A ROHAN GHOST STORY - Chapter 2

Elana was on her way back, yet she was making only slow progress. The way to Edoras had been blocked so thoroughly that passing the fallen rocks with a horse had seemed utterly impossible to her. She needed to think. There was more at play here than first met the eye. Sure, rocks tumbled down from the mountains occasionally. But exactly at the narrowest point of the canyon? With a precision that left no gap open to use, and only after the king and his éored had passed it in the afternoon to be now trapped along with everybody else? In her heart the young woman felt a deep-sitting fear that there was more to the happenings of the last days than the eye could see. A dread that her clan had been used in an elaborate scheme to - kill Éomer?

Shocked by the thought, a little gasp escaped her, and involuntarily her hands pulled on the reins and forced Áriel to stop. Her widening eyes directed at the dark path before her, it finally all came together in her mind. They were not dealing with animals at all! There had to be humans involved in this - after all, they had heard the sound of sword-fighting! Swords on armour, this is what the noise had been! Their precious meara-herd had been set up as a bait to lure their king into a trap - and her task had been to place his head in the sling!

‘Eru, no!’ It was an awful thought.

She had been fond of King Théoden’s nephew ever since the ceremony four years back. Éomer’s first horse he had done duty with since he joined the Rohirrim had been injured in a battle and was returned to their herd after having been healed to enjoy it’s last years. Thus, he had been in need of a new steed, and while Elana had been too intimidated by his stern and distant stance to approach him- all the more as he was standing amidst an entire group of new recruits and seasoned warriors, captains and marshals who all needed new horses - he had somehow spotted her in the middle of her kin, maybe because she had been the youngest one accompanying them on that day. Or maybe he had felt her stare. Either way, they had made eye-contact, and even though she had instantly lowered her head, there had been an intense heat flushing her face as if he had caught her doing something she wasn’t supposed to do.

And when she had finally dared to lift her eyes again and look out from under her eyebrows testingly, she had found to her surprise that his gaze was still on her, but some of the rigidity and harshness in his bearing seemed to have melted away, and there had been a smile on his face. Only the hint of a smile, in fact, so distant and with a faraway quality to it that it led her to believe it had not been her he had seen in the first place.

Eru knew what he had seen in her ragged, thin appearance. Sure, they had all dressed up for the event according to their tradition, but then again, her people were not known for their fancy dresses. All she had done was wash her hair and slip into her likewise freshly washed wool tunic, the white one with the embroidered horse silhouettes on it. Nothing special. And she remembered it had been windy that day, because her long golden hair had been pestering her, always blowing into her face and her eyes and her mouth no matter how often she attempted to stick it back behind her ears. Éomer, obviously, had been amused by it, for he had given her another funny look before he had followed the others into the valley to where the horses where.

Their eyes had met again after Firefoot had chosen him as his future rider, and this time, she had not averted her eyes, which had been sparkling with pride as he approached with the grey stallion, accompanied by her grandfather, the two men exchanging a few words before Fréod had finally nodded her way. Her little foal, her beloved, motherless little Firefoot, would be the king’s nephew’s new steed!

“Lady Elana?” He had called her a ‘lady’! She almost fainted. “Your grandfather here has just told me that you were the one who hand-raised this wonderful example of a meara-stallion. ‘tis true?”

For a moment, she had thought she would not be able to draw enough air into her lungs for a reply, and when the gift of speech finally returned to her, her voice sounded hushed and shy.

“Yes, my lord. He was always very special to me, and I hope, he will be special to you, too.”

She looked up, and her voice grew stronger with pride. “His name is Firefoot.” She made an awkward attempt at curtseying and felt her face flush to a deep, telling red. How embarrassing! Especially when she heard her hero’s laughter! Sullenly, she raised her head, inwardly wishing herself far away. But then Éomer had reached out to gently smooth another nasty strand of hair out of her eyes, and when she looked into his face she saw that his laughter was not meant in mockery of her.

“Do not look at me like this, Elana, daughter of the mearas! I apologise if I led you to believe even for a moment that I might have laughed at you. I most certainly did not. It is only that you remind me so much of my younger sister. She was just like you at this age - shy at first, but at the same time proud and wild... more interested in horses and fighting and adventures than giving a care for the manners of the court her royal surroundings were desperately trying to teach her.”

“Oh...” she had managed to utter, bereft of words, and feeling no less awkward in his presence. Sensing her discomfort with the situation, Éomer had then pulled his hand back and placed it on the neck of the dark grey stallion.

“You said ’Firefoot’ is his name.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“It is a good name. A strong name. He shall be as swift as fire and as terrible to our enemies. I thank you for raising him for me.”

It was a good memory, one she held dear to her heart. Which was why she had to find a way to help, even if the path to Edoras was no longer open. Her spirits sank with each of Áriel’s steps that took her closer toward the valley and the unspeakable horror it accommodated.

Standing at the place where the path forked - the left way leading southwest and deeper into the White Mountains, the right way leading back to their small settlement and the meara-valley - she urged her mare to stop and strained her ears. Nothing. No birds, no insects, no voices. Everything lay under a silence as deep as a death blanket. The thought made her shiver. What if all of them were already dead? The king... his men... and her clan? She had to find out, first!

Reluctant of leaving Áriel back, Elana pondered for a moment whether she should really tie her to a branch, or whether she could risk to let her wait right here, where rock would shield her from unfriendly eyes. She would rob the mare of her only chance of survival if she tied her up only to have her detected by some fell creature accidentally. Yet, she could not risk to have the mare make her way back to the uncertain territory of her family. Áriel was the last horse they possessed, their only means of calling for aid. She could not risk her life! So it was with a heavy heart that Elana decided to tie the young grey to a root still behind the canyon wall, out of sight - as she hoped - of the evil that roamed their lands.

Quick-footed, silent and careful, she then climbed up to the little path under an enormous outcropping which overlooked her family’s settlement. The sight of a huge fire ahead stopped her heart even though she was still a good distance away, and it took all of her will to stifle the cry that wanted to burst from her lungs. Their barn! Their winter supplies were burning! The enemy had moved on, indeed, and now her people were the next victims. Was her family still alive? Or was she looking at another massacre?

Hunching closer into the shadow provided by the rock over her head, she slowly advanced and noticed a great number of people moving between their tents and the fires. People? She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to see better, and the vague feeling that something was out of place with the way these shadows were moving made her skin crawl. They walked on two legs, yes, but - people? They seemed awfully tall... and broad!

Then one of the mysterious things below her bellowed and turned its head, and she fell flat on her stomach and hugged the ground, a violent trembling shaking her. She had seen the thing! It was not human! And it was no orc - she had seen an orc once, they were much smaller and no comparison to this hulking, sinister creature!

‘Valar, what are these monsters?’

Had it seen her, too? Would it come up here to bite her head off? And what had they done to her family? A guttural roar went up to her as she pressed her face into the sparse vegetation on the ground and her hands to her ears in the desire to disappear completely. Others answered the call, and soon the entire gorge was vibrating with the creatures’ wild cries to the point where even small rocks were starting to slide from the slopes.

‘They’ve seen me! They must have!’

Her heart thudded away in her chest in a frenzied beat, almost bursting her rip cage, as she carefully raised her head and - in spite of better knowledge -frantically searched for an escape way. But the path’s end was clearly visible in front of her, and there was just no way to make it over the rock blocking it without being seen from below.

‘Are they coming right now to get me?’

Anxiously she waited for some more long breaths, before the urge to look became unbearable. Incredibly careful, she raised her head behind the cover of a dry bush and peeked down. There was no frenzy among the monsters to climb up and catch her. Rather, they had turned their collective backs on her and went about their own business… whatever that business was. She didn’t particularly care to know, as long as it did not involve her family. Her family…

Narrowing her eyes, she spotted a group of people sitting and standing in the - indeed, in the pig pen. In the pig pen? Where were the pigs then? Trying even harder to see more, Elana could finally make out her grandfather’s face in the glow of the burning barn. He seemed to be uninjured. Likewise the others. Nobody was bleeding or limping, as far as she was able to see. All were tugging their shabby old furs around their bodies to protect themselves from the chilly night, and their expressions were frightened and worried, but it was a great relief to see them all unharmed nevertheless. A huge load fell off her back, but not for long. What was the intention of those things? Why had they rounded her family up like that? Just to burn their barn and kill their pigs? Surely, this alone was bad enough, but nothing against the fears in her mind she had climbed up here with.

A smaller figure, which was entirely clad in black, walked into her view from the right side, talking to those things, and Elana froze. Now, that was definitely a man! And the way the monsters behaved around him, he even seemed to be in command. Who was he? And why was he here? Letting her eyes stray a bit further in the direction he had come from, she detected a motionless figure sitting in a slumped position at the rock-wall, arms chained to the ring they used to tie their horses to, head hanging down in a way which suggested that the man - his broad, tall built betrayed his gender - was unconscious, if not worse. There was an awfully thick, black shaft protruding from his upper body, and even if the person wasn’t dead yet, the sight of it was indication enough that he would be very soon, if nobody helped him. Straining her eyes to find out who the man was, the girl suddenly felt an cold chill wander down her spine. She knew that tunic. None of her clan wore leather tunics, so it had to be one of the king’s men. The long hair hung into the man’s face and was partially plastered to it with blood, so she could not be entirely sure, but - she gasped. It had to be Éomer! Had to be!

Stifling a cry, she focussed harder on him, pleading for a movement. There was none to detect, but he had to be alive, or why else would they have chained him to the wall? Resting her eyes again on the arrow in his shoulder, Elana thought hard. It was hard to concentrate with the turmoil of clashing feelings she was caught up in - relief, shock, hope, pity… and at last, rage.

So it was indeed true: The whole time they had unwittingly been used in an elaborate sham to set the king captive. The thought of it made her feel bad and somehow… stained. Was there the mark of evil now on her? Or would she have a chance to redeem herself? Everything that had happened to the king and his men was her fault! How could she ever undo this? What to do? The way to Edoras was blocked. There was only just one way still open to her and Áriel - further into the mountains, across the higher feeding grounds. Directly the opposite direction. There were a few settlements on that way, too, but Elana was not sure how big their éoreds where, and whether they would be able to be of any help against these awful creatures. It was impossible to count them, the way they constantly moved around, but Fréod had taught her very early how to estimate the number of horses in their herd, and they were not partial to standing still, either. All in all, she figured there were around 200 of these ghoulish things down there. A lot. How was she supposed to get Éomer out of their grasp?

Below, two of the horrible black things roared at each other and started to fight over something Elana could not make out in the twilight. It was then when she realised that dusk lay not so far away anymore. Soon, it would be morning. She would have to come to a decision, and soon.

***

            “What have I told you, brother?”

            “To never challenge Wormtongue openly. I am sorry, Éowyn.” He held her pale face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs and saw the tears in his sister’s dark eyes. She was a strong woman, but she knew she would be truly alone from now on. Behind them, Éomer felt the threatening presence of the dark counsellor’s personal guards. They had granted him a very short moment to say farewell to Éowyn when she had intercepted them in his private quarters where he was packing together a few of his belongings, but that moment would soon be over. He had been banished from the hall of his fathers and forefathers, from the land he was born in. How had it come to that? “I had to try and wake Théoden with the proof I had gathered at the ford. I was hoping to get through to him. I failed.”

            “Let me come with you then! Do not leave me here!”

            It pained Éomer to see his younger sister so upset. He took her cold, delicate hands into his and hoped the urgency he felt was visible on his face.

