"An unexpected enemy has come to the battered kingdom of Rohan and threatens everything their culture is based upon. It is the first challenge for the Mark’s new, young king after the Ring War, and with the Rohirrim greatly reduced and not knowing what lies ahead of them, Éomer cannot be certain to emerge  as the winner."

Disclaimer:

The Tolkien universe belongs to the Tolkien heirs and New Line Cinema,, and I just borrowed part of it for pure, simple entertainment purposes (mine and, hopefully, yours, too). No copyright infringement is intended, and of course, I don’t make even one Cent with this.

Rating:           PG-13 (bordering on R in a few later scenes)

Author’s Note:

I’ve been a fan of the "Lord of the Rings" now for 24 years (which makes me feel very old right now!), and the wonderful movies Peter Jackson made from the books are a fulfillment of one of my dreams, finally sparking enough creativity in me to make my first attempt at a fanfic in this realm (I’ve written plenty of fan fiction in another genre before). As I am very uncertain of the result (with English not being my first language and my probably only superficial knowledge of the "Lord of the Rings"), extensive feedback would greatly help me, whether it meant betaing, correction of obvious mistakes I might have made Tolkien-wise, etc., etc.

As it is my firm opinion that Éomer is severely under-represented fanfiction-wise, I’m making a start with him... plus Karl Urban is simply to yummy to look at. ;->

There is also a sequel (sort of) available now on this site, too, under the title “TWILIGHT OF THE GODS”, a co-production with my friend Timmy2222.

Thanks go to Tanja and Timmy2222 for their invaluable help with this story!!!

Story Note:

Post-RotK, approx. 4 months after the end of the Ring War. This is going to be a very dark, slightly AU-story. There’s no slash in this (sorry for you slash-fans out there), but there will surely "slashing".

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

Chapter 1

It was a clear, but stormy day in the Riddermark. The autumn sun was blazing out of a cloudless blue sky, but it’s strength was already beginning to fade and could not warm the strong winds which raged through the broad valley on the outskirts of the Ered Nimrais that led to Edoras, bringing with them the first whispered promises of a long and frosty winter. A winter the people of Rohan were facing with greater worries than usual. The Ring War had cost them dearly in men and stock, and many a village had not been able to cultivate their fields due to the turmoil of war and resulting lack of experienced and hardened workers. Their cattle and other farm animals - sheep, pigs, goats, chicken - animals that had supplied their daily food, had been severely ravaged by orcs and the White Wizard’s Uruk-hai, as well as the assaults of the Dunlendings. Game traditionally was scarce in the plains, and there were many doubts among the elders as to how they were supposed to survive the hard winter that lay before them. Gondor would help, some were saying. Gondor and Ithilien would send them food, they would not let their old and newly-found ally starve, but even to the most optimistic ones it was clear that their ally would not be able to send them much. Too severe were its own losses. So whoever could took to the few patches of forest Rohan had to offer to hunt down the last remainders of game, and the competition among them was fierce. Whole villages were left bereft of grown-up men while they went across the land in a desperate search for food. Unguarded. Open for attack to any foe who dared to set foot into the Mark despite the fierce reputation of its people.

            Among the many parties crossing the open lands, one tiny figure on a grey horse was seen racing with great haste about the plains to Edoras, dwarfed by the towering snow-capped mountains. The grey was dark with sweat, its breath a white cloud in the chilly air as it stretched under its light rider. It was exhausted, but upon the pleading touch of its rider’s hand and an urgent squeeze of its thighs, the young mare responded with one last mighty effort and accelerated even more as it was running up the hill to the Golden Hall.

***

            “Your men are ready, my King.” Gamling, head of the royal guard and faithful servant of the late King Théoden and now his successor and nephew King Éomer of Rohan, was watching from behind as the young king threw the heavy leather cloak with the cape of wolf fur he had handed him over his shoulders and spotted his gloves on the nearby table. “They will be waiting for you in the stables. Your horse is also being readied as we speak.”

            “Very well, Gamling.”

Éomer found that he could hardly await to leave the Golden Hall. This hunting party would be his first opportunity in weeks to finally take to the wild and exciting life under open skies again he had known from childhood on. He had been missing it intensively. For months after his coronation his kingly duties had kept him at Meduseld and in it’s near vicinity, making all necessary arrangements for the change of power in the Riddermark. Meetings with the many elders and majors of the villages in his realm and the few remaining marshals of the Rohirrim. All of them were eager to swear their oaths to their new king and at the same time made sure they gave him a list of their various needs. One thing was found on all of them: Food. Supplies for the long stern winter they were facing. Éomer had heard each of them out and nodded to all of their requests, inwardly knowing all too well he was not in a position to promise them anything. As it were, the supplies in Edoras were as low as in the remainder of his kingdom, and the next promising spot to lead a hunting party to was a hard three day’s ride away in the Eastfold. To hear the concerns of his people all day long without being able to supply any relief to them had left the young king frustrated and feeling powerless, a feeling he greatly despised and was not used to.

It was with great relief then that he heard the news brought by one of the scouts he had sent away a week earlier after his return. It looked as if they had found a pocket of forest which the orcs and Uruk-hai had missed in their rage, and deer, elk and wild boar were plentiful there and just waiting for them to be picked. If they were lucky, they would even find one of the rare wild Eastfold oxen. One of them would be enough to feed all of Edoras for at least three weeks.

Éomer was looking forward to a fight. All that rage and frustration over not being able to help his people out and being confined to the luxurious, but nevertheless limited, halls of his ancestors needed an outlet, and exercise and sword practice simply could not provide it.

            “You have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time, have you not, my Lord?” Gamling said with a slight, understanding smile which deepened as Éomer turned his head in surprise, his dark eyebrows drawn together.

            “Is it so obvious? Or - wait...” The trace of a smirk appeared in the corner of his mouth as he stuffed a few more of his belongings into a bag. “You have known my sister and me far too long not to know.”

“Indeed. Both of you always needed the wide open skies. I remember how hard it was to keep the two of you in Edoras when you were but children. There was more than one occasion on which we had to turn all of the city upside down to find you while the troubled king was waiting. Most memorably of course the incident where you took your then only ten year old sister on a day ride into the mountains.”

Éomer chuckled to himself as he reached for his leather gloves.

“I shall never forget the lecture he taught me when we returned. All of Edoras must have heard it.” He raised one eyebrow.“ But Éowyn enjoyed our ride so much, I believe the trouble afterwards was well worth it.” He paused for a moment, lost in memory. Once again, Gamling seemed to be able to look right into his head and read the melancholic thoughts there.

“We all miss her, my Lord. Her laughter was always a welcome, warming sound and sight in these halls.” He stopped himself, thinking of how rare the sight of the White Lady laughing  - or only smiling - actually had been in those last, desperate years of Gríma Wormtongue’s secret reign, and felt forced to say something uplifting to chase the bitter thought away. “But we all shall meet her again when she comes to your wedding next summer. Now, I suppose that thought should be suited to conquer any feelings of loss and sadness you carry around with you.”

“Indeed.” Another thought the king refused to engage himself in for the time being. As a sign for the newly-welded alliance with Gondor and King Elessar, he was going to marry Lothíriel of Dol Amroth on Midsummer of next year. It was a marriage out of duty, not of love. Apart from Aragorn’s wedding, he had not yet quite made the acquaintance of his soon-to-be queen. She had been described to him as beautiful, delicate and almost elven-like, something he - coming from a people of peasants and warriors - could not figure for himself at all. It was the usual way for monarchs to marry, yet Éomer dreaded it. Pushing the thought away yet again, he slipped into his gloves with more force than necessary. “Thank you, Gamling. I appreciate your efforts at lightening my mood. I know it must be hard for you, too, having lost my uncle and now having to handle his difficult nephew.”

The guard shook his head in negation, a calm, content expression on his face.

 “You have nothing to apologise for, my lord. I understand that your new duties would sometimes feel like a prison to you... Maybe it will help you to know that the people think of you as a worthy king so far.”

For a fleeting moment, Éomer looked very young, - which, at age 28 - he still was, and intimidated by the shadow of his great predecessors and expectations his people had concerning his reign, but then the firmness returned to his dark eyes, and he gave the guard a little, appreciative nod.

“You seem to know a lot about the people.”

“ As your counsellor, is it not my task? It is always important to know what your people say about you, and I am glad I can provide you with their favourable words. There was hardly a day when your uncle did not ask me for them, too. A great ruler distinguishes himself by not having his people serve him, but serving his people, and to hear their voice, he needs many ears. I am providing but two of them.”

Éomer’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and made him flinch.

“He was lucky to have you, Gamling. Just like I am. You served my uncle well, and I would be honoured to share his experience.” Éomer adjusted his belt and the cloak and turned around in search for his bow. “Even if our relationship is different now from what it has been, I want you to always tell me your true opinion in any business I bring to you. Never tell me what I want to hear, or what you think I want to hear, just because I am your king now. You know of my reputation of being stubborn and hot-headed, so I might need to hear wise words repeatedly and forcefully to really listen to them.” He looked up in time to see his advisor’s smile deepen.

“I shall remember your words when the occasion arises. As for the time being, my opinion is that you are fulfilling your duties as deems fit for an heir of Eorl. Except for this hunting party, maybe...” He interrupted himself, but it was already too late. The good-natured look had fallen from his king’s face and been replaced by the determined expression Gamling was familiar with. It usually meant that a discussion was about as useful as running headlong into a stonewall. “Putting yourself in danger to feed your people is a noble deed, but not expected of you. You have enough men under your command who would be willing to go instead -“

“But-“

“-but since it could also very well be the last opportunity for you to ride out and escape your duties for a few days before spring, nobody in his right mind would attempt to convince you otherwise. It would mean that, in addition to the cold, darkness and storms outside, we would have to live with a very grumpy ruler inside these halls for at least three months. Nobody would wish for this to happen.” He silenced and held his breath, praying inwardly he had not gone too far as he felt the king’s piercing stare on himself. Éomer was known to be open for a brand of straight-forward, rough humour, but maybe... The moment stretched and became uncomfortable, as Éomer’s expression was absolutely unreadable, but then it slowly turned into a wicked, knowing smirk. Gamling dared to breathe again.

