Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer - The Rewrite

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to the Tolkien estate. I've only borrowed them for a little entertainment.

Rating: T for some fighting and violence, and overall darkness…

Author's Notes:

This very AU-story was initially posted more than a decade ago on this site. I was never really happy with the banishment-scenario in the movies (come on, will someone who gets banished be able to take his entire éored with him? He would always be a danger!) In the beginning, it was only a picture in my mind of Éomer standing in the snow, in the process of being surrounded by an éored, not sure how they would respond to encountering their outlawed marshal. I thought that perhaps, there would be 30 pages I could fill with that idea. Well, in the end, it became quite a bit longer... :-)

The original story won the 2008 MEFA AWARDS (Category: Alternate Universe: General)… and now it is being partly rewritten, since I composed a prequel for it ("A Red Sun rises", also on fanfiction dot net and now completed), and some parts will have to be tweaked to make the two stories blend together seamlessly (hopefully). I expect that there will be quite a lot of rewriting be done in the early chapters, and hope it will gradually lessen in the course of this fic, but who knows? I'm definitely open for any ideas that might hit me with unexpected developments along the way! If any of you are new to the "Katzilla-verse", I'd definitely recommend reading "A Red Sun rises" first.

I first started to upload these new chapters over the old ones, but then realised (with some help from Katia0203), that the changes - so far - are rather substantial (over 3,000 more words in only the first four chapters!), and this version would probably be better served being posted separately.

As always, I would be much obliged to read your thoughts on this rewrite (i.e. for those of you who read the original: How does it measure up to the old version?)) and look forward to our exchange!

And so it begins (again) ...

CHAPTER 1: THE VERDICT

EDORAS

Éomer woke to the same flickering twilight to which he had become accustomed over the last days, but something was different today. This was the last day he would ever wake to. These were the last breaths he would ever draw. The thought jumped at him as soon as he opened his eyes to see the iron bars before him, and it took all of what was left of his self-control to not succumb to instant panic. Yet tension had already taken a firm hold over his body. It constricted his lungs and barely allowed him to breathe.

With cold hands, Éomer wiped the sleep from his eyes…to find his face wet from tears he had apparently shed in the night. Puzzled – and embarrassed – he smeared the moisture over his probably filthy face, while he tried to remember what he had dreamed. It was easy and came to him at once, for the dream had been incredibly vivid. And it had been a good dream for once…

His parents… he had seen his parents. They had met in their old home in Aldburg. An Aldburg that seemed to not yet have been ravaged by war. It had been warm and cloudless, and the sun had spent the golden light of a late summer day, his favourite season. He had wandered through the streets, and the people he met had smiled at him and greeted him with an air of carefreeness he had never experienced for as long as he had dwelt there. Children had chased each other through the streets in their wild play, and in their paddocks, the horses had run alongside the fences, testing their strength and speed and enjoying the sensation of the warm summer breeze as it caressed their skin and let their manes fly like banners. It was an ideal version of Aldburg, a city that had never experienced dread or sorrow.

In wonder, Éomer had walked up the hill to the marshal's house where he had grown up until his parents had died, and where he had later returned to when the Eastmark had become his official ward, when he had suddenly been assaulted. A great, hairy beast had jumped at him and almost knocked him off his feet, yipping and whining in a shrill voice that seemed absurd for something so large, and a wet tongue had furiously licked across his face.

"Hryppa?"

Yes, it had been their dog, a gigantic beast of untraceable decent, which Éomer had loved dearly in the days of his childhood. Hryppa had been his companion and protector wherever he had walked, and the day when old age had taken him had been one of the blackest events in the boy's memory. Overjoyed over their reunion, Éomer had sunken to his knees and buried his face in the dense fur as he embraced his old friend, laughing and crying at the same time.

"Hryppa? Who is it?"

It was a familiar voice that asked this question, a deep, commanding voice, and it had stunned him at once. With his arms still locked around his dog's neck, Éomer had looked up… and into his father's face. For the longest moment, they had stared at each other, speechless and too moved for words. Then things had turned even more surreal when a female voice had called out from the house. A voice deeply enshrined in his earliest childhood memories. A voice that had caused new tears to blur his vision when the slender silhouette had appeared in the doorway, but Éomer had not needed to see his mother to recognise her.

"Éomer? Éomer!"

Somehow, he had suddenly found himself in his parents' embrace, all three of them crying in the overflow of happiness while Hryppa jumped around them with joyous barks. It had been an incredible moment; a moment of sheer bliss, something Éomer had never expected to experience in his life again. He had revelled in it, allowed it to carry him away, never wanting for it to end.

But it had ended, and Théodwyn had laid a loving hand against his cheek in caress.

"Look at you, Éomer! You are a man now! A warrior! I never thought that I would get to see you like this. You look so much like your father!"

"And he, too, is Third Marshal of Riddermark..." Immense pride had shone in Éomund's eyes when he regarded his son. "I always knew that you would walk in my shoes one day, Éomer. Even as a boy, one could see that you had everything you needed to rise to this position. But at such a young age… Safe Éorl the Young, I doubt that there was ever a warrior in the Mark who rose to marshal at only 24."

Not knowing what to say, Éomer had, for a moment, looked awkwardly to the side.

"I thought I would never see you again… Mother… Father… How… how can this be?"

"You are dreaming, Éomer." The smile on Éomund's face had slightly faded, and melancholy replaced the pride in his gaze.

Sudden realisation of what was about to happen to him in reality had then swept away Éomer's happiness.

"Is this… the afterlife? Already? But I do not remember having died."

Compassion had been written all over his mother's face.

"No, léofa. It is not. You are still in your cell. This is only a dream. Perhaps it came to you because you want to know what we think. It is important to you, and you fear that we might not accept you here." A sad smile had briefly crossed Théodwyn's lips. "You can lay those concerns to rest. We are immeasurably proud of you, Éomer, and we know that all you ever did was for the protection of our people. We will gladly open our door for you, should it come to that. Of course, it would also break our hearts, because it would be long before your time. But perhaps, there is no need for sadness, yet. Perhaps, something will happen that delays our reunion, as much as I would love to welcome you here."

To this, Éomer had furrowed his brow.

"The three strangers? Will they arrive in Edoras, at last?"

"We do not know more than you, son," Éomund had said. "But we have not lost hope yet. Things are in motion, and no one can predict the outcome. For what it's worth, you need to continue the fight. It is too early yet to give up."

"But I am sitting in a cell, Father," Éomer had replied. "I can barely walk… and in a few hours, I will be hanged, unless a miracle happens."

"And yet sometimes, they do happen," Éomund had shrugged. "The history of the Mark is full of such incidences where all hope seemed lost. Why should it not happen this time? Have faith, Éomer…in fate as much as in yourself. You are capable of much more than you think."

His voice had sounded distant all of a sudden, like an echo from the past, and with dismay, Éomer had realised that their meeting was about to end. He had not wanted for it to end, had wanted to remain right where he was.

'All I have to do for that to come true is wait and do nothing,' a voice in the back of his mind said matter-of-factly. 'The question is: is that what I really want? Have I given up?'

"Father? Mother!"

"Believe in yourself, Éomer!"

Which was the point where he had woken.

Once more, Éomer wiped his eyes with the balls of his thumbs. It been such a comfort to meet his parents after all this time, even if it had only been in his mind. The hole their death had left in his soul ached all the more all of a sudden, but Éomer told himself that, if what he had seen in the dream was real, his parents were occupying a realm far better than the one he himself was currently part of.

'So why should I even fight getting there?'

The distant noise of an opening door brought him back to grim reality. He sat up.

'They are coming. Get a grip!'

Several deep, guttural voices could be heard now, and the steps of at least three or four men. They were indeed coming to get him. Unwilling to face them sitting, Éomer slowly rose to his feet. To his relief, his body obeyed him. Apparently, the effort he had made only last afternoon, when he had paced the inside of his small cell in tight circles for as long as he had been able to, had restored his balance, and at least a little of his strength. His head and torso were still throbbing in the aftermath of the beating, but the pain was more distant now, and certainly manageable. He was as ready as he ever would be for what was about to follow.

Would the Worm truly dare to have him executed right before their people's eyes? No matter what lies the counsellor had been telling the Royal Court about the crimes of which he had been judged guilty, Éomer was certain that the open execution of a member of the royal family bore the risk of sparking long-overdue rebellion. He could not imagine that the filth would risk that… and yet these men were not coming to simply release him, this much was certain.

Bracing himself for the confrontation as the flickering glow of several torches finally reached his corridor, Éomer involuntarily stepped back to the wall. Even though his eyes watered from the painfully bright firelight as the group halted in front of his cell, he could see that he had assumed rightly that Gríma would not risk using Théoden-King's guards for the task of retrieving him. The six henchmen on the other side of the bars were Gríma's own, part of an ever-increasing group of crooked men that had been invading the city over the course of the last months.

"Well, there he is, our mighty marshal!" Felrod roared with a broad grin upon his face. "Isn't he a sight? Come out, rat, it's time to meet the cat!"

Éomer forced himself to remain calm.

"As you apparently saw the need to bring five men with you, Felrod, it would seem to me that it remains open for discussion who of us is the cat ... and who the rat." He raised an eyebrow. "How is your ear, by the way?"

The halfblood narrowed his eyes at his rebuke, and the fingers of his free hand worked at his side as if he could barely wait to wring his prisoner's neck.

"My orders say to bring you to the hearing in unspoiled condition, because my master does not want people to get angry over seeing you wounded. But if we break your ribs, they might never know it. Keep that in mind when we open the door now, forgoil." A short nod at the door. "You will step forward now and lay your hands on the crossbar."

A derogatory smirk pulled at Éomer's lips.

"Why? You've got five men with you, and still you are afraid to open my cell door?"

Felrod grunted.

"Keep making this difficult, strawhead, and you will pay for it. You have my word. They're all waiting for you up there; if you keep them waiting, I doubt it will do you any good." He gave a little dirty laugh. "Not that there is anything good coming your way now, but still… things are never so bad that they cannot be made worse."

For a brief moment, Éomer considered resistance. How wonderful would it feel to unleash his accumulated frustration and rage against these men, even if they were not his main adversaries. He denied himself the pleasure. In his current condition, he would stand no chance against them. Not yet knowing what Gríma had planned for him, it would be best to conserve his strength for the time being. If they brought him up into the hall and the Worm then announced his execution, he could put it to better use by snapping the filth's neck before they killed him. And this time, he would make sure that he succeeded. They would not thank him for this deed right away, but perhaps, he would be regarded as a hero again in the end.

Squaring his shoulders, Éomer stepped forward and did as bidden, his eyes fixed on the big halfblood in silent threat. Daring Felrod to open the handcuffs.

From a ring with many keys, the brute fingered for the right one and found it after two vain attempts. His gaze on his prisoner, he growled: "Make one false move, forgoil, and you will regret it."

Up close, Éomer saw that the man's ear appeared to be badly inflamed, and so he only smirked with satisfaction and remained silent while his adversary opened the locks.

"Now turn around and put your hands behind your back," Felrod barked, annoyed. No doubt had he understood the amused glance his prisoner had given him. "Dorlâk, shackle his feet!"

Éomer followed his orders. This was bad. It was uplifting to see them still so very afraid of him, but with those additional chains around his ankles, and his hands fettered on his back, there was indeed little left he would be able to do. Certainly, he would not be able to snap the Worm's neck chained like this.

"All right," Felrod growled. "Now step back deeper into the cell and turn around."

The rusty door screamed in its hinges as it gave way, and for moment, the seven men stared expectantly at each other. Nothing happened. Felrod drew his sword.

'His sword? He must have taken it from our weapon's chamber, the thief!'

"Out with you. If you try something funny-"

"—I will regret it." Éomer nodded. "Aye. I understood that the first time you mentioned it."

With a deep breath, he left the small, uncomfortable rectangle he had occupied these past days and nights. All of a sudden, the relative safety it offered seemed much preferable to what would be awaiting him upstairs. His situation was about to change, and quite likely, not for the better. Swallowing his sudden anxiety, Éomer stepped forward.

One of the ruffians poked him between the shoulder blades with a club he had no doubt brought along in hope to use it, and Éomer continued down the corridor, his steps sounding hollow in the darkness of the hill's intestines, and the rattle of his chains incredibly loud. The halfblood gave him a condescending grin as he passed him.

"Now will you look at this? Dorlâk? Guthlaf? Not only is the noble son of the great Marshal Éomund not a cat, he is not even a rat! Indeed I think that our once proud warrior here is nothing but a little scared mouse!" He spat. "Disappointing. I was hoping I'd get the chance to sweep the floor with your ugly face!"

Éomer bit his tongue. An acid reply lay upon its tip, but it would not improve his situation. Best not to listen to anything his captors said. The important fight was the one in the Great Hall, not this petty skirmish with dimwits. He walked on silently, much to the amusement of his guards.

Up the stairs. The effort made him feel temporarily lightheaded. Before them, the heavy oaken door to the dungeon was opened from the other side, and Éomer squinted as daylight assaulted his deprived eyes. It was only the filtered light of the hall, but after days in the weak twilight of a single torch, even this hurt. Still he recognised one of the Royal Guards. The man's eyes widened slightly at the unruly sight of his disgraced marshal, yet he dared not speak out. Éomer granted the man a dark, accusing glance that made the guard avert his eyes.

"In here, filth," Felrod's gruff voice suddenly rang out from behind, and unceremoniously, Éomer was shoved into one of the empty guest chambers. "Dorlâk, get a piece of cloth." The brute grinned as he eyed his prisoner. "I fear we must first clean up our noble rider, before we can lead him before the King. He is filthy." He sniffed the air. "And he stinks!"

He waited for a reaction, but Éomer remained silent, instead of rising to the provocation choosing to look out of the window. It had been a clumsy attempt, and he knew better than to listen to it. Behind him, the door opened and closed as the other guard left, and heavy silence filled the room. It seemed to snow outside.

"Afraid, traitor? You should be. Your oh-so-noble blood protects you no longer. You will soon be fodder for the crows. They're already waiting for you."

Again, the son of Éomund forbade himself to do what the ruffian wanted. The stick was poked against his back again.

"Swallowed your tongue, strawhead?"

"You are not worth wasting my breath. I will speak with my King, and with my King only. Spare the effort." A strong gust howled around the hall, and all of a sudden, Éomer understood why it had been so cold in his cell the last days.

Dorlâk returned.

"Here is the cloth, Felrod."

The big man grunted.

"So… let's teach our pig-lord about cleanliness. Hold him!"

Éomer's arms were violently seized. He offered no resistance when the wet cloth was roughly wiped over his face, followed by a dry, coarse cloth. When this was done, Felrod's broad, ugly face appeared in Éomer's vision again, grinning as if this was the best day he had ever experienced. It probably was.

"Ah, isn't he pretty again? How the maids will swoon over his handsome face when we lead him out! Perhaps we should gift them with his head later on. They would surely appreciate it."

Finally averting his gaze from the window, Éomer stared the halfblood full in the face. There was frost in his voice when he said: "You will get your just reward for this, dog. But it will be a different one than you expect. I might not be around when they skin you alive and use your hide for a doormat, but wherever I may be by then, I will see it… and I will laugh."

A dangerous spark glowered in Felrod's dark eyes. His fist with the stick itched to make use of it.

"We will see about that, forgoil. I have a feeling that we might meet again much sooner than you think… and then we will see who skins whom!" He walked around his prisoner and rammed his hand between Éomer's shoulder blades, shoving him towards the door.

"Let's go and hear what your King has to say to you. I doubt that it is what you are hoping for."

OOO

"It is time. The prisoner is on his way. Bring him out."

It was Wormtongue's voice, and Éowyn narrowed her eyes in disgust when her adversary entered the King's chamber, followed by Gamling. Her heartbeat accelerated as she straightened. She was furious.

"He can barely walk this morning, Counsellor, let alone speak! When Théoden-King visited me yesterday, he was in much better condition. He was stronger, and hale. Now look at him and tell me that it is not your doing that my uncle has – again – been reduced to an unresponsive, hollow shell over night!"

Gríma exhaled.

"My Lady, unfortunately we have no time to discuss this for yet the hundredth time. The court is waiting for its king. Your uncle clearly overexerted himself yesterday, for he was already in bad shape when he left your chambers…, which makes me think that you must have played a part in his relapse! When I visited him in the evening, the King asked me for a sleeping draught… which I provided to him. Nothing more happened."

Éowyn gasped.

"You imply that I damaged the King's health? How dare you!"

"We can discuss this later, if you like, Lady Éowyn, but right now, the King is needed in the hall!"

"It is utterly unthinkable that he will be able to pass sentence in this condition!" Éowyn wrung her hands and looked pleadingly at the Captain of the Royal Guard. "He barely knows his own name, or where he is! The session must be postponed! Captain, just look at him! Say something!"

The old man's gaze was greatly distressed as he regarded his feeble King, but before he could voice his concerns, Gríma cut him off.

"It is not in Captain Gamling's power to stop these proceedings, my Lady," he sneered. "I remind you that, in the case of the King's illness, it is I who was instated by the Council to speak and act in his stead! Of course, we can do so, if you insist: we lay the King in his bed, and I will pass sentence on your brother. Is that what you want? You only have to say so!"

Horrified, all Éowyn could do was stare back at his vile, pale face. Unable to find the words for an appropriate reply. Unable to think. How could she have actually believed that perhaps, things could still turn for the better after her uncle's visit? Stunned, she shook her head.

'Please, do something, Gamling!' she implored the guard silently. 'Can you not see what he is doing? Where all this is leading?' It was written in his pale blue eyes that he knew it… and yet his hand remind idly on the heft of his sword.

If Gríma had noticed their little exchange, he did not let on.

"Either Théoden-King will sit on the throne to pass sentence on your brother, or I shall do it. The choice is yours, Lady Éowyn."

He turned and left.

OOO

As they left the guest chamber, Éomer's guards first led their prisoner alongside the left wall, towards the Golden Hall's exit. For protocol to be followed, the accused man had to walk through the cordon in the middle, right through the members of the court who had betrayed him.

Sensing the crowd's overpowering presence, but refusing to give in to the almost suffocating feeling of dread by turning his head to look, Éomer walked on. He pressed his lips together. Before him, the door grew ever greater, torturing him with the false notion that escape was still possible, that all he would have to do was get rid of his guards and make a run for it.

'Unarmed and with chained feet and hands. Certainly.'

He had to avert his eyes. Not wanting to look at his feet, as it would make him seem guilty, the son of Éomund chose to stare into a distance far beyond the hall instead. His expression was bland. For as long as possible, he would keep his emotions locked inside an inner vault. They would not help him here. If he followed his impulses, he would shout and insult everyone in the room. If he still wanted to avoid the gallows, that mode of action was forbidden.

He heard the mumbling of the crowd as they beheld his deranged state and followed his progress, but deliberately ignored them as they reached the far side near the door and turned around. Now for the most excruciating part…

The door to the King's chambers opened.

"Honourable members of the Court of Edoras…behold Théoden son of Théngel, King of Riddermark!" Háma's voice rang out from the dais.

The great hall fell silent. Slow, scuffling steps could be heard from the other side, approaching.

His view still blocked by the crowd, Éomer could not help tensing, and his heartbeat accelerated. The sound of this did not bode well. Last time he had seen his uncle, Théoden had appeared like his own ghost. What he was hearing now seemed to fit that last image perfectly… which meant that the old man's condition had not improved. Was he still that wraith-like creature that had done so much damage to his realm? And would that wraith-like creature condemn him to die now?

Straightening in the grip of his captors, Éomer lifted his chin. Whatever followed, he would face it with dignity.

There was movement now before him, in the gap he could see through the crowd. Gríma, slowly making his way over to his usual place on the dais, on the right side of the throne. And behind him…

'Béma!'

Éomer froze. It was Éowyn who was helping Théoden up the three steps, assisted by Gamling. She had not left! She had remained here for him, and the Worm would claim her as soon as he was dead! She would see him die in a horrible way!

´Why, Éowyn?' Éomer thought in despair. 'Why did you do this? Do you not know what will happen now? This makes it so much harder for me to go!'

"Théoden-King," Háma's voice could be heard again once the members of the court had found their place on the dais. "…here comes Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, to be judged for his deeds. Will you see him, my Lord?"

Before them, Wormtongue bent toward the King, whispering into the sick man's ear. Then straightening again.

"The King will see him, Háma son Hárlond," he answered, and Éomer felt the short hairs on the nape of his neck rise in reaction. "Bring forth the prisoner!"

A stick was poked into his back, and involuntarily, he took the first step. The rattle of his chains seemed incredible loud in the leaden silence as he slowly walked down the cordon on legs that felt as if they were made of wood. They all turned to stare at him. It felt like a nightmare.

His blood a river of ice, his breath caught in his throat, Éomer looked at the men who formed the corridor. He knew all those faces. Most of them belonged to the Royal Guard, and they were clad in their whole attire and armed with spears and swords, thus underlining the official nature of these proceedings. Among them were the Council members. Lord Aethelmaer, Lord Aldhelm… He looked them in the eye as he passed, and one after another, they averted their gaze, and their expressions became distant and went right through him as he searched for a sign in their features that they were still on his side. His heart sank.

On the other side, the members of the Royal Household stood and watched. Here at least, Éomer detected dismay and horror on their pale faces, and more than one of those people he had known for most of his life was crying silently. What a wretched display this was!

At last, the corridor ended and Éomer stepped out before the crowd to come to a halt in front of the dais, flanked by his guards. His gaze went up to his sister.

Usually of an already pale complexion, Éowyn's face looked ghostly white as she stood behind their uncle, her fingers unconsciously digging into the fabric of her garments. Her eyes were unusually red. There were dark circles underneath them telling of sleepless nights and nightmares, and for the sight of her distress alone Éomer felt tempted to jump forth and strangle the darkly-clad figure at Théoden's other side. His eyes narrowing in disgust and resentment as he slowly dropped to his knees before his king, the son of Éomund finally faced his true adversary.

Seemingly ignorant of the prisoner's hate-filled stare, but secretly casting him a smirk that lay only within his eyes, Gríma raised his voice.

"Honourable members of the Council of Edoras and of the Royal Guard, we have assembled here today to pass sentence on this man who has been brought before you. Most of you were present when Éomer son of Éomund admitted that he planned rebellion with the help of the three strangers he had met on the plains and withheld from his report. His disobedience to follow his given orders put the heir to the throne of the Mark into his grave. And last, but not least, you were there to witness his attempt to murder a high-ranking member of the Royal Court."

Gríma inhaled, and allowed his portentous glance to travel over the listening crowd.

"For all those reasons, the Council of Edoras saw it fit to forego the customary trial. The guilt of the man before you has been proven beyond doubt. The sentence that is now going to be announced has been reached unanimously. Before it will be proclaimed, however, protocol decrees that the accused shall be given opportunity to speak for himself."

The focus of the pale blue eyes came to rest on his kneeling adversary.

"Rise, Éomer son of Éomund."

Slowly, Éomer came to his feet… His hazel eyes blazed as he stabbed them against his tormentor's. If it had been possible to kill a man with his stare alone, Gríma Wormtongue would have dropped dead there and then.

"This is your moment to speak, Marshal. Is there something you have to say for yourself?"

Éomer glared at his opponent a moment longer. Breathing in… and out. Trying to bring order to his thoughts. He looked at Éowyn, and in her eyes, he found overwhelming horror, and sadness, and compassion. He granted her the smallest, sad smile in thankfulness for her loyalty. At last, his gaze came to rest on his uncle. He had once loved that man like a father. But there was nothing left of him in this aged, hollow imitation of the King of Rohan. Théoden seemed to look right through him, his eyes veiled by a mist and his gaze turned inward. Éomer could not even tell whether the King even knew where he was, and what was happening around him. Addressing this living corpse would be worthless. But aye, there was something he still had to say, and it was important to him. He turned around to address the waiting crowd.

"Aye, Councillor, there is." His gaze wandered along the rows. They were all staring at him, listening. He inhaled… and raised his voice.

"So…you have all found me guilty of the crimes Councillor Gríma recited… or rather, you decided to see my actions as crimes. In your eyes, it is a crime to honour the oath I took to protect the people of the Mark against their enemies… In your eyes, it is a crime to fight domestic influences whose interest is not the wellbeing of the people they once swore to serve. It is a crime to act in the face of evil, while everyone else only watches paralysed, like the rabbit before the snake, how the realm of Éorl the Young is brought to ruin."

His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened.

"But it is not a crime to watch idly and then later, lament the death of those who could have easily been saved by a different cause of action. It is not a crime to look evil right in the eye and recognise it for what it is, and still remain silent… out of cowardice, or whatever personal reason. It is not a crime to punish those who still put their lives on the line and risk everything to bring change, and restore the Mark to what it once was."

Éomer nodded bitterly… and was that shame he saw in some of those faces before him? Good. He lifted his chin.

"Be assured that Béma sees what you are doing. Your forefathers see it. And from the course this is taking, it is certain that you will have to answer to them one not-too-distant day. You can order my execution now, but I will walk to the gallows with the knowledge that my ancestors will welcome me in the afterlife…which is more than you can hope for... Rot in hell!" He spat.

Commotion followed his words, outraged outbursts by the so accused, an ear-splitting din directed at the man before them, who could not have cared less as he turned his back on them. There was something wolfish in the Worm's smirk now, something predatory. Éomer did not care for that, either.

"Bravo, Marshal!" Gríma congratulated him, sarcastically clapping his hands. "You certainly know how to make them all weep for you. Now hear what the Council of Edoras has decreed."

He lifted his hand to stop the noise. "Silence! It is time for the King to announce the verdict!" Not everyone heard him, and so he lifted his voice. "Silence! I will not say it again!"

By and by, the shouting subsided, and they all looked at him, some of them with red faces from breathless exasperation. Feeling their full attention on himself, Gríma bent down to the King.

"It is time, Sire. Your subjects await your verdict. In the case against Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, what is it that the Small Council decided?"

With considerable effort, Théoden rose to his feet. For a moment, his milky eyes seemed to clear as he rested his gaze upon his nephew, surprising all who saw the transformation. His voice was low, but it was loud enough to carry through the hall.

"I once welcomed you in my house when you were little and orphaned, Sister-son. I raised you as my own child. I showed you kindness. But it seems that unwittingly, I invited a serpent into my home. Cursed be the day when our bloodlines were united: first your father killed my sister, and now his son has killed my own kin!"

Murmur rose from the crowd. Éomer did not hear it. His attention was exclusively focussed on the man before him; the man whose words were like well-aimed sword strikes. They went straight through his defences, cutting, no, shredding his innards, his soul. Severing whatever tiny rest of kinship he had still felt with his uncle. The hall began to spin around him, but Théoden was not done yet, as he lifted a feeble hand to point at his nephew.

"Be gone, ungrateful curse to my house! You are no longer welcome in this hall, nor in this realm. You are herewith banished from the Kingdom of Rohan, under pain of death should you ever return."

He stumbled, grief-stricken, and only Éowyn and Gríma prevented him from falling down the dais. They helped him back onto his throne, where he slumped, utterly bereft of strength. Hiding his face behind his shaking hands, so that he would no longer have to look at his nephew's aghast expression, Théoden mumbled: "Take him away. I can no longer bear to see his face."

He began to weep.

For an endless moment, the silence in the room was deafening as none of the present dared to breathe. For what felt like an eternity, Éomer continued to stare at his uncle, paralysed. He hardly even registered Wormtongue's voice when the counsellor took over.

"You spoke well and true, my Lord. It was about time this wolfling heard the truth, although I wished you had been in better health for this most unfortunate business." He cleared his throat and turned first to the crowd and then to Éomer.

"The current rules of the banishment were written over a hundred years ago, and so far, it was never necessary to apply them. So for your information and understanding, I shall repeat them here now: the banished will be given his horse and five days time to leave the Mark. Should he be detected within our realm afterwards, he is to be executed without trial and without delay. On his way to leaving the Mark, the banished is not allowed to approach any cities or settlements, on pain of death. Likewise, anyone found helping him in whatsoever fashion, whether by arming him, hosting or feeding him, is to be executed."

Triumph sparkles in Gríma's eyes now as he stared at his adversary's thunderstruck mien, yet his voice remained neutral.

"From this day forth, the banished's name is not to be uttered in the Riddermark ever again. The punishment for doing so will be ten whip lashes… at the first offence. It is to be doubled each time the offender repeats his or her crime. Upon the fourth time, the offender will be incarcerated indefinitely… Lastly, the banished will be lead to the city gates in a public 'Walk of Shame'. All citizens are to be made aware of it at once, and are to gather along the path. No excuses will be accepted. As he passes, each man, woman and child shall turn their back on the banished. Failure to do so is likewise to be punished by ten lashings."

Wormtongue halted. His audience looked suitably stunned. Very well, so they understood the sincerity of these rules.

"These proceedings have already been organised. All cities and settlements were informed, and as we are speaking, the people of Edoras are being called together by the bell, to be instructed. The 'Walk of Shame' will commence in an hour. As mentioned, not being there will have consequences."

Éomer was unable to react. A deathly cold froze his body. This was a nightmare. So he would not be hanged. He would live… as an outcast. In a realm where he did not belong and where no one would welcome him, never to return to the ones he loved and cared about. Where he would remain a stranger until the end of his days. Somehow, this was worse… much worse. They would uproot him and delete his entire existence from their people's memory. He would become a ghost… less than that. Given the choice, he would have gladly walked to the gallows instead. What reason was there for him to live on? What was left for him to fight for?

He looked at Éowyn to see how she took the verdict, and the sight of her anguish mirrored what he was feeling himself. Her eyes were closed, but the tell-tale stream of tears upon her far-too-pale face could not be overlooked. Her pain was too great to be expressed in words…

Théoden, too, was still weeping behind his lined, shaking hands, no longer looking at him.

One more time, Gríma raised his voice.

"According to the law, the banished man has to be escorted by the Royal Guard up to the gate, to demonstrate to the people of Edoras the official nature of the verdict. So I am now asking its members to do their duty. Captain Háma… Captain Gamling…you will take the traitor away and relieve us of his unbearable presence. Make certain that your men are ready for the procession in an hour. My personal guard will accompany you and assist in whatever way you need them."

Wormtongue pierced the two stunned captains with his hard stare.

"I will meet you outside in a moment, but first I need to tend Théoden-King. I fear that the strain of these past days has been too much for him. He needs to rest… I hereby declare this session over."

Éomer hardly felt it when Felrod and another member of his guard grabbed him and shoved him in the direction of the exit. He heard neither their voices, nor the muffled muttering of the crowd. He did not see the stunned faces of the Captains of the Royal Guard as they took up their place beside him, or the council members, or the staff of the Royal Household, although he was led straight through their midst.

Reality had ceased to exist. There was only numbness, the feeling that he had been cast into a nightmare from which there would be no awaking…

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 2: Leaving Edoras

It was all too much. Éowyn could no longer look at her brother's shocked expression, nor bear to see the triumph sparkle in Gríma's pale face. She shut her eyes, but it did not stop the flow of her tears. This was worse than any nightmare she had ever suffered. They were shredding Éomer's soul right here, under her very eyes. Perhaps she ought to be thankful that they had not decided to kill him, but she knew her brother well enough to understand that being expelled from the land he had given everything to protect from the first moment when he had held a sword in his hand was quite likely an even worse punishment. Added to that the dreadful words their uncle had uttered…

Involuntarily, Éowyn had distanced herself from the throne on which the old man sat slumped. She had helped him back onto it when it had seemed that he was about to fall down from the dais, but it had been nothing more than a reflex, and she had immediately let go of him once Théoden sat safely on the massive wooden chair. She could tell herself again and again that it was the Worm's poison that had made him say such spiteful things, and yet her heart had broken when she had seen Éomer's reaction to the scathing accusations.

Now they were leading him away through the dispersing crowd, and Éowyn knew that time was running out. If she ever wanted to speak with Éomer again, it would have to be now, before the horrible procession the Worm had announced took place, and her brother would be expelled from the Mark – and from her life – permanently.

Quickly, the daughter of Éomund made her way down the dais and all but ran after the guards, ignoring the Worm's calls. If Gríma needed someone to bring the King back to his chambers, he would have to find someone else. She did not feel up to it… and had far more important things to do.

Up ahead, Éomer's tall frame was still visible as she moved through the crowd, and Éowyn hurried to follow the procession of guards and their prisoner.

"Éomer! Éomer, wait! Háma! Captain!"

The small group came to a stop, and Éowyn thought that she saw wariness in the eyes of the man she had trusted for most of her life, as she approached them. The big, dark-haired guard next to him glowered at her in warning, but she chose to ignore him. The Captain of the Royal Guard was already shaking his head to deny her whatever she would ask of him, his mien uneasy in the presence of Gríma's personal henchmen.

"Lady Éowyn, I am afraid I cannot allow you -"

Éowyn's glare promised the Captain of the Guard consequences if he did not let her pass, and her voice sounded dark and outraged.

"You do not want to tell me that I cannot speak with my brother, Háma, do you?" Her blue eyes tore into those of the broadly-built warrior she had known for many years. "You do not want to tell me that Éomer will be banished, and you will not even let me say farewell to him? Has it come so far that you, too, will do the Counsellor's bidding without using your own judgement? I used to know a different man under the name of Háma, son of Harlond… a decent, compassionate man."

Visibly ashamed, the warrior averted his gaze. It was obvious that conflicting emotions were tearing the man apart inside, but at this moment, Éowyn cared little. Her brother had been banished, and what was even worse, she feared that their uncle's words had destroyed what will to fight Éomer had left. The Gods alone knew how strong her urge was to leave these men standing and run to her chambers, throw herself onto the bed and cry her eyes out, but she would have to withstand the impulse. It would not help Éomer, and she could not afford to show weakness to their enemy, especially not now that her last protector was being chased from these halls.

"You can say farewell to him right here," Felrod snapped at her from behind Háma. "What's keeping you?"

Lifting his hand to silence the brute, Háma glared at the man.

"You are addressing a member of the Royal family, Felrod! You will not speak with the Lady Éowyn in this manner! Not while I am standing beside you! Be silent!"

Turning back towards her, the Captain of the Royal Guard gave her the small nod Éowyn had been hoping for. Behind him, Éomer still stood impassively amidst his guards, his gaze directed at the doors of the Golden Hall, and she doubted that he was even aware of her presence.

"I apologise, my lady," Háma said. "You heard the Counsellor's words yourself… but I suppose that there is indeed enough time to grant your request." He invited her with a gesture to step closer, but she shook her head.

"No, not out here. At least let us be alone for a moment." With her chin, Éowyn gave a brief nod to the nearest door, and sighed in frustration when she saw once again hesitation in the guard's eyes. "Háma, what do you fear we could do? I beg you, grant us this brief moment of privacy, please! I did not hear the King specifically forbid it, and you are still the Captain of these men; a man of power yourself. Surely there is still enough authority left to your position to honour my request?"

With a deep intake of breath, Háma finally nodded… and stepped aside, motioning for his men to release their hold on the prisoner.

"I am sorry, my Lady. These are dark times we are living in, and with each passing day, it becomes harder to make the right decisions. I will grant you this moment you ask for, but be quick."

"We will not cause you trouble. You have my word, Captain. My heartfelt thanks."

With a meaningful glance at Éomer, Éowyn stepped over to the door Gamling held open for them, and he followed her inside without any visible emotion.

"I must protest!" Felrod bellowed out behind her. "I will have to bring this before the Counsellor, Captain!"

"You do that, Felrod! This is my decision, and I stand by it! You have no authority in my presence."

The voices of the two combatants were instantly muffled when the door closed behind them. Heavy silence filled the little anteroom as Éowyn turned toward her brother. The rigidity she had displayed in front of the guards melted away when she took Éomer in her arms, gently at first, but then with growing intensity as the dam of her restraint threatened to break.

"Oh Éomer… I do not know what to say. This is such a nightmare!"

The fact that his hands were still chained behind his back and he could not return her embrace made it even worse. He felt rigid in her arms, unresponsive. As if he was still not aware of her. It ached her more than she could say.

"We will find a way through this, Éomer! Whatever it takes, we will somehow defeat them. Please, don't give up!"

"Does it matter?" Éomer finally spoke, but his voice sounded dead, and his eyes, which had always carried that spark of defiance and willpower, were now two open wounds, wide-open windows to his bleeding soul. "My own uncle calls me a curse to his house. I am expelled by men who have known me for most of my life, and who understand that what is being done to me is wrong. Yet they do not speak up. Whether it is out of cowardice, or hope for some personal gain, I cannot say." He swallowed visibly. "It hurts, Éowyn… more than death. Given the choice, I would have chosen the gallows over this."

Éowyn's eyes widened in dismay as she cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.

"Do not speak like this, Éomer! Please, you must not let yourself be fooled! That was not our uncle speaking! He was with me only yesterday morning, and he was clear and hale! We had an argument about you, and he promised me to think about it! This wraith on the throne… that was not him! The Worm must have done something to him again over night, to ensure that he got what he wanted! In your heart, you must know this!"

At last, some emotion returned to her brother's eyes, but it pained her to see that it was bitterness.

"Must I?"

Éowyn swallowed and stepped back.

"You should, at least, after all those years we have lived here. Is your rage so great that you cannot remember the man our uncle once was? How he comforted us when we first came here? The kindness he showed us? He is a weak, ill man in the claws of a dangerous traitor; he is not an evil man himself."

Éomer looked down on her from his superior height and slowly shook his head.

"He accused me of treason before. He believed Gríma's insinuations that I wanted the throne for myself, even against his own son's repeated protest, and he was hale then." He shook his head. "No, Éowyn, I lost Théoden's favour long ago. He meant what he said."

His dispirited reply punched the breath right out of Éowyn's lungs. For a while, she could only stare at him.

"Oh Éomer…"

He inhaled and lifted his chin.

"Let's assume, for a moment, that you are right, Éowyn: then why is nobody thinking of killing the man who gives him that poison? Or at least, why not let me do it when I attempted it?" He narrowed his eyes. "But they all preferred to stand back and throw me to the wolves! The Worm cannot have poisoned them all!"

"There is a reason for that," Éowyn explained hesitantly. "You were not here when it surfaced. I meant to tell you upon your return, but… I had other things to think of when I saw you in your cell that night." She looked into Éomer's deeply sceptical eyes.

"The potion that makes Uncle the Worm's pawn… he will die if he is denied it. Gríma, of course, keeps calling it a 'strengthening potion', or a 'sleeping draught'. Anyway, while you were gone, Gamling and I quarrelled with him, and it got to the point where I succeeded in removing him from Uncle's care, although the Worm threatened that we were endangering the King's life. To prove his words, he withheld the draught from Uncle for almost two days."

Her voice began to tremble.

"Uncle almost died. It was not until we apologised that Gríma relented. Believe me, it is tearing Gamling and Háma apart to see you treated like this, but they must maintain their position. If they, too, are replaced, there will be no one left to stop Wormtongue."

Èomer was not impressed. He snorted.

"Well, they are certainly not doing anything to stop him now, while they are still in their positions of power. They are nodding to everything that crooked liar can conceive, and sooner or later, they are going be replaced by his minions anyway… and they will have done nothing to prevent it."

Éowyn's shoulders sagged.

"You were not here. You did not see how Uncle suffered."

"But I see how our people are suffering." Éomer inhaled. "I swore fealty to lord and land, Éowyn. And as my lord seems no longer capable of providing safety to the people under his care, it might be time to separate the two and decide who is more important: a single man, blood-kin or not, or many thousands." Éomer lifted his chin, and his expression hardened. "I made my decision. What about you, Éowyn?"

She studied his mien and shivered. He meant it. And after what had happened these past days, it was not as if she could hold that against him. She knew no longer what do say.

Éomer saw how lost she was and told himself to calm down. How could they fight if this was perhaps the last time they ever saw each other?

'Béma…'

He lowered his voice.

"Come with me, Éowyn. I do not know what awaits me out there, but I also do not want to leave you behind. You know what will happen once they close the city gates behind me."

She looked at him, contemplating. He could see that she was tempted… and afraid of the things he had hinted at. But there was something else, as well, a familiar stubbornness, a streak of rebellion. The same character traits that also defined his personality. It was good to see them, for it meant that his sister had not yet given up… and at the same time, they dismayed him, for he knew what she would say before she opened her mouth.

Éowyn shook her head.

"I cannot, Éomer. Part of me wants to, but I cannot. Someone has to continue this fight."

"Even if that means placing yourself at Gríma's mercy?" He lifted his eyebrows. "Do you honestly believe that the Captains of the Royal Guard and the members of our Council will protect you from that filth?"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. Éowyn's eyes widened in dismay. There was more she had meant to say, and it was important.

"Just one more moment, please!" Her tone grew even more urgent. "That is a chance I must take. But Éomer, listen: I will send someone to bring you your weapons, or any weapons I can get my hands on. Ride to our old hiding place and wait there until darkness, and I will see that the weapons are stored in the little niche underneath the rock. Promise me you will wait there! Do not ride into the wild like this, because that is what Gríma wants. Then make for Gondor. It is possibly the safest place for you right now, and their Captain knows you. That way, we can stay in contact, until we have found a way to dispose of the Worm!"

Éomer granted her a sad little smile.

"I do not know how you can still have hope… but I will be there. Just be careful, Éowyn. If the filth caught you at helping me… I don't know what he would be liable to do. I could not take it if anything happened to you. I'd rather you did not do this."

"But I will, Brother. I have to. I could not live with myself otherwise." Once again, Éowyn embraced him, and finally, her emotions were too powerful to be held back. Tears streamed down her face as she pulled Éomer close, revelling in the sensation of his warmth and scent for maybe the last time.

"Do not worry for me. I can hold my own. I have done so for many years. But you must promise me to be careful out there. You are a great warrior, but you stand alone now, and must weigh your actions more carefully than ever before. No man, however valiant, can defeat all the hosts of his enemies alone. Hide, and only surface when the time is right. Do not let your pride lead you into an early grave, Éomer. There will come a time for payback, but we need to be patient for now."

"I promise you that I will be as cautious as I can." Éomer inhaled deeply. "Until we are united again, I will not stop worrying for you, Éowyn." After his heated outpouring of sentiment, he suddenly felt utterly spent and choked on his emotions as he kissed his sister gently on the brow.

"Lady Éowyn," Háma's voice reached them from outside. "I'm afraid we must leave. Will you please come outside?"

He had barely finished when the door was suddenly thrown open and Wormtongue's armed guards stood in the entrance. Behind them, Éomer beheld Háma's distraught face. With a derogatory sneer, Felrod seized Éowyn's arm to pull her away.

"Aw… What a sweet farewell! It brings tears to my eyes. But now it's time!"

A second later, he gasped when Éomer rammed his shoulder into his stomach, and landed unceremoniously and undignified on his behind, gulping for air like a fish while the former marshal towered over him like a god of wrath.

"Touch her again, and you'll lose that hand. Do you understand me, dog?"

"Stop! Stop it, both of you!" Throwing his full authority into the situation before it could spin out of control, Háma pushed through the group of quarrelling men. "Éomer, Felrod – apart! I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour." He eyed Éowyn with concern. "Are you all right, my Lady? Did he hurt you?"

"It is nothing. Just see to it that this brute won't touch me again, Captain!" Éowyn rubbed her arm and glared at the squarely built halfblood, who was just now beginning to draw shallow, painful breaths again. Háma's whole insides twisted into a painful knot by the knowledge of what he would have to do now. With a deep sigh, the son of Harlond shifted his attention back to the man he had regarded as a brother-in-arms for many years… and would now have to cast out.

"Marshal, will you follow me peacefully, please, as I would much prefer to lead you out unchained?"

Éomer's narrowed eyes were still fixed on his adversary.

"As long as this piece of horse-dung keeps his filthy fingers away from my sister…"

Felrod huffed as he picked himself up from the floor and wiped his trousers clean. Incredulous, he glared at the Chief of the Royal Guard.

"Captain, you cannot seriously consider leading this man through the city unchained! The gods know what he will do! We both -"

"I have known the Third Marshal for most of his life," Háma retorted forcefully, his tone for once determined and his piercing gaze indicating that this time, he wasn't about to back down. There were limits to what Gríma could ask of him. "No matter what you say, Éomer is an honourable man. When he says he will come peacefully, then there will be no need for chains. This is my decision to make, Felrod, and if you like, you can run to your master and complain about me, but this you will not change. Take them off!"

OOO

On the marketplace, the bell's ringing had already drawn together a great crowd. It had been long since it had last been rung, and the people of Edoras had gathered in the snowstorm clad in their warmest clothes and wore gloomy, wary expressions upon their faces... or what could be seen of them.

From one of the alleys near the stables, Éothain hastened together with Aedwulf and Anlaf, all three men dreading to find out what was going on. That it would be bad tidings seemed to be a given, and inwardly, the young Captain decided, he had already expected for something to happen. His father's summons had been too strange to not be part of the Worm's plan. He had already told his brother-in-arms about it, and they had concurred.

"Perhaps, we should make for the stables right now," Anlaf suggested, under his breath. "Get our éored together and surprise them."

"And then what?" Éothain furrowed his brow as he plodded through the snow. There was a procession of guards snaking down the path towards the marketplace, heavily armed. The sight did nothing to calm his frayed nerves. "With my father's men gone, what could we do? We are not enough to act, no matter what happens. The Worm saw to that."

"The element of surprise would be ours, though. With it on our side, we might just be able to overcome them."

"I repeat: then what?" Éothain stopped and turned around. "Do you want us to slaughter the Royal Guard? Right before the people's eyes? Do you think they would cheer us for that? That it would improve the situation?"

Anlaf's mouth became a thin, firm line.

"Not 'slaughter'. Unarm them, perhaps."

"And then storm up the hill to free the Marshal? It would make us outlaws, and it would turn all of Edoras against us. We would not only have to fight the Royal Guard and the Worm's men, but also the people we are doing it for. That is not the way... aside from the fact that we could not hope to win such a battle with only a hundred men."

With a heavy sigh, Éothain turned back. Meanwhile, the guards had formed a circle around the speaker's platform in the middle of the marketplace, and someone – was that truly Gríma Wormtongue himself? - had already demounted and approached the stairs. The coldness that suddenly settled in his stomach had nothing to do with the conditions. Quickly, the three men joined the rest of their éored when they beheld them in the crowd.

The bell's din stopped, and in the ensuing silence, only the gusting wind could be heard. For a moment, the Counsellor stood on the platform and looked around. In his dark, flapping coat, he looked like a bird of ill omen, a storm crow. Then he began to speak.

"Citizens of Edoras! You were summoned by your King today to hear the verdict he has proclaimed only this morning against Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark! Of treason against the Crown and the people of the Mark, as well as of assault on a high-ranking member of the Royal Court, the Council of Edoras unanimously found the accused... guilty!"

The Worm's words stole Éothain's breath. So, it was happening here and now. He was aware of his captains' stunned stares, but found it not in himself to return them.

Muttering rose from the crowd now, some dismayed and some approving shouts as the people digested what they had heard.

"Where is Théoden-King?" a voice called out over the din, and all turned toward it. "Should it not be he who makes this announcement?"

"Théoden-King is, unfortunately, still not able to leave the Golden Hall," Wormtongue answered the man. "While I am happy to report that his health has improved these past days to the point where he was able to partake in the Council's meeting as well as proclaim the verdict just this morning, it is still a long time from allowing him out in these severe conditions. The Council installed me to act in his stead, so you would do well to listen on, as I am bringing matters of consequence before you!"

"Éothain!" Anlaf whispered forcefully. "What will we do? We must do something!"

"Listen!" Éothain hissed, as Gríma continued.

"Against Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, the following was decreed: the offender is stripped of all titles! His succession in the Armed Forces will be determined as quickly as possible. For the severe nature of his crimes, our law usually calls for the death penalty, but Théoden-King chose to be merciful and banished him from the Mark instead! He will be given his horse and is expected to leave this realm within a time frame of five days! After that, he is to be executed at once and without trial, should he be seen within the confines of our land. On his way, he is forbidden to approach cities and settlements, and anyone found helping him by arming, hosting or feeding him will be treated as an enemy of the Mark, and executed on the spot!"

The crowd gasped, and excited murmuring again drowned him out. The three captains stared at each other in shock.

"What now?" Àedwulf asked, his eyes wide with dismay. "Éothain, what can we do?"

Éothain's mind raced. His father's words echoed through his mind while he studied the reactions of the people before them. These worried him, and he understood that his father had been right: they could not count on the majority of the citizens of Edoras to be on their side. Which made open rebellion impossible. Stunned by this insight, he slowly shook his head, but before he could say anything, Gríma continued.

"There is more, and I implore you to listen closely now, because there will be heavy consequences for all who violate these rules!" He made a dramatic pause, and once again, silence ensued. "The name of the banished will henceforth never be mentioned again, whether in private conversation or in official discussion. Negligence to follow this rule is punishable by ten lashings. That number will be doubled with each repeated offence. After the fourth time, the person in question will be incarcerated."

More muttering, and many distraught faces around them now. Yet Éothain did not dare to hope that the Worm's drastic threats would sway the people's view. He swallowed.

"In thirty minutes, the Royal Guard will guide the banished towards the city gate to expel him. Attendance is compulsory. Anyone not seen lining this path when this procession takes place will likewise receive ten lashings. As the banished passes, you will be expected to turn your back on him. Each of you – men, women and children. Failure to do so... will, again, result in ten lashings. I can only warn those among you who think that they will not be seen if they don't comply. There will be eyes on everyone, for the entire proceedings."

He looked around and somehow, as if by coincidence, his colourless eyes found Éothain. For the longest time, the two adversaries stared at each other. Involuntarily, Éothain ground his teeth, and underneath his thick coat, he began to shake with barely suppressed rage. It took all of his restraint and common sense not to push through the crowd, storm the platform and kill the Worm right where he stood.

At last, Wormtongue released him from his focus.

"Now go home or see to your various errands, but be back in half an hour. Someone will notice it if you are not here, and you are going to regret it. I thank you for your attention... That will be all." He granted the crowd a curt nod and then made his way back down, into the safety behind his heavily armed guards. He remounted his horse, and quickly, the line of riders disappeared up the path again.

For a moment, the people watched their departure with stunned expressions, silenced. Only when Grìma and his men had passed out of sight did the heated discussions begin, and the crowd started to disperse. Éothain turned around.

"All right, we make for the stables. When they cast Éomer out, we will follow him!"

He saw relief in Anlaf's and Aedwulf's eyes, and grim nods from the riders behind them. With great strides, the riders of the Aldburg éored hurried along, using the cover of their people to escape the attention of potentially watching eyes. But when they rounded the next corner, they were in for a surprise.

There were more armed guards there, and they were all positioned at the stable-door... which had been locked with a thick chain. As the riders approached, bows were lifted and arrows aimed at them in unmistakable threat. Lifting a hand to hold his men back, Éothain stepped out of their midst.

"What is this?" he inquired, and his piercing gaze locked on the guard's captain. The powerfully built man,whom he didn't know by name, countered his stare coolly.

"It's exactly what it looks like, Captain. Go home, and tell your men to do the same. No one will be leaving Edoras today, safe the banished."

"Èomer, you mean."

The guard smiled thinly.

"You may find your provocation earning you unexpected pain, Captain. You just heard the new rules."

"I shit on those rules!" Éothain growled. "I am never going to forget the name of a friend, and no one, and certainly not your crooked master, is ever going to keep me from uttering it! Now step aside, or you are going to regret it!"

He made another angry step towards the man, and the bows before him were drawn.

"It will be you who is going to regret things, Captain, if you do not back off!" The guard's tone sharpened. "None of you is armed. Upon my signal, you could lose twenty of your men in the wink of an eye. And twenty more before you reach us. Is it worth that? It's your decision."

Éothain inhaled deeply, fists balled by his side. Who were these men? He had never seen any of them. Were they indeed enforcing Théoden-Kings will? By threatening their own riders? Shaking his head, he took the first step back. Then another one.

"This is not over, yet," he promised his adversary. "I will bring this before the King!"

