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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

 “It is not –“

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Of course, captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Do you hear that?”

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

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

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

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

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

 “On your feet, lad!”

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

 “Left, Éomer!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “It is a shame, my lord. Really.”

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

 “Oh?”

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

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

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

 “No, I assume not.”

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

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

 Narrowing his eyes in indignant protest, Éomer responded:

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Soil? But everything is frozen outside!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                        ******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 His friend’s gaze remained doubtful.

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

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

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

 He did not honour the words with a reply.

******

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

 “You really think they can come in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The scout furrowed his brow.

 “What will you do, Captain?”

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

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

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

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

 “Who else?”

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

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

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

 Elfhelm nodded.

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

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

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

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

 “Arnhelm?”

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

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

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

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

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

 “What is it? What happened?”

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

 “Lean on me! Éomer?”

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

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

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

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

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

 “Éomer, no-“

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

 “Éomer, run! Run!”

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

 “Faster! He’s almost upon you!”

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

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

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

 “Push harder! Push!”

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

 “Freya, no!”

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

 “Push!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Elfhelm shook his head.

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

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

 It would be a long night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 She gave him a weak smile.

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

 He nodded thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Freya? Freya, are you in here?”

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

 “Freya, why are you not—“

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