“For we shall ride with you far on the road, even as far as the country of Rohan. In three days now Éomer will return hither to bear Théoden back to rest in the Mark, and we shall ride with him to honour the fallen.”
-Aragorn, ‘Many Partings’
-Book Six, Chapter Six; The Return of the King
-J.R.R. Tolkien
~~**~~
He was king. How had it come to this? He was not the one who was supposed to be on the throne. Théodred was the one who should have had to bear the heavy crown of Rohan, not him. But Théodred was dead, killed during an Orc raid. The foul Saruman targeted the heir of Rohan, believing Théodred stood in the way of his plans to defeat Rohan. Hoping to weaken Théoden-king, Saruman set his Orc army against Théodred’s éored. The forces of darkness proved too much for the heir of Rohan. At the Fords of Isen, facing an overwhelming force, Théodred went down, fighting one of the huge creatures. Saruman was most pleased for in the end, what he set out to do was done. Théodred was dead and now Rohan was left without an heir. Or so he thought.
~~**~~
Éomer shifted in his saddle and looked over his shoulder at the long funeral cortege behind him, the last ride of Théoden. He was taking his uncle home, home to the land of his forefathers. He still could not believe it had come to this. Éomer had not expected to survive the battle of the Pelennor Fields. None of them had. Helm’s Deep had paled in comparison to the Pelennor. At the Battle of the Hornburg, they had faced the army of Saruman, that had numbered well over ten thousand strong, but that was just a drop in the bucket compared to what Mordor had set against Minas Tirith. The armies of Sauron were vast and numerous, but they were not victorious. Facing insurmountable odds, the forces of Gondor and Rohan had won the battlefield, but it had come at a great cost. So many had perished during the battle for the Pelennor: Halbarad, a Ranger from the North, Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, although by his own hand and not upon the battlefield, and Théoden, the seventeenth ruler of Rohan. These names were but a few of the long list of dead. The one name that was not added to that list was Éowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan.
When Éomer had come upon her still form on the battlefield, all hope had left him. Théoden-king was already dead, crushed beneath the body of his mount, Snowmane, when he had found his sister. Not realizing she still breathed, he had rushed headlong back into the fray. It was only after the battle that he learned of her riding disguised as Dernhelm and her victory over the Witch-king. His blood still ran cold at the thought of her facing off with the Nazgûl lord.
Firefoot shook his head in irritation as the grip tightened on his reins. The sound of his horse’s tack jingling brought Éomer back to the present.
“Sorry, boy,” Éomer said as he leaned forward to pat Firefoot’s neck.
Straightening in the saddle, he gazed at the banner of his homeland, snapping in the afternoon breeze, the white horse of Rohan standing out sharply against the green background. For fourteen days the banner rode at the head of the procession, and after one more day, they would arrive at Edoras. Once there, Théoden would be laid to his final resting-place and Éomer would announce Éowyn’s betrothal to Faramir, current Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, to the people of Rohan.
Éomer bowed his head in respect as the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien passed him. They were but two of the contingent of Elves that rode with them. Lord Elrond rode with his twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir. The sons of Elrond had stood with them before the Black Gate, and cheered as Sauron was defeated for the final time. Their sister, Arwen, wedded to Aragorn, was now Queen of Gondor.
“My friend, you are lagging behind,” softly spoke a voice beside him.
Turning, Éomer saw that Aragorn had come up beside him. Pushing a piece of blonde hair behind his ear, he answered the King of Gondor.
“Just wandering the path of my thoughts.”
“And what thoughts would those be?” Aragorn asked the younger man.
“That over long did I linger in your realm and it is time to return to my own. That it is time to start repairing the damage done to Rohan during the war. That it is time once again for the horse herds of Rohan to flourish and thrive upon the lands.”
Many of the Rohirrim and their mounts had been lost upon the fields of the Pelennor. That, in addition with Sauron’s Orcs stealing horses for their own vile purposes, the herds had been reduced. As king, Éomer was determined to see the proud horses of his people racing once again over the grass plains of Rohan.
“Aye, that would be a fine thing to see. You have a formidable task ahead of you.”
“It is one that I gladly accept.”
Éowyn and Faramir rode past them, talking quietly between themselves. The light of love shown brightly on the Lady’s face.
“It is good to see your sister recovering from her wounds.”
“I think Faramir had a lot to do with that.”
“Hrmp,” was the only answer Aragorn gave the King of the Mark.
Éomer grinned before he said, “Well, that and you, my lord.”
Éowyn had spent several days in the Houses of Healing recovering from her encounter with the Witch-king. Her broken shield arm was easily set, but the Black Breath that settled over her had almost claimed her life. Only by Aragorn’s intervention, and with the aid of athelas, was her life saved. She had met Faramir during her stay at Minis Tirith, and the love between the two had grown. Soon, they would be joined as man and wife.
“She will make a fine bride for the Prince of Ithilien, do you not think?”
Both men turned at the sound of the gently spoken words. Arwen, a few paces behind them, raised her eyebrow, waiting for an answer.
“My love, how do you know such a thing?” Aragorn asked his wife.
“Call it a woman’s intuition.” Arwen moved her horse around the two kings and continued along the path to Rohan.
Éomer was speechless for no one had yet been told of the betrothal. Turning with a confused look on his face, he asked of Aragorn.
“How?”
“My friend, I long ago gave up trying to understand her,” he replied.
Soft, upon the breeze, the Queen of Gondor’s laughing voice could be heard.
“Éowyn and I have ridden together for many a day. Do you not think we might have talked?”
To be continued...
A/N: I would like to dedicate this chapter to a woman from work. Mary shares my healthy (or is that my unhealthy?) appreciation of Éomer and Karl Urban. I also promise not to sneak into her office and change the wallpaper on her computer from Éomer to Gríma Wormtongue ever again.