"You do that," the guard countered, unfazed. "Just do not forget to tell him what you wanted to do in the stables – desert and leave with your disgraced traitor-friend, is my guess! If you don't report it, I certainly will! For the last time: go home, and take your men with you! And if you are thinking about returning here with your bows and swords to force entry, you will find that they have been confiscated for the time being!"

"What?" Éothain felt heat rising into his face. He could not remember ever having been so enraged. The man before him remained calm. This had been long-planned, the son of Céorl understood with increasing helplessness. It seemed that the Worm had outsmarted them all.

"Don't huff. These will be given back to you once you've proven yourself trustworthy." A sarcastic grin appeared on the guard's face. "I'm afraid that right now, your ruler is rather dubious of your allegiance, and you are under close observation, Captain. I would be extremely cautious in everything I do, if I were you. Now leave!"

At last, Éothain could think of nothing more to say or do. After another deep breath, he lifted his finger at his opponent.

"This is not over..."

A curt nod at the men of his éored communicated silently that this time, they had been beaten. With dark glances, the riders turned to leave.

OOO

In the Royal Stables, Éomer stood and watched with grim satisfaction how his four-legged grey demon gave the men who dared to approach him a piece of his mind. It seemed that Firefoot was only too willing to do what his master was being denied – namely unleash his accumulated frustration against his opponents. Again and again, the grey's hooves banged against his stall door in unmistakeable threat whenever one of them stepped closer, and several times only a quick jump back saved the guards from a painful encounter with the stallion's teeth. At length, Háma turned around.

"We are losing too much time. Will you please calm down your steed, Marshal? Otherwise, I fear that you will have to walk down the path. You probably do not want that."

No, Éomer certainly did not want that. Without his weapons, Firefoot was the only means of protection they were allowing him to keep. So he approached his stallion's stall, and with only a few Rohirric words whispered into the flickering ears, achieved what they had been unable to. Large dark eyes met his gaze, and with quivering nostrils, the horse drunk his scent… and at once gave up his threating posture. Stroking the soft skin beneath Firefoot's dark forelock, Éomer murmured reassuring words too low for the surrounding people to understand, until at last, the great grey stallion stood quietly like a statue. A sad smile flickered briefly over Éomer's face. Here, at least, was one whose loyalty was his until the end of his days.

He turned back to the silently waiting Captain. From outside, the bell's renewed din reached his ears. It was time. His insides clenched into a tight knot at the thought of what would follow.

Satisfied, but still barely able to look him in the eye, the older man granted him a satisfied nod, before he swung into the saddle of his own horse. They were ready.

"Come, Marshal. It is time."

There was no tack on Firefoot's powerful frame, but Éomer did not need it. With a fluent move, he climbed onto the grey's back, only holding on to the dark locks of the stallion's long mane. Before them, the doors were opened and their procession left the building with measured steps.

Éomer's heartbeat accelerated as he forced his gaze away from Hama's broad back immediately before him. It seemed as if the entire Royal Household was out there on the terrace and the stairs, staring at him. He saw tears on many of those familiar faces, before they did what they had been instructed to do and turned their backs on him… all except his sister. For another brief moment, their eyes met, and a strangled cry started to rise in his throat over the injustice done to him. With great effort, he swallowed it. It would not change anything. He would not grant his adversaries the satisfaction to see him weep, or hear him scream.

Then they had passed, and the path to the lower regions of the city lay before them. Éomer's heart sank when he beheld that that, too, was lined on both sides with their people. Briefly he wondered how they would perceive him. When they looked at him now, they would see a dishevelled looking man in deerskin breeches and a torn, woollen tunic underneath his grey riding cloak, filthy after his last undertaking in the north, and reeking of sweat and horse. His golden mane was a stringy, unkempt mess flying in the gusts of the winter storm, and his overall wretched appearance no better than that of an ordinary thief. If he was lucky, they would not even recognise him. But of course, the Worm had instructed them who would be led down the hill to be expelled. His 'Walk of Shame' had begun, and there was no question that it would be an excruciating experience.

Refusing to let his rising despair show in his bearing, Éomer involuntarily straightened on Firefoot's back, sitting perfectly balanced and proud despite the lack of a saddle. Their procession snaked down the steep path in ghastly silence while a mixture of snow and sleet was blown into their faces by the icy gusts, stinging like needle pricks.

'Even the sky is weeping', he thought numbly as they slowly made their way down toward the city gates, and his innards twisted at the sight of the sometimes doubtful, sometimes satisfied, and sometimes outright dismayed expressions with which the people they passed averted their gaze.

Before they turned their backs on him, Éomer caught glimpses of hopelessness and despair in many of his countrymen's eyes, but none of them dared to raise their voice in protest. Halfway down the slope, he decided that he had enough of the sad spectacle and chose instead to look at the thatched roofs of the cottages they passed, and beyond them, at the snow-covered peaks of the Ered Nimrais, and he could not suppress the thought that, in all likelihood, this was the last time he was granted this view. The urge to turn his head and look back at the Golden Hall, too, was almost irresistible. He defeated it. He did not want to let them know that he thought this to be final. That what they were doing to him here was tearing him apart inside. Showing strength to the enemy even in defeat, that was all that was left to him now.

Shortly before they reached the large place before the gate, a loud shout to his right woke him from his contemplation.

"Éomer!"

He knew that voice, it belonged to a friend... his best friend. It moved him deeply, for he knew what it would cost Éothain to shout his name. But if he looked now, he would lose it. He could not do that... and perhaps, it was better for his friend this way, too. Who knew what Éothain was liable to do if he felt encouraged? He would not be responsible for his death. It would be more than he could bear.

"Open the gate!" a shout rang out from atop the watchtower. "Open the gate for the traitor!"

The pain this caused him this was unexpectedly sharp. And yet Éomer managed to keep his gaze firmly fixed on the two wings of the gate as they separated under the screaming protest of their rusting hinges. Behind them, the wide vale of the central Mark stretched along the jagged mountains all the way to the horizon, under a thick blanket of snow, and the full force of the storm drove the tiny crystals into his face. Éomer frowned. It would make disappearing without a trace much harder, but of course, there was nothing he could do about it. Hopefully, the storm would cover his tracks before anyone could think of following him.

All around him, the riders of the Royal Guard turned aside. They regrouped behind him, waiting for him to leave... all except for Háma.

"Well… this is it, I am afraid," the man he had known for most of his life said, and Éomer barely heard him over the roaring storm. The older man turned his steed around and then, as he passed him, added, under his breath: "Be careful out there, Marshal. There will come other days, and we still need you. Know that not all are against you..."

His words sent a sudden spike of adrenaline through Éomer's veins, and he could only barely refrain from looking back at the man. To indicate that he had heard, he granted the Captain of the Royal Guard an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes still fixed on the empty land beyond Firefoot's ears. Following a sudden impulse, he turned to face the crowd behind him.

They all stood there and regarded him warily. Waiting for him to do something foolish? He was not about to do that. With a last disgusted glance, the son of Éomund kicked his heels into his horse's flanks, causing the mighty stallion to rear, before he threw him around and into a gallop that took them away from the city at breakneck speed.

The thick-falling snow soon dissolved their silhouette.

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 3: A Game of Chess

On the terrace before the Golden Hall, Gríma Wormtongue watched until Éomer was swallowed by the diffuse winter light, his hands unconsciously balled into fists inside the pockets of his heavy cape. It was done. At last! His most dangerous adversary was gone. He felt an intense wave of satisfaction, although he was – at the same time - very much aware that it was far too early yet for him to relax. As long as the son of Éomund was alive, he remained a threat, and having him expelled from Edoras had only been the first step towards victory.

Gríma harboured no illusions that Éomer would attempt to leave the Mark within the five days he had been given. No, he would take cover somewhere, presumably in one of the many hideouts he knew from his forays into the wild, and from there plot his return. There was no telling what the wilful young man would do if permitted to roam Rohan uncontrolled. Even though Gríma felt that he had succeeded in sowing doubts in Éomer's reputation among the people, that last procession had vividly illustrated to him that too many still held the son of Éomund in high esteem – especially the Armed Forces.

So, before this day was over, he would have to concern himself with that pesky friend of Éomer's. His entire éored had, in fact, rebelled against the new rules by not turning around during the procession, and by calling the marshal's name. Gríma could not afford to let these things slide, although it was hardly possible to have one hundred men publicly whipped. He already had an idea how to deal with this insubordination. The vital part was that the consequences would be demonstrated to the people of Edoras today, to kill off even the faintest thought about further rebellion in their minds. They had to understand that their rulers were dead serious about those newly implemented rules.

Shifting his attention from the plains below, the son of Gálmód suddenly beheld the King's niece on the other side of the terrace. Staring in the direction of the mountains although her brother could no longer be seen, the White Lady of Rohan ignored his presence, yet the rigidity of her posture told Gríma that she was, in fact, well aware of him.

Motioning for one of the guards near him, Gríma turned his back on the view and said in a loud enough voice for Éowyn to hear:

"Dorlâk, when the Lady Éowyn has had enough fresh air, you will guide her back inside to her chambers. Under no circumstance is she allowed to leave Meduseld. Do you understand me?" From the corners of his eyes, he saw the object of their conversation turn around, and her expression was that of someone who did not believe her ears.

"You cannot lock me up in Meduseld forever, Counsellor! I am still a member of the Royal Family, and I will no longer accept orders from either you or your men, unless I hear my uncle voice them himself!"

"These were your uncle's orders, actually. He is resting now, but if you insist, we can go and disturb him," Gríma replied evenly, keeping his features and voice neutral. He indicated a little mocking bow. "I suggested to the King that you should be kept inside the hall for those five days until your brother has left the Mark, for your own protection. Théoden-King is well aware that – as the resourceful and brave sister of our former Third Marshal – you will of course feel inclined to help your brother in his predicament even if this action would make you a traitor under the law yourself."

He shook his head in feigned sympathy.

"I would hate having to throw you into the dungeon, too, my Lady. And I am certain you would dislike being there. It is no place for a lady of noble blood, but you would leave us no choice if you chose to betray your King."

He bowed once again and extended his arm to gesture Éowyn in the direction of the portal.

"Be wise, my Lady. Accept my apologies for this inconvenience, but surely five more days spent in the comfort of your chambers will be much more pleasant than sitting in the darkness of a cell underneath the hill, or following your brother into this horrible storm…."

Wormtongue squinted as a gust of wind blew ice crystals into his face, and only barely managed to keep the smirk that wanted to accompany his words from his lips. Of course, there had been no way for him to know, but seeing the banishment of his adversary fall together with this winter's presumably last severe snow-storm was an additional satisfaction. It was as if the gods wanted to reward him for his well-executed plan.

Éowyn narrowed her eyes, and from her balled fists and widened nostrils Gríma could easily conclude how enraged she truly was. He threw a quick glance at the nearby guards. With the hot-headed children of Éomund, there was no telling whether the fair maiden would think twice before she assaulted him to scratch out his eyes. The bruises her brother had left on his body had still not faded, and he had no desire for further injuries.

When Éowyn spoke, her voice was even colder than their surroundings.

"And if I tell you to take your good advice and choke on it, and then walk down to the marketplace despite your order, what will you do then, dear Counsellor? Convict me?"

Gríma regarded her gravely, his expression leaving no question that he meant what he said.

"I am afraid I would have to, my Lady. But I honestly hope that you are wiser than to force me to this measure."

The moment stretched between them with the nearby guards uncomfortably shuffling their feet, and at first, Gríma was certain that Éowyn would put him to the test… but then, with a huff, she haughtily lifted her chin, turned on her heels and with great, unladylike strides, stormed back into the building. Following her path with his eyes until the doors closed behind her, Gríma then turned back to the guard he had been instructing.

"I want a guard positioned in front of her chambers at all times. She will not leave them without my permission. Instruct your men accordingly."

"Aye, Counsellor. But what if…" The dark-haired man interrupted himself, not daring to look his opposite in the eye.

"What if what?"

"What shall I say if Lord Gamling or Lord Háma inquire about this? I am not in the position to—"

"If these two noble gentlemen want to know more about this special order, you send them to me. I am sure they will understand. After all, it is only in the lady's best interest. Now see that you get ready; Felrod and his men are already waiting for you. We must not give the Marshal too much of a headstart."

OOO

Standing at the window that overlooked the plains to the west with unfocussed gaze, Éowyn bit her lip, and her fingernails unconsciously dug into the wood of the sill in silent frustration. It was hard to believe what was going on in Meduseld these days, and the impertinence with which the Worm had dared to send her to her room like a disobedient child once again left her with the deep desire to unsheathe her sword and take it to that black-robed snake. Perhaps Éomer had been right, after all; perhaps she should have accompanied him. If Gríma could do this without any of the other men objecting, what else would they permit? What if he locked himself in here with her, and…

It took her great effort to shove the ugly thought away. No matter what happened, she would sooner die than allow herself be used in that way. She still possessed the hidden dagger she had been carrying for years, ever since she had first become aware of the counsellor's intentions. If he ever made the mistake to think that he could have her, he would taste it, whatever threat he uttered against her or her family.

'Oh, Éomer… where are you now? What are you doing?'

Again her lips tightened to a bloodless line as she stared at the swirling white world behind her window. Somewhere out there, alone, without the protection of his éored and unarmed, was her brother. He depended on her. There was something she had promised him, and although her initial attempt had been intercepted, Éowyn was determined to keep it. There was another way, although she felt hesitant to resort to it.

Reprimanding herself to keep a clear head, Éowyn turned away from the window and made her way over to the door. Swallowing her indignity, she knocked against it, and heard the key turn in the lock. A moment later, the guard who had been detailed to stand watch in front of her chambers looked at her. He had to be one of Gríma's men, she concluded, because she could detect no trace of discomfort in his expression. Most of the men she had known among the lines of the Royal Guard for most her life would not have dared to look her in the eye after making her suffer this indignity, but the orcish-looking brute before her seemed to have no problem with it. Although he stood a head taller than she did, Éowyn felt far from intimidated as she haughtily lifted her chin.

"Send for my handmaiden, guard. I need her here at once."

"I am not permitted to leave this door," the man grumbled, "You will have to wait until-"

Her furious look silenced him.

"You tell me to wait? Who are you that you think you can talk to me, a member of the Royal Family, like that? I know there has been much going wrong in these halls since that worm seized command, but trust me that the King will hear about it if you do not get me Maelwyn this instant! Maelwyn!"

The young woman Éowyn had spied further behind in the twilight of the hall hastened her steps and looked questioningly at the two combatants. The tension between them was thick, and not knowing the reason for it, the handmaiden lowered her head as she dropped into a quick curtsy.

"What can I do for you, my lady?"

Her eyes still shooting daggers at the guard as if she dared him to object, Éowyn pressed: "I will speak with you inside my chambers. I see no need to discuss my private life in public, nor did I hear the King forbid me to have visitors!"

"I don't know-" the guard began, but Éowyn interrupted him.

"Leave the thinking to those of greater wits and simply do what you have been told: guard this door, and leave me alone, guard! I do not wish to be disturbed!" She nodded at the younger woman and followed her back inside her chambers, flinging the door. If they insisted to keep her like a caged animal, she could at least make it a miserable time for them, too.

Realising that her unusual explosion of temperament had made her the object of her trusted handmaiden's scrutiny, Éowyn took a deep breath. She needed to calm down, or she would forget something vital and Éomer would have to pay for it.

"My Lady? What can I do for you?"

Maelwyn was only slightly younger than the woman she served, but seeing her mistress in such emotional turmoil made her sound like a frightened child. Four years in her service had not yet prepared the quiet but compassionate and reliable woman from the Eastmark for such a flare of her lady's temper. It was unlike Éowyn to shout or throw doors. Her brother, yes; Éomer was known for his heated temper, but also for his sense of justice. Whoever he shouted at, usually deserved it. It had always been easy to determine how the Third Marshal thought about something or someone, whereas Éowyn remained an enigma to most members of the Royal household up to this very day.

While many incidents hinted at the fact that the White Lady was possessed of the same strong will and stubbornness as her brother, she usually remained in the background, observing. Hiding her thoughts from all she did not trust, and the way things were, the people she still trusted could be counted at the fingers of one hand. Right now, her angered expression slowly melted into one of exhaustion, worry and regret as Éowyn gestured toward the chairs.

"I am sorry, Maelwyn. It was not right of me to make you witness that. But it is hard to remain calm while our honourable counsellor gets away with deeds that would formerly have been unthinkable." She made her way over to the sitting group and lowered herself into one of the armchairs.

The younger woman smiled at her.

"You need not apologise, my lady. I understand that these past days have been very hard on you. They have been hard on us all." Looking into her mistresses' sad eyes, Maelwyn spontaneously added: "Your brother is a mighty warrior, Lady Éowyn. He will not be helpless out there."

Èowyn was thankful for her effort to cheer her up, but unfortunately, she understood their adversary's black soul better than this innocent young woman before her.

"I know, Maelwyn, but I fear that Gríma is not done with Éomer yet. They hate each other, and he knows that Éomer will remain a danger to him for as long as he lives."

The grey-blue eyes in front of her widened slightly.

"You mean he will attempt to have him killed, my Lady? But… that would be against the King's orders!"

"That may be so… but Gríma cares nothing for the King's orders, and my uncle is too ill to see how his orders are executed."

Éowyn shook her head, and a great silence followed her words as she gazed unfocused in the distance. Seeing how her mistress seemed to ponder over a thing of great import, Maelwyn dared not interrupt her. Finally, Éowyn's attention returned to her, and the piercing look she was given caused the handmaiden's heart to jump into her throat.

"Maelwyn, what I tell you now must remain among us, you must promise me this. Please know that I have always trusted you, but in these days of madness, it seems that even the walls of Meduseld have ears. You must speak to no one about what I will tell you now."

The young woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"My Lady, I do not understand-"

"Promise me, Maelwyn, or I cannot tell you. And I need your help!"

It caused Maelwyn almost bodily pain to hear her mistress beg. It also left her feeling deeply uncomfortable. What would be demanded of her?

"Didn't you entrust me with many secrets over the years I have been in your service, my Lady? You know that your secrets are safe with me."

"Yes, but this is different, Maelwyn." Éowyn lifted her brows. "Lives depend on it this time, my brother's and mine if word gets out, so even though I know that I can trust you, I still need to hear it from you again."

Éowyn had never sounded or looked more intense, and the younger woman's discomfort grew. What had she gotten herself into this time? Lowly, almost in a frightened way, she said:

"I promise, my Lady. I will not speak a word about it."

"Except to one man." Taking a deep breath, Éowyn began. This was the point of no return. She hated having to drag the innocent girl into this net of lies and intrigues, but there was no other choice. She had to save Éomer. "Maelwyn, I need you to deliver a message for me to our blacksmith. It is very important that he receives it as quickly as possible. Will you do that for me?"

"To our blacksmith? Bergfinn?" The handmaiden furrowed her brow in confusion. How could a message to a blacksmith be of any greater import?

"Yes, Bergfinn. I need you to see and tell him to send his eldest son to our old hiding place. Élric will know what place I am speaking of; he accompanied us there many times. Tell him to pack a knife, a bow, and, if he can, a sword, and perhaps some food, too, and deposit them for Éomer. He knows where. It is of the utmost importance that he is not followed!"

Éowyn tensed upon seeing hesitation in the younger woman's eyes. Maelwyn's complexion was always rather pale, but now it seemed as if all blood had departed her face, and her reddish freckles were the only colour left.

"But… wouldn't that be against the King's orders? Wouldn't I become a traitor then, too?"

"To betray a traitor is no crime, Maelwyn. It is, in fact, our duty. And Théoden-King's order was to banish Éomer, not to kill him; in fact, this was not even his order. It was his voice that uttered these words, yes, but they were not his words." She shook her head to herself, seeing how the girl got even more confused by her explanation. "I only want to ensure that the King's orders are obeyed, Maelwyn. It was not his wish that Éomer be killed."

"But how do you know then that is the counsellor's intention… if I may ask this?"

"I know that man, Maelwyn. Trust me, I know him."

Suddenly deciding against telling the girl too much, Éowyn fell silent. The inner urge to share all her worries and frustration with someone she trusted was almost impossible to resist, but she would have be more careful than ever. She stood alone now in Meduseld, and the Law of the Hall was not the one being followed in these evil times. The less Maelwyn knew, the better. She drew a deep breath.

"Will you help me, Maelwyn? I cannot deny that there may be a certain danger involved in the action, but it should not be too great if we do this smartly."

The young woman looked miserable, and from the way her hands were clutching each other until her knuckles turned white, it was very easy to see her discomfort. Maelwyn had done nothing yet, and already she looked guilty. Gríma would have to be blind not to notice that look upon her face. Yet if she staged a diversion, Éowyn thought, perhaps he would not pay attention if her handmaiden slipped out of the Golden Hall…

Maelwyn's voice was barely audible when she finally answered, not daring to meet her mistresses' gaze.

"I would love to help, Lady Éowyn, truly. I am not blind to what is going on, and I would very much like to see that horrible man gone from Edoras, but what if I am caught? I have two small children to take care of. I must think of them first… and of my husband. "

"You will not be caught. I have a plan, Maelwyn. It is impossible that Gríma learns of it if you do it right."

"Please, I'd rather not, my Lady." The grey-blue eyes were pleading now. "The thought frightens me. I am only a servant, not a shield maiden. I am not a person possessed of great courage. I am not one of those people who can make a difference."

Éowyn's expression hardened, and she lifted her chin.

"The people who make a difference are not usually those possessed of greater skill, they are those who decide to make a stand, Maelwyn. Alas, there are too many among our people who think that what is happening to them is destiny, that they cannot change the course of things. It is this belief that allows Gríma to act as he wishes. It is comfortable to lean back and let others do one's fighting, but it opens the door for those who are determined to take fate into their own hands… and not to the good of others."

Éowyn allowed those words to sink in, coming to her feet and starting to pace the room as she was overcome by her own restless.

"I do not believe in fate. It is I who decides how I live, and no one else. There is no fate but what we make. And if we all decide to do nothing, Éomer will die, and the Mark will fall to ruin before long," she said matter-of-factly. "My brother, Maelwyn, was sent out into the wild with no weapons, and no food, and without the protection of his men. The verdict forbids the people in the settlements to help him, and a snowstorm harrows the plains. He needs not even run into orcs to perish under these conditions." She swallowed. "Éomer has given his blood repeatedly for our people, and now those same people he rescued lean back and do nothing. Isn't that most unfair, Maelwyn?"

This was her last weapon, her last resort, and Éowyn despised herself for using it on this innocent, frightened girl. She had no right to endanger the mother of two young children and wife to a young, hard-working man, but she could not bear the thought of losing her brother.

Before her, Maelwyn hid her face in her hands, terrified by the decision that had been laid upon her shoulders. The trembling in her voice indicated that she cried.

"Of course it is, Lady Éown, and I wish I could do something to help him! Your brother was always kind to me… he and the Prince. They never treated me like a lowly servant."

"Well, you are no lowly servant, Maelwyn, you are a member of the Royal Household, dear and trusted. And you are in the position to make a difference now. The danger involved may not even be great, at least not for you. If you are caught – which, I guarantee you, will not happen – you were simply following orders. As my handmaiden, you are not in a position to deny my orders, so the blame would be mine, and the consequences mine alone to face."

Seeing how the younger woman battled with herself, Éowyn fell silent. Maelwyn was her only hope; what she would do if she denied her request, the daughter of Éomund did not know. There was no one left within these halls she trusted enough to pour out the contents of her heart to, and yet her heart missed a beat when the woman before her suddenly looked up. Although there was still fear in her gaze, there was also new resolve, when Maelwyn said with a trembling voice:

"All right… I will do it, my Lady. For you and your brother. And for the Mark, perhaps. I cannot deny that the thought still frightens me, but I see the wisdom in your words. I come from a large family, with eight sisters and brothers. We never had much, but my parents taught us that we could overcome all difficulties if only we stood as one."

She took a long, trembling breath, and then looked Éowyn straight into the eye, her fists balled at her sides.

"It is time now for the Mark to stand as one, isn't it? If we all hold together, surely no evil can ever overcome us." It sounded more like a desperate question than a statement, and yet the sincerity of it nearly broke Éowyn's heart as she stepped forward to embrace her utterly surprised handmaiden.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you from the bottom of my heart, Maelwyn! I wish there had been a different way for me to help Éomer, but I know you can do this. I have a plan, and Gríma will never know about it."

OOO

Two hours had passed since the procession, and upon the guard's ominous remark that their weapons had been confiscated, Éothain and his captains had returned to their places and found that, indeed, Gríma's men had taken everything from their swords to their bows, down even to the smallest dagger. His mother had been in a state of utmost alarm when he had entered, and unable to prevent that the men had ordered her aside to search her house. The realisation that such an action was possible had deeply shaken her.

Many of the riders had gathered in the tavern to discuss their further way of action, when the heavy door was opened from outside and a large number of guards spilled in.

"Captain Éothain?" their leader barked, and his gaze travelled over the tavern's patrons in search for the culprit.

"I am here," Éothain let him know, and slowly stood up. Aedwulf and Anlaf, who shared his table, followed his example, although they were only too aware of the fact that, without weapons, their implied threat was only theoretical. "What is it?"

"You are arrested for disobedience. Come forth, and no one will be harmed."

"What about the rest of our éored?" Anlaf inquired with a piercing stare into the guard's eyes. "None of us turned around when the Marshal passed. If you want to punish someone for that, should it not be all of us?"

The question earned him a grin.

"If you are volunteering to be whipped, be my guest. I'll gladly even do it myself. Yet my orders only said to apprehend your captain."

Éothain lifted his hand in an attempt to calm down his seriously enraged brother-in-arms.

"It is good, Anlaf. I will gladly accept the punishment for mentioning Éomer's name. I shall bear these scars with pride."

The guard's grin deepened.

"That's another ten, Captain. Keep this up, and your back will be a bloody mess for the next weeks."

"If you think you can spare me for so long…" Éothain lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not certain how understanding Théoden-King will be if Edoras is overrun by enemies, because the éored assigned its protection was rendered ineffective by the removal of its commanders."

"You seem to think you're indispensable. I bet the Marshal thought the same…" The man's hand petted the hilt of his sword in expectation. "So, Captain… are you coming freely or must we resort to bloodshed? It doesn't matter to me."

For a moment, strained silence spread in the room as the riders regarded their captain with a sense of foreboding. None of them would have believed it possible that one day, they would be forced to witness such scenes. Finally, Éothain nodded and stepped out of their protective crowd.

"Do what you must do," he said calmly. "Just be aware that there will come a time when all your deeds will be remembered… and paid back."

Two of the guard's men grabbed him roughly.

"Oooh, I'm shivering…," his adversary said, and his grin reminded Éothain very much of a hungry warg as he turned back to the waiting éored. "The bell will call you together in about thirty minutes. Be there, or we will see who else among you wants to taste the whip!"

OOO

Once again, the citizens of Edoras found themselves gathered at the central place, and if possible, their expressions were even darker. It seemed to them that this nightmare of a day would never end, still hoping for it to be only a horrible dream from which they would wake groggy, but thankful to escape it.

A sense of unreality had spread through the city, and certainly, the son of Céorl felt it the strongest as he followed the armed guards to the platform, hands chained behind his back. For a moment, he hoped that his father's éored would return in just time to witness this madness and put an end to it, but of course, he was also aware that that would quite likely also be the start of something much bigger and worse. Still, how could anything like this be happening? How could Théoden-King allow this? Did he even know about it? And did the Royal Guard?

Once again, the bell's din stopped, and with it, the dismayed murmurs of the crowd. Heavy silence fell over the marketplace as the guards' captain climbed up the stairs to the platform.

"Citizens of Edoras! Only a few hours ago, you were informed about the new rules! You will witness now what happens to those who think that not following them comes without consequence! It does not matter whether you are a blacksmith, a baker, a servant… or the commanding captain of an éored; all will be punished in the same way, so look closely and ask yourself whether this is what you truly want!...Bring up the accused!"

Gasps could be heard from the crowd as the people beheld just who it was they would see being punished right before their eyes, and dismayed shouts rang out. A great press started for the platform. For a moment, Éothain hoped – and feared – that the spark of rebellion would catch at last, that their people would not permit these ghastly and formerly unthinkable proceedings… but then the sharp sound of swords being drawn reached his ear, and the crowd recoiled.

"Make no mistake!" his adversary shouted. "Anyone who comes within reach of my men will taste their steel! This is your only warning!" His piercing gaze found Éothain. "If you do not want for these people to get hurt, perhaps you should say something, too, Captain…"

Éothain inhaled.

"Stand back!" he shouted over the din, and horrified faces looked up at him. "I appreciate your concern, but please… stand back. This is not the day for rebellion."

'It will come, though, and sooner than you think!' he communicated silently as he turned his attention back at his opponent. There was an amused spark in those curiously dark eyes for a moment, then the guard nodded at the two men at his sides.

"Very well… Chain him to the post!"

Bracing for what was to come, Éothain closed his eyes for a short moment.

'This is for Éomer…'

His handcuffs were briefly unlocked… and then fastened to an iron ring an armlength above his head. A ring that looked curiously new and as if it had just been hammered into the wood a few minutes ago. 'It probably was…'

The guard stepped behind him while his two henchmen stood back at the corners of the platform, ready to act upon the slightest sign of a disturbance.

"I will enjoy this…' the Worm's guard whispered into his captive's ear… and suddenly, a cold draft hit Éothain's body as his coat was torn from his shoulders and cast aside, and with a ripping sound, his tunic and shirt were cut away. The silence around them deepened… and then the whip cracked, and its leathern tongue plunged the son of Céorl into a world of pain. He did not even hear the gasping crowd, for there suddenly seemed to be a river of fire descending his back, and his body became rigid.

"One!"

For a moment, Éothain detected his captains' dismayed faces behind the guards. 'Let it happen,' he thought, hoping they would understand. 'Don't challenge them…'

"Two!"

Another crack, more searing pain. He gritted his teeth, grunting. Not wanting to give his tormentor the satisfaction of a cry.

"Three!... Four!... Five!"

The torture went on, each lash worse than the one before. The pain so enormous that it drowned out everything else… the shouts of the people around them, the voice that continued its merciless count to thirty, always followed by that dreaded crack.

"Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…"

Éothain's knees buckled, but the short chain kept him upright. At one point, it became too much, and his grunts turned into anguished screams. The sound the leather made as it bit into his back changed to a wet slap, and little droplets of his own blood sprayed into his face when it was withdrawn… again… and again… and again.

"Twenty-one… Twenty-two… twenty-three…"

His vision caved in and he slumped. A loud buzzing sound in his ears drowned out even his tormentor's voice. 'Yes… please…take me…'

"Twenty-eight… twenty-nine…thirty!"

Silence. On the very edge of unconsciousness, Éothain hung in his chains, head on his chest and eyes closed. Waiting for darkness to be granted to him…

The repercussion of heavy steps on the platform, approaching him. Warm breath upon his left cheek. A hissed threat was whispered into his ear.

"Now you know the pain, Captain. Remember it well. The next time you're feeling rebellious, it will not be you who suffers the consequences… it will be one of your recruits."

A cold shudder raced down Éothain's spine, but he could no react to the atrociousness he had just heard, could not even lift his head. He could only hang there, in agony, hoping that unconsciousness would grant him a merciful respite. His wish was granted when the locks of his handcuffs were released and he dropped onto the platform like a sack of meal, sinking into grey nothingness…

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 4: First Moves

WESTEMNET

On the fringes of the Ered Nimrais, high above the central plains, Éomer sat in the sheltering niche above his favourite hiding place, and the gaze of his hazel eyes swept the empty landscape below with hawk-like intensity. Somewhere behind these low clouds and the falling snow, there stood the lonely hill of Edoras; and it was his home no more. He swallowed, still not acquainted with the pain this thought caused him. The past morning's horrible events were still too fresh to have settled with all their considerable implications in his mind. Fact was: the Mark was no longer his home; he was no longer welcome here. And his own kin considered him a curse.

With a sharp intake of air, Éomer forced the image of his uncle and the sound of his voice back into the vault of painful memories inside his mind. There was no doubt that they would escape from there again as soon as he let down his guard, but right now, he had to deny them the pleasure of tormenting him further. There were more important things he had to concern himself with than submerging himself in a sea of self-pity, like... his immediate survival.

Once outside the city walls, it had taken the son of Éomund a while to decide where to head. He had been fully prepared to die on the gallows, and the new development had taken him entirely by surprise. He would need a while to think about his further course of action, even though Éowyn's suggestion to head for Gondor had sounded reasonable at first. There was just one thing she had not known: Captain Boromir was dead. Aragorn had told him that. It was highly questionable that someone recognised him once he crossed Gondor's well-protected border.

„Come on!" Théodred had laughed at him from that place in his mind he had chosen to occupy. „They will see from leagues away that you are a man of the Mark and not an orc spy! Do you honestly think they would kill you?"

This was probably true, but then again, who knew what else the Worm had instigated? If he had notified all their settlements along the way about his imminent banishment, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to let one of his messengers continue all the way to Gondor with a letter full of lies. What if he had written that the son of Éomund had plotted the Prince's demise? Théodred had been well known and respected in Gondor, not least of all through his friendship with Boromir. If they were out to apprehend the man supposedly responsible for his death, he would jump out of the frying pan right into the fire.

No, Éomer had concluded, his situation required further considerations... and first of all, he needed his weapons. So the decision had come to him to make for this little hanging vale, which was not too far away from the place Éowyn had mentioned. After a wide berth that had taken him out of sight from the city, he had approached the foothills of the mountains from the west, using a little fast-running creek to hide Firefoot's tracks for most of the way. The final ascent along a narrow, rocky path was tricky, especially in the gusty wind, and no rider who did not sit on the back of a calm, experienced horse could hope to master it. Éomer doubted that Gríma's henchmen would be able to follow him here, even if they miraculously found his tracks in these conditions. For one thing seemed certain: they would hunt him. The Worm could not afford to let him get away.

To his intense relief, he had found his hideout undisturbed upon his arrival, and his stash untouched. The clay pot he had stored here last autumn contained stripes of dried meat and fruit, and there were also a full waterskin, an old pan, flints, dry gras and kindling for a fire... and a fishing pole. As soon as he had established that no one had followed him, he intended to go and enrich his sparse provisions with a fresh-caught trout.

Which brought him back to the present. The land beneath him still looked empty and bereft of life, and Éomer decided to leave it at that and head back. Carefully, he crawled behind the shelter of a massive rock before he stood up and began to make his way down the narrow switchbacks. Finally, out of the wind! After a short descent, the massive overhang came into view. The deep recess below was his current refuge, almost a cave, and a low whicker greeted him as he approached it. Éomer could not help smiling when Firefoot's head appeared out of the opening, nostrils flared.

„Hello, Grey One," he chuckled. „Are we comfortable yet?" A hearty snort was the reply he received, and with a clap on Firefoot's muscular neck, Éomer slipped into the twilight of the cave and, after a lengthy swig from the waterskin, began to concern himself with the fire. Soon enough, flames crackled in the little niche and provided him with warmth and light. From the pile further behind, he took a few thick logs and carefully placed them into the blaze.

With a sigh, the son of Éomund sat down and leant his back against the rock. After the ordeal of the last days, the effort of the ride and preparation of his camp had already exhausted him, and yet the demanding rumble of his stomach served as a reminder that there was one more chore to see to before he would be able to rest.

From the bag, Éomer dug up two old, wrinkled apples, which he threw over to his stallion, keeping a third one for himself. Some of the meat stripes went into the pockets of his cloak. He stood up, feeling light-headed for a moment, and grimaced. The hard ride to the Entwood and back and the days in the dungeon had apparently cost him dearly. He would have to be careful with what strength was left to him.

A particularly strong gust of wind howled along the sharp angles of the mountain, blowing down a little avalanche from the overhang. With a deep sigh, Éomer stepped out. Hopefully, the fish were hungry… A threw a brief look back at Firefoot, who regarded him with his ears pricked up, awaiting his commands.

„Relax, my friend," he said with another little smile. „I'll be right back..."

OOO

Only a short while later, two good-sized trouts sizzled in the pan and spread their mouth-watering smell in the sheltered niche, and although he had already eaten the apple and the meat, Éomer could barely await the moment when they would be ready. For the moment, things were about as good as they would ever be in his current precarious situation.

He leant back against the rock, wondering what Éowyn was doing right now. Had she succeeded in securing his sword and bow? Was someone already on the way to their old playground near the Snowbourn? It would be such a good feeling to know that he would be able to defend himself in the case of an attack! If this worked out, he would be deeply indepted to his courageous, resourceful sister. But if it didn't, it would mean that Éowyn was in deep trouble...

„So... have you already decided on a path, Cousin?"

He sighed. Of course, it had only been a matter of time until this question reared its head again. He needed at least to have an idea before he headed out to collect his weapons. Another look at the pan revealed that the trouts were ready. He pulled them from the fire.

„Gondor seems risky," he mused. „I cannot rule out that the Worm spread his lies all the way to Mundburg... and it would be near impossible to do anything from there."

„Something... like planning a rebellion?"

Éomer stuffed the first pieces of fish into his mouth. They were delicious.

„It is the only thing that makes sense, isn't it?" He licked his fingers. „What would I do in Gondor? Even assumed they would allow me to stay there... I would remain a stranger all my life. I would stick out like a sore thumb. I am a man of the Mark with every fibre of my being, Théodred. I belong here. I could not live anywhere else. There would be no point in that... and it would also mean that I would have to watch from afar how the realm of Éorl the Young is brought to ruin. I could not bear that."

Béma, how he wished that his cousin were actually here with him! He had always had his best ideas in his discussions with Théodred. Éomer inhaled, and a frown appeared on his face.

„On the other hand, I am also tempted to let them taste the consequences of what they allowed to happen. Those cowards from the Council and the Royal Guard... they had it in their hands to change our fate for the better. All it would have taken was for them to stop that filthy halfblood and let me kill the Worm. Was that too much to ask?"

„If you do that, whatever befalls the Mark will also affect Éowyn," Théodred stated matter-of-factly. „And other people you know whom you probably do not want to see hurt... like the riders of your éored... or Elfhelm."

Éomer sighed and scratched his chin.

„I know. Which makes it even more complicated. Will Éothain and the others leave Edoras and join me, what do you think?"

„I fear that I cannot say, cousin. The situation is far too complicated and fragile. I, too, think that something must be done, and probably, going east would be your best bet for now. The Eastmark stands firmly behind you; I doubt that this has changed. And yet even if they follow you, the consequences for the Mark could be catastrophic if Erkenbrand and Grimbold think differently."

"Béma, what a mess…"

For the rest of his meal, Théodred's voice remained silent. At last, Éomer put the empty pan aside and fed his fire another two thick logs, before he wrapped his cloak tightly around his frame and lay down. Time to rest. He would head out once it was dark, thereby granting Éowyn more time for the fulfilment of her promise.

"I will start with arming myself tonight," was his last conscious thought before exhaustion claimed him. "And I will take it from there, step by step."

OOO

EDORAS

When Gríma son of Galmod left his chambers after his midday meal, he was in for a surprise. On the other side of the hall, before the door to Éowyn's chambers, it seemed to him that most members of the Royal Household had gathered to discuss... what exactly? Purposefully, he directed his steps over to them. Soon, he was able to discern bits and pieces of their agitated conversation.

"What happened?"

"Is it serious?"

"What is the matter with her?"

"But she was outside on the terrace only two hours ago, and there was no sign that—"

„What is the matter here?" he asked in a piercing voice, and the excited din around him stopped cold. All turned around and stared at him in sudden dread, as if he had caught them at something forbidden. Well... had he?

„The Lady Éowyn has fallen ill, Counsellor," a familiar voice answered him sharply – and somehow accusingly - , and when the household members cleared a path in their midst, Gríma beheld Captain Gamling in front of the White Lady's door. He narrowed his eyes. Something certainly smelled funny here.

„She appeared to be in good health only a short while ago," he replied. „What is her condition, is it known?"

"As the healer is not here yet, I cannot say much, but apparently she suddenly developed a violent fever and has trouble breathing. Whether it is a result of the grief she has suffered today or something else, I dare not say. Yálanda will find out. I sent her handmaiden to fetch her."

„Did you, now..." Gríma fell silent, and behind his perfectly bland mask of indifference, rage began to build up.

Was this Éowyn's way of defying him? Was this why Théoden-King had looked so shocked that morning after they had sent him out to discuss... what exactly? That she would kill herself if anything happened to her brother? That she would rather die than become his plaything? It could not be! She could not deny him his reward for all these long years of living in danger, having plotted the end of the Èorlingas right beneath their noses! His execution had been masterful, and so it was only just that he was given the one thing he really wanted. She could not take that away from him!

But of course she could! It was no secret that Éowyn despised him and let no opportunity pass to demonstrate her hatred. And yet, although he had always enjoyed their daily battle of wits and words, Gríma had somehow reached the point where it was no longer possible to deny the truth: that his attraction to King Théoden's niece was not born from the desire to torment the proud nobles of this land who had forever looked down upon him for his mixed ancestry; an act of vengeance. No, to his own surprise, he had found that it was genuine longing for a companion; a need to love and to be loved in return, something he had almost given up on.

Oh yes, certainly he had had his share of women over the years, but he could not pretend that they had shared his bed because of his engaging personality. There was no doubt that he could be charming, certainly, very much so, but he was even better at corrupting, and so what had drawn those women between his sheets had either been fear or greed, a lust to feel the power of a man whose words were commands even to the king of their land. The service they had provided him had been enough to satisfy his bodily needs, and yet it had not stilled the yearning deep within his soul, a yearning the son of Gálmód had long denied to feel at all. There was only one who could quench that thirst; and she could not depart and leave him behind unfulfilled!

With forceful steps, Gríma made his way to the door. First, he would see for himself what was going on, and then- Someone stepped into his way. Gamling. His mien was stern. The red-haired older man seemed uncharacteristically determined to remain an obstacle in his path, and Gríma wondered briefly what caused the bout of heightened protectiveness. Did the man truly think that he would try to take advantage of the situation? That he would try to bend Éowyn to his will while she was weak and unable to defend herself?

It was a good idea. But no, no matter how minuscule his chances of still gaining the heart of the woman he desired had become, this was not how he intended to make her his'. In his dreams, she came to him willingly, as only that way would lead to the fulfilment he longed for. He understood her better than even her own brother; he appreciated her wild spirit, but she just would not see it. Regarded with the bidden realism, it seemed far more likely that if he wanted to have her at all, he would have to take her with force, and it would be the acknowledgement of his failure if it came to that. It would be domination, not love. What a shame!

Waking from this brief inner discourse and its grim prospects, Gríma met Gamling's grim gaze in a show of righteous anger.

"Will you please step aside, Lord Gamling? I believe I should see first-hand what has befallen the White Lady, to report it to the King."

He creased his brow as the Captain of the Royal Guard showed no intentions to move.

"The Lady wants to see no one, Counsellor. Hildegard is with her now, and the only other people I am going to allow in are her handmaiden and Yálanda. This day has been very hard on the King's niece, and it would be best not to aggravate her further."

Wormtongue stared at the door as if he could see through the wood. The notoriously mistrustful voice in the back of his mind was whispering unintelligible words, and he could not help feeling a vague twinge of unease.

„When did you send Maelwyn for Yálanda, Captain?"

"Only a little while ago. The smithy is not far, she should be back very soon. All the more as she knows of the urgency of her errand."

„Hmm..."

Creasing his brow in deep thought, Wormtongue cast a long, pensive look at the doors of Meduseld. He had instructed his men very carefully, now he could only hope that they had heeded his words and paid close attention to what Éowyn's handmaiden was doing out there. Éowyn was usually of remarkably good health and not lightly cast down by illness, which made this little unexpected bout all the more suspicious.

With a deep breath, Gríma straightened and looked the old warrior straight in the eye.

„I will go and await her on the terrace. Keep me informed should anything change about the Lady Éowyn's condition, Captain."

He turned away, feeling an unfamiliar nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach. Any delay in the conveyance of information could prove fatal to his plans. If his men had failed, not even the Gods would protect them from his wrath...

OOO

Her heart beating in her throat so loudly that it drowned out even the roaring storm, Maelwyn hastened down the steep path from the Golden Hall to the first cottages, one of which was the smithy and the home of their old healer Yálanda and her husband Bergfinn. She could hardly believe her luck that she was still alone, for even though Éowyn's plan had sounded proper, the young handmaiden had been sceptical whether she would be allowed to leave Meduseld on her own. To her immense surprise, the guards had permitted her to pass without a word of protest.

Apparently, they had forestalled the counsellor with this course of action, but as she ploughed hastily through the snow, Maelwyn still feared that a guard would be sent after her, and made hardly five steps without confirming with a glance back over her shoulder that she was not followed. The snow was still falling thickly and visibility poor, but she seemed to be alone yet.

Slightly relieved, she clutched the collar of her cape and slung it tighter around her neck as she turned toward the noise that emitted from the building next to her destination. It was Élric, she saw with sudden joy – the man she had come to see. He looked up as he sensed her approach; a tall man in his beginning middle-years, strong of build as a result of his hard work and with the blue eyes and flaxen hair that would give his Rohirric ancestry away even in a great crowd of people.

"Élric! Élric! Quick, where do I find your mother?"

"Maelwyn?" He squinted at her against the onslaught of the snowflakes, his expression overcast with sudden concern and the instrument in his hand temporarily forgotten as he sensed the urgency in her voice. "Is aught wrong? Is it the King again?"

"No, it is not the King. A sudden fever has befallen the Lady Éowyn! We need your mother's service very urgently."

"Éowyn?" The blue eyes widened in dismay, and Maelwyn remembered that her mistress and her brother had been well acquainted with Bergfinn's family for a long time. "My mother is in the house. I will get her immediately," He turned toward the main building, which he shared with his wife and their parents. "Come with me!" Another look over her shoulder confirmed to Maelwyn that they were still alone, but still she could not help feeling as if all eyes in Edoras were directed at her every move. "Do you reckon it is something serious?"

"The fever seems to be very high and struck her without warning. Apart from that, I'm afraid I cannot say." She had to tell him now, the opportunity would never be better. Taking her heart in both hands as Élric shoved the door open and called for his mother, Maelwyn laid a hand on his arm. "And Élric, there is something else."

"Something else? What do you mean, Maelwyn?" He drew his eyebrows together in confusion and then looked down the corridor again as he heard no answer to his call. "Mother? Where are you?"

"My Lady asks for your help in an urgent matter. She made herself deliberately ill by taking a special potion so that they would send me for your mother and allow me to leave the hall. By telling you this, I lay both mine and my lady's life into your hands, Élric! Please, help us!"

She stared into bewildered blue eyes and fell silent when the sound of steps approached them from the kitchen. A moment later, the old healer rounded the corner, and the woman's wrinkled face turned to her in alarm.

"I am right here, Élric. No need to be so impatient. Is that Maelwyn I see there? What is the matter, child? Who has fallen ill now?"

"Alas, it is the Lady Éowyn," the young handmaiden reported dutifully. "She has a violent fever and trouble breathing. They sent me to fetch you."

Snorting angrily, Yálanda turned to take her old fur-cape from the hook.

"I knew it was too much for that poor lass! All this grief she had to endure over the last days had to lead to something like this sooner or later. I hope Counsellor Gríma is proud of himself now." She bent to look for her leathern healer's bag, and then laid a hand on her brow as she suddenly remembered where she had left it. "Béma, what a forgetful old woman I have become! Wait here, child, I will be right back!"

She disappeared into one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. Still confused, Élric turned back to his unexpected visitor.

"Are you saying Éowyn took poison? Was she trying to kill herself because of what they did to Éomer?"

"No," Maelwyn whispered back with the same intensity. If only she had been granted more time for her task! "She wanted to ask you herself to help Éomer, but the Counsellor wouldn't allow her to leave Meduseld, so she sent me instead. The Counsellor must not know about this!"

Incredulity was written all over the blacksmith's broad features as he stared at her.

"The counsellor forbade Éowyn to leave Meduseld? But he has no such—"

"Things are getting worse within the Golden Hall each day, Élric, but that is not why I am here. My Lady asks you whether you could ride out and deposit weapons for Éomer at their old hiding place, underneath a certain rock. She said you knew of what place I am speaking."

Élric narrowed his eyes.

"I do indeed."

"When they banished the Marshal, they took all his weapons. He is out there all by himself and unarmed, and Éowyn fears some foul play by the Counsellor." From the far room, they heard Yálanda rummage through her things and talk to herself.

"Ah, here it is. I wonder why I left it here."

Her eyes one great plea, Maelwyn shifted her attention back to Élric. Was that a shadow she saw on the other side of the path?

"Please, I cannot say more, and there is no more time! Will you help? Can I tell my lady that she needs no longer worry?"

"Does the Counsellor know you are here?"

"He knows I am here to fetch your mother, and I must return with her, or I will wake their suspicion. Please, tell me, Èlric, what should I tell my mistress?" The shadow was gone, or perhaps it had never been there. Its absence calmed her not.

Following her gaze into the grey-white swirling snowstorm with pensive features, Élric mused: "It would raise questions if I rode out in this weather without a good reason." Deep in thought, he scratched his beard, his thoughts leagues away. The sound of his approaching mother brought him back, and finally, to Maelwyn's utmost relief, he gave her the little nod she had been hoping for. "I will think of something. Tell Éowyn that I will see it done."

"Today?"

He looked at her strangely.

"Of course today. Éomer needs his weapons, doesn't he?"

Thankfulness lighting up her eyes, Maelwyn was already in the midst of throwing her arms around Élric's neck when the sight of the healer behind him stopped her. Yálanda's lined face wore an expression of mild bewilderment as she regarded her son and their visitor, whose demeanour seemed to have abruptly changed from gloomy to exultant, but then she shrugged it off and squeezed through the little opening in the door frame her son left.

"Come, child. Let us help the White Lady before it is too late."

Chapter 5: Counter-Measures

WESTEMNET

Twilight had fallen when Éomer woke and despite the thick cloak he had wrapped around himself, he felt at once that the temperature had again dropped. A lazy trail of vapour rose from his mouth with each breath, and as he lifted a hand to wipe eyes which were still heavy with sleep, his fingers brushed over a thin crust of ice that had formed in his beard. Disorientation washed over him while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

As he straightened, his stiff body creaked and groaned in reaction to the movement, and he grimaced. The various aches from the beating were still there, not yet entirely overcome, and especially his shoulder joints felt sore. But at least, the weakness and raging hunger that had plagued him for the last days were gone after the comparatively sumptuous meal he had enjoyed, and new energy coursed through his body. Éomer had a strong suspicion that he would need it. At last, he remembered where he was, and settled back against the wall of the recess with a low groan. This was not the dungeon. They had not found him yet.

There was movement in front of him, and a jolt of anxiety raced through him, hand grasping in vain for something to use as a weapon… but it was only Firefoot who was returning from outside. With a hearty snort, the great war-horse shook its head and sent the long mane flying, painting a quick smile upon its master's face. If the big stallion felt so relaxed, there could be no trace of danger in the air.

"Hello, lad," Éomer greeted his animal companion, and laid another two logs into his low-burning fire before he put the flints and some kindling into the pockets of his cloak. There was no reason not to thaw himself out for a bit before they headed out again, but first, he would risk another glance around.

With another groan – this one not so low – Éomer rose to his feet and stretched. There were some nasty kinks in the muscles of his neck, and he massaged them with gritted teeth until the knots slowly dissolved. All the while Firefoot regarded him with pricked ears. The big Grey knew what his master's activity usually meant and signalled that he was ready for action. On stiff legs, Éomer walked over and buried his face in the thick fur, rubbing the strong neck and shoulder.

"Soon, my friend," he mumbled, enjoying the warmth upon his face. "Soon. First, I have to take another look. Enjoy your rest while you can. Béma knows for how long the respite will last."

With another clap on Firefoot's powerful hindquarters, Éomer stepped out into the open… where a surprise waited for him. The storm had stopped. The little vale lay silently before him under a thick blanket of snow. The son of Éomund regarded it with mixed emotions. Snow was enjoyable only for as long as one had a home to return to once the fun of frolicking around in the white wetness was over and one's limbs were numb from the hours in the cold. In his current situation, it was both a blessing and a curse: as long as he remained where he was, the snow was his friend, for it covered the tracks they had made and muffled all noise, both his own… and those of potential foes. And as soon as they left this hideout, it would betray their whereabouts to anyone looking for them. Well… there was nothing to be done about that.