            “Someone has to look after our uncle, Éowyn. We cannot leave him alone - all by himself - at that snake’s mercy. He is still our king! We must attempt to break this evil spell. And Théodred... someone needs to tend to Théodred. I know his wounds are grave and it is not looking good, but I do not want to grant Wormtongue the opportunity to sneak up and kill him. To poison or stab him, just to be rid of Théoden’s heir once and for all. It would not be below him to do so, you know that. And you don’t want for this to happen either, do you, sister? He is family. We have to protect him.” He squeezed her hands and bent forward under the pretext of giving his sister a kiss on the brow, but just before his lips touched her skin, he tilted his head ever so slightly and muttered in a low voice: “I will be back soon. I will gather all that are still loyal to the king, and when I return, we shall dispose of Gríma the usurper. Fear not, little bird. And be strong!” He kissed her and felt her hands squeeze his, then freeing themselves of his grip and pulling him close, not wanting to let go.

            “Marshal? It is time.”

            He ignored the stern voice from behind and looked down to lift Éowyn’s chin with a finger until she met his eyes. So much sorrow…

            “I know you are strong, Éowyn. We must not let him win.”

            “He won’t.” No more tears, but a desperate, haunted look which made Éomund’s son feel like a traitor to desert her. ‘But I am not the traitor, Gríma is! And he shall pay for it! For as long as there is a single breath left in me, I shall pursue his death!’

His sister’s short reply brought a ghost of a smile to his lips as he took a step back and let go of her, ready to follow the impatiently waiting guards. ‘Be strong, little one,’ his gaze told her wordlessly before he turned on his heels to leave. ‘I will be back!’

            “Don’t challenge Gríma! Don’t challenge Gríma!...”

            His sister’s voice reverberated through the pounding of his head as the king of the Mark finally came to, spit out into an early twilight by the same black flood which had pulled him under during the night.

            “Éowyn...”

            His sister’s name tasted bittersweet on his lips. She had always been smarter at this game than him. While both of them were equally passionate in their loyalty and protectiveness of their kin, Éowyn had somehow emerged as the shrewder strategist, not to mention the better diplomat. Better at keeping her thoughts to herself and her face unreadable, whereas Éomer had a reputation for his bluntness and hot temper. Unlike his sister, he was not adept at hiding his emotions well when he was angered. A deficiency, he had to admit, but yet something he had so far refused to work on. After all, his reputation as a hothead had served him well in his soldier’s life so far. Usually, people thought at least twice before they decided whether having the marshal’s wrath upon them was really worth the ill deed they were thinking of committing.

            “Gríma is too cunning. Too powerful. We cannot touch him yet. Do not challenge him openly, Éomer!”

            The stench of cold smoke reached his nostrils, and together with the images of a burnt-down Edoras from his dreams, it was enough to wake the king with a jolt. The voice from his dream faded to a the memory of a whisper in the first cold breaths of morning, too frail to resist grim reality. Two muscular, dark-skinned legs obstructed Éomer’s view of the proceedings around him, and he raised his head against the hammering pain behind his forehead with a sense of foreboding.

            “Drink!”

            A wooden cup was offered to him, and the stench rising from it told him it was the same potion he had been forced to swallow during the night. Already, his stomach heaved in anticipation of a repeat.

            “There are two ways we can do this, my lord,” Wormtongue`s oily voice emerged from behind the Uruk-hai’s broad back. As he stepped out of its shadow, Éomer saw to his satisfaction the damage he had done clearly on his adversary’s face - a blood-crusted, swollen lip and a dark bruise that covered his entire chin. Very well. At least he had some result to show for his own blinding headache. “One: You give up your resistance and drink this - and keep it inside - without trying to cause further problems to us, or two: You spill it like last night, you continue to be a nuisance, and we might have to kill one of your innocent kinsmen to teach you some respect for all the work that went into the potion that will ultimately safe your life - at least for some time. Choose wisely, Éomer-king!”

            Éomer cast a quick glance past the orc’s right side, from where he had picked up the notion of being watched. It was the face of the girl’s grandfather who was looking at him from behind in deep concern, and behind him, he could see the others. So they had left the clan alive so far. It was a relief, but not a great one. Wormtongue was not to be trusted. Surely he had only spared them for now to use them as a means to subdue their king. He hated to admit it was a smart approach. So it was with reluctance that he finally nodded.

            “I cannot promise you I will be able to keep it inside… but I will try.”

            The pale blue eyes in the white face became narrow slits as the dark counsellor taxed his’ opposite’s expression.

            “You better try hard, last king of Rohan. You know I will do it.”

            “Aye, I know…” ‘…you are vile enough to kill unarmed, innocent people, even children!’ Éomer wanted to add, but bit back at the last moment. Insulting Gálmód’s son further would not gain him any advantage in his current situation. For now, he would have to try to keep up his strength and be patient. Something the young king of the Riddermark had always found exceedingly hard to do.

            With a guttural grunt, the Uruk squatted down in front of him and pressed the cup against Éomer’s lips. Breathing shallowly through the mouth to escape the putrid smell, he emptied it with four deep swigs - and shut his eyes as a wave of nausea originating from his rebelling stomach threatened to overwhelm him.

            “Fight it,” Gríma said coldly. “You spit it out, it will cost you a man’s life… or a woman’s!”

            The bile had already risen half the way up his throat, burning like fire. He swallowed air to force it down, concentrated. And slowly but surely, the feeling began to subside until all that remained was a hot throbbing in his middle. Exhausted from the effort, Éomer finally looked up to his tormentor and saw the derogatory twitch in the corner of his mouth.

            “Very well. After all these years in your and your uncle’s service, this is the first true indication that the stubborn descendants of the house of Eorl can indeed be taught! I am very pleased with you.” He rubbed his hands together against the cold morning air and turned to go. “The potion will give you strength for the day. We will leave in one hour. Use it to rest.”

***

            It was as Wormtongue had said. A ghostly pale sun had barely begun its ascend in the sky and started to melt away the thick blankets of fog which still lay over the narrow valley, when they finally came for him.

            Cautiously leaned back with his good shoulder against the rock wall he was chained to, Éomer had been watching the Uruks’ preparations for the breaking of their camp for a while, his thoughts circling around the fate of the good people which had been rounded up in the pig pen like animals. There were many children among them. As much as he hated Gríma, the king refused to believe that his adversary would send his ghoulish army against them. Or would he? After all, no scruples whatsoever had stopped Gálmód’s son to plan genocide at Helm’s Deep!

            ‘Aye, but only because he would not have to watch them die there,’ he concluded, taking Wormtongue for a man who would rather try to avoid witnessing the carnage his actions implied. But what kind of ‘lecture’ was he speaking of? You could not teach lectures to dead people. An indication that the herdsmen would be allowed to live? If only he could believe it. Musing over Gríma’s motive in his mind, Éomer watched his enemy’s army getting ready to move. He was impressed against his will by the straight-forwardness of the Uruk-hai. Once told their tasks, they appeared to get to them single-mindedly and did not stray from them until they were done. Very efficient, very convenient for whoever would be leading them.

Still, one question remained unanswered: What was Gríma’s hold over them? Why did they obey a scrawny, not at all intimidating weakling of a man? Granted, Wormtongue was - in his own, twisted ways - fearsomely cunning and intelligent, but as far as Éomer knew the different orc-species, they did not care much for intelligence. To impose yourself upon them as their leader, you would have to make them fear you. It was hard to see how Gríma had accomplished that. And how he had managed to get a hold of them, first. To Éomer’s knowledge, all of Saruman’s Uruk-hai had vanished in the sudden rout after their defeat at Helm’s Deep. The Huorns of Fangorn had taken their revenge on them, a sight he had found hard to believe even though it had happened right in front of his eyes. Nowhere in the Riddermark had a single Uruk been seen after that incident, so it had been taken for a fact that they had all found death. Obviously, like Gríma’s assumed death, this also had been but a rumour, born out of hope. Out of hope, his ever vigilant kinsmen had let their guard down. It appeared that hope came with a very high price these days.

            Shifting his position, Éomer gritted his teeth as another bolt of agony travelled through his nerve-endings from his pierced shoulder - he knew it had been pierced for he could feel the iron tip of the bolt scrape over the rock behind him whenever he moved his back, and the backside of his tunic felt sticky and slick with blood. Gríma’s potion had brought part of his strength back, but it had also increased the amount of pain he was feeling from a dull throbbing to a thunderstorm of hurt which made it increasingly hard for him to focus. Despite the morning chill, his brow was already beaded with sweat.

The fleeting reflection of something bright at the rock wall opposite his position brought Éomer brought him back from his inner musings. What - the merest notion of a movement. The king narrowed his eyes in an attempt to make out what exactly it was that had caught his attention. Something grey and furry. Something that did not want to be seen. Straining even more, he concentrated on the spot behind the empty branches of a dried-up bush. And there it was again, just for a heartbeat - the notion of the first light of the day reflecting on golden hair. He shifted his view at once away from it, choosing to let his eyes rest on a pair of horses some wild-looking humans who appeared to be Dunlendings were loading with supplies, and his heart missed a beat. It had only been a brief glimpse, but since he had not seen Elana among her rounded-up family, he had already been worrying for the girl. Now he knew where she was, and where she was was even better than he could have hoped for!

Taking a care not to let the direction of his gaze betray the girl’s position to his enemies, Éomer’s eyes strayed up and over the outcropping he had seen her on again, this time accompanied by an urgent prayer.

‘For Eorl’s sake, Elana, take your horse and ride to Edoras! Raise the alarm! Call help!’

His lips formed a grim line as the king imagined how it would be to have Edoras’ Royal Guard and the majority of the remaining éoreds come to their aid and kill this orc-scum which soiled the ground of the Mark through their sheer presence once and for all. But he would not let them kill Gríma. Gríma... after all that writhing, stinking, poisonous snake had done to his kin and country, he would claim the privilege of bringing Rohan’s bane to justice entirely for himself - and this time, his death would be very real, and certainly not a merciful and quick beheading...

            Revelling in his thoughts of vengeance for a while longer, Éomer finally noticed the object of his violent reflections walking towards him with the two Uruk-hai captains that always seemed to accompany him. Not knowing what was to come, he tensed. The dark counsellor came to a halt in front of him and stared down taxingly while his hands played with a heavy-looking chain.

            “It is time, my lord...I hope you rested as I told you to, as this is going to be a very long, hard day, and it looks like you are not in the best of conditions, if I may say so.” A brief sparkle of malevolent pleasure accompanied Wormtongue’s words. He passed the chain to the creature to his right. “Put this around his neck.”

            For a moment, Éomer thought of resistance as he watched with wary eyes the Uruk squat down beside him. His pride forbade for him to suffer any slight through the hands of an enemy willingly. Giving in would be the first step towards giving himself up.

‘No! No use.’

It took a fierce effort to push the thought aside. There was nothing he could do, and fighting an impossible fight would only worsen his condition. There was no way of telling whether Gríma would grant him the opportunity for an escape attempt, but if it came, it would be foolish having to let it pass because he had no strength left to make use of it.  The metal band was closed around his neck with an audible sound which pierced his heart with its finality, yet Éomer refused to let his despair show. He looked up, jaw set, to the one who was holding the other end of the chain.

“What is your plan, filth? Where are we going?”

Pale blue eyes met his unflinchingly. Oh yes, Gríma enjoyed looking down on him for a change! What a triumph for him to finally have the one who had opposed him even during the days of his secret reign over Rohan on his knees, and at his mercy!

“You shall see soon enough, my liege. Now get up. And remember: Any kind of disobedience will result in the death of one of your kinsmen.”