“I see my words have already done their work, Gamling. What a fool I was by thinking I would have to tell you explicitly how to handle me.” He took his quiver from a hook in the wall and slung it, then went for the bow, briefly casting a glance back at his still waiting advisor. “But rest assured, there has been no deer or elk I came across in all of my hunts which ever posed a threat to me.”

“I was more thinking of the Eastfold oxen and wild boars, my king, but now I am convinced that you could kill them with your bare hands - or a mere glance.”

They laughed both, then Éomer nodded.

            “Go to Erkenbrand then and tell him I shall meet him at the market square. No need to meet in the crowded stables.”

            “Good hunting to you, my king. May your party be blessed with success and may all of you return safely.” Gamling bowed and retreated out of the dressing room.

Éomer nodded his appreciation and - after a short moment of lost contemplation - headed over to where his sword expectantly hung in its sheath. Smiling to himself in anticipation, he picked them up and slung them. The familiarity of their weight felt good. He was a warrior, a man of action. Sitting around on a chair, even a throne, all day long simply was not something he was comfortable with. Théoden had been a very active ruler in his time, and he planned to be the same. For a moment, his eyes fell on the banner on the wall directly in front of him, and he paused, taken in by the image of the white horse on emerald green. The kingly banner of the House of Eorl. It was ancient, and a long line of kings before him had carried it into battle. Now it was his time to do it justice. An intimidating thought, but Éomer was fiercely determined never to fail his people. It was an oath he had sworn to himself the first time when he became a soldier at the age of 16. He had renewed it during the time when his uncle was slipping into darkness through the devilry of Gríma Wormtongue and the White Wizard, and once again when he was banished from the Kingdom, protecting the land with the few loyal men that were left to him even though he wasn’t entitled to it anymore.

It was no conscious act that made him stretch out his arm and touch the ancient velvet with his fingertips for good luck, lost in thought. Finally the moment passed, and he drew his sword and went through a few fluid exercise moves. It felt good in his hands. Ready.

‘Let the wild boars come,’ he thought “After Helm’s Deep, the Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate, there is nothing left in all of Middle Earth that could terrify me.’

 Re-sheathing the steel blade, Éomer gave the room one last thorough glance and decided he was ready. The vibrating sound of his confident steps echoed in the corridor as he made his way to the Great Hall, from where a disturbance could be heard. Four voices. Gamling and two of his door-wardens. And a higher, breathless, female one, yelling in the rolling rhythm of a particularly old Rohirric dialect only incorporated by the nomadic herdsmen of Rohan these days.

“The king! Please, I must speak to the king!”

The sound of that voice was familiar, even if he could not put a name on it, yet. But if he ever heard urgency and desperation in a voice, it was in this. Something bad must have happened somewhere in his kingdom. Electrified by the thought of what it might be, Éomer fastened his steps and entered the Great Hall.

“What is going on?”

The continued disturbance had attracted the attention of other guards and servants, and it was only in the middle of the crowd that the king caught a glimpse of actual fighting going on. A small figure in a wide cape of scruffy-looking fur was wrestling with his guards, the difference of their built making the fight an absurd sight. By all rights, she should not have had even a remote chance of freeing herself, but upon his puzzled shout and the frozen pause that followed it, the tiny figure freed herself from the guards’ grip and flung herself at him with a force born out of desperation.

“Éomer! Éomer! We need your help! You must hear me out!” She crashed against his chest, a whirlwind of fur, blond, matted hair, ragged clothes smelling of horse and sweat and a dirt and tear-streaked face she now raised to meet his questioning stare as he seized her sticky, slick wrists. Recognition struck him like lightning, even though it must have been four years since he last saw her, and she had been just a girl then. One of the nomads who lived with and took care for the great herds of the Rohirrim war-horses. He remembered she had been there on the day of the ritual, watching with pride the great grey stallion she had helped to raise, his beloved Firefoot, choose him over all the warriors who had been standing in the middle of the herd, waiting to have the horses they would go to war with to approach them. Looking happy for him. She could have been only 12 by then.

“Elana?”

“Éomer! Please, don’t throw me out! There is something very ill going on in the Mark these days, and we need your help!”

Éomer felt the questioning stare of the Royal Guard on himself and, letting go of one of the girl’s wrists, held out his hand in a calming gesture to keep them back. Another stern look was enough to remind the other onlookers that they had other business to tend to which he expected them to take care of - now. Silently they left, but the whispers sure enough started to flow through the vast hall as soon as they believed themselves to be out of earshot. Éomer lowered his hand - and frowned as he recognised the dark red stains on his palm.

“What is it, Elana? You are hurt!” He turned her still gloved hands in his and realised they were saturated with blood. “What happened?”

Her pale blue eyes met his with a look of utter desperation in them.

“It is nothing. I am not important. But they are killing our horses, Éomer! They are killing our great herd! Please, you must help us!” Her intensive gaze held his for a moment longer, a moment of stunned shock, before her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the king’s arms.

***

            “Here, my lord, lay her here. I will send for the healer at once.” Gamling pointed at the bed in the guest chamber and waved at one of the children he could see sticking their heads out in curiosity from behind a pillar. The children of Edoras were educated by the elders, and often sent to the Great Hall for a variety of light chores which taught them about the way of Rohan life. Taking care of the horses, saddles and bridles, stables, running errands, helping in the kitchen, cleaning... the variety was endless, and the children, while at first intimidated by the glory of the ancient hall of their forefathers, grew to enjoy their tasks often to a point where they came to perform them even on days when they were relieved from duty.

            One of the smaller girls took the task as hers and approached.

            “My lord?”

            “Éara, it is?”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “Go find Yalánda and send her here. Then go to the kitchen and ask them for bread, broth and tea, and bring it to us.” Gamling watched the girl take off like a playful foal, thankful for her important duty, then turned around to watch his king approach the lair and carefully lower his burden onto the sheets.

            It seemed to Éomer that the girl barely weighed more than a feather, and only as he rose again did he notice her pale, gaunt look and the dark circles under the still closed eyes. A quick survey showed no injuries except for her hands, so little question remained as to what had caused her to faint.

            “It must be exhaustion. Her kin dwells somewhere further south in the valleys of the Ered Nimrais at this time of year. She must have been riding hard for days to bring us these news. Look!” Carefully, he lifted one of her hands and pulled what was left of the glove from her fingers to reveal an open, bleeding wound where the reins had cut into her palm. He laid it back onto her stomach and met his advisor’s worried glance. Behind him, the girl moaned, but did not wake.

“You know her, my lord?”

“She belongs to the herdsmen. She was but a child when I saw her last, but -“ He interrupted himself. “She still is.” Inhaling heavily, Éomer recalled the girl’s last words before she had sunken into his arms. “’They’ are killing our horses, she said. ‘They’?” He looked up. “Who could she mean? Orcs? There are no orcs left in the Riddermark. We killed them all. No orc has been spotted in the entire kingdom for months!”

            “I do not know, my lord. But it troubles me. Orcs we could handle. But if it is some other fell creature -“

            “She said ‘they’. Dunlendings? Could it be them? I would have believed we drove them away once and for all.”

            “We do not know, my lord,” a weak voice came from behind. Éomer turned and saw the girl had wakened. “We neither saw nor heard anything during that night. But when we returned to the meadow to look for our horses four days ago, the ground was saturated with their blood, and there were dead and slashed bodies everywhere for as far as the eye could see, and the few they did not kill yet are wild with terror and unattainable even for us.”

            The sound of her words stunned the king.

            “’The few they did not kill’? How many are left?” 

            “No more than seventy, my lord. They are almost all gone. It was a bloodbath none of us has ever seen, not even during the war. The stench of death is hanging over our valley like a black cloud. We would have burned the carcasses, but we hoped the Rohirrim would know who it was by looking at them. Please, Éomer - my king - you have seen our herd in all its glory. You ride one of our steeds. The sight of what is left of it would bring tears even to your eyes. This is our darkest hour. You must help us!”

            Éomer stared at her, but could not bring himself to envision the image she was describing. When last he had been to the great herd, their number must have been over one thousand. Of course this had been well before the Ring War, and the numerous orc-raids, the battle of Helm’s Deep and, at last, the great battle of the Pelennor Fields around Minas Tirith had taken a heavy toll on both men and beasts, but only seventy... left of 1,000?

            His blood turned to ice water as he followed that thought all the way through to its ugly end: Yes, they had two more main herds, one in the far Westfold, the other one in the very East, but none had been as large as the one Elana’s tribe was guarding, not nearly, and theirs was the only one left where the blood of the Mearas was still running strong. What if their line ended here? What if the killing spread into the other parts of the Mark, as well? Whoever was doing it, men, orc or beast, wouldn’t they move on once they had destroyed everything in one place?

Without horses, their culture would crumble. They relied on them to cultivate their fields. They relied on them for the hunt. They relied on them for trade, to cover the vast spaces of their land. And they relied on them in battle. Without horses, they were defenceless. From the 6000 Rohirrim on the Pelennor, not even one sixth had returned. Around 900 mounted warriors was everything that was left of Rohan’s once mighty army. Even without someone going around killing their horses, the kingdom would need years to recover from the blows it had received.

“My lord?” The youth sat up and seized his hand. “Please...”

Éomer came to his feet as he heard footsteps approach the room from the Great Hall and looked down on their unexpected guest.

“Do not be troubled, Elana of the herdsmen. Your decision to come here was the right one. I will not allow such villainy to go on inside our borders. Our herds, and especially yours, are our livelihood, and we will protect them. Whoever brought that grief upon us shall soon wish he had never set foot into the Riddermark.” He turned to the patiently waiting Gamling. “Get me Erkenbrand and Éothain and tell them to meet me in the hall. We need to hold a counsel.”

“I presume that the hunt is called off then, my lord?”