He turned around and climbed up the steep path once again, carefully choosing his footing on the snow-covered rock. A broken leg could easily end in disaster if he slipped and fell; he would not even need orcs or Gríma's henchmen to finish him off. The cold would do their work for them. At last, the view opened before him, and Éomer got down on hands and knees as he crawled out onto the ledge. His piercing gaze swept over the snow-covered plains.

To the east, a stripe of inky blackness began to rise in the sky. Night was on its way and the first stars already out, tiny little jewels sparkling on black velvet. Due north, the greatest of them, marking the eye in Felarof's outline on the nightly firmament, cast its cold light onto the frozen Mark. Later, the waxing moon would add its silvery light to the sparkle and reflect on the unspoiled blanket of white that covered the ground. It would be a very bright night, a beautiful night, but Éomer did not feel in the mood to appreciate its wonders.

It would be too bright for a man in his situation, and the low temperatures would likewise work against him as they inevitably meant visible clouds of breath. At least that would be a disadvantage he shared with his hunters... if he really came across them. He did not expect Gríma to know of his secret hiding place on the fringes of the White Mountains, but even if he did, the small grove of trees and the reed-covered edges of the Snowbourn would make for an interesting, deadly game of hide and seek. A game he was quite good at.

He wondered who his hunters would be. Orcs? Dunlendings? Or Felrod and his companions? It would be too good to be true. Despite everything that he had been through these last days, Éomer felt confident that he still had what it took to make short shrift of Gríma's henchman - once he was in possession of his weapons. The mud-blooded filth was strong, no doubt, but the light in his head shone not too brightly. How satisfactory it would be to stick Gúthwine into the dirt digger's stomach and leave him lying in the snow while life slowly ran out of him!

Once again, his gaze travelled over the twilit plains without finding anything alarming. So far, so good. Éomer crawled back behind the rock and rose to his feet. Time to move out and cover most of the way before moonrise. Making his way down again, Éomer gave a sharp whistle…, which was instantly answered by a powerful neigh. And there he came, his beloved Firefoot, his head held high and ears pricked in his master's direction, eager to do whatever would be asked of him.

A thin, humourless smile wandered over Éomer's face as he watched the stallion's approach. There was another good side to the snow: it hid his horse well, dissolving the dappled dark and light grey form as it moved through the night like a ghost. He snorted. It was about time that something worked to his advantage for a change.

"Good lad. Good lad. What would I do without you?" He descended the last few steps and rubbed the stallion's brow. "Say, oh Grey One, do you feel ready for an adventure?"

A guttural noise answered him and the way his horse clamped his teeth shut around the folds of his cloak told Éomer that for once, Firefoot would probably have preferred the shelter of a warm, comfortable stable, a manger filled with oats and a good rub-down instead of his offering. He raised a brow in apology and patted the muscular neck.

"I am sorry we are out here, Firefoot, but it seems that it cannot be helped for now. Let us pick up my weapons first, and then I will pay my debt and find you a warm, cosy cave for the rest of the night, what do you say?" With a last friendly clap, Éomer seized a handful of the thick mane and swung himself onto the destrier's back. Beneath the overhang, his fire was flickering merrily, but the son of Éomund felt too impatient to return to it. "Let us be on our way then. The sooner we are finished with this business, the sooner we will be warm again."

OOO

EDORAS

It was the crackling of the fire that Éothain heard first when he slowly rose from the depths of sleep.

'I'm home… in my bed.'

He attempted to open his eyes, but found the lids still far too heavy. Which was strange. It did not feel like a normal awakening to him. Something was trying to pull him down again into the thick fog from where he had risen, and in an effort to escape from its clutches, Éothain twitched… and gasped when his back exploded into pain.

"Sssssh," a nearby voice soothed, and gentle fingers caressed his cheek. Someone had just sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. "Lie still, léofa. All is good, I'm here."

"Mother?" With infinite caution, Éothain turned his head… and looked into her eyes. The sad expression in them told him that she had cried. "What… what happened? I feel as if my mind is stuck in quicksand…"

"I gave you some milk of the poppy," Glenwyn answered him, and everything became clear to him. "The men of your éored brought you home, and Anlaf was kind enough to get it from the healer." She exhaled. "I do not know if this was worth it, Eothain. Éomer will never know that you did this for him. And I don't think he would have wanted for you to get hurt."

"I don't care." Éothain took a deep breath. His back felt as if rivers of fire were running over it. "They will never make me forget my best friend's name, or bring me to turning my back on him. It is something I just cannot do."

The fingers combed gently through his hair with a butterfly's touch.

"They will continue to punish you each time you resist them, though, and I am not sure that I could bear to watch more of this. It was bad enough this time, Éothain. Please, do not give them a reason to repeat it. There must be a better way to help your friend, and to honour his memory."

'The next time you're feeling rebellious, it will not be you who suffers the consequences… it will be one of your recruits.'

His torturer's words suddenly came back to him, and Éothain grimaced. The two recruits in his éored had not yet seen eighteen summers, they were almost children. He could not do this to them. 'Bema…'

"Is father back yet?' he whispered into his pillow, changing the subject.

"His riders are back," his mother said. "Most of them, anyway. Your father is on the way to Aldburg."

"To Aldburg?" Éothain furrowed his brow. "What it is he doing in Aldburg? He wanted to return as quickly as possible in case we'd have to act." 'It's too late now, anyway…'

Glenwyn nodded sadly.

"I know, léofa. Apparently, they told him more about Gríma's plans at Snowbourn. Aelfric was here while you slept, and reported to me. What your father learned at Snowbourn made him decide to head for Aldburg to speak with Marshal Elfhelm."

Her words sent a tingle of excitement through Éothain's body.

'So things are finally in motion…'

"I see…"

He sighed, understanding at length that he would have to reign in his temper in order to be able to partake in whatever uprising was going to happen once his father returned. He could not afford to still lie on his bed while outside, his men were fighting. As hard as it seemed, he would have to do everything in his power to heal as quickly as possible, which meant... remaining motionless and inactive for the time being.

"Your captains told me to let you know that they will keep an eye on things," Glenwyn said, apparently having read his thoughts. "Whatever happens, you will hear about it quickly… Now rest, léofa. Give yourself the time to mend. There is nothing you can do right now, anyway. Do you want some more milk of the poppy?"

Éothain hated the leaden tiredness the medication had plunged him into, but he, had to agree that his back would probably be best served if he remained motionless for the night.

"Aye, mother. Thank you. I suppose you are right. Hopefully, things will look at least a little better by tomorrow."

A mug was carefully placed against his lips, and Éothain swallowed. The sensation of his mother's loving caress was the last he felt before the quicksand swallowed him again.

"Now sleep, léofa. I will watch over you. Sleep…"

OOO

THE PLAINS

A very distinct feeling of anxiety had befallen Élric. At first, it had been but a vague notion of danger that had nestled in the pit of his gut even as he rummaged around his workplace to find the items he would pack for Éomer. He had thought nothing of it, had even shoved it aside to concentrate on the task at hand. His unease was easily explained; after all, he was preparing for an undertaking that would be regarded as an act of treason if he was caught, an undertaking that could easily cost him his head. For the briefest of moments, a voice in the back of his mind asked angrily why, of all the powerful people she knew, Éowyn had sought him out for her dangerous errand. He was no warrior. He knew how to wield a sword well enough from sparring with the White Lady and her brother, and because his profession as a metal-worker and weapons smith required such knowledge, but the truth was that he had never held a weapon of any kind against a living being with murderous intentions. How could she ask this of him?

The voice was abruptly silenced by the one he had been listening to all his life: the siblings were his friends. They had grown up together, and the fact that he had been eight years older than Éomer had mattered little because in certain regards, their minds had been alike. As the eldest of three brothers, Élric had displayed the same streak of fierce protectiveness toward his younger brothers as Éomer had toward his sister, and extending his protection to the King's nephew and niece had not even been a conscious resolution but something that had simply happened. At first, Éomer had seemed irritated by it, but soon he had learned to take advantage of the situation by teaching his older and strongly built friend the finer rules of swordplay before passing Élric off to his uncle as a valiant protector he would rather take along on his forays outside Edoras instead of a member of the Royal Guard.

And so it had happened that as a commoner, Élric had spent an unusual amount of time with the two royal siblings, learning their secrets and hiding places as their friendship gradually deepened. It was friendship which had landed him in this pickle, and if the son of Bergfinn the blacksmith knew one thing, it was that friendships were proven in hard hours, not on days where the sun smiled down upon them. It had been a while since his sword lessons with Éomer, but Élric was nevertheless determined to be a good friend, a friend whose loyalty would not waver under any circumstance. Thus here he was, riding out into last gusts of a snowstorm all by himself even though it could cost him his head in more ways than just one. What if he ran into orcs? What if something happened to his horse and he would be unable to continue to Snowbourn before nightfall? And what if his departure had been noticed by the wrong people? The guards at the gate had initially been unwilling to let him depart, but when he had told them the little tale he had thought up once he had become aware that Captain Céorl's éored had returned, they had finally relented.

For the umpteenth time since he had left the city, Élric's gaze went back over his shoulder, and his heart missed a beat when this time, he discovered six shadows to his far left, almost invisible behind the thick curtain of falling snow. The cold hand of fear tightening its grip on his stomach, his mind began to race. It could simply be a coincidence; after all, he was still on the road. Perhaps those riders had nothing to do with him. But what if? Should he try to outrace them? In these conditions of poor visibility, it might indeed be possible for him to disappear. But no, Élric dismissed the thought almost instantly. In addition to being a few years past his prime, the heavy-boned gelding he rode was not built for speed. And what use was there in shaking his pursuers if he had been identified and would be interrogated upon his return to Edoras? Fleeing would be an acknowledgement of guilt. No, the only way to handle this situation would be to keep to the plan he had made before his departure.

Quickly the shadows grew more solid which each of the horses' leaps. Their riders were here for him, Élric noticed, because even though their mounts could have easily overtaken him at the slow pace he was keeping, they remained level with him for a while before they were suddenly directed toward him, encircling him. Fighting against the panic thatrose in his chest as he recognised the heavily cloaked guards, Élric pulled on the reins and brought Gaér to an abrupt halt to keep him from running into the rider who blocked their way.

"Excuse me, my lords, is aught wrong? Has a danger been reported on the road, or-"

"It is I who asks the questions here, blacksmith," the rider before him growled impatiently, and Élric recognised him by the bushy black eyebrows as the man seen most often in the company of the King's counsellor. "Whereto are you riding in this storm? I gather it must be rather important for you to leave the city under these conditions."

They were all around him now, so close that Gaér fidgeted in discomfort at the other horses' proximity. Fighting with his mount as well as his own rising fear, Élric drew his eyebrows together in an attempt to appear righteously angry over the intrusion.

"I am on my way to Snowbourn, sir. When Captain Céorl's éored returned today, they had a message for my mother, asking her for help because they were all out of disinfectant. They had a few riders wounded on patrol during the last couple of days, and they need it urgently."

"If that is so, then let's see it." Felrod held out his hand demandingly and wiggled his eyebrows. "Come on, blacksmith! Show me what you have there in your saddlebags!"

A distinct flutter of panic spread in Élric's stomach. With a slightly shaking hand, he produced the large bottle of medical brandy, but as soon as he held it out for the big man to inspect, it was suddenly whipped out of his hand and thrown into the snow behind them. He gasped.

"What are you doing? That is-"

"—not what I'm interested in." There was something predatory to Felrod's grin now as he leant towards his victim. He pointed his chin at the other saddlebag. "What's in there?"

'They know!' Élric realised with sudden dread. An icy chill that had nothing to do with the snow raced down his spine. 'Béma, how can they know?' He knew not what to say. The murderous gleam in the big man's eyes told him that in all likelihood, he would not return from this journey.

"What, blacksmith? You don't want to show me?"

The ice-encrusted eyebrows twitched meaningfully while the other men laughed, then suddenly, there was the flicker of bright metal, and Élric found himself in the snow, his feet still in the stirrups of his saddle which had slid from his horse's back. With a single fast swipe of his sword, the guard had cut his saddle girth, leaving a bloody scrape in the side of the old gelding. With a panicked scream, Gaér bolted, and Élric suddenly found himself in the midst of an ever-tightening circle of restlessly shifting horses. Virtually at the last second, he withdrew his hand before a heavy hoof landed on it and crushed his bones. Deathly afraid and at the same time filled with mounting anger, he craned back his neck to glare at the leader of the pack.

"What have I done, my lord? How can you—"

"Look what's in his saddlebags, Dôrlak," Felrod ignored him, and his companion to the left quickly slid from his horse and drew his sword. "I got a funny feeling that we have found the first strawhead in the history of the Mark who is trying to tell us fairy-tales."

"You cannot do this!" Hastily, Élric freed his feet of the stirrups and crawled backwards, but his path was cut off by another rider. "You are in the King's service! You swore to protect us, not terrorise us, have you forgotten? What you are doing is against the law!"

"It is funny you should talk about the law, blacksmith," Felrod replied calmly while he accepted the heavy leather pouch Dôrlak held up for him. Once glance into it was enough to determine the contents. The guard's voice dropped to a dangerous snarl. "After all, you seem to be in the very process of violating it yourself in the most serious manner. Or do you want to tell me in all honesty that these weapons are for your own protection on the road? Hidden away in this pouch, where they certainly wouldn't do you a lot of good in the case of a surprise attack?"

He unsheathed the short sword he had found and pretended to examine it.

"Not a particularly kingly instrument. I assume it is for the healers of Snowbourn, too, to cut their herbs with, as they don't have any knifes there?" He threw it into the snow and took out a thin, sharp-bladed knife instead. "This is much better work, even worthy of belonging to a member of the Royal Guard. Thank you for this wonderful gift."

He kept it in his gloved fist as he dismounted, the threat in his bearing unmistakable.

"You cannot do this!" Élric repeated anxiously, finally succeeding in scrambling to his feet, but he fell again when the rider behind him rode into him, and suddenly the son of Bergfinn screamed when the horse's hoof stomped forcefully on his thigh, breaking the bone with an audible crack.

Running a finger over the glistening blade of the knife, Felrod came to a halt only a step away from their groaning victim and glowered down at the injured man with grim promise in his eyes.

"You have still not told us whose weapons these are, but that is all right, for I can easily guess. What I cannot yet guess is where you will meet with Éomer, but that is all right, too, for you will tell me!" He squatted down in the snow, his piercing gaze never once leaving Élric's face. "You will tell me, blacksmith, or I swear, even though it is cold now, I will make you sweat every ounce of pain that is in your body before I kill you. And upon my return to Edoras, I will see to it that your parents and that treacherous bitch the King's niece sent to you will be arrested and thrown into the dungeon. I doubt they would last very long down there. It is dark, and cold, and moist. In winter, most prisoners perish quickly from the infection to their lungs they catch there." He shook his head and grimaced. "They suffocate on their own matter. Some take days before it is finally over. It is a very ugly death I've been told."

"My parents have nothing to do with it," Élric breathed, horrified by the thought. "They do not know-"

"Do you honestly believe that I care, traitor?" The gleaming blade held directly in front of his victim's face, Felrod's voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "Tell me where you were taking these weapons, and they shall live. Lie to me – and I will make it true. It is your choice!"

OOO

MEDUSELD

The world behind the windows had turned dark grey when the old healer's expression finally lit up. In the warm light of the flickering candles and oil lamps, the woman's wrinkled face looked ancient to the frightened handmaiden who shared her watch over the King's niece, but for the first time since they had entered Éowyn's chambers, Maelwyn was certain that it was relief she saw reflected in those pale blue eyes. For hours, they had tended Éowyn, administering bitter teas and potions and wrapping the White Lady's calves and brow with cold, wet cloths to lower the fever that burned within her body until the first results showed.

Maelwyn had assisted as best she could by fetching and sending the other servants for the items and herbs needed, but overall, she had been forced to stand back and watch with a terrible feeling of helplessness how Éowyn restlessly shifted on her sweat-soaked bed. The secret she carried within about her conversation with the healer's son burnt on Maelwyn's tongue, and yet she dared not utter a word in the presence of the old woman for fear that Éowyn, who kept unconsciously mumbling to herself in her fevered dreams, would accidentally spill it herself to the wrong ears. How much she longed to tell her lady that her plan had worked and that help for her brother was underway; how much she longed to ease Éowyn's troubled mind, but although they seemed to be alone in these chambers, Maelwyn remembered all-too-clearly the glance the counsellor had given her upon her return to the Golden Hall.

As soon as his pale blue eyes had found her climbing up the stairs to the terrace, they had held her captive; piercing her like an arrow would pierce a deer's hide. It had seemed to her that he had looked right into her head, not seeing her treacherous thoughts clearly but sensing their distinct scent nonetheless. Luckily, Yálanda had quickly pulled her along and out of the dark man's reach, but even as the door had closed behind her, it seemed to the young handmaiden as if she could still feel the counsellor's stare on her back.

Éowyn's plight, however, had soon occupied her thoughts so thoroughly that Gríma had been forgotten. Strewn on her bed, her always pale face so ghostly white that Maelwyn had actually feared for a moment that they had arrived too late, Éowyn had seemed near death, too weak to lift her head or even speak as Yálanda began her work. This was not the situation her mistress had prepared her for. Yes, she had said that the potion would give her a fever serious enough to require the healer, but not that it would bring her to the brink of death itself. Éomer would be horrified if he ever learned that his sister had almost killed herself in order bring him help.

Only now that she felt encouraged by the healer's satisfied expression, Maelwyn dared to stand up from the chair in the corner she had occupied for some time, silently observing, and asked:

"Is the fever dropping?" She was granted a tired nod.

"Aye, child. She feels cooler to the touch. It seems to me that she has mastered the worst of it." Gently, Yálanda smoothed a wet strand of Éowyn's golden hair from her exhausted looking face, and her eyes registered with satisfaction the regular rising and falling of her patient's chest as she slid deeper into the arms of healing sleep. "Sleep well, child. We are here, watching over you." She turned to Maelwyn.

"I will remain in Meduseld for the night, Mistress Maelwyn, but I cannot deny that I am feeling fatigued myself. I believe it would be best if we split the night watch between the two of us. That is, if you could stay, too."

To the young handmaiden, it was not even a question.

"Of course, Mistress Healer. I would not want leave my lady in this state and go home; I could find no sleep myself that way. I already sent one of the lads home to tell my husband. He will understand." She looked at the peacefully sleeping Éowyn. "It was horrible to see her suffer so much. Do you truly believe that the worst has passed?"

"Aye, child. It looks to me like the White Lady is sleeping the sleep of healing now. I would be surprised if she woke before tomorrow evening. The rest will do her more good than I could ever do with all my herbs and potions. Do not worry, Maelwyn, I am certain that your mistress will survive this. – But tell me, could I ask you to keep the first watch? I am no longer as energetic as you, young lady, and fear that I need a few hours of rest myself before I can continue, as much as I would like to remain at Lady Éowyn's side."

Maelwyn smiled. "Of course, Mistress. Sleep well. I will remain here."

"I will be in the guest chambers should you need me, and will relieve you from your watch three hours after moonrise. But do not hesitate to wake me earlier should the need for it arise."

With considerable effort, Yálanda made her way over to the door, bent like an old branch. Touching the handle, she looked back. "Shall I instruct the kitchen to send you something? I cannot remember having seen you eat the whole day."

Maelwyn's smile deepened as she sat down on the edge of Éowyn's bed.

"That would be nice, Mistress. Now that you mention it, I do indeed feel hungry."

Yalandá nodded.

"I will tell them to send you some soup and bread. It is ill enough that the King's niece has been struck down by the fever; we cannot afford to have the few people of intelligence and compassion left in this hall weakened, too. It is we who hold the kingdom together these days."

The door closed behind her to a silence that was only interrupted by the crackle of the fireplace. With love and concern in her eyes, Maelwyn gently laid a hand on Éowyn's brow to feel for herself. Aye, the King's niece definitely felt cooler to the touch.

"Fear not, my Lady," she whispered confidentially. "Help for your brother is on the way."

Chapter 6: Hunters and the Hunted

Éomer heard the rush of fast-flowing water long before he saw the river's dark floods through the steady change of sparkling snow, tree shadows and thick undergrowth. With the merest pressure of his thighs and a slight tug at Firefoot's mane, he signalled the grey to halt, and breathlessly, both rider and steed reached out with their combined senses to listen to the voices of the night. Each rustle in the thicket of dead plants, each stirring in the crowns of the trees and each call that reached their ears was registered and identified: close by, the urgent sound of a rabbit breaking cover; from above, the almost inaudible rustle of air on feathers as a bird in the crown of the nearest tree stretched its wings, and from a distance, almost on the edge of Éomer's perception, the hesitant, careful steps of perhaps a deer moving through the deserted forest. There was no crunching of snow underneath heavy boots, or the distant whickering of horses left tied to a branch while their riders lay in a stakeout for him, nor muffled noises or urgent whispering giving away the presence of human visitors to this corner of the Mark. It seemed to Éomer that he was indeed the only human soul in this forest… and still he knew better than to trust first impressions. He waited, biding his time.

The blanket of white he saw over the stallion's pricked ears looked undisturbed except for a few animal tracks, yet further confirmation of his solitude since the snowfall had stopped hours ago. From the left, the rush of wings prompted Éomer to turn his head just in time to see a big owl land on one of the stronger branches of an old oak, and for a moment, wide orange eyes met his before the bird lowered its head to tear a strip of meat from the prey it held in its talons. A faint, unconscious smile wandered over Éomer's face at the sight of it. Owls were shy, elusive birds. If this one felt secure enough to feed, it probably meant that there was indeed no danger to be feared.

And still he waited for another moment before he dismounted, his senses now exclusively focused on his mount, and the experienced war-horse knew what his rider expected of him. The slightest twitch of the mighty muscles or even the lowest hint of a whicker from his throat would mean that Firefoot sensed the presence of others in their vicinity, but for now, his steed remained quiet. The dark eyes swept the silent forest as the stallion drank the chill air through his widened nostrils, tasting it for the scent of predators. At last, he shook his head and released the breathless tension with a heartfelt snort. Following his example, Éomer allowed himself to relax as well and patted Firefoot's shoulder as he slid from the horse's back.

He had decided to walk the last part of the way on foot. So far, the trees had provided them with excellent cover from potentially hostile eyes, but his old hideout lay closer to the edge of the river, well-hidden within a broad belt of dried reed. As children and even more often as young adults, they had sought refuge here whenever the days in Meduseld had been too dark and depressing to bear. Endless hours had they spent here together with Éothain, and on occasion also Élric, making plans and vows about what they would change as soon the necessary power was theirs. Although it had been their shelter, the memories Éomer held of this place were bittersweet.

Forcing himself to concentrate anew, he shoved away the distant images and assessed the situation: it would be difficult to move through the reeds without giving himself away. So far, Éomer had neither seen nor felt the presence of others, but he had not survived countless battles and risen to the position of a marshal at his young age because he underestimated the necessity of caution. This was not the time to rush things. Out here in the wild, even the smallest mistake could prove fatal. He had seen enough valiant warriors unexpectedly called to the halls of their ancestors because a single, brief moment of impatience, and he was determined not to fall prey to the patterns of behaviour expected of him. They believed him to be rash, inconsiderate. Very well. If they thought that, it would make his task easier.

"Wait here," he muttered under his breath to Firefoot, knowing that the stallion understood and would not stray far from the place he was left. On second thought, Éomer also slipped out of his cloak although he hesitated to abandon the excellent camouflage its grey colour provided it would render it impossible for him to move silently through the reeds. Laying the folded garment on a tree stump next to his stallion, the son of Éomund stealthily made his way over to where the last rows of trees granted him cover before the area of dried scrub, his eyes tirelessly sweeping his surroundings for eventual columns of frozen breath. The crunching of the snow beneath his boots seemed treacherously loud to his ears as he ducked through the undergrowth and halted. A brief flicker of movement in the shadows of the thicket to his left caught his attention and was quickly identified as a fox. Suddenly aware of the presence of his unbidden visitor, the beast darted away, a white blur in the nightly forest, and only its tracks in the snow remained as proof of its existence.

Savouring the sensation of crisp air filling his lungs as he took a deep, silent breath, Éomer suddenly noticed a first slivery sparkle on the water. The moon was about to begin its course over its silken black realm, and its pale light would soon reflect from the freshly fallen snow and illuminate the night; a combination favouring the hunters and putting the hunted at a disadvantage. No matter if he was indeed the only human soul out here, it would be best to hurry, as he had no intentions to change from predator to prey. Only one question still remained, and soon enough it would be answered: had Éowyn succeeded in sending his weapons?

With infinite caution, Éomer lowered himself onto all fours and began to edge through the scrub toward his destination. Skilfully using the cover it provided without causing the dried stems to sway and betray his whereabouts, he moved along; a cat on the prowl, the born hunter, his movements noiseless and fluent as he advanced and at the same time soaked up the noises around him. Nothing escaped his attention: not the low song of the mild breeze in the thicket of dead stems, not the low gargle of the river through the patches of ice which tried to hinder its waters from their journey south – and not the sudden flutter of wings as three small birds suddenly burst into flight before him.

Cursing soundlessly while his heart pounded furiously against his ribcage, Éomer sat back and held his breath. Anyone looking had now been alerted of something moving through the thicket, and so he waited anxiously for the noise of heavy boots in the snow closing in on him, or the telltale rustle of heavy bodies in the scrub. Yet it remained calm. Closing his eyes for a brief moment as relief almost became too great to bear, Éomer silently shook his head to himself and proceeded. It was about time he finished this and went on his way, for his nerves would not take many more of these incidents.

When he finally caught sight of the group of rocks he was headed for, a first wave of exuberance flooded his veins as he detected the single line of footsteps leading up to the biggest of them, the one with the small den underneath they had used as a storage for their provisions and later, messages. From behind, a lonely cry of the owl drifted into the night, unanswered. Encouraged by the silence, Éomer moved on, and as he approached, he caught a first glimpse of a heavy-looking leather pouch underneath the rock.

'Béma be praised! Oh Éowyn, I am forever indebted to you!'

His heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribcage, he advanced, and the feeling of the first triumph over the Worm, even if it was only a small one, pushed him forward with renewed purpose. All of a sudden, his prospects seemed vastly improved: armed with sword, bow and knife, he would give the foes he met, orc or man alike, a fierce fight. His reputation as one of the Mark's most valiant warriors had scared away solitary enemies for a long time now; in fact it had been years since any of them had been willing to test their battle-skills against him in a one-on-one fight at all. As long as it was no army Gríma had summoned against him, Éomer felt confident that he had what it took to emerge victorious from this greatest of his challenges. With the object of his efforts now almost within reach and impatient to feel the encouraging weight of a sword in his hand again, Éomer pulled off his gloves with his teeth and reached out, his fingers closing around the pouch. It felt absurdly light as he pulled it out from the den, and he frowned as he unpacked the one item it contained: a stick. All of a sudden, the feeling of a sling tightening around his neck paralysed him.

'It's a trap!'

Frozen by the implications of his discovery – 'They caught Éowyn! Is she dead? How many- ' - Éomer stared at the gnarled parody of a weapon in his hand, until a sudden rustle in the scrub broke the spell. Reflexes honed by years of experience sent him to the ground and into a controlled spin before his mind had consciously realised the danger; the warrior in him taking over as, with a sharp thwack, an arrow embedded itself into the ground he had occupied only a heartbeat before.

Back on his feet, he instantly charged into the wall of reeds, not pausing once to look back and check how many foes there were on his heels or whether they were men or orcs. As cunningly as this trap had been laid, they had probably spread around him and even the slightest hesitation would buy him an arrow in the back. Abruptly breaking to the left, Éomer felt the current of air on his neck as another shot missed him by only the breadth of a hair.

From further behind where he had left Firefoot, a horse's shriek suddenly pierced the air, and Éomer cursed under his breath as he ploughed through the thicket in a hare's zigzag, performing another sudden switchback only to drop to his knees and breathlessly wait for his pursuers to give their positions away. How many were there? Would there be a chance to take one of them by surprise and acquire his weapons? Sensing movement to his right, he crouched deeper.

"Is he dead?"

"I missed. Rabid dog's faster than a snake! But he can't be far. Be silent!"

Two men so far. And at least another one back where Firefoot was. Silently praying that they had not killed his horse, Éomer laid a hand on his mouth to disperse the vapour of his breath as he cautiously exhaled. From behind him, the concussion of approaching steps caused his strained muscles to vibrate with tension. He was ready for the fight, but where was the other man? To his right, moving away, the distance between them growing.

Flexing his fingers, Éomer concentrated on the steps and tensed. His life probably depended on him killing the man silently. The darkness in front of him took shape as the reed parted, and he threw himself at his adversary with the velocity of a striking snake. The surprised man he crashed into barely had time to utter more than a breathless gasp before Éomer had him in a death grip and snapped his neck with a powerful jolt.

"Dorlâk?"

Alas, their brief fight had not gone unnoticed. As there was no point in easing the dead man soundlessly to the ground, Éomer dropped him where he stood and stooped to retrieve his knife, the rustle in the scrub already indicating that his foes were closing in on him again. Deciding to place his hope in speed rather than stealth, he bolted as an excited shout erupted into the night.

"Mordred, Gunthard, he is here! Hurry!"

The reeds whipping his bare face as he raced toward the forest's edge, Éomer somehow managed to collect enough air for a sharp whistle. It compromised his position but could not be helped, for there was but one thing left to save him now, and the furious shriek of his horse told him that he had been heard. Almost simultaneously, a pained shout rang out from the darkness of the forest, followed by the distant thunder of hooves.

More shouting, orders screamed regardless whether they were overheard. They felt certain that he was cornered and advanced from two sides now, cutting off his path to the cover of the forest. It did not change Éomer's strategy. They would not be able to shoot at him with great accuracy while they ran, so Éomer dashed toward the shadow closest to him; already switching his grip on the knife toward the blade. Only at the last possible moment, his ears told him that the man had already stopped and was probably aiming his bow in his direction, and he acted instinctively. A pained shout rewarded him as the knife he had thrown blindly found its mark, and with a dull thud, the arrow meant to kill him embedded itself into the ground at his feet.

Starting toward his adversary to retrieve his just won knife, Éomer parted the reed and froze: the thug was still on his feet, the heft of the weapon protruding from his left shoulder while he already held his sword in his other hand, looking both pained and eager to kill. With his comrades advancing fast, there was only one decision open to Éomer, and he ground his teeth and bolted, abandoning the blade with a heavy heart.

"Aye, you better run, filth! If we catch you, we'll skin you alive!"

"Firefoot!"

The stallion answered him immediately, and suddenly, his great grey body broke through the undergrowth and raced toward Éomer. A rope dangled from his neck, but there was no one at the other end.

"Shoot! Shoot! He must not escape!"

In full run, Éomer shot out his hand, and his fingers closed around the horse's thick mane as he virtually threw himself onto Firefoot's back. A hail of arrows rained down on them, one even leaving a tear in his tunic, but by then Éomer had already found his right seat and the Half-Meara accelerated, leaving only little clouds of snow in his wake that had already settled while the hunters realised that their plan had failed.

Grinning at the sound of frustrated shouts behind him even if he could not understand the words, Éomer cast a quick glance over his shoulder to establish that his assassins had indeed stopped at the edge of the forest. A flood of pure energy raced through his veins, so intense it stole his breath. He had bested them. They had been waiting for him, five of the Worm's henchmen, heavily armed and with the advantage of surprise on their side, and yet he had managed to kill one of them and wounded another. For the first time, the stinking traitor in the Golden Hall had received a taste of what it meant to be at war with the sons of Éorl, and if it was in his power, Éomer was determined for this to be only a vague hint of what he had in store for Gríma Wormtongue and his minions.

The sensation of triumph was fleeting though, as the question of how those men had found out about Éowyn's plan sobered him quickly and thoroughly. He doubted that the Worm would actually hurt his sister, not while he still desired her and ultimate success was within his grasp now that all her protectors had either been killed or expelled, but still the question remained: what had happened?

Still battling with his unsettling thoughts, Éomer was suddenly cast back into reality by his stallion's enraged shriek, and from one leap to the next, Firefoot accelerated to full speed again. A moment later, a similarly angered answer clamoured from the thinning trees they were headed for, and there Éomer could make out the shapes of six horses in full tack. He had found his assassins' means of transportation. Acting on impulse, Éomer directed Firefoot at them with a malicious smile: here was his chance to buy himself some rest for the remainder of the night, possibly even longer.

"Heya, Firefoot!"

His eyes watering from the icy wind in his eyes, Éomer blinked as they charged toward the small group and could not help feeling amused by the display of his own steed's fury. The way the grey stallion stretched beneath him, his hooves hammering the ground in a frantic rhythm at the other horse's challenge, it appeared that Firefoot - just like his master - was in desperate need of unleashing the accumulated frustration of the past days against someone. He wanted to fight, and the bay horse that presented itself to him by separating from the others was an ideal target. Yet as much as Éomer sympathised with his animal ally, killing those horses was not what he had in mind. If he instead succeeded in re-directing Firefoot's fury to chase the horses away and thus rob his hunters of their transportation, the manoeuvre would buy him valuable time. Perhaps, if he was lucky, Gríma's henchmen would not even make it back to Edoras on foot. The Mark was a dangerous place not only for the righteous men. Yes, this plan seemed sound. Now all that was left to do was convince his furious stallion of it.

"Hoh, Grey One, slow down! No need to scare them senseless! They are your kin, remember? You are not a warg, so stop behaving like one!" He tugged on the mane and shifted his weight to bring Firefoot alongside the other horses – and found himself ignored. "Hey! I am talking to you!"

Now forcefully attempting to hinder the Half-Meara from charging into the others like a ram, Éomer was almost unseated when, without warning, Firefoot performed a wild swing to the right. Clinging to the thick mane for all he was worth, Éomer – to his bafflement – suddenly heard a surprised shriek and caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark shape in their path before he felt the impact of Firefoot's hooves on something soft. Looking back as his steed continued almost without interruption, he saw the man collapsed in a heap behind them, unmoving. Of course. They would not have left their horses unguarded. Not finding it in himself to pity the man when he had come to kill him, Éomer regained his seat and shifted his attention back to the horses they had almost reached by now.

The bay which had challenged Firefoot had apparently come to his senses at the close-up sight of his steaming opponent, because he suddenly turned on his hind legs and bolted, taking the others with him. Swearing and seeing his stallion's ears twitch at his angered outcry, Éomer slapped the grey neck hard with his flat hand.

"Stubborn mule, now see what you've done! It could have been much easier!" Still angrily shaking his head to himself, Éomer decided he had enough of being only a passenger on his steed's back. It was about time he claimed back control. With a few rigorous commands, he threw Firefoot around almost in a circle, clinging to his back like burdock, before he allowed him to resume pursuing the other horses at a much slower pace. As soon as they were no longer spooked, he would ride up to them and grasp their reins, and then lead them far, far away…

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

EDORAS

Dawn was still distant when Maelwyn left the safety of her house after only a few hours of sleep. The cold was crisp and chased the sleepiness away as she made her way through the narrow alley, and instinctively, her fingers clenched in the fabric of her thick coat. An icy cloud of her own breath rose into the sky and made her realise that the storm had stopped. For a moment, Éowyn's handmaiden came to a stop and looked up into the sky. A little gasp escaped her at the sight of the full moon and the sparkling stars around it. It had been a while since they had last experienced a cloudless night, and its beauty took her breath away.

And then it came back to her: somewhere out there, in the wild, Lady Éowyn's brother fought for survival. She could only hope that Élric had succeeded in his mission, and that Éomer's chances had now greatly improved. She had not heard from him upon his return, but of course, she had spent the first hours of the night in her mistresses' chambers, and later, when the healer had taken over, Maelwyn had gone home to enjoy the comfort of her own bed for at least a few hours before she would head up to the Golden Hall again. There simply had been no way for Élric to inform her. Not without raising suspicion.

With a little sigh, the young handmaiden turned away from the path that would lead her up to Meduseld. There was something she needed to do, first, before she headed back. And although this was really not the time to disturb anyone, she had an inkling that it would be appreciated. No one would see her now if she headed over to Éothain's home to see how he was faring, and to inform him about Éowyn's state and her lady's organised help for her brother.

The snow crunched beneath her boots, and it sounded unnaturally loud to her ears in the otherwise perfect silence, but there seemed to be no one around to hear it. Nevertheless, Maelwyn used what shadows she could find for cover, and only a short while later, found herself standing before the home of Captain Céorl and Lady Glenwyn. Hesitantly, she knocked… and was astonished to hear quick steps behind the door only moments later. The door opened, and the face behind it looked tired and worried. Of course it did, although it did not appear to Maelwyn as if her knocking had woken Céorl's wife.

She curtsied quickly.

"I apologise, my Lady," she whispered. "I am on my way back to Meduseld, but so much has happened yesterday that I had no time to see how your son was faring. I heard what they did to him…"

An exhausted, but thankful smile lit up Glenwyn's expression, and she opened the door a little further.

"That is kind of you, Maelwyn. Please, do come in. He is awake, and I'm certain he would like to see you."

Thankful to be out of the cold, Maelwyn quickly stepped inside.

"Thank you, Lady Glenwyn. I also have news you will want to hear."

"Who is it, Mother?" Éothain's strained voice reached her ears from a room further back. He sounded pained, and Maelwyn tensed at its sound.

"It is Maelwyn," Glenwyn answered, and held a hand out for her visitor's coat. "Give me that, dear, I'll hang it close to the fire. It will be cosily warm when you put it on again. Would you like some tea, perhaps?"

"If it is not too much effort? I fear that I cannot stay very long; I'm expected back at the Golden Hall."

Glenwyn furrowed her brow.

"In the middle of the night? It is not even dawn yet."

"Aye." Maelwyn nodded. "That is also because of something that happened yesterday. I will tell you about it in a moment."

New concern stood in the older woman's eyes as she nodded and turned around to hang the coat.

"I suspect it must be something rather alarming, by the sound of that…" She took a deep breath and gestured the handmaiden to follow her. "I will be right back with the tea. I was just making some for Éothain and myself, so it really is no problem. Neither of us could sleep tonight. Here he is…"

She opened the door further and left, and hesitantly, Maelwyn entered the little room which Éothain used whenever their éored's path led them to Edoras. It contained no more than a closet, a chair and a bed in front of a fireplace. The fire appeared to have been stoked recently, and it was very warm in the room… a necessity, as on the bed, Éothain lay stripped to the waist, and the sight of his back stopped her breath. A crude criss-cross of thickly swollen welts and open tears marred his skin from neck to hips, and Maelwyn understood instantly that it would be quite impossible to tolerate even the touch of the softest fabric on those wounds.

"Oh, Éothain…" she whispered, and lowered herself onto the nearby chair. "I heard what happened, but I had no idea that it was so bad."

He gave her a tired little smile and stretched out his hand. She took it.

"I would do it all again, though, if the situation was renewed. I could not turn around when he left. I just could not do it."

She pressed his fingers.

"I understand. It was hard for me, too. But the Counsellor was right there, and I didn't dare…"

"It's all right, Maelwyn," Éothain interrupted her. "As his best friend, I felt a special obligation not to bow to the Worm's pressure, and I'm glad that I did this, even if it smarts. It will pass, and I shall bear these scars with pride. Have you come to see how I am?"

"Aye. I felt bad that I could not come earlier. There was an emergency." Maelwyn looked up when Éothain's mother returned and handed her a mug with steaming tea." Thank you, my Lady. I'm sorry, I'm occupying your—"

"Please, stay seated, Maelwyn." Glenwyn sat down on the edge of the bed. "An emergency? In Meduseld? Was it the King again?"

Maelwyn shook her head, well aware of the growing concern in both Éothain's and his mother's eyes. "No, unfortunately, it concerned the Lady Éowyn."

"Éowyn!" Mother and son exclaimed, and their eyes widened.

"Aye, but it was of her own making." Now they looked confused. Maelwyn inhaled deeply. Where to begin? "My Lady wanted to organise that her brother received his weapons at a special place at the Snowbourn that only they know."

"I know it, too," Éothain muttered. "Whom did she ask?"

"She was forbidden to leave the Golden Hall," Maelwyn elaborated, and found herself looking into stunned faces.

"Forbidden? Lady Éowyn was forbidden to leave Meduseld?" Glenwyn looked aghast. "And no one said anything?"

Maelwyn shook her head.

"Alas, there are things going on in the hall these days none of us would have thought possible, I'm afraid. They feared that she would try to help her brother." A satisfied smirk suddenly appeared on her face. "And that she did… with my help. But it required making herself ill, so that they would send me to get the healer. Unfortunately, it was a lot worse than my lady had calculated… but she is better now. You need not worry. When I left, she was sleeping, and the fever had dropped."

The stunned expression on her hosts' faces would not fade. She took a few sips of her tea.

"How… did she take some kind of poison, or…?" Glenwyn shook her head. "How desperate she must have been, to resort to such a measure! The poor lass…"

"And so you did what exactly when they send you for Yalanda?" Éothain inquired.

"I asked Élric, and he promised me to ride out and hide the weapons for Éomer."

Éothain furrowed his brow.

"But they said that no one would be permitted to leave that day. They even stationed guards at the stables, or our éored would have left with Éomer. How did Élric do it… without raising suspicion? They ought to know that the two share a special bond."

Maelwyn shrugged.

"I do not know, Éothain, but I'm certain that he found a way. I could not check on him, yet, but I intend to do it later today. I will gladly report it to you when I go home. Hopefully, there will be no need for me to spend another night at Meduseld." She leant back. "That is what I wanted for you to know, that help for Éomer is on the way, and that the Lady Éowyn is on the way to recovery. I did not know whether you had heard of her malady."

Her eyes travelled over to the window. It was still dark outside, but something in her begged her to hurry. There was no telling when the Counsellor's spies might wake, and when they did, she wanted to be back by Éowyn's side. No one needed to know that she had visited Éothain in the middle of the night.

"I'm afraid I must leave now. I promised Yálanda to be back by breakfast… and I also very much want to slip back into the hall before the Counsellor leaves his chambers. He looked ready to pull me aside and question me when I returned last night, but thankfully, I was urgently needed in my mistress' chambers." She swallowed. "I suppose he will find me later today, though. I will have to lie to him. I never did this before."

"You will not be lying, dear," Glenwyn stated emphatically, and her confident expression gave Maelwyn hope. "You will only leave something out. It is necessary to defeat our enemy, so it does not count as lie. You cannot defeat crooked men by telling the truth. Béma understands that."

She stood up and accepted the empty cup from their nightly visitor, placing it onto the rim of the fireplace, before she took the young woman's hands and squeezed them affectionately.

"Be strong, Maelwyn. What you and Éowyn did was brave, and it sets an example. Step by step, we will walk the path to victory. We must be patient and cautious, even if it is hard. But no one will be helped if any of us are caught at something forbidden. Please, come to us whenever you need something, or have news for us. Our door will always be open for you, day and night."

Maelwyn blushed.

"Thank you, Lady Glenwyn. It helps being able to speak about these things. I promise to come to you with any tidings that I learn." She turned back to Éothain. "You can give yourself the time to heal, Éothain. I'm certain that the Marshal has already received his weapons, and we all know that he is a mighty warrior and not lightly overcome. Have hope!"

"Thank you, Maelwyn."

There was wonder in Éothain's eyes when he regarded her now, and for a moment, the young woman felt a chuckle rise in her throat when she thought about her new-found courage. Certainly, before last night, she would have never dreamt of being involved in rebellious activities… but it felt good. It felt right.

"I must go now… but I will be back later tonight."

Her coat felt indeed wonderfully warm when Éothain's mother held it for her to slip into, and even as Maelwyn carefully pulled the hood over her head, the older woman once more touched her hand.

"Be careful, Maelwyn. Every beginning is hard, but at least, something has begun now… and we will take it from here."

"Aye, my Lady." With a little affirmative nod, the handmaiden slipped out into the night. One look was enough to establish that everything was still quiet. "I will be back."

000

EASTFOLD

It was still dark when Éomer halted Firefoot with a slight tug at the reins. Following the loss of his cloak, he had literally clung to the stallion's neck for the better part of the ride to soak up the warmth his horse exuded, but inevitably the moment had come where it became impossible for him to continue his ride only in his shirt and breeches. To his misfortune, the horses he had abducted had carried neither spare garments nor blankets with which he could have substituted his thick cloak; likewise he had found no additional weapons in their saddlebags, only a few provisions. Together with a set of tack, they were the only things of use to him. Relieving the horses of their saddles, Éomer had put one of them on Firefoot's back and filled its bags with his sparse loot, then he tied their reins to a thick branch in order to prevent the animals from running straight back to their masters, as any well-trained horse of the Mark would do once he released them. To leave them a chance to free themselves if a danger should arise, however, he did not pull the knots very tight. It was a gamble, but the Mark needed its horses. About the dark bay whose bridle and saddle he had used on Firefoot, he could do nothing to keep him close, but thought not that the gelding would stray far from his companions. In any case it would be a long walk for Felrod and his band of thugs to reclaim their mounts.

Yet not even this amusing thought could lighten his spirits anymore. While the ruffians would simply be cold for a while, but were certainly in no danger of freezing to death, Éomer himself felt chilled to the bone. His teeth were clattering and he knew that he would not live to see the light of the new day if he did not take immediate action. Keen on making the most of the advantage he had gained by abducting his adversaries' horses, he had relentlessly pressed on to reach the mountains instead of seeking shelter from the elements, and only now that they had travelled where the snow had been blown clear from the rock for a while, Éomer felt secure enough to stop. Perhaps not for the night, but long enough to help himself to some shelter from the temperatures.

Looking back the way they had come, he registered with satisfaction that they had left no tracks and shifted back in the saddle to concern himself with the new challenge he was faced with: beyond Firefoot's flickering ears, a thin column of smoke rose lazily into the sky from a group of buildings. Éomer knew the hard-working people who lived here well, and felt miserable about having to drag them into this most unfortunate business, but he could see no other option. It was either freezing to death or… steal? Grimacing at the word alone, Éomer took a deep breath. Yes, he would have to steal indeed, for it would be the only way to keep the couple out of trouble. It was no secret that their people were anything but adept at lying. He did not doubt that Forlong and Théa would grant him everything he asked of them even if he woke them in the middle of the night, but if Gríma's henchmen somehow found out that he had disappeared in this direction, things could get very ugly. No matter what happened, he would not be the Worm's justification for killing innocent people. For once, it would be best to simply swallow his pride and take what he needed like an ordinary thief and be gone before anyone found out who had paid them a nightly visit.

Patting Firefoot's neck, Éomer slid from the saddle and ground his teeth at the discovery of how numb his body had already become in the chill air.

"I know you would rather be in that barn than out here, Big One. I would that we could stay, too, but it is something that we just cannot do." Narrowing his eyes as his gaze swept over the peaceful picture of the farmhouse and its stables and barn, Éomer clenched his jaw. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

The stallion's explosive snort sounded rather annoyed behind him as he advanced on feet he hardly felt anymore. Éomer listened into the night. He knew that the couple owned two fearsome watchdogs, a breed of wolfhound that was kept throughout the Mark as guardians for the stock, and scanned the patches of snow for their tracks without finding any. With luck, they would be kept inside the stables at these fierce temperatures, and his tired and freezing mind refused to come up with a solution in case they were not. After all he had been forced to endure these past days, wouldn't it just be fitting to be ripped to pieces by his own people's guard dogs? Surely Gríma would delight in such news, which was one of the reasons why he could not let it happen. Yet without weapons, what should he do if he was detected?

'Firefoot would come to my aid, even if he is cross with me at the moment…'

Éomer paused briefly in the shadow of the last tree before he would actually enter farm territory. There was still no sign of the dogs. Looking back, he briefly confirmed that his stallion was indeed paying heed to his order before he advanced again, treading even more carefully. There was no light anywhere in the house as he passed, but Éomer was still glad when it lay behind him. Now, where to go? Where would he find anything of use? Since entering the main house was out of the question, Éomer decided to try his luck first in the biggest building – the barn. What he would do if his search proved vain, he did not know, and he pushed the thought back as he stealthily approached the great wooden structure over the patches of ice in an attempt not to leave a trace and at the same time, not to slip.

From the long building to his right, the muffled noises of sheep could be heard, and their scent reached his nose with amazing clarity through the chill air. Still no dogs. He reached the barn and tilted back his neck to peer at the small window below the roof. To reach it, he would have to climb the pile of firewood stacked next to the building's wall, an activity he was not looking forward to as it would be quite easy to slip on these ice-covered tree trunks and send the whole pile tumbling and seriously injure himself in the process. Yet what else could he do? A quick check revealed what he had already assumed: the door was locked and secured with an additional iron-chain. No way to get in through there, so the window it was.

Flexing his numb fingers to get at least some feeling back into them, Éomer began the ascent by carefully placing his foot on the first trunk. It did not roll away underneath his weight, and encouraged, he moved on, swiftly and cautiously at the same time nearing the narrow rectangle above him until he was directly below it and able to reach the wooden frame with his fingertips. Another quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that he still had the night to himself, and he turned back and tensed, then jumped. His fingers closed around the middle beam of the window, and with a chin-up, Éomer pulled himself up to see a barricade in the form of a heavy-looking sack in front of him. Finding hold on the small ledge, he placed his shoulder against it and pushed cautiously, but persistently. Slowly, the sack gave way.

The first sensation as he squeezed through the window was that of warmth… and then the smell of the animals and the noises of their restless shifting trickled into his awareness as well. Stretching his neck to orientate himself in the semi-darkness from his elevated position, Éomer looked down on two rows of stalls holding cattle and two heavy-set horses. From their calm demeanour, Éomer concluded that the beasts had not yet picked up the scent of their unbidden nightly visitor, and so he used the moment to look around further. The flickering light of an oil lamp that enabled him to see stemmed from an even higher place opposite him, where two booted feet stuck out from underneath a blanket: a guard. He tensed, even though he had not expected to find himself alone in here. These days, no farmer could risk his stock by leaving it unprotected. He would have to be quiet.

With careful, conscious movements, Éomer silently advanced to the edge of the straw and peered down. There was still no sign of the dogs, but as he looked to his right, he saw to his excitement a couple of thick, fur-lined leather capes hanging from hooks at the wall underneath the sleeping guard's position. There was a small shed there as well, which probably contained work tools such as axes, hammers and sickles, things he could use well for a weapon in lack of a better option. His heart beating faster at the sight of this treasure, Éomer climbed down and came to stand on the stone floor only a moment later. A brief glance upwards confirmed that the guard was still asleep, and so he took his heart in both hands and closed the distance to the wall with a few fast and soundless steps, his fingers already digging into the thick fur to unhook the cape – when a sudden low, menacing snarl turned his stomach into a block of ice. Swearing inwardly, Éomer turned around. From the corridor between the two rows of stalls, a pair of glowing amber eyes was set on him, and even as he looked, the growl rose in volume, the flickering light now also reflecting from an impressive looking set of pointed fangs as the wolfhound they belonged to approached.

'Gods, I almost had it! Am I spared nothing?'

Lunging for the first thing within his reach, Éomer's fingers closed around a hayfork. He stabbed it menacingly in the direction of his attacker. Yet instead of jumping, the well-trained guard dog immediately retreated to wake the barn with his angry barking. The alarm was instantly picked up by the cows and horses and filled the building with an ear-splitting din impossible to overhear even in the distant main house.

'Morgoth's stinking breath…!'

Still holding the dog at bay single-handedly with the fork, Éomer seized one of the capes and started to edge his way back to the pile of fodder sacks, when a young frightened voice from above froze him in his tracks.