The long hours on the cold ground had done their work to a point where the king found it almost impossible to follow Wormtongue’s order: His arms, chained to the rock for the entire night, were numb, his legs were stiff, and as soon he began to move his battered body, the real extent of the injuries he had sustained could no longer be denied by his stubborn mind When Éomer finally made it to his feet, he was drenched in sweat and his middle and upper body were throbbing like a rotting tooth. In addition, it felt as if all of Rohan’s blacksmiths were busy in the limited space between his ears, pounding their hammers into the delicate, soft matter inside his head in a steady rhythm to get out. It was a major achievement he had made it to his feet on his own, an accomplishment of his still iron will. Sooner would he die than let Gálmód’s son triumph over him.

“Bind his hands behind his back!”

The Uruk-hai grunted their affirmation and went to work; one seizing the king in a grip which would snap his neck if he put up resistance while the other one opened the chains around his wrists, only to draw back his arms and lock them again even tighter on his back. The pull on his bad arm drained the colour from Éomer’s face.

“You must be very afraid of me, snake,” he spat, not able to bite back his contempt any longer. “Your prisoner is injured and in chains, and still you choose to hide behind the broad backs of your Uruk-hai. They may be loathsome, vile creatures, but at least they possess courage, which is more than can be said of you!”

“You would be well councelled to keep that heated tongue of yours behind your teeth, my lord,” his adversary sneered in a low, dangerous voice. “Or shall I rather say, it would be in your kinsmen’s best interest? The Valar know I am in a charitable mood today, which is why I will not punish you for your words, but be warned that this may be subject to change if you continue in this fashion. I may not feel like burning the rest of this clan’s belongings, yet, but I dare not say how I might feel about it an hour from now. If you insist, I shall leave nothing but the black ashes of their tents behind.” He countered Éomer’s glare with a meaningful side-glance at the watching herdsmen.  

Again it was Fréod’s face which brought the king to his senses. Slowly tilting his head to the right against the Uruk-hai’s firm grip, Éomer found the eyes of Elana’s clan directed at himself, their faces full of fright and worry. Their destiny seemed to lie solely in his responsibility. They had already lost their winter supplies and their horses. If help did not arrive soon, they would have to starve. He would not have them suffer even more, like the loss of their shelter and their few possessions, only because their king was persisting on keeping his pride intact.

The surge of fury abated. He needed to keep a cool head. He could not afford to let others bleed for his rage. All his adult life he had been roaming the Mark in protection of his people, he would not burden his conscience now by becoming responsible for their misery. Even more so as the faces he was staring at appeared to be more concerned for him than for themselves. Sobering at the discovery, he exchanged a meaningful look with the clan’s leader.

‘Do not fear for me,’ his expression said. ‘I can hold my own.’ At least he hoped so. Gríma obviously did not want to kill him, at least not yet. This was a knowledge Éomer hoped he would be able to use to his advantage, even though he could not begin to think of a way just yet.

“The hour is getting late, my lord,” Gríma spoke into his thoughts, his courteous tone in stark contrast to the implied meaning of his words. “We must move, as your presence is being highly anticipated in other parts of your kingdom. We must not let your people wait.”

A broad hand pressed against Éomer’s back and pushed him forward towards a bay horse the two Dunlendings he had observed earlier were holding ready for him. The king’s heart sank as he took in the appearance of his new mount: Being of under-average height, the poor creature was severely underfed to the point where its rips were clearly visible through its dull hide, and the thin legs seemed barely fit to support its own weight. This was no steed to stage his escape with. Firefoot... he needed Firefoot, more now than ever. Even with his hands tied on his back and thus not being able to shift his weight to where it would not hinder his steed’s speed , Éomer was sure the grey stallion would have been able to carry him to safety and even outrun the two wargs he spotted now for the first time at the head of Wormtongue’s army. But such musings were useless. By the look of things, his trusted horse was lying dead among the rest of its kin further behind in the valley. He would have to find another way.

Not wanting to give away either his disappointment nor his true condition through his posture, Éomer straightened as he walked down the cordon between the patiently waiting Uruk-hai, his bruised and battered body crying out in pain. Roaring laughter rose as he briefly stumbled in the mud and almost fell to his knees. Insults were shouted at him. He blocked them out, instead focussing on the horse they were leading him to.  But then something shiny tumbled into his path, and he could not help himself, he had to see what it was. The sight of a blood-spattered, pierced cuirass froze his blood. He recognised it instantly, and a different kind of pain assaulted his senses. Éothain, his trusted marshal and brother-in-arms of many years... Léod, the 19 years-old, keen-eyed scout he had moved into his personal éored only shortly after his return from Gondor... all the others... all were dead. 19 men had been gruesomely slain last night, 19 of Rohan’s best warriors. The last man standing - was him. The question was for how much longer.

Something hit him in the chest and fell to the ground to the rising roar of the surrounding creatures: Éothain’s helmet. And another one. A third one. Éomer closed his eyes, not wanting to see the devastating hail of his dead soldiers’ belongings. Another helmet hit his thigh, then, suddenly, a sharp voice rang out.

“Enough! We have much ground to cover today, and we need to move! I know you are impatient to pay him back for the massacre which has been committed against your kind! There will be a time for your vengeance, but it is not now. Seat him on the horse, and then we shall be on our way. Rohan is waiting for us!”

They lifted him onto the saddleless horse, an action which alone was an insult to any self-respecting Rohirrim, and fastened a second chain to the iron collar around his neck, the end of which was fastened to the saddle of the guard to his right, another blow to the king’s feeble last remainders of hope. He was secured from two sides now by chains, his weak horse bound to a third guard in front of him, and his hands tied on his back. Gríma Wormtongue was too cunning to take any chances with his valuable prisoner. If he was to escape from his foe’s grasp, something unexpected would have to happen. His eyes again sought out the outcropping where he had seen the girl earlier, but there was nothing left to see for him. He hoped she was already on her way to Edoras.

A rising roar woke him with a jolt as the Uruk-hai screamed their affirmation to their master’s command, so powerful, it shook the surrounding mountains. The guard in front of him spurred his horse, and Éomer’s own steed broke into a well-paced trot, followed by a host of running orcs. The last thing the captured king saw before the winding path blocked his view was the image of the frightened herdsman in front of their burnt-down barn.

***

            Elana sat in silence on the ridge high over her clan’s invaded settlement, a place she had carefully chosen. Where she was sitting, the wind was blowing into her face and the wargs she had seen would not be able to pick up her scent, and Áriel was back in the secret cave. Deep in thought, she watched the host of nightmare creatures break camp and take the king with them. What was she supposed to do now? The burden which lay upon her back was the hardest she had ever felt.

The way to Edoras was blocked. There was no way of clearing the fallen rocks with a horse. For the same reasons, she could not use the two mountain paths in the valley. Which led her to the question of how their enemies had managed to bring their own horses with them. Was there a way somewhere, some connection through a secret cave nobody knew of? It was hard to believe. Still, she could not afford to lose valuable time searching for it. The way the young woman understood the situation, there were really only two paths of action open to her, and both involved going the same way the enemy went, as there was no other way out of the meara-valley. Of course, since the path was winding almost directly westward through the Ered Nimrais, it also meant that each step would take her further away from Edoras - and capable help.

 She could ride ahead of Éomer’s captors and alarm the settlements which lay on the way, but it would be a risky course of action. She could not be sure about where they were headed, yet, and in the course lose them. And if she knew one thing, then that their young king would die if help did not arrive soon. Any delays in his rescue would come at a very high price.

Which turned her thoughts towards the second risk: She knew not how large the other settlements’ éoreds were. The nearest one, situated one and a half day’s journey further west was not big. Sometimes, her family had taken the trip to celebrate Midsummer with their kinsmen, but as far as Elana remembered, she had never seen more than fifty people at that place, women and children included. While a full éored consisted of 120 riders, only Edoras and a few more settlements in the Westfold were populated enough to both man and equip them. As most of the others were basically self-contained when it came to their protection - a tribute to their often extreme remoteness - it was possible for an éored to consist of no more than ten men. Hardly enough to fight the enemy they were faced with.

And there was another risk: With the winter wind mostly blowing from the west, the wargs - and maybe those horrible dark things, as well, would be able to pick up her scent.  Áriel was fast and could probably outrun a warg, but the idea of one or even two of these huge, savage predators on her heels made her very afraid. There had to be another way.

So, what else could she possibly do? Ride after them, keep out of their sight and reach and observe... until she was sure which way they were headed? Was this the way to go? It sounded awfully passive. Like cowardice. She did not like the feel of it at all. But as she glanced down again into the quickly emptying gorge below her, she understood that it was the path she would have to go down at least for the first part of the journey. It was too late by now to ride ahead. She would wait a little, and then follow the broad track they would inevitably leave at a safe distance.

***

The sun had passed its highest point in the sky behind the mighty peaks of the White Mountains, but its bright face could no longer be seen from below. A thick layer of dark, rain-promising clouds had - around midday - first assaulted the light, and shortly afterwards, a slight, uncomfortable drizzle had started to fall down. The Uruk-hai, of course, did not mind. They did not mind cold, or heat, or pain; they knew no fear, nor fatigue, nor exhaustion. They had already been running for the better part of the day, putting the leagues behind them without a single break. If anything, the horses would probably need a break before they would.

Éomer had experienced the legendary stamina of the White Wizard’s creatures before, but only now, as he observed them more closely in order to find a possible weakness to the tough, ferocious fighting-machines, did he notice just how bad his situation really was. All in all, he estimated Gríma’s army consisted of somewhere between 150 and 180, most of them Uruks and a few Dunlendings between them. His éored had undoubtedly done some damage, but even so, it would take a massive force to pose a serious threat to his captors. He knew that one of his marshals, Elfhelm, had to be somewhere in the region they were travelling through. He had left Edoras about three weeks ago to inspect the progression of the repair work at Helm’s Deep and to see how things were at Isengard further to the west. If he was lucky, they’d run into him and his éored. Yet Éomer also remembered clearly enough that - due to the post-war lack of men and horses - Elfhelm had only taken about fifty riders along with him when he left. Not nearly enough to take on a battle with Wormtongue’s Uruk-hai.

Inwardly sighing to himself, Éomer redirected his gaze from the steady up and down of broad, dark backs in front of him to the surrounding landscape. They had reached the high plains of the Westmark and continued west on one of the main mountain roads. If they did not change direction, they would reach the Gap of Rohan in about three days. The chance that Elfhelm and his men were still around was not that small. Against better knowledge, the king found himself occasionally scanning the distant hills for the uplifted tips of spears.

Another thought entered his head and added to the chill the slight drizzle had planted into his body: A number of smaller settlements lay along the way they were taking. Gríma appeared to deliberately avoid the larger ones, which would be armed well enough to put up resistance and maybe cause him problems on his way. The ‘lecture’ he had been talking about... it  would no doubt be brought as a punishment to the unprepared clans of the remote Westfold, first, the nearest of which they would reach in about another day’s journey. What did Galmod’s son have in mind? A massacre as a humiliation of his foe? To demonstrate how truly powerless he was? The thought alone made the king shudder. What could he do to prevent it?

Not having anything else to brood over or occupy his mind with, Éomer shifted his attention to the horse which was carrying him. It appeared to be a simple beast, no pureblood Rohirric war-horse with meara-blood in its veins, but then again, its trot was swift enough and it did not flinch from the vile running creatures which surrounded them, a credit to the animal’s courage. There were few horses which could endure the presence of both orcs and wargs, their worst natural enemies. Maybe it was a better steed than he was giving it credit for. Maybe... maybe it would prove useful for him, yet, if the opportunity for an escape would present itself.

‘And how likely is that?’ the voice of reason within the back of his mind sneered. ‘With two guards holding on to the chain around your neck, your hands tied on your back and neither saddle nor bridle to direct your horse with, which - lastly - is also bound to the one in front of you! If you want to escape, you might have a better chance to wait for the night and sneak away in the darkness.’