“You presume wrongly. Winter is approaching fast, and we cannot delay it. We will have to divide our forces. To find the best way, I need to speak with my Marshals. Bring them to me.”

***

            It was afternoon before Gamling returned from the counsel to look after their unexpected guest. To his surprise, he found the chamber he had brought her to empty and the sheets of the bed exchanged. Confused, he turned around and walked with great strides back into the main hall where he found a group of children sitting on one of the benches and listening intently to the ancient tale of Eorl the Young and his mighty steed Felaróf - told by their guest. Amused and relieved, he crossed his arms and stood in the shadow of the closest pillar, listening to the girl’s rolling dialect.

“But he vowed to avenge his father and set on a long hunt for the horse, and all the people of Rohan expected him to kill it. But when he finally had cornered the great stallion, a miracle happened...”

“’Come hither, Mansbane,’ he spoke, ‘and get a new name!’ And the horse looked towards Eorl and came and stood before him, and Eorl said: ‘Felaróf I name you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life’s end.’” Gamling stepped out of the shadow and saw the children’s heads turning his way, their eyes growing huge. Only rarely did they have the opportunity to hear one of the ancient stories of the Mark from the chief of the Royal guard. Elana took up his slight smile. She was a commoner, but their love for their horses tied them all together.

“Then Eorl mounted him, and Felaróf submitted; and Eorl rode him home without bit or bridle, and he rode him in that fashion ever after. The horse understood all that men said, though he would allow no man but Eorl to mount him. He was the first of the Mearas, the wisest and strongest of horses,” she ended the story, delighted by the guard’s participation. “You have looked for me, my lord?”

“You appear to be better.” One stern glance at the children told them that the hour of Rohan lore was over, and they went away, no doubt replaying the story they had just heard and passing it on to their friends.

“I am. I just needed to rest, and a little food your servants were friendly enough to offer me. I am rather embarrassed I came to the Golden Hall in such a wild fashion, fainting in the king’s arms, but I had been riding for three days and three nights with only little rest, and no food for the last day. I did not dare to stop.”

Gamling pointed his chin at her dressed hands.

“What about your wounds? Did Yalánda take good care of them, my child?”

She shrugged.

“It is nothing. They will be healed in a few days. But please, my lord, do you have news for me? What will the king do? Will he help us?”

“He will indeed, Elana of the herdsmen.” Gamling’s gaze went over the hall’s entrance, through which sunlight was flooding in. He motioned her to follow him outside. “As a former Marshal of the Rohirrim, the king knows better than most how dependent we are of the service you and your kind supply. Our herds are our livelihood, and our first duty must be to protect them. Tomorrow at the first light of day, the king and an éored of twenty will ride out to meet your people. You may follow them as soon as you have fully recovered.”

The girl’s face lit up, and it was not only the golden light of the afternoon sun as they stepped outside.

“The king will ride with us?”

“Aye, child, he will. Your plight appears to be a very personal thing for him.”

“I shall be ready to go with them by tomorrow,” Elana beamed, excited. That her people were important enough to the king to ride out with his own éored... “All I need is a good night’s rest. My lord...  I do not know how to thank you. This is so much more than I could have hoped for.“ She started to sink to her knees, but Gamling would not allow her to.

“I am not the king, child, and not even Éomer would accept a bow from you. It was a courageous thing you did, that long, hard ride all by yourself to alert us.”

“How could I not go?” She turned away, the shadow of memory passing over her young, gaunt face. “I love our horses. I raised many of them myself. It aches me more than I can say to think of what happened, and if, by coming here, I can prevent the same fate for the others, it will be the best deed I ever did.” She swallowed, her eyes taking in the beauty of the wide valley. “I just wished there were more left.” A gust of wind blew her matted hair into her face, and she smoothed them away, noticing the line of riders and wagons slowly making their way eastward far below them. “The king looked ready to leave this morning. I hope I did not keep him from some other urgent errand.”

“There can be no errand more urgent than yours, child. And there are enough riders in this city to fulfil more than one.” Gamling’s gaze glided over the stables. “Your mare has been taken good care of. She should be able to carry you when you head back with the king’s men tomorrow. If you want to, you can go and visit her now.”

Her eyes widened.

“I - I would be allowed to see the royal stables? But -“ She plugged at her stained tunic. “-the way I look -“

With a mild smile, the guard shoved her gently in the direction of the stairs.

“I honestly do not believe the horses will care, young lady.”

***

            It was early morning when they left Edoras. The sun had barely begun its ascent in the cloudy sky, and there were only few people to be seen as the king’s éored thundered down the hill on its way to the old path into the White Mountains. Twenty they were, under the king’s and his first marshal Éothain’s command,  their faces stern and determined, clad in full mail, richly embroidered cuirasses, some carrying shields and spears that reflected the sunlight, some only armed with their swords. They were an intimidating sight to all people they passed. Twenty battle-experienced warriors, determined to set an end to the gruesome occurrences they had learned about, and a scrawny, small figure on a light-boned dark-grey mare in their midst, moving at a pace none other than a Rohan horse could have matched over the long distance that lay yet before them. The thunder of their hooves still reverberated from the mountains even after they had passed out of sight.     

***

            It was already dark when they reached their night camp, a frequently used, well-equipped cave set in a winding, narrow gorge shortly behind the first mountain pass. Everything they needed for a comfortable night despite the chilly autumn temperatures was here. Dry wood for a warming fire, sheltered and easily defendable sleeping places, some basic supplies like water and dried bread and fruits, and even a separate, wide cave with straw-covered ground for their horses, easily accessible through the main cave. 

Éomer was glad to finally take off his helmet, and he would be at least equally glad to shed the rest of the heavy armour he was wearing. He was fatigued, but it was a good fatigue. They had covered a lot of ground today. It felt good to be in motion again, to be active, instead of having to linger in the Great Hall, listening to complaints and requests all day long. Yet, before he would be able to sit down and have a cup of wine and some food at the campfire with his éored, there was one unspoken rule to follow, first. A rule that was substantial to the kingdom of Rohan, an ancient law: ‘Take care of your horse, first. Take off his burden, feed him and let him rest, and he will thank it with strength, courage and heart.’

Nobody ever second-guessed that law, and Éomer wasn’t about to, either, as he removed the artfully crafted saddle and  blanket from his steed’s back and laid them to the side, just like the rest of his men did further back. But reaching for the bridle, he encountered difficulties as the grey snorted and threw its head up, pushing against it’s rider with the weight of it’s muscular body.

            “Stop it, mad horse, or I shall leave that bridle on you!” He pushed back, to no avail, and sighed to himself. “I am beginning to think that it must be the blood of a mule, not meara blood, that flows in your veins. Will you hold still now?” Playfully, he slapped the great stallion on the nose and ducked the quick attempt at retribution as Firefoot’s teeth clapped shut only inches over his right shoulder. “You!”

An all-too-well-known prickle in the back of his neck caused him to swivel. Sure enough, he was being watched. The girl. Éomer had no idea for how long she had been standing there, watching their by now standard play, but a notion told him that the sight of it must have been less than kingly. He coughed, feeling caught, and tried to compensate for it with a stern voice.

“Elana.” A hard slap on Firefoot’s neck brought the stallion to his senses. “What can I do for you?” He looked back to where the first of his men were lighting the fire. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the grey with a notion of pride gleaming in them.

“He has grown since I last saw him. He has become a mighty horse. One that befits the king of the Mark.” She dared to take a step closer. “I hope he has served you well so far, my lord.”

“Aye, he has.” Éomer followed her gaze and placed a hand on his steed’s neck, letting it rest there, while the other finally removed the bridle. “He appears to have his own head at times, but then, so do I. We are fit for each other. I would not exchange him for another, not even Shadowfax, were he still available.” Bowing to pick up a bundle of old straw from the ground, he cast a side glance and saw the girl’s face flush with pride.

“He was the first foal I hand-raised. I was nine at the time.” Her gaze rested lovingly on the grey before she finally acknowledged the king’s presence with a small turn of the head. “Do you think he remembers me, too?”

Rohan war-horses usually only suffered their own riders to approach and touch them, but the stallion appeared to be completely relaxed in her presence. Éomer felt he could let her try, and motioned her over. Carefully, she followed and held out her hand for Firefoot to sniff, almost laughing with joy as she felt the warm breath from his nostrils on her palm. Slowly, she placed her fingers on his nose and let them move in tiny circles over the smooth skin, something he had always greatly enjoyed when he was still with her and her tribe. And again, after all the years of war and battle, the grey closed his eyes in delight and allowed her to touch him, as Éomer watched in surprised wonder.

“It appears that he does.” Smiling, he offered her the handful of straw he had picked up to rub Firefoot dry with. “You want to take care of him?”

She beamed, her fingers subconsciously caressing an old scar on the stallions brow.

“I would love to, my lord.” Passing under the horses head, she accepted the straw and began to methodically wipe its torso, content with her task. “Thank you.”

Éomer watched her for moment longer, then turned to look back at the men, who were bursting into laughter further back in the close-by cave. They had already assembled around the slowly catching fire and were looking his way with bemused expressions.

“I will let you know when the food is ready. Tomorrow is going to be another long day, and the day after, just as well. We are going to need our strength.” He walked off.

***

The sun had already set behind the mountains when - on the third day of their travel - they arrived in the gorge that had once been the sheltered winter retreat of the herds for ages. Here, they were protected from the icy gusts that otherwise ravaged the plains and challenged every man and beast that dared to live in the wild during the dark season of year. It was a peaceful, protected place, where even the grass was still green and neither sunburnt by the merciless summer-sun, nor faded to a lifeless pale green-brown by the first frosts, and yet an oppressive silence hang over it like the shadow of a dark cloud. There were no voices to be heard, no rustling of leaves, not even the singing of birds. It was as if they had entered a lifeless, forsaken place.

            They approached the ring of tents at the end of the gorge, set there shortly before the mountain walls retreated to form a long, sheltered valley at the north-end, in a long line, single-file. No one was to be seen. They rode in silence, paying tribute to the oppressive atmosphere and the prominent stench of death and decay, which became stronger and more stronger with every step that they took and planted a cold dread into their hearts... and the hearts of their steeds.

