“Anlaf broke a couple of ribs during the search. But I suppose we could call this a ‘riding accident’, as it could have happened any time. You know his stallion; he’s still very young and inexperienced.” He saw Éomer blanch in reaction to his words.

“They ran into a bear, and Hammerhand bolted. Anlaf was not prepared and fell, but caught his foot in the stirrup. Before he could free himself, he was thrown against a tree.”

Flinching at the image Éothain’s report evoked in his mind, Éomer turned his mare toward the village gates. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach. So his foolishness had indeed resulted in consequences for his fellow riders.

“Aye, it may have been a riding accident, but Anlaf was there, in the path of that bear, because of me,” he said gloomily. “If I had not run away, there would have been no reason for him to—“

“Ah, but you were provoked beyond measure!” Éothain cast a dark glance over to where Elfhelm and the others were making their way to the village, and even as he looked, it seemed to him that Arnhelm was aware of his attention. “Get this out of your head, Éomer! No one blames you, and certainly not Anlaf!” When his friend gave no answer, he narrowed his eyes and gave him another, even more thorough look. Changed aura or not, there was enough of the ‘old Éomer’ left to tell Éothain what Eomund’s son needed to hear right now. So when he spoke again, it was low and with worry in his tone: “Apart from what one can see by looking at you... are you all right, Éomer?”

His friend shrugged, as if his personal health was the least of his worries at the moment, and urged Stormwing toward the village which the others had almost reached by now.

“Do you really want to know what our brothers-in-arms think, Éomer? They think it was incredibly brave of you to warn them of those orcs that night. That signal could have led the enemy directly to you.”

Éothain’s eyes widened, and for a moment, his breath was caught in his chest.

“You were attacked by those orcs we found by the river, weren’t you? Without your sword and...” He inhaled. “When we found your tracks leading to the cliff, we feared the worst!” The memories of that horrible night deepened the shadow on Éomer’s face, and his reluctance to speak about the incident told Éothain that it was not the right time to ask for details, no matter how much he was burning to learn more.

“And you fought goblins, too. Or so Déor told us. Scores of goblins!” Éothain shook his head in amazement. “Béma, once you have recovered, you must tell me everything, Éomer! It seems I had no idea when I feared you would get yourself into trouble that night...” With another dark glance at Arnhelm’s silhouette before them, he corrected: “Or rather, it was that sorry excuse for a scout who was responsible for that!”

Éomer’s head snapped around, a sudden hard sparkle in his eyes that took the son of Céorl entirely by surprise.

“Arnhelm regrets what he did, and that is good enough for me. And when I say that our business has been resolved, that should be good enough for you, as well, Éothain! Especially being my friend.” He saw his friend’s perplexed expression and for a moment, contemplated telling him all that had happened on the mountain, and of their talks after that dreadful night, and of the resolution he had made during his visit of the old site where his ancestor had sworn his oath... but by now, the gate loomed before them and he sighed, remembering he was needed somewhere else. “I am sorry, Éothain. I know you only mean well, and I am aware that you did a lot for me. I should not bark at you like this, but I’m tired, and my head is not in the right place, I’m afraid. You will hear what you need to know in a moment.”

He had barely ended when the village’s bell rang out, calling all who heard it to the marketplace, and with a shrug, Éothain urged his mount through the gate.

Firien Village was only a small place, with no more than twenty families living behind its wooden walls in their simple houses. There was a tavern and a barn and a couple of paddocks for the stock, and two intersecting roads that met at the marketplace in the centre, and that was it. It was in no way equipped to handle a crowd of all its inhabitants and over a hundred riders with their mounts, but today, it would have to do.

Cheers rang out as Eflhelm led his little group up to the centre of the place, but they were tainted by more than the occasional defamation for the rider behind him, and despite the pleasant temperatures, the atmosphere felt heated and tense and likely to turn ugly without warning.

Elfhelm withstood the temptation to turn around to see how his scout was taking this massive hostility directed at him, and instead let his gaze wander from face to face as their riders stepped aside to let them through. What he found was always the same: first the joy in the warriors’ faces over seeing their captain’s and their recruit’s healthy return after days of doubt, followed by the sudden sparkle of rage in their blue and grey eyes as they beheld Arnhelm. It was clear to Elfhelm that this was easily the hardest test of his authority he had ever encountered, and what would happen if his men were not satisfied with the measures their captain intended to take was utterly beyond him. Shutting himself to further contemplating that possible outcome, the warrior felt vague relief as he spied his long-time friend in the crowd, headed toward him.