Right. Éomer harboured no doubt that Gríma would find something to chain him to for the night, and sneaking away from two patrolling wargs and a host of Uruk-hai would be a deed worthy of many songs. A deed he could hardly hope to accomplish. No, his only hope lay within the animal which was carrying him. The question was how responsive it was. Having been on horseback ever since before he could properly walk, Éomer, like all Rohirrim, knew that given normal conditions, he would be able to direct a horse of Rohirric upbringing simply through use of his legs and bodyweight, and his own sense of balance would not let him slip from its bare back even at a full-speed canter. He possessed the necessary level of riding skills. But what about his steed?

Casting a secret glance at the surroundings guards, the king found to his satisfaction that the long, steady-paced journey seemed to have lulled them into a stupor, for they did not appear to pay overly much attention to their prisoner and were lagging a bit behind.  Very well.

Very lowly, too lowly almost for his own ears, he began to hum, a soothing, calming sound in pace with the animal’s steps. His efforts were rewarded with a first, slight twitch of the bay’s ears, first one, then the other. It heard him. It was paying attention. A very slight smile tugged at the king’s mouth, but he strangled the life out of it with a quick look at Wormtongue’s dark silhouette further ahead. The animal was listening. Very well. A few low clicks with his tongue, and both brown ears turned backwards, in fact the horse was almost turning its entire head now.

Time to take the next, slightly more difficult step. He had to be subtle about this. If the horse responded too rashly to his efforts, his enemies would know at once what he was up to and think up further measures to make his escape impossible.

‘You will not betray me, will you, horse of Rohan?’ he thought - and applied pressure to the beast with his right thigh. A simultaneous, subtle shift of his weight - and his steed responded. Only with a slight change in direction, very accidental-looking to the surrounding guards. Except it wasn’t! Excitement took a hold of Éomer as he repeated the whole procedure to the other side. And again, the inconspicuous animal performed flawlessly and confirmed to the man it was carrying that it had indeed once been the mount of a capable rider. Not of a Rohirric soldier, because it was too short to be used in battle, but a person experienced in the art of becoming one with his horse. It knew helps and orders given in the subtlest ways, even without saddle or bridle. The only question still open was the one concerning its speed and endurance. There were only four other horses among Gríma’s army as far as he could see: One belonging to the dark counsellor himself, and three more to the guards around him, which looked suspiciously like Dunlendings to Éomer. Dunlendings - since when could they ride? They would be no match for him, and their steeds didn’t look much better than his own. Gríma - would probably not chase after him if he ran. His adversary was smart enough to know that he could very quickly turn from hunter to prey if only the slightest chance for revenge would present itself to his prisoner, and even with the bolt in his shoulder, Éomer was sure he had what it took to kill Wormtongue single-handedly. That left as main obstacle the two warg-riders. He knew from experience that wargs could - at a short distance - outrun almost every horse. Would the small bay horse he was sitting on be able to stay ahead of them over a distance of maybe half a league?

‘How big is your heart, my friend? Big enough to carry us both to safety?’

            Picking up his humming again, Éomer watched with silent satisfaction the effect on his steed. He could be mistaken, but it felt more relaxed under him. A quick glance to both sides. The guards were still not paying attention, and the level of noise from the grunting and panting Uruk-hai seemed loud enough for him to switch to a very low, Rohirric chant which barely required him to move his lips. The horse snorted and held now both ears constantly in his direction. Its movements became soft and fluent under his weight. It was his now for the taking. Inwardly cursing about not having his hands free to stroke the animal’s neck and thus confirming their newly-formed bond as he did with each horse he broke in, Éomer’s thoughts returned to one of the few happier memories of the last years before the war, a memory tied to the same place they were riding through right now...

“I can tell there is something on your mind, brother. Why don’t you tell me?” Eowyn’s face was flushed from the onslaught of the cool wind as she slowed down the bay mare from a breathtaking canter to a trot, and finally, to a walk. The animal was breathing hard after the race, but the way it proudly held its head and tail up high, she could tell it had enjoyed the wild chase as much as its rider. Riding bareback, with the feeling of the mighty muscles moving below her and with nothing to hold on to but the long flowing mane, the experience had been as close to actually becoming one with her steed as possible, and the rush of excitement was still making her reel as she turned around to face her brother, her long, golden hair flowing like a banner in the wind, wild and free. “What is it, Éomer? You did not expect to lose, did you?” She laughed.

Éomer looked at her in wonder, his heart suddenly aching with overwhelming love he felt for his younger sister. ‘I should take her along more often,’ he thought, unable to take his eyes from Éowyn’s radiant smile. A sight he had not seen in months, if not years. Her whole body language had changed from the stiff, tense bearing she always displayed at the Golden Hall to that of a young, carefree woman with a hunger for life. ‘Far away from that snake’s influence. The poison of his sick mind cannot touch her out here.’ He returned her smile and directed Firefoot alongside her mare.

“I do not envy you the triumph, dear sister, but you won because you are by far the lesser burden to your steed,” he teased her good-naturedly and allowed his stallion to bump into the slender bay’s side. “But even so, I have to agree that the mare appears to be a good pick. A suitable birthday present for the White Lady of Rohan, even if its colour is wrong.”

She sighed theatrically.

“When will the day come when my proud brother, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, will honestly admit he has been beaten by a woman at a fair game?” she laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Tell me, will I live to see it?”

“You may, but ‘tis was hardly a fair game,” he gave back, cracking a big, brotherly grin at her. “Let us ride back, stuff you into the heaviest armour we can find and load a few bags of sand on your horse’s back as well. Then we repeat the race and shall see who emerges as the winner.” She groaned and moved as if to hit him, but of course, he blocked her and seized her wrist in an iron grip. “Now, this would be a game you would most definitely lose at, sister. But I would not call this fair, either. Only this time, it would be your disadvantage.”

“Maybe so, but I could beat you with the sword. You know I have won in battle against several men of your éored already.”

“I must admit that I heard about this rumour.” He let go of her wrist, and even though he had been gentle, Éowyn pretended she had to rub it to renew the flow of blood to her fingers. “But even so, there is a reason why I am their marshal.” The grin was back. No way would he have his younger sister win a battle of words on his own turf. “You could not beat me, and I suggest you do not try, for I would not want to crush my sister’s high spirits before we return to Edoras.” At the last moment, he realised his mistake and bit down hard on his tongue, but it was already too late. The shadow of dread had already returned to Éowyn’s face and caused the smile to drop from her face so quickly and thoroughly that it seemed to have been but a brief illusion of happiness. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Éomer frantically sought for a way to undo the harm he had done, but it was her who spoke first.

“Éomer... I don’t want to go back to Edoras.” The sight of his sister’s dismay pierced Éomer’s heart. “I cannot tell you how much I dread it, this feeling of foreboding and decay... the oppressive silence in the dark halls...” Her eyes stared into the void. “Our uncle’s illness... the descent of our kingdom... and the haunting echoes of his steps... I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”  She finally turned to look at him, her gaze pleading.  But what could he do?

“Éowyn... you know I have to leave for the northern borders very soon, and I cannot let you stay here unprotected. There are too many fell things going on in the Mark these days, and most of the times, it is the smaller settlements which fall prey to them. At least you will be safe at Edoras. I doubt they are feeling strong enough yet to attack us there.”

“I would rather fight a host of orcs than face the evil which is ruling Meduseld,” she rebuked hardly, and her tone did not leave him any other choice than giving it back. “You cannot imprison me in this tomb for the living forever while you take every chance to flee from it yourself!”

His eyes flared up in sudden anger.

“Flee from it? Our people need protection, sister, that is why I’m constantly gone! Do you not think I would rather stay and fight that snake in our own halls to keep him from spilling his poison across our lands?”

She did not flinch under his hard stare.

“But you expect me to fight that fight, and all alone, too!”

“No, Éowyn! I expect you to take care of our uncle, not to fight Gríma. And I expect you to stay out of harm’s way until we can concern ourselves with him. Is that so hard to understand?”

“I do not wish to be left behind like a child or weak, old woman every time the men ride out to protect our country! I have proven myself to be a good rider and fighter, and Rohan is in dire need of those!”

“We will go back tomorrow like I said. And I will say no more.” He brusquely turned Firefoot around. “It will be dark soon. Let us go back.”

“You are thinking of her...”

Wormtongue’s voice spoke into his brooding and pulled him back into the grim reality. Éomer tensed and felt his stomach twist into a knot, his usual reaction to the dark counsellor mentioning his sister. Éowyn’s harsh words were still in his mind, even more vividly now with Rohan’s bane riding so close to him. He had to fight to keep a bland face. He did not want to show his foe how close he had hit to the mark.

“I can see it in your eyes. I am thinking of her, too, sometimes. Quite often, in fact. But I believe my confession is hardly a surprise to you.”  Gríma had reined in his horse until he had fallen back far enough to talk to his prisoner. A gesture ordered the guard on Éomer’s right side to fall back for as far as the chain let him. Now they were almost riding side by side... like good friends. The thought sickened the king, and Gríma’s words caused his blood to boil to a point where he found it impossible to further ignore him. Too much in fact to even be able to cast more than a brief glance over out of the corners of his eyes without trying to find a way to strangle him even with bound hands. When he finally found his voice for a reply, it sounded cold and hard like steel.

“She is out of your reach, snake. You can do whatever you want to me, but at least she won’t have to endure your lecherous looks anymore. Just the thought of you used to make her sick.” His eyes remained fixed on a group of leafless trees up ahead.

To his surprise, Gríma smiled. Not looking at his adversary, Éomer did not see it, but he heard it nevertheless.

“And you would be the one who knew how she felt about me.”

‘Just what is he insinuating?’

Éomer snorted.

“Everybody knew. She wore it out on her sleeves. If you failed to notice, it was probably because in your greedy mind, you already possessed her! You never had a care for how she was feeling about you, because Saruman would have given her to you either way. And to bend her to your will, you would probably have subdued her with the help of one of your potions.” It was a frightening thought. He looked over. Strangely enough, Wormtongue was still smiling, but it was not the malicious expression he had expected. A faraway, wistful shadow lay on his pale features before he turned to face the king.

“Her will? What do you know about her will? You were never there to hear the bitter words she was speaking to herself in her loneliness; a wild, free spirit stuck in a cage by the traditions of your people and the stubbornness of her own brother! I was drawn to her because of that spirit. Not in a thousand years would I have tried to destroy it.”

Éomer’s brow furrowed. He had been ready to shoot back with an acid reply to any of Gríma’s rebukes, but this confession caught him off guard - all the more as it sounded perfectly honest.

‘You know he’s always been a master of words,’ he reminded himself. ‘Do not fall prey to his subtle insinuations!’ But even so, he could not prevent himself from feeling a sharp pang of guilt as he thought about the counsellor’s accusations. It was true: When - after becoming a warrior at the age of 16 - had he ever been there for Éowyn for longer than a mere few days, except for the period where an injury he had sustained in battle had forced him to withdraw from active duty for an entire summer? His éored had been constantly on the move in protection of the eastern borders of the Mark, and through his skill and dedication he had climbed up the hierarchy so fast that he had soon made himself indispensable, a valiant, skilful warrior with a fierce sense of loyalty.

Some would have said he was a driven soul, someone who searched for valour in battle because he was lacking elsewhere. And as much as he would have objected to the notion in the presence of others, Éomer knew that deep down inside it was probably true. Ever since the death of their parents when he had been but a boy, he had been running away... from the feeling of loss, his own inability to deal with the situation, to stand up to his inner feelings. Instead, he had tried to fill in for his father - an eleven year old boy fiercely watching out for his seven year old sister. Never allowing anyone to get too close and hurt her. She had been the only family left to him, and at his mother’s deathbed he had sworn himself to protect her any way that he could, whether it meant by defeating their enemies on the battlefield or by keeping her out of harm’s way at Edoras.