            Éomer found it difficult to force Firefoot on. The great grey which had fearlessly carried him into battle at Helm’s Deep, against the onslaught of the mumakil on the Pelennor Fields and a vast army of all fell creatures this earth held, now shuddered between his thighs, and from it’s flared nostrils came a hard breath that could not be the result of their long ride. They had proceeded slowly over the last few leagues, not wanting to exhaust their steeds yet when an unknown peril was still lying before them. No doubt the grey both smelled and sensed the massacre that awaited them further down the valley. It came to a sudden halt, both front legs rammed into the ground, and neighed. It would not go further.

            Éomer gestured his éored to stop and as he looked back, he found that his men had the same difficulties with their mounts. Placing a hand on Firefoot’s neck, he felt the shudders even more clearly, and it troubled him deeply. Never before had he felt such a terror in his equine ally. Upon the sound of steps coming up to him from behind, he heard his marshal Éothain’s voice.

            “The horses are not willing to go further, my lord. We could force them to, but I rather not. They are clearly terrified of something.”

            “It is the smell.” Éomer had detected the small group of people next to the tents. They were looking their way, but did not move closer. “The smell of their dead. Surely they already know much better what happened down there than we do. I do not blame them for not wanting to see this, but we need to know.” He ran his hand over his steed’s neck and whispered a few soothing words in the accent of the herdsmen into the stallions twitching ears. Urged him silently on with the pressure of his thighs.

            “I will ride ahead and let my people know of their great guest.” Elana nodded at him and forced her mare into a gallop for the last, short distance.

Éomer tried again. At last, the grey took a hesitant step. Another one. The shuddering worsened, but it did what it’s rider was asking of him. Slowly, they approached the waiting people. It was a short line, no more than eight, children mostly, between five and fifteen summers old, now joined by an old man who exited the first tent after their young guide’s excited shouts. More faces appeared, sceptically and mistrustfully peeping from the other tents at the approaching riders. Hardened and weathered by the elements and life in the wild they looked, their long, flaxen hair either flowing behind them in the mild breeze or being tied into braids. They were dressed in stained woollen rags, their faces dirty, but their pale blue eyes were directed at Éomer in fierce inquisitiveness as they all craned their necks back to look up to him and his men as they came to a halt. Their king had come. But would he be able to help them against the evil which had befallen them?

            The old man they had seen first, his back slightly bowed from old age, his face tiered and dreary-looking, stepped forward and sank to his knees, a gesture which was instantly followed by the children, which nonetheless gaped at the éored’s regal outfit from under their eyebrows. Never had they seen more impressive guests.

            “Westu Éomer hál! Hail, Éomer-king. My name is Fréod, son of Farudwýne. The people of the Great Herd greet you and thank you for your coming." Slowly coming to his feet, he cast Elana a quick glance which told Éomer he was probably related in one way or another to her and was thankful for her safe return, even if where she was now was not a safe place to be. The king nodded his appreciation and, giving a sign to his éored, slipped out of his saddle.

            “Thank Elana for her endurance and courage. The way to Edoras is long and, as it seems, still unsafe. We came as fast as we could. What news do you have for us?”

            “Alas, very bad ones. There has been another attack just last night.” The soldiers’ lips became a grim line. “We lost another twenty to thirty horses... and our two guards.”

            “What? Who was it?” The girl’s face became ashen as she dismounted and came to a stop in front of Fréod, pleadingly taking up his hand: “Grandfather, please, you must tell me!”

            “Élana, sweet child -“ He tried to embrace her, but she kept him at armlength, pressing his hand in distress.

            “Tell me, Grandfather!”

            “Galdur und Bèorling.” He did not dare look into her anxious eyes, but did not have to, since she finally allowed him to pull her close as she buried her face on his shoulder in desperation, silent sobs beginning to shake her thin frame. “I am sorry, child.”

            It was an awkward moment. Éomer was at a loss for words. He had believed for war and sorrow to be over for his people, but maybe there would never be a moment where all evil would be truly defeated and the land safe. A moment longer he let the girl and the old man grieve, keeping his head bowed in respect to the dead, the only sounds the breathing of their horses, the creaking and low clanging of their bridles and saddles, and the sobbing of the mourning people in front of him and further back in the tents. A side glance over to the entrance of the valley showed him it had already filled with shadow, and that daylight would soon desert them, so he cleared his throat and spoke up with a grave voice.

            “I am sorry for your loss, Fréod, son of Farudwýne. If it is in our power, we shall put an end to it this very night. Can you tell us what we are up against?”

            The old man shook his head.

            “I wish that I could. But yet again, we did not see them. We only heard the death-cries of our horses at the far end of the valley in the middle of the night. After what had happened six nights ago, we dared not to go there to find out. And in the morning, we found the two men we had left as guards dead and horribly slashed. There is no one and nothing left to tell us who our foe is.”

            “Men or beast? This at least you should be able to tell.”

            “I am afraid I can not. I have never seen anything like this in my life, and I spent its entirety in the wild and know how to read traces. The grass is so thoroughly trampled and the ground beneath it so firm, you cannot find a single clear trace. As for the carcasses...” He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened as he recalled what he had seen that morning. “Go and look for yourselves. The horses have been mauled and slashed, and it would appear as if wild beasts, wolves or wargs, perhaps, did it, yet I have never seen a pack of wolves inflict so much damage on so many horses. And you know the courage of our horses, my king. They have meara-blood in their veins. They would have stood against a pack of wolves. Maybe they would have lost a few among them, but over three-hundred... no.” He shook his head and followed Éomer’s grim look towards the valley of death. “Look for yourself, my lord. Maybe you will be able to read something out of the bodies that we have been unable to see. Yet make sure you return ere the daylight is gone, because it is always at night that they come. And you must be weary and hungry from your long ride, too. We do not have much here, and I am certain you have much better at Edoras, but we would feel very honoured if we could share our food with you. I will go immediately and tell the lads to go and roast a pig.”

            “We came to help, not to rob you of your scarce winter supplies, Fréod,” Éomer rejected, raising his hand. “Your offer is generous, yet we cannot accept it. We know how little food there is available these days in the Mark. We brought our own supplies with us. Let us share a cup of wine when we return, if you will, but you will need that pig to feed your people ere the spring sets in.” He turned to face his men. “I want five men to accompany me when I go in. The rest stays here, tends to our horses and sees if we can help these people in any other fashion. If we are watched, I do not want them to know yet how many we are.” On second thought, he opened his cuirass and shed it along with the chain mail he was carrying. He also took off the helmet with the white horsetail and removed the artfully crafted saddle and the royal blanket from Firefoot’s back to lay everything on the ground. “I also do not want them to know who has come to avenge their deeds. Éothain, Berond, Folca, Hámas and Léod, you come with me.”

            The named followed his example to shed their armour and strip their appearance of all tell-taling things, so that they would enter the valley looking like commoners. Satisfied, Éomer turned to the herdsman once more.

            “I know it will be hard for you to see the wake of this bloodbath once again, but in order to put an end to it, a guide would be most helpful to us.”

            “I will come with you.” The girl freed herself of her grandfather’s arms. Dread of the task she appointed herself to shone in her eyes, yet she had decided that she would not falter. She wanted this nightmare to end, so it had to be done. “Even if my heart freezes at the thought, I will endure it for the sake of those which are left. Yet I cannot force my mare to carry me there. It would be asking too much of her. She is still young, and not battle-hardened like your own steeds. She never smelled blood or heard the death cries of her kind before until six days ago, when she only barely escaped the massacre herself.”

            “Then ride with me.” The king had already remounted his great grey and offered the girl a hand. She accepted it and slid into place behind him, feeling comfortable on the bare horseback.  Éomer  turned the stallion in the direction of the valley entrance. He still sensed his horses’ reluctance, but knew it would carry him there nevertheless. “We will be back soon for that cup of wine you offered us, Fréod. Until then, I appoint you to take good care of our horses. Most of them were raised here, too.” He pressed his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and forced him into a slow gallop.

***

            The shadows had already swallowed the entire valley when they entered, but yet it was still light enough to show the riders the full extent of the doom they had so far only heard about. Yet, as the king reined in his steed to slow him down to a walk and, finally, to a halt, Éomer found that there were no words that could describe what lay before them. He had seen plenty of the carnage of war on Rohan soil and in Gondor, had experienced the stench of blood and decay many times before and walked over battlefields among thousands of dead, yet this was a sight which was somehow worse in a way he could hardly describe.

It was unexpected, not the scene of a great battle where you came prepared and would not allow to let the feel of it get to you. Yet what they were seeing here was nothing else than the slaughter of innocent creatures at a number too great for his mind to comprehend, even if his eyes showed him the carcasses strewn on the meadow for as far as he could see. Grey, white, bay and dark silhouettes lying unmoving on the ground, some great, some small, stallions, mares and foals alike, reduced to dead flesh devoid of life. Many forms were twisted into positions that were too terrible to look at, their still forms slashed and laid open, dark stains marring their hides and drenching the grass on which they lay. Among them and on top of them, scavenging birds picked at the open wounds, ravens with blood-encrusted heads hopping around on the once proud creatures, fighting for the best pieces, and yet even more circling the sky above them waiting to be let in on the feast. Their greedy cries and the flapping of their wings  as well as the buzzing of myriads of flies were the only sounds to be heard in the leaden silence. And over all hung the pungent stench of death.

 The enormity of what had happened in this valley went straight through Éomer’s defences and turned him to stone. On his back, he felt the silent sobbing of their young guide, but it seemed to come to him from a great distance, just like the anguished snort of his steed as it thrust it’s head down in protest. Instinctively, he lowered his hand to the quivering grey’s neck, an unconscious gesture. Only dimly was he aware of his men coming to a stop beside him, neither of them able to utter a word, their own steeds neighing and attempting to back away from the scene against their riders’ will. The moment stretched and lingered, holding them captives in it’s terrible prison, until the girl’s cry woke them out of their stupor.