“I can imagine,” his friend said dryly, with only a quick glance at the riders behind his captain, and then added, under his breath: “I hope you know what you’re doing, calling them together like this. The men are wrought-up by this whole business with Arnhelm, they want to see the man punished hard for what he did to Éomer.”

“They will have to take what I give them,” Elfhelm grumbled, and furrows appeared on his brow as he glanced at the agitated warriors around them. “If they have no faith in my judgement, I will step down from responsibility myself and ask for a transfer. I will not command an éored of riders who do not trust me.” He found himself looking into stunned eyes.

“You are not –“ Findarras began, but then interrupted himself. “What then should become of me if you leave?”

“Those men know that I am your friend!” The red-haired warrior snorted. “So if they don’t trust your judgement, they can chase me away just as well, because we’ve never been of a different mind... at least not on the important decisions.”

“Well...” Elfhelm turned his horse around and brought him to a stand. “Then pray that things go well, or we both might be left wanting for men to lead once this is over.” He held up his hand, and as the little group of riders assembled around their captain, silence spread over the marketplace.

“My fellow friends and brothers... I realise that our éored has been through a lot over the last few days, and I appreciate your concern and your efforts to bring everything to a good end. As you can see with your own eyes, our recruit and our scout have been found, and aside from some minor bruises and scratches, hurt pride and a couple of broken ribs, everyone is well, and we should thank the gods for that.”

A quick side-glance at Arnhelm’s stone-set expression. Adamant not to reveal his true disposition, the scout stared at a point somewhere above their enraged riders as if he had not heard the hostile shouts upon their arrival. Elfhelm did not envy the man. He inhaled.

“Of course I realise that, in the wake of all that happened, you must ask yourselves where things might go from here, as they obviously cannot continue the way they were. There have to be consequences to everyone’s actions, and while those consequences are being revealed, I ask you to remain quiet and give your brother-in-arms the chance to speak now.” He turned his head and gave Arnhelm the little nod, but as soon as the scout opened his mouth, his voice was drowned out by an uproar of rage.

“Let him speak!” Elfhelm boomed, and a dangerous sparkle danced in his eyes. “Every man has the right to a fair trial, and this man before you has ridden with you and saved your lives for many years! He is not an orc! No matter how angered you were by his deed, you owe him at least the opportunity to explain himself! Anyone who thinks he can ignore my words now, shall find me much harder to ignore once I get out of this saddle, I promise!”

Once again, the noise died down as the warriors reluctantly took heed of their captain’s threat, and at length, Arnhelm began.

“I am keenly aware how much my very presence in your midst agitates you, so I will keep this brief.” He looked into Findarras’ sceptical face. “What I did was unforgivable, and I regret it very much. I was not myself that night when I turned against our recruit; I allowed grief to get the better of me, and while I wish that I could go back and undo that injustice... that course of action unfortunately remains impossible.” He inhaled and exchanged a quick glance with Éomer, who very obviously felt extremely uncomfortable in the centre of attention. “What I can do, hopefully, if you will allow it, is to make amends.”

After a tentative beginning, Arnhelm’s voice grew stronger with conviction as he found now their riders listening to him: “On that mountain, I finally realised the full extent of my error of judgement.” “I will spare you the details of that night; just know that I would not be here today, speaking to you, my fellow riders, if it were not for the bravery and courage of Eomund’s son!”

All heads turned to Éomer to look for confirmation of their scout’s claim, but the young man continued to stare at the pommel of his saddle as if he were inwardly praying for the gathering to end. Murmurs and whispers passed through the rows, words of surprise and doubt, but Arnhelm was not finished.

“Aye, you heard right! I owe my life to that boy. I did not deserve such a gesture, and I am not ashamed to admit that. He stayed with me when he could have left, and instead proved to me the wrongness of my accusations.” More eyes turned to Éomer. “Aye, he has a temper, but so do most of us. Given the right direction, it might even become an asset. Combined with his passion and dedication to serve the Mark in the best way he can, this young man is looking at a bright future among our Armed Forces... and I would very much appreciate to be allowed to be one of those shaping and preparing him for it.”

Arnhelm lifted his chin, only now daring to look his comrades in their eyes. What he found, mainly, was confusion. With a quick glance into Elfhelm’s encouraging face, he continued.

“I learned my lesson these past two days; of that you can be sure. However, I also understand that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for you to follow a man who committed a crime such as mine. For that reason, I have decided to step back from captaincy and instead address myself to the task of scouting, only... that, and the training of our recruits... if you will allow it.”