Gríma’s head turned around to finally face him. Something in his face twitched as he recognised the result of his words in his prisoner’s expression.

“Yes, it was you who put her into the cage... you and your uncle.” It was uncanny how that snake seemed to be able to look right into his head and read his mind. Stubbornly, Éomer stared at the broad back of the Uruk-hai in front of him. “By over-protecting her. By making her feel useless, and weak. Someone who could not hold her own. You never acknowledged her riding and battle skills. Sure, you practised with her, you saw how good she was and how much she craved to join you in your constant fight, but every time the Rohirrim rode into battle, you ordered her to stay behind like some old woman. And when she finally pleaded to be allowed to ride with you, you looked at her as if she had lost her mind. And maybe she had.”

Éomer’s head snapped around.

“Watch your tongue, snake, or-”

“Or what?” Gríma did not flinch under the dark, diamond-hard stare. He had the king where he had wanted him all along - had pried his fingers deeply into his most vulnerable spot. Oh yes, the potion worked. One of his favourite recipes. One that had worked wonders on the late King Théoden, as well. At first, it seemed to lend the fatigued patient strength, but once the body had broken down this ingredient of the potion, the ensuing weakness would be even worse than before. And then there was the other part of it, the one that kept the mind of the unsuspecting victim wide open to suggestions of any kind...“Do you remember that incident from four years back, you had just received your first serious wound in a battle and had to drop from active duty for quite a long period...”

Éomer’s eyes became narrow slits.

“What about it?”

“What would you say if I told you that your sister was envying you? Of all the attention you received, the concern of your people and the honour that went with having survived a battle where chances had stood against you. She would have traded with you in a second and gladly accepted the price, but since she was denied that possibility, she thought that the pain served you right. In her eyes, you had been punished for the way you treated her. In her mind, your enemies had avenged her! What would you say?”

“I would call you a liar, just what you have always been. A sick creature that thrives on the misery of others and enjoys to enhance the other’s hurt by whispering your poisonous words into their ears.” There was a cold fury in the king’s voice, but no conviction. He was definitely making progress. Oh, this was delightful!

“But it is the truth.”

“Coming from your lips?” Éomer spat. “Say what you will, it is something your twisted brain has conceived. It has nothing to do with the truth. Even if Éowyn had harboured such feelings, she would have never told you. She would rather have told me.”

“You are wrong, for she did tell me.” Gríma allowed himself a sly smile. “Right there in your room, actually. You were sleeping, and she was tending to you when I entered the room to find out for the king how you were faring. We had just heard the healer’s news that you were likely to recover completely in the course of time. Very good tidings, I deemed, especially for your sister... but her expression was not joyful when I entered. It was... rather sad. I asked her why, and so she told me.”

Éomer could not think of a reply. His mind seemed to be void, shocked into numbness. Éowyn - having taken delight in his pain - and confiding in their greatest enemy about it? It could not be! But he could not think clearly anymore. It had to be one of Wormtongue’s lies. If only he could have been sure!

Sensing the growing distress his prisoner was in, Gríma bent forward in his saddle to whisper with great confidentiality: “It appears to me that I know more about your sister’s secrets than you, her brother and only family. Tell me, Éomer, king of Rohan, if you think you two are so close, how can this be? How can a man that you thought your sister despised as much as you have access to all of her secret wishes and desires, whereas you - the brother who swore to keep her from harm - have not?” He paused and waited for a reply, but it was very clear that his words had stunned the king into silence. “You do not know? Well, I believe I should give you the time to think about it, then. We shall continue our talk about your beautiful and enigmatic sister tonight. Maybe you will have found some answers until then.” He spurred his horse and went to reclaim his place at the top of the procession. The seed had been planted. Tonight, there would be more of the potion. Slowly but surely, Éomer of Rohan’s mind would be pried open - and then corrupted until his vengeance would be complete. If he did this right, the king would die by his own hands...

***

            The darkness was almost complete. The blackness of the new moon lay like a silken blanket on the land and even the comforting faces of the stars were veiled from searching glances by a layer of clouds. Sky, mountains and the ground, all was one in the middle of the darkest night Elana had ever encountered.

            Never since her parents had perished nine winters ago - her father in a warg-attack, her mother from a fever - had she felt so utterly alone. Sitting here in the middle of nowhere with her back to the wall with no one to talk to, no one to confide in and no one to give her courage, she wondered whether she was really doing the right thing. Her family was thinking she was on her way to Edoras, when instead she was following Éomer’s captors. Her family was thinking she would bring them help, and food - something they would especially need very fast with their winters supplies gone. What if anything happened to her out here? What if one of the wargs that travelled with these nightmarish creatures patrolled the night and found her sitting here, unsuspecting? What if it was watching her right now?

            ‘Nay, it isn’t,’ she admonished herself, stuffing the last bite of the flat cake she had taken along as provision into her mouth, her gaze wistfully resting on the small, flickering dots of fire she could see in the distance, the campfires of their enemies. How much she longed for a little more light and the comforting warmth of a campfire. But it would require an act of utter stupidity to build one herself for every foe to see. ‘Stay calm. Áriel would smell them if they were close, wouldn’t you, Áriel?’ She turned her head and looked lovingly at the ghostly pale appearance of her horse which was peacefully grazing close by.

            “Áriel?” Stretching her legs, Elana scrambled to her feet and walked the few steps over, hungering for a little warmth and comfort. The mare lifted her head at her approach, but stayed still and allowed her to lay her arms around the slender neck. Maybe she was feeling just as lonely as she did, out here in the darkness with none of her kin present, with no shelter from the falling rain and blowing wind. Winter was approaching fast, and with nothing to eat, how should her clan survive it?

            Survival... she wondered how Éomer would spend the night. Would he even survive it? What if the arrow had hit something vital, or had been poisoned, what if he had lost too much blood? Her hands moved in circles over the muscular, warm neck of her horse, and the touch of a living, breathing creature soothed her anxious mind for a moment.

‘He is a warrior, he is strong! One arrow cannot be enough to kill him. Of course he is still alive!’ ‘- But you saw the things that captured him! What if they only took him with them as live food?’

Valar, what a disgusting thought! They had not killed her family, so they would surely not eat the king! Elana was dismayed by the awful thoughts which assaulted her from that pit of her very active imagination. It had to be the darkness that spawned them. Everything looked better in the daylight, and come dusk, she would ride in a great circle around their foes and make for the nearest settlement. After one day of following them, she was certain now that this was the place the darkly clad man and his army were headed for. She would warn them and tell them to get ready to free their king.

‘Will they believe me?’

She had no time to follow that thought further, for her horse had suddenly stopped grazing and stood now like a statue, listening, eyes wide, nostrils flared, drinking the wind. Elana’s heart skipped a beat. What was ailing her mare? Desperately trying to pierce the darkness in front of her, she stood at the horse’s side, ready to jump on its back at the first sign of trouble, her nerves tingling. Even then, if it was the wargs, it would probably be too late. She knew how fast the orc-wolves were. In order to outrun them, you needed a good head start. So what now? Run? Not run? Standing there under the black sky, electrified and fully expecting to see the sparkle of the predators’ eyes in front of her every second now, Elana almost screamed when her mare suddenly gave a low, short snort and then whinnied.

“Ssh, Áriel! Quiet!”

And then she felt it, too, the concussion of heavy steps on the ground, a rhythmic noise coming closer. Someone was approaching them fast. But who? Friend or foe? Before she could think of anything to do, her mare started forward with a muffled neigh, her neck proudly arched, just as a tall grey figure materialised from the blackness in front of her, unreal like a vision: A great, muscular horse, easily twice Áriel’s size, was moving towards them in an majestic, powerful trot meant to impress; its grey hide marred with many dark stains. Threateningly throwing its massive head and then arching the strong neck, it finally rammed its hooves into the ground and - half rearing - came to a stop to taste their scents with widely flared nostrils, its eyes rolling menacingly, daring them to move closer. There was no rider on its back, nor was there a saddle, but it was wearing an artfully crafted bridle Elana had seen before. The sight of the great stallion robbed her of her breath.

“Firefoot!”

***

“Food, my lord. You need to eat!”

The pleasant smell of roasted meat woke Éomer from the daze he had been spending the last hours in ever since they had raised the camp for the night. Not surprisingly, he was still chained to the tree, more hanging than sitting and unable to lie down even though he felt too weak by now to stay upright. All strength he had miraculously possessed after what had happened to him just one night before, and which had enabled him to spend the entire, long day on horseback without needing support, had deserted him now and left him feeling hollow and feeble as if in the claws of a terrible illness. His shoulder was a fiery pit of molten agony, and yes, he felt feverish, too, his teeth clattering with cold one minute before the sensation of burning up flushed through his body and made him break into a sweat in a steady change.

It took a huge effort just to raise his head as the spit was once again held in front of his face. Somewhere behind it hovered Gríma’s pale face. Not wanting to look at his adversary, Éomer shut his eyes tightly.

“Curse you, snake...” He had meant to shout it, but was unable to summon the necessary power. Even a sneer seemed to cost too much strength in the state he was in. He could not even spit on the offered meat like the night before, as his mouth was as dry as desert sand. Another shudder ran through his body. His constitution was deteriorating frighteningly fast.

“But you have to eat, my king. You see where your stubbornness has gotten you.” Wormtongue shook his head in mock compassion. “Where should your strength come from if you starve yourself? The potion alone will not sustain you for long, I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid?” Éomer opened his eyes, for a moment seeing two blurred Gríma’s in front of him, rather than the real man. “What do you still need me for, anyway?”

"You won't have to wait much longer now to find out, son of Éomund. Tomorrow around midday, you shall know more." Gríma paused and held out the spit once more, but his prisoner just turned his head to the side and shut his eyes again, uttering an involuntary groan as the movement sent another bolt of pain through his right side. "You don't want to eat. Well, I'm gonna have mercy on you for now, seeing how this whole business I'm putting you through has certainly damaged your appetite, but from tomorrow on, you will eat, or I shall have the food forced down your throat, do you hear me, my lord?"

Éomer spared himself an answer.

"Let me see your shoulder again." Now his prisoner responded - by flinching. With a meaningful look at his Uruk-hai captains, Wormtongue moved in and grasped the crossbow bolt close over the angry red skin of his shoulder, forcing an anguished groan from the king as he slid one finger a nail deep into the wound. Éomer fought against this torment, but was no match for the brute strength of the two orcs holding him.

"My lord, please - you must hold still! My aim is not to hurt you, but to determine whether the wound is already festering. If you move around like this, I will not be able to help you!" He retracted the finger and held it in front of his nose, the pale blue eyes staring at his foe who - under his breath - muttered a few well-chosen curses in his direction before leaning back, utterly spent. Wormtongue faked a hurt expression. "Ah, well... such is the fate of all healers, I guess, to be the subject of intensive swearing for only wanting to do good."

"You - the most poisonous viper of the Mark, a healer?" Éomer would have laughed had he found the strength in himself. Another flash of heat brought beads sweat to his brow.

Gríma raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"Yes indeed, my lord, believe it or not. I will heal the people of Rohan of their arrogance. Tomorrow, you shall be witness of the enlightenment I bring to your people, even if this can, of course, only be the first step on that never-travelled path to humility for them. Haughtiness of this magnitude is not lightly healed. Some subjects of the treatment need a rather strong dose, I'm afraid. Look at you!" He sniffed his fingertip and made a face. "I regret having to inform you that your wound is not in a good state, my liege. I shall have to make the potion stronger this time, and you will drink it, or you will first lose that arm and then die an ugly death..." A meaningful pause. "I realise there are none of your kin around this time to threaten you with, except for yourself. Tell me then, Éomer of Rohan, do you want to die, or will you drink the medicine I am giving you willingly?"