"Faestor? What is it? Is there something-" The light of the lamp started to move down the ladder, and with a sigh of resignation, Éomer retreated all the way to the wall while a burning feeling of shame twisted his insides. So it had come to this: the formerly proud Marshal of the Mark had been reduced to a petty thief who broke into stables at night to steal from the people he had once sworn to protect, and to scare their children. No longer attempting to escape detection, Éomer waited until the young lad he knew to be the oldest son of the couple saw him. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"

The lad, no older than thirteen or fourteen summers, held a small axe in his hand, which he lifted now in pitiful threat upon the sight of the stranger in his barn. Not intending to scare the boy further, Éomer did not move a muscle.

"I mean you no harm, Hâlrod, relax. I only wanted to borrow one of your capes." Slowly, he lifted the hand with the garment. "I am sorry for the disturbance, but-"

"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" Holding up the lamp to see better while his still growling hound walked with stiff steps over to his master, Hâlrod looked confused at hearing his own name uttered. Yet before he could think of anything else to say, the sound of the heavy door being unlocked and pushed open interrupted his train of thought, and the next moment, a broad-shouldered, unkempt looking man in his middle-years entered the barn, a sickle in his right hand. Inwardly sighing to himself, Éomer looked down the corridor. So here came Forlong. Béma certainly seemed in a mood to spare him not even the least indignity these days. Holding up his own oil-lamp, the farmer squinted at him and when he spoke, his tone was harsh.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in our barn in the dead of night, thief? What did you hope to find here?" He squinted even more, and suddenly his eyes widened in disbelief. "No, it cannot be! Marshal? Marshal Éomer? Is it really you?"

Straightening to his full height and squaring his shoulders, Éomer swallowed his pride. His approach had not worked, so he would have to think of something else now, even if the thought of including the family in his act of disobedience against the banishment still caused him stomach cramps.

"Yes, it is indeed I, Forlong, even if I am no longer a marshal, and you must believe me that I am truly sorry about this. Circumstances brought me here in the middle of the night to try and borrow one of your capes." He took a deep breath and added in a low voice: "I would have tried to return it later."

"But…" The man obviously doubted whether he was truly awake yet, but his hand with the sickle sank. "…why did you not simply knock and wake us, my lord? We would have gladly given you everything you need." He paused as his memory slowly returned. "There was a rider here two days ago, telling us that… Oh Béma! They did not even leave you your coat? But that is murder!" Casting an angry glance at the still growling dog, the farmer shouted: "Silence, Faestor! Hâlrod, take him back to his stall before he causes the animals to panic. There is no foe to be found here."

With another insecure glance at him, the lad grasped his hound by the collar and did as bidden.

"It is a long story," Éomer sighed as he slowly relaxed. His hand with the cloak sank. "Of course I would have rather liked to ask you for this instead of simply taking it, but you know the rules of the banishment. It was not my wish to draw you into this any more than necessary."

"But is it true then that the Prince is dead? The errand rider said that he died in battle in Westfold."

A shadow crept over Éomer's face as Forlong's questions brought back the hurt of his own loss.

"Aye. Alas, I fear that it is so. It is not true, though, that I played a part in it. But as I said, it is a long story, and I cannot-"

"So the heir to the throne is gone. Alas; that we should live to see such days of darkness…" The farmer's expression told of his dismay. "And of course I know that it could not have been your fault, Marshal, you do not have to tell me. Although we live far from the court, we know better than to trust information coming from Edoras these days." He shook his head, motioning Éomer closer. "I would never have thought that I would say such a thing one day. But tell me, what is the matter with the King that he makes such strange decisions?"

"Gods, Forlong, will you look at the poor man?" another voice suddenly interrupted their conversation harshly from the direction of the door. "The Marshal is shivering like autumn leaves, and his teeth clatter. He must be half-frozen! Will you not ask him to come into the house for some warm broth and tea first? You can continue your talk there." Théa, the frail-looking, yet astonishingly resilient wife of the man before him stepped into the barn with an expression of irritation on her freckled face as she regarded her husband. "Marshal Éomer, please, it will be an honour for us to welcome you in our home."

"And I thank you, Théa, but I am afraid that I cannot accept your invitation, as much as I would like to. If I am found here, you will come to harm and I will not risk it under any circumstance."

Yet to his utter surprise and then sudden, secret amusement, the diminutive woman put her hands on her hips in a resolute gesture, seemingly far from intimidated by her high guest.

"I understand, Marshal. You would rather freeze to death out there. But how in Éorl's name is that supposed to help us?"

"You say you understand, Théa, but you don't. I was banished, which means that all who help me will be treated as traitors if it becomes known, and I will not be responsible for your death."

"There is no one here to see you. It is the middle of the night. There have never been many of the Armed Forces around here, not even when we really needed them… except for your éored. You and your men risked your lives for us many a time; it would only be fair to repay you for it now, even if we cannot do much, I'm afraid."

"If you could lend me this cape, it would be more than I could have hoped to find. That, and perhaps something I could use for a weapon, a knife, or an axe, should you have one to spare…"

"The cape is yours, let us talk no more about it," Forlong rejoined the discussion. "And before you leave, we will also find a blade or such for you as well, but for now, I fear I have to agree with my wife: we will not let you leave like this. We would see it as a serious insult to our hospitality." He paused and looked back. "Wouldn't we, Théa?"

"Oh, we certainly would." The woman was actually glowering at him now, Éomer noticed, torn between laughing and feeling annoyed over the couple's stubbornness. And yet, wasn't this the very character trait their people were famous for, the one trait which had ensured their survival through all those hard, violent centuries? "I even believe that I could feel insulted enough to take back our gift."

Incredulous, Éomer narrowed his eyes. Was he being blackmailed?

"I do not believe my ears. Are you forcing me to accept?"

"Aye," Théa beamed. "Thus I think it would be best for you to give in. We are two, after all, and there is only one of you… and of course, we also have the dogs."

Now Éomer could no longer help himself, the grin broke through as he slowly shook his head in wonder.

"I see. It is quite telling what happens to authority once one is stripped of ones titles. Very well, I surrender to your sheer power of conviction. But-" and he pointed the finger at the woman, whose face flushed with sudden satisfaction. "—I will move on before dawn, even if I have to fight you. I meant it when I said that I must not be found here."

"And we understood you," Forlong confessed. "But there must be time enough to thaw you out again. Come, we will let you sit before the fire and Thea will make you some hot soup and tea while I pack a few things for you. Aye, and I am certain that your horse might appreciate a few handful of oats as well, wouldn't you agree?"

Chapter 8: Dawn of the New Day

MEDUSELD

In one of the many chambers of the Golden Hall, someone else was experiencing a sleepless night, although he was not usually prone to extensive rumination. Waiting for his men to return from their secret errand, Gríma Wormtongue had stayed outside his chambers for a long time even after most of the court staff had gone to bed, Théoden-King even earlier than most. The ill old man had instantly fallen asleep, almost too quickly for Wormtongue to administer him the tea that contained the poison.

Every time he thought about it, Gríma felt astonished that it still worked so flawlessly. For the first months that he had used it on Théoden, his claim had been that it was a medicine against the constant ache in the King's joints; a rather natural condition that came from old age and exposure to the harsh climate of the Mark. By then, it had indeed been mostly medicine, the part of it that would make the patient dependant and at the same time opened his mind for manipulations minuscule. And the King had felt better quickly after he started taking it, and so had uttered no protest when Gríma had suggested that the potion would have to be taken each day to prevent the pain from returning.

Each week, he had given a small phial of it to Théoden's long-time manservant with the stern warning to never give the King more than five drops a day. After this show of concern, nobody had ever suspected that this was the very tool that would grant the spy in their midst access to power over the realm of the Riddermark. As soon the potion had been accepted by all as a given in Théoden's daily routine to the point that it had been forgotten, Gríma had altered the mix. Month after month, he had made it stronger, and while his master's joints still seemed in perfect condition, the old man's health and mind suddenly started to crumble.

As before and due to his initial success, people once again came to ask him for help, much to Wormtongue's secret amusement. Théoden's manservant had passed away in the meantime, an opportunity for Gríma to fill in for him with no questions asked. No word of suspicion was ever uttered against him, not even when in response to the other draughts he mixed for the Mark's ruler, Théoden-King's mental health was stripped away piece by piece to the point where he did not even recognise people anymore. When at last, all attempts of restoring the monarch's health had failed and Gríma claimed with convincingly feigned sorrow that the King's illness had to be a result to old age which not even the best medicine could reverse – they believed him and never once suspected that he was in fact the cause of Théoden's condition.

It was only the King's family, of course, who suspected differently, but since it was well-known that Éomer had hated him from the beginning, his blunt accusations made during the rare occasions when he was not roaming the Mark with his éored were not taken seriously by the rest of the Mark's court, and Gríma had shrugged them off like a horse that ridded itself of a pestering fly. And Éowyn was not taken serious by the man-dominated Council of Edoras. No, he was safe. But still, his cautious nature told him to only brew small amounts of the potion each time, so that in case that his treason would one day be detected, it would be difficult, if not impossible for the Rohirrim to dispose of him without killing their King at the same time.

Staring at the window, a far away, not at all pleasant smirk crept over the Counsellor's face. The Rohirrim's blind loyalty to their King was an amusing but, at the same time, extremely valuable characteristic to him. On some days Gríma himself was still astounded what foolish orders the warriors accepted unquestioningly from an old, weak man who could not even dress himself without help anymore– and much less had an idea of what was going on in his kingdom.

Still Gríma knew better than to overdo it. The keen strategist in him was quite aware of the fact that his hold on the Mark stood and fell with Théoden's life, and that all power would be lost if the old man died. These days, the King of the Mark was so thoroughly under his influence that all words whispered into his ears instantly settled in his mind as fact. At first, Gríma had been hesitant about forcing Éomer's banishment for fear that this extreme measure would perhaps stir up some part of the 'real' Théoden, the part he held prisoner and that would be horrified to learn what he had done to his people and family. So to ensure that the outcome of the hearing would meet with his expectations, Gríma had secretly sat all night by the King's bed almost until dawn of the day of truth, and he had filled his liege's mind up like an empty vessel with his words and images, pitilessly continuing even after Théoden had started to weep in his sleep at the repeated vivid description of how cruelly his son's had died. The effort had not been in vain.

So far, he certainly had reason to congratulate himself for a plan well executed, Gríma mused without real satisfaction. Finally succumbing to his restlessness, he once again came to his feet and directed his steps over to the window even though the darkness behind it hid the world from his view. Despite the chill night air, he opened the elaborately worked glass-wings and rested his elbows on the sill, impatiently listening into the night. Yet once again, he held out in vain for the sound of horses approaching the hall. Where were they? Creasing his brow as he watched the cloud of his breath rise into the air, Gríma grimly asked himself for the hundredth time what had happened to Felrod and his men.

How could it be that everything he delegated had a tendency to go wrong? He had chosen these men carefully for their strength, loyalty and ambition, and just as carefully had he instructed them about the observation of the King's niece and everyone close to her. Still, they had allowed letting themselves be fooled. Had it not been for his deliberate order to keep the smithy under close scrutiny after he had learned of Éowyn's handmaiden leaving the hall, no one would ever have thought of following that blacksmith's son. Was he to do everything himself? Perhaps punishment would make them heed his orders in the future. He had promised them positions of great power when he had taken them into his service, but power would remain unattainable for all of them if they did not fulfil their duty, and failure would come at a great price: Gríma harboured no doubts that his impatient master would get very upset if he heard that things in the Mark were not entirely under control yet, and what Saruman would do if angered was something his mind tried to shut out. No, one way or the other, he would have to remind his men what was at stake.

Which brought him back to his newest reason of discomfort: why had the men he had sent after Élric not returned yet? He did not doubt that they had intercepted the blacksmith's son as soon as they had been far enough away from Edoras to rule out that their actions would be witnessed, but what then? Had they found out what the man had been up to? Gríma's suspicion was that the marshal's sister had somehow tried to send help to her banished brother; either in the way of weapons or messages. Whatever it had been, Felrod and his men would have found out. Their victim was no warrior, and thus unacquainted with the persuasive powers of pain. Perhaps the meeting point with Éomer lay further away than they had suspected, and he was simply being too impatient. Perhaps, this very moment, the Half-Dunlending and his men were preparing their trap and waiting for their prey to arrive on the scene. But why then was there this insistently whispering voice in the back of his mind which he knew so well from experience, telling him that it might be different? That the hunters had failed, and that the son of Éomund – admittedly one of the Mark's most valiant warriors – had disposed of them and taken their arms and was now coming for his blood?

Forcefully exhaling at the image of an enraged Éomer storming up the hill to stick his sword into his flesh, Gríma suddenly slammed the window shut so hard that the glass almost shattered. It could not be. The marshal would never again set foot upon Edoras; for he himself, Gríma Wormtongue, had taken all precautions thinkable to prevent that the banished man would ever return. Even in the case of his men's failure, there would be others to execute his order.

Unbeknownst to them, Felrod and his companions were not the only ones hunting Éomer: as soon as Théoden had made it clear that he did not want his nephew's execution, Gríma had made the necessary arrangements, and now in addition to his own henchmen, each and ever one of the many orcs in the Mark was searching for the King's nephew. With their skill and by sheer number, Saruman's creatures had already succeeded in killing the heir to the Mark's throne, and now they would also slay the one man left in the kingdom who still posed a danger to his master's plans. With their superior hunting skills and sense of smell, it could only be a question of days until the message of Éomer's death reached him. No, Gríma concluded, as he settled back into his chair for the continuation of his night watch: there was no need to be nervous.

OOO

EASTFOLD

When Éomer stepped outside into the chill air, he could hardly believe that he had it made through part of the night only dressed in his shirt and breeches. Daylight's first messenger already coloured the eastern sky in pale grey, but it was still every bit as cold as it had been when he had first laid eyes on the farm. Involuntarily clenching his fingers in the thick cape he wore over his shoulders now, he knew that the garment would need a few moments to absorb his body heat before it would warm him.

Briefly halting in front of the barn to check for tracks and listen for the noises of approaching horses without detecting either, Éomer then shrugged off the sudden tension and exhaled. There was no sign that anyone had come in the vicinity of the farm except for him and Firefoot. And really, how could there be? The éoreds did not move at night, and the thugs sent after him had in all likelihood not even found their horses yet. He'd have to trust in the logic of this and learn to use these moments of relative safety to relax and conserve his strength for the moments when he would need it.

Firefoot…the corners of Éomer's mouth curved into an amused smile at the thought of his mount's eagerness to be out of the cold. Whereas the grey stallion usually enjoyed a well-earned reputation of being loyal to the death to his master, but feeling nothing but contempt for the rest of mankind, it had not needed Éomer's usual stern admonishment to let the Meara-Halfbreed allow their hosts' older son to approach him for a good rub-down – especially not after he had been bribed with a manger filled with oats. Horses… Éomer shook his head in amusement. This was not the first time that he thought that they were not much different from man. If he thought of all the comparisons that had been drawn between him and his steed…

"Good times you're thinking of, my lord?" Forlong spoke into his thoughts. "That is good, because it shows me that our efforts in lightening up your mood were not entirely in vain."

He pushed the barn-door open, and they quickly slipped inside.

"Aye, I feel indeed better, Forlong, even if I still do not approve of the means you used to get me into your house!" Éomer winked at Théa who accompanied them to bid him farewell.

"Do I hear you right, Marshal?" the tiny woman laughed, and since Éomer had hours ago given up on correcting her about his title, he laughed now with her. "You can feel you body again, you were fed, you are wearing a wonderful cape of leather and fur and the bag in your hands contains provisions and other treasure to no ends, and you still complain?"

"You know what I mean, Théa." He lifted the heavy bag. "I have no words to thank you enough for this, but I do not like the thought of having endangered you by staying. It is not my usual way to draw innocent people into conflicts."

"But you were not expelled and on your own before, at least not that we would know of." She turned to him, took his hand and pressed it gently, but insistently. "Be careful out there, my lord. And if you should find that there is anything else that we can do for you, please return and tell us. Remember, the people of the Mark are still on your side. Be not afraid to ask for their help, for they will be more than willing to grant it. That is something my heart is telling me, and yours should tell you the same. When in need, turn to the simple people. They know what you have done for them in the past and will be eager to repay you the favour. That may be the best advice I can give you."

"I will not forget it, Théa, thank you. And you, Forlong, know that you and your family restored some of my faith tonight. I promise you that I will do what I can to help the Mark, even though it is not officially my place anymore." He tried to think of something more to say, of other, more solid tokens of comfort that he could give them but the promise of a man expelled from these lands, but before the words would come to him, Firefoot's loud neighing woke the barn's occupants for the second time in one night. Smiling at the sight he was granted, Éomer turned to his stallion, who was munching on a carrot Hâlrod held out to him and looked his way with unmistakable wariness in his posture.

No, Firefoot was no more eager to leave this comfortable, warm place than his master, but his obvious disgruntlement was something Éomer would just have to ignore. On his patrols through the Mark he had quickly found out that staying too long in one place could easily get one killed. Deciding not to let the thought dispirit him when he had just enjoyed such warm-hearted hospitality, Éomer forced himself to a cheerful tone.

"It appears that I arrived just in time to prevent you from spoiling my hardened war-horse for all eternity, young man! Firefoot is not used to such attention, and after what you did tonight, I will probably have to bribe him with food from now on every single time that I need his service."

The lad beamed at him, aware that the admonishment was not a real one.

"He is a wonderful steed, my lord. I have never seen our war-horses up close, except for those few times when the éoreds rode through our farmland. No wonder everyone envies us for our horses if they are all like him."

Laughing, Éomer ruffled Hâlrod's hair.

"Béma beware, if they were all like Firefoot, our riders would never be ready to fight because of all the bruises their horses would give them!" Ignoring his stallion's indignant snort, Éomer opened the stall and threw the saddle onto the grey back. He knew that his horse was not keen on heading out again, but it could not be helped, for he intended to be far gone from this place even before sunrise. The mountain path to Aldburg he intended to take was rarely travelled by riders in winter, but its mouth lay in the vicinity of a settlement Éomer wanted to have passed once the day began. It would take him at least a day longer to reach Aldburg on it and lead him through rough terrain, but since the plains and thus the Great Road were out of the question, Éomer in fact welcome the additional time the lesser travelled road would grant him before he would eventually have to come to a decision of how to contact Elfhelm. It was not like he could simply ride up to the city gates and knock.

Occupied with his thoughts while the couple waited outside the stall, Éomer pulled the girth tight and saw Hâlrod already adjust Firefoot's bridle. Yet where the sight of a stranger handling his horse would usually leave him uncomfortable, it was easy enough to see that the lad had worked wonders on the grey, for Firefoot not only took the bit without resistance, but even lowered his head for the boy to reach up. Filling his newly acquired treasure into the saddlebags and fastening a thick woollen blanket the couple had also gifted him behind the saddle, Éomer raised a brow at Hâlrod in acknowledgment.

"Thank you, Hâlrod, and congratulations! It seems you've made a friend here. I have never before seen him like this." With a feeling of satisfaction and security, he fastened the knife Forlong had given him among other things to his belt.

"Ah, but I cannot believe that he should be so difficult with others, my lord."

"Trust me, it is not without reason that most riders of my éored suspect that the other half of his blood belongs to a mule." Éomer clapped Firefoot's muscled shoulder and took the reins from the boy's hand. "I believe we are ready."

Hâlrod laughed as he held the stall-door open for them.

"If you don't want him anymore, my lord, I would be glad to take him."

"I could not give him away even if my life depended on it," Éomer gave back as he led Firefoot outside, the sound of hard hooves on the stony ground very loud. He turned serious. "The big grey here saved my life many times, not only last night. I assume that gives him the right to be a little difficult."

Once more he patted his horse's neck and then turned around to the waiting family. Although they stood a few paces away, he could see their faces clearly now in the beginning dawn, and the concern in their expression moved him deeply enough to nearly choke him. Once more putting all his gratitude in his gaze, Éomer gave them a small, appreciate nod. "Firefoot was not the only one to save me last night. I am deeply indebted to you, and I promise I will do whatever I can to pay that debt off. No matter what happens, do not despair. All is not lost yet."

"We trust in you to set it right, Marshal, just like you always have," Théa said, the conviction in her eyes genuine. "We have endured for five hundred years despite of our many foes, and we will not vanish now. Not if we all stand united." She inhaled. "Be careful, son of Éomund, and know that our good wishes accompany you."

"I will return, Théa, and this time, it will not be in a secret, cowardly manner in the middle of the night. Our riders will accompany me, and we will rid the Mark of all its enemies once and for all, that I promise to you. The days of uncertainty will soon come to an end. Farewell and once again: thank you for your help!"

He nodded and then pressed his heels against Firefoot's flanks, sending the great stallion in a gallop that brought them out of the sheltered vale of the farm before the tiny crystals whirled up by his hooves had settled back onto the ground.

OOO

MEDUSELD

The pale light of a grey morning filtered through the frost-blinded windows when Maelwyn registered movement out of the corners of her eyes. Sitting in the comfortable stuffed chair next to the merrily crackling fire and basking in its warmth, the young handmaiden had allowed her mind to wander once the old healer had left the chambers to seek some rest at home. Maelwyn wished she could have gone with her to speak to Élric, but that would have been foolish. It would still be early enough when she left the Golden Hall around noon, when Hildegard would take over for her. She needed to be patient.

It still felt strange to know that she had become involved in a rebellion, but the more she thought about it, the better she felt about herself. It could not be wrong to be on the same side as the Marshal, and Éothain, and Lady Glenwyn. It could not be wrong to act when confronted with evil. What a sad existence she had led so far, just looking on like a frightened lamb while crooked men tormented the good people of the Mark. Maelwyn inhaled, and a resolute expression spread upon her young face. Well, those times were over! She was proud that Éowyn had confided in her, was counting on her, and she was ready now to do her part.

Another quick glance strayed over to the bed, where her mistress had lain unmoving for all these past hours, sleeping the sleep of healing, but as if Éowyn had somehow felt her handmaiden's attention, she suddenly shifted for the first time, and with a start, Maelwyn found that her eyes were open.

"My Lady!" Quickly she rose to her feet and was at Éowyn's side, relieved to see the lucid expression in those blue eyes and the faint smile upon her pale lips. "We were so worried! How do you feel?" Now that the King's niece seemed fully conscious again, she suddenly dared no longer touch Éowyn's brow to feel for herself. But the fevered flush that had coloured her lady's otherwise ghostly white face last night had gone, and neither could Maelwyn detect even the slightest trace of sweat at her hairline. Relieved beyond words, she beamed and found her joy mirrored in the exhausted face before her. With a deeply grateful smile, Éowyn took her hand, and her fingers felt cool to the touch.

"I am tired. And exhausted. But I suppose I should not complain, as that was what I was asking for." Rolling on her back and briefly closing her eyes, she added: "I had no idea the potion was so strong. I almost drank it all, because I thought not that…" Her words trailed off, and from the way her gaze swept the room to come to rest on the grey light of the new day beyond her window, Maelwyn concluded that she still felt disoriented. "How late is it? Is it the next day, or have I missed more than one day?"

"No. It was yesterday that you took the potion, my Lady. The fever began to drop during the evening, and since then, you've been asleep. Nothing much happened... except that Élric left Edoras shortly after I told him of your plea." Maelwyn's smile deepened when she saw the relief well up in Éowyn's eyes. "He agreed to help you at once. Your brother must already have received the weapons by now. Your plan was faultless, my Lady, even if it was more than daring. We all feared for your life. Oh, and Éothain sends you his heartfelt greetings. I spoke with him earlier this morning. If there is anything he can do for you, he wants you to let him know." To her surprise, the joyful expression on the White Lady's face quickly darkened to wariness.

"What did Gríma do after you returned from the smithy? I do not suppose that it escaped his attention that you left Meduseld. Did he send his men to the smithy to investigate after you were there, or did he question you upon your return? I can hardly believe that we should have fooled him so easily."

"Oh, the Counsellor definitely seemed to have a few questions when I came back, but Yálanda insisted that she needed me urgently to assist her and pulled me away from him." Still, the piercing gaze of the pale blue eyes had followed her even into her sleep, and Maelwyn shuddered at the memory. "And then I spent the entire day here in your chambers, and the Captain of the Guard wouldn't allow him in, so I wasn't summoned… yet." The thought extinguished her good mood like a bucket of water dropped into a fire. "But he will summon me today, there can be no doubt. I saw it in his eyes yesterday. He suspects something" She swallowed, suddenly and suddenly felt very sick. Her eyes wide, she sought Éowyn's gaze. "I have never before lied, my Lady. I do not know how to do it. What if he sees right through me? What if he asks me why Élric left so suddenly despite the harsh weather?"

"You say that he was already readying his horse when you saw him. And that you did not speak about his errand with him, so you know nothing." Despite her exhaustion, Éowyn's gaze had never been more intense.

"But what if we were seen talking?"

Grim resolution stood written in Éowyn's eyes.

"Then you say the truth: that you told him of my illness and asked him to call his mother for you. Gríma knows that Élric cares about me, and that he would enquire to hear more about my condition. There is no reason for you to be afraid, Maelwyn. Gríma cannot know. He may try to frighten you with empty threats, but the truth is that he cannot prove anything. All you must do is stay calm and tell him what I just told you. I know you can do this, Maelwyn. Yesterday, you said you were frightened of doing the thing I asked of you, and yet you not only overcame your fear, you succeeded. This is now the next step: we won an advantage, and now we must secure our victory!"

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 9: Dismissal and Return

MEDUSELD

Èowyn was fast asleep again when with a knock at the door and Maelwyn's invitation, Hildegard, one of the older serving maids of the Royal Household entered the chambers. The young handmaiden was glad to see the older woman, for she had feared that her visitor was someone else… someone far less welcome. Half of the morning had already passed without the Counsellor's summons, and while she felt grateful for the respite, Maelwyn knew that it was yet too early to relax. Who knew why Gríma had not called her yet? Perhaps the evil man had fallen ill himself and couldn't leave his bed today? Oh, this was certainly too delightful a thought to be true.

With a deep breath, she rose to her feet, her body stiff and aching from the long sitting. As reluctant as she was about leaving, Maelwyn at the same time longed to go home. A long day and an even longer night of worry lay behind her and she missed her husband and her boys, for once feeling in desperate need of comfort and closeness herself. Was everything all right with them? They had slept when she had slipped into their house last night, and she had not wanted to wake them when she left again. Torben had sleepily inquired where she was going when she had gotten up again, and she had truthfully answered and told him to remain in bed. He had quickly fallen asleep again.

Maelwyn knew that her husband loved taking care of their little ones. And still somehow, the thought of her family having to brave the tasks of the day alone in these trying times, without her around, left her deeply uncomfortable. Without her cooking, what had they eaten? What if anything happened to them during the day? What if they fell ill? Inwardly shaking her head at herself, Maelwyn had to smile. What a silly wench she was! Were all women like her, thinking that the world stopped turning once they were not around?

"Good morning, Hildegard. I hope you had a good night?"

"As good a night as one can have in the servants' quarters," the older woman said grumpily, walking straight across the room to open the window for fresh air. "I hope there will be no need for the healer to stay again tonight. The old hag's snore is louder than even my husband's, and our house shakes already when he is asleep." She stopped herself when she realised that the other woman had probably had even less sleep than she, and turned around looked at Éowyn instead.

"How is the Lady Éowyn faring? Is there anything I need to know? Some special medicine she needs, or…"

Maelwyn followed her gaze.

"Béma be praised, her condition seems to have much improved over night. She was even awake a few hours ago, and I talked to her. She didn't want to eat yet, but at least she had some of the tea that I brought her. When you fetch her fresh tea, tell the kitchen to brew it from the herbs Yálanda left them for the lady. She will come and see her later, but I suppose until then, it would be best just to let our lady rest."

Turning around, Maelwyn picked up her woollen shawl and slung it around her shoulders. For a moment, her compassionate gaze rested on the sleeping woman's still features. It was not right that Éowyn had to bear such a burden. She was such a kind-hearted, gracious person once one had penetrated the hard shell she had erected around herself as a protection against the evil which had haunted her life ever since her childhood days. The Gods knew how she felt inside now with her brother banished, her cousin dead and her uncle fallen into shadow; and yet she still upheld the guise of strength to all observers. Such strength to Maelwyn was awe-inspiring. She knew that under the same conditions, she would have despaired long ago.

"When will you be back, Maelwyn? Just in case Éowyn asks me," Hildegard asked, stooping to feed the fire with a few more logs of wood.

"Later this afternoon, I think. I need to see what my husband and my boys are doing. They know I spent the night here, but they will be worried regardless." She grasped the door handle and depressed it. What if the counsellor waited for her outside? 'You do what your lady has told you,' she tried to calm herself. 'He cannot know. Just go. With a little luck, he is not even around.' "But if Éowyn wants to see me, let me know and I'll come." She opened the door – and looked into the grim face of the guard. "Good morning, Grimhart. I am going home for now. I will be back later, in case anyone should ask."

The man said nothing; he did not even repeat her greeting. Swallowing her mounting anger over the rudeness of the new members of the Royal Guard, Maelwyn directed her steps to the exit, for once glad to leave Meduseld. In the summertime, the coolness and shade of the Golden Hall were pleasant, but during the long, grim winter, the darkness inside its vast chambers was oppressive, and in the last months, its atmosphere of illness and unspoken despair had thickened to the point that it drained her spirit of all joy. No, she longed to be out in the open now, to breathe the fresh, clean air regardless of the cold.

Nodding her thanks to the wards who opened the heavy door for her, Maelwyn stepped outside, and the assault of the cold wind on her face instantly revived her spirits. The thick layer of clouds of the past days had been replaced by a mesmerising blue sky, and the sunlight's reflection from the blanket of white that covered the world was almost too intense to look at. From the city below, the sound of children's laughter reached her ears as they chased each other in their play; and horses and men hurried through the streets in pursuit of their endless daily errands. It was the sound of normality, and Maelwyn was thankful for it after her world had come unhinged for a day. Walking over to the steps to the beginning of the winding path home, the young woman suddenly froze when the door behind her opened again and her name was called by a familiar, most dreaded voice.

"Mistress Maelwyn, wait!"

Her heart suddenly beating wildly in her throat, Maelwyn turned around.

'He does not know. It is something else he wants! Stop behaving like a child caught with its hand in the honey pot! You will only make him suspicious!'

"Lord Gríma, what can I do for you? I am glad to report that the Lady Éowyn is feeling much better today. She is still asleep though, but I left Hildegard with instructions to-"

"That is well, because Hildegard will be the one tending the White Lady from now on," the Counsellor interrupted her brusquely, and his pale eyes skewered her like an insect. "You will not return here. From this moment on, you are released from your service to the Royal Family."

For the longest moment, Maelwyn was rendered speechless, the connection between her mind and her tongue severed. She could not even breathe as she stared in stunned shock at the man in front of her.

"Do you understand me, maid? Your service will no longer be needed in Meduseld. Go and find an occupation someplace else."

From somewhere, a single sentence came to her.

"But what have I-"

"You know perfectly well what you have done, wench! Do you wish to insult me?" Gríma hissed under his breath, his eyes narrowing in unmistakable threat. "If I were you, I would swallow whatever words were on my tongue and get out of my sight before I change my mind. I am aware that your mistress is the one mainly to blame for your actions of yesterday, but treason remains treason, and conspiracy remains conspiracy. Because I know that you were not its origin, and because of your family, I am yet willing to exercise mercy, but you do not seriously expect that I allow you to remain a member of the Royal Household after the breach of trust you committed, do you, Maelwyn? Even if you are just a lowly serving maid, you could not be so foolish!"

Maelwyn felt with all distinctiveness how the blood drained from her head. She could literally feel herself turn white under the Counsellor's hostile stare, and a strange feeling of light-headedness overcame her, so powerful that she feared to faint right here on the stairs. And wouldn't it be just what that horrible man would wish for if she fell and broke her neck? Somewhere, she found the strength to push the sudden weakness back, and her vision cleared again, but still she could not help it that her legs felt like lifeless sticks and that her voice barely made it through her dangerously tightened throat.

"But what about Lady Éowyn? She is ill and needs tending. Who-"

"That is no longer one of your concerns, maid. Be gone, and see to it that you never come under my eye ever again, or I swear, I shall bring the full weight of the law down upon you, and you will be punished for your treason, family or not." Gríma lifted his chin and looked down upon her from his elevated position with contempt and finality. "Am I making myself clear, maid, or would you like to test me?"

Suddenly shivering violently, though not in result of the temperatures, Maelwyn feverishly tried to think. How much did he know? Had he only seen her talking with Élric, or – Béma beware – was he even informed about their plan to send the weapons to Éomer? And if he was – had he intercepted Élric? What if by her failure, she had become responsible for the death of both the blacksmith and her lady's brother? The thought of them lying lifelessly strewn in the reddened snow made her want to cry out in despair. Gods, it could not be! Why could she not wake from this nightmare?

Her mouth working although she did not consciously think of the words, the young woman breathed a low: "No, Counsellor. I understand. And I thank you for your mercy. I…"

She broke off, at last at a loss for words. The sudden rush of her blood in her ears drowned out all other noises, and again she wondered whether she would faint. Perhaps breaking her neck would be preferable to learning about what grief she had accidentally caused by ever agreeing to Éowyn's plan. All joy of having been a part of the resistance left her. Now there was only dread.

Gríma's expression indicated that he was finished with her.

"Go then. And remember what I just told you. I swear to the Gods, I meant it."

Leaving her standing, Wormtongue slung his cloak tighter around his body and retreated into the sheltering warmth of the hall. Numb and feeling hollow, Maelwyn staggered down the remaining steps to the path with unseeing eyes. How could she ever have hoped to fool that man? His eyes and ears were everywhere; there was no escaping his attention. Had she been utterly mad to agree to be a part of this?

From further down the path, a sudden din of dismayed cries suddenly woke her from her thoughts of despair, but when she detected where the shouts were coming from, Maelwyn realised that reality was about to get even grimmer: the wails rose from the smithy, and the voices crying out in despair belonged to Bergfinn and Yálanda. Slowly rounding a gentle curve and walking toward the first buildings below Meduseld on legs she didn't feel anymore, Maelwyn's stunned gaze fell on a group of riders in the work yard. Their captain just now opened his arms to hold the old healer as she collapsed sobbing against his chest, while Bergfinn, who wore the expression of a man who no longer understands the cruelty of the world upon his face, slowly extended his hand to take the reins of a white, unsaddled horse with a long gash in its side.

The full meaning of the scene before her eyes stole Maelwyn's breath away. So her worst fears had become reality: for his horse to return riderless, Élric had to be dead, and if he was dead, it was likely that Éomer too, had been killed as well, or – unarmed and alone as he was - would be dead before long. Éowyn's plan to bring him help had failed, and two men had died because of her own inability to carry out her orders with the bidden secrecy. Feeling sick to her stomach, Maelwyn suddenly met the captain's pained gaze as he cradled the sobbing Yálanda in his arms, and in that moment, all hope died in her heart.

OOO

ALDBURG

It felt good to come home, Elfhelm thought upon the sight of the mighty wooden fence that guarded his hometown of Aldburg, and yet it was a strangely empty sort of joy. 'Relief', would probably have been the better word for it, because how could he truly feel joyful after the horrors they had witnessed on the battlegrounds of Westfold? So many men had lost their lives at the Fords of the Isen. Of the one hundred and twenty riders he had led westward as soon as Prince Théodred's call for aid had reached them, battle had claimed twelve, and ten horses. And yet they had been lucky. The éoreds of his western brothers-in-arms Erkenbrand and Grimbold had sustained much greater losses, while the Prince's Riders had been all but erased even before reinforcements had arrived. Again the Mark had lost hundreds of riders; men leaving behind families and friends; men who would never again roam the plains of the Folde, or the Westemnet. One could despair just thinking about it.

And for what, Elfhelm wondered wearily as he directed his long-legged bay stallion over to the city gates where the road ended. Only to throw back the enemy over the Isen for a few days at great cost, until that evil wizard in Isengard replenished their ranks and even multiplied the number of his warriors, so that next time, it would be even harder to stand against his army. Yet more men would die, and in the end, they would have to relinquish control of their side of the river altogether. For a long, dreadful moment just after they had joined the battle, Elfhelm had feared that this was already the day that would see them defeated. After three days of hard riding, men and beast exhausted even before the battle, they had arrived too late to save the King's son and most of his men, and the blood of the dying or lifeless bodies on the battlefield had reddened the waters of the Isen.

Only then they had seen the enemy, a vast, dark army of orcs and Uruk-hai greater than any horde Elfhelm had encountered so far; an evil army empowered by the will of the White Wizard, moving with the single-mindedness of one being and slaughtering Riders left and right. At that moment, Elfhelm had believed this battle would be their last, but after hours of hacking, slashing and skewering, and countless cries of men and horses wounded and dying, the combined forces of West- and Eastfold had at last thrown the remainder of the enemy back across the river. None of them rejoiced in the taste of their victory though, because even then it had been clear that triumph would be short-lived. The Isen would not be a hindrance for the wizard's foul brood for much longer, and what the orcs would do once they roamed the plains at their will was a thought that made the Marshal's blood run cold.

Anxious to be out of the saddle, Élfhelm shifted his weight. At the age of forty-three summers, the resolute marshal was one of the Riddermark's most respected warriors and expected to be promoted in the hierarchy very soon. Elfhelm himself cared little for titles, and so had not objected when the King's nephew had assumed command over the Eastmark despite his obvious youth. In his opinion, the young man was exceptionally skilled and fiercely dedicated to the protection of their people and had rightfully earned this honour. They all fought for the same side, anyway.

As they approached, a shout could be heard from the guard-tower above the gates, and it briefly woke him from the dreadful images that repeated themselves endlessly in front of his inner eye.

"Who are you, and what business brings you to Aldburg?"

Thankful for the distraction, Elfhelm tilted back his neck.

"It is I, Elfhelm, your commander! Open the gate!"

His voice barely made it over the wind, and when at first there was no answer, his riders looked at each other quizzically and wondered whether they would be granted entry to their home after their long journey, but then the groaning and creaking of frozen hinges rewarded their patience as the gates slowly swung inward. In single file, they passed through the opening before the massive wooden wings closed again and cut off the punishing gusts for the first time since the warriors had been on the road. Wearily shaking their heads, their horses tried to free themselves of the thick crust of ice that covered their faces, and the men on their backs imitated their efforts by knocking off the accumulated snow from their garments and beards.

"It is the Marshal! Marshal Elfhelm is back! Béma be blessed! Our riders have returned!"

Barely hearing the relieved shouts or the sudden din of the bell that announced their return, Elfhelm straightened for the first time in hours and grimaced. All day the wind had assaulted them from the front, and although he had hidden underneath his hood and wrapped a woollen scarf around his head until only his eyes were left uncovered, the marshal felt half-frozen despite his additional attempt to hunch over and take cover behind his horse's neck. Needless to say, his effort had been vain, and in addition to feeling like a block of ice, his back had now joined the chorus of pain from the numerous bruises and scrapes he had received in battle. And still, Elfhelm thought, who was he to complain? Compared to the injuries many of his Riders had sustained, his' were merely an inconvenience. He was alive and relatively unharmed, that alone was reason enough to be thankful after what they had gone through.

Surfacing from his black thoughts to find the captain of the guard approaching him, Elfhelm inhaled deeply. The man smiled, probably assuming that the situation couldn't be too grave when most riders of their éored had returned. How much Elfhelm would give for such blissful ignorance now!

"Please excuse the delay in opening the gates, Marshal Elfhelm, I did not recognise you at first under all this clothing and the ice," the guard said, his gaze travelling over the weary riders as they dismounted. "I know that our horses to not allow orcs or Dunlendings to ride them, but I still wanted to be certain before—"

"There is no need to apologise, Gaewolf," Elfhelm interrupted him, not ready to exchange more words than absolutely necessary. He was aching to be home now and anxious to perform his necessary duties before he could likewise retire for the day. "I'd rather wait outside for another day even in this weather, than have you open the gate to enemies. Speak no more about it."

With a grimace, he looked at the streets which were only just beginning to fill with people anxious to greet their loved ones. Some of them would search in vain. The thought of what he would have to tell them sent a sharp pain through Elfhelm's gut. He turned away from their sight and dismounted himself.

"Éorlingas! See to your horses, and then you are dismissed. Get some rest, and those of you in need of a healer, come to the hall and you will be tended! The Mark and I thank you for your service. Béma knows that this errand wasn't an easy one." He nodded in acknowledgment to the men passing him and then shifted his attention back to the guard at his side. "How were things here, Gaewolf? Any trouble?"

"Nowhere close to the city, but Findaràrras' éored had a skirmish with a group of orcs who tried to steal their horses." A satisfied expression spread over the man's face. "None of the filth survived, and all riders returned unharmed, Béma be blessed." Silently walking alongside his commander toward the stables, Gaewolf's smile suddenly dropped. "Word already reached us about how the battle at the Fords went. The messenger spoke of great losses… and of course the people are devastated to lose Prince Théodred… especially now, with Éomer banished. It seems that -"

His words stopped Elfhelm in his tracks.

"Éomer… banished? What are you saying?"

Gaewolf's eyebrows went up in surprise, and for a moment, he looked at the approaching figure of Findárras, Elfhelm's second-in-command, who had held control over the city for the time their riders had been away and had now been called down from the Great Hall by the sound of the bell. He turned back to Elfhelm.

"You mean you were not informed about it yet, Marshal? But they sent riders everywhere to spread the word! I cannot believe that they should have missed your éored on the road."

"No, not missed…" Elfhelm muttered angrily, his lips a bloodless line as he tried to grasp the implications of what he had just been told. Éomer… banished? "I assume it is more that they deliberately avoided us, because that snake in Meduseld knew that I would have taken my éored straight to Edoras to wring his neck once I heard of it." Nodding his greetings to the red-haired Findárras, he looked at the overcast sky. "I doubt it would be wise to ride out again today. We would not make it all the way to Edoras in this weather, and the men and horses need a rest. I will ride out tomorrow and take only a few men with me. This is something we cannot allow anymore. Has the King been stricken blind, deaf and mute to let the Worm do this, or have all members of the Court lost their minds?" He clapped his second-in-command's shoulder. "It is good to see you, old friend. Do you know more of what happened?"

"Word is that Éomer was punished for disobedience against the King. The verdict even spoke of treason, but I must confess that I know no details. Captain Céorl, however, arrived a few hours before you, and he will probably know much more. He is waiting for you in the guest-quarters. I did not think it would be advisable to discuss this subject in the Hall."

The red-headed warrior cast his commander a meaningful look.

"What do you mean?"

"The King, or shall I rather say, his counsellor, sent a group of advisors down here to assist you in your decisions now that Éomer is no longer Third Marshal. In the two days since they have been here, they have done nothing but asking questions and turn up at councils or wherever a larger group of people gathered to drink, or eat, or talk. I assume we can safely call them spies."

"Of course," Elfhelm snorted, nodding as he passed their stablehands on the way to his horse's stall. "Now the Worm will concentrate on removing me, and Grimbold… and Erkenbrand. Once he has rid himself of us as well, there will be nobody left to speak against him, which makes my little visit tomorrow all the more important."

Findárras scratched his beard pensively while he waited for his brother-in-arms to free his bay of his tack. As weary as he felt himself, Elfhelm could easily have delegated the duty of seeing after his horse to one of the stablehands, but after the loyalty Éon had once again proven to him on the battlefield, the warrior felt it his obligation to tend the stallion himself.

"Would you deem it wise under these circumstances? What if the Worm only sees it as an invitation to rid himself of you right there?"

With a groan, Elfhelm lifted the heavy saddle off the bay's back and onto its stand.

"I need to see for myself what is going on in Edoras, Findárras. I am tired of hearing – or not hearing – everything through messages and errand-riders, and I also need to speak to Éowyn. If Éomer was indeed banished, she remains the only member of the Royal Family with a sound mind in Meduseld. She might be in danger. – Can you get me a sack of oats, please, and a bucket of water for my friend here?"

"Of course. Anything else you need?"

"Some apples or carrots, whatever you can find. He was of great help on the battlefield to me yet again; we burnt the corpses of at least three orcs whose skulls were smashed in by his hooves, not to mention the dozens he incapacitated so they could conveniently be killed." Freeing his mount of his bridle, Elfhelm clapped his neck. "Perhaps I should rename you, Éon. 'Orc-Fiend' might be a more suitable name for you." He took the heavy sack Findárras dragged into the stall and began to fill the empty manger with oats. After he had accomplished that and seen to it that the stallion would lack neither water nor food, he hand-fed him the apples Findárras had obtained, briefly enjoying the sensation of the horse's soft lips on his hands.

"When you are done here, I was told to accompany you to the council. They want your report." Findárras inhaled and raised an eyebrow. "What shall I say to them?"

Rubbing the white star between Éon's eyes for a moment of silent contemplation, Elfhelm's weary gaze at last found his patiently waiting second-in-command.

"Tell them that there is nothing to report apart from what they already know. Tell them that our éored suffered the loss of twelve riders, and tell them that as their commander, I will first speak with the men's widows. I will not tolerate being rushed while I am occupied with this task, and it will probably be well after nightfall before I will be finished." The Gods knew he wasn't looking forward to this task, but it was something he owed to the families of his riders. "And as I am wearied myself, I will then go home and get rest. If they deny me that, Aldburg will soon have to find a new protector."

Findárra's lips curved into a knowing smile.

"And I suppose you want me to say that you will deliver your report tomorrow morning, and when you don't show up because you are already on the way to Edoras, I will tell them that there were reports of an attack on a settlement up north and that you had already left to investigate. Is that true?"

Elfhelm looked weary beyond belief, but his grin was genuine when he replied: "There is a reason for you to be my second-in-command, Findárras. Thank you for demonstrating it to me every time I need reassurance that there are at least some of us left who know about the value of loyalty and friendship."

The wiry warrior nodded his acknowledgement.

"Glad to be of service. What should I tell Ceorl? I assume you will see him later today… at your home?"

"Aye. After nightfall, under cover of darkness. Perhaps he can grant me a few hours to restore myself to a condition where I will be able to think again. Aye, and it would be good if you were present, too. I don't know when the Worm's weasels will go to sleep, but in each case, we should not meet until their presence can be accounted for in their chambers. We must take precautions to keep our meeting secret. Do you think you can do that for me, old friend?"

Findárras gave him one of his wryest smiles.

"Would I be your second-in-command if I couldn't?"

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 10: Gríma's Game

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Once daylight had faded again, the temperatures dropped fast, and it was with relief that Éomer finally detected the narrow, steep path that led up to another one of his secret hideouts. He directed Firefoot there with a slight nudge of his thighs. The stallion complied, the weariness of his steps indicating that he needed rest urgently after a day of moving through rough, dangerous terrain. Many times, Éomer had dismounted and led his steed along the steep, ice-covered ridges, careful not to slip into the deep drop-offs. Progress had been slow once they had entered the path, and Éomer was well aware that no rider in his right mind would ever have chosen to travel it under the current conditions. His boldness could easily cost them their lives if he had misjudged the situation. So far, his daring had paid off; except for a few birds, they had not seen another living soul all day, neither man nor beast, and no tracks either. It seemed that they were all alone out here in the eastern fringes of the Ered Nimrais… the way he had hoped it would be.

Once again Éomer shifted in the saddle, and his gaze swept the stark, forbidding landscape for the umpteenth time searching for signs of his enemies. Visibility had grown poor in the thickening twilight, but a dark shape moving over the snow would be easy enough to detect. Yet nothing moved. Satisfied, Éomer turned around again as Firefoot abruptly rammed both forelegs into the ground and snorted in protest at the dark shadow in front of them. Sighing, the son of Éomund ran a hand over the stallion's neck. He understood his steed's reluctance, as it was not in a horse's nature to seek shelter within a cave where escape would be difficult in the case of an attack.

"Aye, Grey One, I know that you do not like this place, but it cannot be helped," he whispered, checking the bare rock in front of the cave-entrance for signs that his shelter was already occupied by unbidden guests. "It will be easy to heat, though, and it will only be for one night anyway, so stop complaining." Grasping the short-handled axe Forlong had given him and enjoying the feel of it in his hand, Éomer slid from Firefoot's back to investigate. The stallion, for once content to remain where he was, followed his master's stealthy approach with pricked ears and flared nostrils.

All senses strained, Éomer edged closer to the narrow opening and his fingers involuntarily renewed their grip around the handle of his weapon. Orcs reeked of death and decay, and even with the wind not blowing into his face, he could usually smell them before he saw them. Yet he detected no trace of their vile perfume in the air before the cave, and no sounds indicated that his hideout might be occupied. Lifting the axe, he advanced further, hesitating at the sight of the pitch-black entrance that granted him access into the mountain he had travelled alongside for the last part of his journey. But deep inside, Éomer already knew better. It was almost dark now, the preferred time of orcs. If any had been in here at all, it was likely that they had moved out with the beginning of twilight and were long gone by now.

Half relieved but still knowing better than to walk into the dark cave blindly, Éomer looked back to Firefoot, clicking his tongue and smiling thinly as the stallion obeyed his command with an all-too-human expression of indignity. From his saddlebags, Éomer carefully removed a clay pot that contained still red glowing embers and lit the oil-lamp the couple had given him behind the shelter of a rock, safe from potentially hostile eyes. Once again he proceeded into the cave, and one look in the flickering light was sufficient to establish that the place was as deserted as it had seemed. Inspecting the walls and the ground, Éomer lifted the lamp… and tensed at the sight of prints left in the fine layer of sand. Some had been made by booted feet, and some featured claws and indicated that someone had dragged himself along rather than lifted his feet. Orcs. His lips a thin, bloodless line, he squatted and brushed his fingers slightly over his find. There was no way of telling how old these prints were, but the discovery that the filth had found one of his best hiding places darkened Éomer's mood as he stared at the hideous forms. They seemed to be the tracks of three or four creatures, one of them substantially bigger than the others – or perhaps it had just bigger feet; it was impossible to tell. It seemed that there was no end to the variety of the foul creatures' forms.

Rising again, Éomer proceeded deeper inside to cast a glance into the second chamber of the cave: the pile of dried wood in one corner had definitely been touched, and the amount of ash in the fireplace in the middle of the sheltered niche had likewise changed. Also, the ground was covered with the bones of small animals, neatly stripped of all meat. From their sheer number, Éomer concluded that the orcs had used the caves repeatedly, not just once because they had accidentally stumbled over them. His expression darkened further as he looked back toward the entrance, considering his options. What could he do? It was definitely not wise to stay here when the enemy knew about this place. The remains of their meals, however, looked old. He furrowed his brow, uncomfortable with the realisation that he had not much of a choice left. With the terrain as treacherous as it was and temperatures dropping far below freezing since sunset, moving on in the darkness would be a shortcut to the halls of his ancestors. Éomer looked forward to seeing his parents and Théodred again, but he had not planned to do so in the near future. No, as much as he hated to admit the fact to himself, it looked as if he was trapped here for the night.

Having made up his mind however reluctantly, he gathered some of the straw from the ground and together with two logs of wood, arranged them in the fire pit. Carefully and patiently nurturing the flames until they settled in the thick wood and danced merrily in the darkness, Éomer then rose to his feet again and went to fetch Firefoot.

In the outer cave he stopped and clicked his tongue, rightly suspecting that he would have to drag the big grey in like a stubborn mule. Not that he could blame Firefoot when he himself felt reluctant about staying. The only thing he could do about his unfavourable situation was stay alert and set out again with earliest dawn, just in case the orcs returned from their nightly forays to seek shelter from the sun. Even if the evidence of the creatures' presence looked old, he would not commit the mistake of falling asleep in the wolf's den. Although he had already gone almost without sleep the night before, Éomer knew that another long, lonely watch lay ahead of him. He sat the lamp down upon a protrusion and stuck his head out of the opening, seeing Firefoot lift his head.

"I know you heard me, Meara-mule. You want to stay here and give our presence away to our foes? Is that it?" Éomer reached for the reins and narrowed his eyes in beginning anger as Firefoot retreated. "Come on, you've been in here before. Stop making this so hard; Béma knows I've got enough problems without your bullheadedness already." With a quick move, he got hold of the reins and pulled. Surrendering only very reluctantly, the stallion followed him with stiff steps into the cave.