“Aéras! Oh no!” She slipped from the grey’s back and ran over to the still form of a once white horse which lay in the middle of the meadow.

Éomer turned his head to meet Éothain’s gaze and find out how his men were taking it. His marshal’s frozen face was a mirror of his own feelings. For a long time, there did not seem to be enough air for them to draw a breath and form words from.

“Whoever did this, they will pay like no one has paid before,” a deep voice came from behind him, shaking with both terror and fury. Éomer recognised it as Léod’s and turned around. The young, grave scout’s keen eyes were already fixed on the surrounding mountains, searching for their foes.

“First, we will need to find them.” Éothain followed the gaze up to the circling ravens. But I have to agree with that old man’s words - this does not look like the work of wild beasts. Wolves, and even wargs, only kill as much as they can eat. They do not slaughter entire herds out of sheer bloodlust. Yet most of these horses are, except for the wounds that brought their death, untouched. Look!” He pointed at the carcass of a strong-boned bay next to them. A big bite had been taken out of its throat, but apart from that, there was nothing else. One bite had killed it, and then it had been left to rot on the ground.

“Let us see what else we can detect ere the daylight is entirely gone.” Éomer’s gaze glided from the dead animal up to the circling ravens, and then further up to the surrounding mountains. His voice sounded hollow as despair and cold fury battled for the reign over his emotions, catching him in between. His hands longed for the touch of his sword, and it would have been a release for him to have an enemy, no matter how strong, thrown in front of him to take his rage out on right now. Yet nothing presented himself to him to claim responsibility for the slaughter, and reluctantly, he pressed his heels into his stallion’s flanks to force him further into the valley of death. “Elana?”  He motioned the girl to come back and held a hand out to help her up.

“I am sorry, Éomer. That mare was the mother of my own horse. She was one of the few survivors of the first attack. They must have killed her last night.” She swallowed and was unable to go on. Unable to look at the carnage any longer, she closed her eyes and breathed shallowly through her mouth, but the smell of blood would not abate.

They rode on in silence, carefully choosing their path through around the dead horses, halting here and there to take - against their instincts - a more thorough look in hope to find answers to the riddle. But the further they rode, the clearer it became to them that the old man had been right. This had been killing for the sake of killing. Apart from three carcasses which had been stripped of all meat, none of the other horses had been eaten from.

Twilight had already settled when they came to the distant wall of the valley, where the last of the once mighty herd had assembled, warily eyeing their approach. Éomer came to a halt and gestured his men to follow his example. He did not want to trouble the few surviving horses further, as it was clear to him even from a distance that they were wild with fear. Next to him, a great grey stallion lay in front of the canyon wall, it’s front hooves dark with blood - and tufts of brown fur. Narrowing his eyes, he dismounted and walked the few steps over to squat next to the dead animal, carefully running a finger over the congealed crust and peeling off a piece of sturdy black skin with wiry, brown hair on it. Furrowing his brow, he examined it more closely by rubbing the piece between his fingers and holding it up in front of his eyes.

“Léod?” The next moment, the scout stood at his side to see what his king had found. He did not need to take a second look to know what it was.

“Warg skin. So it is true.” He looked around. “It is hard to believe. This does not look like a place wargs would like. They prefer open spaces for their hunts. And they are not suited for a life in the mountains. They are too great of stature to be comfortable with steep and narrow paths. They cannot climb.”

“Elana?” Éomer turned around. “Are there any other ways into this valley than the one we took?”

She nodded.

“Aye, there are two more. But they are just like the ones your kinsman described. Mountain paths, hardly wide enough to allow a man to walk on them, and very steep. Wargs could not use them, as can’t horses. The only animals who could walk on them, I dare say, would be goats. One of them lies behind that tree over there.” She pointed ahead. The Rohirrim followed her gaze and saw immediately what she meant. As little as they could see of the path in the deepening twilight, it was clear that nothing as massive as a warg could have come that way.

“What about the other one?” Éothain turned around in his saddle to give the other side of the valley a more scrutinising survey, but the shadows were deepening very fast now, and with the darkness, the dark atmosphere in the valley changed to a downright sinister threat. The feeling of being watched from somewhere above was strong, yet not so strong that he could make out the direction it was coming from.

“It lies further back the way we came, on the other side. But it does not look very different.” The girl’s eyes were wide, and the trembling in her voice could not be overheard. She was very frightened. “But we should head back now. Darkness will soon be upon us, and I do not want to be trapped in this tomb when they return.”

“And we will go back.” Éomer still stared down on the fallen grey. It had been a strong horse, presumably the leader, but even he had not been able to fight back hard enough to save himself. At least, he had offered them a clue of what had happened to him, even if the sum of what they had seen did not add up. Ripping himself out of his brooding thoughts, he turned to face his men. “We will eat and drink with your people and relax for a few more hours, and under cover of the night, we shall return here in our full strength and wait for them. Whatever the solution to this riddle may be, should they decide to haunt this place yet again, they shall make the acquaintance of the Rohirrims’ fury.”

            Taking Firefoot’s reins back from the girl, he swung a leg over the grey’s back and turned him around, throwing the great horse into a fast gallop. This time, his steed followed his will readily.

***

            The moon was already on the rise when the line of twenty heavily armed mounted soldiers approached the entrance of the valley, but it was not even half full, so the light it was shedding was scarce.

            Perfect cover. On their way back to the herdsmen’s tents, Éomer had noticed a long cornice on the other side of the meadow, deep and large enough to provide them with a hiding place for their night watch, which was where they were headed now. Silence hung over the  blood-drenched meadow like a death blanket, lending an eerie atmosphere to the night which reminded the king of ancient ghost-stories the elders sometimes told to their eagerly listening children in the long, dark winter months. He remembered all to well how he had been sitting in the Golden Hall on a one particularly cold and stormy winter night, 12 or 13 years old, listening to his uncle’s deep, carrying voice and the story of Fram, son of Frumgar, slewing Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin. It had been a grim, violent story, not destined to be told to young children, which had Éowyn furious with him when he returned to their shared room afterwards, gloating and teasing his little sister when she demanded he’d share the story with her.  Éowyn... for a few heartbeats, his thoughts left the valley of death and went out to the only one left of his kin. He hoped she was happy in Ithilien. Happy with Faramir. She deserved to be happy. In all the long years after their parents death he had rarely seen his sister laugh, and less so in the months and years of darkness that had followed Gríma Wormtongue’s arrival. As occupied as war had kept him over the last years, he had noticed how she had first found new hope at the sight of Aragorn, now King Elessar of Gondor, only to be rejected. Devastated, she had then sought death on the battlefield, where instead she found honour - at the price of the life of their father-like uncle.

            The unexpected sight of her lying death-like among their slaughtered kinsmen and next to the crushed body of Théoden had been the sharpest pain Éomer had ever felt. It had been a moment where he had wished that madness would claim him. It had been a moment where he had wished death for himself. Yet, somehow, they had both survived it. Even Théoden’s death they had been able to put behind them. The king had been granted the honourable death he had always wanted for himself. That was something Éomer could make his peace with. And Éowyn... she, too, had found her smile again. Somehow, between his departure for the Black Gate of Mordor, expecting never to return, and his unlikely survival and mankind’s victory over Sauron, a miracle had happened for his sister’s wounded heart, too. Love and peace of mind, it had seemed to him upon his return to the White City, had finally found her, and he was thankful for the man who had brought them to her as a gift. Yes, he hoped his little, brave sister was happy.

Somewhere up ahead, the cry of an owl pierced the leaden silence and woke the king from his musings. The cornice now lay directly ahead. They were almost upon it. Éomer turned his head, his eyes gliding over a star-spangled deep blue sky, dark rock, a few leafless trees, the meadow, gleaming silvery under the moonlight... and the dark, lifeless forms lying on it. His lips turned into a thin, grim line. He hoped the murderers would return tonight. Whoever they were. Whatever they were. Gúthwine was hungry for their blood, and he felt its weight on his left side, eager to be drawn.

Someone rode into his vision on the right side. Éothain. His marshal, too, looked ready for vengeance. There was no insecurity over the nature or number of their enemy, no second thoughts. No uneasiness. They were ready for battle, dressed in full mail and cuirasses, armed with spears, bows and swords, an éored of twenty seasoned warriors. They had nothing to fear. Whoever else but the few surviving horses of their herdsmen would tread on the grass of this valley, would die.

With this thought, they reached the cornice and dismounted. Silently. Secretively. It was hard to make no sound when one was clad in mail, but they largely succeeded in keeping the noise down. Their horses, too, seemed to know what was going on, for they hardly gave a sound, as well. Éomer laid a hand against Firefoot’s nostrils and felt the stallion’s warm breath on his skin, while his own breath trailed off as white vapour into the air. It was chilly, but there would be no fires tonight.  ‘Soon,’ he thought, ‘soon I shall be needing your courage and great heart again. Help me to avenge your kin.’

His eyes went over to the other side of the mountain wall as his men settled into the cornice behind him according to the orders he had given out while they had been eating and drinking in the tents of the herdsmen. Blankets were unbuckled from saddles and unrolled, together with the hot broth Elana’s tribe had filled their leathern bottles with the only means for a little warmth. This night would be long, and a three-days-ride lay behind them.  There was no need for all of them to stay awake at the same time. Five at a time would do, he had decided, and set himself up for the first watch. There was no way he would be able to sleep right now anyway. Too much was going through his head.

Nodding over to Léod, who also shared this watch with him, Éomer rammed his spear into the ground and leaned with his weight on it until it was standing firm enough to tie his steed to it. It would have seemed like an awkward solution to anyone who wasn’t Rohirrim, as all Firefoot would have to do to free himself was one powerful headshake, but Éomer knew he could count on the great grey. He had felt it on their way out here. The stallion was tense and ready to carry him into battle once more, all quivering and shaking gone. He would not run and ruin their cover. Neither would the others.

The owl cried again, and Éomer shifted his view to see whether he would be able to make out the bird in the darkness.

“Over there.” Léod pointed towards the little grove in the middle of the valley. “The second tree to the right.”