His prisoner snorted in disgust.

"You call it medicine?"

Gríma let out a hurt sigh.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could already have done so numerous times. You know that yourself. In fact, I could kill you right now, if I chose so...” Again, he waved the half-empty spit suggestively in front of the king’s face. “And what a death that would be! Éomer, the eighteenth king of the Mark, descendant of the noble house of Eorl the Young, dying on a spit they use to roast pigs on... and smouldering over the fire side by side with a delicate piece of meat from with his beloved animal companion...” He clapped his hands in delight. “Yes indeed, this would be a song worth listening to. Alas, we do not have any witnesses here who would spread the word, so I am afraid we will have to postpone this procedure. Although I am quite sure my servants would much enjoy it, as well.”

It took Éomer a huge amount of self-restraint not to rise to Wormtongue’s provocation, and not to look at the spit he was retracting now to commence eating. Was that really Firefoot’s meat that snake was sinking his teeth into?

‘He will say anything to have his way with me,’ he finally decided, fighting heroically against the surge of rage the dark counsellor’s words had stirred up in him. ‘He would even say it came from the corpses of my dead men, but even he would not lower himself to that sort of animalistic behaviour. He deems himself much higher than the creatures that serve him! He would not cannibalise his own kind!’

It sounded good. Rational. Yet he had not seen the grey stallion all day, not even in the distance... and Firefoot knew to follow his rider if circumstances ever separated them. The horses of the Mark were not even trained to do that... they did it out of their own, free will, the result of a bondage so strong, it would lead them – in case they and their rider were ever captured alive – to pursue either freedom or death before they would let an enemy ride on their back. But... where was Firefoot? Strangling the life out of the newly awakened fit of desperation, Éomer looked up again, his eyebrows forming a sceptic line on his brow.

“So you don’t want to kill me.”

His adversary shrugged, clearly enjoying his part in this unsatisfying guessing game.

“Not yet, at least. Maybe not for quite some time, but... I am not certain yet. It all depends, I’m afraid. On the situation... on my mood...” his eyes widened suggestively, “...on the development of the next days... There are still too many variables. I may have to change and adjust my plan. I am afraid I cannot promise to relieve you of your pitiful existence anytime soon...”. He came to his feet and looked down on the king. “What I can do is prepare some more of the potion for Your Highness. You look as if you have use for it.” His dark form disappeared into the night, leaving his prisoner to his dark brooding...

***

            “Sshh, Firefoot! Shh... I will not harm you, you know that. Is this not why you are here, to look for comfort in the presence of Áriel and me? Come on, great horse of the Mark, be still. Do not fear me!”

            Elana knew better than to outright approach the obviously terrified and deeply torn stallion. She stood rooted to the ground, one hand held out in offering, hoping to talk her way into the mighty grey’s mind. The way he was throwing his head and rolling his eyes at her told her that he would indeed attack if she moved his way too rashly… but he also wanted to approach her. He was not sure yet about her intentions, even though there had to be some part of his memory strong enough to shine through the veil of horror and death which had descended on him one night ago and left him wild with terror. Something had led him to her, and maybe it was not just the prospects of companionship with another member of his species.

            The young woman granted him the time to come to his own decision as she continued to let him hear her soothing voice, at the same time she took in his appearance and shivered. There was so much dried blood on him, he did not even look grey anymore! Certainly it could not all be his, and from where she stood, she could see nothing more than some minor scratches on his neck and broad chest, but alone the thought that it was maybe Éomer’s blood, or that of his men made her tremble.

            ‘Maybe it is orc-blood,’ she tried to calm herself, still mumbling in a low voice without even recognising her own words. What colour would their blood be? She had never seen a dead orc, but there was something about these ghoulish creatures that told her that their insides must be black like a starless night.

            “Do you not remember me, Firefoot? Do you not remember the one who nursed you and took you with her into her tent in that particularly cold winter-night when your mother died after she had given birth to you? You were black then. A little black, wet, motherless foal. I did not hurt you then, and I will certainly not hurt you now. Do you not trust me?” One step in the stallion’s direction, her eyes closely observing the grey’s body language. How the ears flattened against his head in another threat. How he danced to the side with flying hooves, demonstrating the skill and strength of his terrible weapons. A single kick would be strong enough to break her bones. Out here, all by herself, it could possibly mean her death.

Behind her, Áriel imitated the dance and neighed, longing to be set loose, waking her rider from her contemplation. No, she would have to wait and hope that the king’s steed would sooner or later come to its senses. There was no use forcing this. Turning away from him, she went over to her own horse and began to gently stroke the mare’s delicate neck. What did it mean for her plan to have Éomer’s horse at hand? A swifter escape, once he had made it on Firefoot’s back. Áriel wouldn’t have to carry them both, making the task of outrunning the wargs virtually impossible. Still… how to get to this point? She couldn’t simply ride into the enemy’s camp and tell Éomer to jump onto Firefoot’s back! No, there was no use trying to come up with a solution. She still needed help, and as soon as the first daylight would greet the new day, she would go and find it.

Steps approached her from behind. Hesitant, but already close. Elana smiled to herself, but didn’t turn. Closer still. Warm breath on her neck, a feeling that brought a warm glow to her stomach. Slowly, she turned on her heels and – at last - laid her hands on the great grey’s face, her delicate fingers gently caressing his nostrils and mouth, and then moving up all the way to his ears, unaware that she had slipped into a low, soothing hum.

“Aye, my little one, you remember me. And you will help me to get your master back, will you not?

***

“I am very pleased with you, my king.” Grima gestured his captain to leave after he had watched the procedure of giving the potion to his captive. The king had taken it willingly enough this time, so the drug was already working. Blowing into his cold hands and rubbing them together against the cold, Wormtongue sat down again on a rock opposite Éomer’s position. “At last, you seem to have understood the urgency of this little game of ours... even though it appears to be still not to your taste.”

This time, it did not take a huge amount of restraint on the king’s part not to answer to his adversary’s provocation. He barely heard him, in fact, over the pounding hammering of his heart in his ears as he fought once again to keep the vile liquid inside. He held no doubt that the Wormtongue could have made it easier for him to hold down, less revolting, but of course this was nothing but another part of his elaborate plan for vengeance. Éomer did not want to think about what the potion consisted of. Too many foul ideas came to mind, and they were probably all true, and more besides...

Somewhere behind, a line of large, black silhouettes was moving in front of the campfire. The Uruk-hai were uncharacteristically silent tonight. Gríma’s doing, likely. A Uruk’s roar carried over a long distance and would inevitably attract enemies if it was heard, especially here, in Marshal Erkenbrand’s ever vigilant realm of the Westfold. Just how had Wormtongue been able to acquire them? Where had they been hiding all these past months since the battle of Helm’s Deep?

"I can see your thoughts on your face,” his foe spoke softly into Éomer’s thoughts. “You are wondering about my army. How I assembled it, since all of Saruman's Uruk-hai were believed killed at Helm's Deep. Is it not so?"

The king did not answer, but again the Wormtongue's uncanny ability to know precisely what was going on in his head made him twitch. Gríma leaned forward as if he were about to share a particularly well-hidden secret with his prisoner.

"The truth is, they were. At least to my knowledge, all of the White Wizard's army was destroyed either by the Rohirrim or the tree-druids of Fangorn. The reason for my servants to be still alive is that they were never part of that army. They are my creation and absolutely loyal from the moment on they come into being, and not even my almost omnipotent master knew of their existence... just as he never knew that I had closely watched the procedure he had employed to breed his Uruk-hai to build my own breeding pits in the caves of the Misty Mountains."

Éomer's gaze returned from the distant campfire to him, and even through the deep daze his prisoner seemed to have already sunken into, Wormtongue saw the horror his words had invoked. He shrugged.

"Of course they are nowhere near as large and sophisticated as the ones at Isengard, but they are well hidden and out of your kinsmen's reach. When we return there, I expect that my servants will at least have another fifty ready to join. And when I return to the Westfold in about four weeks, I shall have an army of 400 Uruk-hai and 200 Dunlendings ready to lay your people's settlements into ashes. Marshal Erkenbrand will not be a hindrance to us. I know he is currently at Edoras to find food for his starving people, and upon his return, he shall find nothing but ruins, and his people reduced to the same kind of beggars and thieves they used to look down on with disdain for generations. Maybe I’ll capture him and let him live, too, for a while, to witness the spectacle of watching his people starve to death and as a guarantee that the Rohirrim will not attack us... just like you.”

A dramatic pause as he made up his mind to give away his big secret.

"Yes indeed, my king, listen closely, for this - at last - is my plan: I will let the people of the Mark stay alive for as long as they don't force me to dispose of them. I will ride through their villages, with my servants setting fire to their winter supplies and killing their stock, and using you - their king - to demonstrate that there is nothing special to the heirs of Eorl, nothing that sets you apart from the other people of Middle Earth you look down on so haughtily. To show them that they are nothing more than ordinary peasants who would have never been mentioned in songs or books if not by sheer chance they had gained the friendship of Gondor. Gondor gave you this land. It is Gondor who secured your eastern borders for generations. It is Gondor who gives you the steel to make your weapons and armours with. Without the help of the blood of Númenór, you would still be wielding wooden clubs and spears instead of carrying mail and swords and lances and hard shields into battle. Saruman's army would have crushed you underfoot without the knowledge Gondor has taught you. So tell me, Éomer-king, what precisely is it that the people of the Riddermark are so proud of? What have you or your forefathers ever achieved by yourself?"

Éomer stared at him, unable to keep his thoughts focused. He knew that Gríma had just uttered some incredible insults about his kind, but pressed to repeat them, he would have failed. The words were racing in and out of his mind like a swarm of little silvery, slippery fish, dashing apart every time he stuck his hand into the water to grasp them. To his horror, he found that the leaden state had also overtaken his tongue, for he could not, for the life of him, remember how to use it. What was happening to him?

‘Bastard drugged me…’ was the last conscious thought before he slipped into a state between dream and waking.

Wormtongue had followed the decline of his prisoner into the sub-conscious realm with keen interest. The potion had worked fast, and Gríma wondered whether he had made it a bit too strong this time. He did not want Éomer to end up raving mad. He wanted the effect to be subtle, and his prisoner still in possession of his personality while he whispered his deadly poison into his ears. The king’s mind was now wide open for everything he wanted to plant in there – guilt… despair… the feeling of having been betrayed by his own kin… Whatever he would come up with, it would enter the king’s memory as a fact, whether he told Éomer that he had killed Théodred with his own hands to seize the throne of Rohan, or that King Théoden had banished him for raping his own sister. Ideas were springing faster to mind than he could count them. He had created a void that longed to be filled with the most rotten images and emotions his twisted, dark mind could derive. And, wonderfully, his victim would not remember either having been spoken to nor having been drugged afterwards… and tomorrow, when his strength would diminish yet again, he would ask for more…

Smiling to himself, Gríma came to his feet and sat down next to the unmoving king of Rohan. Éomer’s eyes were open, but glazed with the effect of the drug. He was waiting for new memories. A moment of collecting himself, then the dark counsellor set to work…

***

            It was cold. And wet. The shabby old fur coat she was wearing had kept her reasonably dry and warm, but her limbs were nevertheless stiff from the night on the hard, half-frozen ground with nothing more to keep her comfortable than a thin woollen blanket. But it had been neither the constant drizzle that had woken Elana, nor the silent throbbing of her aching body. It had rather been the sudden sensation of a great animal stepping up to her and blowing her warm, slightly smelly breath into her face.

