Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Release (#2750)
Author: Frigg
Chapters: 3

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings (Movieverse)
Description: This is the long overdue sequel to "The First Love" --- see A/N for commentary ...
Published: 31 May 2006
Updated: 19 Jun 2006
Warnings: None that I can think of ..
Type: General
Characters: Éomer; and other well-known characters


Chapter 1 - Chapter One - Banishment

A/N: A long time ago I wrote a one-shot story called “The First Love” – and I actually never contemplated making a sequel, although I wrote the beginnings of it at the time. But – as you might remember (if you ever read the story), the story ended with Éomer’s first love dying, her father retiring as an advisor – and Théoden King appointing a new advisor; Grima, son of Grimod ….. and a very serious Éomer, and we have to get Éomer smiling again, now won’t we?

It is movie verse, although not strictly as there is some inspiration from the book as well, and I have borrowed some of Peter Jackson’s dialogue. Of course, I do not own the characters – I just borrow them once in a while …



RELEASE
A Sequel to ‘The First Love’

Chapter One - Banishment

With only a few leagues to go, Éomer hoisted himself in the stirrups, stretched his tired muscles and looked towards Edoras. “Almost home; I wonder what awaits us,” he sighed to himself. Not that he was not looking forward to being home, it was just so uncertain what would meet them – and it had been that way for the past few years.

The young Third Marshal of Rohan had led his men on a patrol of the Eastfold. A skirmish with a roaming band of orcs had led to a bloody encounter, killing off most of the orcs but also several of his men. This had almost become routine since Éomer had been appointed by his uncle a couple of years before, and it had been a regular occurrence this past year; it was as if their foes always knew when they were coming, how many they were and where to set up an ambush.

So much had happened these past years; the advisor that King Théoden had appointed after Béowulf’s retirement – Grima, son of Grimod – had slowly, but surely woven the king into a strange net. The awkward looking, dark haired Grima had seemed an odd choice for an advisor, but there was no denying that he had a shrewd brain and that his convincing skills were equalled by none. His slick talk had more than once convinced the other advisors to let him have his way. On some occasions he had given sound advice, actually to the good of the people.

Lately, though, the consequences had at times been dire, but nobody, least of all the king, seemed to protest the decisions. Only Théodred, the king’s only son and his nephew, Éomer, gave voice to their protests. It was as if everybody else was too afraid to oppose Grima. Even the most experienced of the king’s advisors abstained from voicing their protests. No wonder, as strange things had happened to those who had actually been in opposition to Grima’s decisions. Nothing could, however, be proven and suspicions, if any, quickly faded.

What remained, though, was that only years before Théoden King had been a man in his prime, ruling his country with wisdom and determination despite the dark times. He was certainly not young anymore, but he was a strong man with a robust sense of humour and keen wits – at times as mischievous as his son and his nephew. He was the patriarch of a household, which was perhaps gloomy, but had functioned well for many years even though without a queen, and he was a strong father figure both to his own son and the orphaned children of his sister. Even at his age he was a more than capable swordsman and rode with the best of his riders.

But no more. The king seemed to have aged unnaturally especially during the past couple of years; his mind was dimmed, his appearance unkempt and he had become more and more reliant on Grima – Wormtongue as the three young members of the Royal household had named him – and less and less on his son and his nephew or the other members of his council for that matter.

It was no secret that Grima had not approved wholeheartedly of the king’s appointment of Éomer to Third Marshal, but he could not argue that Éomer did not deserve it and therefore had not contested it openly although it was obvious that it would not have been his choice. He did, however, never let a chance go by without voicing his opinion to the council that perhaps the young man was not yet prepared for the position – and perhaps only held it because he was the king’s nephew.

It did not surprise Théodred or Éomer as they were fully aware of his scheming against them, and they did their utmost to steer clear of Grima unless when it could not be avoided, but they mostly held their tongue. The king would hear no word spoken against his advisor, and nobody wanted to evoke the wrath of the king, subsequently of Grima himself, as he surrounded himself with trusted cronies – mostly mere scum, who would stop at nothing given the slightest chance.

On his part, Grima wasted no time setting the king’s mind against his son and his nephew, allowing them no say neither in matters of state, nor in matters concerning the well-being of the king, telling them that they were upsetting the king whenever they tried to raise matters of state with him.

Only Éowyn was allowed near the king, and she was the only one that Grima would listen to. When she made a demand on the king’s behalf, Grima would oblige willingly. Always his eyes followed the young woman around; it was obvious that he, in his own crippled way, had feelings for her. Éomer was furious, when he saw the way that Grima looked at his sister, but he could do nothing – and although Éowyn was appalled and disgusted by Grima’s grovelling behaviour, she managed to stay calm and polite and she begged Éomer to do so as well, fearing the consequences if he did not.

This past year, it was as if the entire court and the entire city of Edoras were sinking into a deep gloom, where no joy and optimism reigned; where the decay to buildings and surroundings was obvious, and where there was not much cheer in anybody – except when the éoreds were home and the men tried to wind down, usually with a keg of ale.

Théodred was worried about the general state of affairs of the kingdom, but he had been exempted from the council after he had spoken against some of Grima’s past decisions. When his father had still been clear of mind, he had scalded him, telling him that he was still the king and Théodred only the crown prince, and that he would come down hard on what he considered mutiny from the part of his son or his nephew.

Éomer had had the most difficult time of accepting this, but he kept a strict hold on himself and he had also succeeded in staying Théodred’s hand before he could do bodily harm to Wormtongue. Not that he did not want to himself; Grima had certainly wasted no time attempting to stir the temper of the young marshal whenever he could, throwing false accusations and mocking remarks at him, including covert threats concerning his sister and his cousin as well as accusations against his father, the late Éomund, and his erroneous decisions, knowing that therein lay his best chance of provoking the young man. But so far Éomer had succeeded in controlling his temptation to run his sword through Grima.

Grima had had no difficulty convincing the other counsellors that he spoke the mind of the king, and that the heir of Rohan and the king’s nephew were a couple of hotheads, who spoke no sense and only thought of themselves, merely seeking to gain honour and glory on their own behalf as they put the people of Rohan in danger. Only two of the king’s most trusted captains, Hama and Gamling, still trusted and supported the heir of Rohan and his cousin, and the four of them often relayed their worries to each other although it had to be in secret.

More than once Éomer and Théodred had debated whether Rohan would not be better off if they betrayed their oath to lord and land and revolted against Wormtongue’s regime, but loyalty and fear of the repercussions to the king and to Éowyn held them back. Éomer hated himself as he saw the consequences that his and Théodred’s hesitation was having for the people of Rohan. But the oath was sacred to them both and so much a part of them that breaking it would be like breaking their hearts and going against their nature and honour.

The situation had gradually gotten worse. Orcs and Dunlendings were freely roaming the borders of Rohan, killing, violating, burning and plundering, and patrols could not keep them at bay. This was, of course, brought to the knowledge of the council, and the marshals repeatedly pleaded their cause. Not that this helped much; however much they wanted to patrol the borders and protect the people, they were only seldom allowed to do so, and then only after heated discussions between the council and the Crown Prince. Théodred often had almost to stake life and honour on being able to defend his country and his people.

It was obvious to Éomer and his cousin that their enemies were systematically laying Rohan in ruins, and at times, the marshals deliberately disobeyed orders and rode out on patrols, always with the feeling that they would cause serious trouble to everyone when they did, but so far it had only gained them severe reprimands and harsh words from Grima, who called them troublemakers and warmongers. The king seemed weaker than ever, completely in his own world, and Grima seemed to have taken full control of the kingdom’s affairs, now also keeping the other members of council from the king.

This time the éoreds were returning after patrolling for more than four weeks; they had managed to send the enemy fleeing – again, but Éomer thought bitterly that it would probably only be a matter of days before reports on roaming hordes would send them on wild chases again.

Éomer felt sick to his stomach and gripped the reins tightly, as his thoughts returned to the villages in the remote part of the Eastfold that they had found raided; crops and houses burnt, herds scattered, men and children slaughtered and the women, young as old, savagely raped and left to die. He closed his eyes at the thought, remembering the very young girl – a mere child, who had been raped and left to bleed to death; Éomer had held her in his arms as she drew her last breath, crying for her mother. She could not have been more than thirteen at the most. He still had her blood on his hands and his armour.

Not far from her, Éomer had found the bodies of her parents and siblings, also mutilated and violated. Grima should be forced to see what we have to see – but that bloody coward just hides behind others, always has. Éomer cursed. Damn loyalty, damn his oaths to lord and land!

Théodred and his cousins had long suspected that there must be more to this hold on the king that just Grima’s ability to convince him. It was also most unnatural that the king should have aged so much in so little time. They – or at least Éomer – had suspicions that went in the direction of Saruman and had often voiced it. This was partly because Grima had managed to convince the king that Saruman was a friend and ally of Rohan, partly because Gandalf the Grey was no longer welcome in Rohan ….. and finally because the orcs they were fighting seemed to come from the direction of Isengard, Saruman’s stronghold. However, they had no definite proof that it was so.

At this, Éomer felt the cold anger rising in him again, he so wanted to rid Rohan of this manipulating snake and would gladly risk his life to run his sword through Grima. But – thinking thus was madness, and he knew it. He felt a deep weariness overtake him; he dismissed the thoughts and addressed Éothain, his friend since childhood, who was riding next to him. “It will be good to have a couple of days’ leisure and to see our families,” he said, deliberately keeping his voice more carefree that he felt.

Éothain nodded. “Aye, it will – and some release from this strain of always being on your guard – if that is at all possible.” They did not have to talk about their situation; Éothain shared Éomer’s concerns and had often discussed their situation with him. He also knew that his friend did only pretend when he sounded so carefree.

Éomer looked at his friend. “Aye, that too. Hopefully Théodred and his men will also be back by now.”

The tired men and their tired horses were rapidly approaching Edoras. As they rode through the gates, the women and children were gathering, glad to see their men and fathers back. Éothain was met by a young woman with bright blue eyes and reddish-tinged hair. He had already been married for a couple of years now, having known his wife since they were both quite young. In her arms she carried a little girl with flaxen hair and bright grey eyes.

Éomer watched his friend as he dismounted and took them both in his arms. More and more often he found it difficult to witness such homecomings – and passionate leave-takings for that matter. His heart cringed as memories of what was once his filled his mind. It had been a long time, eight years in fact, but the memory of Fréya still was painful whenever it surfaced – and it had a lot recently.

He thought of the time, when Fréya had come running towards him when he returned from a patrol, and the way that she had smiled with joy that he was back with her again. His life could have been like Éothain’s. In stead it was now only a faded memory, Fréya having rested in the cold ground for several years. He could not stifle a sigh as he fought the bitter feelings; they were no use to him anymore and only removed his focus.

His sister came running down the stairs from Meduseld, the king’s hall, and he dismounted and removed his helmet as she reached him.

Éowyn embraced her big brother: “It is good to see you well and safe, brother. Théodred and his men arrived a few hours ago – looking every bit as tired and battle-weary as you.”

Éomer could feel the relief in his sister’s embrace. He knew that it was hard on her being left alone with Grima and her ailing uncle when Théodred and he were away. Fortunately the king’s housekeeper and the wives of Gamling and Hama were there, too. Grima had never counted these women as adversaries. Éomer thought with a bitter grin that perhaps he should have – he knew what at least Éowyn was capable of with a sword.

“Thank you, sister. It is good to be back.” he said, letting a hand glide over his face as if to erase his fatigue.

Éowyn looked at his hands and sent him a questioning glance as she saw the blood on them. He shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

His sister ignored him. “What happened?”

“A village was raided. The villagers were killed. It is simple genocide, Éowyn. The blood on my hands and armour? From a young girl who died in my arms. I hate them!”

Éowyn put a hand on her brother’s arm. “I know, Éomer – and I will not ask you for details.”

Éomer sent her a grateful glance. “Now, how is uncle?”

“As I told Dred, he is getting worse. He hardly recognizes any of us anymore – except for Grima, of course, and he only hears now what he is saying.” The bitterness in her voice was very evident.

Éomer looked solemnly at his sister, his dark eyes blazing. “I swear that I will have his hide ….” he snarled through gritted teeth, the anger making his voice tremble.

“You will do nothing, Éomer. Please don’t! We cannot afford losing you; if you touch Grima, he will make sure that you are thrown in the dungeons – or worse. He is powerful and has followers in Edoras, you know that!”

Éomer shook his head; he knew. But it was difficult just sitting back and letting Grima – or rather Saruman – getting a stronger hold over the king as the days went by.

He handed his helmet to Éowyn; then he led Firefoot into the stable, removed the tackle and saddle and gave the horse a good rubbing down as he and Éowyn were talking quietly. They were both reluctant to go back to the Golden Hall.

He fed Firefoot a bucket of oats and told one of the grooms to look after his horse, and the siblings walked up the hill to Meduseld, Éomer with his arm protectively around his sister’s shoulders.

As they were ascending the stairs, the doors opened, and Théodred, the only son of the king, came out. “There you are, I wondered what was keeping you.”

The blue-grey eyes of the prince glittered dangerously and his face was drawn; Éomer knew all too well what that signified. “He has already had a row with Grima – that does not bode well.” Éomer ascertained. “I shall have to calm him down before he does anything rash.”

“Good to see you, too, cousin. Obviously, your task was not as troublesome as ours, seeing that you are back this early,” he said in a light tone, trying to seem unaffected.

Théodred laughed, although somewhat forced, and clasped the hand of his cousin, and Éowyn shook her head at them. She, too, had seen the look in her cousin’s eyes and knew all too well what it meant.

“I believe that supper will be ready soon, but we will presumably have to dine without father, according to the Worm he is not feeling well and we should not upset him further just by our mere presence.” Théodred’s jaw clenched and Éomer could tell that he had difficulty restraining himself. “Not that it makes any difference, he hardly recognizes any of us anyway,” he added bitterly.

Éomer said sternly, “Then it will just have to be the three of us, I will not suffer Wormtongue at our table. Not tonight.”

Éowyn nodded. “I will let Fréalin know. Now, go and get cleaned up, brother. I will not tolerate you at the table, if you do not get rid of that smell!”

Éomer grinned, “I shall, sister. See you both later.”

He went to his chamber and started removing his armour. Behind the screen which hid the washing facilities from the rest of the room, he could tell that a bath was being prepared for him by one of the maids; he could hear the rustle of skirts and light footsteps moving to and fro. As he kicked off his boots and started removing his outer leather tunic and his shirt, the maid peered out from behind the screen and hastily lowered her eyes.

“I am sorry, my Lord. I will hurry and get the bath ready.” She said, sending him a hot glance through her lashes.

As most of the young women in the service of the royal family of Rohan, she obviously took pleasure in watching the tall and handsome nephew of the king. Even with dirt from the ride smudged all over his face and his blonde, shoulder length hair dirty and wind-tangled, he was an attractive man – and it was no secret that any of the maids would gladly have warmed his bed.

Éomer felt the heat of her gaze and smiled a little self-consciously, but also reminded himself of his rule of never getting himself involved with any of the women of the royal household. They all knew the story of his lost love and many had thought that they might be the one to comfort him, making him forget. None of them had ever succeeded breaking down his defences.

“Thank you, that will be fine,” he said, pausing in his undressing until the door had closed behind the maid. He shed the rest of his clothing and lowered himself into the hot water, sighing as he felt his tired muscles relax.

When he emerged from his room, all cleaned up and dressed in a green suede tunic, even his sister could not help acknowledging that her brother was a very handsome man indeed.

“No wonder that half the girls of Edoras sigh for you, cousin.” Théodred grinned. Éomer just shook his head at this.

“That may be – and the rest for you, cousin – even though I wonder why? After all, at your age you are rapidly decaying, you know,” Éomer quipped.

His cousin snorted at this. “Brat! The same thing will happen to you one day, you know,” he mumbled. “I will show you tonight that I am still man for drinking you under the boards.”

“I assume then that you will be going out tonight?” Éowyn inquired.

“Aye, I think that we need to get a few ales under our belt.” Éomer looked at his sister. “Hopefully you will not be too disappointed that we leave you?”

“No, we can talk tomorrow – when you have slept it off!” Éowyn smirked and her brother stroked her arm.

“An understanding sister – what more could a man want?”

“Perhaps a wife to take on my responsibilities of nursing you back to life when you have had too much to drink?” Éowyn quipped and Théodred laughed as he saw the look on Éomer’s face.

The three of them sat down to eat, and the two men told Éowyn of the events of the past weeks. Not everything though; Éomer held back on some points and he had the feeling that Théodred did, too. They agreed that this was not the last that they had seen or heard of the orcs. Dark times were surely coming; the attacks on the borders were becoming more and more frequent and soon Edoras would be threatened. They feared what would happen to Rohan with its king so ensnared and weak.

After supper, Éowyn rose. “I will go see Cerwyn. I have promised to help her with the boys tonight; the little one has been ill. I do not particularly feel like staying here, I would rather hide from Grima tonight. Gamling will see me safely home.”

After she left, her brother and cousin remained for a while, savouring the last of the wine. Luckily Grima did not show his ugly face. As he emptied his goblet, Théodred looked at Éomer. “Ale, cousin?” he asked.

“Aye, and lots of it!” Éomer proclaimed. “I need to get these past weeks and recent events out of my system.”

Théodred grinned, “Then a certain wench may expect your company tonight?”

“Aye, she might. Unless you beat me to her.” Éomer grinned.

“Even if I did, she would still prefer you as well you know.” Théodred slapped his cousin’s shoulder and the two men left the dining hall.