Narrowing his eyes, the king could make out a fleeting movement in the branches, then a small, dark shadow rising into the air. A grim smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Nothing escaped his men’s attention. Whatever would enter this valley tonight, it would not enter unnoticed.

***

            “Théoden?... Uncle?”

            The Great Hall of Meduseld was empty. No sounds, no smells, no signs of life within the ancient walls as Éomer pushed open the doors with the last of his strength. Blood - his own and his foes’ - stained his cloven cuirass and mail shirt, and as he stumbled into the hall to bring his king the tidings of their great victory on the Pelennor, his sword fell from his trembling hand and fell to the ground with a clear sound that was echoed thousandfold from the stone walls. No one came to look for the source of that noise. No one asked. Éomer came to a halt. There was no one here!

            And suddenly, he smelled it, so thick and poisonous, it was a mystery to him why he had not detected the smell before: smoke! The Great Hall was burning! And really, as he turned to the side to look into the direction of the king’s private rooms, he saw an inferno of flames race towards him.

            “Théoden?” Another step deeper into the hall. The heat was intense, and there was hardly enough air left to breathe. Then, suddenly, another thought. An agonising one. “Éowyn? Sister? Where are you?” The fire spread over the walls, upwards to the ceiling. Devouring the banner of Eorl. Ancient tapestry burst into flames, then the wooden throne of Rohan caught fire. “Éowyn!”

Ripping himself out of his stupor, he made a dash for his sister’s quarters, but just before he reached the door, flames shot up in front of him and blocked his way.

“Éowyn, where are you?”

Parts of the roof came down, and he stumbled backwards, shielding his eyes.

“Éomer! Éomer, help me! Help me, please!”

Her voice! Faint, but she was alive! But her room was not where it came from! It sounded as if- he swivelled around just in time to see the heavy doors swing shut behind something that had just left the hall.

“I am coming, Little Bird! Hold on!”

He forced his battered body into a run and burst outside - to see all of Edoras erupt into flames. Hellfire, spreading over the roofs of thatching and turning the buildings into furnaces, and yet nobody ran out of them. There were no screams, no crying, nothing. Except for the sound of hooves further down, a single horse in full gallop, trying to flee the inferno.

“Éomer!”

It was a black horse, and there was someone on its back: Two figures, one in fitting black, fighting with the other while at the same time riding as if Morgoth himself was after him, almost beyond the city walls now; the other –

“Éowyn! Éowyn! Nooo-!”

“Help me!”

“She’s mine now, Éomer! You are too late! You have always been too late!” The voice burst into triumphing laughter, fading in the distance and in the roar of the fire.

“Gríma!-”

***

He woke with a start and saw a face hovering above him, had the hand on the hilt of his sword in a heartbeat - but it was not Gríma’s. Gríma... was dead. Slain in the Shire, so the people told.  He would never again trouble the people of Rohan, or haunt his sister’s steps.

There was worry in the pale blue eyes and the weathered, slightly lined features above him. He recognised this face as the one of his marshal, Éothain.

“Éomer?” The older man narrowed his eyes. “A bad dream?” He placed a hand on his king’s shoulder in reassurance. Only now did Éomer notice the thunder of his heart and his ragged breathing. Embarrassed over having been caught in a weak moment, he sat up and shook off Éothain’s hand.

“Did I say anything?” ‘Or scream?’ If - through a moment of unawareness - he had thwarted their plan - but the marshal shook his head.

“No. I just saw it in your eyes when you woke.” He swallowed and turned his head. “Something is going on. The atmosphere has changed.”

His words mesmerised Éomer. Yet as he stood up, his limbs stiff from the cold ground, he felt it, too. The light had gone. The moon had wandered far towards the east, but it was now barely visible behind a thick layer of clouds. There were no stars anymore. It was very, very dark, and - in addition - a thin layer of fog lay over the ground, further diminishing their vision. But that was not all that had changed. It was just harder to put into words. The horses were restlessly moving, some lowly neighed. Snorted, as if they smelled some fell stench. Behind Éomer, his men came to their feet, wakened by the feeling of an unseen peril slowly rolling towards them like a huge black wave in the night.

Low whispers of  “What is it?” and “Ssshh!”, then silence again as everybody strained their ears. The wind had changed, and what had been a shelter from the elements before lay now directly in its path - and brought the foul stench of something different than dead, decaying flesh along.

Firefoot’s head shot up sudden enough to free himself of his master’s grip and he screamed, a terrified noise Éomer had never before heard from his steed before, but before he could contemplate its meaning, he saw it too: the reflection of two hellishly gleaming eyes and a sparkle of a huge set of jaws jumping towards him! Gúthwine was in his hand before he knew it, scything through the air in front of him in a deadly half-circle while he threw himself to the side. Warm liquid sprayed into his face as an angry bellow threatened to burst his ears, cut short by a dozen spears simultaneously piercing the huge form. The creature fell to the ground. A warg.

A moment of stunned silence, then the anguished screaming of the herd further back and the thunder of their panicked approach as something drove them towards the hidden men. They had but a moment to react and press themselves against the wall of the cornice before the horses were upon them, their charge forcing the éoreds’ steeds  to run with them, or be trampled.

“Firefoot!” The grey passed out of Éomer’s vision, just when a grunting and growling he had never expected to hear again came to his ears, along with a row of huge, menacing forms bursting out of the fog. Uruk-hai. Uruks?! A deadly chill wandered down his spine. It could not be true! They were all dead! They had killed them!

Forcing his shock-numbed body into action, Éomer drew his spear from the ground and threw it at the nearest silhouette which was almost upon him.

“Uruk-hai! Fight!”

And the night exploded into violence.

Where for Eorl’s sake had they come from, Éomer managed to ask himself as he stormed forth to finish the speared abomination off. A cruel-looking blade was swung at him from the other side, and a fast spin and a short move of his sword-arm later he had intercepted it, steel crashing against steel, sparks flying. The huge orc grunted and shot out its arm at him, massive jaws gaping, but Éomer ducked and swivelled, and a moment later, the limb fell to the ground. A death-strike into the monster’s broad chest, and on to the next! Behind him, men screamed in torment. Horses, they needed their horses!

“Éorlingas! Follow me!”

Something dark jumped at  him, and he slashed at it and rolled, came to his feet again and made a break for the middle of the valley, away from the deadly trap they were caught in.

“Firefoot!” The great grey stormed into his direction, an unreal bright shape among the dark, armoured living nightmares blocking Éomer’s way. He ducked another swing, before the terrible impact of a Uruk-club on his back made him tumble and fall to his knees. The cuirass splintered, and something in him broke, an explosion of dull pain. With a grunt and a cry of defiance and rage, he swung around nevertheless, thrusting all his weight into a mighty strike that severed the orc’s leg. A pained roar rewarded him.

No time for the kill, others were blocking his way, ever more surrounding him.

‘Too many! They are too many! This is a full-blown assault! A trap!`

Supporting his weight on his sword to come to his feet, Éomer started in the direction of an approaching orc, drawing back his sword-arm for a deadly thrust as a grey shadow rammed into the creature from behind and threw it to the ground. Rearing, and then coming down on it with it’s full weight behind it’s front legs, it let out a cry of fury and hate. It was his steed, and his blood-smeared hide made him a fierce sight to behold as he passed through the battle like a ghost, eyes white with terror, yet unyielding in the face of death.  To Éomer, it seemed as if he had never seen a more welcome sight as he called out to him in Rohirric, causing the great stallion run right past him without losing any of its momentum. A critical moment when he had to sheath his sword to free both hands, while the Uruks were almost upon him.

Praying the saddle belt was still intact, the king thrust out his arm and got a grip on the pommel, pulled himself up and let out a wild cry of triumph. Riding on a huge surge of adrenaline, he threw the stallion around to see for the first time the full extent of the trap. Wherever he looked, nothing but slashing, roaring, growling shapes of Uruk-hai, more than he could count in the moment that was given to him. From the sights of it, they were at least ten times outnumbered. No chance to win this battle, they’d have to retreat.

“Éothain! Regroup!”

Pressing his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, the king thrust his steed into a menacing black wall of Uruks which blocked him from his likewise mounted marshal, deflecting the first strikes of their axes and clubs with powerful strikes.

“Do not kill the king!”

It was a voice among many, almost drowned out under the noise of the battle, and yet it sent a cold chill down Éomer’s back and diverted his attention long enough to miss the cruelly carved, black blade that was swung against his horse’s shoulder and would have crippled the animal, had its rider not at the last moment shifted his weight to cover the vulnerable spot with his armoured knee. The blow almost shattered the bone through the greaves, but they held. Gritting his teeth, the king lashed out a backhanded strike and hit metal, not killing the Uruk but driving it back long enough to spur his steed and direct the stallion at the gap.

“Éothain!”

Only a short distance away, his marshal was in severe distress, bleeding from three deep cuts which had been dealt to him through the shirt of chain mail, his shield arm broken and useless. Surrounded by orcs.

“Éomer! Here!”

A spear appeared in his vision, being held up for him as he charged across the meadow to the rescue of his kinsman. The notion of a young, bleeding face and wide eyes to his right, cut down by a slashing sound, then he had the spear and once again rammed his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, flying towards their enemies with a battle cry.

His onslaught was fast, it was fierce - and it came too late. While Éomer approached, he saw his marshal half-block a mighty thrust and grimace in pain as the black blade cut through his armour into his arm, blood already gushing down the side of his face and his side. For a frozen moment, their eyes met - and then the thick bolt of a Uruk-crossbow smashed into Éothain’s unprotected neck and threw him off his horse which went down with him.

“Nooo!” It was too late to turn away, so Éomer accelerated, right arm with the spear drawn back to skewer the Uruk in front of him, which was frantically fighting to reload its cruel weapon. Protecting a much smaller figure behind it of which the king could only see part of its dark clothing as he raced towards them, a grey lightning of wrath. Faster!

“Don’t kill the king!”