OOO

MEDUSELD

Darkness was complete when the expected knock at Gríma's door was finally heard. With a sharp twinge of both anticipation and anxiety, the son of Galmod opened it and found himself face-to-face with Felrod and Mordred, the two Half-Dunlendings in his service. The men looked wet, weary, dishevelled and half-frozen, but in their hands they held a large grey bundle that caused the Counsellor's heart to skip a beat. Still, what in the name of the Gods had caused their delay? To his experienced eye, they did not look as if their plan had worked flawlessly. Bidding the men into his study, Gríma closed the door behind them and turned around.

"What took you so long? I already feared the worst. Even the blacksmith's horse returned hours ago, so you can be certain that the tidings of Élric's death have spread through Edoras by now." His eyes became narrow slits. "He is dead, isn't he? He didn't escape you somehow?" The cloak in Felrod's hands told a different story, but Gríma knew better than to trust in anyone but himself.

Although the big halfblood felt miserable after his long exposure to the elements, he still somehow managed to produce a satisfied expression upon his hairy face.

"He is fodder for the crows now. We stopped him an hour's ride away from Edoras, and he spilled it all. He had weapons for the Marshal in his saddlebags and claimed that the King's niece had asked him to take them to a hideout only known to them. He also said that his parents knew nothing of this, but this little wench who serves the White Lady… she is involved as well."

He gave his master a frozen grin.

"I do not suppose that Élric shared the information willingly?" Again, Gríma's gaze sank to the grey bundle in his henchman's arms.

"Not quite." Felrod's grin widened. "It took a bit of convincing on our part, but we hid his body well away from the road. Nobody will be distressed by the sight of it, even though I doubt that it will be found before spring, and by then there will not be much left of it. Nobody will be able to say who it was or what has befallen him. That is also why we waited until nightfall to return. We wanted to make certain that no one saw this."

He unfolded the treasure in his arms to great effect and beamed in expectation of his master's praise.

"So he was there indeed…" Gríma muttered thoughtfully, surveying the damage done to the garment and the broad patches of dried blood around the large tears in the leather. There was no doubt that it was Éomer's cloak; he had seen the son of Éomund wear it many times. "How disappointing. I would have taken the Marshal to be smarter than this."

Even in the twilight of the room, he could see that the blood had soaked the material thoroughly. Whoever had shed it could impossibly be still alive. He extended a hand to let his fingers glide over one of the tears.

Felrod nodded, and his eyes were hopeful. No doubt was he already pondering what his reward would be.

"Aye, Counsellor. He turned up just like you said he would. A sitting duck would have been harder to miss."

"Is that so?" The stains were concentrated mostly around three jagged tears on the back, and the sight of them was somehow … wrong. Gríma frowned, and the omnipresent voice in the back of his head started to whisper its words of suspicion again while his fingers probed the slashes. "Those are from a knife, not from arrows." He looked up with cocked eyebrows, waiting for an explanation, but Felrod only shuffled his feet and avoided his gaze. No, something was definitely not right here.

"Will you not tell me what happened, Felrod? If Éomer walked right into your trap unsuspecting like you said he did – why did you not simply riddle him with arrows from a distance instead of putting yourself in danger by fighting him at close quarters? He is, after all, a valiant warrior."

He did not like how the big man squirmed under his scrutiny. Not at all. At last, Felrod cleared his throat.

"I… Things did not go entirely as planned. Somehow, the Marshal sensed us at the last moment and evaded our shots. We had to hunt him down, but in the end we got him." He pointed at the cloak. "Isn't that what counts?" The Halfblood seemed exceedingly nervous now, and Gríma's brow creased further. He could have told from a league away that the man was lying. He could almost smell it!

"So it was not like shooting a sitting duck at all, was it, Felrod? Did you hunt him down… or shoot him at your leisure? What is it you want me to believe? Or no, spare the answer, for I will believe neither."

Gods, was he glad that he had sent the orcs after Éomer! Somewhere in the deep pit of his black mind, he had known beforehand how this mission would turn out. It was slowly becoming uncanny even to Gríma himself how his intuition was always correct. The ruffian in front of him was now obviously at a loss, for his stammering could no longer be taken seriously.

"We hunted him down… but it wasn't very hard. There was no way he could have broken through our circle. And after we had surrounded him, I decided that-"

"You do not want to tell me, Felrod of Westland, that you killed Éomer of Rohan, admittedly one of the Mark's most powerful warriors, yourself and armed with nothing more than a knife? In a battle of man against man?"

Gríma felt an insane desire to laugh in the man's face. How much of a fool did that mountain of muscle take him to be? Yet incredibly, Felrod did not understand that his lie had been uncovered.

"We were five, my lord. He stood no chance." Desperate now to prove his point, Felrod tugged at one of the tears as if it explained everything. "You see what we did to him. I wanted to make this battle personal and kill him with my own hands. I knew I could take him down."

"And still I do not believe you. Your eyes are lying. Your voice is lying… and it is not so hot in here that you should break into a sweat unless you knew you were fighting a lost battle here." Gríma's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What is it that you are trying to hide from me so inadequately? Éomer escaped, didn't he?"

"We… I…"

"Did he get away? Yes or no, Felrod? I have no patience for your pathetic excuses! If he is gone, I must take immediate action!"

Thrown into submission, the big man stared at the ground and clenched his jaw.

"Aye, Counsellor. Aye, he did. And he killed Dorlâk. Broke his neck. Gartloff is wounded too, that grey beast the Marshal rides kicked him. Broke his leg." He inhaled deeply and, with an even lower voice, admitted: "And we had to leave Thorloff behind. He was guarding the horses and… was ridden down when that filth stole them."

"You mean that not only did he escape you, but he stole your horses, too? And killed two of your men in the process?" Gríma clapped his hands in morbid delight. Béma, could he have found men any more incapable of the task than these had proven to be? And now it also made sense why the man who accompanied Felrod stood so hunched over, not daring to look at him. "And you are wounded, too, I take it? Let me see!" The man straightened with a grimace and revealed a blood-stained tear in his cloak around the left shoulder. Since he had decided not to cry over the inadequacy of the men he had chosen, Gríma laughed. "So out of the six men I sent to kill him, six men who had the advantage of being armed as well as that of surprise, the good Marshal managed to kill two and wound another two. He stole your horses and provisions and has armed himself now, I suppose. I would call that a strong contender for the greatest failure in the history of the Mark, save perhaps the vow King Théoden swore to protect his people. Wouldn't you agree, gentlemen?"

Felrod's face flushed with embarrassment, and he ground his teeth in barely suppressed frustration.

"He cannot have acquired more than a knife, Counsellor. It will not give him much of an advantage."

"No. Not against what I am about to unleash against him now." With another pensive look at the cloak on the floor, Gríma turned away, the wheels of his mind already turning. There was still a possibility to turn this failure into an advantage if he played his cards right. He turned back to the uncomfortably waiting men.

"I must say I am disappointed, Captain. Not only did you fail to carry out your errand successfully, but even more seriously, you tried to hide your failure by lying to me. I must admit that I do not know yet what to make of this. I cannot think of a single thing at the moment that you could do to heal this breach of trust… Trust, as you know, is more important than ever these days. Tell me, how am I supposed to still believe in anything you say after this disaster?"

"You can trust us with anything, my Lord," Felrod rushed to say, his throat tight with fear. "Please, I promise that we will make up for this! We will hunt down the Marshal for you, and I swear, this time, we will not fail! We will bring you his head should you wish so."

Gríma shook his head.

"No. This time I have entrusted someone else with this most important of tasks, someone more capable. I took the freedom to alert them before I even knew of your failure, and I will let them know now where they shall begin their hunt. They will rid me of this problem once and for all. I am most confident of this." His gaze fell again on the bloody heap at his feet. "Yet I may have use for this thing that you brought me. It is, in fact, the only reason I will forgive you this time, Felrod, but do not fail me again and most importantly: never ever lie to me again! Believe me, you do not want to see me angry."

OOO

EDORAS

Under cover of darkness, Maelwyn felt finally secure enough to leave her house. Her quarrel with the Counsellor had left her deeply shaken, and for a while, she had holed up in her bedroom, afraid that the horrible man would send someone after her to finish her off… just as he had done with Élric. The thought of his lifeless, bloodied body in the reddened snow assaulted her again and again, drawing her tears and making her wish that Éowyn had never turned to her in the first place.

It had taken a mighty effort to force desperation back and finally pick up her little ones to accompany them to their riding lessons. Later that afternoon, Torben had come home and noticed at once that something had been off about his wife, and while her answer had been evasive, Maelwyn had at last admitted that she had been released from her service to the King's niece.

Now there was only one left who needed to know about these new developments, and in the shadows of the narrow alley, Maelwyn made it quickly over to the home of Captain Céorl and Lady Glenwyn. Éothain's mother answered her knocking quickly, apparently glad to see her.

"Maelwyn! Please, step in, dear. I was beginning to doubt whether you would come to see us today…" She creased her brow. "What is wrong?"

"Thank you, Lady Glenwyn." Maelwyn slipped quickly inside, glad to be out of the open. She took off her coat and handed it to the patiently waiting woman with a deep breath. "There were some new developments today, alas. I'd rather tell it only once, so…"

"Maelwyn?" It was Éothain she saw coming down the corridor with a questioning smile upon his face. He was clad in a very loose fitting shirt and moving cautiously, but it was good to see him on his feet again. "What is the matter?"

"Éothain! You are up again!" the young handmaiden exclaimed with relief. "That is good. How are you feeling?"

"Better." Gently, Éothain grabbed her hand, pointing to the living room. "Come, let's sit down. What are you saying about new developments? I take it they are not exactly positive?"

Maelwyn shook her head and followed him.

"No, they are not." She sat down at the table and beheld two plates with a partly eaten dinner upon it." "Oh my, you were in the middle of your meal!"

"Nevermind that," Éothain replied as he cautiously lowered himself onto the bench on the opposite side. His mother sat down beside him, deep worry lining her regal face. "Tell us what happened. We expected you much earlier."

"I am sorry." Maelwyn inhaled deeply. "I… I was afraid to go out after I returned from the Golden Hall this noon. The Counsellor… he found out about the Lady Éowyn's plan. And he knew that I was the one who sent Élric on his way. I was released from service, and he said if he ever sees me again, he will bring down the full weight of the law upon me." Once again, the tears came, impossible to suppress. Telling Éothain and his mother of that frightening encounter brought it all back. "I'm sorry…"

"No. No, Maelwyn, don't be." Quickly, Éothain got up and rounded the table, to sit down on her side and lay an arm around her. "I imagine that must have been terrifying. That man is a curse for us all. How could he have learned of Éowyn's plan?"

She sniffled and wiped a hand over her eyes.

"I do not know. But it seems that he sent someone after Élric, because when I left, there were some of Captain Céorl's riders at the smithy, and it seemed to me that they returned Élric's horse. It had come back without him, and without its saddle… and there was a long, bloody gash in its side.

Squeezing her shoulder, Éothain exchanged an alarmed look with his mother.

"Béma… poor Élric. He did not know what he was getting himself into…" Suddenly, his eyes widened. "That means also that they might have learned about his meeting point with Éomer. It means that they might have laid a trap for him!" His head turned in the direction of the door, and he seemed just about to jump to his feet and leave.

"Éothain!" Alas, Glenwyn knew her son only too well. He could be every bit the hotspur that his best friend sometimes turned into. "Éothain, you cannot help him! Stay!"

He furrowed his brow in disbelief.

"What do you mean, I cannot help him, Mother?" he squeezed out. "Perhaps he survived! Perhaps he defeated them! He could be wounded and needing our help!"

"Apart from the fact that your weapons have not yet been returned to you and that the stables are still sealed off, what do you think you could accomplish in your condition, Éothain?" Glenwyn's voice gained a sharp edge. "You can barely move!"

Éothain wrung his hands.

"But Father's riders are back! They still have their weapons! Could they not-"

"No, they could not, Éothain! They had to surrender their weapons, too! Aelfric told me as much when I met him at the market today. They had to give them up as soon as they entered Edoras… and their horses were confiscated, as well. Add to that that they would not take such a command from you. Your father is their captain, and if they would ever agree to such a precarious undertaking at all, it would need to be he who gives that order! Éothain, there is nothing you can do for now! We will have to wait for your father! He will know where the Eastmark stands when he returns. A rebellion without them will have no chance of success, and you know it!"

Breathlessly, Glenwyn regarded her son, aware of the stunned gaze their visitor was giving her. She could tell that she had gotten through to Éothain, the despair in his eyes told her so. Softening her voice, she slowly shook her head.

"I know it is hard to wait when our friends need us, léofa. I understand. But I doubt that Éomer would want that you endanger all your riders just for him. Please, wait before you act rashly. Your father should be back by tomorrow, I am certain. And then the two of you can discuss the situation and…"

"By then, it might be too late, Mother." Éothain's voice sounded hollow, and Maelwyn's heart went out to him.

Deep compassion stood in Glenwyn's eyes.

"There is nothing you can do for Éomer right now, Éothain, and you know it. We must be patient, however hard it proves to be. Please…" She could tell that she had won, although the sight of her son's dispirited posture ached her fiercely. With a deep breath, she returned her attention to Maelwyn, who had watched their brief dispute with unmistakable unease. "Maelwyn, you said you were released from your service to the Royal Household. That means you would need a new occupation."

The young handmaiden nodded hesitantly, while Éothain sat down beside her again.

"Alas, people are not ordering so much in these hard times. We cannot live from my husband's occupation alone."

"Would you have any reservations about working for me? I have many errands to see to each day. It would be a relief to have some help… and it would give you the perfect excuse to see us regularly." Glenwyn's gaze rested upon their guest in open question. "Not that you needed one."

"My Lady, that…I could not accept that!" Maelwyn gasped, utterly overwhelmed. The older woman cocked an eyebrow.

"Why not? You worked for the King's niece, why should it be unacceptable for you to work for me?"

"But…" Maelwyn slowly shook her head. "I consider Éothain a friend! How could I accept money from a friend?"

Glenwyn lifted her chin.

"You will not work for Éothain, but for me. I would be glad to have some help around the house and in my errands, and you need the money. You are capable and trustworthy, and in our home, you will be among like-minded people. Does that not sound too good not to agree, dear?"

Maelwyn could not help it, she had to smile.

"It does indeed, my Lady." She seized the proffered hand. "If this is what you want, then I gladly accept."

"Then we are in agreement." Glenwyn nodded, an unmistakable look of satisfaction upon her face. "If you want, you can begin tomorrow."

"I gladly will, my Lady. Thank you. I am looking forward to working for you."

OOO

ALDBURG

It was late when Elfhelm had finally spoken with all the families of his fallen riders. With each of the grieving women, the captain had taken his time, never rushing, never hurrying, and when they had broken down in despair, unable to speak, Elfhelm had stayed with them and held them in his strong arms, speaking words of comfort which he knew would not help while the pain was still fresh, but which might be a source of comfort later, once the immediate shock had worn off.

When he finally directed his steps over to his own home, the afternoon of passing tidings of death had exhausted the Marshal of Aldburg to his limits. So much grief. So much suffering. What had the good people of the Mark done to deserve such misery? Had the Gods truly deserted them? Wearied to the point that not even the sight of Freela waiting for him in the doorway could lift his mood, Elfhelm approached the woman with whom he shared part of his life. She wasn't his wife and would never be. Both had decided after the loss of their first partners that they would never wed again out of respect for those they would continue to love when they met them again in the afterlife. Yet the temperamental artist and he were soul mates, kindred spirits who had found comfort in each other in the time of their pain, and he was glad that Freela had chosen to stay with him for the winter before the travelling folk she belonged to would set out again with the arrival of spring. He needed her now; her understanding, her comfort, her warmth, all she had to give.

"Freela…" Words failed him, but the compassion in her eyes was all he needed. Allowing himself to lower his guard at last and unleash the emotions he always held under tight rein in the presence of his men, Elfhelm sank into her embrace.

"Ssshh…it is all right. I am here," she whispered, holding him tight and stroking his head. He almost crushed her in his arms, but she endured it without a word. "Findárras told me what happened. That you lost twelve of your men… Who were they?" He told her the names, and as she remembered some of them, their earnest faces passed in her mind at Elfhelm's mention. Fighting her own despair, she kissed him, pained to see her warrior in such emotional distress. "You are not alone in your grief, léofa. Those men earned to be mourned." Gently, she moved backward, urging him inside. "Come. You did what you could for them, now you need to rest. Let me take care of you, Love. Come."

"I cannot rest. Not yet," Elfhelm breathed against her neck, his voice hoarse with emotion. "There is still more to do. I must speak with Céorl and decide what to do about the news from Edoras, and-"

"I know," she interrupted gently. "But later, not now. Now, you come inside and get some rest yourself, or you will not be able to lead your men for much longer. It is more important than ever that you conserve your strength." Freela closed the door and looked at him as he lifted his gaze, and knew she had found the right words. Still, it was so hard to look into those sad, pained eyes. What could a woman do against such grief?

"Aye. Aye, love, you are right." Elfhelm wiped a dirty hand over his brow and inhaled deeply, trying to force the weariness back. Kissing Freela once more, he then stepped back and put the sack with the contents of his saddlebags onto the bench. "I should do that first, or I will not be of much use to Céorl when he comes to speak with me later."

Trying to give him her most encouraging smile, Freela anxiously eyed the man she loved as he began to shed his cloak with cautious movements. The delay between the arrival of his éored and his homecoming had been nothing short of torture, yet she had not found it in herself to wait in the square with the others. Ten years back, in another life, she had done that for the man she had not only loved, but been bound to with her eternal vow, and he had not returned. She still remembered every detail of that dreadful autumn afternoon, how she had stood in the rain, the thunder of the approaching éored just outside the slowly opening gates… and then the shouts and cries of joy as the people around her recognised their sons, brothers and husbands... how her gaze had anxiously darted from face to face without finding the one she was looking for, her heartbeat accelerating with each failed identification. Then the joyful crowd had abruptly shifted with the first shouts of people who had noticed that their friends or kin were not among the returning riders. Freela had stood among them, unable to call out herself as the feeling of foreboding strangled her, seeing everything in perfect clarity: the foam-lathered horses rolling their red-veined eyes as they passed her, many of them wounded in the battle and the gashes in their hides gaping and raw, the warriors' dispirited expressions as they looked right through her in their own search for their families, many of them bleeding as well, and then she had seen the horses behind them, tied to the back of their saddles and carrying the limp forms of their fallen riders into the city, and Nightshade, her husband's black stallion, had been among them, the load he carried lifelessly dangling from his back…

It took a great effort to shove away the images and the emotions they stirred up. No. No matter for how long she had to wait at home for Elfhelm, she would never again stand in the crowd and listen to its unreal din of simultaneous joy and heart-piercing grief. She knew that she would not be able to bear a repeat of that darkest day of her life, and if she could prevent the death of man she loved now by not awaiting him behind the city gates, she would do so, no matter how foolish the thought seemed. Seeing him fight with his sleeve, she came to his aid.

"Come, let me help you with this." He grimaced, and Freela's heart missed a beat as she held the cloak for him to slip out. "Are you wounded? Should I call the healer for you?"

"It is not necessary," he declined, yet unable to suppress another slight groan as he freed his arm. "These are only bruises and scratches; I will have forgotten about them in a week."

Freela nodded, unsurprised. For Elfhelm to admit that he hurt, he would have to come back to her carrying his head beneath his arm.

"I see." She took the cloak and hung it on the hook by the door. "But would you fight me if I prepared you a hot bath with some of my special ingredients, and then gave you a good massage with the scented oil I bought in South-Gondor on my last voyage? The man said he got it in Harad, and that its scent is supposed to do wonders to a wearied man…" Under different circumstances, she would have lowered her voice suggestively to accompany her offer, but after the long anxiety of waiting and the dispiriting news of the éored's casualties, Freela felt just as emotionally exhausted as the man by her side "What would you say to that?" Once more, she slipped her arms around him, and her slender fingers caressed the long, winding scar alongside his left temple. So many wounds, and so many scars. Would the ordeal ever end? Would he return to her after the next battle? She dared not think about it.

"The bath sounds good, and the massage even better, but you will have to be gentle with me." Elfhelm gave her a tired, but honest smile, and she felt a little better. "You must excuse me, léofa, I'm afraid I am not the better for wear these days."

For him to admit that, he had to be close to collapsing.

"Are you insinuating then that I am not usually gentle with you?" Freela teased playfully in an attempt to uplift his spirits. The little smile in the corners of his mouth deepened, but then he winced as her fingers found a hard lump above his right shoulder blade. She cast him an apologetic glance. "I am sorry, but this feels as if I should have a look at it."

"There are more of this kind for you to look at later, woman, but right now, I would really appreciate the bath you spoke of… and then something to eat, if possible."

"Aye, and you shall have that, too." Reluctantly, she let go of him. He felt so good in her arms, the firmness of his hard, muscular body; his warmth; even his scent. Elfhelm had spent over a week in these clothes, he had gone through battle in them, and he had spent the entire time in close company with his horse. Others would have said he reeked, but it was his scent, and since Béma had chosen to give him back to her alive, Freela welcomed whatever sensation reassured her of his presence. Taking a step back, she motioned Elfhelm over to a chair. "Come, sit down here and relax with a mug of hot broth while I prepare the water for you. I promise that it will not take long to make you feel warm again."

OOO

MEDUSELD

"Ah, that must be Maelwyn now. And it is about time, too," Hildegard said in a tone of forced cheerfulness in response to the rap on the door. She looked at Éowyn, who sat in her bed with the pillows propped against her back and sipped her soup, looking much better than the evening before. "She said that she would return in the afternoon, and it is already late. Enter!" Eager to go home, the old serving maid came to her feet and gathered her belongings while her lady's gaze rested fondly on her.

"I suppose she needed to spend some more time with her family," Éowyn offered with a little smile. "Bidding her boys a good night, perhaps telling them a story to send them off to sleep… It is all right. I feel so much better already, I may not even need someone to sit by my side to watch me sleep tonight. I-" Her voice died in her throat upon the sight of her visitor. It was not her handmaiden. Alarmed by her lady's sudden silence, Hildegard turned around.

"Counsellor Gríma! I believed that you had already gone to bed, therefore I did not-"

He raised his hand, smiling amiably.

"There is no need to apologise, Mistress. I just wanted to see with my own eyes for once how the King's niece is faring. I told Théoden-King of the recent developments, but of course such statements are made with greater conviction when I have seen that of which I speak." He turned to Éowyn. "It is wonderful to see that you seem to recover very quickly, my Lady. Yálanda certainly knows her craft."

Suddenly feeling frozen despite the fire in the hearth and the warm soup in her stomach, Éowyn put the half-emptied bowl down on her nightstand, deliberately suppressing the violent shudder that threatened to make her hands shake. Her tone was chill when she replied: "Undoubtedly, Counsellor, and I am most grateful for that. However, I was just about to go to sleep myself, so I would greatly appreciate being left alone now that you have seen for yourself that there is no more reason to worry." Warily, she eyed the strange bundle Wormtongue held firmly tucked under his left arm. "Would you happen to know whether my handmaiden has already been seen in the hall?"

"I do indeed." Still smiling, Gríma inclined his head to the older serving maid. "Mistress Hildegard, I thank you for your service today. Please, do not hesitate to retire for the night. I just need a quick word with the White Lady before I go."

Clutching her shawl against her ample bosom, Hildegard lowered her gaze in obedience.

"Thank you, Counsellor. I trust that someone has already been assigned the task of sitting with Lady Éowyn tonight?"

"Your concern honours you, Mistress Hildegard, but rest assured that everything has been thought of. I bid you a good night." Gríma gaze followed the servant to the door and briefly his smile flashed up again as she turned around once more.

"Good night, Lady Éowyn. I will be back in the morning. And good night, Counsellor." Hildegard bowed her head and then quickly slipped out of the room. The silence in the wake of her departure seemed deafening.

All too aware of the fact that the man in her room and the guard outside, who was possibly one of his own, were likely to be the only waking people within earshot if Gríma tried to move against her, Éowyn tensed, her gaze briefly grazing the nightstand where she had hidden the dagger she usually kept under her pillow. Knowing that she might not be fully conscious once the potion took effect, she had hidden it in its heavy drawer before she swallowed the contents of the phial... out of her reach should she really need it now.

"You look tense, my lady," Gríma began at last, slowly stepping over to the foot of her bed. He narrowed his eyes and his gaze intensified. "Or should I say 'guilty'? Surely there would be no need for such agitation just because of my presence if your conscience was clear?"

"I do not know what you are insinuating, Counsellor," Éowyn forced herself to say, past the great lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. She sounded cold… and nervous. "By now you should have grown accustomed to my dislike of your person, so I don't see why my anxiety should surprise you. What is it you want?"

Gríma's smile broadened as he looked at the thing he had brought with him, patting it with his free hand before his attention found back to her.

"Are you not curious to learn what I have here?"

Angered by his impertinence, Éowyn lifted her chin. How dare the filth play games with her inside her own chambers!

"Would it be of any importance to me?"

"I would believe so," Gríma replied, taking the grey thing with both hands now and holding it out before him as it unrolled. Her mouth already opened for an acid rebuke, Éowyn suddenly froze and all breath left her lungs while a deathly chill travelled down her spine. Unable to avert her eyes, she felt herself blanch.

"I see you recognise it."

Gríma's cool voice seeped into her conscious from leagues away. It was as if all of a sudden, she had been cast into a different realm, a place devoid of air where she was trapped all by herself. She thought she was about to faint. 'This cannot not be! Éomer?' Could her brother be dead?

"I hate to say this, my Lady, but I fear that it was actually your little trick that lured your brother into our net. If I was a cruel person, I would in fact thank you for your help. However, since I do understand your distress…"

"You are not a cruel person, you are a beast," Éowyn spat, breathless with horror. It took all of her remaining willpower to tear her eyes away from the bloodied coat, and with the connection cut, her voice steadied. "You are worse than any orc could ever be. Orcs kill because it is their nature, but you thrive on causing misery. Your whole life is an endless quest to causing others grief and harm."

Gríma smirked.

"If you say so…"

"But I don't believe you." Summoning what courage she had left, Éowyn looked at the torn garment again, clenching her blanket so tightly that her knuckles went white, and still her hands shook. "This is only his cloak. The blood on it may not even be Éomer's. Do you want to hear what I believe? I believe that your men stole this from him. They followed him and when he put it down somewhere, they stole it because they would never have dared to fight him, and then they slaughtered an animal on the way back to smear its blood onto it to make it look as if they killed him." She uttered a mocking laugh even though she felt dead inside. Could it be true what she said? Or was it desperation trying to make her believe in something even though the opposite was already proven? "It is but another one of your petty little ploys. You cannot fool me, carrion bird! Go and show this to the King, if you are so proud of it!"

Seemingly unfazed by her outburst, her adversary calmly rolled the cloak together and directed his steps over to the fireplace.

"Believe what you may, Lady Éowyn, but your brother is in my hands. He is alive yet, and in the hands of a capable healer, who might just help him survive his wounds… but if you choose to remain a nuisance to me, I might decide to tell him to withhold his help. I might even, in fact, tell him to cause your brother yet more pain. He is a master of the Dark Arts, he knows how to make your brother feel every ounce of pain he is capable of enduring for a long, long time. Trust me when I tell you this."

The trembling travelled up Éowyn's hands to seize her entire body as she stared in shock at Wormtongue, gasping as her adversary carefully laid the cloak into the fire.

"No! No, you will not get away with this! I will tell the King! He said nothing about killing Éomer, and nothing about torture! He will have you executed before the sun goes up tomorrow morning." Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed although she still felt weak, Éowyn ripped open the drawer of her nightstand and took the dagger from it. Alarmed by the noise, Gríma's head snapped around. He narrowed his eyes.

"I would not do that if I were you. If you think you can threaten me, I would advise you strongly to reconsider. What you did yesterday could easily land you in the dungeon yourself, my Lady. Or even worse, it could cost you your beautiful head. I have irrefutable proof of your treason. Several people saw your handmaiden talking to the blacksmith's son, which is why she won't return, in case you were wondering. I have no doubt that Élric himself will testify against you if he is being properly motivated… if he recovers, that is. I am keeping him somewhere close, as well, in the same place as your brother. They are both in my hands, and believe me when I say that I will not hesitate to make their lives even more miserable than they are now if you give me so much as the faintest reason!"

His gaze pierced Éowyn with open brutality, all pretence of friendliness or compassion long gone.

"And before you go and wave that dagger in my direction, or whatever else you might come up with to dispose of me, know that the men guarding your brother and Élric are under orders to kill them both in the most painful way they can conceive should they not hear from me each and every single day. Do you understand me?"

Gríma allowed himself a malicious smile at the sight of the young woman's helpless rage. Once more poking at the remains of the burning cloak in the fireplace to make certain that nothing remained of it, he straightened and put back the iron into its stand. Cleaning his hands on his dark robe, he walked over to the door without haste, and a victorious smile spread over his pale features as he depressed the handle and looked back over his shoulder. "Anyway, I do not have to remind you whose words the King really listens to these days, do I, Lady Éowyn? I bid you a good night."

The door closed behind him, and Éowyn no longer cared whether he could hear her as she threw herself onto her bed and gave herself over to despair…

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 11:Plans in the Dark

ALDBURG

It was not until well after most of the city's inhabitants had gone to bed and the lights had been extinguished before a secretive rap on the door was heard. Disorientated until she remembered that her valiant marshal had scheduled a secret meeting for the night, Freela blinked and sat up, wiping her eyes. Next to her, Elfhelm already stirred in his sleep, likewise woken by the signal. Knowing that they would have visitors some time later that night, they had gone to bed fully clothed, resting while they waited, and when the hours had passed uneventfully, had fallen asleep. Unwilling to leave her warm bed, Freela swung her legs over the edge and shivered at the sensation of the cold ground underneath her naked feet. A hand went back to gently shake her resting warrior.

"Léofa?"

"I heard it," Elfhelm muttered into his pillow. "Give me a moment." He groaned and rolled onto his back, moaning. Why was it that one always felt even worse upon waking up than before resting? For a moment considering going back to sleep, Elfhelm at last opened his eyes to the darkness of their bedroom.

Freela was already slipping into her shoes and made her way over to the door as the second knock came, not lighting a candle for fear that the light would be seen by hostile eyes.

"I am coming. I am here." She sniffled, the burden of sleep still heavy on her shoulders as she asked softly through the still closed door: "Who is there?"

"Findárras. And Céorl… and I also brought Thor."

She unhooked the chain and cast a quick, cautious glance outside before opening the door for the three waiting men. Running a hand through her unruly heap of dark red curls, Freela gestured fleetingly at the table in the living room.

"Elfhelm will be with you in a moment, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the meantime." They nodded at her and murmured their thanks as each of them took a chair in the darkness. "Can I get you something? Tea, perhaps?"

She could not help it that she still felt uneasy at the sight of the dark-haired young man among their visitors. She knew that Elfhelm trusted the Half-Dunlending who had joined his éored a few years before with his life, but Freela had witnessed more than one attack of his evil brethren of the other side of the River Isen. She would never feel entirely comfortable around their kin. They had taken Kélgard away from her, something she would never forgive them. Freela was grateful for the darkness, not wanting the scout to sense her hostility, but perhaps he did anyway, because after a long, questioning glance, he, too, averted his eyes.

"Tea would be wonderful, Freela," the tall, red-haired Findárras replied in the strained silence, and she gave him a quick smile, thankful for the reason to disappear before she seriously upset the warriors with her irrational behaviour. "If it is not too inconvenient for you? I realise that it is the middle of the night, but waiting until everybody was asleep seemed the safest way of meeting."

"Think no more about it, Findárras. It is I who needs to apologise for letting you all sit in the darkness, but that is the way Elfhelm wants it," she said, her eyes briefly resting on the third visitor; a grim looking man in his middle years with a thick, grey-streaked beard that was considerably darker than the hair upon his head. It was not often that Céorl came down to Aldburg. That he had undertaken this journey despite the unfavourable conditions only pointed at the seriousness of the matter he had come to discuss. Aware of her close scrutiny, the Captain's keen eyes briefly met hers and the powerful warrior acknowledged her with a barely noticeable nod as Elfhelm made his appearance.

"Céorl! It is good to see you, old friend, especially in times like these! Thor? Good that you are here, too. Findárras was right to bring you along." He nodded at the younger man, rightly guessing that the scout still felt like an outsider in the presence of the commanding Rohirrim. He would have to overcome his insecurity. Only a few years had passed since Erkenbrand had made Thor his responsibility, knowing that the survivor of a routed Dunlending raiding commando who had switched sides in the middle of battle would never be given a chance to prove himself in Westfold. Since then, the Halfblood had shown extraordinary promise and eagerness, and Elfhelm had seen no reason why he should not groom the man to be a captain. In a time when men died quicker than they could be replaced, the need for leaders was ever present, and once he overcame his incertitude, Thor had what it took to make people follow him. Of that Elfhelm was sure.

Still feeling every bone in his body despite the bath and the massage, the marshal extended his hand to greet the experienced captain of the central territories, who quickly rose to his feet to embrace his brother-in-arms.

"I apologise for the inconvenience of denying you your sleep when you have only just returned, Elfhelm, but with the Worm's watchdogs on my tail, I saw no way of doing this differently." Céorl's deep, full voice fit his impressive frame as he clapped his comrade's shoulder and sat down again while Elfhelm occupied the last remaining chair. "We heard about the battle from the errand riders, but I know that even their worst reports can only give a weak impression of what really happened." He inhaled deeply, and his brow furrowed in concern and compassion. "I assume that it was the worst you have been in so far?"

"Aye." Elfhelm's expression darkened. "Aye, it was, by far. The bloodshed was unbelievable. The waters of Isen ran red with the blood of our riders. I truly expected this to be the battle that would see us defeated. I feared that we would have to retreat to save our naked lives. It was only through Erkenbrand's and Grimbold's determination that we managed to throw them back at last, but I fear that next time, what is left of our armies will not be strong enough to keep them from entering the Mark. While we must fill our emptying ranks with men both too young and too old, that wizard simply breeds himself a new army in a matter of days and assaults us again." He clenched his teeth in helpless frustration while the other men listened silently. "The Mark is bleeding out, brothers. There are hardly enough able-bodied men left to fight in Westfold, and we cannot summon them from other parts of the kingdom because they are needed there, too. We cannot fight a war that comes to us from all directions at the same time."

"And not only do we have to fight foes from outside, but also those who seek to weaken us from within, as if our problems weren't great enough already," Céorl muttered angrily. He shook his head in frustration. "It has been a long time since I was able to understand the orders coming from the Golden Hall, but my patience has reached its end now. This newest act of foolishness cannot be tolerated. I never thought that I would one day speak against Théoden-King in this fashion, but it is no longer he who rules this land; it is this foul, crooked spy of Saruman's at his side. For how much longer are we expected to lean back and accept that he weakens us by forbidding us to hunt down those who assault us, or watch him kill or expel our leaders? I, for once, refuse to walk open-eyed to my doom! If I cannot change my fate, at least let me hew off as many ugly orc-heads as I can along the way!"

Nodding in acknowledgement of his brother-in-arms' passionate statement, Elfhelm changed the topic.

"What is known about Éomer's situation? Findárras said that he was banished for disobedience to the King. Why? What did he do? The punishment sounds rather drastic."

Céorl snorted.

"He did only what each of us would have done in the same position: he rode out with his éored against Théoden's orders when reports of a great horde of orcs in the Wold reached us. Our scouts had seen them descend into the Mark from the East Wall. I would have gone with him, but he bade me stay behind to guard Edoras. I seems that the Worm somehow succeeded in convincing the King that Éomer left them behind without sufficient protection, and also that he was responsible for the death of Théodred, since he did not make for the Fords when the summons came."

"But that is nonsense!" Elfhelm exclaimed, enraged. "I was already on the way, and even I arrived too late! Théodred and most of his men had already been slain when we entered the fray. Éomer could have done nothing to prevent it! And there is no telling what that orc horde would have done to our settlements had it been allowed to traverse the Mark unchallenged! They had all deployed their riders to the fords. They were wide open for an attack."

"You know that, and I know that, and Éomer elaborated on that during the trial… but we both know who Theoden-King is listening to these days, Elfhelm. Still, I would not have thought that he would act so harshly against his own kin."

Exchanging a grim glance with Findárras as he tried to grasp the full meaning of Céorl's words; Elfhelm could only shake his head. It still sounded utterly unbelievable.

"What about Gamling and Háma? Did they not speak up?"

"Against the King?" Céorl raised an eyebrow. "From what I heard, it was Théoden himself who proclaimed the verdict. You know Gamling and Háma – they would never question their lord's words, even though they have to understand by now where the orders are really coming from."

Yes, Elfhelm knew the two captains of the Royal Guard well enough. Both were honourable men – and both would follow Théoden loyally until the end of their days. Given recent developments, that outcome seemed not too distant anymore. Fighting mightily against the bout of helpless frustration and anger welling up in him, Elfhelm asked instead: "Is it known whether Éomer has already left the Mark, or where he is?"

"Apparently, the Marshal was first incarcerated for three days upon his return, because the Worm needed the time to send his riders out to bring the tidings of his banishment to the people … Théoden had not even spoken the verdict then. They told me that at Snowbourn. They knew what would happen before the people of Edoras did." Céorl's hands balled into fist as anger overtook him anew. "They released Éomer yesterday morning. I left Snowbourn shortly afterwards to bring you these tidings, as I doubt that you would have heard them from Wormtongue."

"They sent him into the wild in the middle of a snowstorm?" Elfhelm asked incredulous.

"Yes. I am sure the snake found that little addition to the punishment very delightful. They chased Éomer away from Edoras unarmed and without provisions; you know the law yourself. He is forbidden to seek help from the people, and they are forbidden to help him, and in addition to that, the Mark is brimming with orc patrols. I would not be surprised if Gríma told them to search for Éomer. The question is now, what do we do? The way I see it, we must either openly disobey the law, or load shame upon ourselves and follow the verdict."

Heavy silence ensued, and the darkness seemed to thicken as the four warriors sat brooding over their possibilities. They woke from their dark thoughts only briefly when Freela placed steaming earthen mugs in front of each of them, and they muttered their thanks, their minds occupied with the problem at hand.

"We must do something," Findárras began hesitantly, twirling his thin, red beard. "I mean, we cannot just leave the Marshal to his fate, can we? With the Prince dead, who will lead us? Our riders look to Éomer, and it is still the House of Éorl they trust in the most. It would be devastating to them all to see the man who fought so passionately for the Mark discarded without resistance from us, their commanding officers. It is our duty to help a brother-in-arms in need. "

"Not to mention that we would be next, no doubt," Elfhelm added. "We… and Erkenbrand. And Grimbold. It would be foolish to assume that Gríma would stop once he has ridded himself of Éomer. He will not rest until he has replaced every single position of power in the kingdom with a man he controls."

"I left Edoras before the verdict was announced, but I told Éothain to wait before he does anything," Céorl admitted lowly, avoiding Elfhelm's questioning glance by staring at the table. "I'm certain that the men of their éored wanted to accompany Éomer into exile, but I told him that the situation was too dangerous for any rash actions… and also, with my éored gone, the city needed protection. I cannot tell whether this was the right decision or not, but if Edoras falls, it will be over for all of us. I felt uncomfortable about leaving it entirely in the hands of men we cannot trust; it would make it too easy for Gríma to fortify the city against us, or even take its inhabitants prisoner if we came for him. Éothain did not like my orders, but he promised me to wait. Yet we must come to a decision tonight, it can no longer be delayed."

"I fear you are right." Elfhelm furrowed his brow as he looked at his scout. "Is anything known about Éomer's whereabouts? Which way he was headed? I would expect him to ride in our direction. He must know that the people of Eastfold are still on his side, so even if he violates the verdict, he will most likely not be reported. Perhaps he will even try to seek me out."

"It will be difficult with the Worm's spies everywhere. I suppose Gríma expects him to head our way, too, or he would not have sent so many men to the Eastfold's major settlements. He does not expect Éomer to leave the Mark."

Céorl stared over Elfhelm's shoulder at the window. Beyond was only the darkness of the night, and still he felt uncomfortable. They were talking quietly, but simply by meeting in this strange, secretive way they had transformed themselves into suspects should the counsellor's spies ever find out about it. The urge to get up and check for potential eavesdroppers was almost irresistible.

"Of course he will not do that," Elfhelm agreed, lost in his own grim contemplation "Éomer would never leave his sister at the Worm's mercy. Gríma must know that he will plot against him for as long as there is a single breath left in him, no matter where he ends up staying." Elfhelm's eyes narrowed as the implications of his words began to settle in his mind, and his blood turned into ice-water. "The filth will try to have him killed. He must see the threat Éomer poses to him even now; he cannot allow him to live." The cold hand of fear seized Elfhelm's stomach as he followed his thought to the last consequence. "He knew the people would not have taken it had he ordered Éomer's execution, to have him killed right in front of their eyes, so he feigned to be merciful and made arrangements for his adversary to be killed in secrecy instead. I have to give the Worm that: his cunning knows no equal."

"Then we must protect the Marshal!" Thor let himself be heard for the first time. The others looked at him, and from their silence, the younger man concluded that he had voiced their own thoughts. "We must find him before his enemies do, and help him hide until we know exactly which path to take."

He fell silent, not knowing whether he had overstepped his boundaries. After all, he was just a simple soldier, and not even a pureblooded Rohír. Although he had already served for several years in Elfhelm's éored, Thor knew that - apart from their group of riders - people were still distrustful, the Captain's own woman an excellent example of their sentiments. There was nothing he could do about that but be patient and try to reassure them through his deeds, but although he was used to being given hard looks, their hostility was hard to swallow at times. Éomer, however, had been one of those who had given him a chance after they had fought side by side in battle. That alone meant Thor felt indebted to the man.

"That sounds reasonable, but I fear we will have to come to a decision about our further course of action tonight," Céorl pressed. "Gríma's influence gets stronger each day; we cannot afford to wait much longer. Perhaps the time has arrived when open rebellion is necessary. Think about it: what would the Worm do if you and I, and Éothain, and Erkenbrand, and Grimbold, too, and every captain in the Mark summoned the éohere to ride to Edoras and cast him out? What could he do if all our folk united against him? He could not defy ten thousand riders."

"It is a nice image, I agree, but apart from not knowing what Erkenbrand and Grimbold think about this, you forget that he still has power over the King," Elfhelm said darkly. "Béma alone knows what it is, but there are still many men among the Royal Guard who will enforce Théoden's will, no matter how strange his orders may seem to them. We have been brought up this way, Céorl. You and I… one of the first things we were taught when we were still children was never to question the King."

"But there can be no denying that Théoden has been led astray!" Findárras cried out, dismayed to hear his own voice say these words.

"Elfhelm is right, though." Céorl's expression darkened. "One can call Gríma many names. We call him a liar, a worm, filth, and it is all true, but he is also no fool, and his plan is faultless. There are more people than you would think who believe his lies. They believe that Éomer is responsible for Théodred's death. It was a horrible blow to the people to hear that he had fallen, you know how much they loved the Prince. And Éomer was in his youth known to be rash on occasion, reckless even. We who have ridden with him for years know that he has lost that weakness and has become a very shrewd strategist, but enough of the simple folk will believe that he disobeyed the King only to pick a fight." He exhaled, giving his words time to settle. "So, what will we do?"

Elfhelm leant back. He had made his decision. The path he had to take was clearly visible to him now.

"No doubt Gríma expects us to become active, and I would really hate to disappoint him." A nasty smirk formed around the corners of his mouth. "I have been a marshal of the Mark for quite some time, and so scheming is not entirely new to me. We will help Éomer, but we will do so in secrecy." He looked at his scout. "Thor, come dawn, you will summon our éored to the stables. I want them to form five independent groups and search the mountain paths. You are free to kill whatever orcs or other foul beasts you encounter along the way." With a wolfish grin, Elfhelm's attention returned to Ceorl. "You see, Captain, that I take the King's orders seriously. I protect our people and that is why we will go on an extensive orc-hunt tomorrow! We will clear the way for Éomer. I myself will ride to Edoras with a few chosen men to see for myself what is going on in Meduseld, and try to speak with Gamling, Háma and perhaps even the King. When I return, I will bring Éowyn with me. I am not comfortable with the thought of her in that snake pit. Éomer would want me to do that, and once I am back, we will begin to form the resistance."

Céorl nodded and straightened in his chair, visibly relieved like the other men around the table.

"Aye, and I will accompany you on the way, old friend. We will see whether the snake dares to defy us entry. If he does, I might as well take the opportunity to kill him myself. It is time that the Mark is returned to the hands of men who have its welfare in mind and not its destruction…"

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

"How do you plan to contact Elfhelm… if he has returned from Westfold by now. We both know the Worm. I would be surprised if he did not send his spies to all major cities and settlements to wait for you to show up… especially at Aldburg. He will expect you to head there. Are you certain that it is not a mistake to do what he is counting on?"

"I agree that it is a gamble." Éomer took another bite from the pitifully thin rabbit in his hands and fell silent, chewing while he stared right through Théodred in deep thought. "As a matter of fact, I have already given this some thought." He straightened. "Of course, it still involves risk, but no matter what I do, I will not be able to avoid it entirely for as long as I stay in the Mark against the verdict." Still chewing, he turned his head to see Firefoot restlessly shifting. The grey stallion had at last accepted his master's choice of camp for the night, but it was clear that he would not be able to rest here. Whenever his head sunk and his eyes closed, it took only the smallest crackle from the fire to wake him and make him toss his head, his ears nervously flickering to and fro. Éomer felt sorry for his animal companion, but it could not be helped. This was not the time to be picky; they'd have to take whatever was available.

"So how will you do it?" Théodred spoke into his thoughts, waking him from his contemplation. "I share your opinion of Elfhelm; I cannot imagine that he would ever turn against you. But Aldburg is a great city with three éoreds, and not all of their captains might share his view. You see that the Mark has been brought to the brink of defeat lies in our inherent obedience to our King. I hate to say that we should have rebelled against Father's, or perhaps I should rather say - the Worm's – orders sooner, but it just is not in our blood. The King's word is law." Théodred raised one sceptical eyebrow. "You are fighting against five hundred years of tradition. I certainly do not envy you, Cousin."

Éomer shook his head and took another bite, cursing over getting more bones than meat in his mouth with it. He creased his brow in realisation that Théodred had made a very valid point and stared into the fire. To unite their people against Théoden was indeed be a deed he could hardly hope to accomplish… yet what other option was there? To flee and leave his kinsmen, and – even more importantly – Éowyn to their fate? He would sooner die than admit defeat by Gríma Wormtongue. Even if they riddled him with arrows like a hedgehog wherever he chose to turn up, at least he would die knowing that he had tried.

"Cousin?" Théodred repeated, staring at him from the other side of the fire. "Tell me, what is your plan? Because if I were you, I would not force my position and ride into the city openly, however certain you may feel of the people's loyalty. Just one man of a different mind would be enough for it to go wrong."

Éomer inhaled deeply, and tried to lend his voice conviction. "I do not plan to ride into the city;like you said, it would be madness. I will ride to the farm of Anlaf's parents in the foothills near Aldburg and ask Elgard to deliver a message to Elfhelm for me. I know I can trust Elgard."

The man he spoke of was the younger brother of one of his captains, a man he trusted and respected. Due to an injury he had sustained in a match - breaking his leg in one of their wild riding games - Elgard had - to his great disappointment - been rejected by the Armed Forces, but Éomer remembered how the younger man had always eagerly listened to the tales of their bravery once their éored returned. "I will instruct him to tell Elfhelm that I will be waiting for him in the mountains to discuss our options."

"I see." The older man nodded pensively. "And since I know that you are usually a good judge of character, I will not question your choice, but you do realise that even if Elfhelm agrees to follow you and if all the Eastfold's éoreds do so, too – what you are about to unleash will test the boundaries of our people's beliefs and loyalty. There has never been rebellion in the Mark. This could easily end in disaster… and result in a bloodbath that would drown us all, brought upon by ourselves. This is a great responsibility you are speaking of."

"I am aware of that, but I do not see how it could be worse than witnessing the slow decay of the kingdom the Worm is forcing on us. I would rather die on my feet in a battle against fate itself, than live on my knees, and I am certain that our people do not see it differently. Things cannot go on the way they are now. It is that simple." Éomer stared into the fire with unseeing eyes, and more than just its gleam sparkled in the hazel irises. "One way or another, the fate of the Mark will soon be decided, brother." He paused as he realised that Théodred was no longer paying attention to him. "Théodred?"

"I think you are not alone anymore…"

Chapter 12: Unbidden Visitors

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Not knowing what to make of his cousin's remark, Éomer furrowed his brow as he followed Théodred's gaze to the outer cave without seeing anything.

"What do you mean? Of course I am not alone: you are here with me!"

"But only in your dream, Éomer! That is not, however, where the danger lies!" As his cousin abruptly turned back to him, the alarm in Théodred's eyes sent a sharp bolt of anxiety through Éomer's gut.

"But I am not-"

"You are asleep, Cousin, for how else could I be here? But someone is approaching! You must wake immediately, they are almost upon you!" Théodred twitched as another noise reached them from the entrance of the cave, and he jumped to his feet, eyes wide with panic. "Wake up, Éomer! Hurry!"

He sat up with a start, gasping and his heart pounding in a frantic rhythm against his ribcage as his fingers clenched the handle of his axe. Staring wide-eyed into the semi-darkness, Éomer's gaze came to rest on the red-glowing remains of the fire, and he realised with shock that he had indeed been asleep for a long time. Sometime during his lonely watch, his body had betrayed him, and daylight was already underway. There was already enough of it for him see the outline of the cave and the large grey shadow nearby which tossed its head and stared in the direction of the entrance with flared nostrils, trembling with tension.

In a heartbeat, Éomer was on his feet and at the stallion's side.

"Sssh…" he said, laying a hand on Firefoot's neck and instantly feeling the tremors of anxiety as he listened with baited breath. So it was indeed true: even asleep, he had been alerted by a noise, and his inner voice - in the shape of Théodred - had instantly woken him … unfortunately far later than he had planned to leave, leaving him to deal now with the consequences of his failure. Who were his unbidden visitors? Orcs? Or the Worm's henchmen? He doubted that they could be men of the Mark. They would have had to ride through the night to get here so early. No, it had to be enemies upon his doorstep. Involuntarily, his grasp around the axe tightened.

"Giet, Firefoot…" Laying a finger onto his lips, Éomer silently moved over to the wall that seperated the two caves, and from where his foes would enter. His back pressed against the rock, he breathed noiselessly while he reached out with his senses… and heard them: low mumbling, at least two different voices, guttural and throaty. The words were too low to understand, and yet the very sound of their language told Éomer that he was not listening to men. It was neither the sound of Westron, nor Rohirric, nor that of the Dunlendings that was spoken. No, he was listening to the Black Speech. Orcs, then. Feeling the short hair on the nape of his neck rising, he mentally readied himself for the fight. How many? Only those two? It would be unusual for orcs, who usually preferred to travel through hostile territory in greater numbers to improve their chances in case they were detected. The stealthy steps hesitantly approached his hiding place, and Éomer flexed his fingers around the handle of his weapon once more, waiting for what would happen, when suddenly, the whispering on the other side ceased with a hiss and was replaced by leaden silence… which was interrupted by an exasperated, heaving breath as the tension became unbearable for Firefoot, and the stallion burst into flight.

Cursing, Éomer whirled around, aware that he would have to make the brief moment of surprise count if he wanted to stand half a chance. Storming out of hiding in the wake of his charging horse, Éomer lashed out with the axe and buried it deep in the chest of an orc Firefoot's assault had thrown against the wall. Hate-filled eyes glared at him in stunned shock, but he did not linger to watch them glaze over with death. There were more of these foul things, and they were coming for him now.