In the mead hall, which the riders usually frequented, they found most of their men already engaged in one of their favourite pass-times when off duty: drinking. The arrival of the two young lords brought about cheering, especially as Théodred ordered a round for everybody, and soon the ale and mead induced talk flowed easily. Tankard after tankard was emptied and filled again.

Wenda, one of the bar maids and one of Éomer’s particular favourites, approached the table with another jug of ale. When she reached Éomer, she leaned over and purred in his ear: “My Lord, what has kept you so long?”

Éomer reached over and pulled her into his lap. “Have you missed me?” he growled as he kissed her neck.

She giggled: “You know that I have, my Lord.”

The others grinned; they knew Éomer’s appeal to women and his preference for Wenda – although he did not keep to her only. Hama and Théodred shared a surprised look; they realised that the Third Marshal must be rather drunk by now; otherwise he would never have behaved in this manner, sporting his lust so openly, especially in front of his men.

Ever since he had suffered the loss of the young woman that he loved, Éomer had not gotten seriously involved with women. He used them as a diversion and release, but he always kept it very discreet, hence his principle of never getting involved with women of the royal household.

Wenda giggled as she felt Éomer’s hands on her body and his lips tracing her neck down to her exposed shoulder.

As they suspected, Éomer was drunk, and the only one coherent thought in his head was to seek his release in the arms of a woman; for the moment he did not care who saw and who knew.

He whispered impatiently in Wenda’s ear: “Can we go to your room – now?” She nodded “Yes, my Lord.” She stood up and dragged him with her. As they left the room, Éomer looked up; his eyes met Théodred’s and his cousin read the despair and the guilt in them.

He understood –-- he had often felt the same way and did now as well. He grabbed the waist of the woman standing next to him. “Lass, will you grant me your favours tonight?” he asked. She laughed. “Certainly, my Lord,” and dragged him towards the door. The men cheered as the door closed behind them.

Later in the night, Éomer woke. His head felt like lead and his mouth felt dry. At first he did not quite realise where he was, but then he remembered; Wenda’s bed in the small house next door to the mead hall, where the women rented rooms to entertain the men. He felt her move beside him; luckily she was still asleep.

His head was spinning – and he sat for a moment on the edge of the bed cradling his head in his hands. As his senses cleared, he remembered what had happened. He felt nauseous. Usually he did not make such an open spectacle of whom he took to bed, and usually he did care how the girl he took to bed felt be she a whore or not – but not this night; it had only been about release. Release from the thoughts that swirled in his head – and release from the worries about his uncle, his country and his sister ---- and the memories of Fréya that kept creeping back into his mind.

For a split second, in his drunken mind, he had even imagined that it was Fréya he was making love to, seeing her sweet face before him as she had looked the last time that he had held her in his arms.

He moaned, rose from the bed and tried to find his clothes. Wenda stirred, but did not wake up. He put on his breeches and his shirt and took a drink from the jug of water standing on the bedside table. He did not feel any better for it, and sat down again to put on his boots. Wenda woke just then and rolled over in bed, reaching out for him.

“Why, my Lord. You need not leave now; it is the middle of the night, stay,” she purred and put her hand on his thigh. He removed it rather roughly.

“No, Wenda. I can’t stay – I must get back,” he growled. He found his belt pouch and left her the usual amount of coins – and then some. Lately he had been feeling almost ashamed to buy the favours of women. He had never before, always finding it most natural; most single men did it. His surfacing memories about Fréya had not made it easier. He was lonely, and buying lust was just not enough for him anymore. He yearned for something else; also in that respect he was different from Théodred, who still preferred living a bachelor’s life without any commitments although it was expected of him to get married and provide an heir for Rohan.

Wenda sat up in bed looking at him. She could tell the change in him – she had also felt the difference when he took her to bed. He had been very drunk and their encounter had been swift and brutal, not with the usual care; it had felt like he only needed release – and nothing else. “He will not be back,” she realised. She smiled at him as he turned towards her in the doorway. “Goodbye,” he said quietly, as the door closed behind him.

Éomer breathed in the cool night air as he walked up the path towards Meduseld and his room. As he passed the guards at the main entrance, he nodded. They hardly looked at him, acknowledging him without a word and let him pass.

He passed through the dark hall and into the corridor towards his room. He could see that Théodred had not yet returned to his room, the door was open. The rest of the household seemed to be asleep, not a sound was heard. He opened the door to his room and went in. Closing it behind him, he leaned against the door. He was still slightly reeling from the amount of spirits he had consumed.

His room seemed undisturbed, but he noticed in the dim light of the fire and as he lit a candle that his armour and helmet had been cleaned. His sister’s doing, presumably. He smiled vaguely and went to the table to pour a beaker of water.

Then he went to the window and looked out over the dark city. Morning was still a while off. He sighed, “I wonder how long we will be able to go on like this.” Then he pulled off his clothes and lay down on his bed; his head was still pounding. He lay looking at the ceiling for a while trying to gather his thoughts, but suddenly his weariness overtook him and he slept.

-----0000-----

In the morning, as the sun shone into his room, Éomer woke. As the light hit his eyes, he groaned. He got up and went over behind the screen where he found a jug of cold water, which he poured into the water basin, splashing cold water on his face and body, ultimately dipping his head in the water basin. Then he dried off, combed his hair, dressed and went to the kitchen to get some breakfast.

His sister had apparently already had her breakfast, and she was cleaning the table as he walked in. She looked up. “Up this early, brother? What has got into you?” Éomer just shot a glance at her and sat down at the big table resting his head in his hands.

The king’s housekeeper Fréalin looked at him. She knew the young generation of the royal house better than anyone; she had practically raised Théodred after his mother died giving birth to him and had looked after Éomund’s and Théodwyn’s children since their early childhood when they had come to live with their uncle after the death of their parents. Éomer had always been her favourite.

“You look worse for wear, lad,” she remarked, “Hit the ale too hard last night, did you?”

Éomer sent her a ghost of a smile, but did not reply.

“Apparently,” she ascertained dryly. “And how about your brother in arms, the fair Théodred?”

Éomer shrugged. “I do not know; I lost track of him some time during the night.”

Fréalin chuckled. “Aye, that sounds likely. Who was she this time?”

Éomer looked blankly at her and tried to sound surprised. “I do not know what you mean. For sure, I am not his keeper.”

Éowyn chuckled and served her brother some breakfast, porridge, tea, bread and cheese. He looked at it and his stomach felt like it would soon turn inside out. He tried to ignore it.

“Eat!” she ordered, “You will feel better for it.”

“I am not sure about that; it depends ---- did you or Fréalin make the porridge?”

Éowyn’s eyes shot arrows at her brother. “Fréalin did …. So, eat!” she repeated.

Éomer obeyed; from vast experience he knew that it would be a waste of time protesting. As he was finishing his breakfast, the door opened and Théodred entered the kitchen, looking as if he was coming directly from the mead hall.

“You are looking even worse than Éomer.” Fréalin assumed a stern face. “What or rather who was so thrilling that you could not find your own bed this night?” she inquired.

Théodred shot her a glance from bloodshot eyes. “Do not meddle in my affairs, woman!” He growled. “I am sick and tired of answering to everybody about my actions. Béma knows that I am old enough to handle my own affairs!”

Fréalin looked at the man that she had come to regard as her own son. “That you are. Then behave like a grown man!” she said sternly, a little smile curling her mouth as she put some breakfast in front of him and pressed him down on the bench. Théodred smiled embarrassedly at her, an apologetic look in his eyes.

He settled down to eat and then looked at Éomer. “The reason why I have not been to bed is that I have just received reports that a small party of orcs have crossed into Rohan again, the report says at the Fords of the Isen. I have rounded up my men; we are leaving as soon as we can.”

Éomer looked inquisitively at him. “Do you consider this wise? Without the council’s permission? From whom have you received these reports?”

“Not from Grima, if that is what you think. I know the messenger, who brought them.”

“And how do you know that the reports are true? That Grima has not planted them? Can we really trust anybody these days? At least wait until I can summon my éored and get them ready to go with you!”

“No – and that is an order. You will not go! I am the king’s son and I must take the responsibility. Besides you and your men did have a heavier task that we did last time. Éothain told me about the village – and the attack. We cannot both go – Elfhelm’s éored is not in Edoras at the moment, and Erkenbrand’s is guarding the Eastfold. We cannot leave Edoras unprotected!”

“We will not; the Royal Guard is still here – as well as the reserves! Do not be foolish, Théodred. You need me with you,” Éomer said, pleadingly.

Théodred looked at his cousin, suddenly looking much older than his years. “Éomer, you will be in trouble if you also act without permission from the council; you have done that too many times now. Grima has got it in for you. It is easier to hit the Third Marshal than the heir to the throne!”

Éomer shook his head. “I will not be in trouble – no more than you, cousin. And I am not so sure that I am the easier target. Bloody hell, Théodred; uncle cannot - and will not - save us! And we are in this together; please let me help you! I fear that it is a trap!”

“Éomer, you stay here with your men; that is an order! I demand your loyalty in this!” Théodred growled. Éomer sighed; Théodred was right; he stood above him in command. He looked at his cousin. “All right, then, I will obey you but if I do not have word in a couple of days, I will go looking for you. I do not trust these reports. You may encounter heavier resistance than you think. I suspect foul play! But – you have my loyalty, cousin.”

Éowyn, who had remained silent while her brother and her cousin argued, said quietly. “Listen to Éomer, Dred, his premonitions are usually true – and please do not just rush out because you are hurt and angry.”

Théodred nodded and looked solemnly at his cousins. “You are both right, but the Worm ----- attacks my pride every time I see him or try to talk to father. I am the king’s son and heir to the throne – and he reduces me to, to … nothing.” His voice sounded hurt and sad.

Éomer looked calmly at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know – and I feel what you feel, but please – be careful, Dred. Do not take any chances. Rohan needs you!”

Théodred nodded determinedly. “Rohan needs you, too, Éomer. But I shall heed your words and I will see you soon, both of you. Watch over father.” He kissed Éowyn’s cheek, nodded to Éomer and left to go with his men.

Éomer’s gaze stayed on his cousin until the door closed behind him. “I do not trust the worm one bit; these reports are planted, but Dred will not see this; he is too hurt and upset to realise it. I will wait two days and then we will go look for him. And I do not care what Grima has to say about it – or what happens to me.” He rose. “I must find Éothain and prepare him.”

The two women looked after him. “I worry so,” said Éowyn, “for both of them. Rohan cannot afford losing any of them now. Somebody must protect our people when the king cannot.”

Fréalin nodded, putting a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. She had a feeling that she had seen her prince for the last time, but she did not word it. Éowyn leaned against the older woman, noticing the tears in Fréalin’s eyes, and she felt that the older woman was in pain. She put a comforting arm around the housekeeper. After a while, they let go of each other and returned to their work in silence.

Two days went by; Éomer had a hard time restraining himself when he saw the self-satisfied smirk on Grima’s face every time he encountered him. He was now sure that he had assumed correctly; Grima had been behind the plot to lure Théodred away. No messages came in from Théodred and Grima looked more and more satisfied.

In the evening of the second day, Éomer decided that he dared wait no more; he gave orders that his men should make ready to ride before dawn the following morning.

“I fear that the reports that Théodred received were false and that something has happened to them, otherwise we would have heard,” he told his men. “We must find them – and I fear that we might be too late.”

He spoke of his intentions to Gamling, who was one of his uncle’s most trusted men, and Éomer’s friend, though closer to Théodred’s age. He told him to keep this knowledge to himself; he was quite sure that Grima would do everything he could to keep him from going, if he knew. He also trusted that Gamling would do whatever was in his power to protect the king and Éowyn, should the worst happen.

Gamling nodded his consent; he, too, was certain that something had befallen Théodred and his men. He advised Éomer to thread warily. “He will do everything he can, Éomer, to get you out of the way – and Rohan will be left bared to his whims if both Théodred and you are gone.”

Éomer put a hand on his older friend’s shoulder. “Then it will be up to you and Hama to protect my sister and the king – and to get word to Gondor,” he said.

Gamling nodded, smiling grimly. ”Take care – and come back, Éomer. I shall do what I can to cover for you.” They parted.

Very early the next morning, before dawn, and before the city stirred, Éomer led his men out of the gates of Edoras heading for the Isen. Éomer had a heavy feeling in his chest; he was now sure that something had befallen Théodred and his men. They rode in silence all through the day and night. The rain was pouring down, which did nothing to raise their spirits.

The following day, they reached the Ford of the Isen. The rain was still falling heavily. As they reached the river, they saw that its water was red – as if of blood and as they came closer they saw the reason; bodies of men and orcs were strewn all over the ford. Their blood mingled in the water and gave it its colour.

Éomer halted Firefoot; he was soaked through, water from his hair was drizzling down under his collar, but he did not feel it; he felt numb, as he watched the spectacle before him. Obviously the men had fought bravely, judging from the number of enemies that had been slain but it was quite apparent that the attackers had been too strong, too ruthless – and too many. As he had feared the reports of a small party had spoken falsely.

Next to him, Éomer heard Éothain’s disbelieving cry. “Almighty Béma – what has happened here!” The terror was very evident in his voice.

Éomer looked desperately around him, as he roared: “Théodred – find the king’s son!” They all dismounted and began searching through the bodies of Rohirrim and orcs. He gritted his teeth. “It was as I feared – a trap. I curse the worm!” he cried.

One of the men rose from examining a mutilated body and exclaimed: “Mordor will pay for this. Those savages!” He cursed, his voice strained and hoarse.

Éomer had been kneeling beside a body and now rose to stand. He had just found the younger brother of one of his friends since childhood, who had been killed six months earlier in an orc attack on the Eastfold. Now his parents had lost yet another son. He drew in a sharp breath, as he kicked over a body of an orc in anguish. He saw the insignia of the White Hand – Saruman’s mark – on his cuirass. Another of his suspicions had proven correct.

“These orcs are not from Mordor,” he hissed. “The White Hand; this is Saruman’s doing!”

He kept on searching through the bodies; suddenly he heard one of his men shouting: “Lord Éomer – over here!” Éomer rushed over and saw him turning over a limp body – “Théodred.” He looked at his cousin’s lifeless face, desperately searching for life signs. A small movement of the eyelids and a shiver around the lips made him realise; “He’s alive; he is breathing.”

He rose from his squatting position and shouted, “Quickly – my horse. Éothain – take six men and follow me. The rest of you – gather the bodies of the orcs and burn them – and bury our comrades; we have no time to take them all back to Edoras; give them a decent burial here – they will rest as well and as honourably here as in any other place. Note the names of the dead so that their kin can be notified.” He bowed his head in respect of the dead and then he turned; there was no time to lose.

Éothain and he carried Théodred to Firefoot. Before he sat up, he bent to remove a helmet from one of the orcs and put it in his saddlebag. Éothain and a couple of the men helped him lift up Théodred and supported him as Éomer swung up behind him. “We must make haste, he is badly wounded.”

They rode towards Edoras as fast as they could. Éomer had to use all his strength to keep his cousin’s limp body in the saddle; Théodred remained unconscious during the entire ride, only moaning from time to time. As they approached Edoras, Éomer sent one of the men ahead to summon Éowyn and the healers. He rode right up to the stairs, dismounted and he and his men carried his cousin to his room and laid him on his bed after removing his armour and chainmail. He bled heavily from several fatal wounds.

Éowyn had been to the market, but had seen the riders approaching and now hurried up the stairs to Meduseld and through the corridors to Théodred’s room. As she entered, she found her brother kneeling by the bed, stroking his cousin’s hair. She sat on the bedside, trying to assess the extent of her cousin’s wounds. His face was all bloody, the blood stemming from a gash on the left side of his head. “What happened?” she whispered to Éomer.

He shivered slightly. “Béma knows; they were all slaughtered – Théodred was the only one alive.”

Éowyn looked at him with wide eyes. “All of them, but Halmund …… and Góerf ……?”

“Aye, them too. I need to go and tell their parents …….,” Éomer’s voice broke. Both of them had been childhood friends of Éowyn and rode with Théodred’s éored. Tears fell silently from her eyes; he put a comforting hand on hers, and they both turned their attention back to Théodred.

Éowyn bent over Théodred and whispered his name softly. He seemed to react, moving his lips as if to say something. He seemed barely alive, his breathing was abrupt and troubled. “Sweet Béma,” she whispered as she removed the blanket, which had been laid over him. When she saw the slash wound to his stomach, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer. It looked as if his wounds were already festering. The Valar knew what poisons the enemies used.

She exchanged a look with Éomer; his eyes were dark and worried and his face held all the graveness of the situation. She could tell that he held no great hope that Théodred would survive.

Through the door came the healer Merwyn and his helper, followed by Fréalin. Fréalin’s face was contorted in grief; she took Éowyn’s place at the side of the bed and clasped the hands of the man, who was like a son to her. Éomer put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, but could not find a word to say to her. He just squeezed her shoulder.

The healers examined Théodred, but the look on their faces as they exchanged glances told Éomer that they did not hold high hopes for the survival of their prince.

Éomer consulted with Merwyn, “I think that you should both go to the king and tell him that his son is severely wounded, perhaps dying,” the healer said.

Éomer nodded. “Aye. Come, Éowyn. I know that it is perhaps foolhardy to believe that we can get uncle to understand, but we need to tell him that his son is dying; he must see him before it is too late.” His dark eyes shone passionately.

Éowyn nodded. “Aye; although uncle has heeded nothing any of us had said for the past months, perhaps the graveness of this message will wake him.”

The siblings went to the Great Hall to seek out the king. The king was alone, seated on his throne at the far end of the great hall; Wormtongue was nowhere in sight. Éowyn went up the dais and stood before her uncle; she closed her eyes at the pitiful sight. Éomer followed closely behind her.