For a moment, silence was his only answer. The men regarded him strangely, as if they were seeing him for the very first time, and Arnhelm understood that his unexpected resignation - and perhaps even more the unconditional confession of his mistake - had turned the image their riders had had of their scout upside down. Perhaps, it was a good sign.

Then murmur rose again as the warriors began to discuss among themselves what they had just heard, and many hesitant glances found their captain, their scout and their recruit. It was Findarras who finally ended it by asking the question that was burning on everyone’s tongue, and he addressed the calmly waiting Efhelm.

“A full éored needs two commanders to perform its duties. If Arnhelm steps down, who should replace him?”

A slight smile played around Elfhelm’s mouth as he regarded his friend from his elevated position.

“I believe no rider of this éored would have objections against a ‘Captain Findarras’. Would he?” He looked around and found nothing but dawning approval in his comrades’ eyes, before turned his attention back to his stunned brother-in-arms. “So then I will ask you, Findarras of Aldburg: do you accept the honour of captaincy over these men?”

“Fin-dar-ras! Fin-dar-ras!” a chorus of voices around them chanted, until the whole marketplace vibrated with the power of the éored’s approval. The man whose name they sang stared in wonder at his comrades a while longer, barely able to believe what was happening. A decidedly strange day this was! He looked at Arnhelm and was unable to find even a trace of bitterness over the loss of his title in the older warrior’s features, and at last, with a deep breath, he turned back to his waiting commander. Silencing the crowd with one hand, Elfhelm lifted a brow.

The dry smirk that belonged as much to Findarras as his sword or his horse, crept onto his face as he nodded his head. “As I feel that I might be torn limb from limb if I decline, I accept, Captain.” The shouts turned into cheers, and he turned around and yelled in mock-threat, although his voice was drowned out: “You will hate me soon enough, I promise!” Laughter roared up. “As for Arnhelm’s continuance in this éored: I realize that others might see this differently, but I for one am willing to grant him this chance. I do, in fact, believe that we owe it to a long-time, much respected rider who risked his life for every single one of us more times than anyone can count, all the more as he freely admits – and regrets - his mistake. No one knows what any of us would have done in the same position. If anything, his honesty deepens my respect for him even further.”

Heads nodded in reply to his statement, and yet the murmur among the men would not subside.

Again, all eyes turned to Eomund’s son, who had been relieved to be out of the focus of attention while the men had celebrated their new captain. And yet if he was indeed to be the one to have the last words about the scout’s fate, he would utter them with all the sincerity he had been taught in the now sixteen years of his life. Meeting Arnhelm’s gaze evenly as he lifted his head and holding eye-contact until the ruckus died down, Éomer inhaled deeply, and his voice carried over the marketplace when he said: “I want to learn what Arnhelm has to teach.” It was answer enough.

The sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon and twilight was about to turn to darkness when Éomer returned to the place where he had prepared his cot. From the fireplaces further back, a warm orange glow lit the thickening night, and the faces of the surrounding warriors were relaxed and satisfied as they quietly discussed the events of the past day. Their horses, enjoying the freedom without saddle or tack, grazed all around them, an occasional ear flickering or a head being lifted to drink the warm air for signs of a threat, a potent warning system more effective than human guards could ever be. And yet the stench of orcs seemed mercifully absent on this wonderful summer night, as Stormwing confirmed with a snort after she had identified her master, and the big white head resumed its hunt for the tastiest grass stalk. It was a peaceful atmosphere, and as he stood and watched and listened to the song of the cicadas, Éomer felt a leaden tiredness, but even more content with the way this first great challenge in his life had turned out.

Aye, he had committed a mistake by letting himself be provoked to lose his temper and run away, but it seemed that none of the men, not even Elfhelm, held him responsible, although his actions had endangered their entire éored. The Captain had punished him, though, for disobedience, and heat still crept into Éomer’s face when he remembered how both he and Arnhelm had ignored their commander during their quarrel. One month of continuous watch duty it had bought him, and he had accepted the punishment willingly when Elfhelm assigned it to him on the way back from Halifirien. Tonight it would be third watch, so if he wanted to catch at least a few, much-needed hours of sleep, it was time to go to bed now.

With a quick glance around before he lowered himself onto his blanket, Éomer detected nearby Éothain’s still empty cot. As his friend had no guard duties for the night, he still sat with the other warriors by the fire, and Éomer wondered briefly what their conversations would revolve around. The change in command, no doubt. Likewise Arnhelm’s confession and unexpected lack of false explanation attempts. His own, obvious change, perhaps, as well?