Freeing the blade from the carcass with one hard tug, Éomer raised it in defence at the shadow attacking him. Sparks flew as the orc's long-blade crashed against it, the impact travelling up the his arms and almost knocking the hilt from his grasp. It was the moment when the warrior in Éomer took charge and instinct replaced reason. He threw himself against his adversary shoulder first, and it sank into the creature's stomach while their weapons were still caught between them. He rammed the orc against the wall, the impact stunning the creature through the tough armour of leather and bones that protected it. Pointed fangs snapped at him with a furious hiss, and spittle showered Éomer's face. The long-blade twitched, but he kept it caught with the axe and freed one hand to punch the aberration in the face, almost breaking his knuckles against the hard skull. The spittle became blood, but suddenly, the vile thing grinned at him and went down.

No time to hold on to it, no time to think. Instinctively, Éomer followed the orc's example and rolled, as with a rush of air, a spiked club hit the wall with bone-shattering force, missing him by the breadth of a hair. Completing the defence-motion by rolling over his shoulder, Éomer landed on his feet with cat-like agility, lashing out again even as he rose. A pained grunt rewarded his effort, and the club clattered to the ground. A second strike to the orc's head ended its misery, and Éomer whirled back in time to see a blurred shape hurl itself at him. It was too late to avoid the impact, and his bones groaned as this time, he was thrown against the rock. Somehow, he managed to hold on to his axe, but could not lift it. Though smaller than he, the orc was incredibly strong, it's muscles hardened by a life of hardship and violence. Never having fought one of these creatures in hand-to-hand combat, Éomer realised quickly that he was in trouble when long claws sank into his arms and a curse was spat at him, followed by a malicious chuckle, the yellow eyes in front of his face burning with lust for his blood. Slowly, Éomer's axe hand was forced down.

"Now you die, Strawhead!"

Pointed fangs went for his throat with the speed of a striking snake – and sunk into his left hand which he brought up in defence against the orc's grip. Amusement over his desperate struggle gleamed in the luminous eyes and the beast clenched its jaw, observing him in obvious delight while blood welled up around its lips. And still it pressed toward him while it mauled his hand, getting within strike distance no matter what Éomer did. The muscles of his arms trembled with the strain of trying to keep the creature away and bring up his weapon. Suddenly, the orc spat out his hand and with one mighty jerk, forced his arm aside to go for his throat again.

His reaction was pure instinct. With a violent thrust, the son of Éomund knocked his brow against the beast's opened jaws, causing it to howl in pain as its teeth first ripped through his skin and then shattered when they met with the harder bone of its opponent's skull. For a moment, its strength waned, and without hesitation, Éomer freed his arm and swung the axe in a deadly half-circle upwards, cleaving the orc's head clear from its neck and sending it flying through the cave. Yellow eyes widened in shock even as the deformed thing rolled into a corner, and then glazed over. Placing a heavy boot against the still standing body, Éomer pushed it back, and the carcass collapsed in a heap on the floor as an ear-splitting roar filled the cave. He swivelled, axe ready to hew down whatever came within his reach, when something punched against his right leg with a sharp sound, and the weapon fell from his hands.

"Here, Strawhead!"

There was no one behind him, not in his immediate surroundings, but as Éomer looked down, a thick, black shaft suddenly protruded from the middle of his thigh. Uncomprehending, he reached down to touch it while his gaze darted through the twilit chamber. It could not be real. Where was the pain? Yet all thoughts about his leg vanished when a massive shape stepped away from the wall next to entrance where it had hidden, a bow in its claws. The sight of it left Éomer stunned in realization that his worst nightmare had come true. It had not been a deformed orc who had left the larger tracks. It had been a Uruk-hai, and the prints on the floor had indeed been an indication of its true, massive build. Towering at least a head taller than he, its intimidating shape blocked out the light from the exit. Night or not, freezing temperatures or not, he should have moved on, Éomer realised with sudden bitterness. Now it was too late.

The huge creature chuckled maliciously at the sight of his adversary's dismay, revealing yellow, pointed fangs in a bellowing roar while its amber eyes sparkled with infernal bloodlust. It seemed to be in no particular hurry to finish him off, Éomer noticed as he stooped to retrieve his weapon from the ground. A first violent wave of pain from his thigh caused him to grit his teeth. Keenly observing him, the half-orc lifted the hand with the bow – and opened its fingers. The message was clear: it did not intend to kill him from a distance. Provokingly slowly, the clawed hand wandered down its impressive frame, over the thick armour of leather and bone it wore down to its hip, where it unsheathed a long, crudely worked blade with a double spike at the tip and lifted it up for its wounded opponent to see. It was the most intimidating weapon Éomer had ever laid eyes upon, and he had no doubt that the first strike he failed to parry would fell him like a tree.

His mind raced. So, the foul thing planned to hack him to pieces. What could he do? With Gúthwinë in his hands, he would have taken on the challenge confidently even with the arrow in his leg, but the little axe with its wooden handle felt like a joke compared to the Uruk's weapon; a tool for cutting branches rather than killing mutant orcs. As the tremors of pain from his leg intensified, Éomer took a stumbling step back toward the second cave. Perhaps he would stand a better chance in more confined quarters, where the orc's bulk would be a hindrance rather than an advantage. But how he was supposed to defeat his adversary without armour and adequate weaponry was beyond him.

Before him, the Uruk crouched into battle-position and slowly lifted the blade back over its shoulder. Its maw, wide enough to swallow a man's head whole, opened to emit a blood-curdling roar – and then it charged! With the unstoppable force of an avalanche it came at him, ready to hack him to pieces. Retreating the one step that separated him from the wall, Éomer awaited his opponent, and with a first, fierce thrust, blade and axe met in a rain of sparks. The impact knocked Éomer backwards and almost tore his weapon from his hands before he could use the force of the attack to spin around and disentangle his weapon at the same time. The blade grazed the Uruk's side and it roared in fury as it whirled around, but the wound was barely more than a scratch.

"A little over-confident, are we, filth?" Éomer laughed, now clear about the strategy he would use: he had to keep the orc raging. Although this bastard-breed had been domesticated by the Dark Lord and the traitor in the west to the point where it was intelligent enough to follow a given strategy, Éomer knew that once provoked, most orcs tended to regress to a beastly state and abandon common sense in exchange for raw power. While an enraged Uruk-hai was a fearsome sight to behold, warriors using their wits found them easier to overcome than in their calm state; one reason why the Uruk-hai were usually defeated despite their superior strength. "Come on, aberration! Or is one man more than you can take alone?"

The blade raced toward his neck, and Éomer intercepted it at the last moment. Yet the razor-sharp steel bit deeply into the handle of his axe, half separating the iron head, and a vile stench assaulted Éomer's nostrils as the orc bellowed its rage at him, the gaping maw directly in front of his face. Their weapons caught between them once again, both adversaries fought to free theirs first, yet Éomer quickly found that he was no match for the Uruk's brute strength: with a brutal jerk, it pulled its sword free, and Éomer had to let go of his axe if he didn't want to end up crashing face-first into his assailant's chest. Thrown off-balance, he was too slow to duck the creature's clawed hand, and it caught him behind the temple and jerked his head around, sending him reeling backwards and falling over a dead orc with its owner charging after him.

Stunned from the impact, Éomer watched as the blade descended upon him once more, slowly slicing through the air, which had become thick and liquid and hindered his moves while the hot wetness of his blood ran down his face and neck.

'Move!'

Théodred's voice sounded far away, but it woke him from his stupor, and he reacted, abruptly thrown back into reality as if surfacing from a deep pool. He rolled, and the strike that would have hacked him in two left a deep scratch on the ground he had occupied only a heartbeat earlier. The shaft in his leg clattered over the stone and twisted the arrow-tip in his flesh. Éomer cried out, just as his fingers touched something smooth and hard. Not pausing to examine it, he grasped it and lashed out at the big hand seizing his tunic, cutting deeply into his foe's forearm.

A bellow of rage followed him as Éomer stumbled to his feet and backwards to distance himself from the now seriously enraged creature. Holding the gaping gash that was gushing black blood, the Uruk had dropped its sword and stared at him with eyes blazing in an unspoken promise to rip him apart. Satisfied over having shaken his enemy's self-confidence, Éomer blinked away the blood in his eyes and grinned.

"See now why you always lose despite your greater number? You are a mountain of meat without a brain. Even our children are more adept at battle than you!"

The thing bared its fangs at him, yet did not charge. Yellow eyes flickered infernally as the Uruk-hai lifted its wounded arm and extended a thick, black tongue to lick off its own blood to demonstrate that it cared not for the injury. Fascinated and repulsed at the same time, Éomer stared at it, and when the orc grasped its sword and dropped into a battle-crouch once again without breaking eye-contact, he understood: the game was over, his adversary cured of his overly great self-confidence: the Uruk considered him a serious threat now, a fact that made it immeasurably more dangerous as it approached with the black blade drawn back for the deadly strike.

"You speak much, Strawhead," it growled, and its sparkling eyes followed Éomer's moves as they began to circle each other. "It tells me you afraid. I smell all over you. You scared… and you right fearing me, for now you die!" It struck, the impact hard enough to almost shatter Éomer's arm as he lifted his orc-blade in defence, and the top-half of his longsword was hacked clean off. The Uruk's expression brightened in expectation of its near triumph as it looked upon the short piece of iron left in its adversary's hands. "Next strike – will be you." In an uncanny display of intuition, it stepped into Éomer's way and blocked him from the carcasses of its brethren to retrieve another weapon, grinning at his obvious dismay. "You think me foolish, Strawhead? I know what you want. You not get it." It spat, and then, suddenly threw its own blade away. "I kill you with own hands. Will take longer… and be more hurtful!"

Feverishly thinking as he backed away from the beast which approached him now with extended arms, demonstrating its intimidating span and reach, Éomer lifted the pitifully short remainder of his weapon. Somehow, he had to get past the Uruk. If he got a hold of the sword, or at least made it back to where the carcasses of the other were strewn on the ground to retrieve the club – a claw swung toward his face and he ducked and slashed at it with the iron shard in a desperate dash to dive behind his enemy. Before him, the black sword reflected weakly in the intensifying daylight, and he threw himself at it, ignoring his wounded leg – when with a horrible crunching sensation, something exploded in his right side and he was flung against the wall, unable to catch his breath.

'Bastard kicked me!' Éomer thought through a haze of crippling pain, blindly groping to find something he could use for a weapon while the most immediate fight was the one for air. His lungs burning while bright explosions danced before his eyes, Éomer tried to move as a shadow fell upon him. An instant later, he was grabbed by the throat and lifted into the air as if he were a puppet. Air! He needed air! His feet dangling, he furiously clawed at the fingers that crunched his neck, and when that proved unsuccessful, reached for his adversary's eyes, but the Uruk merely extended its arm to its full length with a malicious snarl, keeping him out of reach while it observed his desperate struggle with obvious delight.

"What now, manling? You not on horseback no more, and no shining armour. Without it, you weak. I could crush you if I want." The fingers dug even deeper into Éomer's windpipe, and he gasped, his conscious fading quickly despite his efforts to hold on. Again he clawed at the hand holding him, sunk his fingernails into the thick skin and drew blood, but the grip of its claws was like the teeth of a bear-trap. A fleshy black lip curled upward in a menacing sneer. "But I want not. I kill you slow." It flung him against the cave wall like a bundle of rags, then stooped to pick him up again and ran a finger over the side of his face, tasting his blood. "You tasty, manling. Better than stinking orcs. I eat you raw. But first, make you tender!"

Again Éomer crashed into the wall, and as his broken body sunk back, he knew at last that he had lost. 'Forgive me, Éowyn,' he thought dimly, his conscious fleeing him. 'I meant to keep my word, I really did.'

Once more, he was hurled up, and the big, ugly head of the Uruk-hai swam into his blurred vision, triumph in its gaze. No longer able to keep his arms up to tear however uselessly at the fingers choking him, Éomer hung in their iron grip like a marionette with its strings severed. Soon, it would be over. His fingertips brushed over the arrow-shaft in his thigh… the splintered shaft.

"Now, prepare to die, Strawhead," his adversary growled, holding him up directly in front of his face as if about to bite his head off. "I think I eat your left eye first." As the claws dug into the skin near his nose, Éomer's fingers tore the splintered remainders of the arrow from his leg and sunk them in one continuous move into the Uruk-hai's left eye with the last of his strength. The great body shuddered, and the fingers around his throat clenched. Half-conscious, Éomer drove the splinter further in with one violent push before his hand fell down and everything turned to grey. When the pressure around his neck suddenly ceased and he fell to the ground once more, he hardly felt it. The last thing he heard was the muffled creaking of leather, and then a great weight landed on top of him and made it impossible to breathe…

OOO

ALDBURG

There was already a faint stripe of daylight visible on the eastern sky, lighting the vast plains near the great city of the Eastmark as the long line of riders descended the slope. Although many of them had only just returned from the long journey and the battle at the Fords of Isen, none of the men had complained over being chased out into the harsh conditions again so soon. Only their commanders and scout knew about the further reaching implications of their errands, but orc-hunting was a duty all of them took seriously and saw to most eagerly. Their Marshal had told them of increased orc-activity in the White Mountains, where many of their kin dwelt and relied on their protection. None of the riders needed further motivation.

As the gate opened and the éored split into five parts, many men glanced back at the small group that would not accompany them. That Captain Céorl would return to Edoras had been widely assumed, but that Aldburg's chief protector, Elfhelm, would leave along with him, although he had hardly spent more than a few hours at his home, came as a surprise. Rumours of what their Marshal's errand in the City of Kings might be made their course, and after the tidings of the last days, many of the men quietly asked themselves whether they would see their commander again. It was only a small group that would travel to Edoras; the five men Céorl had brought with him, and four men Elfhelm had chosen to accompany him. Their number would be great enough to defend themselves against potential orc-attacks, but not sufficient to arrive in the city as anything more than beggars. Whatever Elfhelm wanted to force by visiting the King, ten riders would not give him a good position to bargain. The glances grew increasingly doubtful until the mighty fence blocked the riders' view of the small group, and they shifted back in their saddles and concentrated on the task at hand.

While the city around them woke, Freela hid her face against Elfhelm's broad chest, revelling in his warmth and scent embrace before he would be gone again too soon. She feared for him, but she also knew that his self-appointed task was honourable and urgent. As much as she hated to be left alone again, at the same time it was this man's incredible sense of duty that had first attracted her to him. He was a man always in service of his people; a man who would never rest until he could be sure that those in need of his protection had been cared for. So how could she even think of objecting?

Behind them, the men from his éored who would accompany him were also bidding their friends and kin farewell while Céorl and his men waited patiently just outside the open gate. Tightening her hold on him as she felt him prepare to let go, Freela lifted her head, fighting tears. It was not fair. She needed him, too! She saw understanding in his grey eyes which could look so fierce, but were now full of compassion… and at the same time, determination.

"You do understand why I am riding, don't you?" he asked softly, kissing her brow, and she nodded, her voice caught in her throat. "I will not be gone for long. I loathe leaving you so soon, too, but this is too important. I must see with my own eyes what is going on in Edoras. All that will follow depends on it." He inclined his head, saw brimming tears in her eyes and then kissed her once more. Her lips were dry and trembled underneath his, as if she was about to cry, but they opened to him, allowing him a taste of her he would carry with him until he returned.

"I will be here for you when you return," she whispered breathlessly between kisses, fighting the urgency and the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. Her hands roaming through his hair, she deeply inhaled his scent and took comfort in it before she forced herself to step away at last. It would not do for her to make saying farewell so hard for him. If the other women could be brave, so could she. "My prayers will accompany you every step on the way. May the Gods protect you and your men and give you back to me safely, my proud Marshal of the Mark. Go and protect your people."

Gratitude and pride over her bravery lit up Elfhelm's eyes, and Freela was glad that she had held her emotions under control even if she felt like breaking down. Elfhelm's rough hand cupped her cheek.

"I will be back before you can miss me, léofa. I swear." And with that and a little nod, he turned around and mounted his horse, his eyes briefly coming to rest on Findárras, who would take over command over the city in his absence once again. "And when we return, we will chase the Worm's spies out of Aldburg, old friend!"

The red-haired warrior grinned.

"I am looking forward to that, Marshal. Make haste, for I can barely wait to begin!"

"But you will wait for me, for I would not want to miss that opportunity for anything in the world! Hiya! Ride, Sons of Éorl! To Edoras!" He spurred his horse, and in a cloud of snow, the group of riders vanished from sight even before the gates had closed behind them.

UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER

Chapter 13: The Will to Live

WHITE MOUNTAINS

"Éomer? Éomer, wake up! You must wake!"

The voice was persistent. Not loud, but intense, and once it had found a way into his conscious, it refused to go away, no matter how fiercely Éomer struggled to ignore it. Unwilling to rise from the bottom of the deep black pool in which he had found shelter from the pain, he refused to follow the sound or even acknowledge its existence, reluctant to realise that the injuries he had sustained likely meant his end even if he had defeated his assailants. Where was the point in struggling and torturing himself only to fail in the end and die on the mountain path, miserable and freezing, when he could remain here in the warm, dark arms of oblivion, peacefully dreaming his way over into the halls of his ancestors?

And yet Éomer found, to his dismay, that those arms had already released him from their embrace, because he was slowly ascending to that bright place, that place of suffering he had so desperately longed to avoid. Briefly he struggled against the pull, but had to realise quickly that he was no match against the unseen force.

"I know you hear me, Éomer," the voice penetrated his thoughts again, and he sighed at its familiarity. "You know what must be done. There is hardly enough time left to take care of it now… and your fire is going out. Soon, it will be freezing cold in this cave."

"Shut up, Cousin," Éomer groaned, still refusing to open his eyes. Perhaps, there was a way back if he just tried hard enough. "You are already dead, so what valuable advice could you possibly give me? Leave me alone…"

"You will die if I do," Théodred stated matter-of-factly. "I may be dead, but I still care for you. We are of one blood. I do look forward to seeing you again, but not so soon. Our land and our people need you, Éomer, and there are many duties waiting to be seen to before I will welcome you here with a glad heart. You are too young to die, and your existence in this realm serves a purpose."

"If that is meant to comfort me, I must tell you that it fails." Béma, he was dying, and still there was only talk about duty and purpose. He would have thought better of Théodred.

"Don't be so pig-headed, Éomer," Théodred suddenly berated him, the impatience in his tone impossible to miss. "You know how I mean it. Obviously I do not want you to die because I love you, but that will not get you to do what must be done: you must treat your wounds, or they will get infected. You know what orcs do with their arrows; it has to come out of your leg as quickly as possible. You cannot afford to let more time pass. Move!"

"And what difference will it make?" Éomer pressed through his bruised throat, every breath he took a conscious decision, a fight. It did not help that - in addition to the swelling - there seemed to lay a heavy weight on his chest that hindered the flow of air into his lungs, and even the little amounts he managed to get down did unbelievable things to his right side when they extended against his damaged ribs. "Helpless like this, what could I possibly do? I can barely move, much less ride like this, and even if I somehow managed to get on Firefoot's back, the first person I met could kill me at his leisure, be it Rohír or orc. No, thank you, I'll rather stay here."

"I understand." Théodred said, and his at first compassionate tone froze. "Instead of fighting your way back, you want to take the easy way and leave Éowyn and our people to their fate."

"Are you mad?" Enraged, Éomer sat up and glared at his cousin, fists balled in barely controlled anger. Had he heard that right? "Tis not a question of what I wish for, Théodred! Did you wish to die at the Fords? Did you finally have enough of the useless fighting and just decided to end it there?"

"Of course not!" The older man was kneeling by his side, and the expression in his eyes mirrored the coldness of his voice... but there was also a spark of anger. "You know that; I was assaulted. I stood no chance against my enemies. They were many, and they killed me quickly...but you defeated yours! You are not dead yet, and whether you survive will be as much a matter of your will as of incidents you cannot influence. Things may go your way or not, help may arrive or not, I cannot tell, but if you give up now, you throw away whatever chance you may still have."

Éomer snorted, angered that he should have to lead this argument with his cousin when Théodred was supposed to be the one to understand him best. "Tell me, what chances are you speaking of, Théodred: the chance to meet more orcs? A pack of wargs or wolves? Or a group of riders? All will kill me on sight. I am alone. No one is looking for me to bring me help."

His embittered words caused the older man to lower his voice, and Théodred's expression softened at his cousin's obvious despair. Perhaps he had been too harsh.

"How can you be so convinced of that, Éomer? Do you honestly think Findárras would draw his sword against you if he found you here? Or Elfhelm? You are in their territory; there is a chance that they will find you, and I would bet my life on it that they would try to help you. They would be insulted to hear that you would think that of them." He received no reply, not even the smallest reaction to his remark.

At length, Éomer laid back again as his strength deserted him, and his gaze went unseeing up to the ceiling of the cave.

"They will not look for me here. This path is precarious, and there is nothing around that would make the journey worth their while, nothing to protect. No, Cousin, I appreciate your efforts, but that is not the way things will turn out, and I cannot defeat circumstances on my own. You expect too much of me."

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world, and Théodred with it. He felt so tired...

For the longest moment, Theodred's gaze continued to rest on him, and his expression turned from compassion to disappointment. The notion also crept into his voice, making it even harder for Éomer to listen to his stinging words.

"Too much, you say. I always expected much of you, Cousin, and you never failed me before. Where is the man I came to know as Éomer of Eastfold now, the young marshal whose name alone would rout the enemy in the midst of battle? The name that brought our people hope? The Éomer I knew, the warrior I saw growing up and regarded with pride as my brother, he was a man who would defy destiny itself. No matter what the odds were, or how badly he was outnumbered, he refused to be defeated, and many a victory he achieved only by the sheer power of his will. I wonder where that man has gone. Perhaps he was just a dream."

Heat crept into Éomer's face.

"But what can I do? Firefoot is gone; it might even be that the Uruk killed him while I fought with the orcs. Without him, I am doomed. And even if he was here, what could I possibly do?" He could only whisper the words, choking on his own despair. Why did Théodred have to torment him?

"You can try, Éomer. Instead of giving up, you can fight, the way you always fought." Théodred had never sounded more insistent. This was a conversation between brothers, from the experienced older man to the younger one in need of his wisdom. "Gods, I wish I could give you better advice, but I don't know the answers myself; except for one thing: if you want to survive, you must take it step by step. First, you must take care of your fire, or you will freeze to death. Then you will have to tend your wounds. These are the two most immediate things you will have to concern yourself with to ensure your survival. And when you are done with that, we will see what else needs to be done, and what else you have the strength for. Step by step. I know you have the necessary strength and the will. Think of Éowyn. Without you, there will be no one who will stop the Worm from claiming her as his prize. She depends on you, Éomer!"

Éomer flinched. Why did Théodred have to bring up Éowyn? Why did he have to be so cruel? The thought of his sister in Gríma Wormtongue's hands was more than he could bear.

"Do you not think that I know this?" It was a mere whisper, followed by a long, ragged breath. "All right. I will try; I will do what I can… but I cannot promise you anything. In fact, I would even be surprised if I made it back to the fireplace."

His words, however dispirited, brought a relieved, encouraging smile to his cousin's face.

"Now, that sounds like the Éomer I know. I am sorry for being so hard on you, and the Gods know how much I wish I could help you with more than just words!" Théodred shook his head in helpless frustration and then extended his right to Éomer while determination returned to his expression. "Come on, Cousin! Show the Worm what it means to tangle with the blood of Eorl. He may think he has won, but you will prove him wrong. Now move!"

OOO

From one heartbeat to the next, Éomer found himself spat out into reality, and the full ugliness of his situation assaulted him without warning. His body was an agonised mess, a bag of misery, and the intensity of the pain robbed him of the little air he had been able to draw into his lungs. Gasping and putting all his will behind the effort, he lifted his head – and stared at the dark mass on top of him.

The Uruk was dead. Although Éomer's vision was blurred and his left eye swollen half-shut from the gash next to it, it took him only one glance to understand: only a short end of the splintered arrow protruded from the creature's eye while the rest of it was lodged in its brain; there was no way for the aberration to still be alive. A thin trail of blood had trickled down the side of its nose like black tears and stained Éomer's shirt. The stench of it despoiled the air, but the son of Éomund barely noticed as he concentrated on his dead adversary: there was no rising and falling of the massive chest against his body; no beating of a black heart inside this powerful beast on top of him; a single stab had reduced it to dead meat - a crushing mass of dead meat.

As his strength failed him, Éomer sank back and tilted his head toward the cave entrance. The light had not changed from what he could last remember, and disorientation washed over him. For how long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? Half a day?

'For too long. It is time to act!'

A first, cautious test revealed that, while it felt as if every single bone in his body had been crushed, there was none of the stiffness yet that usually accompanied heavy bruising once the injury had been given the time to fully develop. All the more reason to move while he still could. Running a hand over the left side of his head and feeling the gashes and spikes of his hair hardened by drying blood, Éomer fought to collect what was left of his strength. Crawling out from beneath the carcass and dragging himself all the way back to the fireplace and his saddlebags seemed like a task of epic proportions.

'Just do it. Don't think about it.'

'I believe in you.'

It was Éowyn's face he suddenly saw smiling encouragingly before his inner eye now, a vision from past days when he had readied his horse to ride into battle. He followed that vision willingly.

'Show the Worm what it means to challenge the blood of Eorl!'

Éomer lifted his head, took another deep breath against the searing pain in his side and propped his arms against the rock …and pushed himself backward with the leg he could still move, finding himself drenched in sweat before he had moved a single inch. 'I can do this!' He gritted his teeth. So, even in death, the Uruk intended to make this hard for him? He would show the filth the meaning of willpower. He. Would. Not. Die. Beneath. This. Carcass!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he doubled his efforts, and a loud groan escaped him as he pushed and dragged himself over the ground, soon swearing as he found it easier to deal with the pain by venting his anger at Wormtongue and his master and basically every person who had ever crossed him in his life. It was an astonishing tirade of groans and moans, interspersed with the foulest curses ever heard in the Riddermark, and if anyone who knew him had heard him then, they would have been thoroughly shocked. But soon enough the Uruk's head, which had weighed heavily on his stomach, had moved down to his hip. Exhausted but not dissatisfied with his progress, Éomer allowed himself a short moment of rest to collect new breath and strength. The swearing had made it easier to bear, but Gods, he hurt all over! How was he supposed to leave this cave even if he made it over to his saddlebags?

'One step at a time, brother. Do not get ahead of yourself. First, get clear of that Uruk. You are almost there.'

For another couple of heartbeats, Éomer stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Bracing. Just a few more breaths to channel what was left of his strength. He looked up. Théodred was right; he had almost cleared the corpse. He clenched his jaw, then sat up and pulled, and the monster's head slid down onto his injured thigh, forcing an agonised grunt from him, in addition to the worst curse he had ever uttered. If Béma punished him later for it, so be it, but right now, it felt good. Bright lights began to dance in front of his eyes while the rest of his vision dimmed and a chilling cold flooded his body. Éomer knew what this meant.

Yet denying himself the pleasure of unconsciousness, he doubled his efforts, throwing all he had left into a last push - and then collapsed heaving on the ground as his legs cleared the body and he was at last free of the weight. For a precarious moment, his consciousness threatened to flee him after all, but he dug in his fingernails with the ferocity of a warg and held on, no longer susceptible to distractions of whatever kind, a one-track mind on the way to the fulfilment of his task. He was at one end of a long narrow tunnel and had to get to the other side of it, where the fireplace was waiting for him. Nothing else existed, and once he had started this journey, he would continue to the end. The only acceptable outcome was sitting by the rekindled fire with the half-empty flask of Forlong's spirit in his hand while the other half cleansed his wounds. Once he had achieved that, he would allow himself to fall unconscious, and not a moment sooner.

Steeling himself for the effort ahead of him, Éomer tilted his neck to look in the direction of the glowing ashes. It was not very far, perhaps twenty steps. Théodred had been right: He could do this.

OOO

EDORAS

It had been another long night for Maelwyn; a night with little rest and greater feelings of guilt while she had stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling. Over and over had she heard Yálanda's agonised cry and saw the pain in in the gaze of the rider who had brought her the horrible tidings. And then the memory of the Counsellor's cold voice in which he had uttered his threat against her assaulted her again, and the piercing glance of his almost colourless eyes. Each time the vision returned, it had sent an icy chill down her spine and choked her, never losing any of its potency.

At last, it had become too much to bear, and Maelwyn had left the bed although the sun would not be up for another couple of hours. She did not want to disturb her hard-working husband with her restlessness. Lovingly, she had smoothed away a wheat-coloured lock that had fallen into Torben's face, and breathed a kiss onto his cheek before she sat up, beat after a night of worrying.

Mechanically slipping into a simple woollen dress, she had then sat for hours at the table of their living room and listened to the noises of the slowly waking city with the worst possible images passing in front of her inner eye. What was Éowyn doing now that she was alone? Had she fully recovered from the fever? What would the horrible man do to her after he had found out about her attempt to help her brother? Would he dare to throw the White Lady into the dungeon for treason? Horrified by the thought, Maelwyn buried her face in her hands.

More dreadful thoughts came: what horrible misfortune had befallen poor Élric? She had not yet dared to walk up the hill for fear that the Counsellor's men would take her away, and instead tried to get tidings from Éothain's captains. Neither Anlaf nor Aedwulf had been able to tell her anything more than that Élric's horse had returned riderless and wounded.

None of them were allowed to access the Golden Hall without summons, and so the flow of information had all but stopped. It seemed that slowly but surely, Meduseld was turned into a fastness against its own people, a thoroughly frightening experience. All saw it and worried, and yet none dared to speak about it in public for fear that their words would reach the wrong ears... and there were many ears to be avoided these days.

Maelwyn had no idea where all the strangers who had seeped into the city lately had come from, but their number seemed to increase with each passing day. Before she had been included in the secret proceedings, Maelwyn had certainly noticed a few foreign faces among the citizens, but only yesterday on her daily walk across the market, had she realised with shock how many strangers had been roaming the streets. Were indeed all of them evil men, secretly spying on the people, and whoever dared to say a wrong word would be taken away? It was as if they had only waited for Éomer to leave the city to rear their heads, certain that it was safe for them now to walk the city streets in broad daylight. It could no longer be denied that the Counsellor's men had not only seized complete control over the King's household, but all of Edoras, too, especially after they had unarmed the two present éoreds.

Taking a sip from the honey-sweetened tea she had fixed herself to calm down, Maelwyn leaned back and stared over to the window where dawn had at last arrived. Tired, she ran a hand through her tangled hair and wondered whether the King still knew what was going on inside the confines of his own hall and his city. She had always known Théoden as a just and benign ruler, even though the first signs of his illness had already been visible when she had become a member of the Royal Household. Yet when she thought back, his constitution had quickly deteriorated after the first six month of her service for his niece, and there was in fact no incident Maelwyn could think of within the last two years where the King had seemed lucid to her. Surely spies could not be his idea of keeping his people under control in the time of his illness, could it? But who was left to take action against it with Éomer gone?

Staring at the world behind the window, Maelwyn decided that she would speak with Éothain and his mother about this. It was good to know that she was now in the service of people who thought like her, but there had to be something more they could do. And also, her conscience was screaming at her to go and comfort Bergfinn and Yálanda, if that was possible. That something had happened to their son was partly her fault, and she felt miserable about it. While she would not be able to tell them the truth, at least she could demonstrate her compassion. It was something she needed to do. And after all, the smithy was not Meduseld; she would not be at fault to go there. She had known Bergfinn's family ever since she had come to Edoras, so surely offering her comfort to them would be something expected and not a dubious deed. She could not be arrested for doing so… or at least she hoped not.

Feeling better now that she had finally decided to act, Maelwyn rose to her feet and went into the kitchen. Her husband and the children would be up soon, and the routine of fixing them breakfast would do her nerves good before she left the house herself.

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

He had barely reached the fire in time to safe it. When he had finally made it back to his lair in the second cave, drenched in cold sweat and shivering from pain and exhaustion, the embers had darkened to a dull red, and for a moment, he had feared the worst. Throwing a fistful of tinder onto the ashes, Éomer had spent some of his hard fought-for breath to carefully blow into the glow, and the effort alone had almost made him pass out. Finally, the first little flame had hungrily licked into the air, and was soon joined by a second and a third one. Carefully, Éomer had fed them another log of wood from the pile and watched with baited breath to see whether the branch would kill them or be accepted. For a frightening moment, the fire had seemed to expire despite his efforts, but then it suddenly jumped at the new food with the savageness of a predator. Expelling a relieved shallow breath, Éomer laid three more thick branches into the flames before he settled back against the wall he had chosen to support his weight, too feeble to sit by his own strength alone.

He hoped that the four logs would suffice, because seen realistically; it was likely that he would pass out for a longer time once he was done with the task he had to see to now. Cautiously probing the gashes in the left side of his head, Éomer looked down upon his leg, and his stomach turned in anticipation of what he was about to do. The remainders of the arrow had to come out, Théodred had been right in this, but he was still hesitant. He knew the design of orc-arrows well enough; they were mean instruments of torture with a deliberately frail, spiked iron tip made to break off in the wound and cause infection even if the victim had not been killed outright by the hit. There was enough of the splintered shaft protruding from his thigh to grasp, but drawing it was not an option. He'd have to drive it through and hope that the tip remained intact. It went without saying that he did not look forward to the task. Experienced in helping his brothers-in-arms that way, Éomer had never been in the position of having to perform the deed on himself, and he was not certain whether he was up to it.

Cautiously, he moved the shaft in an attempt to determine how deeply it had penetrated into the muscle and gritted his teeth when the white-hot bolt of pain exploded in his conscious and his stomach threatened to spill his sparse evening meal in a retching fit. Gasping, he closed his eyes and sank back against the wall. It felt as if the arrow had already gone more than half through; all it would take to make it come out would probably be one or two hard hits…if he could bring up the courage to hit hard enough.

Numbly staring at his leg, Éomer realised the pickle he was in. The wound had not bled much so far, as the arrow still blocked it, but this would inevitably change once it came out. As he was fairly certain that the procedure would make him pass out, the danger of bleeding to death if he so much as nicked the artery was very real. He grimaced. Nothing he could do about that. But he definitely had to leave the treatment of this wound for last. While he did not look forward to burning out the other gashes and abrasions with Forlong's strong liquor, it would probably be the best course of action to see that done first.

With considerable effort, Éomer gathered the things he needed around himself: the flask, his water-skin and provisions from his saddle-bags, the woollen blanket and the small, very sharp knife the couple had given him, and last but not least, the stone with the flat surface he had gathered on his way back. It seemed he was all set, even for the case that he wouldn't be able to leave his lair for the next days. There was no excuse for further delay.

Clearing his mind of concern over what he could do if his efforts proved vain and he caught an infection anyway, Éomer cut the hem of his shirt into small stripes and laid them by his side as he reached for the flask. Shaking it, his sweat-beaded face darkened further: it seemed precious little fluid to tend all his injuries. Perhaps he could… Creasing his bow, he looked at the water-skin. What if he stretched the spirit, only a bit? Would it lessen its effectiveness too greatly? Grimacing, he bent over and pulled it closer. He had to do it. What good was it if the wounds he treated with the spirit did not gather infection, while the ones he could not tend because he had run out of the liquid killed him?

Making up his mind, Éomer unscrewed the lid and filled up the flask to the rim, then carefully closed both vessels again and shook the one with the mix until he was sure that the content had thoroughly mingled. Letting the flask sink, his gaze involuntarily grazed his injured hand and with a frown, he lifted it to inspect the damage. Though throbbing as badly as the rest of his body, the injury did not look serious: two small, deep holes on the inside and back of his hand were connected by a line of smaller holes which apparently had not penetrated quite as far. The worst of the wound seemed to be the bruising. Vaguely relieved, Éomer picked up the first piece of cloth and drenched it in the liquid, grimacing at the biting odour. This wouldn't be a pleasure… but it had to be done.

Steeling himself for the pain, he applied the cloth to his hand. The feeling was not dissimilar to holding it into the fire, and despite his determination to stay composed, Éomer could not suppress a hiss as he forced himself to wipe once again over the wound, really working the liquid in. Lifting his hand, he then looked at it curiously, feeling a bit ashamed. Compared to the injuries his riders sustained every day in their various battles across the Mark, this seemed hardly worth mentioning; less than a scratch. It had to be the fault of his overall deteriorating condition that he was unable to compose himself as usual.

Determined to finish his grizzly task as fast as he could, Éomer soaked the cloth anew, hesitating only for a brief moment before he pressed it against his face. The pain there was exquisite, and while he carefully dabbed at the scratches next to his eye, Éomer couldn't help wonder whether Forlong truly drank that stuff. It certainly felt as if it could set a man's stomach on fire. His jaws clenched, but otherwise slowly getting accustomed to the burning of the spirit, Éomer methodically worked his way over his face to the gashes on the side of his head, and then further to the abrasions on his hands and arms.

At last, the moment arrived when he could no longer delay the inevitable. Glancing darkly at the protruding shaft as though he had hoped for it to have miraculously disappeared in the meantime, Éomer threw two more thick branches into the fire and shifted his weight. His fingers brushed over the stone he had chosen earlier for the task, but as if they had a will of their own, they hesitated to pick it up. He allowed himself a few more moments to compose himself, consciously feeling his lungs expand against his hurting ribs with each shallow breath. Dizzy from the lack of air, he then forced himself to pick up the remaining cloths and - forming them into a ball – put them into his mouth. Carefully testing the feel, Éomer bit down on them. It was not much, but like everything else these days, it would have to suffice.

"It is a matter of will!"

"Aye, Cousin. Let's see you do this!"

He would prove to Théodred how strong he could be. He would not falter. After all, had he not been known once as the fearsome Third Marshal of Riddermark, the man who killed orcs by his glare alone? Surely he could rid himself of a ridiculous arrow then and laugh over it, couldn't he?

He picked up the stone, fitted his fingers around it while his other hand closed around the remainders of the shaft. The rock had the right size for his hand, the perfect tool for what he was about to do. Once again, he shifted his weight, so that if he fell over unconscious, it would be to the left and not on his wounded right side.

'If I survive this, I will do the same to you, Worm! I will let them riddle you with arrows, none of them mortal, and then have them driven through your flesh beat for beat! I swear it!'

He lifted the stone, tensing while he admonished himself inwardly to hit as hard as he could to not uselessly prolong the dreaded procedure – and struck.

The cry erupted from Éomer's throat despite the cloth and gritted teeth, his jaw-muscles creaking with the strain as he bit down hard on the fabric in his mouth. A sickening wave of nausea welled up from his stomach as his vision caved in, and he felt himself hit the ground hard.

'Not yet. Not yet!'

He could no longer see clearly, but he felt the sharp angle of the tip pressing against his probing fingers from the inside of his thigh. Almost done. All that was left to do now was just a little push, and a splash of the disinfectant into the wound, and then he could sleep all he wanted.

'What are you: a warrior… or a wench?'

He rolled on his back, fingers closing around the stump of the shaft that had almost disappeared inside his leg now, the thumb on its end. He pressed, and felt the tip break through with a splash of blood; that last pain only a pin-prick compared to the first hit, but it added to the overall inferno ravaging his body. A loud buzz began to build between his ears, and suddenly, it became very, very cold. Spitting out the cloth for fear he would choke on it if he fell unconscious and retched, Éomer fumbled blindly to pull the arrow from his leg, and then poured the remaining contents of the flask into the tear in his flesh. Strangely, there was no more pain, no burning. No throbbing, as well. Only this bone-chilling cold. The bottle fell from his fingers.

'No, no; I must dress-"

The thought died as he plunged back into darkness…

Chapter 14: Confrontation

EDORAS

The sky was as grey as her thoughts when Maelwyn moved through the marketplace, barely able to concentrate on the stands and the displayed goods. Instead of memorizing what Lady Glenwyn had asked her to buy, she found herself more and more distracted by the faces of the people around her. Most of them were familiar and belonged to people she had known for years, and yet their expressions were strangely guarded, and hardly any words were exchanged between them at all. It was an eery caravan of people too afraid to look each other in the eye, lest they be drawn into a conversation. The threats made by Counsellor Gríma had thoroughly stifled the usually lively atmosphere, and an oppressive silence hung over the big open space.

The sight of it sickened Maelwyn, and so she hurried to fetch the few things she needed and be gone. Yet when she put the loaf of bread into her basket next to the eggs, apples, cheese and a package of meal she had already bought, a sudden idea reared its head in her mind. She stopped and looked up to where the Golden Hall towered above the city in stark contrast to the grey sky; the image unusually sinister and forbidding.

For as long as Maelwyn could think back, Meduseld had always been the centre of their peoples' pride, and the sight of it and its shining golden roof had always rekindled a spark of hope in their hearts even at the most difficult times. Today though, a thick layer of clouds shielded the sun from their eyes and its rays of light from the thatched roof. So often its gleam had been like a beacon, a sign of their unrelenting will to live for leagues to see, but now it looked dull and tarnished, and the sight of it cast another shadow on the faces of the desperate citizens of Edoras whose gazes went up in search for comfort in vain.

Maelwyn hesitated. Would it be too great a risk to go and visit Yálanda and Bergfinn? The winding path that snaked up the slope to the smithy looked forbidding despite the crowd that populated it on their various errands. There were so many people there, but somehow, the scene of apparent normality felt staged, and involuntarily to her, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

'I only want give them my condolences. I will not do anything unlawful. Surely that cannot be forbidden?'

A first cautious step finally broke the spell that had rooted her to the ground, and with her heart hammering a frantic beat against her ribs, Maelwyn slowly ascended the hill. Her widened eyes darted over the people around her. Their faces were guarded wherever she looked; and there were several strangers among them whose eyes told her nothing. Her fingers involuntarily tightened around the handle of her basket as she felt herself being scrutinised by a man to her left. Was he a spy, only waiting for her to do something suspicious they could whip her for? Did she look guilty? She noticed how her pace slowed even furthere as insecurity threatened to overwhelm her. But wouldn't she appear even more suspicious to them this way?

Angry with herself, Maelwyn forced herself to accelerate. Another four switchbacks ahead, she could already see the thatched roof of her destination, and she walked on, eager to reach its relative safety. If only she could be off the street soon! Once she was there – a sudden jerk yanked her around, and the contents of her basket flew into the street as strong fingers dug painfully into her upper arm.

"Where do you think you're going, little witch? On your way to weaving your nets again? You will not fool me twice!"

She recognised the ruffian as one of the men who had been on duty when she had left Meduseld to fetch the healer for Éowyn. The man had a square-jawed face with bushy dark eyebrows and a wild thicket of an even darker, unkempt beard... and he looked very angry. The shock of the assault rendered her temporarily unable to speak, and the muscular guard shook her and shouted into her face.

"You think I want more problems because of you when I am not yet even with you for the last time? Come! I will teach you a lesson you won't forget so soon!"

He pulled her along like a naughty child in the direction of an empty back street, and her heartbeat accelerated even more.

"Where are you taking me? I have done nothing wrong!"

From the corner of her eye, Maelwyn realised that people had stopped to watch, and she looked at them pleadingly, silently begging for help. Yet to her dismay, she found compassion and anger over the abuse of one of their own on their faces, but much stronger were the deep insecurity and fear. They wanted to help her, but they were too afraid.

"Please, don't you see what they are doing? Don't let them hurt me!" She dug her heels into the ground, but found herself no match for the brute's strength. His comrades laughed at her desperate attempts to free herself.

Suddenly, a hand landed in her face with a sharp slapping sound and threw her head around. Stunned by the sudden pain and the realisation that the man had just hit her, Maelwyn could only stare at her assailant. Numbly, she reached up with her free hand in reflex to feel her burning cheek.

"Enough of it, little witch! You either-"

"A feisty little thing, isn't she, Gûthlaf? Perhaps too feisty for you? Should I handle her?"

"That wench is more mule-headed than a real mule! Just throw her over your shoulder!"

One of them turned around to glare at the dismayed bystanders.

"Yes, look closely! This is how we deal with traitors, see? If you don't follow your ruler's orders, you will be next! Now go and be on your way, there is nothing to see for you here!"

And still, the people stood there with their fists balled in helpless frustration, battling with themselves as they weighed their chances and the dangers of an attack on the four armed guards. Their inherent sense of justice commanded them to interfere, but what was there they could do without weapons against trained members of the Royal Guard? The Royal Guard... it was their first duty to protect the King's household, but were they not also meant to keep the people under their care from harm? In the second row, Maelwyn suddenly saw a woman bend over to whisper something into a lad's ear, and the boy took off like a horse in full flight, but she could not follow his path as there was suddenly development in front of her.

"Yes, there is!" a deep voice growled, and all heads turned around. It was one of the carpenters, Maelwyn realised, even though she didn't know him by name, and as he stepped through the ever-growing crowd, she saw that he held a hammer in his hand. He was strongly built and tall, and in his piercing blue eyes, she detected no trace of fear. Two more heavily muscled young men followed him, both equipped with sharp-looking instruments in their hands. A chill travelled down her spine. Béma, they wouldn't kill each other over her, would they? Planting his feet firmly on the ground and squaring his shoulders in open challenge, the first man stared at the guards menacingly. "I do not care what she did, but you will not hit a woman in my presence."

Gûthlaf granted him a dry laugh.

"And you will stop me, I suppose?"

"That is right."

Upon a short nod to his companions, the other guards unsheathed their swords to dismayed murmurs and gasps from the crowd. Maelwyn barely dared to breathe.

"You and what army? Or do you think you can take on us with those two dimwits behind you?" He snorted "Go back and build your chairs and tables, simpleton, and keep clear of affairs of which you have no understanding."

His words did not have the intended effect: instead of scaring the people into scattering, their expressions suddenly darkened in growing anger, and two more men stepped over to the carpenter and his apprentices, to stand by their side.

"We do not need an army to teach you and those scarecrows behind you a lesson. We may not have swords, but you will find yourself hard-pressed to repel the charge of thirty people armed with hammers, hayforks, sticks and chains. All that is at my workplace. It will only take a moment for us to get it."

A grim promise flickered in the man's eyes, and as he advanced another step, Gûthlaf suddenly drew a knife and pressed it against Maelwyn's throat. Too scared to breathe, she closed her eyes.

"Try it, peasant, and she will pay for it. I am saying it for the last time: all of you will leave now and take—"

"Leave her be!"

It was a voice Maelwyn hadn't heard before; but it was also a voice she recognised and which cut through her fear like a ray of sun through the dark clouds of a thunderstorm. She opened her eyes and saw Éothain and his men stride through the crowd. Behind him, the lad she had seen leaving earlier slipped back to his mother with a satisfied expression on his young face. Suddenly, her heart beat even more furiously.

"Éothain, please help me! I have done nothing wrong!"

Béma, only yesterday, the son of Céorl had barely been able move after the whipping! What was she asking of him? All the more as Éothain had still not been given back his weapons. But there was a sword in his hand now, and behind him, his captains likewise held deadly-looking steel in their hands. How was that possible? Behind her, Gûthlaf, too, sounded irritated… and nervous.

"Stay out of this, Captain. This is none of your business."

"He was hitting her!"

"And he threatened her with a knife! And he insulted—"

Raising a hand to silence the angered people behind him, Éothain focused on the group of suddenly very uncomfortable looking guards.

"So… what have we here? I doubt that it was the King's order to assault the people of Edoras. Does he know what you are doing here? Or should I go and report it?"

Gûthlaf narrowed his eyes.

"Who gave you those swords, Captain? Whoever it was, he will wish he never did!" And then, after a short break, he added: "Those are training swords. They are blunt."

Éothain granted him a brazen grin.

"Aye, Gûthlaf. You saw that right. They are." He weighed the weapon in his hand… and pierced the guard with a hard gaze. "And yet they are made of steel, and I bet that we could still beat you and your men within an inch of your miserable lives with them… or I could just make a bloody ruin of your mouth by smashing it against your teeth. Make an example of you."

"You can try," the guard growled, and yet his voice did not sound to Maelwyn's ears as if he was terribly certain of himself. "But only two days after that whipping, I'm sure that it takes all of your strength just to stand there. This is all a big, empty threat."

"So try me if you think that way." Éothain's fingers tightened around the hilt, and behind him Anlaf and Aedwulf likewise tensed. The crowd held their collective breath. No one moved.

Gûthlaf hesitated… and snorted.

"I find it strange that you do not seem to care about the fact that this wench sought to betray our King, Captain. Aren't you bothered by that thought at all? Or no, I understand why you are not: after all, perhaps you approve of her plans or are you even part of them, because they expelled your friend? Perhaps I should report you as a potential co-conspirator, what do you think? Perhaps it would be smart to banish you just like the Marshal, eh? After all, it seems that there are still too many crooked liars in this city."

"I agree with you on that last part, Gûthlaf," Éothain replied, and behind him, the crowd murmured angrily. Suddenly, the atmosphere was full of tension, just waiting to be ignited. "Just make sure that you tell the King the reason for our clash when you report this. Tell him you were planning to abuse a woman of Edoras. A former member of the Royal Household, even."

Still with his hand on the hilt of his sword, Éothain left no question that his threat was serious. And yet despite the spark of hope his appearance had woken in Maelwyn, she feared for him. A deadly promise seemed to sparkle in the eyes of Céorl's son as he advanced another step. She braced, certain that something bad was about to happen.

"Let her go, Gûthlaf. Your master pardoned her, and I will not allow you to exact your personal revenge on her. Leave her be and see what other things may require your attention; I am certain you have more important things to do than to hit women who can't defend themselves. This is my very last warning."

The ruffian spat, but did not loosen his grip. There was no reply.

Éothain's eyes found Maelwyn.

"Maelwyn, tell us what you were doing here. You did not seek to enter the Golden Hall, did you?"

For a long, terrible moment, the young handmaiden could not remember how to use her voice. Her head seemed empty, her mind entirely consumed by fear, and there was a big lump in her throat that blocked all effort to speak.

"No…" she whispered at last, and that seemed to do the trick. "No, of course not. I know that I am not allowed to go there. I wanted to speak with Yálanda and Bergfinn, as I heard that something terrible might have befallen their son." And perhaps that brute behind her had killed him. Oh Gods, what a horrible thought! "I have known them ever since I moved to Edoras. I only wanted to express my compassion."

"And I see nothing wrong with that," Éothain said, his gaze directed over her shoulder at the guard. "And since it is I who commands the city in Captain Céorl's absence, and you are a member of the Royal Guard, responsible for Meduseld alone and not even its chief, you either bring me Háma or Gamling to discuss this further, or taste my steel, because I will not let you go through with this. Enough of the talking. What do you choose, Gûthlaf?"

For a moment, the guard's grip tightened even more, and Maelwyn feared the worst, but suddenly, the hold was released and she was pushed forward with vigour, stumbling toward Éothain and falling over her own feet. Quickly, she was helped back up by two women and pulled into the safety of the crowd.

"Very well, if that is how you want it… Here, take her." Gûthlaf sneered, his eyes gliding over his adversary and the angry mob as if he wanted to remember each face for a time when they would not expect him to strike. "Be assured though that I will bring this before Counsellor Gríma. He will not be happy with your interference. Perhaps, the whip will get to drink more of your blood."

Éothain snorted. For a moment, his hard stare softened as he looked over his shoulder at the handmaiden, relieved to find her safe and unharmed, then he shifted his attention back at his opponent and raised his chin as he forcefully sheathed his sword.

"Do that if you think you must, Gûthlaf, but I do not believe that your orders were to abduct women from the streets and brutalise them. If one day the Counsellor utters such a command, he should bring his men with him, because I will fight him."

He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to an insistent, warning tone while his gaze wandered over the darkly glaring guards.

"Now go back to Meduseld, because the inhabitants of this city do not value your presence. And if I catch you one more time at terrorising them, I will bring it before Théoden-King. You have my word."

His hand still on the hilt and broad shoulders squared, he stood and watched until guard and his men disappeared grumbling behind the next corner. Only then did the tension drop from him with a heavy sigh, and he shook his head as he turned around.

"Maelwyn, what in Eorl's name were you thinking to come up here? You know that Gríma is watching you closely. You ought to take his threats more seriously!"

Now that the danger was over, Maelwyn suddenly found herself shaking like autumn leaves in a strong breeze. Evading Éothain's gaze for fear he would see the tears brimming in her eyes, she squatted to pick up her goods from the ground and found that eager hands were already collecting them for her. Good wishes and soothing words were directed at her from all sides simultaneously, and more than one clapped her comfortingly on the shoulder before the people left to finally be on their way.