He watched his uncle compassionately. The once powerful Théoden King was now reduced to a dribbling dotard. His hair and beard were long and unkempt and his eyes seemed to be without life, milky white and almost blind, his hands weak with clawlike fingers. I will be damned if this has happened in a natural way, only a few years ago he was a man in his prime, Éomer cursed to himself.

“Your son is badly wounded, my Lord.” Éowyn knelt before her uncle, taking one of his weak hands in hers. “Uncle, he may be dying – will you do nothing; will you not go to him?” Her voice was trembling and tears rolled down her cheeks, as she pleaded. The king did not react.

Éowyn rose, taking a step backwards. Her shoulders shook; she was crying now. Éomer went up to stand beside his sister, putting a reassuring hand on her arm, but she turned away, overwhelmed in her grief.

Éomer looked at his uncle. Obviously he seemed quite unaware of them. Anger and sadness swelled in him, and he barely managed to keep his voice calm and entreating as he spoke.

“My Lord, we found Théodred and his men at the Ford of the Isen, only Théodred was alive. They were ambushed by orcs, slaughtered.” He paused for a moment and then continued, pleadingly. “Uncle, please listen to me. If we do not defend our country, Saruman will take it by force.”

Grima Wormtongue chose this moment to make an entrance. It was obvious that he had been warned by his spies that Éomer and his sister had gone to seek their uncle, and he now looked suspiciously at the siblings, especially at Éomer, narrowing his eyes.

“That is a lie; Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally,” he said in his low, affable voice. He knelt beside the king, looking apprehensively up at him. The king murmured something hardly audible to him. To Éomer it sounded, as if he was saying Grima’s name and trying to say something about his son. Grima patted the hand of the king as if reassuring him that everything was all right.

Éomer narrowed his eyes as he looked at Grima. He suppressed the anger that he felt and only this suppressed anger, which made his voice tremble, gave him away as he spoke.

“You worm! How can you call Saruman a friend and ally of Rohan? Orcs are roaming freely across our lands. Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will. Orcs bearing the White Hand of Saruman,” he said as he prayed silently. Oh, Béma, let me get through to uncle; his only son is dying; he needs to understand before it is too late.

“Here is proof if that is what you need!” He spat out and tossed the orc helmet, which he had brought with him from the ford, at the king’s feet. His uncle did not respond to this gesture, he just stared blankly at him without comprehending.

Grima squinted up at Éomer, slowly rising from his kneeling position by the king’s side. “Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind? Can you not see that your uncle is wearied by your malcontent; your warmongering?”

“Warmongering?” Éomer retorted, feeling his temper rising. No longer able to restrain himself, he took one step towards Grima and grabbed him by the throat. “How long has it been since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Grima?” he snarled as he pressed him up against one of the pillars. “When all the men are dead, you will take your part of the treasure?“

Éowyn had withdrawn from them, watching her brother’s actions with rising fear. She thought of getting help from Éothain or Gamling. As she was leaving the room, she felt Grima’s eyes on her. His pale, snake-like eyes flickered as he was watching her. She stopped for an instant in her steps, looking back over her shoulder; then she fled towards the door, shivering from what she had seen in Grima’s eyes.

Éomer’s eyes narrowed dangerously, as his gaze followed Grima’s and recognised the lust and desire in his eyes. White anger flashed in him and he pressed Grima further up against the pillar. His voice was harsh and menacing: “Too long have you watched my sister, too long have you haunted her steps. Keep away from her, worm – or I will …..” He did not get any further as he felt hands grabbing him from behind and he saw Grima’s eyes light up in delight and malice, as he was hauled backwards.

“You see much, Éomer – son of Éomund; too much,” Wormtongue hissed maliciously.

Éomer struggled to get free of their grip, but the guards were too many and held him back. Obviously those planted by Saruman and paid by Grima, he thought as one of them punched him in the stomach. He flinched from pain. As he was regaining his breath, he heard Grima’s triumphant voice.

“You are hereby banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Rohan under pain of death!”

Éomer did not believe that he had heard right and he struggled even more. He shouted defiantly, his eyes blazing towards Grima: “You have no authority here, worm, your orders mean nothing!”

Grima’s face contorted in a malicious grin as he held up a piece of parchment: “Oh, but this order does not come from me. It comes from the king; he signed it this morning. And Marshal – should you succeed in getting your men to follow you, please remind them that they are banished as well.”

Éomer realised with all certainty that his leaving to find Théodred had been the final excuse for Grima to get rid of him. He had only waited for this chance, and now he was rid of them both. He closed his eyes in pain and the gall rose in his mouth. He had let them all down, his uncle, his sister, his people … Théodred.

“You traitor!” he shouted and tried to lash out at Grima, but Grima’s men strengthened their hold of him and dragged him out of the hall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gamling approaching. He tried to turn his head to signal to him, but was prevented. He made one more attempt to escape their grip, but in vain. Two of the thugs held him as the other two let blow after blow rain down over him. “You will not learn your lesson, now will you,” one of them sneered. He flinched but did not give them the satisfaction of crying out. He relaxed; although it was humiliating to stand down, he realised that he would be no good to anybody if he was beaten to death.

One of the men grinned evilly. “Truly a disappointment. I did not think that it would be so easy to break this proud stallion, but – a coward he is like all royalty of Rohan.” Éomer cursed under his breath, but bit his lip not to provoke another attack.

On the steps of Meduseld, one of the thugs looked at him: “Well, then – Marshal. You have only a short while to get your things, your horse – and to say goodbye to your sister! Use it well!” he said mockingly. The man’s face lit up in a malicious grin as he and his friends shoved Éomer down the stairs.

Éomer landed face down on one of the lower steps. He raised his head, cursing under his breath and looking defiantly up at the grinning men. Then he pulled himself up to stand and dried the blood from his face with his sleeve. His entire body ached and blood oozed from a wound to his forehead and his split lip.

Éowyn came rushing down the stairs towards him, her eyes wide in terror. “Éomer! Are you all right? I cannot believe that uncle signed this willingly. What will you do?”

Éomer looked at her “What can I do? I will gather those men who will go with me – and then try to find reinforcements so that we can come back and free Rohan of this malice!” His eyes flashed, as he continued to wipe the blood off his face.

“I will go with you!” Éowyn cried. “Please do not leave me here!”

“Éowyn. No! You cannot come. It is too dangerous; they will stop at nothing to have me killed! And you must be here for Théodred – and uncle.” Éomer grabbed her by the upper arms. Éowyn looked at him with wide, tear filled eyes.

“I have not got much time. How is Théodred?” he inquired.

“Worse, I fear; it is still uncertain that he will survive.” Éowyn’s eyes swelled with tears. “What am I to do without you; why am I to stay here – not knowing what is happening to you!” she said as she leaned against her brother’s chest, now crying openly.

“I am sorry that I let you down and that I must leave you here. I do not know what to do – but I will think of something. Now, sister – take care; watch your back and if it gets worse, you must flee. Gamling and Hama will help you. I promise you that I will come back to rescue you and uncle – and our people!” Éomer embraced his sister fiercely. “I have to find Éothain.”

Gamling came running towards them. “So he finally succeeded,” he said bitterly.

Éomer looked at him. “I need your help – yours and Hama’s – to watch over Éowyn and uncle. And ….. Théodred.” He closed his eyes for a second. Gamling nodded. “We shall. Now go before they find an excuse to kill you. Take care of yourself!” He clasped Éomer’s shoulder. “I promise you that I shall keep them safe.”

“I know that you will, my friend.” Éomer put his hand over Gamling’s.

“Now go, Éomer. Éothain is waiting for you at the stable,” Gamling said.

Éomer nodded, his face was drawn and his jaw clenched. He kissed his sister and left her standing on the stairs with Gamling as he rushed towards the stables. Éothain was already there, waiting with Firefoot and his own horse “Here,” he said, handing Éomer his helmet, “we have packed your things and weapons; we are ready to leave. The men have returned from the ford, most of them are waiting outside the gate.”

Éomer looked at his friend: “But how did you manage this?”

“Éowyn rushed in, telling us that Grima’s cronies were beating you up – but Wormtongue’s faithful men have been bragging about the fact that their trusted leader had succeeded in finding a way of getting rid of the king’s nephew all morning, and that he would set his plan in action today. So we were prepared. And when we saw them entering the hall, we set in motion, even before Éowyn alerted us.”

Éomer could not help smiling: “Did I tell you recently that you are a good friend? But – Éothain, I cannot ask you to go with me. I am banished from Rohan – under pain of death! You will be banished, too, if you follow me. Think of Melia – and your child!”

“I know, and I do think of them,” said Éothain. “I spoke with Melia, and she agrees with me that I should follow you. She will go to her parent’s house and stay there with our child. Halfred and his sons will protect them. You are my friend as well as my commander – and what would my father have thought of me if I were not loyal to you?”

Éomer clasped the wrist of his friend. “Thank you, friend. Let us go. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get back and free the king and our people.” As they were leading their horses out of the stable, Éomer looked up at Meduseld; Éowyn and Gamling were still standing on the stairs. His sister looked so forlorn, but her eyes were dry and she held her head defiantly high. He raised his hand in a gesture and then mounted.

He rode out through the gates, followed by Éothain. His heart felt heavy and he cursed inwardly that Grima had succeeded in outmanoeuvring him so easily. He must have prepared this a very long time; I fear for Éowyn – and for Théodred. He does not need them as much as he does the king. He needed to contemplate what to do next. He knew that he had to go; he would be no good to them dead. And his sister would be able to take care of herself, he knew that.

Outside the gate, almost a hundred riders were waiting. Apparently, his men had acted quickly and had gathered all the men that they could muster. Most of the riders were scattered all over Rohan and they were all bound by their oaths to the king. It would cost them dearly to follow Éomer into banishment. As the men saw Éomer approaching, the men saluted him. He acknowledged the salute and addressed them in a firm voice.

“As you know, I am banished from Rohan – and if I return, it will be under pain of death. I will not ask of you to follow me, because you will be banished as I am, but if you do so of your own free will, I will be forever grateful! We ride, Rohirrim!”

None of the men even hesitated; they all followed behind him.

He turned and cast one last glance back towards Edoras; he saw Éowyn’s lonely figure standing outside the Golden Hall, as she had done so often when he went away. He closed his eyes in pain and then spurred Firefoot on. His men followed in silence. They are leaving their families, too – and follow me into Béma knows what.

---ooo000ooo---

Éomer ordered scouts sent out ahead of them; he knew that they had to be careful as there might be parties of orcs waiting for them and he would not lead his men into an ambush. He was sure that the worm had wasted no time sending word to his master about the recent progress.

After several hours’ hard ride, they dismounted near a small mountain stream to water and rest their horses. The scouts returned, reporting that they had seen a large party of orcs and uruk-hai running as if evil powers were behind them across the plains towards Isengard.

Éomer contemplated this for a while and then turned to his men. “We need not worry that we will be punished for slaying Saruman’s hordes now, and at least these orcs shall not roam our lands anymore. We will follow them at a distance – and then when night falls, we will attack.” Éothain nodded, passed on the orders and the riders mounted.

They followed the orcs at a distance for the remainder of the day. When night fell, the orcs stopped at the outskirts of Fangorn and started chopping wood for fires. The Rohirrim crept nearer and waited in the dark.

The uruks and the orcs started a fight between them, presumably over food. Éomer smiled grimly. “I think that now will be a good time to interrupt them; they seem rather occupied,” he whispered to Éothain, who nodded his consent. He whispered his orders to the men, and at a sign from Éomer, the riders split up and attacked the camp from both sides.

The attack was swift, but intense, and their rage bitter. They all had something or someone to revenge. In no time, the ground was covered with dead orcs; none were left alive. Two of the riders had been killed and the others buried them in silence before they piled up the corpses of the orcs and burned them. Being so close to Fangorn made them uneasy; it was as if the entire forest rumbled and whined menacingly. They felt uncomfortable about camping so close to the forest and removed themselves to find a place to rest for what remained of the night – also to get away from the burning pyre of foul-smelling creatures.

Éomer ordered them to settle down until sunrise. Some slept, some – among them Éomer - could not and he just sat staring out in the darkness, contemplating their next move until he saw the blood red sun rise on the horizon.


Chapter 2 - Chapter Two - Facing A New Destiny

Chapter Two – Facing Your Destiny

As the sun rose, the Rohirrim ate their meagre breakfast and then mounted to continue their journey.

“Have you considered what we are to do?” Éothain asked Éomer as he moved his horse up beside Éomer’s mount.

“I think that we should go north to find Elfhelm – and then across the Snowbourne to seek out Erkenbrand and his men. We need to muster as many as we can, if we are to go back and free our land from Saruman’s hold.” Éomer’s brow furrowed as he spoke. Éothain nodded silently in reply.

They had ridden for a couple of hours after sunrise and had just passed a large boulder of rocks when a man’s voice called out to them in their own tongue: “Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?”

Éomer turned his head and saw a tall, dark-haired man dressed as a ranger standing near the boulder. Two others – a dwarf and an elf – appeared behind him. Where did they spring from? Did they just grow out of the ground?

Éomer lifted his spear, signalling his men to turn and the riders encircled the three well-armed strangers, pointing their spears at them. Éomer steered Firefoot through the ranks and as he halted his horse, he spoke to the strangers in the common tongue, his commanding voice demanding an answer.

“What business does an elf, a man and a dwarf have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!”

The dwarf looked defiantly up at him. “Give me your name, Horse Master, and I shall give you mine!”

The man put a restraining hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and looked calmly at Éomer. Who is he? A ranger from the North by his appearance – but what is he doing here and together with those two?

Éomer jumped from the saddle and walked towards the dwarf, his eyes flaring dangerously. “I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground,” he snarled.

The elf put an arrow to his bow, so fast that Éomer had no time to react, and hissed: “You would die before your stroke fell.”

At this, the Rohirrim moved in closer, pointing their spears menacingly at the three strangers. Tension was palpable, as the elf and Éomer tried to outstare each other and the man put a hand to the elf’s arrow, restraining it, shaking his head warningly at the elf. He turned towards Éomer.

“Please excuse my friends. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. The dwarf is Gimli, son of Gloín and this is Legolas of the Woodland Realm. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden, your king,” he said sternly and his blue-grey eyes flashed, as he looked straight at Éomer.

Looking into Aragorn’s eyes, Éomer got strangely convinced that he could trust the man and he decided to shed his suspicions, at least towards him. He sighed inaudibly.

“Théoden no longer recognises friend from foe.” Removing his helmet, he paused and closed his eyes briefly as if in pain before he continued. “Not even his own kin. I am Éomer, son of Éomund, the king’s nephew.” He raised his head proudly.

He gave his men the sign to raise their spears and again addressed the man, who called himself Aragorn. “Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over his lands. We are constantly under attack from his hordes; Rohan is vulnerable, and we have to be on our guard. I am sure that you will understand our apprehension.”

Éomer looked around at his men and then back at Aragorn: “My company are those loyal to Rohan and for that we are banished.” He moved his gaze and looked straight at the elf, not yet able to shred his suspicion towards him. By tradition, the Rohirrim were wary towards the elves, as they were only infrequent visitors to their land and the Rohirrim had no real dealings with them. Éomer did, however, understand and speak Sindarin. He had been taught by his mother when he was a boy.

He continued, his voice still strained: “The white wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked – and everywhere his spies slip past our nets.” He looked into the elf’s clear blue eyes, as if he dared him to speak, but the elf kept his silence, just looking calmly back at Éomer.

In stead Aragorn spoke, his voice sounding almost painful: “We are no spies. We track a party of uruk-hai westward across the plains. They have taken two of our friends captive. Saruman is our enemy, too. The uruks are his servants. We have been on their trail since Amon Hen three days hence.”

Éomer looked at him, shaking his head slightly. “Amon Hen – but that is forty leagues from here? And you have pursued these creatures on foot ever since? Aragorn, son of Arathorn – Wingfoot I should name you!” he said with a curt laugh void of mirth.

Then he added, “Your pursuit has ended; the uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night.”

At this, the dwarf looked appalled and burst out. “But there were two hobbits. Did you see two hobbits with them?”

Éomer raised an eyebrow quizzically: “Hobbits? Do you mean – Halflings? No .. I have only heard tales of them, but never seen any ….”

Aragorn nodded, indicating the size with his hand: “Yes, halflings – they would be small, only children to your eyes.”

“We saw none so small, of that I am sure – but we left none alive; we piled the carcasses and burned them.” Éomer said solemnly and pointed out over the plains where they could see smoke rising.

Gimli looked at him and shook his head in disbelief. “Dead?” he said. Legolas, the elf, put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and Aragorn stared blankly ahead of him.

Éomer nodded emphatically: “I am sorry; we did not know ...” Then he made a decision, turned and whistled: “Hasufel, Arod.” Two horses were lead through from behind the ranks.

He gave the reins of both horses to Aragorn. “May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. This is the only help that a banished Marshal of the Mark can offer you at the moment.” He bowed his head to them: “Farewell.”

He put his helmet back on, went to his horse and mounted. He turned in the saddle and looked at the three companions. “Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands.” He said, the bitterness very evident in his voice.

Then he called out, as he spurred on Firefoot: “We ride north!”

They met no resistance as they rode north. They found Elfhelm’s encampment and made camp themselves. Erkenbrand and his men had joined Elfhelm upon hearing the news from Edoras that Éomer had been banished; Gamling had managed to get word to them. They were both prepared to join them, and so were their men. None of them questioned or protested Éomer’s decisions.

