THE MOUNTAIN PATH

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

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

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

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

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

"You could easily leave me here."

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

"I suppose."

"Then what keeps you?"

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

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

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

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

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

THE MERING'S SHORES

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

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

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

A weak smile tugged at Elfhelm's lips.

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

Anlaf blushed.

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

Elfhelms expression hardened at the mention of their king.

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

THE MOUNTAIN PATH

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

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

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

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

The scout met his gaze unflinchingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swallowing, Éomer cast an uncomfortable glance at their surroundings.

"So they are mainly moving in groups?"

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

With creased brow, Arnhelm looked at the grey sky.

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