The crossbow swung towards his face, and with a cry and his full weight behind it, Éomer thrust the spear - and was catapulted off his horse as something slammed into his right shoulder with the force of a battering ram! The reins were ripped from his left hand, and then the ground raced towards him, he yelled - and suddenly, he was under his steed, his right foot caught in the stirrup. The impact of Firefoot’s hooves sent explosions through his body as he was dragged face-down over the ground. A loud clang, and his helmet flew from his head. With a sudden tug, his foot came free - and the weight of the saddle landed on his legs as Éomer came to a stop. Through the loud buzz in his ears, he heard his stallion screaming in the distance, fading. Stunned, numbed and unable to catch his breath, it took all of his fierce will to roll on his back. The thick, feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder into his range of vision, the sight of it too bizarre for his mind to grasp yet, all the more as there was no pain connected to it.

‘Get up, or they will kill you!’ his inner voice commanded, but his body did not respond. The two were detached from each other, unable to correspond, the reality of battle far away in another dimension.

A dark form started toward him, blade risen over its head to hew him to pieces. It seemed to move strangely slow, leaving him a lot of time to blindly grope with his left hand - the right arm wouldn’t move- for anything to defend himself with. His fingers closed around a hilt.

“Don’t!”

That voice again, but the king barely heard it through the pounding sound in his ears and the furious roar of the Uruk which filled out his entire, blurred vision as the blade descended on him. Knowing he stood no chance of deflecting it, he lashed out with the orc-sword nevertheless, putting the last of his remaining strength into the blow - and felt it cut through tissue and bone with absurd ease. The creature tumbled, its right leg severed, uttering an enraged cry that was abruptly ended with a sharp slashing sound. Something fell to the ground next to him, a round thing. Staring into the widened eyes of the dead Uruk-hai’s head, Éomer experienced a short moment of hope - ‘Help has come!’, before the massive body tumbled down on him and drove the bolt further into his flesh. A fiery white explosion in front of his eyes, then - darkness. 

***

            Elana and her clan stood the valley’s entrance and listened with terror-filled hearts to the hellish crescendo of screaming horses, the sound of steel crashing against steel and an overall infernal roar which sounded as if Morgoth himself had returned from the first age with his army of Balrogs. Every now and then, an anguished human cry could be heard in between, quickly drowned out by the other noise. Darkness and a thin layer of fog emitting from the ground prevented them from seeing anything, but then, there was no need to. What they heard left no question open: The king’s éored was getting slaughtered by the same unspeakable horror which had already claimed their horses.

Elana tugged the old fur cloak tighter around her thin frame. The night was chilly, but it was not the temperature which sent shivers down her spine.

‘ I asked him to help us,’ she thought helplessly, staring with widened eyes into the threatening darkness in front of her, all the while seeing Éomer’s amused grin over her skill with his horse. ‘I am responsible for their death! I did not want for this to happen!’

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up to her grandfather’s sad face.

“It is not your fault, Elana.”

Her eyes started to burn, and for the longest moment, her voice was caught in her throat. An isolated human scream pierced her ears, and her finger dug deeper into her coat.

“There must be some way of helping them. Somehow-“ They had no weapons of any efficiency. Only weak bows and wooden lances to take care of an occasional predator that came to her valley. Nothing to fend off a pack of nightmarish monsters which even a heavily armed and highly-trained éored was unable to handle.

“There is.” Fárlorn, a grim, middle-aged man with a weathered face and their official leader, turned his head. “You must ride to Edoras again. And this time, tell them to send all of what is left of the Rohirrim! You are the only one whose horse is still alive.” She stared at him, frightened by the prospects. Yes, thanks to her foresight of leaving Áriel in a sheltered little cave above the gorge they lived in, her steed was well, but after six days on horseback, Elana could no longer deny that she was exhausted. As was Áriel. They would need more time to reach Edoras again, at least a day more, she figured. And yet, in her heart she understood that it was the only thing she could do. It would not help the king and his men anymore, but it might just save her family. Because sooner or later, she knew, whatever evil it was that was haunting the valley would come for them. Dreading the prospects of the task that lay before her, but knowing there was no way around it, she nodded, her eyes seeking the dark shadow of the cave.

“I will go at once. And I shall make haste, but I fear that we will not be as fast as the first time.”

Fárlorn gently ruffled her hair. Another blood-curdling cry rang out from the dark. She prayed it wasn’t the king. Hopefully, death would come to most them quickly.

“Nobody expects it from you. Just be careful. We do not want to lose you, too, Elana.”

Elana swallowed.

“And you... you be careful, too. I want to see you again when I return.”

“Do not worry. Come dawn, we will leave for the upper feeding grounds. Maybe they will not follow us there. I doubt there will be anything left of our herd to take care of by then.”

“Grandfather?” She exchanged a hug with the old man who had raised her like his own daughter after her parents had perished, and exchanged a nod with the others, before she finally turned to fetch a few supplies and climbed up to where Áriel was waiting for her.

***

            His dream had returned. If anything, it was even more detailed now, the crackling of fire more prominent, the smell of smoke more pungent. And something else had changed, too. There were people around. He could not see them, but their murmured whispers of which he could understand nothing clearly indicated their presence. Éomer tried to clear his throat and call out to them, but failed miserably. A moment later, he was glad he had, for the tone of the surrounding noise had changed from a blurred tapestry of sound to a deep, menacing growl. Yet it was not the growl of an animal, there was definitely something to it that gave him the impression of speech, of an actual language. Maybe, if he just paid enough attention, he would be able to understand. Yet before he was even able to summon his will to focus, the noise subsided to a distant hum, and blackness pulled him under again.

            “-their tents. It’s too -“

            A deep, distorted reply.

            “-must not kill them. Just gather them up and-“

            The two voices were close, very close, and loud enough to cut through the state of dreamy weightlessness he was floating through. Still a dream? He thought that this time, he had woken enough for this to be real.

The deep voice had a question, something short. He only understood the word “him” and instinctively knew that he was meant. He tensed, not knowing what to expect. Was this friend or foe? Would they finish him off or tend to his wounds? Because wounded he was, Éomer dimly remembered, even if he could not feel more than a distant throbbing reverberate through his otherwise numb body. He remembered the sudden, hard impact on his shoulder, and then the fall. Staring into the eyes of the severed Uruk’s head. The rest was blurred. Who had come to his aid? As much as he struggled, it proved impossible to open his eyes.

“Get the cuirass and the mail off him and carry him over. Carefully. I do not want him harmed in any further way.”

The concussion of two heavy steps next to his head, then the creaking of leather as someone knelt down. Two hands seized him less than gently. Inwardly, Éomer braced for the pain which - beyond doubt -  would result from any kind of movement and certainly from the removal of the pierced mail shirt, and would probably knock him out again. In this, he was quite correct.

***

            Despite knowing how long the way back would be, Elana rode hard for the first part of the journey. She wanted to get away from the screams of the dying and the overwhelming sense of doom and evil which had claimed the place she had so far only held joyful memories of. And she wanted to protect her clan. The first time, it had been about the horses. It had not for once entered her head that what took them, might just as well come for them, next. Now, the thought could no longer be left disregarded. They all were in danger.

            Knowing how exhausted her mare would have to be after the long way she had run over the last days, the young woman nevertheless pressed her heels into the animal’s flanks, urging her - pleading her, in fact - to speed up. This way, she saw what was lying in her way almost to late when they rounded another curve of the winding gorge. A huge dark shadow blocked her path, Áriel rammed her limbs into the ground, and Elana went flying over her head. Instinctively, she took position to land on her feet and roll, but the velocity of her fall sent her into a solid wall of rock, knocking all air out of her. She fell on her back, stunned. And stared at the huge pile of rocks which blocked the way.

***

            “He has slept long enough. Get it into him.”

            The voice made Éomer’s skin crawl. His seriously handicapped mind worked hard at placing it, yet for all the familiarity in it he was unable to put a name on it. His intense pondering was interrupted by the sudden feeling of his chin being seized and huge fingers digging into the side of his jaw, forcing it open. His nose barely had the opportunity to register a vile stench right in front of his face, when a hot, bitter liquid was poured into his mouth.

            “Drink!”

            The huge hand pressed against his chin with a force that almost broke his neck, and the stuff ran down his throat, causing his stomach to heave. A violent retching fit followed with the distinct notion of panic, since his mouth was still held forcefully shut even as the liquid began to rise in his throat.

            “Leave him!”

            Virtually at the last moment, the hand disappeared, and a few painful contractions sent the contents of his stomachs out - and the entire rest of his body into the most serious physical pain he had ever encountered!

            All parts of him seemed to wake simultaneously, and before Éomer was even able to yell, the combined thunder in his head, torso and leg flattened him to a point where the merest thought of catching his breath felt preposterous. His eyes snapped open.

            The first thing he saw was a huge, slightly deformed head of a Uruk-Hai captain directly in front of his face, close enough to bite off his head with the huge gaping jaws his species possessed. Its amber, glowing eyes seemed to burn right through him as the creature let out a guttural, menacing chuckle at the sight of its victim’s obvious pain. A wave of sickening stench assaulted the king’s senses and sent his stomach into new contractions.

            “Hail Éomer, king of the Mark,” a smooth, carrying voice belonging to someone he could not make out behind the huge form squatting in front of him said mockingly. “The last king of the Mark.” A short pause. Recovering from the retching fit, Éomer raised his head and his innards  turned into a block of ice, for he had finally identified the voice. Yet it could not be! “Leave us alone.”

            The Uruk growled his affirmation and came to his feet, and as he stepped to the side and made for the others further back, the young king of the Riddermark stared with widening eyes at the pale face of a ghost. A breathless moment where all evil this man had brought upon Rohan flashed in front of Éomer’s eyes, then his face contorted into a grimace of hate and rage, and his breath returned enough in order for him to spit out one word:

            “Gríma!”

***

            The dark counsellor of the late King Théoden took that last step which separated him from his prisoner and looked at the puddle next to Éomer.