Éomer and the other marshals met in Éomer’s tent. They all agreed that Edoras was vulnerable, if indeed Saruman’s hordes would set in an attack. The Royal Guard would be loyal to the king and lady Éowyn and protect them, should Grima and his men try to harm them, but were too few to stand against a massive attack on the city.

“Hama and Gamling are loyal; they will not betray Théoden – although there is not much that they can do at the moment except for keeping sane,” Éomer remarked to Éothain and his father’s old friend, Erkenbrand. They both agreed.

“We need to find a plan; we must go back to Edoras and throw out the worm and his followers. It will not be easy; he is protected by Saruman and I fear that Saruman will unleash all his power over Rohan, if we do not do something quickly!” Éomer emphasised.

Erkenbrand looked at his old friend’s son. He looked so much like his father – and Erkenbrand knew that he possessed the same courage, determination and temper. But he was sure that, contrary to Éomund, Éomer would remain calm and focus on the task ahead of him; he would curb his inclination to storm Edoras and kill Grima and his followers, even though there was nothing he would like better. If indeed Théodred dies, he will be a worthy heir to the throne, and one day a worthy king, Erkenbrand mused. And his men will follow him to death.

“Your father would have stormed Meduseld by now,” Erkenbrand said aloud with a small smile on his lips, as he clasped the young marshal’s arm.

“I know – but I cannot afford that; Éowyn is still there. Théodred as well – and the king.” Éomer looked solemnly at the older marshal in whose éored he had learned the trade of a leader of men as second in command before he was appointed marshal. Éomer had started his career as a rider with Théodred’s éored at age sixteen, but at one point, the king had decided that the two cousins should be split up and had ordered Éomer to join Erkenbrand’s éored, as he felt that Erkenbrand would be able to turn Éomer into the commander that he would want his nephew to be.

A couple of days went by and plans began to form; they had by now a considerable force. Éomer and the other marshals, who also had decided to condemn themselves to banishment, were in Éomer’s tent discussing their plans, when they heard hooves and the shouts of the men. “The White Wizard!”

They grabbed their weapons and ran outside, expecting to find Saruman – and met an unexpected sight. Indeed, it was the White Wizard, but this wizard was not Saruman. He was riding Shadowfax, the horse that had been reluctantly lent to Gandalf the Grey by Théoden King a long time ago.

“Gandalf!” Éomer exclaimed. “Why come you here? And you are so changed?”

“Aye, Éomer, son of Éomund. It is indeed a long story and it will have to wait! I come to you at this hour to bid you to come to the aid of the king. He has been freed of Saruman’s grasp and is leading his people to Helm’s Deep. It is likely that Saruman will be unleashing all his forces on the fortress. Gather your men, we must make haste to rescue your people! We have no time to lose!”

“You forget that the king banished me. Do you think that he will now want my help?” Éomer said bitterly.

“Éomer! Rohan needs you now. Your banishment was the work of Saruman not of your uncle; you must know that! Whether your uncle would want your help or not, is not important. Rohan needs your help! You and your Riders are the only hope that your people have!”

Éomer made up his mind quickly and turned, shouting to his men. “Break camp and saddle up! The king and our people need us. We must make haste – to Helm’s Deep!”

He sheathed his sword and ran to his tent to find his helmet and spear. He hurried back outside and found the wizard dismounted, enjoying a drink of water. “Gandalf,” he said, “Did you see my sister? And Théodred?”

The old wizard looked at the young man, examining his face and flashing eyes. You were indeed born to greater deeds, young Marshal, he mused. Loud he said, “Your sister is fine; she is on her way to Helm’s Deep with the people – but your cousin is dead. He died in his sleep, the night after you left Edoras, Éowyn told me. She believes that Grima might have killed him; she believes that he was getting better. We buried him before I left Edoras. I believe that you are now the king’s heir. And thus even more needed at the king’s side.”

Éomer clenched his fists and bowed his head, grief almost choking him - Théodred dead! Although, he had expected it; his cousin’s wounds had been too terrible. Then he lifted his head and went over to Firefoot. He mounted and called out to his men: “We ride! To Helm’s Deep!”

During a brief stop to water their horses, Gandalf told Éomer what had happened at Edoras. How he had met up with Aragorn and the others, who had thought him dead in Moria and how they had arrived at Edoras and freed the king from Saruman’s hold.

Éomer told Gandalf that he had met the three companions and that he had given them horses.

“Aragorn told me so during our journey from Fangorn to Edoras,” Gandalf nodded, “and he also told me of your banishment. Aragorn shares your opinion that open war against the enemy cannot be avoided; he tried to convince your uncle to meet the enemy head on, and that you were loyal to him and that you would come to his aid, if he sent for you, but I fear that your uncle’s pride got the better of him. He refused to send for you so I decided that I would go. Besides, your people are better served with Aragorn being at Helm’s Deep than I.”

“Gandalf, you seem to have a lot of confidence in the ranger. Who is he? Although, he seemed to me no ordinary ranger – he had an air about him that suggested something more than just that?”

Gandalf looked at the young marshal. “In that you are right, Éomer. Aragorn is of Numénorian descent. He is the Chieftain of the Dunédain in the North, and he is the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor.”

“So it is true then, the heir of Isildur lives.” Éomer nodded solemnly, “and it is not just a myth of old!”

“Aye, and he is our hope in our fight against Sauron for the survival of Middle Earth – he and a little hobbit.” Gandalf told Éomer the story of the Fellowship and their quest to destroy the Ring, and what had happened since the Ring had set out from the Shire.

For the remainder of the day and most of the night, they rode hard and at first light on the fifth day, as Gandalf had promised Aragorn, the riders of Rohan and the wizard pulled their horses to a stop on the hillside overlooking Helm’s Deep.

A terrible battle was raging below them. They saw that the king and Aragorn fought alongside each other in a courageous attempt to keep the uruks from taking the Deep entirely. Éomer gasped as he saw the breach in the wall. Could it really be so that someone had been able to break the defence of the Deep? Another thing that surprised him was that Fangorn Forest now seemed so close to Helm’s Deep. He did not remember that this had been so before. He shook off the thought; it had been a long time since he had been at the Hornburg.

Gandalf rode to the top of the hillside and showed himself against the rising sun. He called out, “Théoden King stands alone!”

Éomer rode up behind him. “Not alone!” he said, drawing his sword. Hoisting it in the air he called out: “Rohirrim! To the king!”

Led by Éomer and Gandalf, the Rohirrim charged down the hillside as the sun came over the ridge. They hit the uruk forces with tremendous force and the rage born of a challenged people. Soon the uruks were fleeing in panic.

Éomer and his men joined with the defenders of Helm’s Deep in the pursuit of the uruks and looked in wonder and disbelief as the uruk-hai were absorbed by the forest, which now seemed to have come alive. The trees were moving, bending and squeaking and all that could be heard besides this was the screams of the uruks.

“Do not pursue them; stay out of the forest. Keep away from the trees!” Éomer shouted, as he stared in disbelief at the spectacle before them. Soon everything became quiet; the battle was over. Only a rattle as if of leaves in the wind could be heard.

Éomer saw his uncle and rode up to him. The king looked weary, but he acknowledged his nephew and reached out his hand to clasp his. “Thank you, sister-son, for coming to our aid,” he said quietly.

“It was only my duty, my Lord – as a Marshal of the Mark.” Éomer said, his voice shaking from emotion. “Where is Éowyn?” he inquired, as he saw no sign of her. He would have imagined that she would have wanted to fight alongside the men and that he would have found her with a sword in her hand.

“In the caves protecting the other women and the children.” The king said. In spite of the seriousness of the situation and the death around them, Éomer could not help saying with a smirk, “Oh, she must be really pleased about that!”

Théoden smiled, a sad little smile. “Indeed, she did not like it. Éomer, I trust that you have heard that your cousin is …”

“Yes, Gandalf told me. I am so sorry, uncle, that I could not protect him. I regret that I did not do more to hold him back. I failed him.”

“Do not blame yourself, Éomer. It was none of your doing; you did what you could and I am so ashamed that I, although unknowingly, signed the order of your banishment – and that I did not listen to you.”

“I know, uncle. Say no more.”

Théoden looked around him. “So much death,” he whispered. He seemed to straighten his shoulders and called for Gamling, who as usual was at the king’s side. “Gamling, we need to make arrangements for burying our people - and the elves. Have the men make pyres to burn those cursed creatures.” He pointed to the bodies of the uruks. Gamling nodded. “Aye, my Lord – I shall see to it.”

He looked at Éomer and acknowledged him with an inclination of his head. Éomer smiled; he knew what his older friend felt. He turned in the saddle to see Aragorn coming towards him. He looked all bloody and battle worn. Éomer addressed him.

“Thank you, my Lord, for rescuing my people. Had I known who you were, I might have treated you all with a little more respect when we first met.”

Aragorn grinned and made a depreciating gesture: “I am no more or no less than you, Marshal of the Mark. And as for the rescuing, it seems to me that it was you who came to our rescue.”

They rode into the courtyard and dismounted among the many corpses of men, elves and uruk-hai. Éomer closed his eyes as he saw many of those, whom he had known since he was a boy, lying dead. Aragorn understood his feelings. He had the same feelings as he watched the elves that had come to their aid and now were lying dead amidst the corpses of men and orcs.

As they walked across the courtyard, they stopped briefly as they encountered the dwarf and the elf arguing over the number of uruk-hai, they had killed. Éomer looked startled at them.

“Do not mind them; they are always like that – it is an ongoing challenge.” Aragorn said and Éomer chuckled.

He looked up as a large number of women and children appeared from the entrance to the caves. He recognised a woman, who was leading an old woman by the arm. Wenda. He blushed thinking about the last time he had seen her. As she passed him, she looked up but gave no evidence that she knew him; she just went past him. Somehow he was pleased that she had made it – and also that she did not make a spectacle of meeting him. Not that he was ashamed of having bought her services; he was only ashamed of the last night he had spent with her.

Aragorn had noticed his reaction and looked inquisitively at him, but as Éomer did not offer any explanation, he did not say anything. Éowyn appeared just as they were ascending the stairs; she ran to Aragorn and embraced him. He gently freed himself. “Save that for your brother,” he said and walked away with a slight nod to Éomer.

Éomer looked at her, quite surprised. His little sister did not bestow affections on anybody so easily – except for himself and a few others, and Aragorn was veritably a stranger. He could not quite apprehend what lay behind this embrace and wondered what had transpired between his little sister and Aragorn.

Éomer’s brow furrowed.

Éowyn suddenly realised that her brother was standing next to Aragorn. “Éomer!” she cried and threw herself in his arms, her entire body shaking. Éomer held his sister close.

“I thought that I would never see you again,” she whispered.

“Did I not tell you that I would come back?” Éomer smiled as he held his sister.

Théoden King approached them; his lips curled in a little, sad half-smile. “There is so much that we need to talk about, so much I have missed,” he said quietly.

Éomer let go of his sister and turned towards his uncle. “Indeed there is, but for the moment I am just pleased to see you well again, uncle. It was difficult seeing you under Grima’s influence. By the way, where is the worm? Gandalf did not mention him. I would very much like to settle matters with him.” Éomer asked, his voice hardening.

“I had him thrown out of Meduseld – and would have killed him, if not Aragorn had stayed my arm. He is probably hiding with his master. I presume that it is he, who told Saruman how to find the weaknesses of the Deep,” the king said, bitterness evident in his voice.

Slowly, the aftermath of the battle turned into hard work. The wounded were being taken care of and the dead buried. Most of the survivors were preparing to go back to Edoras, except for those of the wounded, who could not be moved. The king stood with Gamling and Éomer, discussing the organisation of the transport of the people back to Edoras.

Gandalf came up to them together with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. “We have some unfinished business with Saruman, I believe.” He smiled. “And I have left a couple of nuisances with Treebeard that I want to free him of. Théoden King, I believe that you have matters to discuss with Saruman, too?”

The king nodded. “Yes, I would welcome a chance to talk to Saruman. It is true that we have got some unfinished business with him.” He turned to Gamling. “Gamling, please see to it that our horses are saddled – and I need you to go with us, too.”

Gamling nodded. “Aye, my Lord,” calling to one of the younger riders to go with him and see it done.

Éomer looked inquisitively at Aragorn. “Treebeard? – And which nuisances is he talking about?”

“You will see. Treebeard is an Ent – a tree herder; the guardian of Fangorn. Have you not heard of those, living so close to Fangorn for most of your life?” Aragorn lit up in a smile.

Éomer looked surprised. “Of course – but I thought that they were only creatures of children’s stories and myths? Do they really exist?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said, “they do exist; they are our allies in the fight against the Dark Lord, and I believe that Treebeard and the ents most surely are guarding Saruman for us. I do need to get Saruman to talk. He is deep in the enemy’s council and it is of the utmost importance that we learn everything we can from him.”

Before they set out for Isengard, the king ordered Éowyn to lead the people back to Edoras together with Éothain and Erkenbrand and to start the preparations for a feast, celebrating the victory. Éomer knew that she would rather have gone with them and he hid a smirk as he saw her dissatisfied face.

“Good luck,” Éomer whispered to Éothain, “from the look on my sister’s face, you will need it.”

His friend looked at him. “Aye, I can tell. I had better guard my words. But I shall manage, remember I have known her as long as I have known you.”

They rode through Fangorn Forest, where no trace of the fleeing uruk-hai could be seen. Éomer had a strange feeling as he rode behind the king and Aragorn; the trees seemed to whisper to each other and he felt the dark magic of the place surrounding them like a mantle. Although they lived just on the borders of the forest, people of Rohan had always been avoiding Fangorn because of the rumours of dark magic and mysterious creatures, which lived there. The after throes of yesterday’s battle hung in the heavy, scented air of the ancient forest.

Legolas sensed that Éomer was somewhat uncomfortable and he steered his horse up beside the young marshal. “I sense that you feel uncomfortable; do not be. The forest holds no ill will against men and elves. They might against dwarves, but as long as my dwarf friend keeps his axe in his belt, he will be alright too.”

Éomer grinned. He was beginning to like the elf, and he had already sensed that the relationship between the dwarf and the elf was turning into a fast friendship, even though they argued quite a lot. Gimli grunted something from his position behind Legolas, which Éomer made out to be protests about the friendliness of Fangorn.

When they reached the outskirts of the forest and the fortress of Isengard, they were met by a couple of small, merry looking persons - neither men, nor dwarves. Éomer assumed that they would be the nuisances Gandalf had been talking about, the hobbits that Aragorn and his companions had been searching for when he met them, Merry and Pippin.

They greeted the party with a loud: “Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!” By their demeanour, they had apparently been enjoying themselves, eating, drinking and smoking extensively. Aragorn sent Legolas and Éomer a big grin, and Gandalf shook his head. “Hobbits!” he hissed.

The dwarf snorted disdainfully and uttered his annoyance of the fact that they had been in pursuit of them and their abductors for several days, fighting a bloody battle, and all the time the hobbits had been safe, enjoying themselves, eating and smoking pipe weed, much to the amusement of the others. The hobbits defended themselves, arguing that they, too, had suffered a great deal and that they had not been idle; they had helped the ents freeing Isengard.

Listening to the argument, Éomer was beginning to see what Aragorn and Gandalf had meant when they called these two a couple of nuisances. “These are indeed the two halflings we were looking for when we met you, Éomer. Seeing them now, I am not so sure why I even bothered,” Aragorn said and grinned. “But they are entertaining, as you will learn soon enough.”

Gandalf interrupted the argument with a snort, “Enough of this! We have serious business here!” The hobbits realised that this was no time for arguing or continued banter and hurried to get their things.

Aragorn sat Pippin behind him on Brégo and Éomer grabbed hold of Merry’s arm and hoisted him up behind him. “Behave yourself, little hobbit,” he said, “or Firefoot is likely to throw both you and me.”

Merry looked at him. The young marshal looked very severe at first sight and Merry was not sure how to tackle the situation, so he tried to remain very quiet. Éomer smiled to himself, as he felt the young hobbit’s apprehension.

The party rode up to the tower. They looked in awe at what the Ents had accomplished – the total ruin of Saruman’s stronghold. The ent, Treebeard, welcomed them. His greeting rumbled towards them like thunder. Éomer looked astonished at him – or it – he had never known that such creatures existed. The ent seemed to be a creature from children’s fairy tales.

They rode through the water that now flooded the surroundings of Orthanc and came to a halt beneath the mighty tower. The tower seemed abandoned; no movement could be seen. Aragorn looked up and hissed impatiently, “Show yourself!”, clutching his sword hilt as he uttered these words.

Gandalf looked at him. “Be careful. Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous.”

Éomer sent the wizard a sideward glance. He agreed with him, but he felt like Aragorn, he wanted a confrontation with the wizard to have him pay for he had done to Rohan, to its people; he wanted him to pay for Théodred’s life.

From behind Legolas’ back, Gimli made an impatient move. “Well, let’s just have his head and be done with it.” Gandalf shook his head: “No. We need him alive. We need him to talk. “

Éomer and Aragorn shared a look, and Aragorn nodded imperceptibly.

Saruman came out onto the balcony and addressed Théoden: “You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden King, and made peace afterwards. Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?”

Éomer sent his uncle a questioning and warning look, but his uncle did not seem to take the bait, and spoke in a restrained voice through gritted teeth. “We shall have peace. We shall have peace when you answer for the burning of the Westfold and the children that lie dead there! We shall have peace when the lives of the soldiers whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows, we shall have peace.”

Saruman snarled maliciously. “Gibbets and crows? Dotard! What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame? Let me guess. The key of Orthanc. Or perhaps the Keys of Barad-dûr itself along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the Five Wizards!”

