Chapter 1. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 1

At the beginning of Éomer’s life as a squire, the most striking impression he received was not of ornate saddles or fine steeds, nor of high-crested helms, iron-wrought mail, tall spears of ash, or brightly painted shields. What stood out to him most, rather, was the sheer popularity of Théodred. Even long afterward, when he looked back on those days, he felt they had drained him entirely of any youthful romantic notions about golden-haired maidens. So much so that, when at last he beheld the Lady of the Golden Wood—whom Gimli swore to defend with axe and life—he could not deny her grace, peerless though it was; and yet, he found himself feeling, with complete sincerity, that the dark-haired Queen Evenstar was the more enchanting.

To the lords and marshals of the Mark, Théodred in his twenties was a fitting heir to the throne. To King Théoden, he was a son to be proud of. To Éomer, still a boy, he was a towering figure—a man of excellence, to be gazed upon with admiration. But to the maids of the Riddermark, he was, without question, the most sought-after prize. He bore little resemblance to his father and was said to take after his late mother instead. Looked at closely, his features were fine: his eyes and brows sharp and clear—not the rugged handsomeness common among the Rohirrim, but a nobler, more striking beauty that set him apart at once. Whenever he rode out from Meduseld, whether clad in dark green and white embroidered with gold, or astride his steed in full armour, adorned with the horse-sigils of his house, the young women of Edoras greeted his passing with the joy of a festival.

The Rohirrim, inheriting the traditions of the Northern Men, were a bold and forthright people—not only in war, but in love as well. Both men and women pursued their hearts’ desires with fearless passion, neither shy nor restrained. As Théodred’s squire, Éomer’s public duty was to bear his cousin’s shield and sword, standing at his side as a constant attendant. Yet being ever at Théodred’s heels, he often found himself under a barrage of glances from every direction—enough to make his skin prickle. Time and again, he had to remind himself: They are not looking at me. 

In time, it left its mark. Even when he reached fifteen or sixteen—an age at which he had begun to draw notice in his own right—whenever he caught a maiden’s coy glance or the flutter of lashes cast his way, his first instinct was still to glance around, half-expecting to find Théodred nearby.

It was something Éomer had always considered too foolish to confess—yet the first time he drank too much, it slipped out in an ale-drenched haze. Théodred, upon hearing it, laughed so hard he nearly lost his footing.

“No wonder they say, ‘The grass is always greener on the other side.’ I once heard a phrase in Gondor that suits you perfectly—a fault born of excessive modesty.”

When he had laughed his fill, the Prince of the Mark sobered and tapped the great flagon of ale. Strictly speaking, Éomer, as a squire, ought to have been tending to others at the feast, not drinking himself. The ale, after all, had been procured for him in secret—by Théodred.

“Do not be a fool,” said Théodred. “You have no idea how I wished, when I was younger, that I looked like my father. Or at the very least, like yours—Éomund. And yet you—you are his very image.”

The words were spoken in passing, yet to Éomer, they struck deep. Théodred could never have guessed their effect. Like many sons, Éomer had once seen his father as the greatest of heroes. In Aldburg, he had admired Éomund with all his heart. But after coming to Edoras, he had begun to hear whispers—“reckless,” “lacking in foresight”—and they troubled him more than he cared to admit. Worse still, King Théoden had taken up Éomund’s office and command, with no sign that there would be another chief Marshal at all for Éomer—or anyone else—to follow. And now Théodred, heir to the King, had been named Second Marshal, entrusted with the defense of the East-mark, and would soon ride out on campaign. All this weighed heavily upon Éomer.

“Do you think my father was a hero?” The question slipped out before he could stop himself. The moment it left his lips, he wished he could bite his tongue—yet even then, a strange and uncertain hope stirred within him. Did he long for affirmation, or for denial? He could not tell.

Théodred looked at him with mild surprise. “What do you think?”

“Of course I do!” Éomer blurted out. “But… was the King displeased with him? What did he do wrong?”

It was true what they said—ale loosened the tongue. Éomer had braced himself for Théodred to grow angry or impatient, but his cousin merely sighed and muttered something under his breath. The only word Éomer caught was “Gríma,” followed by a string of expletives so colorful and varied that they were surely unfit for a youth’s ears.

“Let me put it this way,” Théodred said, clearing his throat after venting. “Suppose some man wed Éowyn, and whether needful or not, he was ever casting himself into peril. Then one day he was slain—and Éowyn, stricken with grief, fell ill and did not recover. What would you think of him?”

“I—” Éomer meant to say he would give the man a sound beating. But then it struck him—if the man were dead, there would be no one left to beat. His mouth opened, but no words came.

“You understand now?” Théodred rose to his feet, taking Éomer’s cup from the table. “Good. Just remember—we are not always ruled by reason. Now off to bed. We leave early tomorrow—the road to Eastfold is not a short one.”

That night, Éomer lay awake, turning thought after thought over in his mind. The ale had stirred old memories like fallen leaves in a stream—and one, in particular, rose to the surface with sudden clarity.

It was when Théodred first began teaching him to wield a longsword. Éowyn heard of it and insisted on learning as well. Unable to refuse her, Éomer found the smallest set of armour he could and led her to a secluded corner of the King’s stables, where the two of them trained in secret.

She was only nine years old at the time, and before long, sweat had begun to bead on her brow. Just as Éomer was about to suggest they rest, he noticed two long shadows stretching across the ground. He looked up—and froze.

Their uncle and cousin stood there, watching in silence. He had no idea how long they had been there.

After a long pause, Théodred stepped forward and crouched before Éowyn. Éomer had never seen him smile at any other girl quite like that.

“You are the Lady of Rohan now,” Théodred said. “What business have you with swords?”

“Then what should the Lady of Rohan do?” Éowyn asked, defiant.

“Little girls grow up to marry,” Théodred said lightly. “You could learn to sew. Or cook—”

“There are maids for that,” Éowyn cut in. “And they do it better than I ever could. Why should the Lady of Rohan waste time on what any maid can do?”

Théodred was momentarily speechless. The King, however, chuckled.

“Éowyn,” said Théoden, “you are of the House of Eorl. If you choose not to take up the sword, so be it—but if you do, then you must learn to wield it well.”

“I understand,” Éowyn said, her eyes bright.

“It will be difficult,” the King warned.

“I am not afraid,” she replied, steady and unwavering.

“But—” Théodred began, only for the King to silence him with a raised hand.

“She wishes to learn,” said Théoden. “Then teach her.” He laid a gentle hand on Éowyn’s head and sighed. “I only hope she never has cause to use what she learns.”

Éomer remembered the warmth in his uncle’s gaze—the tenderness, the care. In that moment, he had almost felt as though Théoden were his own father. Yet this much he knew: though Éomund had indulged Éowyn countless times as well, his bold and battle-hardened father would never have spoken that last, sorrowful wish.

Lying in bed, Éomer burned with shame. His uncle had never shown him—or Éowyn—anything but kindness. And Théodred—could any elder brother have been more loyal, more devoted?

I must have been out of my wits to let idle gossip cloud my mind, he thought bitterly. Why did I not trust my own eyes, my own ears—my own heart? 

Very well, then. The next fool who spoke ill of the King or of Théodred within his hearing would earn himself a sound beating.

With that resolve, the young squire exhaled at last, settled beneath his blankets, and drifted into a quiet, contented sleep.