            “What a shame. You should not have disposed of the potion I made quite so quickly. After all, it is the only thing that will keep you alive while you are my... guest.” Éomer’s eyes became narrow slits, sparkling with heartfelt contempt. Wormtongue’s gaze found back to him. “You know Uruks. They are half-orcs. They do not keep their weapons clean. Sometimes, so I have been told, they even like to smother their arrows and crossbow bolts deliberately with dirt or dung, so that even if the wounds they inflict on their enemies are not fatal in the first place, they will begin to fester almost instantaneously.” With his chin, he pointed at the black shaft protruding from the king’s shoulder and grimaced. “It is an ugly death. Messy.”

            “You are supposed to be dead! Word was that you were slain by halflings.” Even though Éomer was furious over the appearance of his nemesis of old, confusion still held the rule over him. How could it be? Had he himself somehow brought the slithering servant of Saruman’s back from his dreams? Was he looking at a ghost? It was something that his practical mind refused to believe. But then again, an army of ghosts had saved them on the Pelennor, so who was he to question the possibility?

            His profound consternation brought a thin-lipped smile to Gríma’s face.

            “Ah, I’m afraid those were nothing but a few well-placed rumours. You find someone who has a certain resemblance to yourself, you convince him to follow you... you kill him, put your old clothes and a few tokens people will recognise on him, and make sure he is found. All it takes then to make your own death a certainty to others are a few whispers into the right ears. Men are so easily brought to believe what they want to be true. And of course, the people of Rohan wanted to believe I was dead.”

            “And dead you will be, once and for all, once the people of Rohan are through with you,” Éomer fumed and struggled to sit up. Why couldn’t he feel his arms? “Only will your death be much harder now than if you had received it from the Halflings.” His arms were above him, chained to an iron ring driven into the rock. Numb. Useless. Gríma sighed.

            “I do not believe, my lord, that you are in a position to promise me any such thing.” Turning his back on his captive, Gríma motioned for one of the figures further back to bring him a chair from one of the tents. With a start, Éomer realised where he was, and his eyes widened. Had Wormtongue’s army of monsters killed the unarmed herdsmen? Hissing, he forced himself into a sitting position, even if the hammering pain in his head and torso worsened as a result of the movement. He had hardly settled back into a resting position when his foes’ attention was directed back at him.

“For the time being, my king, you are indeed at my mercy. I could have let them kill you on the battlefield, but I have some further use for you yet. I would not want to deprive you of the privilege of experiencing a lecture the people of Rohan had been coming for a long time.” He paused, an amused, yet distant smile on his face as he got lost in his vision for a moment. Éomer narrowed his eyes. “It was so easy to catch you.” The pale blue eyes with their differently formed pupils returned to him. “Far too easy. A shame in fact, considering how much your kind prides yourself of your strength and wits. I knew exactly what it took to draw you out of Meduseld.” Another meaningful break. Gríma leaned forward, taking on the challenge of his captive’s hateful stare. “You think by keeping the kingdom shut to strangers, to anyone different than you, you will remain a mystery to them. You think no one who is not of Rohirric heritage can figure out the ways your arrogant, racist, self-loving minds work, but you are wrong. It is painfully obvious to any creature which has a brain that there is nothing better than attacking your beloved animal friends to have you come looking for them, fuming for revenge. Your horses, which you deem higher of worth than actual Rohan-born folk who do not match the conception of what a decent man of the Mark should look like.”

“Your words are poisonous as ever, snake, and they are false! The people of the Mark know evil when they see it, and our contempt for you was well-earned from the start! Out of self-pity over not being able to acquire what you craved to possess, you joined forces with the White Wizard to avenge yourself. Éowyn would not look at you for she could see the evil in your heart, not because you are dark-haired! Because she rejected you, you decided to betray your own people to the death. I truly cannot think of a better definition of evil!”

Unfazed by the king’s outburst, Wormtongue continued, his eyes trailing off to the other side now with a malicious expression burning in them. When Éomer followed his gaze, he saw a large group of Uruk-hai, back-lit by the crackling fire, burying their faces in large pieces of meat one of the captains in the middle was handing out. He was glad it was too dark to see their blood-dripping, cruel features in more detail, but the mere thought of what it was they were eating sent an icy shudder through his spine. As if it had felt his glance, one of the creatures started towards them with a big, steaming spit in its hand. Gríma watched its approach and then directed his attention back at his prisoner.

“Is that so? Are evil deeds no evil deeds if the noble Rohirrim commit them? We should ask the people of Dunland what they think of this question. What had they done to you to be driven from their lands into the hills where life is almost too harsh to be sustained? Where innocent women and children die of hunger? You drove them away, and who would refuse to go willingly would be killed. Does this injustice not give them the moral right to hate and pursue you where they find you? How about this as a true definition of evil?”

“I will not discuss the Dunlendings with you, snake,” Éomer sneered. ”You know as well as I do what they did to make us turn on them in the first place.”

Gríma shrugged.

“I assume it all lies in the eyes of the beholder. Anyway, I was talking about the predictability of the smart, cunning Rohirrim: All I had to do in order to draw you out was attacking your precious meara-herd and make it look as if predators did it. Even though we slew so many of them in just one night that your conclusion should have been this was more than an ordinary wolf pack’s work, you were still arrogant enough to come here with only twenty of your men. I must say, I am disappointed. I counted on you to bring at least fifty.” He exhaled. “You would still have lost, but... as I was saying, it underlines the point I was making about your supposedly sharp-witted people: You greatly over-estimate your abilities. Your arrogance has no match in Middle Earth, except maybe for the Elves. To your foes, it is a very valuable character-trait.”

“You shall find that we ‘supposedly sharp-witted people’ will not tolerate the likes of you and your foul company in our land, snake! And if you underestimate our abilities, then all the better for us!” The Uruk had reached them, and Éomer watched in disgust as the half-orc passed the spit to its master. The pleasant smell of roasted meat was carried to him by the light breeze, but all it did to him was turn his stomach, as it was an easy guess where the meat had most likely come from.

His adversary had already taken the first bite and was obviously delighted by their captive’s disdain. Leaning forward on his elbows, he held out the spit within Éomer’s reach.

“You must be hungry. Would you like some?”

The answer was an amazing stream of ancient Rohirric curses not even Gríma had been familiar with so far. To drive his point home, Éomer then spat on the meat he was offered.

“I suppose this means ‘no’, then.” Wormtongue would have raised his eyebrows if he had any. Calmly, he peeled the spat-on chunk off and dropped it, then commenced eating. “Another point to my theory. Supplies are scarce in your land, people are dying from hunger, yet you refuse to reap the wealth of food in front of your eyes. Pity. It tastes delicious, and you will need to eat in order to get through the next days. You will need your strength... what is left of it.” Then his face lit as if a great idea had suddenly entered his mind. “Valar, what am I saying, of course we have not only horse-meat!” He furrowed his brow and held Éomer’s gaze. “Although I suppose you would like the other one even less... and the Uruk-hai would be very upset if I took it from their part of the prey. Uruks are not very fond of horse-meat, you know? They prefer a different taste.”

It took a moment for the terrible meaning of Gríma’s words to sink in. A moment where it became terribly clear to Éomer that he was the only one of his éored they had left alive. And a moment to envision what his foe’s grim company was doing to his fallen men right now further back. There were no words for the horror and rage he was feeling, not thinking, only doing. Enough rage to scream into the pale face in front of him and kick out with his chained feet, knocking the very alive ghost from the chair; enough even to make it to his feet and shove the agony his body erupted with into the background of his mind while he struggled with the chains. Fighting to reach his tormentor who crept backwards on his hands and knees, out of his reach, no matter how hard he struggled, and then got up.

“I’ll kill you, orc-scum! I’ll lay you open and feed your intestines to the pigs, I swear it!”

Another mighty tug, but the chains held, and not even rage was able to hold him on his feet any longer. His weak right knee giving way, Éomer tumbled to the ground.

Gríma was well aware of the fact that a few of his Uruk-hai had followed the quarrel from close-by, and now he motioned two of them to step up to him.

“Get him up!” Hissing another curse in the direction of his foe, the king was pulled to his feet and smacked against the rock with brutal force. “Hold his arms!” Wormtongue stepped closer, his expression turned from mocked amusement to deadly cold as he brought his face close to Éomer’s, his voice toned down to a deadly whisper which was hard to hear over the loud breathing of his two guards. “You are a wonderful example of the arrogant, proud and stubborn people of this land. You embody all virtues the Rohirrim look up to, and despise others for not having. You shall be an excellent object to teach them a valuable lecture before they’ll expire.”

“They won’t listen to a filthy worm!”

“ Oh, but they won’t have to listen. They will only have to look at you! And then they will see that - once denied your privileges and stripped of your shiny armour and the pomp of the Royal Court - you are not different from them: A simple, weak, over-estimated, under-smart... peasant! The free people will thank us for removing the population of Rohan from the face of Middle Earth!”

Éomer’s brow connected with his lower jaw unexpectedly, split his lip and broke off the two lower front teeth, and for a moment, the pain brought tears to Gríma’s eyes as he stumbled backwards. The fingers he carefully touched his mouth with came away bloodied, and looking up, he glimpsed the triumphant sparkle in the king’s eyes, even though his own head-wound was bleeding anew from the impact and the Uruk-hai at his side were almost breaking his arms as they pulled him back against the rock.

“You are bleeding, snake!”

It was but a step that separated them, and Éomer’s mocking remark was enough for Gríma to forget his own order as he took it and seized the black shaft of the crossbow to force it further in with the full weight of his body, finally succeeding in getting the first satisfying scream from his opponent. A violent jerk to the side, and as he slowly turned his wrist with his fingers still clenched around the bolt, he saw all signs of mockery or triumph gone and a familiar and very welcome glaze covering the dark eyes in front of him. Despite the experience he had just made, Wormtongue brought his face once again close to whisper into his half-conscious prisoner’s ear.

“Your people shall pay dearly for your stubbornness, Éomer-king. The lecture I will teach them will be one they shall never forget for as long as they live... even if I do not expect them to last the winter.” He retreated. “Release him!”

Darkness had claimed Éomer before he hit the ground.