Gandalf did not answer to the malicious scorn and in stead entreated Saruman. “Your treachery has already cost many lives. Thousands more are at risk. But you can save them, Saruman. You were deep in the enemy’s counsel. “

Saruman laughed. “So you have come here for information. I have some for you.”

He lifted a Palantír in front of him. “Something festers in the heart of Middle-Earth. Something that you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it. Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon. You’re all going to die. But you know this, don’t you, Gandalf? You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king. Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him, those he professes to love. Tell me, what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have set him on can only lead to death.”

Éomer felt Merry’s reaction behind him as Saruman uttered these words. “Don’t believe him, Merry. Saruman speaks evil, but he does not control everything in this world,” he whispered reassuringly to the young hobbit. He felt for his bow, but Gimli beat him to it. “I’ve heard enough! Shoot him. Stick an arrow in his gob!” he whispered to Legolas.

Gandalf stopped him. “No. Come down, Saruman, and your life will be spared.”

Éomer made an impatient move, and Théoden sent him a warning look.

Saruman snorted. “Save your pity and your mercy. I have no use for it! “ He sent a giant fire ball from his staff towards Gandalf. and for a moment it seemed like the flames would devour him, but Gandalf emerged without even a singe. Gandalf turned his powers against Saruman and his staff was broken, extinguishing the powers of the once white wizard. “Saruman, your staff is broken,” he shouted.

The staff crushed into a thousand pieces.

At this moment, Grima appeared behind his master, looking haunted and gazing down at them almost with longing in his eyes.

I bet that now you would prefer being taken to Rohan for punishment rather than staying as Saruman’s servant, Éomer thought. He looked at the slimy worm with hatred; he wished that he could lay his hands on him. He had much to avenge.

Théoden spoke. “Grima, you need not follow him. You were not always as you are now. You were once a Man of Rohan. Come down.”

But Saruman hissed scornfully. “ A Man of Rohan? What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs?” Éomer felt Saruman’s eyes graze him as he spoke these words, and his anger rose. Through his anger, he heard the wizard continue his scorn: “The victory at Helm’s Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horse-master. You are a lesser son of greater sires.“

Éomer was aware that his uncle felt shameful that Aragorn had taken command at Helm’s Deep when he had despaired. Gamling had told him what had happened when the uruks were breaking into the hold. That Aragorn had given them hope and shown resolve when the king seemed hesitant. He looked at his uncle, and was amazed that he could keep his calm, but the king did not even flinch when he continued. “Grima, come down. Be free of him.”

Saruman snarled contemptuously. “Free? He will never be free.” And as Grima made a movement as to gainsay this, uttering “No!” he struck down Grima with a single blow. “Get down, cur! “

Gandalf again beseeched Saruman: “Saruman! You were deep in the enemy’s counsel. Tell us what you know!”

“You withdraw your guard, and I will tell you where your doom will be decided. I will not be held prisoner here.” Behind his master, Grima was getting up. He drew a dagger and stabbed Saruman several times in the back.

Before any of the others could react, Legolas released an arrow, hitting Grima. Grima winced in pain and fell back, making Saruman plummet off the tower and towards the ground. He landed on top of a spear on one of his own devices. Disgust showed in the faces of them all. Éomer felt a sense of hopelessness overflow him. They had failed in their mission to learn of the enemy’s plans. Well, perhaps they were no worse off than they had been before. He listened to Gandalf, as he addressed Théoden and Treebeard. “Send word to all our allies, and to every corner of Middle-Earth that still stands free. The enemy moves against us. We need to know where he will strike.”

They bid Treebeard goodbye; Gandalf asked him to guard the place and set things right there, until such a time as the king returned – and to watch Rohan’s borders. They prepared to go back to Edoras.

Éomer rode up beside Legolas: “I would have liked to have done what you did myself – to avenge my cousin. But I thank you, elf prince, for ridding us of the worm. Never again shall I mistrust the elves.” Behind Legolas, Gimli chuckled. “Sometimes this elf princeling has his uses. At least his arrows always hit their target!”

After a couple of days’ ride, they reached Edoras. Most of the riders and the people had returned. Although they had lost so much, the city seemed relieved of the gloom that had rested upon it for so long during Grima’s reign. Everybody was busy preparing for the celebrations. Éowyn and Fréalin were overseeing all preparations.

When the party had returned to the city, Éomer went to see Fréalin. The king’s housekeeper looked up as he entered the kitchen. Her face lit up in a soft smile as he came over to her. She took his hand and clasped it. “Thank Béma that you are safe, I do not know what I would have done, had I lost you as well.”

Éomer held her for a while. “I am so sorry to hear about Théodred, and I am sorry that I was not here at his burial,” he whispered.

The housekeeper let go of him. “Well, you could not, now could you,” she said brusquely. “Now go, I have things to do if we are to honour the dead tonight – I shall tell the maids to prepare a bath for you; you could use it - and your beard could with do with some trimming,” she said brusquely, shoving him out of the kitchen. Éomer smiled; he knew that this was her way of showing her affection.

Éowyn entered Éomer’s chamber just as he had finished bathing and was standing by the mirror, dressed only in his breeches trimming his beard. He smiled at her, but his voice was serious. “’Tis strange being here without Théodred, and it is even stranger to prepare for a celebration when we really should be preparing for war. Uncle must realise that the war against Sauron is far from won. We shall have to go to war, sister, to come to the aid of Gondor.”

Éowyn smiled a little sad smile, “I know what you feel, brother, and I believe that uncle will realise this – in time. Let us go to the hall, our people are gathering there.” Éomer finished dressing, closing the final clasps of his tunic and fastened his sword at his side.

Théoden King stood on the dais in front of his throne overlooking the crowd. On the king’s request, Éomer had taken Théodred’s position behind the throne. The king looked out over the crowd and addressed them. “As you know, my son is dead, killed by Saruman’s hordes. But Rohan is not without an heir.”

He turned towards Éomer and put a hand on his shoulder. “I hereby name Éomer, son of Éomund, my sister-son to be my heir.” The crowd cheered; Éomer did not really know how he was supposed to feel about this. He was proud, surely, but it did not feel right to him; this was Théodred’s birthright – not his. He smiled a little bitterly to himself. I am sure that Béowulf would have accepted me sooner, had he known this.

Éowyn walked up to her uncle, handing him a golden goblet. Théoden lifted the cup and again spoke to the crowd. “Tonight we remember those who gave their life. Hail the victorious dead!” Everybody lifted their cups and tankards and repeated “Hail!”

After the formal part, Théoden looked at his nephew. “Go, Éomer, go join the others. You deserve to celebrate.” Éomer joined some of his men, who were sitting with Gimli and Legolas. The dwarf was most anxious to have Legolas participate in a drinking contest. Legolas was a bit wary, but Gimli assured him that there was nothing to it.

Éomer laughingly explained the rules of the game and promised to help – at least with filling the tankards. He declined participating himself, but some of his men gladly took part. To everybody’s surprise, Legolas was the last man standing, proclaiming that he only felt a little tingling in his fingertips.

Éomer laughed. “I do believe that the dwarf feels a bit more than that,” he said looking at Gimli, who was lying face down on the table. He congratulated the elf and then looked around for his sister.

He saw her approaching Aragorn, offering him a stirrup cup. The adoring look in her eyes did not escape him. Aragorn accepted the cup, drank from it and then moved away. Éowyn’s eyes followed him. Their uncle moved up to her, exchanging a few words with her; Éowyn smiled happily. The look in his uncle’s face changed from a tender smile to his niece to a bitter expression as they spoke. Éomer wondered what that was all about, but then Éothain asked him a question and he turned towards him. When he finished the conversation with Éothain, his sister and his uncle had disappeared in the crowd.

Later he was leaning against one of the pillars watching the ongoings in the hall; he took a sip from his tankard and remembered the look in his sister’s eyes. He shook his head I would be glad for her, but I still do not think that he is meant for her. I have to talk to her – or him. He shrugged off his thoughts as his attention was drawn to another part of the great hall.

The hobbits, Merry and Pippin, were entertaining his men dancing and singing. Éomer laughed heartily as he saw one of them kick Gamling’s tankard into his lap. The Rohir cursed frightfully but the others just laughed. Éomer joined in, relishing the look on his friend’s face.

“I told you that they were entertaining.” Éomer heard a voice say; Aragorn had moved up behind him. Last Éomer had seen him, he had been standing next to Gandalf, watching the hobbits and exchanging a few words with the wizard.

“I should say so,” Éomer replied with a grin. “I especially cherished the look on Gamling’s face.”

Aragorn looked at the young man. He sensed that he was not quite comfortable with his new role as the king’s heir. “I know how you feel at this moment,” he said, “some people might think that you would jump at the opportunity of becoming king, but I can easily understand if you do not. I have been trying to flee my destiny all my life, but it seems now that I cannot escape it – and neither can you.”

“How did you know?” Éomer inquired.

“I saw your face when Théoden King announced that you would be his heir. You looked almost frightened – and I believe that it takes much to frighten you. You do not feel that you have got the right; that it is rightfully your cousin’s place you are assuming. Am I wrong in this?”

“You are most perceptive, my Lord.” Éomer could not help smiling; he felt that this man could really be a friend. He liked his quiet demeanour and admired his courage.

Aragorn laughed. “I told you before – I am no less or no more than you, Éomer, son of Éomund – neither will I perhaps be one day. We are equals.”

Later Éomer found his sister; she was talking to the hobbits and laughing at their antics. When they saw Éomer approaching, their talk stopped. ‘Do not stop for my sake; I like to see my sister laugh. Béma knows that it has been a long time since last I saw that.” The hobbits mumbled something inaudible and left the siblings to talk.

Éomer sat down beside his sister. “At some point you must have scared them, brother dear.” Éowyn laughed. “But they really are very sweet both of them.”

Éomer smiled. “I must have – although I did not mean to. How are you now, sister? I worried so much about you when I had to leave, and I barely have had time to talk to you since we returned.”

“I am fine now that I see you back again and uncle’s health restored. I miss Théodred, though, and not having you here when we buried him almost broke my heart.”

“Hm, but I can see that someone may have captured it in stead. I saw the look you exchanged with Aragorn earlier on. Watch out little sister, you may get hurt.”

“How do you know that; uncle says that he is an honourable man. And why should I be hurt?”

“He is truly an honourable man, and if we can win this war, he will be King of Gondor – but, call it intuition, sister. He may have affection for you, and he strives not to hurt you. He withdraws when you try to get closer to him. I can tell. I may be wrong, but you should not set your hopes on him. I will not see you hurt more than you have already been; I shall never forget the look in your eyes when I had to leave – it resembled the look when our mother died.”

Éowyn looked at her older brother; he had never spoken so sincerely to her before and she knew that he had her best interest in mind, but she could not believe that Aragorn would want to withdraw from her. Though she did know that there was another woman in his life; the one who had given him the jewel that he wore around his neck. She had asked him about it on the road to Helm’s Deep, and she had seen the longing in his eyes, when he had answered her. But – had he not said that she was leaving with her people to go to the undying lands?

She turned from Éomer and looked across the room where Aragorn was talking with the king. She admired him greatly and she felt the kindness in him. Although he was much older than she had realised at first, he had revealed that to her – but that would not matter, would it?

She truly felt that he was the man of her dreams, a noble man who would not hurt her. Obviously Éomer did not think so but how would he know? And then she realised that he did indeed know. He knew what it was like to love – and to lose the one he loved. He knew what it was like to be hurt.

“I will look after myself, brother, do not worry.” She smiled affectionately at her brother and he squeezed her arm reassuringly in return.

The celebrations were dying down, and all Edoras settled down to sleep. Éomer saw Aragorn moving about, as if he could not sleep, but Éomer did not want to interfere, as Aragorn seemed deep in thoughts.

Éomer was exhausted from the events of the past weeks and he went to his chamber, which he shared with some of the others for the occasion, among them Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, to get some sleep. None of them had, however, turned up before he fell into a deadly sleep.

In the morning he heard from Aragorn that the hobbit Pippin had caused some commotion during the night, trying to steal the Palantír, which Gandalf had taken from him at Isengard and the hobbit had looked into it.

“I must have been tired,” Éomer told Aragorn. “I have heard absolutely nothing – not even the drunken mob coming in.” He gestured at Elfhelm and Erkenbrand, who looked as if they could have needed a couple of hours’ more sleep.

Pippin had gotten through the ordeal with no injuries to heart and mind, and had had some of the enemy’s plans revealed to him, but Sauron had also seen the hobbit and Gandalf and Aragorn were sure that the Dark Lord now believed Pippin to be the Ringbearer. Therefore it would be dangerous for Pippin to remain in Rohan. It would most certainly draw the eye of Sauron towards Edoras and Rohan.

After breakfast Éomer went to Théodred’s grave and sat for a long time on a grassy knoll, thinking of his cousin. And now it is I, who must bear the burdens of kingship, Dred. I am indeed honoured - but I was never meant to be King of Rohan, you were. He thought of Théodred, who had been a cherished older brother to him. He had learned much from his older cousin, and he had looked up to him – even though he had known and loved his weaknesses as well. He was going to miss his handsome cousin with the contagious laugh and quick wit. I thought that you would be the king and I the second in command – and I would have helped you! A tear had found its way down his cheek, and Éomer dried it off; then he rose and went slowly up the hill towards the Golden Hall.

Outside the stables he met Gandalf and the hobbits; Gandalf was obviously furious and Merry told Éomer that Gandalf was taking Pippin with him to Minas Tirith to keep him out of harm’s way – and to protect Rohan.

When Éomer asked him what had happened, the wizard hissed: “Your uncle will not see that Rohan has to go to the aid of Gondor; he does not feel that he has any obligations to. Therefore I have to go and make the steward see sense and ask Rohan for help, which will be no easy task either. Somebody must see to it that the beacons are lit. You must be ready, Éomer, war will come and Rohan has to ride.”

Éomer nodded solemnly: “I shall be ready, Gandalf, and I believe that uncle will see sense in the end – and if the beacons are lit, Théoden King will remember the Oath of Éorl; I am sure of it.”

He bid them farewell and stood looking after them as Shadowfax picked up speed, running across the plains. As he turned to ascend the stairs to Meduseld, he saw the hobbit Merry run up the watchtower and Aragorn following him. He imagined that it would be hard on Merry without his friend and constant companion.

The days passed; Éomer and his sister had spoken about what would happen if the beacons truly were lit and they both agreed that the king would answer. If not, Éomer was prepared to break his oath to Rohan and follow Aragorn.

Neither of them had spoken much with Aragorn; he seemed to keep to himself and was ever watching the mountains for any sign. Éomer knew from Legolas and Gimli that Aragorn had wanted to go to Minas Tirith to warn them of Sauron’s evil plans, but that Gandalf had spoken against it. Éomer could understand that Aragorn was anxious. They all were.

Legolas, Gimli and Merry had told the siblings of their journey as it had been until they met with Éomer on the plains, and Merry told them what had happened when they had been taken captive of the uruks – up until the time when Éomer and his men had attacked the camp, killing off all the uruks. And they also told him of Frodo and Sam, who had decided to go to the Mountain of Doom by themselves. “We saw them last at Amon Hen, when the uruk-hai attacked us,” Merry said solemnly, “and Boromir was killed trying to save us.”

“Frodo must be a brave man to take on such a task,” Éomer said.

“He is not a man, he is a hobbit.” Merry corrected him.

Éomer smiled. “I see – and I do think that even the bravest man would hesitate to go on such a quest, even though a hobbit may not.”

Aragorn had joined them and overheard what was said. “I can tell you, Éomer, that the bravest man would – but there is more to hobbits than what you see on the surface.” He smiled at Merry, putting a hand on the young hobbit’s shoulder.

After dinner that night Éomer sat on the stairs outside the hall, looking out over the plains. He was thinking of his cousin and of the fact that they might be going to war. As he had told Éowyn, he had decided that he would follow Aragorn, no matter what. He felt that he owed it to Théodred and to his people. No more would he hesitate if it meant the survival of his people.

He heard light footsteps behind him and turned his head. Aragorn had come out on the terrace, stuffing his pipe as he watched the starlit night. “You have seemed thoughtful all day, Éomer – what is troubling you?” he asked as he sat down on the stairs beside the young man.

“A lot of things, really, but mostly the thought of going to war. In my opinion it is inevitable – and even though uncle seems reluctant at the moment, I am sure that he will face reality at the end, we must keep our oaths! And I owe it to my cousin – and to my father! They were both killed by orcs – Sauron’s vile creatures.” The young marshal looked determined.

Aragorn smiled, as he puffed on his pipe. “He will; he will – and all of us must face the dire consequences of such a decision,” he said cryptically. Then they turned to other subjects such as horses, both unwilling to keep the conversation anything but light.

Next morning, the king held council in the Golden Hall. Aragorn had made himself scarce, obviously keeping watch again. Éomer had been listening to the debate and was talking quietly with Legolas, when the doors were suddenly flung open and Aragorn stormed in. “The beacons are lit, the beacons of Minas Tirith! Gondor calls for aid!” he shouted as he ran up to the others. His eyes shone with a strange light. So this is it, Éomer thought and turned from Legolas to look apprehensively at his uncle.

Éowyn had tried to keep herself occupied elsewhere in the hall, but she now came running to her brother’s side and looked anxiously up at him. “What will uncle do?” she whispered. Éomer shrugged. “What he must; I am sure of it.”

He looked intensely at the king, awaiting his reply. The king’s eyes sought his nephew’s and then only hesitated for a while before he said in a strong voice: “And Rohan will answer!”