            Smiling, she opened her eyes and found her mare looking at her curiously as if asking how she could still be sleeping when they had been awake for so long already. Heavier steps further away told her that the stallion was still around, too. Very well. Time to get started. Time to quickly eat the leftovers from the flat cake and get on the road again.

            “Áriel…” Pushing herself into a sitting position with one hand rubbing her eyes, the young woman squinted at the once again cloudy sky… and froze. The position of the sun… it could not be that late, could it? “Oh no…!”

She jumped to her feet, inwardly pleading that this was still a dream, but the wet drizzle in her face felt real enough, so real that the hard fact could no longer be ignored: The morning was long gone, and half the day had already passed – with her being asleep! When she had laid down for a moment during the endless night, close to morning, with the moon already starting to set in the east, she had not meant to sleep at all, but only to give her exhausted body a chance to renew its strength for what was lying ahead of her. She had meant to wait for dusk to ride hard and get ahead of the king’s captors, to alert the village they were headed for, but somehow in the comfortless, desolate blackness closing in on her, the second night she had not slept, exhaustion had apparently overwhelmed her, and now she had lost half a day! As her searching gaze glided over plain in front of her, she noticed with a sharp pang of guilt that the army she had been following had already left, their fires obviously having been put out so long ago, they were not even smoking anymore. This was a catastrophe! Some help she was!

“Áriel, come here!”

Hastily, Elana gathered her few belongings from the ground and saddled her horse, in her head repeating an endless litany meant for the Valar to have mercy on her for her failure.

***

Éomer’s unfocused gaze was directed at the horizon, following the movement of the better part of the Uruk-hai Wormtongue had sent ahead to clear their path. A host of 100 of the nightmare creatures was now rolling towards the unsuspecting village of Iséndras like a flash flood on rocky surface after hard rain: violent, deadly and unstoppable, set to destroy everything in its path. He shuddered and prayed that maybe, by sheer chance, Marshal Elfhelm and his éored would be there to prevent the worst, even if the situation did not leave much space for hope.

Grimly he reminded himself how unlikely it was to meet his able kinsman and trusted friend of many years as he watched the dark, menacing silhouettes running half a league ahead of them and putting more distance between themselves and the rest of Gríma’s army by the minute. ‘Elfhelm must be on his way back to Edoras. Winter is approaching fast, and his errand can not have kept him at Isengard and Helm’s Deep for long. He will not risk being surprised by the first storms of winter on the plains.’

He let his gaze sweep the broad valley in the southern fringes of the Ered Nimrais they were travelling through, desperately looking for a sign, but with an already low spirit. The plan Wormtongue had finally chosen to reveal to him the night before was too cruel to think through all the way to the end. The people of the Mark were already paying a hefty price after the long war against both the White Wizard and Mordor, with many villages depending on outside help to sustain them with food. More hardships of the like Gríma was planning to lay on them would inevitably lead to major famine – and death. There were hardly enough men left in the Riddermark these days to cultivate the vast fields as it were, unthinkable what would happen to their settlements if yet more died of hunger. In his youth, while his parents were still alive, Éomer had once made the experience of what extreme hunger could do a people. How it reduced first strength and then spirit, turning honest and giving men into covetous and distrustful ones, and sometimes, even forcing them to become thieves and steal the things they needed to live from their fellow neighbours and kinsmen until finally, when all was lost and nothing left to find or steal, all that was left to do was to lay down and die.

Just shortly after he had turned nine, an entire summer without rain had left their fields dry and their crops dead in all of the Eastmark around Aldburg, their home. The harvest that year had been a major catastrophe, and the people had already known at the beginning of fall that not all of them would live to see the next spring. It had been a frightening experience. One he did not want to see repeated. One he would do all in his might to avert if it still lay within his power.

The main body of Gríma’s advance army had already vanished from sight, and Éomer shifted his view again to the greatly reduced group of Uruk-hai that had been left behind to guard him and his adversary on their slower approach to Iséndras. There were only around thirty orcs left. Not an unstoppable force. But with the chains around his neck and wrists, his escape would still have to be the result of outside help. Thirty – plus one warg patrol – were still too many for him to handle, even if Gríma’s potion had once again worked wonders on him, considering how feeble he had felt just the night before. If any opportunity would present itself to him today, he would be ready to seize it.

Settling into a slightly more comfortable position on the bare horseback, Éomer finally fell prey to the monotony of their approach again, allowing himself to slip into a daze to retain his strength for a time when he would need it. They had four leagues to travel yet...

***

            “Éomer? Tell me that this is not true! Tell me this is a misunderstanding! Artlas told me that-“

            “Do you have her?”

            “Yes, but –“

            “Then bring her in, and mind your own business, Elfhelm!”

            The older, broadly built warrior narrowed his eyes in disbelief – and he refused to leave, even as he motioned his men to bring forth the young, frightened-looking woman Éomer had ordered him to summon to his tent. What was that mud-blooded Rohirrim thinking to question him openly in front of his men? Éomer knew he had probably had too much Ale and wine after that raging Midsummer-celebration, but that was no excuse for his second-in-command to reject his orders! So, maybe he was drunk, but he was still clear enough to know what he was doing, and as Third Marshal of the Riddermark, it was his well-deserved, damned right to exercise! Valar, he was risking his neck every time they went on patrol to rid the Mark of the marauding orcs that kept just coming at them from all directions, so these weak, whiny peasants could bloody well show a bit more of their gratitude.

            “You cannot be serious about this, Éomer! You are not yourself!”

            “And you, my friend, are forgetting your place!” A dangerous glint lay in Éomer’s eyes as he slowly shifted his attention from his rebellious second-in-command to the girl his men were leading into his large tent now. She had caught his eye when she had brought him the first cup of wine. The tight, buckskin tunic was artfully tied with leather straps over her womanly frame, a promise of the body under it. She could not be older than twenty summers, with a delicately cut face, high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. She had the long, blonde hair that was standard for the most women of the Mark, and curls that softened her innocent young face to an almost elven likeness. The hard work necessary to sustain life out here in the Westfold had given her a lean, strong body, and – for a Rohan woman – she was quite tall. Perfect, he had decided right there and then.

            “My lord? You were asking for me?” Her voice trembled as she stood before him now, slender arms hugging her wiry frame. Behind her, Elfhelm’s frown indicated very clearly that he did not approve of his younger superior’s actions. Again Éomer locked eyes with his comrade-in-arms of many years in a silent battle. ‘I am the king’s nephew,’ his granite-hard gaze said. ‘You object to my will, and you will be punished. Do you understand me? ’The older man, his mentor for many years, narrowed his eyes, but remained silent. He was a seasoned, experienced warrior and knew what the punishment for mutiny against his superior officer would be.

            “Marshal Elfhelm, take your men and leave!” Éomer’s voice was firm and determined and there was a hard glint in his dark eyes as he spoke, a threat that only existed between the lines, yet a very potent one. Not only meant for Elfhelm, in fact, as the faces of the two men further back told him that they did not like what he was about to do, either. Would he have to court-marshal them all for mutiny, or would they come to their senses?

Finally, after another long moment of silent wrestling of their wills, his old friend gave him the curt nod he had been waiting for, but the rigidity with which he finally turned on his heels to leave his superior’s tent was an indication that he was still very much in opposition to what he knew would happen once he had left. Éomer hardly cared as he motioned the girl to step closer. “What is your name, woman?”

            “Théandran, my lord.” She kept her head lowered as she obeyed hesitantly, averting his gaze at all costs, and bent her trembling knees in a formal, stiff curtsey. “But-"

            “Look at me!” Large pools of blue met his gaze – and widened slowly as she saw the clear intent on his face. “You are beautiful.” His hand touched her face, her quivering lips, and slowly traced her cheekbone back to her ear, his fingertips moved into her hair, playing with the golden curls for a moment before they glided further down on her neck. She trembled under his touch. In his intimidating presence.

            “Please, my lord... I’m awaited at home. I cannot-“ Her voice sounded husky and choked as if it barely fit through her throat. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer raised her chin with his free hand while the other one was still resting on the back of the young woman’s neck.

            “Tell me, Théandran... are you afraid of me?”

            “I –“ She interrupted herself as the hand on her neck slid down to her shoulder blades and urged her forward. “My lord?” Breathless now. Her eyes widened. Desire... or fear? “No, my lord, but my family-“

            “-is safe, and they know you are safe here, too.” He was close now, his body next to hers, smelling her sweet scent, which was doing unbelievable things to him. His voice dropped to a deep, confidential whisper. She tried to step back, but he wouldn’t allow it. “There is no place in the entire kingdom, not even Helm’s Deep, where you would be safer right now than here with me... or do you think you would have harm done to you in the presence of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark?” He ran his other hand from her chin down her neck, briefly stopping in the pit of her throat before his fingertips traced the delicate arch of her collar-bone. The right one was still holding her tight, even though her reluctance was painfully obvious.

            “No, my lord...” She shuddered and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. “Please... don’t!”

            “Ssh... don’t speak...” he made, impatient, the building pressure in his lower body making it almost impossible for him to focus on opening the leather-straps that were holding her tunic together. “I did not send for you because I wanted to talk.” There now. It was out. His actions had spoken clearly enough before, but now he had also said it out loud, and Théandran responded. Again she fought to withdraw from him, panicking now, but again he held her back and instead crushed her to his chest with barely restrained force, annoyed by her continued resistance.

            “Don’t!”

His fingers had opened the first straps and uncovered her shoulders as the tunic gave way. Her hands intervened and clasped his in a desperate attempt to stop him. “Please – this is not your right! You cannot do this!”

            “You think it is not my right?” He shot her a furious look and forced her hands away. “Every day we ride out and risk our lives for you people, every battle that we go through our blood is spilled, and now you want to tell me that it’s not my right to take what I want in return? Where have you lived so far, that you don’t know the way things work, woman?” With a fierce demonstration of his superior strength, Éomer forced her arms down. She was no match for him as he pressed his mouth hard onto hers.

For a moment, there was a hint of the sweet, ripe taste of whine, the notion of the exquisite softness of her lips, before it disappeared under his forceful assault to form a hard barrier. Her head jerked back, but he followed it almost faster than she could move away, not even hearing her terrified whimpering over the thunderous boom of his own pulse and the pressure building in his body, longing for release, tongue searching to penetrate the wall in front of it, his grip on her so fierce her arms would turn purple the day after. He hardly noticed the impact as they stumbled against the door-post, interlocked in an awkward dance, the slight curvature of the body underneath his driving him mad.

            Unexpectedly, her mouth opened – and when he followed she bit down hard on his tongue and lower lip, drawing blood! The sudden pain cut through his lust like a knife, and for a moment, surprise slackened his hold enough for her to free one arm. How dare she – she hit him squarely in the face and flung herself backwards, out of his grasp, but stumbled and fell, her tunic ripping in his still iron grasp and revealing her all the way down to her waist. Huge blue, wet eyes stared terrified up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, for the eternity of five heartbeats looking at the red stain there before he forcefully threw down the piece of leather he had ripped off and moved after her, now seriously enraged. Who did that wench think she was to deny him?

She screamed and frantically moved backwards on all four, but he was even faster as his fingers closed around her ankle and yanked her back, under him. She kicked, first at his face, then, below him, aiming for his groin, finding his inner thigh and forcing another painful grunt. Backhanding her came by sheer reflex and without restraint. His knuckles connected with her mouth full force. For a moment, she was stunned. As was he. He had never hit a woman before. Not like this. Not at all!

A small bubble of inactivity where they just stared at each other, he kneeling over her, she frozen in a backwards motion. Slowly, with a dreamlike quality, her hand touched her mouth - and came away bloodied. His strike had split her lip. Large blue eyes met his in utter confusion – and stark, naked shock.