With a little far-away smile, Éomer remembered Éothain’s astonished look when they had met before the gate, and as he laid back and rested his head upon the bundle of his cloak serving as pillow, he wondered whether the other men had noticed it, as well. Something had happened to him on that mountain, and not only in the night of the attack. He had learned something about responsibility, knowledge that could not be taught by words alone. To commit a mistake, and then being given the opportunity to make up for the wrong he had done… it had done something to him, something he could not express. Was that what ‘growing up’ meant? To become aware of one’s responsibilities and to act accordingly? Had Halifirien brought him one step closer to adulthood?

He had felt something when he had stood on the mountain’s summit the day after the attack, at the exact place where his ancestor Eorl the Young had sworn his oath to Círion. That oath to which the people of the Mark owed their home. Sensing how urgently his recruit needed to visit their holiest site, especially since Eomund had been killed before he could ever have taken his son on this journey, Elfhelm had seen to it that they had taken their midday rest together with the beacon guards, who were always thankful for company. He had barely said a word when they had halted in the middle of the ring of white birches at the foot of the stairs, except that in three hours, they would move on, and Éomer had understood.

The guards had regarded him curiously when he approached them, but after a thorough look, one of them had cast back his head and laughed.

“No word is needed, Captain Elfhelm, to tell me that I am looking at Marshal Eomund’s son!” And, with a wink at him, the man had added: “It is about time, young man. I know that your father meant for you to see this much sooner, but of course, fate was of a different mind. Now go, and see what you will find up there.”

His words had seemed cryptical to Éomer at first, but then he had indeed found something unexpected upon the holy peak; something he had hoped for in the deepest corners of his mind, while rationality dismissed it as nonsense. But it had been there, when he reached the end of the stairs and the world opened up before and below him, a view that took his breath away. It had filled him up whole, that presence, as his eyes glided over the Mark from the near border of Anorien all the way to the gap between the mountains in the west. Then a golden gleam had claimed his attention, and with astonishment, Éomer had seen that its origin was the roof of the Golden Hall in the midday sun, a beacon calling out to him from across the distant plains, and the view touched his heart and filled him with purpose.

This was his home, that beautiful realm below him, a band of rich green stretching from the rugged peaks of the Ered Nimrais all the way to the Misty Mountains, the mighty Entwash delta a graceful silver pattern on its eastern border. Nahar’s children lived here, the best race of horses known to man. The plains were dotted with settlements small and large, from only a few people to great cities like Aldburg and Edoras. Its people were hardy and watchful, and always ready to defend what was theirs. But they were also giving and passionate and great-hearted, and devoted to their friends and loved-ones. They were good people, deserving of every single drop of blood that was shed in their protection. Whatever he, the descendent of their greatest king, could do to ensure their survival, he would do.

Someone laughed over by the campfire, and the sound woke Éomer from his reverie. The hours on the summit had been magical and would stay with him for as long as he lived, and when he had finally rejoined Elfhelm and the others, he had not been the same boy who had gone up. At one point, it had even seemed to Éomer that he had felt his father’s spirit, and his approval of his son’s changed ways. Never again would he run from a challenge.

With a deep, soundless sigh, he turned on his side, his body already slack and heavy with sleep, and for a moment, his fingers brushed over the medallion he now wore on a leather strap around his neck. Arnhelm had given it to him in a quiet moment on the mountain: an orcish arrowhead, its usually razor-sharp edges blunted so that it would not hurt its wearer. Upon his uncomprehending look, the scout had explained:

“It is from an arrow that should have killed me, but fate turned aside. I meant to pass it on to my son when he joined our éored, a good luck charm to ensure that disaster would never find him… but for a variety of reasons, I never got around to giving it to him. When I finally had it in my pocket, it was too late…” Then, with a heavy breath and conviction in his voice, he had added: “May it protect you now, son of Eomund. You saved my life on this mountain, and if its charm is still alive today and able to deflect a deadly arrow, I would be glad to know that my debt has been paid. Please, accept it.”

Once again Éomer’s fingertips traced the amulets’ delicate shape. Somehow, it barely felt like iron at all. It felt warm to his touch, almost alive. Aye, it would protect him. An unconscious smile spread over his lips as he slowly sank deeper into sleep’s embrace…

Adventures of an Éored: Sins of the Father by Katzilla