Aragorn’s face lit up; he nodded. Éomer let out a sharp breath, seeking Aragorn’s eyes. The older man nodded unnoticeably at him. The king turned towards Éomer: “Muster the Rohirrim!” he ordered.

Éomer exchanged a look with his sister, squeezed her arm and left to give the orders. He felt relieved that his uncle had taken the decision to answer to Gondor’s request. A couple of hours later he reported to the king that things were set in motion. Everybody was busy gathering provisions and all riders were summoned. The king had donned his armour and was carrying his helmet. “Thank you, Éomer,” he said, “you have been most efficient.”

Éomer followed the king out on the stairs, as he was giving his orders. Just outside the door, the king stopped and put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “Assemble the men at Dunharrow, as many men as can be found. You have two days and then we must ride!” he said and then he turned to Gamling, telling him to make haste across the Riddermark gathering as many men as he could.

Éomer nodded and turned to Éothain to pass on the orders to muster as many men as he could. They were to set out for Dunharrow within the hour; Gamling and Éothain were to meet them there when they had gathered provisions and mustered the riders.

An hour later, he was running down the stairs towards the stables to get his horse, and as he was leading Firefoot out of the stable, he saw Éowyn and Aragorn getting ready to go. His brow furrowed as he saw how his sister looked at Aragorn. But he decided that he would leave that for later; it was probably all in his imagination. Besides – she was only going to accompany them to Dunharrow; who knew whether they would survive the fighting anyway. He was also by now quite certain that Aragorn would not hurt his sister on purpose.

He mounted his horse and rode up to front the riders, who were forming ranks to leave the city. He called out to the men: “Now is the hour! Riders of Rohan! Oaths you have taken; now fulfil them all – to lord and to land!” Riding to the head of the column and taking the flank of his uncle, he gave the sign. The riders filed out of the gate, heading for Dunharrow.

After some hours’ hard ride, they slowed their horses down to a trot to rest them. Aragorn rode to the front alongside Éomer. He grinned sideways at the young marshal. “Your sister told me that it is customary for the women of the court to accompany the men to battle, to farewell them, but is it also customary to do this at sword point? I saw that she had brought her sword.”

Éomer looked at Aragorn – despite the fact that he was not happy about his sister’s apparent infatuation with the man, he could not help liking and admiring him: “Yes, well for my sister anyway. She is as good as any man, save me, of course, with a sword.” He smiled. “She has almost beaten me a number of times, and also our cousin, but only almost.”

Aragorn grinned. “Yes, I know of her skills. A true shieldmaiden of Rohan.” Éomer reciprocated the grin and decided to come straight to the point: “My Lord, I need to ask you a direct question, because I do not know any other way to ask. Are you in love with my sister?”

Aragorn looked surprised at him. “A direct question, my young Horse Lord, which deserves a direct answer. No, I have much affection for her; I hold her in high esteem - and perhaps also felt pity when first I met her,” he said.

“I am sorry if you feel that I have given her that impression. My heart belongs to another, it has for many years and although I do not know whether this will ever come to be, I cannot give your sister what she seeks.” He smiled a little sad smile.

“Will you tell her?” Éomer asked.

“I shall, of course, if need be. But – she asked me once who had given me the jewel around my neck, and I told her about the woman, who did – although not in any certain terms. I just told her that she was leaving these shores together with her kin.”

“She is an elf?” Éomer asked. This, indeed, surprised him.

“Yes, she is of the Eldar, an elf maiden of noble birth and great beauty,” Aragorn’s face lit up and Éomer could see the love for his lady in his eyes, but also great sadness. He decided to leave it at that. Now he knew for certain that Aragorn would not deliberately hurt his sister.

“I am glad that you are so honest with me; indeed I would not like to see my sister hurt.” Éomer said.

“Éomer, I admire your sister and I wish her nothing but joy – but that is all. Some day somebody, who deserve her, will be there for her. I am sure of it.”

Aragorn reached over and put a hand on Éomer’s arm. “None of us knows where this will lead; whether we shall see peace and the downfall of Sauron or whether we shall all perish.” Éomer nodded and the two men fell silent and just rode along.


Chapter 3 - Chapter Three - The Future Looks Bright

A/N: This is the concluding chapter of this story; I hope that you have enjoyed it – as I have enjoyed writing it. For the next three weeks (come Saturday) you will hear nothing from me as my husband and I will be setting out for the northern part of Sweden and Norway; in fact we aim to visit the land of the midnight sun, the Polar Circle – and the mosquitoes! And who knows – perhaps I will be inspired to write another story about life in Middle Earth? Enjoy your summer all of you!

(Of course I do not own any of the main characters, I just borrow them once in a while ….)


Chapter Three – The Future Looks Bright

After a hard ride they reached Dunharrow. Gamling and Éothain had succeeded in summoning a large number of riders, but still their numbers did not seem enough. Many had not heeded the call of the king. The king and his entourage passed through the camp and the king called out to the lords and marshals of the Mark present, asking how many they had brought.

Théoden seemed upset that his people had not answered the call and voiced his malcontent because he saw no explanation.

“Perhaps they had none to send,” Éomer murmured to Gamling. The older man nodded. He, too, knew how many had lost their lives during the past years’ raids, especially the Westfold had been hit hard and many of the herdsmen had been killed.

The king had obviously expected more – at least double of the six thousand that had assembled at Dunharrow. But then – his uncle might not be aware how much his absent presence of mind these many months had cost Rohan, Éomer thought to himself, as he joined his uncle and Aragorn looking out over the camp below them.

“We count six thousand spears now,” the king remarked; there was, however, a more sullen than hopeful note to his words.

“Six thousand spears will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor,” Aragorn stated. Théoden looked at him. “More will come,” he said, but his voice did not sound too confident.

Aragorn looked at the king with a sombre mien. “We have no time; only until dawn and then we must ride.” He clearly doubted that they would have the time to muster more men. Éomer nodded his silent agreement; that was probably the truth. Still, they would have to make do with whatever strength they had. They could not stop now.

Éomer left his uncle and Aragorn and went to his horse to remove his saddle. Firefoot nickered softly and nibbled at Éomer’s glove.

“You know what awaits us, don’t you, lad?” Éomer asked his horse, as he stroked Firefoot’s soft muzzle. He suddenly felt tired from the long ride and from the stress of the past weeks, but in spite of his fatigue he knew that he would not be able to rest, he could feel that in his entire body. As he was placing his saddle on the rack outside his tent, he noticed that several of the horses behaved strangely especially when they came too close to the mountain. Also the men seemed quiet and subdued; the banter and rowdy gallows’ humour, which usually flowed through a camp like this, was not present.

Éomer stood for a while, contemplating this; he felt it, too, the ill-fated feeling of the place. He knew why; he knew the legend of the Dwimorberg. Legolas and Gimli came up to him. The elf looked pensive; “The horses are restless and the men are quiet,” he said.

Éomer nodded. “They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain.”

Gimli looked at them both. “What is this place; where does that road lead?” he asked.

Legolas answered for them both: “It is the road to the Dimholt, it goes under the mountain.”

Éomer looked up at the mountain, his brow furrowed and his voice dark. “No one who ventures there ever returns. That mountain is evil. I for one would not attempt using that ancient pass. The place is death.” He could see Aragorn standing at the entrance to the pass, looking at something, but he could not make out what it was. Then he turned and went to seek out Éothain; he had to relay a couple of matters with him before he could find his tent.

After his talk with Éothain, Éomer took a tour of the camp to see to his men. It was quite late when he returned to his own tent. Éowyn’s tent had been set up close to his. He could see that the lights were on in there and he could hear her voice; apparently she was talking to somebody. To Éomer it sounded like the hobbit, Merry.

Gamling was sitting by the fire, enjoying a late evening meal and Éomer sat down beside him. Gamling offered him a plate of stew and some bread. Éomer suddenly realised that he had hardly eaten during the day and accepted it gratefully.

Éowyn had apparently provided armour for Merry and she was now shoving him out of the tent, telling him to go the smithy to get his sword sharpened. Merry grinned and hurried happily along, swinging his small sword in the air. Éowyn stood looking after him as he disappeared towards the blacksmith’s tent with a smile on her face.

As she turned to go back into her tent, Éomer’s voice stopped her. “You should not encourage him, Éowyn, it is not right!” he growled.

Éowyn turned at the entrance to the tent and shot back at her brother, “And you should not doubt him!”

“I do not doubt his heart, only the reach of his arm,” Éomer retorted. Gamling chuckled, but stopped as Éowyn glared at him.

“Why should Merry be left behind? He has as much cause to go to war as you. Why can he not fight for those he loves?” Éowyn’s voice trembled and her eyes were wide.

She turned. “Oh, I have no patience for men right now,” she hissed angrily as she opened the tent flap to go in.

Éomer sighed, rose and called out “Éowyn, wait!” He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder: “You know as little of war as that hobbit. When the fighting takes him, and the blood, and the screams – and the horror of the battle; do you think that he would stand and fight? No, he would flee – and he would be right to do so.” He paused looking intensely into his sister’s eyes. “War is the province of men, Éowyn.”

His sister’s eyes were wide and rimmed with tears, and somewhere deep down inside of him he sensed that he understood some of it that was driving Éowyn. She wants honour and renown and thinks that she cannot find it being a woman. Perhaps this is that what she seeks in Aragorn. But why would she want to go to war? She is brave, yes; and she knows to handle herself – but war, no! She does not belong in war; I cannot bear to lose her as well.

After a while, where they just were looking at each other, and where all sorts of mixed feelings ran through Éomer, he finally was able to voice his feelings. “Éowyn, I need you to be there when and if I get back from this – and if we do not get back, Rohan will need somebody to rule it – and you are as good as any man but not in war, leave that to the men. I would not be able to live on, if anything happened to you. You are all that I have now.”

Éowyn did not reply to this but her eyes flashed at him when he turned and left; Éomer could sense that she was angry and hurt – but also very determined about something. He shrugged; he knew her well enough to know that he would not get it out of her however much he tried. He went to be with his men. There would not be much sleep that night.

Coming back to his tent much later, to at least to get a couple of hours’ rest and to get his weapons ready, he saw Aragorn riding out of the camp followed by Gimli and Legolas – towards the Dimholt! He hurried to his uncle’s tent, where he found his uncle taking his leave of a tall man in a hooded cloak, who rode away silently.

“Uncle, what is going on? Why is Aragorn leaving? Who was the messenger, and what tidings did he bring!” Éomer looked inquisitively at his uncle. He knew that it must have been something drastic to have Aragorn to leave them at the eve of battle.

Théoden looked wearily at his nephew. “It was the Lord Elrond. He came to seek out Aragorn. I do not know what they spoke about, because I left them, but I know that he handed Aragorn the Sword that was Broken and that he asked him to take the Path of the Dead to summon the Dead, this much Elrond told me.”

Through the Dimholt! Éomer felt cold fear rise in him at the thought. He wanted to call them back, but knew that it would be in vain. They could only hope that they would see them again.

He went over to stand with Gamling as they watched their three friends leave. Somebody asked why Aragorn left at this time, and Théoden replied, “He leaves because he must.” Gamling remarked quietly to Éomer, “He leaves because there is no hope; we cannot win.”

Théoden looked at him and at Éomer. “You are right; perhaps there is no hope and perhaps we cannot win, but try we must.” He put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “You and your sister are the hope of Rohan; do not let me down.” His face was determined. Suddenly it seemed to Éomer that his uncle was back to being the man that he had been before he had fallen under Saruman’s spell, although perhaps not of the same spirit, and he still looked tired and sad.

“No, uncle. We will not.” Éomer assured his uncle. His uncle gave him a ghost of a smile.

“Now, sister-son, go and get some rest; there is only little time left until sunrise. And you, too, Gamling!” The king turned and went into his tent.

As the sun rose, Éomer opened the tent flap and went outside. He had hardly had any sleep; there had been too many thoughts swirling in his head. He saw Éowyn, who stood just outside her tent, facing the rising sun. Her face was pale and drawn and he knew that she, too, had seen Aragorn leave. She whispered “How could he leave us now? Why?”

Éomer drew in his breath: “Because he must, Éowyn. To fulfil his destiny, he must – or die trying. That is what we all must.”

“Uncle said that, too,” she whispered, “and he asked me to take his seat at Meduseld, until you and he return – and if you do not ….,” her voice broke.

Éomer pulled his sister into his arms and kissed her forehead: “I take my leave of you now, we must ride soon. I will not say goodbye; we shall see each other again – and if not; you will be a great Queen of Rohan! I love you, little sister.” She accepted his embrace, but he felt a certain reluctance and despair in her; perhaps she had still not forgiven him for his words last night. He caressed her cheek. Then he turned and left her. She stood for a while, her gaze following him. He turned only once to look at her, but he did not see the look in her eyes, which was both thoughtful and determined.

He went to his uncle’s tent. His uncle sat in his chair, fully dressed for battle. “I am ready, my Lord – and so are the men.” Théoden nodded: “Have you said your goodbyes to your sister?”

“Yes, I have – hard as it was.”

The king rose. “Then let us leave; we must ride light and swift. It's a long road ahead, and Man and beast must reach the end with the strength to fight.”

Éomer nodded and went out of the tent ahead of his uncle. They mounted and readied to leave the camp. On the way to the rallying point they saw Merry standing beside his pony. The king went over to him and forbade him to go in spite of his protests. The hobbit looked devastated. Pondering his conversation with Éowyn the night before, Éomer was not quite sure that the hobbit would leave it at that.

In spite of what he had told Éowyn last night, he almost felt sorry for Merry; it was obvious that the hobbit wanted to be with his friends, who were all in the middle of the array; that he missed them; that he wanted to be a part of it all – not caring that it might cost him his life. Éomer shook off the feeling; they had a long, hard ride ahead of them, and the hobbit was better off staying behind. Then he would live to tell the story, the rest of us might not, he thought, as he called out for the Éorlingas to move out.

The Rohirrim rode hard all day, only stopping for a while to water the horses and get something to eat. Éomer reported to his uncle that the scouts, he had sent out, had returned with the message that Minas Tirith was under siege. They would have to ride through the night to get there in time. Théoden agreed. “Then it is what we shall do; pass the command, Éomer.”

As Éomer was riding through the ranks, passing on the command, he thought for a moment that he saw a familiar face in a young, beardless rider - Éowyn? He shrugged at the thought and shook his head. No she would not, it was impossible. He was just seeing things, because she was in his heart. He returned to his éored to confer with Éothain.

Approaching Minas Tirith, they heard the sounds of the battle growing louder and louder. Fire lit up the night sky. Éomer bit his lip, as he pressed on Firefoot alongside his uncle. Soon we will be facing the enemy and none of us may ever see the plains of Rohan again. “We will get there by dawn; the light of day will be to our advantage,” he shouted to his uncle.

As dawn broke, the Rohirrim came up over the hill above the Pelennor Fields. The sight below them froze Éomer’s heart. He had never seen an army of that size. Thousands upon thousands of orcs filled the fields before the burning city of Minas Tirith. “It looks like we got here just in time,” he remarked dryly to Éothain, who came up beside him. Éothain nodded silently. The two men clasped hands. “May Béma be with you,” Éomer said to his friend.

“And with you, friend,” Éothain replied, sending his friend a ghost of a smile. Éomer reciprocated it; they had known each other for so long, they needed not tell each other what was in their hearts.

“Blow the horns; let them know that Rohan has arrived. Give the defenders hope!” Éomer shouted and the Riders took up his command. At the sound of the horns, the attackers stopped and looked up the hill. They turned to face the Rohirrim.

Théoden ordered that Éomer should take his éored down the left flank; Gamling was to follow the king’s banner down the middle and Erkenbrand to take the right flank. Éomer nodded and gave his orders to his men. The king rode back and forth, encouraging his men and then called out: “Forth, Éorlingas!”

The Rohirrim set in motion; a wave of riders was streaming down the hill towards the orcs. They did not sing, as it was the custom of the Rohirrim riding into battle. In stead they took up the cry that Théoden King had started, “Death, Death, Death!” they chanted as they charged head on against the enemy.

They completely overrode the first ranks of Sauron’s hordes. Many fell but it did not stop them. The battle and the sheer force of his rage towards these beasts took Éomer. He only heard the sounds of the battle in a blur; the thrusts of his sword and the screams of the dying, the sound of metal against metal, and the whinnying of the horses. Afterwards he did not remember, how he had gotten to this point.

The orcs fled before them towards the river. Éomer turned his horse and shouted: “Drive them to the river!” The men cheered, believing that they had won the day.

Théoden King also pulled his horse to a stop and ordered, “Make safe the city!” But before they could make good of the orders and as all fell silent, they suddenly heard another terrifying noise: the drums of the Haradrim! And something else, a horrifying sight. Éomer tightened his grip on Firefoot’s reigns. “No time or need for panic now; it is just another challenge, old friend,” he muttered to his horse. He had heard about these creatures! Firefoot whinnied and it sounded defiant.

“Mumakil!” Éomer shouted; he could see the disbelief in his men’s faces. A large host of Mumakil was approaching at great speed, replacing the rows of orcs.

Théoden ordered: “Rally to me. Reform the ranks!” The Rohirrim did as ordered, turning to face their new enemy. Gamling blew his horn, sounding the attack and the Rohirrim rode fearlessly into the battle against the Mumakil.

The chains on the tusks of the Mumâkil threw about a large number of the riders, and many were crushed under the feet of the great beasts, but they also managed to bring down some of them in an absolute mayhem of blood, screams and dying men and horses.