            For a heartbeat, words of regret shot through his head – ‘I did not mean to…’. Then anger replaced it. At himself. Then at her, for making this so difficult!

            “You see what you have done now?” he yelled into her face, outside of himself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, for she could no longer bear to look at him, the image of the protector she had been carrying around in her heart for years entirely destroyed and turned into that of her worst enemy; her lower, bloodied lip quivering in voiceless terror. “This is your own fault!”

Her presence, the maddening softness of her body under him made it impossible to pull back. He had to have her! “Now quit fighting. I do not want to harm you further.” He opened his belt. “What happens now is up to you...” The body underneath him shuddered, but her fighting spirit had finally been broken, and the suppressed, low sobs she was uttering as he tore away the torn remainders of her clothing were the only sign she was still conscious as Éomer claimed his reward...

            “Forgive me for asking, my lord, but you appear to be rather introverted today. Is something ailing you, something I can help you with, or are you not feeling well? Is it your wound?” Gríma’s silky voice oozed its way through the vivid memory that played in Éomer’s head and woke him from the half-conscious daze he had slipped into. For the first time, he was thankful for it. The incident had only happened last year, and right in the village they were headed for. It hung like a black cloud over the meadow of his conscience, casting a large, deep shadow. The people would not have forgotten him, much less forgiven. Sure, he had been drunk, but forcing himself on that innocent young woman – and hitting her, too! - one of the people he had vowed to protect with his life… The very thought sickened him. What had come over him that night?

“My lord?”

Éomer remained silent, eyes staring unfocused into the distance without seeing the surrounding landscape. Instead he saw his friend’s face. Elfhelm’s expression had left no question open that he had been disgusted by what his marshal had done to that girl. In fact, now that he remembered more clearly, all the men his éored consisted of had looked at him as if he were a particularly lowly kind of mutant orc when they had left the village the morning after. Valar, how could he have forgotten? And now he would be confronted with the consequences of his doings again, and he harboured no doubt that – once the villagers had recognised Gríma Wormtongue’s captive – they would rather cheer the dark counsellor for his deed than try and free their morally more than questionable king. Not that he could blame them.

            “Oh, but of course... now I understand,” Gríma straightened in the saddle, recognition lighting up his pale features.. “It is the incident with the farmer’s daughter that occupies your mind, isn’t it?”

            Why couldn’t this snake keep his poisonous trap shut this one time instead of constantly having to pry his finger’s into his wounds? And how did he know? How much did he know? Had Elfhelm told him? But Elfhelm hated Gríma almost as passionately as he did, so how -? As much as he fought to keep his stoic expression intact, Éomer could not avoid casting an secretly ashamed glance at his adversary.

            “I should have known. Your mind is like a deep black pit that attracts all fell news it can possibly get it’s greedy fingers on. Nothing delights you more than hearing about other people’s misery… or causing it!”

            Gríma shrugged and did not bother to display false sympathy.

            “But my lord, the entire Riddermark has heard about this! Your own men spread the word like wildfire! According to Marshal Elfhelm, who I think used to be a friend of yours until this dreadful event, you hurt that woman badly enough for her to be barren now. The healer they brought her to after you were through with her was certain of that. The poor thing will never have children... and presumably, no husband either, for who would want to have a wife who is unable to fill her home with the laugher of their own children?” A meaningful pause. Wormtongue could tell by the look of the king’s face that his latest blow had hurt him to the core. Along with the last defences of his mind, Éomund’s son’s self-control appeared to have vanished as well. The grim, stoic mask behind which he had hidden his thoughts just one day earlier had dissolved to an open display of shame and guilt. “It was a monstrous thing to do, even for someone like you, whose reputation has preceded him for years..”

The dark counsellor let the sentence trail off, knowing fully well that his captive would not be able to ignore the loose end. His plan had taken on a life of its own now with the drug working to its maximum degree. Whatever he would imply, whatever he would hint at, Éomer’s kidnapped mind would take his words and provide images for them from the very wells of his own memory. Lies would turn into fact, and it would work even better due to one of the king’s very own character traits: His immense sense of pride made it virtually impossible for him to ignore any implications his foe dropped, in the process being forced to bury his conscience with an ever-growing amount of guilt, which Gríma was happy to feed into. Spinning intrigues and artfully crafted nets of lies had always been something the son of Gálmód had excelled at – and a well of never-ending delight for him if it worked as well as here.

            “What do you mean, even for me?” Éomer’s hesitant question was rewarded with an incredulous look.

            “Please, my lord… don’t tell me you don’t know about your own reputation! I would deem it far too prominent for you to have missed it, since you Rohirrim soldiers always pride yourselves of your perception and ability to read people! Please, don’t say that you do not know your people’s opinion concerning your person!” Gríma rolled his eyes and let out a short laugh which clearly indicated how ridiculous he deemed the king’s question.

            “What reputation?” Éomer’s puzzlement grew to the point where he wasn’t even paying attention to his surroundings anymore. His foe’s hinted implications had brought a hot, pulsing throb to his innards, and he was sure his face looked flushed with shame. What kind of a nightmare was this? Had he been blind all the time?

Wormtongue inhaled deeply and then sadly shook his head, as he began to recapitulate, slowly and pointedly, as if he were speaking to a stubborn child.

            “Where shall I begin? Your reputation of a man who thrives on bloodlust? A man who actually enjoys the act of killing and the carnage of war and doesn’t take it as a necessary measure to protect his people? Who would prefer to kill his enemies slowly for his greater pleasure, if it weren’t for the fact that there are too many of them to do so? A man who – protected and preferred by his noble descent and relationship with the king - had risen through the ranks far too fast for the taste of most of the soldiers he rode with, and who achieved a position of great power at an age where he was hardly mentally matured enough to use that power wisely? The reputation of a man who expects to be rewarded for his deeds by the people he is serving - and who will ruthlessly take whatever he wants, with little or no concern to whom it belongs, and whether it is given willingly? - That, my lord, is what your people, who you think love and value you, think of the late King Théoden’s nephew.” He paused, his expression hard and pitiless. “Do you want for me to continue, noble king of Rohan, or will that suffice for now?” He stared into Éomer’s widened eyes with all sincerity he could muster, even though his inner satisfaction was almost too intense to bear. The king appeared to be unable to answer, and when he finally did find his voice again, it sounded weak and lacked conviction as well as justified anger, which told Gríma all he needed to know.

            “This is but your own mind talking. I do not believe that my people-.”

            “You do not want to believe me, aye, I can see that, my king. And I do not blame you, for who would like to hear such things about oneself? Yet I can see in your face that you know I am speaking the truth. Maybe it is a good sign that finally you seem to feel something equivalent to shame. Maybe, if I allowed you to live longer, you would change for the better, but…” He took a deep breath. “No. I am sorry. It is too late for that… and alas, it also comes too late for your uncle.”

A hurtful twitch in the king’s face. Another strike right through his defences.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but… let it suffice to say that your scandalous behaviour very much poisoned the well of King Théoden’s sanity in those unfortunate days of his illness. He had hoped for you to be a help for him in those hard days, a crutch for him to lean on, but instead you took away what balance he had!” He shook his head. “A sad story, really. And all the time, you blamed me for your uncle’s misery… You should have spoken with your sister more often. She knew what the real reason for Théoden’s grief was. Your banishment had nothing to do with me – it was a direct result from your behaviour. After that incident with the woman, you were no longer tolerable as a representative of Rohan nobility. This course of action had been my councel to your uncle for a long time, but alas, Théoden’s illness had made him blind for what was going on in his kingdom, and unfortunately, he needed your skills as warrior, as the situation was too precarious for Rohan. That he did eventually banish you came as a surprise even to me. He must have had one of his clearer days when he signed that warrant. Alas, you had been gone for a too short time for the people of Rohan to forget you after the king’s son fell and Théoden himself was slain on the Pelennor Fields of Gondor, and your own great deeds on the battlefield spoke louder to the Rohirrim for a while than their doubts. When you returned from Gondor, they welcomed you as their king… but their memory is returning, my lord. And the voices among them that call for having you replaced by someone worthy are getting louder… and more.”

Wormtongue opened his mouth to continue, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of three dark columns of smoke which were slowly rising from behind the hills they were headed for, too far away yet to carry the stench of the fire to them. The procession came to a halt, and the remaining Uruk-hai launched into appreciate grunting as they pointed towards the site of their brothers’ doings. Éomer’s eyes also were fixed on the first messenger of destruction, but his numbed and stunned mind did not make the immediate connection. His head was reeling from Wormtongue’s revelations and the still prominent images of the bleeding, shivering woman in front of his inner eyes was too distracting for him to be able to deal with yet another catastrophe. A sickening wave of nausea turned his stomach, and he had to bow his head and shut his eyes to fight it, not noticing as the dark counsellor’s attention shifted back to him.

“Get him off the horse!”

            Suddenly, it took the king an considerable amount of strength just to raise his head, a sensation as if all of his strength had suddenly been sucked out of him by some unseen force. Something was seriously wrong with him. Everything - foreground, background, Wormtongue’s face and those of the Uruks further back - everything looked strangely flat, distant and drained of most of its colour. Without warning, an unexpected stroke of heat raced through his veins and bathed him in sweat.

            “But we are not there yet,” one of the Dunlendings who had one end of the chain secured to his saddle grunted. Wormtongue shifted his view from the prisoner to his guard, his voice still sounding patient as he explained the strange order to his follower.

            “No. But the king wishes to take a walk.” His gaze found back to Éomer, who was too much struggling with his suddenly deteriorating condition to really listen. “He is a very active man, our king, a person of great stamina and endurance. Sitting on horseback all day long without an opportunity to stretch his legs is not something a true descendant of the house of Eorl rejoices in, is it, my lord?”

            The words were clear, and still their meaning escaped Éomer. Valar, what was happening with him? This was a feeling as if he were severely drunk, only without the nice warming glow in his stomach. He was unable to think, unable to talk, unable to do anything but stare in utter confusion at the dark figure in front of him.

            Orders were bellowed, and then a sudden, sharp tug at the chain around his neck. Unceremoniously, the king slid off his horse’s back, and yet his instincts still landed on his feet, but his legs were too weak to carry him, and so he sank to his knees in the middle of a large puddle of mud. Laughter surged up all around him, and yet it seemed very distant.

            “You see,” he heard Gríma’s voice from above, speaking to his army, “the Rohirrim proudly call themselves “horselords”. Yet by the sight of this, wouldn’t you rather agree they should call themselves “piglords”, for they seem to share the same fondness of dirt and mud as their naked, squealing, undignified farm animals!” More laughter. Éomer felt the concussion of heavy steps next to him, water and mud splashing under the weight of a horse. The smell of wet fur. “Give me that!” Somewhere over Éomer’s head, one end of the chain changed its possessor. Another tug, and he fell forward, face down into the puddle, to the amusement of his captors. His right side exploded in agony, and deep within his mind, sub-consciously, Éomer was certain he would never ever be able to use his sword-arm again.

            “Up, up, ruler of the piglords!” Wormtongue’s mocking voice teased him. “Your vassals are waiting for their king! And what a fine sight you will be to their commoners’ eyes!” He turned his horse around and send it into a fast trot, dragging his captive behind for a few yards before he stopped again and looked over his shoulder. “You better get up, my liege. It would not pose a problem to me to drag you all the way to the village, but what should your kinsmen say? You do not want to look them in the eye the way you are looking now, would you?” Squeezing his eyelids shut for a moment, the dark counsellor looked up into the rain. “We still have about one league until we are there. If you stay on your feet, the rain will clean you at least a bit and make you more presentable. More... kingly.” A nasty smirk. “It is your decision, son of Éomund.”