"I- I do take him seriously, Éothain. Really, I do. I only wanted to speak to Yálanda and Bergfinn, I swear it. I have known them for so long and they were always kind to me, I felt I had to express my compassion. How can this be wrong?"

"It is not wrong, Maelwyn, there is nothing to discuss. But you know how things are in Edoras these days. You must be more careful; you must stay out of their sight, at least for a while. Come to me if you have any business in the upper levels of the city, and I will see it done for you, but do not cross the guards' way again. Will you promise me this, Maelwyn?"

She nodded, not knowing what to say when the carpenter who had first come to her aid and thus turned the tide approached them, feeling the strong urge to embrace him.

"Thank you. Thank you so much! I cannot tell you how scared I was. If it hadn't been for you... and I don't even know your name! Isn't that a shame?"

The man's mouth curled into a smile.

"That can be helped. I am Béordric. I work at the carpentry across the street, and when I heard the disturbance, I had to see what it was." He looked at the dispersing crowd. "They are still good people, they are only afraid. They need a leader to remind them of their honour in these hard times, but once they've found him, they will follow him with fierce determination."

"Aye, Béordric," Éothain agreed, laying a hand on the man's arm as he realised the deeper meaning of the carpenter's words. "You are certainly right with this. We must stick together for now. They cannot overcome us as long as we stay true to each other. The people of the Mark were always known for their sense of justice and loyalty; as long as we can keep those two traits alive, there is still hope… as we have seen today. Please accept my thanks, as well. Your courage may very well have been the proof people needed to see that their fate lies still in their own hands: Just be careful after today. I do not know what those crooks might do to avenge themselves for the defeat."

Béordric laughed.

"I doubt that the filth will be back. They know that they will be in trouble once their ugly faces are seen here." He looked back over his shoulder, and then gave Maelwyn an acknowledging nod. "Yet I must excuse myself for now, I'm afraid. There is still a piece waiting for me to finish on the workbench which needs my attention."

"Of course. Thank you, Béordric. Without you, I don't know what would have happened."

Maelwyn followed the carpenter's path with her eyes until he disappeared inside the building, and then drew a deep, shaky breath. With the immediate shock waning, tears were suddenly on the verge of bursting out, and her knuckles turned white, so firm was her grip around the handle of her basket. Suddenly she felt Éothain's hand underneath her chin, gently lifting her head and turning it to the side to inspect the damage done.

"That brute," he muttered angrily at the sight of the red handprint on Maelwyn's cheek. "I wouldn't mind going after him and stick this sword into him very slowly. I will mention this in my next report. The King should know about this."

"No," she objected lowly, desperate to go home before she would fall apart before Éothain and his men. "Please don't. You would only stick your head out for the Counsellor to cut it off, and I could not bear it if anything more happened to you. Please, Éothain, I am fine. I am most grateful for your help, but there is no need for anything else."

Unconvinced by her statement, Éothain let his gaze travel over her slender, trembling frame before he extended his hand to take the basket from her.

"At least let me walk you home then, Maelwyn. You are shaking so badly, you can barely stand. Come, let me carry your basket."

She could not deny that he was right, and also could no longer speak as the words would have left her throat in the form of a sob. So she just silently nodded her agreement and gratefully accepted his steadying arm when the tears finally spilled over. Resting the handle of the basket in the pit of his elbow, Éothain gently laid his arm around her and lead her down the path, only briefly pausing once to look at Anlaf and Aedwulf.

"I will bring her home. Come to my house in half an hour. We must talk."

OOO

It had taken them a while to reach the alley in the centre of the city, and by then, Maelwyn's trembling had subsided to a level that allowed her to walk mostly by herself. She no longer felt as if she would burst into tears in front of Éothain. What would happen to her composure once she had reached the relative safety of her home and its solitude until she felt ready to pick up her children from their neighbours, she dared not imagine.

"All right, here we are," her saviour murmured lowly, as he came a halt and turned toward her. "I will go and tell Torben to come home. I do not want to leave you like this."

She shook her head as she cautiously felt her throbbing cheek. It felt hot to her touch.

"No. No, Éothain, thank you." She looked up to him, deep thankfulness in her eyes. "Please don't. You did so much for me already, and I do not want Torben to worry. He already has much on his mind these days as it is. He needs not to know about this."

Éothain's gaze told her that he was not convinced.

"But he will see that print on your cheek. And the people will talk about what happened. I would, in fact, be surprised if someone did not already tell him?"

Maelwyn sighed.

"You are probably right, Éothain, but I will not make things better by causing him yet more worries. I will not mention it if he does not ask me about it… Really, I will be all right." She tried to smile as she rubbed her cheek. "It was just a slap."

Éothain's mien was still sceptical. He lifted an eyebrow.

"As you wish. But at least let me leave you with one of my men for protection for the next few days. I do not think that Gûthlaf and his thugs will come down here to take revenge, but I want you to be safe. I will send you Léod."

The son of Céorl seemed unhappy not to be able to do more.

"In the meantime, will you promise me to keep to the lower levels of the city for as long as the situation has not been resolved? I will try to have an eye on you, but I may not always be around. That I was today was a lucky coincidence."

She nodded, touched by his concern. "I promise. And I am sorry that you were drawn into this. But can you please tell Yálanda and Bergfinn—"

"I will tell them that they are in your thoughts and prayers, but believe me, they already know that." He handed her the basket. She shook her head.

"Take it with you. The things inside are for your mother." A weak smile tugged at Maelwyn's mouth. "But I fear that the eggs are no longer usable…"

"I will get her another batch on the way home." Éothain exhaled. "I must be on my way, but I will send you Léod right away. Do not send him from your side. He may be young, but he is an able warrior, and I would be relieved to know that someone is looking after you. Maelwyn?"

"Thank you, Éothain." She accepted his embrace gratefully and closed her eyes. "For everything."

She could not say more, and when at last he let go of her and turned away with a nod of acknowledgment, she followed his way with her eyes until he passed out of sight.

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

The feeling grew stronger. Strong enough to alert him through his dark dreams and reach his subconscious. He was no longer alone. At first, Éomer thought it part of his dream, an echo of the attack he was reliving in grizzly detail again and again, unable to shut the images out; a vivid recollection of the first burst of anxiety in reaction to Théodred's warning. But the feeling did not wane, and the steady change from cold to warm air against his face seemed too real to be only a product of his imagination. It was the breath of a living being, and it was close.

With a gasp, Éomer sat up – and fell straight back when his strength gave out even before he had reached an upright position, hitting his head on the bare ground. Not seeing clearly in the diffuse twilight, he blindly groped for the knife even though he knew that he was in no condition to fight. Easy prey, that was what he was, and yet Éomer found to his surprise that his abrupt movement had apparently scared his unknown visitor away at least for now, the large shape retreating from him with a startled noise.

His heart pounding against his hurting ribs like a hammer against the anvil, he stared into the semi-darkness with the knife in his hand, ready to lash out… but suddenly, all tension fell away from him, and his lips curled upward in a weak and at the same time glad smile. He laid the weapon down and instead wearily raised his hand in greeting.

"Firefoot! Béma be praised…"

The stallion's long face looked almost comical as it hovered above him with an all-too-human expression of concern written all over it; widened nostrils quivering as Firefoot took in his master's comforting scent. Yet at the same time, the stench of blood made the horse skittish, and its ears flickered nervously to and fro as it cautiously lowered its head again to sniff at Éomer's hand, only to recoil again from him.

"It is only I, Grey One. No reason to fear me. I couldn't hurt a foal… not that I ever would."

At last, Éomer was allowed to touch his steed's nose, and his smile deepened as he found himself thoroughly moved by the display of the horse's loyalty. Despite the horror of the nightly attack, and despite the stench of the fallen orcs around them, Firefoot had returned to this place he hated and wouldn't enter on his own earlier… to look for his rider. The thought brought a warm glow to Éomer otherwise freezing body as he gently caressed the soft skin beneath his fingers and lowly hummed a soothing melody. A raspy, but heartfelt "Thank you" was all he managed before lack of strength finally forced him to lower his arm.

What now? As Éomer stared upward, it seemed to him that Firefoot was at a loss of how to proceed as well. Clearly indicated by the way it restlessly shifted and nodded its head as it retreated for a few steps now to paw the ground, his horse was eager to leave these caves that reeked of danger and death. All its behaviour was a single, desperate plea for its master to stand up and mount and be gone from this evil place… and yet Éomer could not comply.

His head sank back as the last of his strength deserted him, and the smile vanished from his face as if it had never been there. As much as he hated the realisation, it could not be helped that they would have to spend another night in their compromised hideout. If more orcs came, it would be destiny. There was nothing he could do about it.

"I'm sorry, Firefoot…" His gaze found the fire…. the pitiful remainders of his fire. Of the four thick logs he had fed it earlier, most had crumbled to glowing ashes, and only small flames still licked at the little remaining food. The sight of it brought a great wave of disorientation. For how long had he been unconscious? Was it already night again? Trying to lift his head high enough to look in the direction of the exit, Éomer found that he could still faintly see the outline of the cave, if not too clearly. Either it was a very overcast day, or nightfall could not be far off. Furrowing his brow with discomfort over his finding, he lay back… when something else came to his mind.

Reluctantly his gaze went down to his leg, and Éomer braced to finally see the full damage done. The merciful twilight of the cave could not hide the glistening dark stain around the middle of his thigh where the blood had soaked his breaches around the small cut. Carefully turning the muscle to inspect the exit wound, Éomer gritted his teeth as he peeled aside the leather to look. He seemed to have been lucky: as expected, the tear had bled a while, but the flow seemed to have ended a good while ago. Only the movement now caused it to weep anew, but not exceedingly. No, the wound looked about as good as he could have hoped for.

Rolling on his back with an effort, Éomer fumbled in the diffuse light to find the stripes of cloth he had cut from his shirt earlier and with what little of his strength had returned, dressed the wound. At last, he rekindled the fire with four more thick branches and lay back, utterly spent and ready to pass out again.

As his hand fell down, his fingers brushed over a thing that clattered away underneath his touch, a bright noise that caught his attention through the leaden exhaustion, and he picked it up to inspect it. It was the arrow. Thoughtfully, Éomer ran a thumb over the delicate tip and was relieved to find it intact; there were no dents or sharp angles on it where they didn't belong.

Disgusted, he dropped it, and instead unscrewed his nearby water-skin to take a sip. Its lightness did nothing to improve his mood; the way it felt it could be barely more than half-full. Perhaps enough to last until the next morning, or noon, if he drank sparsely. But what then?

'You will have to crawl to the entrance and fill it with snow.'

A dry, humourless laugh. Yes, certainly. He already felt as stiff as one of the Pukel-men at Dunharrow, and by tomorrow, his mobility would be reduced to the point of non-existence.

'You did not tell me about this, Théodred! Step by step you said, but you did not say how many steps there were to take altogether. You cheated!''

There was no answer, and exhausted from the brief time awake, Éomer closed his eyes, intending to go back to sleep and forget about his hopeless situation at least for another few hours, when from the side, a deep, impatient whicker reached his ear. Unwillingly, he craned his neck to look at his restlessly shifting stallion.

"No, Firefoot. We stay."

He felt sorry for his animal companion. This was no place for a horse. The caves were too narrow for a creature of his frame; they stank of death and there was no fodder. The stallion had to be hungry and yearning for company of his kind. As was he, Éomer thought in a sudden fit of loneliness, and he listened into the darkness. Where was Théodred when he needed him? With another sceptical glance at the slowly reviving fire, Éomer carefully reached out to clutch the woollen blanket he had not had the time to wrap himself into before unconsciousness had claimed him, and spread it over himself.

Better. As miserable as he felt, at least he was no longer cold. Staring into the flames with unfocussed eyes and enjoying the warmth on his face, it did not take long for him to sink back into oblivion…

Chapter 15: A Desperate Attempt

EDORAS

The sun's tarnished face disappeared behind the White Mountains and plunged the land into twilight as another frustrating day drew to an end; a day of having had to helplessly watch how everything around her was falling to pieces. It was the third day Éowyn had been forced to remain in her chambers, and while she appreciated their luxury over the other possibility Gríma had threatened, the very thought of the audacity to keep her imprisoned within their walls was enough to let the blood churn through her veins whenever it surfaced.

Standing by the window with her gaze resting on the plains like so many times before within these past days, Éowyn felt that she was fast approaching the point where she would either have to storm out of her chambers and kill whoever dared to block her way, or explode. Fully recovered and the fever but a distant memory, the inactivity to which she had been condemned was quickly turning into torture. How could she sit around doing nothing while Éomer suffered somewhere perhaps close by at the hands of their arch enemy's henchmen? How was she supposed to bear this burden with no one to confide in, and with no one to share the load or to encourage her? Although she kept telling herself that the Worm's proud statement about having captured her brother was only another one of Gríma's devious mind games, there was no way to know for sure, and the uncertainty was driving her mad.

And what about their uncle, how was he faring? Since Gríma's power over their people was closely related to his hold over the King, it was Éowyn's conviction that the evil counsellor would do everything in his power to keep Théoden alive for as long as possible. And yet, while she suspected that the effort would be vain and the result depressing, she desperately longed to see her surrogate father with her own eyes and – once again - attempt to change his mind. Perhaps, if she was lucky and caught him in one of his rare lucid moments, she could still convince him of the horrible things that were being done in the Mark in his name these days. He seemed to have been shocked by what she had told him during their breakfast a couple of days earlier. Would he remember that after the Worm had drugged him so heavily for the proclamation of the verdict? And if so… what could they do while Gríma held his life in his hands with the use of his accursed potion? They had seen the deadly effects of withdrawal.

As she turned toward the door, Éowyn's expression darkened. There were so many unknowns, so many things over which she had no influence, but she had to keep trying. She had heard that several people had been whipped during those first few days since Éomer's banishment, and while it was a comforting thought that their people still did what they could to resist, the message that Éothain, too, had been punished harshly, had almost undone her. Giving up was not an option. And to do nothing would mean to give up, and she was not yet ready to admit defeat. All day long, she had repeatedly opened her door to keep the changing guards in front of her chambers busy with errands, only waiting for the moment when that man would be someone of the old ranks of the Royal Guard and not one of Wormtongue's thinly disguised brutes. So she tensed as she depressed the handle yet again, and this time her heart jumped into her throat as she recognised the man.

"Déor! Béma be blessed, I was hoping to find you here!" A quick glance established that they were alone, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. These days, one could never be too cautious. The elderly guard looked at her warily, obviously unhappy over being pulled into affairs that could cause him trouble.

"Lady Éowyn, what can I do for you?"

"Who of your captains is currently on duty?"

"That would be Captain Gamling, my Lady." Déor seemed relieved that her question was harmless and did not ask for him to engage into any forbidden activities. "I can have someone look for him, if you want to speak with him."

Éowyn nodded, and granted the man a smile.

"That would be very kind, Déor. I would appreciate it."

He gave her a curt nod.

"Then I will see it done. In the meantime, I would like to say that we are all glad to see you recovered. Your illness cast a great shadow upon this house, and seeing your health restored is at least one great worry off people's minds... my Lady."

A surprised and touched smile spread over Éowyn's face.

"I thank you for your concern, Déor. It is a comforting thought that there are still people in these halls who care for others, even if most of them seem too afraid to show it these days. Now, if you can please get Gamling for me? I'd be most grateful." She paused and gazed intently into the darkness on the other side of the hall. "You would not happen to know where the Counsellor is?"

"I understand that he left Meduseld a while ago to go into the city. To my knowledge, he has not returned yet."

The discomfort was back in the older man's eyes as if he suspected that the King's niece would ask for something he was not allowed to grant, but to his relief, Éomund's daughter only nodded.

"Thank you, Déor. Now please, if you could get Captain Gamling for me, I would be thankful."

She closed the door behind her again.

OOO

CENTRAL MARK

With long powerful swipes Elfhelm pulled the straw over Éon's steaming hide, his body warming with the movement after another long day of exposure to the elements. As much as he usually enjoyed riding and the freedom of the wide open plains in contrast to the city's haunting feeling of despair, the Captain of Aldburg felt that the long leagues he and his horse had travelled in the past weeks were finally beginning to take their toll on them both. The problem was that he would not be done once they reached Edoras tomorrow; he would still have to get back to Aldburg, and who knew what would await him there upon his return. If Éomer had shown up there in the meantime and their call to rebellion spread through the Riddermark, there would be no rest for him in the foreseeable future. And yet he could live with these prospects, because rest meant inactivity, and each hour of inactivity meant orcs roaming the Mark unchallenged, burning their land and killing their people, a thought Elfhelm found altogether intolerable.

He pushed the idea away, not wanting to occupy himself with it any longer while there was still much to be done, more immediate problems to be seen to before he could concern himself with the questions it posed; the most urgent one being the decision of how they would proceed once they reached Edoras. Behind him, rusty hinges creaked as the stable door was opened from outside, and when heavy steps approached him, Elfhelm turned his head to acknowledge Céorl's presence.

"You look tired," his brother-in-arms said after a scrutinising glance. "I really wish there had been a different way to deal with this than dragging you over the plains again when you had only just returned from battle."

"But as we both know, there isn't one, and as long as it concerns crossing the Worm's plans, I will go wherever I'm needed, whenever I'm needed, even if I had to crawl on hands and knees to get there."

With a dry laugh, Céorl stepped up to him, and rested his hands on the stall door.

"I came to tell you that the farmer's wife fixed us an evening meal in the main house. But perhaps we should first discuss what to do tomorrow, and I would prefer to do that here. It is not that I don't trust them, but one can never be too careful these days."

He extended a hand and clapped Éon's neck, the gesture resulting in an exasperated huff from the neighbouring stall. Céorl looked at his steed with raised eyebrows.

"I do not believe my ears, Lancer! Do you honestly feel that I didn't give you enough attention today? After rubbing you dry, checking your legs and hooves and feeding you, you will still not allow me to touch another horse? You are one envious beast, I'll give you that!"

Demonstrating that he cared little for his steed's protest, the warrior patted the bay stallion again, and again, his grey mount huffed indignantly before it turned away to punish its master by ignoring him. The subject of their little quarrel appeared untouched by the tension and calmly continued to chew on his oats, enjoying the attention of the two men very much. Shrugging as he exchanged an eloquent look with the other warrior, Elfhelm finally dropped the straw and rubbed his hands against his breeches as he left the stall with a last pat on Éon's powerful hindquarters.

"Knowing you, I suspect that you already have a plan?"

Céorl nodded.

"I don't think we should enter Edoras together. They expect me back, but if you and your riders accompany me, it will only alert that snake that something is brewing. If we want to reach something, we need to catch him unawares."

"And what do you suggest?" Elfhelm realised that he reeked heavily of horse and sweat, and he would have liked to wash before the meal, but if it was already waiting for them, it would take too long. After the long day on horseback and freezing in the stiff breeze, he very much longed for a hot meal… and he was ravenous. Oh well. It was not as if the farmers would be shocked by the odour. He sighed.

Céorl's gaze rested knowingly on Elfhelm as he explained his plan.

"My men and I will ride ahead, and I will speak with Éothain as soon as I see him to make the necessary arrangements. You will follow us three hours after moonrise, once the lights of the city have been extinguished. Then either Éothain or I will personally open the gates to let you in; we will give you a signal once the air is clear. If we want to find out what is really going on in the city, I believe we have the best chance at night, before word of our arrival reaches our adversary and he can send out his spies. I will see to it that we can speak undisturbed. Once we have been filled in, we can then decide upon the necessary steps."

With a deep intake of breath, Elfhelm stared through him for a long moment of silence. When he woke from his reverie, his brow was furrowed.

"I suppose that it is indeed the smartest approach, but I do not like it. It makes us look like thieves."

Céorl shrugged.

"Yes. But these days, it would seem that righteous men have to move this way, because the crooked ones have seized control. It cannot be helped. It is in stealth where our greatest chance lies."

"True." Elfhelm still despised the image in front of his inner eye, but he saw the sense in the other man's words. "And what a shame that is. But I will regard it as just another insult we will make the Worm pay for. I agree with your plan. My men and I will approach the city after nightfall and wait by the rocks near the Snowbourn until you give us the signal." His hand landed heavily on Céorl's shoulder before he turned to go. "And now I am hungry. Come, let us go and see what these good people cooked for us. I feel like I could eat an entire pig all by myself."

OOO

EDORAS

Rationally, Éowyn knew that not much time had passed before she heard the expected rap on her door, and yet the span had seemed like an eternity. Each moment Gríma could return from whatever twisted things he had arranged for in the city and spoil her perfect opportunity to see her uncle after these long days of isolation. Oh, if she could only make him see and understand what the snake by his side was doing to his kingdom under the guise of his most loyal servant!

"Come in!" She almost jumped to her feet when the door opened and the older, red-haired warrior looked in. "Captain Gamling. Please, do step in."

"I must apologise, Lady Éowyn," the Chief of the Royal Guard said, and when he came closer, the deepened lines on his already weathered face told of the strain that had worn on him for the past dark weeks. Carefully, he closed the door behind him before he turned back. He looked tense, not knowing what to expect.

"I meant to see you sooner, but with all the strange and disquieting things going on in Meduseld and the city, I was kept more than busy… and I preferred to visit you when the Counsellor would not know about it and we would not have to fear that he would have his ear literally on the door. That man is not easily tricked, and he seldom leaves the Hall."

"But he is gone now, isn't he?" Éowyn said, and saw him nod.

"Aye, he is. But I dare not say for how long, so it would be best if you could tell me straight away what I can do for you, my Lady."

She met his gaze openly.

"I want to see my uncle, Captain. Do you think that would be possible?"

She could tell that he was not happy about her request... or rather, that he was torn. For a long while, they only stared at each other, and Éowyn could see the battle of conflicting emotions on the guard's lined face. Then he shook his head, and her heart sank... and anger rose, but before she could voice it, he opened his mouth.

"Béma, I cannot believe that it has come to this! That you should have to ask my permission to visit a member of your family! This is not right!"

Éowyn's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Quickly she swallowed the scathing reply that had lain on the tip of her tongue. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper... and laid a hand upon the older man's arm.

"It is your decision, Captain. Surely, the Counsellor cannot forbid me to see the King. Not when I have officially asked you... and I will go even further and ask you to accompany me into my uncle's chambers. That way, Gríma will not be able to accuse me of any secret doings. It would be cruel to deny me a visit when I cannot be certain for how much longer Théoden-King will be able to recognise me."

She was very aware of the pressure she had just loaded upon the Captain's back, but it could not be helped if she wanted to get anywhere.

As expected, Gamling looked even unhappier.

"And I am certain that it would greatly improve the King's health if you were allowed to visit him. He asked for you these past days. Repeatedly. And he was very sad when I had to tell him that you couldn't come... which was the truth, as we obviously did not want for him to fall ill with what had confined you to your chambers. But you look well again, so I cannot see a reason not to allow it."

Éowyn barely dared to breathe.

"Right now?"

Before her very eyes, the Captain of the Royal Guard straightened suddenly, and looked her in the eye.

"Aye, my Lady. If that is what you want, I will walk with you to the King's chambers... now."

It cost Éowyn all of her iron self-control to not make those two last steps and embrace the old warrior.

"Oh Gamling... thank you! Thank you! You do not know what that means to me!"

A paternal smile wandered quickly over the guard's face.

"Trust me, my Lady, I do know. You almost tore yourself in two when Théoden-King's life was on the line only a few days ago. I know that – despite everything that happened – you still feel that bond of bloodkin... as I feel the bonds of friendship, and thankfulness, after those many years I have been lucky enough to be in his service. And I do hope that you will forgive me for the choices I have made. They were the hardest choices I have been faced with all my life, if that is any consolation to you. What they did to your brother was horrible, and the way the Counsellor is threatening our people to obey his orders.. I, too, would be endlessly relieved if we were finally free from Gríma son of Galmod... but if the price is the life of our King, it is too high for me."

Éowyn inhaled deeply, but remained silent.

'One of these days, you may have to choose,' she thought, but could not bring herself to voicing her concern. It would only complicate things, and right now, she had to make every moment of her adversary's absence count.

For a moment, they communicated only silently, and Éowyn could see that the old man understood. Finally, he pulled himself together and opened the door, inviting her with a gesture to step through them.

"Come, my Lady. Let us waste no more time. The King is already in his chambers, but I doubt that he is asleep yet."

She hesitated.

"You know what I will try to do if he is lucid," she said honestly. He nodded slowly.

"Aye… I can imagine. And like I said, it is not as if I do not want that man gone, myself." He squared his shoulders. "Come. My orders did not say that you were forbidden to see your uncle. And I am still a captain of the Royal Guard. This title must be good for something!"

He turned to Déor, who was following their exchange with an expression of insecurity.

"Déor, stay here. If the Counsellor returns, you will say nothing unless he asks you. If he does, which I don't think he will, you will tell him the truth, which is that the Lady Éowyn asked me to take her to the King to see how he was faring, and that I personally took her there. I don't see how he could object to this. But you will only tell him if he asks. If he does not, we will not volunteer it. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain." Déor nodded, visibly relieved that his superior was taking full responsibility. "Certainly. I can do that."

"Good." Gamling motioned for Éowyn to follow him, and she slipped out, excited to leave her chambers after the days of imprisonment. Once glance confirmed to her that it was all but deserted. Which was good in this case. Quickly they crossed the twilit hall, and upon a curt nod at the door guard, disappeared into the King's chambers.

Théoden was already lying in his bed but still awake, as Gamling had rightly suspected. It took little effort to convince his manservant of the great favour he would be doing the King if he allowed their reunion even at this late hour, and so Baldor quietly stepped aside and closed the door to grant Théoden-King and his niece a moment of privacy. Looking at Gamling, who had likewise chosen to remain outside, he found his own contentment mirrored in the guard's face. This was the right thing to do. Perhaps these brief moments of closeness with a beloved family member would improve the ailing King's condition.

Suddenly feeling young and small again, Éowyn hesitantly crossed the room that was only lit by the flickering flames in the fireplace, and her insides twisted into a tight knot. The place reeked of illness and despair, and so the first thing she did was open the window to allow fresh air in before she turned to kneel on the bear-pelt before her uncle's bed. Her heartbeat accelerated when she realised that he was looking at her rather than through her, appearing more lucid than he had when she had last seen him. But oh, he was so deathly pale, and the lines on his face were deep like the furrows on a newly set field. Yet what was that expression on his face, for it was not blank as she had seen it for these past weeks and months. Was that a hint of a smile? Taking his hand into hers, Éowyn summoned her courage and began.

"Uncle? Uncle, can you hear me? It is I, Éowyn. Do you remember me?"

He looked at her, and behind the veil that covered the faded blue eyes, there seemed to be just the smallest spark of recognition. Not sure whether it was just an illusion, Éowyn nearly jumped when the pressure of her grip was suddenly returned.

"Uncle?"

Théoden's mouth worked, as if he had trouble remembering how to form words.

"Éowyn?" It was the softest, frailest voice she had ever heard come from this man, so delicate that the merest movement of air would suffice to carry the sound away, but the effect it had on her was overwhelming. From out of nowhere, Éowyn's eyes suddenly filled with tears of joy, and she squeezed his hand in enthusiastic affirmation.

"Yes! Yes, Uncle, it is I. Béma be blessed!" The tears spilled over, and she wiped them away with an unconscious gesture, a surge of happiness racing through her she had not felt in a long time. "How do you feel?" He looked at her as if contemplating her question, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I… I do not know. Am I dreaming this? … Is Théodred here, too? I have not seen him lately."

The words were a bucket of cold water into her face, and the smile vanished from Éowyn's lips as if it had never been there. 'Your son died, and you do not even know about it?' she thought with sudden bitterness, yet knew better than to voice her emotions. But the question nonetheless troubled her greatly. How much of the past did Théoden know? He seemed like a man who had just woken from a deep sleep, completely unaware of what had happened in the meantime. How on earth was she supposed to tell him that his son was dead when he was only beginning to wake from the drought's effects? How to tell him what he had done to Éomer?

"He is not here," she evaded, lowering her gaze to look at their intertwined hands. Gods, how to begin? If she told him of Théodred's death and Éomer's banishment and his role in it, the damage it could do could not be estimated. And yet somehow, she had to bring it to his attention that all was not well in his kingdom. If only she had more time. "What is the last thing you remember?" she finally asked, deciding to approach the difficult subject from a different side. Théoden looked through her, and for a moment, she feared that she had lost his attention.

"Darkness," the ill man finally said in a pensive, gloomy voice."As if I was caught in a dream I could not wake from. You were there and Éomer, and Gríma, too… and I also remember seeing Gamling and Háma…" His attention found back to her. "I called, but you would not hear me. You were looking at me, but-" the furrows on his brow deepened "—you almost seemed angry with me. I know not why. Was it only a dream, Éowyn, or did I do something horribly wrong?" An unnamed dread coloured his voice as if he feared to hear what he had done.

Éowyn felt terrible, but she knew that she had no other choice. If she wanted to wake him from the stupor that the Worm had induced, her uncle had to know the whole ugly truth. Perhaps, if she found the right words, he would be so dismayed that he would send the snake away upon his return to the hall. Perhaps, they would find the potion in his chambers and could begin to break down its ingredients. Perhaps, everything could find a good end even tonight!

After an additional moment of collecting herself, she finally dared to look up – and saw him flinch in reaction to her gaze. Did he already know what she was about to say? Did he somehow remember the scene of the banishment, but taken it for a dream?

"It was not you," she began hesitantly. "I know that. You are ill, and have been ill for a long time, but you must know that someone very close to you has been abusing your trust to bring great damage to the Mark for a long time. He is, in fact, the one responsible for your sickness. You must send him away, Uncle, for he is an evil man." Her heart pounding against her ribs, she waited anxiously for his reaction, yet before Théoden could respond, a sudden rap on the door interrupted their moment of privacy.

'No! No, it cannot be!'

The door opened, and it was neither Gamling nor Baldor who looked inside; but the very subject of her words, and in his pale grey eyes Éowyn saw the understanding of what he had just caught her at. How had that snake succeeded in sneaking up on them so quickly that there had not even been time for a warning?

"My Lord, my Lady… it is wonderful to see the two of you recovered. What a happy moment for us all this is." His gaze found Éowyn, and she lifted her chin in defiance, daring him to throw her out. "Yet it has only been three days ago that you were in the throes of a great fever, Lady Éowyn, and while I have to admit that you look much better, I would prefer to wait with a longer reunion until we can be assured that the sickness has indeed passed. As you know, your uncle's health is a frail thing."

Oh, the mud-blood infuriated her! Was Gríma truly suggesting now that she was the reason for the King's sickness?

"I have felt well again since yesterday, thank you, Counsellor," she replied coolly, wanting to say more, but Théoden interrupted her. The joy with which he greeted the false snake made her bodily sick.

"Gríma! I am feeling a lot better today. Did you give me a different medicine?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," the son of Galmod said as he slowly stepped into the room, but while he spoke with the King, his gaze remained on Éowyn as he took a small phial with a clear liquid out of his pocket. She understood the unspoken threat.

'One word, and your brother will suffer for it.'

"I grew impatient, because your health had declined so greatly over the past weeks despite my efforts, and I thought I should attempt something different this morning. I am most relieved to see that it worked so well." He opened the stopper and poured a few drops of the liquid into the carafe on the King's nightstand.

Éowyn clenched her jaw, biting down heavily on her tongue. No, no, it could not be! By drinking this, her uncle would no doubt be reduced again to the will-less puppet he had been for too long, the unsuspecting pawn of the most cunning enemy the Mark had ever seen. Holding Théoden's hand tightly, she watched how Gríma poured some of the steaming contents of the carafe into a cup for her uncle to drink. She had to intervene! She opened her mouth – and shut it again upon another knowing glance the Counsellor gave her as he passed the cup to the sick man.

"Here, my Lord, take this as a good-night draught. It will help you sleep."

"What would I do if I didn't have you, Gríma," Théoden said with a thankful smile on his face. He emptied the cup, and Éowyn had to force herself to look away. She could not bear to see her uncle's unsuspecting gratitude, or the expression of victory on the Worm's face.

Shivering with suppressed rage, she pressed the old man's hand in a gesture of farewell, and – after planting a gentle kiss on his cheek – rose to her feet again, harbouring no doubts that by next morning, the man she loved as her surrogate father would be gone again, replaced by the hollow shell that did the Mark so much damage.

"I fear that it is time for me to leave, Uncle. You need to rest, and so do I. I will be back tomorrow, but for now, I bid you a good night."

She did not look back as she left the room with hasty steps, wishing to reach the safety of her chambers before she came undone. She had been so close…

Behind the door, Gamling and Baldor waited for her, and though she clearly saw the dismay on both men's faces, she felt not ready to address them. Quietly, Gamling accompanied her to her rooms, where at last he attempted to explain.

"He was suddenly there, as if he had hidden in the shadows. I swear, if I had seen him, I would of course-"

Éowyn raised her hand, not wanting to hear it.

"I do not blame you, Captain. It is thist man." Without warning, her gaze turned to steel. "We will have to do something about him. It cannot go on like this." And with these words, she disappeared into her chambers for the night.

Chapter 16: Last Chance

WHITE MOUNTAINS

"Éowyn! Éowyn, no!"

The pyre erupted into flames as Gríma put his torch to it, the yellow tongues hungrily climbing up the wood toward his sister's flesh. Éowyn screamed, all evidence of her usual calm and collected demeanour gone in the face of a horrible death, but nobody moved to help her. All citizens of Edoras who had gathered at the market square to witness her execution stood entranced and stared at the quickly building fire with blank expressions. In the front row, an inanimate Théoden sat on his throne, which had been carried down for him to watch the burning of his niece, and his voice was the only sound audible over the increasing roar of the fire and Éowyn's screams.

"You sought to betray me. You must burn."

"Well spoken, Master," Wormtongue complimented him silkily as he slipped behind the King and placed his hands on the old man's shoulders in a disgusting display of false closeness. "She would not listen. We warned her by sending her brother away, and yet she did the same thing. If she cannot listen, she must burn."

Jumping from Firefoot's back into the crowd Éomer dashed madly toward the pyre where the first flames reached Éowyn's feet, and her cries of pain froze his blood.

"I am coming, Éowyn! Hold on!"

The guards stormed toward him, but he rammed them aside and jumped into the fire without consideration for his own safety. Already the flames tasted the flavour of his garments as he stormed up the pile of wood.

"Éomer! Éomer, no, don't!"

Still climbing, he drew his knife to cut her loose, but then found to his dismay that his sister was shackled to the post with iron-chains.

"No! No!"

Dropping the knife, he tore at the chains with his bare hands while the heat engulfed him, each breath searing his lungs. The roar of the fire was deafening, yet not loud enough to drown out Gríma's words as he said: "Brother and sister burning side by side for their sins against the Mark. Isn't that most fitting, my liege?"

"Éomer!" Éowyn's eyes widened in horror. "You cannot help me. Go and save yourself, our people need you!" The fire reached her legs, and she issued a bloodcurdling scream.

Helplessly, he tore at the chains, but it was already too late. There was but one thing left that he could do for his sister now, and so Éomer gave up his efforts and instead closed his arms around her as the heat and the brightness and the roar of the flames engulfed them. He could not save her, could not shield her from the fire but at least they could die side by side. As the air grew too hot to breathe, Éomer turned his head and saw the faint outline of their uncle through the flames, and Gríma standing beside him, holding his hand. It was the image he took with him…

... when he woke with a gasp to darkness; a thick, solid blackness that was all the more confusing in contrast to the firestorm he had just escaped. Strangely though, the heat seemed to have followed him from his nightmare. His garments and the blanket were drenched with sweat and stuck to his skin. For a moment, Éomer could not tell where he was.

"Éowyn?"

Was this the afterlife? But why could he not see? Wasn't he supposed to go to the Halls of his Fathers? What was this dark place? Sweat stung in his eyes, and slowly, it seeped into Éomer's conscious that the horrible scene he had witnessed had only been a dream. While his heart still pounded in a frenzied rhythm against his ribs, he sank back and wiped his sweat-beaded forehead in an unconscious gesture… and paused when his fingers touched his hot face.

'Bema, no…it cannot be!'

But there was no denying: the more Éomer became aware of his surroundings, distancing himself from the last echoes of the nightmare, the more he felt the dull throbbing of his racing pulse behind his brow, and as he looked at the fire although he already knew that the sensation could not originate from there, the brightness of the flames assaulted his eyes like needles. Alas, he knew those signs well, and a sinking feeling spread in his stomach.

He had been too slow in tending his wounds, or not thorough enough, or there had not been enough of the spirit to clean all the gashes and tears. Perhaps he should not have weakened the brew by stretching it with water, but what good were regrets now? While he had been asleep, infection had developed in his wounds, and now fever burnt him alive. First tremors already ran through his muscles, telling him that the poison had already spread far through his body. What now?

"Firefoot?"

Blindly reaching for his water skin to soothe his dry throat, Éomer turned his head… and found the cave deserted. There was no sign of the stallion. From the entrance, only the ominous roar of the wind penetrated into the sanctity of his retreat and he shivered underneath his wet blanket as a bone-chilling cold seized his body, making his teeth clatter and his hands tremble. He spilled half of the water before he could hold the opening of the water skin still enough to drink. The liquid soothed his raw throat on the way down, yet it was only a drop in the bucket and a moment later, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth once more. Fighting the urge to drink the rest of it, Éomer fought with the stopper, and suddenly, the vessel slipped from his grasp and emptied its precious contents into the straw. "No…"

His hands in the puddle as if he could shove the water back into the pouch somehow, Éomer stared in dismay at the disaster… when he suddenly felt with all distinctiveness the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck rise. It was another shiver, but not caused by the fever, and after the many years of riding with the Armed Forces, Éomer immediately understood the meaning of the tell-tale prickle of his scalp: death was in the neighbourhood, looking for him. Its shape was yet unknown, and although he was painfully aware of the fact that he stood no chance of defending himself against anything greater than an orc babe, Éomer clenched the hilt of his knife. The deadly threat resulted in a burst of fresh energy that surged through his body and enabled him to push himself up into a sitting position against the wall. Frantically, his gaze darted through the impenetrable darkness beyond the fire.

Something was moving where the light ended; several invisible shapes he could sense but not see. For a heartbeat, Éomer hoped that it was Firefoot who had returned from his foray, but with the next beat, he wiped the thought away. This was not the sound of iron-shod hooves on stone he knew so well. No, these were stealthy, fast steps on padded paws and although the clicking of the claws on the rock was almost too low to be audible over the crackling fire, his battle-experienced subconscious registered it nonetheless. This was the sound of predators. He had not even ended the thought when there was suddenly the reflection of light in three pairs of luminous eyes before they turned away, and Éomer inhaled sharply. Wolves.

The knife was of no use. Dropping it, Éomer picked up one of the burning branches instead, quickly throwing another piece of wood into the fire to strengthen it, followed by two more. Perhaps the flames would discourage them, even if he did not dare to hope. The thick stench of death must have led the predators to the cave, and while they usually preferred fresh meat, Éomer knew that in the hard wintertime, no wolf could afford to let an easy meal get away, even if it was carrion. They had initially come for the orcs... but now they had found something far better.

Once again their eyes gleamed maliciously in the darkness as they halted to stare at him, trying to estimate the strength of their prey. Menacingly, Éomer waved the branch toward them, his energy already waning, and he gritted his teeth in effort, knowing that once he went down, not even the flames would protect him any longer. Again the wolves shifted and turned, still undecided whether to attack or not, but finally, a nasty snarl rose from the other side of the fire. Lowly at first, but quickly increasing in volume as it was picked up by the others. They were hungry… and ready to charge.

"You will not get me! Go away!"

Éomer shouted at them without much hope, struggling to remain upright although the interior of the cave was already spinning around him. Wolves were smart hunters and possessed of great senses. Of course they smelled his illness and knew that they would be rewarded if only they remained patient. The thought was still unfinished when the three predators suddenly advanced and spread in a half-circle. The first one moved at him in a feint, snapping, and as Éomer lashed out at it, the one on the other side jumped, almost making it around the fire before he could turn. Sinking its jaws deeply into his blanket, it jumped back just in time to avoid the burning branch and retreated into a corner to secure its prey. Yet one bite was enough for the beast to understand that the thing it had claimed was worthless, and it quickly rejoined the others in the attack.

Rivers of sweat ran down his face, burning in his eyes and blurring his sight as Éomer waved the branch to ward off another attack, his strength fading fast but yet kept upright by his growing anger. How could it be Béma's will to let him be killed by a pack of wolves after all he had done for his people? How did he deserve this fate? His fury lent him the energy for another thrust, and the branch hit the wolf's head and seared its sensitive nose and eyes. With an anguished yelp, the beast retreated – and knocked the weapon from his hands and out of his reach!

For a second, wolves and man stared at each other in perfect understanding: they were the hunters and he the prey, and they had given him his chance. He had committed a mistake, and now he would die. They jumped at him in unison, but suddenly their angry snarls were drowned out by a piercing shriek and the deafening sound of thunder in the narrow hollow. Like a demon of wrath, Firefoot charged into the cave, too fast for the stunned predators to evade. A vicious kick catapulted the first wolf to the side with a broken shoulder, and it screamed in pain and only barely evaded the stallion's teeth as it turned on the spot to follow its fleeing brothers on three legs, not prepared to fight prey of this size and furious temper.

Chasing after them, Firefoot snorted furiously and stomped the ground in display of his terrible weapons as he stopped at the entrance, half-rearing in expectation of the beasts' return. Yet their scent weakened quickly and finally vanished from the night breeze, so he sent a triumphant scream after the pack and pranced, tossing his head with the thick mane frothing around his neck before he returned to his master, the proud victor.

Éomer smiled weakly at the advancing grey shadow, both amused by the stallion's pride and deeply grateful, but then slumped into a heap under the assault of yet another wave of heat. His hand seemed to weigh a ton as he lifted it in greeting at his animal ally…and something else was wrong with it, too. Blinking, he stared at the swollen thing at the end of his arm, briefly wondering whether the fever distorted his vision or if his fingers were really so deformed. They had swollen to the point where he could hardly bend them, and the colour of the skin around the holes had darkened to an angry red. Realisation of the meaning of his finding slowly seeping in his conscious, Éomer sat transfixed for a moment longer. Those stinking orcs. Now he'd have to leave the caves, or he would die here, adding his bones to those of all the rabbits and mice that had ended their lives here in the stomach of the filthy brood. Of course chances were also good that the first living thing he encountered outside would kill him, but if he remained here, his fate was certain.

An irritated whicker rose from the depths of Firefoot's throat, and Éomer looked up. The stallion pawed the ground, anxious to leave this horrible place that assaulted his instincts with the stench of sickness and death and foes. Éomer understood the horse's nervousness, for though he had no plan nor knew where to turn to for help yet, one thing was sure: he'd have to make haste, or all would be too late. Another look at his hand revealed the dark pattern of thickened veins through which the poisoned blood flowed, and the sight chased another shiver down his spine. He had seen riders with such infections; he had seen them lose limbs or even die once the bad blood had spread too far through their body. And at the same time he knew for certain that he would not be able to mount his horse the usual way; he didn't even have to make the attempt to know. There was only one option.

Supporting his head against the wall because it felt too heavy to keep upright on his own, Éomer muttered tiredly: "I know, Firefoot. You want to leave. I assume it does not matter; we might as well try it. But I fear that I cannot stand. You must come down for me."

He patted the ground and looked up. Firefoot towered above him like a statue, and his large eyes stared at Éomer as if he contemplated whether his master had truly lost his mind now. Éomer would have laughed over the incredulous look on his horse's face if it had not been for another cramp seizing him, stronger this time, and he gritted his teeth and groaned as he waited for the pain to subside. This had to be the way a raw piece of steel felt while it was bent and hammered into shape above the fire.

The next moment he snorted, bewildered by the strange shape his thoughts were taking and blaming it on the fever. Even his eyes hurt when he looked up at the restlessly shifting stallion, rising what was left of his voice: "Down, lad. Here!"

Again he patted the ground, and the horse tossed its head in indignant refusal. There was no misunderstanding the meaning of Éomer's gesture, as it was taught to all horses of the Mark, no matter whether they belonged to the Armed Forces or the farmers. In a land as dangerous as theirs, it was vital that one was able to mount one's horse at all times, even if one could barely move. Their horses' unusual intelligence and fierce loyalty along with their strength and endurance were the reasons for their renown in the rest of the world; they were no common beasts. If only this big, bull-headed example in front of him would remember its heritage and stop fussing!

And yet Éomer knew well that he was being hard on the stallion: the reasons for Firefoot's reluctance were perfectly understandable. The training had always taken place on soft ground, and if the horse lowered its bulk onto the hard surface, Firefoot could hurt himself considerably, even more so since freedom of movement was limited within the caves. Also, while they could fight, even their magnificent horses were beasts that preferred flight to battle. If the wolves returned while Firefoot lay on the ground, he would be able to do neither. He would be easy prey. Horses never lay down in a place they felt not completely safe at, and the stallion had hated the caves from the start. Now they reeked of death, and his master was asking himto expose himself to perhaps lethal danger. Of course the task was risky. But it was not something Éomer could take into consideration now.

Torn between his instincts and loyalty to his master, Firefoot circled the narrow confines of the cave once more, and for a moment, it looked to Éomer as if he wanted to leave. But then, with an angered and at the same time resigned huff, the Half-Meara turned at last on his hind legs and returned, and from the awkwardness of his movements Éomer could tell that he was looking for a favourable spot to lie down.

"That is my boy," he breathed, silently wondering whether he would succeed in mounting even if Firefoot lowered himself for him. "Thank you, lad."

He looked at the things strewn around him. The water skin was empty, no use in taking it along. The knife… yes, perhaps he would still need it. 'At least I could stick it into the first orc that attacks me before he bites my head off.' He secured the blade underneath his belt. What else? Provisions? He had no strength left to saddle Firefoot, so where should he leave them? No, this being his last attempt of survival, there was no use in taking anything else.

Reaching for his cape and cautiously slipping into it, Éomer observed the horse's efforts to lie down from the corner of his eye. Each of the grey's movements expressing his reluctance and discomfort, Firefoot shifted and turned endlessly before, at last, he seemed to have found a suitable spot. Awkwardly bending his front legs, he dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, and Éomer grimaced compassionately upon hearing the deep groan the grey issued in response to the impact.

Very well, his horse had done for him what it could; now it was on Éomer to make the last effort. Only a few steps separated him from the stallion, who had almost lowered himself onto the fireplace. One last time collecting the pitiful remains of his strength, Éomer bent to the side with a hiss, simultaneously dragging and pushing himself over the ground. The roar of his rushing blood in his ears drowned out all other noises before his hand finally touched the grey hide, and his vision threatened to leave him as small white explosions danced in front of his eyes.

"It is good, my friend. I am here."

Affectionately, Éomer patted the mighty shoulder and grasped a handful of the thick mane to literally drag himself onto Firefoot's back. Shivering with exhaustion, he finally slipped his injured leg over the side with a pained hiss and clicked his tongue, hoping that he would not fall when the stallion rose to his feet. Gods, how he would make Wormtongue suffer for this!

"Up. Up, Firefoot."

The great muscles worked underneath him as Firefoot spread his front legs. A strained groan emitted from the depth of the stallion's broad chest in effort as he struggled to rise with the additional weight on his back. Swaying like a foal that tried to gain its footing for the first time in its life, a precarious moment passed when Éomer thought they would both fall back and he would be crushed by the grey's weight, but with a last mighty effort, Firefoot thrust forth his bulk, and at last he stood. Thin red rivulets ran down his strong legs from the abrasions he had suffered in the fall, but in his relief of finally being able to leave the deadly trap of the caves, he felt nothing.

His fingers clenching the dark mane so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms, Éomer squeezed his eyes shut against the searing pain in his leg and side upon his steed's first steps, and an awful surge of nausea rose from his stomach. He was not certain for how long he would be able to remain on Firefoot's back, had no inkling of where to go. Putting all his faith into the senses of his horse because he knew that the grey would search the wind for signs of his kin, Éomer tightened the cape around his shivering frame and committed himself to chance. Together, horse and rider left the darkness of the caves to enter the narrow mountain path...

Chapter 17: The End of the Path

EDORAS

The Golden Hall's dark silhouette loomed forbiddingly against the black sky, illuminated only by the fires, and for the first time ever, the sight evoked a feeling of dread in Céorl as he approached the mighty wooden fence that surrounded the city. The wind had picked up again during their approach, and more snow was falling. It appeared that winter was not done with them, after all…

Voices called out from the guard tower and knowing that he had been recognised, he reined in his horse as he waited for the gates to open. Finally, they were home again… only that it did not feel like home anymore. Instead of a place of safety, the experienced warrior felt as if he was treading onto a frozen lake, the ice beneath his feet creaking and treacherously thin.

Looking around to see whether his fellow riders shared his impression, the captain turned his head and found his own discomfort mirrored in their grim faces and the rigidity of their bearing. While all of them were looking forward to be reunited with their families, none of them found solace in the thought of entering a city that reeked of mistrust and fear. What would they find once they proceeded inside? What had happened in the streets of Edoras since their departure, and when would they be called to answer to the Counsellor's questions?

Grinding his teeth at the thought of having to suppress his disdain while reporting to the Worm, Céorl urged Lancer through the gap, and at once the leaden atmosphere of the city weighed him down… and something else was not right. Aye, it was already dark, but it was not so late that none of their people should be visible on their way through the big open space behind the gates. Where were they? Hiding in their homes?

"Captain Céorl!"

A group of armed guards suddenly appeared before them and blocked their way. A large group, easily outnumbering them. Gríma's men, by the looks of it. He had seen some of them around, but did not know their names... except for their leader's. Céorl wrinkled his brow.

"What is this?"

"Your presence is at once requested in the Golden Hall, Captain," Felrod said, and his tone made it clear that he tolerated no objection. "Without delay. We are here to escort you and your men up."

"By whose authority do you dare to speak with me in this way? This does not sound like anything Théoden-King would order of his riders. We will need to see to our horses, first. I will gladly follow his summons as soon as I am done with it." Céorl noticed how the guards' fingers clenched around the hilts of their swords. This was ridiculous!

Felrod lifted his chin.

"It is by the authority of Counsellor Gríma that we are standing here, Captain. He was officially instated by the Council to speak in Théoden-King's stead for as long as his illness lasts… and his orders were to welcome you and your men and escort you to Meduseld upon entry. He expects your report at once."

"I wonder why," Céorl snarled and narrowed his eyes, highly annoyed. "It is not as if we bring any life-threatening tidings from Snowbourn."

The Halfblood lifted a bushy eyebrow.

"It is neither your's nor my place to question the Counsellor's orders. Will you come freely or are you determined to turn this into a spectacle?"

Céorl noticed that the few people further behind had stopped to watch, but were now chased away by some of Felrod's men. They looked fearful. Something was not right here. He snorted, well aware of the bewildered expressions on his men's faces. But, outnumbered as they were, it was not as if they had any choice.

"Very well…" he conceded at last. "If the good Counsellor ordered it, who are we to keep him waiting?" He pressed his thighs around Lancer's rump to urge him ahead, but the guards before them would not budge.

"You will first have to disarm," Felrod said, and his dark eyes met his opponent's in open challenge. "Right here, right now. Drop your swords, bows and knives. They will be stored until the King can be sure of your allegiance."

"What?" He could not have heard that right. "Don't be ridiculous, Felrod! None of us will give up our swords!"

"It has been the law since the Marshal's banishment, Captain! Whoever enters the city needs to give up all weapons. These are uncertain times, and until the situation has solidified, this rule remains in effect. It depends upon your conduct for how long that will be." Felrod squared his broad shoulders. "Unless you want to challenge this rule and thereby demonstrate to your King right now that you cannot be trusted."

The riders stared at each other, aghast. For the longest time, they communicated silently among each other, only with looks. Well aware that their opponents appeared to be battle-ready, and that they would barely stand a chance against such a big group of guards. They had walked into a trap.

With a sinking feeling, Céorl slowly unbuckled his scabbard. He dropped it, followed by his men.

"Be assured that I will bring this before the King."