Evading the legs and tusks of one of the Mumakil, Éomer clutched his spear; he turned Firefoot around and faced the Mumâk out of range of its tusks. He could see the Haradrim commander triumphing and pure rage filled him. He flipped his spear and threw it – and hit the Haradrim right in the chest; he fell to the side of the Mumak’s head, hanging in its reins. This caused the giant beast to lose its balance, tumble into another, bringing down of two of the giant beasts. Éomer blew out air; he looked around him, taking in the chaos around him and threw himself back into the battle with a defiant roar.

He saw the Nazgûl attacking his uncle, but before he could do anything, another giant beast blocked his way, and his uncle was hid from his sight. He grabbed his bow, and rallying some of the men to him, he shouted. “Aim for their heads!” He did not know whether they heard him, but he fired off the arrows that he had in the quiver hanging from Firefoot’s saddle and then swung his horse around to face another attack, drawing his sword, staring the danger right in the face. He saw several of his men around him, but could not distinguish their faces. Everything was a blur.

Bringing Firefoot to a rash turn, he looked towards the river and his heart froze in him as he saw the black ships approaching. He remembered that Gandalf had talked about the black ships coming from the South. The Corsairs. Apparently Aragorn had failed and they were now doomed, outnumbered by the enemy. As if that was not the case beforehand, Éomer thought bitterly as he watched the ships approaching Osgilliath.

Then he looked around him. The Rohirrim were still fighting and he felt the pride soar through his body. They shall not get me easily. Éomer hoisted his sword in the air and laughed. I laugh at death! I am young and they shall feel my wrath before they get me! He thought as he urged on his men in a charge. “Forth, Éorlingas. We have a battle to fight!” The men around him laughed as well and they sang as they turned to face the new challenge.

Then suddenly in the haze of the battle before him, Éomer saw a black banner unfold in the wind – on it the star of Anórien, the tree of the King of Gondor set with seven stars and he laughed even more, as he realised that it was Aragorn, not the Corsairs.

A cold wave passed him – and he looked up to see a ghost army approaching from the river. Aragorn! He had really succeeded in summoning the Dead to fight. He saw Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas joining the fight, and the hope rose in him again. He made it! He succeeded in summoning the Army of the Dead! Éomer charged on, hope filling him.

Soon all resistance was fought down, the last of the Mumâkil defeated and as the fighting on the Pelennor was dying out, he saw the ghost army entering the city, killing all enemies in their wake. Soon all fell silent. A strange silence after all the chaos and noise. Éomer halted Firefoot and dismounted. He stroked the large neck of his great animal, grateful that they had both made it, and removed his helmet, as he dried blood and sweat of his face. He caught the eye of Aragorn, who stood leaning on his sword, watching the Army of the Dead ridding the city of the remainder of the foes and nodded silently to him, acknowledging his timely arrival. Aragorn returned the nod.

Then he turned; he had not seen his uncle since he saw the Nâzgul approaching and looked around. He saw Éothain moving towards him: “My Lord Éomer – your uncle, he ….” Éomer ran in the direction that Éothain indicated. Gamling was kneeling beside the king. His body was crushed beneath his horse Snowmane, and he was barely alive. Not far from him was the large corpse of the fell beast.

Gamling looked up at Éomer, his eyes were suspiciously blank. Éomer knelt beside his uncle and took his hand. “Uncle,” he whispered in a broken voice. Théoden King recognized his nephew and smiled vaguely. He gestured at the banner of the King with the white horse, which Gamling had taken from the dead body of the king’s standard bearer.

The king said in a remarkably strong voice, “Hail, King of the Mark.” Then his head fell to one side and he was dead, his eyes still open and staring blankly. Through the tears that blurred his sight, Éomer reached over and closed his uncle’s eyes. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer to the gods to help his uncle pass on to the halls of his forebears.

When he looked up, Gamling and Éothain knelt before him. “Hail, King of the Mark”, they said. Gamling handed Éomer the banner of the king and Éomer took the banner and planted it in the ground beside him.

Éomer remained where he was, looking at the man, who had been in his father’s stead, sorrow clenching his heart. We had no time, uncle; there was so much that I needed to ask you. And then he suddenly realized what this meant. He made an impatient move. I have no time to mourn; I must look to the men, they are my responsibility now; I am the King. He raised his head and looked out over the Pelennor towards the distant river.

Éothain could see in his friend’s eyes that he had realised what it meant that Théoden King was dead, and he saw the immense sorrow in Éomer’s eyes. He, too, looked out over the battlefield. We have lost so many.

Éomer signalled Éothain and Gamling to follow him as he began searching the field to evaluate their losses and find the wounded. Those who had survived unscathed followed him, helping their wounded comrades and gathering their dead.

Aragorn had dismissed the Army of the Dead and stood overlooking the Pelennor. He also saw Éomer kneeling at his uncle’s side, saw him rise and move around the battlefield. He knew that it meant. Théoden King was dead, and Éomer was now King of the Mark.

Éomer moved about; from time to time he knelt down, turning over a body. So many – so many of his men had died or had been maimed. Men he had known since he was a boy; young men his own age that he had ridden together with since he became a Rider of the Mark, and men he had commanded. Young boys, yet beardless. So many.

He closed his eyes; they had won, at least this battle, but the price had been high. Rising from the body of one of the men of his éored, he suddenly froze. A lithe body lay on the ground some yards from him – the hair, the armour! He stood for a moment as if he did not believe what he saw – and he felt like choking. Then Aragorn and the others heard an unearthly wail: “Nooo, no – Éowyn - nooo!” They saw the young king flinging his helmet and his weapons as he ran, and they saw his men freeze where they were standing.

Éomer dropped to the ground and lifted his sister’s body in his arms. He held her close. No, not Éowyn – no. Why – why did you do this?” He cried out in utter grief and looked wildly about him without comprehending, cradling his sister in his arms.

Aragorn and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who had joined them from the city, ran to his side. Éomer looked up at them, apparently without recognizing them. “She is dead, she is dead,” he cried. Imrahil knelt beside him, searching for life signs and saw her lips quiver. “No, no – lord Éomer; she is still alive – look she is still breathing,” he said.

Aragorn ascertained the same; he felt a weak, but distinct pulse and ordered a couple of the Rohirrim to make a stretcher and take the lady Éowyn to the Houses of Healing. With Imrahil’s help, he wrenched Éowyn out of Éomer’s grip. “Let them take her, Éomer,” he said. “She is alive, but we must take her to the Houses of Healing at once.”

They lifted up Éowyn’s lifeless body and Éomer followed them as in a trance. Aragorn turned to Éothain and Gamling. “You take command here, until Éomer returns to his senses and can take command again.”

They nodded, as they watched their king following his sister as she was being carried to the Houses of Healing, silently praying to the Valar that she would live. Éothain for one did not know what it would do to Éomer, if she did not. He had suffered enough losses for one lifetime.

When Aragorn came back from tending to Faramir, the young Steward of Gondor, he saw Éomer sitting silently beside the cot watching his sister, who lay motionless. Her wounds had been tended to, but she still had not stirred.

Éomer looked up as Aragorn approached, his face was all drawn and tear strained. “I do not understand; she has hardly stirred. But I see no other wounds than those, which have been tended to already, and they seem light?”

Aragorn looked at his young friend. “I fear that it is the black breath. She fought an enemy far beyond her skills or power and when she slew him she was affected by it. But I shall try my best to call her back. It was the same with Merry. Pippin found him not far from Éowyn, but he will soon be all right again.”

He crushed some Athelas leaves in a bowl of steaming water and immediately the scent filled the air. Éomer himself felt quite relieved by it. Then Aragorn placed his hand on Éowyn’s brow, and muttered some words in Elvish. Éomer could see that he struggled; his face was all drawn and grey.

After a while he looked up; “She keeps slipping from me; it seems as if I am not strong enough to call her back. Perhaps I do not love her enough.”

Éomer looked at him: “She loved you, Lord, from first she saw you, I know that now. I did not know that she was touched by any frost until that moment, but I do not hold a grudge against you.”

Aragorn shook his head and placed a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “In me she loves only a shadow and a thought, but you she knows and loves; you can call her back, Éomer.”

Éomer moved closer to Éowyn and took her hand. “Éowyn,” he called softly, “Éowyn, come back to me; you cannot leave me. I need you. Forgive me, I did not know.”

Suddenly Éowyn opened her eyes and looked wildly about her: “Éomer, uncle is dead. I could not save him!” Then she turned her head and saw Aragorn, too. He looked at her with tenderness in his eyes. “Welcome back,” he said and then turned to Éomer. “Stay for a while, Éomer, but I shall soon need you for a council in the King’s Hall.”

Éomer nodded silently; the enemy was not yet overwrought. He stayed with his sister for a while, until she fell into a peaceful sleep and when he had ascertained that she really was soundly asleep, he called one of the women, who attended the wounded, to him and bade her watch over his sister while he went to the council.

The young woman approached him. She did not look an ordinary servant woman or healer; on the contrary there was something noble about her, although she was quite modestly dressed. Her face was pretty – with large sea green eyes and dark hair, which was mostly hid under a scarf. She nodded. “Go about your business, my Lord. I shall look after her and will be proud to do so; we have all heard of her deeds.” Her eyes followed the young king as he left the room.

Éomer entered the King’s Hall, where he found Aragorn deep in thoughts, looking at the statue of Isildur, his arms crossed. Gimli was sitting in the steward’s seat smoking his pipe and Gandalf was speaking silently with Legolas and Imrahil. The wizard looked at the young king: “I am sad to hear of Théoden King, but he fought bravely and can now join his forebears with pride.” Éomer nodded silently to the others.

Imrahil smiled. “I hear that your sister has awoken; she will soon recover, I am sure.”

“Thank you for your help,” Éomer said. “Without you and Aragorn, I might have left my sister for dead along with all the others.” His voice trembled.

Gandalf interrupted them: “We now need to debate what we are to do. The darkness is deepening. I fear that I have sent Frodo to his death. Ten thousand orcs now stands between him and Mount Doom.”

Aragorn turned: “No. If Sauron had the ring, we would know it. There is still hope for Frodo; he needs time – and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

The others looked at him. “How?” Gimli asked.

Aragorn looked at them, his eyes were shining: “Draw out Sauron's armies. Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.”

Éomer looked at him, disbelievingly: “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms; even with our joined forces we do not have enough men – but I am willing to go with you even so.”

Aragorn smiled: “No, my friend, we cannot. Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron's Eye fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves.”

Gandalf protested: “Sauron will suspect a trap; he will not take the bait.”

Aragorn smiled enigmatically: “Oh, I believe that he will – this time.” Later they all learned that he had challenged the Dark Lord using the Palantír, which Pippin had found at Isengard, and which Gandalf had given Aragorn in keeping.

He looked at Éomer. “Go and gather your strength. Let your men get some rest and some food. We ride to the Black Gate in two days. We have no more time.”

Éomer looked solemnly at Aragorn. What he saw was a king, although still dressed in Strider’s weatherworn attire. “If any one can do it, it is you. I will follow you – even to death! And so will my men, you know that!”

Éomer said his farewells and left with Gandalf. Legolas and Gimli had already left the room. He walked out of the hall towards the lower levels of the city to the Houses of Healing. He wanted to see his sister.

When he entered Éowyn’s room, he saw that she was awake and that the young woman that Éomer had asked to look after her was tending to her. As they walked in through the door, she rose; she had been feeding Éowyn some broth.

Éowyn looked up at her brother, a sad, tired smile around her lips. “Forgive me, brother,” she said, “I have not hailed you properly as my new king.”

“Éowyn – don’t!” Éomer growled. “I have not yet really come to terms with uncle’s death – and much less with the fact that I am now the king; everybody seems to regard me as if I was different now, and I don’t need you, my sister, to do the same.”

The young woman curtsied. “If you do not need me anymore, my Lord, I will take my leave. There are others who need me.”

Éowyn smiled vaguely at the young woman. “Thank you for staying with me and for your help.” The young woman smiled back at her and left silently.

Éomer sat down by the bedside and took his sister’s hand.

“How are you, sister? What drove you to this; did you think that you were better off dead?” he inquired.

Éowyn smiled; a sad little half-smile: “When you all were going to battle, insisting on leaving me behind, I felt so useless, as if I never would be able to win honour and renown, just because I am a woman. I met Aragorn before he left to take the Paths of the Dead, and he told me that he could not give me what I sought; he could not give me his love. I felt so hollow. But, I did know that it was only a dream. I had known that for some time, I saw his face when he spoke of his lady and what was in his heart, and I knew – deep inside – that it was, indeed, a shadow and a thought that I loved.”

“And I did not exactly help you – with the speech, I made the last night at Dunharrow. I am sorry, Éowyn. I regret that I said it; both you and Merry have proved me wrong. But I meant it at the time, and I would never have wished any harm to come to any of you. Although deep inside me I knew that you would not stay back, if you found a way to go to war. You have been Dernhelm before, Éowyn. I should have known that you would resort to that way again. Thank goodness though that both you and Merry are safe.”

When they were younger, Éowyn had sometimes assumed the identity of Dernhelm and ridden out with her brother and her cousin so as not to have explain herself to her uncle – or, in later years, to Wormtongue for that matter.

“Merry, how is he? I have not even thought about him.” Éowyn asked anxiously.

“Oh, he is fine; a couple of minor wounds and a blow to the head – but Aragorn tended to him, and the last I heard was that he demanded a large breakfast. Pippin is with him.” Éomer smiled. “I suspect that he will come and see you, now that he knows that you are alive and well.”

“It is not over, is it?” Éowyn then asked solemnly.

“No, sister. Indeed it is not. We must leave for the Black Gate in two days. We must help the Ringbearer achieve his goal. We shall lure out Sauron – and it is more than likely that we shall not return any of us.”

“I wish that I could go with you.” Éowyn put a hand to her brother’s cheek.

“Luckily you cannot. If we succeed in defeating Sauron, someone must be left to lead our people and rebuild our country. And if not, it will not really matter.” Éomer insisted, his voice serious. “But let us talk about something else – let us think happy thoughts; these may be our last days together, sister.”

Éowyn smiled; this time a more optimistic smile. “Do you know who the young woman, who has been tending to me, is?”

Éomer shook his head. “No, how could I.”

Éowyn smiled again. “You have been ordering the Princess of Dol Amroth about. She is Prince Imrahil’s daughter and a fine woman; somebody I would like as a friend. And did you know that the young Steward of Gondor, Faramir, is her cousin?”

“No - but how do you know?”

“She brought her cousin to see me, because I complained that I was confined here when I heard that you were all leaving for battle and the warden would not let me go.” Éomer cast her a glance. Would she ever desist!

Éowyn looked at him, knowing what he was thinking. “And then they sent for him, saying that it was up to the steward to decide – but he said that he was also at the warden’s mercy, and he would not be allowed to go, either. He is a gentle and nice person – a good man, says Lothíriel.”

She blushed. Éomer smiled inwardly – Must be some man to have my sister blush like that. He bent down and kissed his sister. “I must go see the men; both the wounded and those who are not. And I need to confer with Éothain and Gamling. I will see you tomorrow. Get some rest, you are not yet recovered.”

When he left his sister’s room, he looked into the gardens. He saw a man and a woman sitting on a bench and recognised the young woman, who he now knew as princess Lothíriel. He went outside and when Lothíriel caught sight of him, she called out. “My Lord Éomer, do you have a moment?”

Éomer went to her. “Of course, princess. How can I help you?”

“I would like to introduce you to my cousin. Faramir, this is the King of Rohan, Lady Éowyn’s brother – and Éomer King; this is Faramir, Steward of Gondor.”

“The last steward of Gondor, presumably. The king has returned – and gladly I welcome it.” He was still pale from his illness, and had apparently not yet recovered from his wounds. He was almost as tall as Éomer, but he was a few years older. His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Rohan’s young king. Oh, so this is the man who can get my sister to blush like that, Éomer mused.

He held out his hand “I am pleased to meet you, and pleased that you managed to persuade my sister to forego the oncoming battle. Once was enough. I would not like her to be part of this battle.”

Faramir inclined his head: “I am also pleased to meet you, Éomer King. I have heard of the bravery of the Rohirrim – and of yours. Thank you for coming to the rescue of Minas Tirith.”

They were interrupted by one of the servants. “Lord Faramir,” he said, “Beregond calls you; there is some business that you need to attend to.”

Faramir nodded. “I will be with you shortly. I take my leave, cousin – and Éomer King, until we meet again.”

“He has not yet recovered from his wounds; he is still very ill, but he will hear no talk of resting. He will do his duty until the king has assumed his throne.” Lothíriel looked after her cousin. “I believe that if he could, he would ride with you.”

She looked up at him; her eyes were solemn and thoughtful.

“I apologize that I have not greeted you properly according to your status, Sire,” she said, “but only when I left you and your sister and met with my father, I truly realised who you were. That is, father told me.” She curtsied to him.

Éomer waved depreciatingly. “No matter,” he said. “Please don’t. I am not yet used to the title and would prefer to be treated with a little less ceremony.” At this Lothíriel smiled.

Éomer could not take his gaze of her. Indeed, Imrahil’s daughter was an attractive woman; she was as tall as his sister but where Éowyn was pale as a winter morning, Lothíriel was dark as the night. Now that she had removed her scarf, her dark hair was hanging down to her waist in a neat braid, her sea green eyes glittered and her face was slightly flushed.

Lothíriel on her part saw a tall, broad shouldered man in his late twenties – still very young for a king. His hair was blonde; presently it was wind tangled and slightly dirty. Obviously, he had not taken time to wash it or even bathe since returning from the battlefield; he had only washed his hands and face. She presumed that his hair would be the colour of gold when it was newly washed. A pair of hazel eyes under dark brows looked solemnly into hers. A short beard, a little darker than his hair, covered his chin. He looked every bit a warrior.

She woke as he spoke. “Princess, I have to take my leave,” he said, “I must go see to my men; I was actually on my way there when you called to me. I want to thank you, though, for looking after my sister.”

“Then go see to your brave men, Éomer King. I will see you shortly, I hope.” Lothíriel’s smile lit up her eyes and wrinkled her nose. Somehow he found that charming.

“I hope so, too, princess.” Éomer bowed slightly to her and left, with Lothíriel’s gaze following him.

They did not, however, get a chance to meet. Éomer was caught up in a lot of preparations, councils, planning and only had few chances of even seeing his sister, who was still in the Houses of Healing. On these occasions, he looked for the princess, but learned that she had been spending time with her brothers and father before they were to leave.

The night before they were to leave, he kissed his sister farewell and left to go to his quarters. On his way through the city, he stopped to stand at the battlements looking out over the Pelennor Fields towards Mordor, where the eruptions of Mount Doom lit up the dark skies. He thought of his uncle, his parents and his cousin and sent a silent prayer to them to look down on him and help him through what he must now face. If this be one of my last nights alive, so be it, but if not give me a sign of hope that will carry me through this. He was startled as he felt a hand on his arm.

“I saw you standing here; you seemed so deep in thoughts.” He heard a female voice say. Lothíriel.

He turned towards her and saw a tear blinking in her eyes. “I have just bid my father and brothers farewell,” she said, “and then I saw you standing here, looking so lonely.”

“I was thinking of the people I have lost – and that I would like to have some hope to cling to, now that we are probably going towards our doom.” Éomer looked into her face. She smiled a little half-smile; “I wish that I had any hope to give, Éomer King, but let my thoughts follow you,” she said, and standing on her toes, she kissed him on the cheek.

Looking into her eyes, Éomer somehow felt elated. He bent over her hand and kissed it and she smiled at him. “The Valar protect us all,” she whispered and left him with a slight nod.

He stood for a while looking out over the plains again and then went to be with his men.

Next morning, Aragorn and the Captains of the West led the remainder of the Rohirrim and the Gondorian army towards the Black Gate. From the walls above the city, Éowyn and Faramir watched them leave. Éowyn felt desolate, as she watched her brother leave. “Will I ever see him again?” she said, almost choking, the tears welling in her eyes.

Faramir squeezed her hand and assured her. “You will, Éowyn, the good will prevail; I am sure that this darkness will not endure.”

The army of the West came to a stand in front of the Black Gate. The hobbits Merry and Pippin had been allowed to go with them and Éomer had Merry sitting behind him on Firefoot. “Behind me – not in front of me; I want you out of harm’s way,” he had said to Merry when they were about to mount, and Merry had just nodded. He knew better now than to discuss with Éomer.

Pippin sat in front of Gandalf, and Aragorn had taken up his rightful position as the King of Gondor, leader of the armies of the West and was riding ahead of them all. He was now dressed in the armour of Gondor with Andúril at his side. Strider, the ranger of the North was no more.

As they pulled to a stop, Éomer heard Pippin’s voice: “Where are they?” Meaning, of course, the armies of Mordor. Aragorn gave Éomer a lopsided smile in which Éomer read: “Hobbits!” and beckoned to Éomer, Legolas and Gandalf to follow him. They rode towards the Black Gate, followed by a soldier carrying the banner of the king of Gondor.

In front of the gate they pulled to a stop. Aragorn called out: “Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth. Let justice be done upon him!”

They waited: Looking up at the large gate, Éomer wondered if Aragorn had been heard at all, but suddenly the Black Gate slowly opened and out rode a strange creature, almost beastlike, in black armour and on an armoured horse.

The creature greeted them. He called himself the Lieutenant of the Black Lord, the Mouth of Sauron. He was truly hideous. “I have a token that I was bid to show thee,” he hissed and held up a set of Mithril armour: Frodo’s. Pippin gasped “Frodo” and Merry cried out “No!” Éomer reached back and put a reassuring hand on Merry’s leg. “Peace, Merry. He is only taunting us; Frodo might not be dead,” he whispered.

The creature threw the Mithril shirt at Gandalf; he took it and gave it to Pippin, who clutched to his chest. The hideous creature looked directly at them. “The halfling was dear to thee, I see.” He told them that Frodo had been brave and that it had taken a lot to break him.

He continued, “Is there nobody here with the authority to negotiate?”

Gandalf answered that there would be no negotiations. “Tell your master to surrender and to leave these lands,” he simply demanded. The Mouth of Sauron did not reply to this.

Aragorn rode forward, the creature looked at him and hissed. “And what do we have here, the heir of Isildur. It will take more than a fine Elvish sword to make a ranger a king.” Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, and seconds later, it became too much for him. He simply chopped off his head with a single blow of Anduríl. He turned to the others and said passionately. “I will not believe that Frodo is dead. I cannot!”

Éomer’s eyes widened, as he silently mused Well, if not him that I would gladly have done the deed. It was not often that Aragorn reacted irrationally, but Éomer understood well why he did so now. He knew that Aragorn had been fond of the young hobbit and that he was feeling very uncertain that he had done the right thing, letting Frodo and Sam set out towards Mordor on their own. He had told Éomer that he had sworn to protect Frodo and now felt that he had somehow broken his word.

Gimli, who sat behind Legolas, remarked dryly: “That concludes the negotiations, I should say.” The gate opened once more and through it they could see the vast armies of Mordor marching out.

Aragorn called out: “Fall back!”

They spurred on their horses and rode back to the lines. Aragorn looked at them all. “Courage” he said to the others – and then proceeded to give the men courage: “Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!”

To death, Aragorn! Éomer vowed silently. He felt strangely moved by Aragorn’s words and at the same time felt the adrenaline of an imminent battle cursing through his veins. If ever there was a worthy fight this was it, although they would probably all be dead in a few hours if Frodo was not still alive.

They all dismounted and released their horses. Éomer patted Firefoot’s neck as he let him run free. This fight would be on foot. Éomer turned to catch Éothain’s eyes. He nodded silently to his friends – Elfhelm, Éothain, Gamling --- we have gone so far together and fought so many battles; will this be the last? He looked at the army of orcs marching towards them. “So this is it!” he thought. “The final battle for Middle Earth. Think of me, sister!” He closed his eyes; and as he did an image of Lothíriel came to him. Be now my hope, princess!

He saw Aragorn moving forward slowly, as if called by somebody and then he saw him turn towards them; his eyes shone suspiciously as if the tears had welled in them: “For Frodo!” he said in a broken voice and then he started running towards the orcs. The hobbits followed and the others hesitated but a moment and then followed Aragorn as a humongous and desperate war cry filled the air.

The two armies clashed; Éomer could not think coherently anymore. He just fought as in a rage, slaying enemy upon enemy. At one time he saw Gandalf – and then Aragorn, but he soon lost track of them as he hurled himself into the fight side by side with the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan. He was attacked from all sides but fought back with sword and shield.

Unearthly shrieks filled the air; looking up Éomer saw the Nâzgul flying in from Barad Dûr, but suddenly out of the skies, he also saw the Windlord Gwaihir and his brothers approaching.

Through the noise of the battle, he heard Pippin shouting: “The eagles! The eagles are coming!” and saw them chasing away the Nâzgul. A large cave troll was approaching Aragorn. It struck Aragorn to the ground. Both Éomer and Legolas tried desperately to get to Aragorn to help him, but their paths were blocked by more orcs, and even though they struck several of them down, more kept coming. He could still see Aragorn pinned to the ground, desperately trying to get free. Oh, no – not Aragorn, not Aragorn ran through his head.

Suddenly the earth shook; explosions lit up the sky – and out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw the Black Tower crumple. Mount Doom exploded in a rain of fire and smoke. He did not believe his own eyes. Vaguely he more sensed than heard Merry shouting “Frodo!” and he understood that the Ringbearer must have succeeded. The Ring had been destroyed.

The cave troll released Aragorn. Orcs fled in panic. The ground cracked open and swallowed them as the Black Gate crumpled and disappeared into the cracks. Éomer lowered his sword; he removed his helmet and wiped the sweat and dirt from his brow. He saw Aragorn get up and Imrahil embrace his sons. Éomer’s and Aragorn’s eyes met – we made it, we did it – but at what cost! Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gamling and Éothain approaching and embraced them.

Gandalf summoned the eagles and went to find Frodo and Sam, and the captains gathered the remainder of the armies and headed for Cormallen, where they were to wait their return to Minas Tirith. Aragorn wanted some time for the armies to recover before officially entering the city as the King, and Éomer understood him.

Éomer sent for Éowyn to have her join the celebrations, but she declined – under some lame pretence he thought. Obviously there must be something – or rather somebody – who held her in the city. Surely she must be well enough by this point to make the trip to Cormallen, or at least Éomer thought so although Éowyn, in her letter, stated that she was still weak.

“Probably my cousin,” Amrothos, the youngest of Imrahil’s sons grinned drunkenly. He and Éomer had shared a couple of bottles of brandy – celebrating or trying to forget, Éomer was not sure of which. He was becoming fast friends with the sons of Imrahil – and with Imrahil himself. Especially Amrothos had turned out to be a match for the Rohirrim when it came to celebrating.

Finally, the day came when the troops entered the city in triumph. The Steward of Gondor – Faramir – welcomed the king at the gate to the City, relinquishing his staff, thus ending the rule of the Stewards. Aragorn gave it back to him, asking him to remain as the King’s Steward, which Faramir accepted.

King Théoden’s body had been taken to the citadel to lie in honour along with the Kings of Gondor until such time as the Rohirrim could bring him back to Edoras to be buried alongside his queen and son.

Lothíriel had welcomed her father and brothers back to the city, but her eyes had also sought the handsome king of the Rohirrim, whose sister seemed mightily amused by the fact, that Lothíriel was finding it difficult to keep her eyes off him.

A couple of months’ recovery from battle, where the dead were buried in great mounds on the Pelennor, the rebuilding of Minas Tirith and Osgilliath began, and peace found its way to all, reached a climax the day that Gandalf crowned Aragorn on the steps of the Citadel in the presence of the inhabitants of Minas Tirith, the soldiers, the hobbits, the elves – and the lords of Gondor, Rohan and Dol Amroth.

During that intermediate period, Éomer had – among all his duties – also found time to spend with the Princess of Dol Amroth, getting to know her a little better. With her he again found the lighter part of himself, the part, which he had buried deep when his first love had died. He had never in his life met anybody, who suited him so well. It was as if they were kindred spirits.

It soon became no secret to anybody that the king highly favoured the little sister of his friends, the princes of Dol Amroth.

At the coronation ceremony, Éowyn and Faramir stood together, and everybody could tell from their happy faces that Éomer had given his consent to their marriage and announced their betrothal, although he had made Faramir promise that the wedding would not take place until they had taken Théoden back to be buried at Edoras and Éomer had been crowned King of the Mark.

Éowyn had seen to it that her brother had been formally dressed in clothes befitting a king. He wore his armour, but his tunic was more elaborate, embroidered with gold and the cloak of the king hung from his shoulders. In Lothíriel’s eyes, he was the most handsome man present, and it was no more a secret to her father – or any others for that matter - in which direction her heart was inclined.

As Éomer watched his friend being crowned and the petals of the flowers of the White Tree were raining down over them all, he thought of the fact that soon it would be his turn to be crowned king. He thought of the conversation that Aragorn and he had had at Edoras about the uncertainties that they both had felt about their inheritance. Well, now there is no turning back, Elessar – for either of us. He smiled.

He watched Aragorn move down the stairs and bowed slightly to him, as he passed him. Their eyes met and Éomer’s lips curled slightly upwards in a smile. Brothers in arms; friends forever.

He was following behind Aragorn with Imrahil and Lothíriel as he saw his friend move towards a group of elves. Legolas, finally dressed as befitted the Prince of Mirkwood, came towards them.

Aragorn stopped and spoke to Legolas, who smiled enigmatically and moved aside to reveal a woman; the most beautiful being that Éomer had ever seen. Ah, this must be the lady of his heart, the Elvish princess he was telling me about. Along with the others, he cheered loudly as he saw his friend grabbing hold of his lady, kissing her long and soundly. He looked into the eyes of a certain dark haired young princess – and knew that this was the lady of his heart. I could drown in those eyes, he thought.

Without realizing exactly what he was doing, he reached for Lothíriel’s hand and squeezed it. She looked up at him and a radiant smile lit up her face. “I hope that you do not think me bold, my Lady,” he whispered to her as they moved along in the procession.

“I do not, Sire, but I cannot speak for my brothers; they might be offended – provided, of course, that they find out.” Her eyes glinted teasingly at him and a flush coloured her cheeks.

He caressed her hand; obviously they needed not speak much of their intentions towards each other; they knew what their feelings were, but Éomer whispered to Lothíriel. “I will not tarry; you know my feelings towards you – I will make you mine.” She blushed, but the smile she gave him, could not be mistaken.

Her brothers had noticed them. “Father, they are holding hands; this is not proper. And the way they look at each other.” Elphir, the oldest, was as always concerned about his sister. His younger brother Amrothos grinned. “I do not think that Lothíriel minds. She could do worse than Éomer, and you do like him well enough as a drinking companion and brother-in-arms, Elphir.”

Imrahil smiled at his sons; it was no secret to him that Lothíriel had taken more than a liking to the young king of Rohan, and if his friend felt the same inclination towards his daughter, he would not oppose it. It would, indeed, be a good match for his daughter and for their countries, and that it was so obviously based on love only made it better.

Therefore it was no surprise to him that Éomer approached him later that day for a private conversation. As it was typical of Éomer, he wanted to get matters settled and not beat around the bush too long. He would also prefer to be able to dance with Lothíriel – and take her for a walk in the gardens – with her father’s blessing. He did not want to hide.

Thus, he met with Imrahil before the evening’s crowning celebrations started, asking his permission to court his daughter. “And – if she so consents, I would like to make her my wife – and Queen of Rohan. I would like your blessing, Imrahil, to do so.”

Imrahil laughed: “Your intentions have been clear to me these past weeks, my young friend. And it is no secret that my daughter holds similar feelings for you; you have my blessing.”

He called in Lothíriel, who had been listening at the door, and joined their hands. “I give you my only daughter, Éomer King, my most precious jewel. Guard her well and treat her with respect; she will make you a fine queen.”

Éomer blushed. “I shall guard her with my life and respect her as my wife and queen – and I shall treasure her always, Imrahil.” He looked proudly at his friend: “You have my word as a Rohirrim, not lightly given but always true.” He looked into Lothíriel’s eyes.

Imrahil coughed; somehow he felt superfluous. “I will leave you now; I trust that you will behave yourselves – and do come in time for the start of the feast.” He left the room, grinning. I was once young, too.

Éomer pulled Lothíriel into his arms. “I think that he just gave me permission to kiss you.”

“I think he did.” Lothíriel laughed happily. “If you only knew, how long I have waited for this.” And then she said no more, because Éomer kissed her – long and soundly; and when they came up for air, he hesitated only a moment and then kissed her again.

Suddenly, Éomer stopped and drew away from her. She looked perplexed. “What is the matter?”

Éomer looked embarrassed. “I should do this right, not just fall all over you – although it is difficult not to.” He led her to the window, took both her hands in his and looked straight into her eyes.

“Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Your father has given me his blessing, and I hereby ask you to do me the honour of becoming my wife and the Queen of the Mark.”

Lothíriel looked at him and nodded blushingly. “I will gladly marry you, Éomer, son of Éomund, and be your queen.”

“I shall see to it that he accepts a short betrothal period; I will not wait long ere I make you my wife.” He bent down to claim her lips and pressed her against him.

After what seemed a very long while, she pushed softly against his chest. “Éomer, I think – that we should be going now; the feast must be starting just about now.”

He laughed happily. “Yes, I think so, too. I shall never hear the end of it – especially from Aragorn – if I arrive too late at his coronation feast, together with you!”

The fact that they arrived together looking ridiculously happy, did not escape their friends or siblings. Éowyn laughed loudly as she caught her brother’s eyes and saw the look in them.

Faramir smiled at them both – and Lothíriel’s brothers raised their goblets. Loud catcalls were heard from the hobbits and Gimli – and Legolas inclined his head to the couple, as they passed him towards their seats.

The feast started – and it was a grand feast. They had much to celebrate. Wine and food flowed generously as did the friendly banter. Aragorn toasted his friend and liege, acknowledging with a smile what so obviously had happened.

Later that evening Éomer lead his lady out on the terrace overlooking the city with the purpose of getting some fresh air and look at the stars.

Lothíriel laughed, “A worthy purpose, indeed, my Lord, but I detect that you may have a hidden, and not quite appropriate, purpose.”

Éomer laughed, as he crushed her tightly in his arms and kissed her softly. They walked towards the battlements and stood looking out over the city. He placed himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin against the top of her head.

As they stood there silently watching the city below them, Éomer thought back to the time when he had arrived back at Edoras, just before Théodred had been killed and he was banished, when he had thought of how lonely he was, lacking the welcome of a wife like the others. He knew that for the first time since he lost the young woman, he had loved in his youth, he could love again truly and fully and he also knew that Lothíriel was the woman he needed by his side as his wife and his queen.

No more would he think himself lonely; for the first time in many years he felt whole – or at least as if he was on the mend. He smiled to himself as he felt Lothíriel turn around in his arms.

She turned her face up against his. “Why are you smiling, my love?” she asked.

Éomer crushed her against him. “I am smiling, my sweet, because for the first time in a long, long time I really have something to smile about.”

- and what followed, is told elsewhere.
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