Felrod lifted his brows, ignoring his threat.

"All your weapons!"

Knives and bows followed. Never before had the Captain of Edoras felt so naked before an enemy.

"Now dismount. Your horses will be taken to the stables and tended."

A line of very uncomfortable looking stablehands emerged from behind the guards. Céorl's heart beat wildly in his throat. A quick glance back confirmed to him that the gates had already been shut behind them. There was nothing they could do.

'At least they do not know about Elfhelm, or they would ask where he is. They cannot…'

He dismounted and, with a last pat at Lancer's muscled shoulder, reluctantly passed his reins to a young boy who did not even dare to look him in the eye. A sinking feeling of finality washed over him. Somewhere, not too far away, his wife and his son were awaiting him. Would he see them again? Would any of them see their loved ones again?

Their horses were led away, and Felrod's men formed a cordon around them. All of them had their swords in their hands, Céorl noticed without surprise. He had committed a horrible mistake: he had underestimated the Worm… and now, he and his men would pay the price.

Satisfied at last, Felrod turned to lead the group of guards and captives up the hill. On the ascending path, it struck Céorl once again how eerily devoid of life the city seemed. Was it only due to the once again deteriorating weather? Or had they all been ordered to remain at home, so that Wormtongue could make his move? He almost hoped that some of their éoreds' riders were moving about and would bump into them, even if they, too, had probably had their weapons confiscated. Was this really happening in the name of the King? It could not be. It –

"This is not the way to the Golden Hall," he remarked as the group suddenly turned away from the main path. "Where are you taking us?" He came to an abrupt halt – and found himself seized.

Felrod's broad face appeared in his field of vision. The Halfblood was grinning, revealing large, crooked teeth.

"You are a keen observer, Captain," he mocked. "When you wake, you and I will have a nice little chat…"

Céorl's eyes widened, but before he could move a muscle, a crunching blow to the base of his skull dropped him where he stood.

OOO

MEDUSELD

High above the city, Éowyn sat once again by the window, her eyes unfocussed, staring into the thickly falling snow while she contemplated her options. No matter how her visit the night before had ended, it had filled her heart with hope to see that inside the apathetic shell of her uncle, the man Théoden had once been was still alive. She had feared that this man was lost, but now that she had found out that he still existed, she was determined to find a way of bringing him back; with Gamling's and Háma's help or on her own if necessary. Looking at the closed door of her chambers in deep thought, Éowyn remembered her discussions with the two Captainsof the Royal Guard, and warmth spread through her at the comforting thought that she still had allies within these halls. If it came to the worst, perhaps they could still force fate to bend their way.

Good old Gamling… She hoped that she had not caused her uncle's most trusted friend additional trouble because of her request, but then again, it had never been said that she was not allowed to visit the King. It was infuriating that the Worm apparently held enough control over the court to confine her to her rooms, but to keep her isolated from her only remaining family member when it was well-known that the King's condition always improved with her visits, however briefly, would be an uncalled-for punishment. Surely the ranks of the Royal Guard still held enough loyal followers of Théoden to keep her adversary and his henchmen in check.

'Really?' a voice in the back of her head asked warily. 'How can you believe this after what happened to Éomer? Do you think Gríma would spare you if he caught you plotting against him? Do you think that he would hesitate to throw you into the dungeon if he knew that you plan to rid the Mark of him only because he wants you for himself?'

Oh yes, that thought. Long had she succeeded in ignoring it, but now it reared its ugly head again. Did the snake honestly believe that after all that had happened, she would still eventually surrender to him, that he would have her sooner or later, whether by force or by her own free will? He could not truly think that she would ever consent to sharing her bed and her life with him; she would rather fall on her sword.

A forceful rap on the door woke her from her contemplations, and she raised her brows, tensing in sudden anxiety.

"Enter!"

It was the Worm, of course. She had expected him to see her about the happenings of the early evening, and still his talent of showing up whenever her thoughts were occupied with him was most uncanny, as if he were somehow able to look inside her head and heard her thoughts to make his entry when he would most unsettle her. His face a calculating mask, the subject of her pondering shuffled into the room with his usual slight limp and closed the door behind himself. The look of the pale eyes resembled the thin crust of ice on a very deep lake. Just one wrong step, and she would plunge into the water and drown in its dark depths.

"Alas, it would appear to me that you do not take my threat seriously, my Lady," he said, and a dangerous gleam danced in his pale eyes. "Do you not care for your brother, or how am I to interpret your little unexpected visit to the King?"

Éowyn lifted her chin, but remained seated with no intentions to rise.

"Would you mind telling me in what way you believe me to have offended your commands, Counsellor? You never said that was not allowed to see my uncle, and I did not make a secret out of seeing him. On the contrary, I specifically asked the Chief of the Royal Guard to accompany me to his chambers, so that the visit would not be regarded as an act of disobedience. If you did not want for me to do so, you should have been clearer in your wording."

"You were ordered to remain in your rooms for five days. Today is only the end of the third day, and your uncle's chambers are not your chambers. I do not believe that we must discuss this."

"By your own words, you admitted that the arrest was only out of fear of me trying to help my brother in some way that would force you to incarcerate me. Now, thanks to your intervention-" at this she glared at him – "Éomer was unable to leave the Mark in the time you officially granted him. It was you who did not play by the rules, and I don't believe that we must discuss this, either. It was also against the rules to let your henchmen stalk and injure him, so why should you tell me anything about rules, Counsellor?"

Gríma lifted his chin.

"The rules are made by the stronger one, Lady Éowyn. The weaker one either obeys, or feels the punishment for his disobedience. The choice is his."

Infuriated, Éowyn came to her feet, too angry now to remain seated.

"All I wished was to see my uncle! I do not know whether you have noticed, but he is very ill and frail! He is all that is left to me of my family, and although you turned him into a hollow shell, I still care for him. He needs me in these hard times. You cannot forbid me to see my kin!"

"Do not try my patience," Gríma sneered. "I would be much more generous with my approval if it were not for the distinct feeling that you were in the process of disparaging me when I entered, Lady Éowyn, and don't even try to deny it. It was written all over your face!" Gríma held her gaze, and again it was as if he looked right into her head. "Do not take me for a fool! I know exactly the purpose of your little visit, and it was not to establish that your uncle was still alive. You wanted to find out whether he was clear enough to understand your accusations against me, is it not so?"

"Does it even matter what I say?" Éowyn rebuked. "You are so convinced of your version of the tale that you will not listen to me anyway!"

"You planned to tell the King of your brother's fate. You planned to urge your uncle to send me away, or worse, and that leaves me with only one possible conclusion: you still do not believe that my threat is a real one. Tell me, what shall I do to convince you of my sincerity? Shall I bring you your brother's hand to make you understand that he is indeed at my mercy... or will you continue not to believe me until I bring you his head?"

Wormtongue advanced another step, and his gaze burned her. It took all of Éowyn's restraint not to jump at the evil man and bury the dagger she now carried always with her in his chest.

"I will do it, my lady. If you insist, I can have your brother's head here for you to see by tomorrow. You will believe me then, but then, you will also have to live with the knowledge that your rebellion killed him. Tell me, is this indeed what you want me to do? Your wish shall be my command."

She could not answer. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, Éowyn stood shivering with rage. Gríma, however, showed no mercy.

"I asked you a question, my lady. Should I send for your brother's head?" He stared her down, and at last, she closed her eyes, no longer able to look at her tormentor.

"No."

It was but a breath, and although Gríma had well heard it, the sound of it did not satisfy him.

"Say it loud and clearly, or I must assume that you still do not mean what you say!"

Éowyn's eyes opened, and if looks could have killed, the Counsellor would have dropped dead right then.

"No, I do not want you to kill Éomer. Will that mean that you're condemning me to stay here in my rooms while my uncle is dying a slow death at your hands?"

"He is not dying from my hands; it is his body failing him. In fact, I am prolonging his life! You should be grateful! But to answer your question: no, I will not forbid you to see your uncle in the future, but the decision whether you can see him or not lies solely with me from now on, and you will only visit him in my presence, because once again, you have proven yourself untrustworthy. And I will not hear any protest, because you know very well that I speak the truth. If you force me to intervene one more time, the restriction you have spoken of yourself will become reality, and you will hurt both your uncle and yourself by it… not to mention your brother."

Turning around, Gríma laid a hand on the door handle, but then looked back at Éowyn once more, almost as if in afterthought.

"I honestly hope that you understood me this time, Lady Éowyn. I am known to keep my promises, and I mean what I say, always. If you still think that you can play your little games with me, then I must inform you that the times when I tolerated them for amusement's sake are over. If I catch you scheming just one more time, you will bring suffering to those you love, mark my words."

He let the words trail off into the heavy silence between them for dramatic effect, and when no answer came, left the chambers without another glance back.

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Cold. So cold. The wind a howling, raging beast; tearing at him and sucking warmth and strength from his body no matter how deeply he hunched over Firefoot's neck or pulled the hood of his cape into his face. A thick crust of ice already covered his beard and brows and eyelashes, thickening with each laboured breath, and he shivered violently from the cold and exhaustion. Yet despite the cramps, Éomer caught himself falling asleep and slipping to the side with increasing frequency during the last part of the ride. Several times had he only barely avoided the fall that would settle his fate, because instinctively he knew that once down, he would never be able to climb onto the stallion's back again. Still he had to face the fact that slowly but surely, his reserves were nearing their end.

When they had first set out, the throbbing pain in his leg and side had been a constant companion, so strong he had not even felt the blistering cold. It had kept him wide awake for a while, but inevitably with the duration of his exposure to the temperatures, the cold had begun to affect him: frost slowly crept up from his feet, inside his legs and further up his body underneath the swaying cape to settle in his sweat-drenched garments, adding shivers to his fever cramps. Now the cramps slowly ceased as the temperature in his body dropped... and numbness replaced them. It was no improvement of his condition, Éomer knew, and still he welcomed the change. Numbness and fatigue he could endure for a while longer, but not the cramps. They had left him hollow in their wake, barely able to hold himself on his horse.

Where were they? Was it a scent Firefoot was following? Did he sense others of his kin close by, which – in the Mark – inevitably also meant the presence of men? Or did he merely proceed deeper and deeper into the mountains because halting would not solve their problem? More hanging than sitting on the grey's back, his mind in a daze, Éomer stared at the swirling white maelstrom the world had become, threatening to pull him into its cold and deadly embrace. He had lost all sense of direction and time, could not even tell for how long they had been riding. It seemed like forever. North, south, west, east, hours, minutes, all was one in the raging elements, bereft of meaning, and he knew not for how much longer he would be able to endure.

Suddenly, the great body beneath him gave a deep grunt and tensed as if Firefoot had picked up a scent he disliked. His fingers involuntarily clenching in the horse's thick dark mane, Éomer fought to penetrate the twilight as the stallion turned in an anxious circle, and for a moment, he thought he saw indistinct shapes moving on the path they had just cleared. The next moment they were gone, but Éomer was almost unseated when the stallion suddenly jumped into a gallop without transition. For the duration of ten thundering heartbeats, he hung precariously on the horse's side, fighting with the last of his strength to regain his seat.

"Hoh! Hoh, Firefoot!"

Ignoring his master's feeble attempts to slow him down, the grey accelerated, and now Éomer saw for the first time the shapes behind them clearly. The pack had grown from the three wolves which had assaulted him earlier to more than half a dozen beasts, and they moved closer with each long leap, determination on their feral faces. They were hungry, and this time, they would not back down. His attention focused on their pursuers as he felt for his knife, Éomer was caught by surprise as Firefoot abruptly leapt to the left, and the next moment, frost bit the naked skin of his face as he landed on his stomach in the snow.

Stunned by the impact on his injured ribs and the shock of the fall, Éomer's left hand still clenched the hilt of his knife, and he fought breathlessly to draw up his knees. Putting all the energy left in him into his arms, he pushed himself up into a kneeling position just as the first wolves emerged out of the swirling mist before him.

'Stand up, or you die! Éomer!'

He lashed out with the knife, missing as the wolf evaded him with ease, and the force of the thrust unbalanced him. Again he landed face-first in the snow, and the whiteness on the ground greeted him with cold fingers.

'Stay here', it lured him. 'Lay down and sleep in my embrace, and you won't even feel it when they rip you apart.'

"No! Éomer, get up!"

Théodred's voice called out to him from the other end of a very long tunnel, muffled and almost too low to make out, but where before it had succeeded in lending him the necessary energy to escape the gaping maw of oblivion, Éomer now felt himself falling into it as the ground shifted beneath him and the tunnel turned into a bottomless pit. The last sensation he felt was the solid hilt of his knife in his fingers and then the repercussion of heavy steps approaching him, and then he knew no more…

Chapter 18: The Three Hunters

Darkness was fast approaching as Elfhelm and his men readied their horses for the ride to Edoras. Tension was thick among the riders, and none of them spoke as they concerned themselves with saddles and bridles, absorbed in their own grim thoughts of what they would find upon entering their capital.

Leaning against Éon as he pulled the girth tight with his full weight, Elfhelm could not help wondering whether Céorl had succeeded in preparing their secretive arrival… or would the Snake's henchmen await them behind the city gates, because the filthy crook already knew of their plan? And what should they do then? Fight… or let themselves be captured without resistance and hope for the best? What crime could Wormtongue accuse them of, even if the manner of their arrival in the city looked more than suspicious? Would the citizens of Edoras and Éothain's éored tolerate it if they were captured and accused of conspiracy against the King with no solid evidence? So many questions, and no answers.

His lips a thin line, Elfhelm fastened the buckle and took a step back to regard his work as the bay stallion turned its head to cast its master a long, inquisitive stare, peacefully chewing on a mouthful of hay. With a half-smile, the warrior extended a hand to run his fingers affectionately over the white star on the horse's brow. Éon sensed his tension, but where this sensation made other animals skittish, the long-legged, experienced war-horse remained calm. Even in the heat of battle the tall bay usually kept his cool head, and the number of orcs killed by his hooves was awe-inspiring. Éomer had once jokingly remarked that Elfhelm had chosen the otherwise docile animal because of his lacking riding skills, but Elfhelm had seen the respectful look in the younger man's eyes even then and known what to think of these words. In certain aspects, Éon and he were very much alike: they both were experienced warriors, extraordinarily skilled in the use of their weapons and possessed of well-founded self-confidence. Like Éomer and his moody and temperamental Firefoot, they were a perfect match.

With a deep intake of breath, Elfhelm patted his steed's muscled shoulder and shifted his attention back to his men to find them ready and looking at him in expectation of orders. He cleared his throat and began.

"I realise that it might not be easy to ride in the darkness all the way to Edoras, all the more as the ground has been treacherous for the last day. That is why we are leaving so early; we will ride slowly and should reach the Snowbourn about an hour after moonrise. There we will wait in the cover of the rocks near the pool until the sign is given."

"And what kind of sign will it be?" Arnhelm, his experienced scout asked. "The waving of a torch? Or will someone leave the city to guide us in?"

"I do not know, but I would assume that it will be a torch signal; probably from outside the gates and not from the watchtower, lest anyone sees it from the Golden Hall. Make no mistake about this, brothers: once we are on the way, we will be seen as conspirators against the crown, and our path will be a dangerous one. If there are any among you who doubt our purpose, this is the time to step back from it." He waited, and found only determination in the faces before him. The sight filled him with pride. "I did not think so, but I thank you nonetheless. The Mark needs us, and we have already waited too long to take action. Let us ride!" He swung into the saddle, and a sudden surge of energy flooded his body. The Worm had better watch out that he did not cross their way tonight, or he would lose his head before he realised who had come to avenge their people for the long years of misery…

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

They had waited patiently, not daring to attack. The horse was strong-boned and tall even for its kind, and willing to fight, answering their taxing stares with a challenge of its own each time they attempted to intimidate it. For a long time now, the pack had circled the stallion, afraid of his hard and quick hooves which came terribly close whenever one of them jumped forth in a quick feint to snap at the air to convince the great beast by their mere presence that it would be wiser to flee and leave the creature it guarded to them. After days without food, the pack desperately needed to make a kill, but still they hesitated to attack so powerful and well-prepared an adversary. Of course the horse would have made a much worthier target and provided those surviving the attack with a feast for several days, but none of the wolves wanted to be the one starving to death with broken bones somewhere in a den afterwards. So instead they had silently agreed among themselves to settle for the smaller prey; it would suffice to fill their stomach at least for a few hours and seemed less risky to obtain. Sooner or later, the great beast had to understand that it stood no chance against their combined attack and abandon the man. It was patience they needed to exercise now, not boldness.

But time had passed and darkness thickened around them, and still the horse blocked their way and seemed in no way impressed by their increasingly desperate false attacks. Quite the contrary, the last times a member of the pack had jumped forth, the grey's whirling hooves had only narrowly missed, and the beast seemed emboldened now by its success at keeping them at bay. Apparently, there was no other way: they needed to heighten their risk or abandon the attack entirely and retrace their steps to the orc carcasses. Coming to a silent understanding, the two leaders of the pack decided to take action, and upon their unspoken signal, the others assembled in a circle around the horse and its fallen rider.

Sensing the sudden change in his attackers' demeanour, Firefoot hammered his hooves onto the ground in a powerful threat and snorted. The wolves recoiled once more, but not as far as before, and with each of their now quicker feints they moved closer, intending to separate him from his lifeless master. Two had already met with his fury, and they held themselves in the back now, limping, but the pack was determined: they would not give up this prey under any circumstances. Working together in an elaborate plan, two wolves on either side jumped at their adversary while simultaneously, two more attacked the prone shape on the ground, and their fangs sank into the thick cape and began to drag it from the stallion's reach.

With an enraged shriek, Firefoot turned on his first attacker and sank his teeth into the fur, but could not evade the jaws of the other wolf as they scratched his left foreleg. Encouraged by the sight of the great beast's distress, the rest of the pack then entered the fray while two more helped their brethren with the heavy target of their attack. Their full weight behind their thrusts, they had already succeeded in moving the lifeless figure away from the madly fighting horse, and the smell of his sweet blood did incredible things to their empty stomachs when - without warning - their leader collapsed with a pained gasp, struck down by an arrow through his neck. Baffled and shocked, the pack turned to face the new threat still hidden by the mist.

Firefoot used that moment to whirl around, and the wolf he held between his teeth yelped and then was forcefully thrown into a bush. A well-aimed kick found another attacker, and when the leading female fell under another arrow, the rest of the pack turned their tails and fled into the snowstorm. Firefoot pursued them for a few leaps, then halted and turned on his rear as he sent a triumphant scream after them. His bleeding head proudly lifted to encounter the new threat, the great stallion drank the cold air with quivering nostrils, and his powerful frame trembled with tension. Friend or foe, who had chased off his assailants? Would he have to defend himself and his master against something even worse now? Once again Firefoot probed the scent on the howling wind, and suddenly a loud neigh escaped his throat in joyful welcome of the two shapes that emerged from the swirling snow. With twitching ears, he eagerly listened for an answer as he turned in an anxious half-circle, too nervous to stand still.

He did not have to wait for long and by now, their scents were strong enough for him to recognise. Again he called out to them, overjoyed to finally have found company of his kind. They were two stallions, a grey one with a distinctly two-coloured mane, and a white one, both of them familiar. But the scents of their riders Firefoot had only encountered once before, and he tensed again as he observed their approach with pricked ears. Friends or foes? Torn between the options of attacking or waiting, he remained still, a statue of vigilance that would burst into action upon the slightest provocation.

"So this is the end of the trail: that stallion is guarding someone; there, in the snow!"

"Are you sure it is a person? All I see is a heap of clothes."

"That is because you have too much hair in your face, and all of it has frozen over. You ought to shave it off, or you will always have to rely on my eyesight."

A distinct snort could be heard even through the storm.

"As if we dwarves ever had to rely on the elves for anything!"

"Give it a rest, you two. That is a war-horse of Rohan. He would not guard a worthless bundle of clothes against a pack of wolves."

The leader of the little group dismounted with a fluent movement and then stood still, aware that the anxious stallion before them was still mistrustful and nervous in the wake of the fight. A quick glance found the man on the ground, but the stranger understood that he had to be patient. Rashness could easily result in an attack, and none of them wanted to kill a horse that merely defended its rider. Blood already marred the stallion's grey hide running in several thin rivulets from his proud face and strong legs, bespeaking the fierceness with which the animal had protected itself and its master. And now, it dared him to approach…

"Sssssh, my friend…" the stranger said, and he lowered his voice to a soothing mumble while he held out his hand in a calming gesture, switching into Rohirric. With a faint smile, he noticed how the horse reacted at his change of languages, its ears flickering toward him while it kept its wary glance upon the others. "We will do you no harm. We are here to help your master, if you will allow it."

"I know why I don't like horses," the shortest and stoutest of the riders huffed. "Be careful, Aragorn, he looks like a grumpy fellow to me!"

"He just saved his master from the wolves," the tall figure in front of him explained. "Of course he is not certain yet of our intentions. But see, he is listening to Aragorn. He looks calmer already."

Deciding to take his own horse along to further calm the stallion down, the Ranger slowly approached, and a distinct feeling of dread settled in his stomach as the feeling of familiarity grew stronger. Surely the majority of the famous Rohirric horses were of this colour, but he could not shake the awful suspicion that they had already encountered this particular stallion and exchanged words with his master only a few days ago. Was this the price the Marshal had paid for lending them the spare horses? It was a horrible thought. They had hurried as much as they had been able too, determined to make it to Edoras and honour their promise, but circumstances had been against them. And now, the consequences of their failure seemed to lie before them.

'Oh no…please…'

Eying him closely, the grey stallion pawed the ground with an explosive snort and Aragorn halted, granting the animal more time to decide that he was no enemy while he once again regarded the lifeless figure in the snow. He had registered no movement yet, but then again, there was no blood on the snow around him, either. Perhaps they had arrived yet in time to save the warrior' life.

"I will advance now, with your permission," he said at length, again in Rohirric. "Your master needs our aid, and I am sure that you want us to help him."

Carefully, Aragorn took another step, and the stallion tensed. With a clap on Hasufel's shoulder, he sent the grey ahead, and then advanced further. The way the two horses greeted each other indicated their familiarity, and he noticed how all tension finally fell away from the stallion and knew that he would be allowed now to approach the fallen rider.

"Is he alive?" Gimli asked from behind and then protested as the elf dismounted from their horse, leaving him alone on the unsaddled back of a beast he held no control over. At last, the son of Glóin also jumped into the snow, deciding to seize the brief opportunity to stand on his own two feet where he would not be at the mercy of the unreliable beast.

Aragorn slipped his hand under the unconscious man's hood, gently easing it from his head, and his expression darkened as he found his fears confirmed. "It is the Marshal we met on the plains with his éored. The man who gave us the horses."

Standing behind him, Legolas creased his brow as he looked down.

"So he killed those orcs in the caves, but he paid a high price for his victory. I wonder what he is doing out here all by himself. Where are his men?"

"A good question. I hope they, too, did not meet with an unfavourable fate." Aragorn sighed and slowly shook his head as he continued his examination of the fallen rider. "But then again, we followed the trail for quite some time, and there was no sign of them before. No, I doubt they accompanied him. Yet who in his right mind would roam this land alone if he had a choice?"

Carefully, Aragorn ran a hand through the Rohìr's matted and blood-encrusted hair, finding gashes on the side of his head and his brow and paused. Then he removed his gloves and at last he laid his fingers onto Éomer's slightly parted lips to feel for his breath.

"You think that he was punished for lending us the horses?" the elf spoke into his thoughts, voicing his fears. "But didn't he say that he was related to the King himself?"

"He also said that Théoden was no longer the man he used to be, that his mind has been overthrown by the enemy. If the Marshal's generosity was enough to get him banished by his own kin, it is no wonder they were tense when we met them on the plains."

Aragorn felt nothing, and his heart sank from fear that they had arrived too late to save the warrior. Only when he concentrated he became aware of the faintest stream of air against his skin, and with a quick glance at the stallion who had apparently decided that they could not be enemies if his brethren allowed them on their backs, Aragorn carefully rolled the Rohír on his back to probe for other injuries in addition to the ones he saw. "His breathing is shallow and unsteady, and he feels cold to the touch. We must find shelter quickly."

He looked over his shoulder, contemplating their further course of action.

"You mean back to the caves?"

Behind the thick crust of ice that covered his face, the dwarf looked as if he could easily acquaint himself with the thought, but Aragorn shook his head. Rising to his feet, he clicked his tongue for his steed to come closer and began to untie the thick blanket from behind the saddle.

"No, the caves are too far away. He will not last much longer out here. He needs aid soon, and I cannot not provide it for him there. We must see that we find a house, or a settlement. In the meantime, we will wrap him in our blankets."

"We will have to put our faith in the horses then," Legolas said, his keen gaze already scanning the continuation of the mountain path. Quickly he untied his own blanket and together with the dwarf, helped his friend to wrap the unconscious man in it. "They were eager to proceed since we left the cave, so perhaps they sense something that is hidden from our eyes yet."

"Then we must find it quickly." Looking down with obvious worry, Aragorn led his obediently waiting mount alongside the Rohír. "Help me to get him into the saddle; I will ride with him. Perhaps the warmth of my body will keep him alive until we find shelter."

Under Firefoot's watchful eyes, the three companions wrestled Éomer onto the bay's back, and at last, the little group was on their way again…

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

"Félarof he named the mighty stallion when at last he cornered the animal. And as if by some miracle, the horse understood that he was indebted to Éorl for taking his father away from him. Éorl did not know it then, but Félarof understood the language of man, and the stallion agreed to be his steed from that day on, under one condition: that he'd be ridden without tack, because even if he gave up his freedom, the father of the Méaras would not be tamed in that way. He submitted to the man on his own free will, and Éorl accepted, and since he was the most skilled rider the Mark has ever seen, he needed neither bridle nor saddle, not even in battle. And he rode the stallion in that fashion ever since."

"And Félarof truly understood all that Éorl said to him?"

"Every word of it. He could not speak our language himself, because horse's throats are different from ours, but he knew what the man demanded of him, and he understood that it was Éorl's right to ask this service of him in payment of his debt. It is a trait that lives on in our horses even today, and it is what makes the bond between them and their riders so strong. But enough for today, it is already late, and you need to sleep." Smiling, Freya bent over to give her eight-year old son a goodnight kiss.

The lad's brow creased, and he exchanged a sceptical look with his younger sister at his side before he turned back to his mother.

"But then why is Féllea being so difficult? I fell from her back twice today, and yesterday, she even tried to kick me. If she understands what I want, then why…"

Laughing, Freya ruffled her son's hair.

"Ah, but do your friends do all that you ask of them, even if they understand you quite well? Or does your sister, for that matter?" She winked at the little girl who had silently listened to her tale with shining eyes, one finger ceaselessly twirling a flaxen curl that stubbornly hung into her face, and found the child's fascinated look quickly replaced by an impressive scowl.

"Oh, Edilda, you know how I mean it. Come here, Little Lamb!"

She invited her daughter in her arms and laughed when Loégar, jealous of the attention his sister received, quickly pried his way into her embrace, as well. Luckily, both children were still small enough to fit into her arms nicely, and Freya squeezed them affectionately, enjoying the moment of closeness. "You both know how much I love you, so you don't need to show me your lower lip, Edilda, even if it is very pretty."

"Edilda never does what I tell her!"

Loégar shot a dark glance at his sister, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Because you always send me for things you forgot, and you are too lazy to get them yourself," Edilda snapped at him, her little hands clenching in her mother's garments. "Like you have no feet of your own!"

"Stop, stop, stop, both of you!" Freya intervened, releasing the children from her embrace and regarding them with the stern expression of a very annoyed parent. "Only this afternoon, the two of you promised me not to fight anymore, at least not today, and I will not believe that you have already forgotten those words. What was it that I said about your quarrelling, Loégar?"

The boy scowled and averted his gaze.

"That I should not take advantage of Edilda just because I was the older one."

"Very well, I see that you do indeed remember," Freya said, shifting her attention to her youngest. "And Edilda, what did I tell you?"

"That there are times to listen to my brother, too. But-"

"No "but", little Lady!" Freya wagged her finger. "If the two of you don't learn to get along, I fear that the further adventures of Éorl and his mighty steed Félarof will have to wait."

"No!"

"Mother, please-"

"Then you must keep your promise. Your mother has a lot on her mind each day, and many tasks to accomplish. If the two of you get into each other's hair over every little word, you make things even harder for me, and I will not have the time to think of further stories for you, nor would I want to tell them when I am exhausted from your quarrelling in the evening. Do you understand me?" The children nodded reluctantly. "Very well. We will see about that tomorrow. And now I will hear no complaints when you go to sleep. You have had your story for today and…"

The young mother's lecture was interrupted by the sudden eruption of furious barking from outside, an unwelcome sound that sent a shiver of fear down her spine as it usually indicated danger.

"Mother?"

"What is it, Mother? Who is coming?"

In the six years of her life, Edilda had already witnessed too many alarms to remember, and knew just as well as the adults that it usually meant that their farm was about to be attacked by horrible things with sharp teeth. Quickly, Freya made her way over to the window. Please, Béma, not again! Barely one week had passed since the last pack of wolves had sought out their farm in a desperate attempt to find food. The winter was hard on everyone, and the wolves had looked lanky and malnourished and given up quickly once Freya and her family had stormed outside to chase them away, but still they had lost one of their valuable guard dogs in the attack. Pulling the curtain aside to peer outside, she noticed that it was still snowing, but so far, there was nothing else to see. And yet Freya knew the dogs were usually right.

"Freya? Are you coming?" a deep voice resounded from the corridor, and the next moment, Osred looked into the room, a heavy club in his hand that lent his appearance a decidedly aggressive air.

"Aye. Just one moment!" She turned back to her anxious children and gave them a quick kiss. "You two stay in here. I will be right back and tuck you in."

"Is it the wolves again?" Loégar whispered with large frightened eyes, and for once, he did not dare to mock his sister as she clutched her doll to her chest in fear.

"I don't know; I did not see any. Perhaps it was just a distant scent that set them off. Hush, to bed with the both of you now, and this is where you'll stay until I come back."

Freya turned to go and closed the door behind her, calmed by the thought of having another wall between her children and their possible attackers. 'But what if they are orcs?' An ugly thought shot through her head as she retrieved her trusted hayfork from the little chamber by the kitchen. Briefly she considered taking the sword she had been given by the Marshal four summers ago, but despite the special training she had received along with it, she still felt more secure with the weight of the massive fork in her hand.

Osred already awaited her at the front door, where he peered outside through the narrow opening. Fighting hard to control her anxious breathing and remain calm, Freya stopped behind him.

"Do you see them yet?"

"There are no wolves, but I see three horses, one of them riderless."

He squinted into the diffuse darkness, his tone mistrustful. Who in his right mind travelled the mountain paths in such weather and after nightfall? Slowly he opened the door wider and lowered the club although he did not yet permit himself to relax. Looking over his shoulder, Freya felt slightly relieved that it did not seem to be another attack. In the opened door of the next building, she saw her brother Halad and his wife Fleadwyn imitating their stance, mistrustfully awaiting their unexpected visitors while their dogs barked furiously in the compound.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

Squaring his shoulders, Osred stepped out of the house and shouted over the din when the riders had advanced enough for him to see that there was something peculiar about them. Why were the four men sharing only two horses while the third one, a strong-boned, dappled grey stallion ran free? And what had happened to the man who sat slumped in front of the first horse, his head lolling with each of the horse's steps and only held in the saddle by the strength of the rider behind him, whose features were hidden beneath a deep hood? Who were they? No orcs, apparently, but still Osred did not like it, and he jumped when Freya's fingers suddenly dug painfully into his arm.

"Isn't that Firefoot? Osred, that is Firefoot! Look!"

"No, it isn't," he objected, but by now, the riders were close enough to establish that it was indeed the Marshal's mighty stallion. So that meant that the man in front…

"Forgive us for troubling you at this late hour," the rider behind the unconscious man said, and his voice sounded both gentle and urgent. "We did not mean to frighten you, but this is an emergency."

He smoothed back the hood to reveal his face, and his dark hair and beard immediately gave him away as a stranger. At the same time, there was something in his appearance that made Osred feel awkward in his presence although the expression in his intense eyes was one of kindness.

"My name is Aragorn, and these are my companions Legolas and Gimli. We are friends of Rohan and were passing through, but then we found one of your warriors grievously injured on the mountain path and decided to bring him here. I fear that he is not in a good state."

Shoving her hesitant husband aside, Freya stormed toward the halting riders with a cry of dismay.

"It is Éomer! Gods, what happened to him? And where is his éored?"

"I wish I could give you the answer to that question, my lady," Aragorn admitted, briefly gesturing for Legolas and Gimli to dismount and help him with the wounded man. "He was alone when we found him. Apparently he was attacked by a group of orcs, and while he defeated them, he was wounded and somehow tried to make it to your farm on his own. We need to get him warm at once, or I fear that he will not hold out much longer."

Cautiously, he let the unconscious Rohír slide from his horse's back into the arms of his waiting companions.

"Bring him inside, quickly!" Freya gestured toward the door, dismayed by how lifelessly Éomer hung in the men's arms. "Osred, stoke the fire! And please, take Edilda and Loégar over to Halad. They do not need to see this."

Her husband did not appear to hear her as he regarded their unexpected visitors with narrowed eyes.

"You already gave us your names, but who are you? It is obvious that you are not men of the Mark."

"Osred!"

"We are friends of Rohan," Aragorn said in looking up from the burden of the unconscious man whose arm he had around his neck in the combined effort to carry him into the house. His voice was firm, but he did not appear to be insulted by the question. Times were difficult, and it was clear to him that strangers were not easily trusted in the Mark even if they were apparently no orcs. "We are here to help. There is no need to fear us."

Freya glared at her husband in anger as she passed him and led the men inside, motioning them to the living room and the fireplace. Another door on the corridor opened and she looked at the twin girls who had heard the commotion from outside.

"This way. Wait, let me spread a sheepskin under him, first. Willa? Wyndra? It is Éomer, they found him wounded in the mountains! One of you, bring me all the blankets and sheepskins you can find, and the other one, go in the kitchen and heat water. Take a large pot, or several large pots, we will need lots of it. And we will need bandages, and the brandy. Quickly!"

"Aye, Freya." The sisters hurried out.

Overtaking the men, Freya quickly pulled the thick woollen blanket from the bench to spread it on the ground. "Here. Lay him down here." Anxiously she waited as Éomer was laid down, his head lolling in the pit of the dark haired stranger's elbow, and she stiffened at the sight of his blue lips and the blood on the side of his face.

"Mother?"

"Who are these men, Mother?"

The little ones! Better if they did not see this. Fighting for her composure, Freya turned around and saw Loégar and Edilda standing in the corridor with frightened expressions, hugging themselves.

"They are friends, léofa. No need to be afraid." A deep breath. "Osred, please, can you take them over—"

"I will bring them over immediately, but I can only do one thing at a time, Freya!"

Her husband fed the fire with an armful of dry wood while the strangers cautiously freed Éomer of his torn cape. Suddenly, he beheld the strange form of one of them: hardly taller than a tree stump the man seemed, and just as sturdy, with a mass of brown, partly braided hair in his face that was heavily encrusted with ice, and he was clad in thick armour. And the one next to him…

Osred paused, picking up an even stranger sensation from the fair-haired man next to the short one. As if the stranger had noticed his unusual attention, his strikingly blue eyes went up to met the farmer's, and the calm, self-conscious gaze of those strikingly blue eyes was the last straw to tell Osred that he was not looking at an ordinary man. Never had he felt as naked underneath anyone's gaze; never since his adolescence had he felt more like a child again, and the sensation confused him greatly.

"Osred!" Freya's raised voice finally woke him.

"Aye," he muttered distractedly, staring at the stranger's pointed ears. Was that the hint of a smile he saw playing around the man's mouth? Was his unsettlement so amusing? "I am already gone." Still bewildered, he cast a last glance over his shoulder and then picked up his children. "Come with me, you two. We will go and visit Halad and Fléadwyn. Perhaps they have another goodnight tale for you, hm?"

"Who is this man, Father?" Loégar asked, reluctant to leave. "Will he die?"

"No, he will not die. Your mother knows how to help him, but now we must leave her to it and get out of her path, because she has a lot to do. All right?"

The door cut off their voices, and at last, thick silence settled in the little room. Swallowing at the sight of the gashes on the side of Éomer's head, Freya carefully reached out to touch his cheek. Gods, he felt so cold! 'Will he die?' It could not be. Béma, no, not Éomer!

"Éomer? Éomer, do you hear me?"

"He was already unconscious when we found him and did not wake during the ride. He still breathes, but shallowly and irregularly. I fear that he has been exposed to the cold for a long time."

The dark-haired stranger who had introduced himself as Aragorn knelt down beside them and his hands – long-fingered, strong hands which looked like the hands of a man used to living in the wild – felt for the younger man's breath, then slid down Éomer's neck to feel his heartbeat. Piercing grey eyes met Freya's in an attempt to read her expression as he unsheathed his knife.

"We must get him out of these garments."

Did he expect her to leave the room? This was certainly the wrong moment for feelings of propriety, and she told him so with her gaze. Her fingers gently caressing Éomer's brow and cheek, Freya summoned her courage and looked the man straight in the eye.

"I do not think you can afford to send me away," she said, now feeling the attention of the three strangers on herself. "I am skilled in the way of healing, and I am not easily shaken. Out here, it is I who treats my family in times of illness. I help our animals to give birth, and it is I who slaughters them when we need their meat. I do not faint at the sight of blood, even if it is that of a friend or family member." She pointed her chin at the prone figure. "He is very dear to me, and I want to help him. Please."

"Then I will not stand in your way." Aragorn nodded in satisfaction and looked up. "Legolas, Gimli…?"

"If you don't need my assistance, I will go and see that our horses are properly tended," the Elf said with a quick glance down. In her concern for the fallen warrior the woman paid them no heed. "And his stallion, too. He was wounded in the fight. Will you accompany me, Gimli?"

"And tend the horses?" The dwarf seemed somewhat less enthusiastic, but quickly caught the hidden meaning behind his friend's words. "Oh well, I assume it would not hurt to go outside and make sure that we were not followed."

"Very well." Aragorn drew his knife and bent over to cut the wet tunic from Éomer's prone body. "In the meantime, we will see what we can do for him."

Chapter 19: A Healer's Hands

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Completely absorbed in their work, neither Freya nor Aragorn heard the elf and the dwarf leave, and for a while, the crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room while they freed their patient of his drenched clothes. Trying to ignore the fact that she had never before been this close to Éomer as she cut the dirty garments from his limb body, Freya concentrated on her hands. It helped to clear her head that he felt so cold to her touch even if the sensation frightened her. And yet she could still all too well imagine how, under different circumstances, it would feel to lie close to him, pressed against his powerful, hard body underneath a warm blanket while they caressed each other.

'He could have been yours!' a most unwelcome voice in the back of her head whispered, no matter how hard she fought to silence it. 'He wanted you, but you sent him away. And now look what the both of you have: he is dying because you made him choose the way of the warrior, and you are stuck with Osred. It could have been different.'

Her eyes burning both with shame over her thoughts as well as compassion, Freya lowered her head and focused on freeing Éomer's arm from the sleeve, hoping that Aragorn had not noticed her distraction. The sight of the hideous pattern of blue and black that marred Éomer's pale skin finally ended her unsuitable thoughts, and with a dismayed gasp, she reached out to touch one particularly dark and large bruise on his right side, her throat narrowing dangerously.

"Oh Gods," she breathed "What did they do to him?"

How could a man of such powerful build still be so frail? As Third Marshal of Rohan, Éomer was one of their strongest warriors, both physically superior and extraordinarily skilled in the use of his weapons... and still it had not been enough to protect him from the onslaught of his enemies. If warriors like he could not stop the orcs, who could? Was it not all hopeless? Whispering in a despair-choked voice, Freya gently stroked Éomer's cold cheek: "You must survive, Éomer, please. Fight! I know you are strong enough!"

Aragorn's expression darkened at the sight of the Rohir's injuries and the young woman's despair, and as he cut open the sleeve of Éomer's shirt, he noticed with alarm the deformed shape of the warrior's hand. Frowning, he picked it up and turned it around for a closer examination, at once understanding that he had found the worst of the Marshal's wounds. This could not wait for much longer. As soon as Éomer's condition had sufficiently stabilised, they would have to concern themselves with it. Deciding not to mention it to Freya yet, the ranger worked even faster to pull away the wet shreds of clothing from underneath the heavy body and came upon the leg wound. Briefly he examined it and found it likewise in a state of slight infection, if not as severely as the hand. It was not bleeding exceedingly, therefore Aragorn decided that it, too, had to wait. Looking up, he saw Freya already picking up the thick woollen blanket by her side and nodded, taking the lower ends.

Quickly they wrapped Éomer in three layers of wool before they dared to pause. Kneeling on both sides of the unconscious man, the ranger and the farmer's wife regarded each other with worried expressions, and only now became Freya aware of the fact that she and her sisters were alone in the house with a man they knew nothing about. For a moment, that thought troubled her... but then she looked once again into the stranger's kind eyes and found her worries wane. This was no evil man. She could not say yet who he was, but somehow she could not shake the feeling that his travel-worn garments and overall rather dishevelled appearance disguised his true character; she could not deny that there were a depths and a dignity to the dark-haired man that hinted at a probably noble heritage. The way Aragorn talked, the way he behaved, all of it pointed strongly toward the conclusion that he was a lord of men, not a savage. And while his strong jaw-line and overall security in his movements indicated that the man in front of her was used to making decisions and seeing his will done, his eyes also bespoke an enormous capacity for compassion and mercy. To Freya, he seemed like a born leader, and she had no doubts that this was a man others would follow gladly into battle.

Confused how she came to feeling so strongly about a person she had only just met, Freya finally shifted her attention back to the prone figure before her, her fingers resting on Éomer's cold brow as she looked down. She did not notice that she was observed, did not see the expression of approval on Aragorn's face as he regarded her, impressed with her composure.

It was easy to see that the extent of the woman's concern exceeded what she would have felt an ordinary rider, Aragorn found. That she had deeper feelings for the wounded warrior, and still she had worked fast and efficiently, not allowing to let herself to be overwhelmed by her emotions.

"We will treat his wounds later,"he said lowly, inclining his head to regard Éomer's still features. "For now, the cold is my greatest concern. He must have lain outside for a long time. How far is the water?"

"Willa?" Freya lifted her voice, fighting to remain calm and controlled before the stranger. "Willa, is the water ready?"

"It must not be too hot," Aragorn reminded her. "If it is too hot, we will do more damage than good."

"Skin temperature, I know," Freya said, and noticed how his brows went up as if he had not expected such knowledge from her. She lifted her chin. "I have treated men exposed to cold temperatures before. We are well equipped for such cases."

"It is almost ready," a young voice called out to them from the kitchen. "How many do you need?"

"As many as you have." She noticed Aragorn's inquisitive look. "Sheep stomachs. We use them as vessels for the water. They adjust very well to the shape of the body and give off the warmth without loss. We have made very good experiences with them."

"Very good." He nodded approvingly, astonished by the woman's resourcefulness.

"And we could fix him some yarrow tea to warm him up from the inside as well, even if he cannot drink it for as long as he is unconscious…" Wyndra threw in from behind, already rising to her feet in her eagerness to provide more help for the man she had known and loved like an older brother since childhood.

"Yes, that would indeed be helpful, not just for the additional warmth, but in his battle against the infection as well. Please, do so." Aragorn shifted his gaze back to Éomer's face, studying his pale features until a different thought surfaced and he turned to Freya. "You do not have Athelas in the house by any chance, have you?"

"Athelas?"

"It is a weed, also known under the name of "Kingsfoil"."

"Now, that I have heard of," Freya said. "But I have none. The mountain soil does not seem very becoming to many plants, Kingsfoil among them. But we could fix him spelt water in addition to the yarrow tea. I have seen it doing wonders on other men."

Yes, it certainly seemed to her that a wonder was needed to help Éomer survive. Underneath the blood and dirt that caked his skin, he looked like his own ghost.

Following her gaze, Aragorn inhaled deeply. It would have to do.

"We will have to wake him to make him drink it though; one way or another."

A taxing glance found Freya, and she tensed, not sure what the expression in his eyes meant. Afraid of what she assumed it meant, she bent over in an attempt to wake Éomer in a gentle way.

"Éomer, if you hear me, give me a sign. Can you open your eyes?" She waited, hoping for his lids to flutter and listening for the lowest groan that would indicate that her words had been heard, but there was nothing to see, nor anything to hear. Except for the irregular and laboured rising and falling of his chest, Éomer seemed lifeless. Anxiously, she stroked his brow, and again the coldness of his skin caused her stomach to twist. "Éomer, it is I, Freya! Follow my voice! Please, you must wake!"

Silently observing her efforts, Aragorn turned around at the sound of approaching steps from the corridor, and the next moment, the other of the two young women entered the room with two arms full of half-filled, flexible things of which she handed him one to feel for himself.

"I hope that the temperature is right. Will these suffice, or should we make more?"

She received an approving nod and a faint, thankful smile, and warmth spread in the pit of her stomach, causing her face to glow.

"It feels right. Thank you—"

"Willa."

"Thank you, Willa. You might save his life with these. And yes, we will have use for more once they have cooled. We will have to keep Éomer warm throughout the night."

"Then I will go back to the kitchen and boil more water."

Standing behind Aragorn and hugging herself with thin arms, Willa watched as the ranger placed the sheep stomachs beneath the blankets between Éomer's arms and body and evenly all over him while Freya talked to the unconscious man with increasing urgency.

"He is so pale," she whispered, the warm feeling Aragorn's praise had woken in her extinguished by a sudden chill. "Can he survive? How grave are his wounds?"

"They would not appear life-threatening to me except for the infection in his hand," Aragorn said. "But the most immediate fight he has to brave is that against the cold. Is your sister preparing the tea?"

"Aye. We had some hot water left, so it will be ready soon."

"Tell her to sweeten it with plenty of honey. He will need the additional energy… if we can get it into him."

"We always drink it with plenty of honey, for we do not get it down otherwise," Freya said without looking up from Éomer's pale face. Why did he not respond? Was he already dying? Her stomach clenched at the thought, and her pleading now became urging, as if she could will him back to life. From the corner of her eye, she saw Aragorn turn toward the corridor again.

"Here is the tea." Wyndra handed the ranger an earthen mug of steaming contents. "I made it strong, and there are three spoons of honey in it, but it may have to cool for a few moments before he can drink it."

"Thank you…" Probing, Aragorn took a sip and found the temperature almost ideal.

"Wyndra." She smiled unhappily and stepped back to where her sister stood. Eyeing the twins with an encouraging expression, Aragorn nodded.

"Wyndra. Willa –" He looked at the first girl. Except for their hair, the sisters looked almost identical. It was only Willa's mass of ashen curls that made it possible to tell the two young women apart. "—and Wyndra. Very well. You may save him with this." He turned to Freya and saw her flinch in reaction to his sudden look of determination. "Is he responding?"

"No…" She swallowed. "What will you do?"

"He must drink this. I need you to trust me now, Freya."

The urgency of his grey eyes almost burned her, and a hard band suddenly tightened around her chest, almost cutting off her breath. Did she trust this man? Yes, she did. She could not believe anything else than that the expression of concern for Éomer on his diamond-cut face was genuine. After all, he had brought him here, so why should he do him evil now? She nodded.

"I do." And it was the truth. "But please, don't hurt him more."

"It will not be pretty, but it needs to be done. He may look frail to you, but he is not as frail as you think. He won't die from what I will do now, and if I don't do it, his time is running out. I want you to understand this before I begin."

Again she nodded, her insides twisting into a painful knot.

"I understand." Upon his silent signal, she moved back, reluctantly taking away her hand from Éomer's cold cheek. While she exchanged a worried glance with her sisters, Aragorn bent over the Rohír.

"Éomer, wake up!" The abrupt transformation of his low, compassionate tone into a hard commandeering voice caught the women unawares, and they looked at him with widening eyes, stunned by the complete change of his demeanour. While they still looked on, Aragorn's hand suddenly landed with a sharp slapping sound in the unconscious man's face. "Come, I know you hear me! You do not want to surface from this comfortable place you found inside of you, but it is treacherous and you cannot remain there." Éomer's head lolled under another slap, and the women winced. "Wake up, Son of Éomund! Your time has not yet come!"

"Lord Aragorn, perhaps—"

"You must wake up!" Before their eyes, the stranger grasped the wounded warrior by the shoulders and shook him. Her hand on her mouth, Freya stared wide-eyed at Aragorn as he bodily assaulted Éomer, and the sight of it sickened her. He had promised not to hurt him further, so how could he do this? Yet before she could voice her protest, she suddenly beheld the briefest flutter of Éomer's eyelids, and her heart jumped into her throat.

Aragorn, too, had seen it. If possible, his tone became even more intense.

"That is good, but it is not enough. Fight, Marshal! Your people need you, you cannot give up yet! You must wake if you want to live!"

With urgency in his eyes, the rangers gaze briefly grazed the women as he turned around to pick up the mug.

"Freya, I need you to hold up his head now."

She rushed to his aid and gently placed Éomer's head on her lap, reassuringly stroking his cheeks.

"I am here, Éomer. We have something to drink for you; it will warm you up and help you heal. It may taste a little bitter, but you must swallow it. Can you do this for me?"

She noticed how his eyes rolled underneath their closed lids and felt a light twitching of muscles underneath her fingers. He was not yet fully conscious, but perhaps it would suffice to get the tea into him.

Careful not to spill any of the tea, Aragorn pressed the mug against Éomer's lips… and at last they parted. He lifted the mug, and the first drops of golden liquid disappeared in the young man's mouth… and were swallowed.

"Oh, Béma be praised…!" Unexpectedly Freya found herself beaming at the stranger before her, feeling the strong urge to embrace him. "Thank you, my lord! Thank you so much! The Gods must have sent you to us!"

"The battle is not won yet," Aragorn reminded her, but finding himself also smiling with relief. "But it is an improvement. Quickly, let us get the rest into him as well, and then we will have to concern ourselves with his wounds."

OOO

"Come, my friend. I will do you no harm, you should know so by now."

Slowly, the hand reached over the stall door. With pricked ears, Firefoot watched its approach, and his widened nostrils tasted the scent that wafted toward him from the strange being that was talking to him in a foreign tongue now. Only once before had he encountered this scent, and he did not trust it. As the hand moved even closer, the stallion's ears suddenly flattened against his head and he retreated into the very back of his stall, huffing in exasperation.

Confused, Legolas shook his head and retracted his hand. Never before had he encountered a horse that had retreated from him. "He will not let me touch him. I do not understand."

"I told you that he looked like a grumpy fellow," the dwarf reminded his friend helpfully, annoyed to still be standing in the stables when they could already sit inside the warm house, preferably with something to eat and drink on the table which the young wife of their host had promised them before they had entered the stables. "If he rejects your help, you should leave him alone. Why bother? He is not even your horse. Perhaps he will change his mind once he is in enough pain."

Frowning, the elf stared at the beast which was still hiding from him in the furthest corner of its stall, making no secret of its disdain for its visitors.

"He should know that I would never hurt him. I have never met such a stubborn horse before."

"Oh, he is a true horse of the Mark, my lord," Halad threw in from behind, fighting against showing his amusement too openly. After preparing the medicine for Firefoot, he had handed the bowl and cloth to the elf and then sat aside on a sack of oats to watch, knowing in advance how the stranger's efforts would end.

"All of our horses have a mind of their own; they cannot be compared to ordinary horses." He turned toward the grey. "And Firefoot is truly a unique steed. He is solely Éomer's horse, and won't let anyone else handle him... except for me, perhaps. We know each other quite well, and have done so for a long time. Have we not, brother?"

The stallion's ears flickered toward him. Smiling, Halad rose from his seat and walked up to the two strange beings. It was the first time that he saw an elf and a dwarf with his own eyes, and yet it was Firefoot who occupied his attention.

"Please, will you let me try? I think that he will trust me."

He accepted the bowl from the elf's hands and opened the stall-door, sceptically observed by the strangers and the stallion alike.

"This is madness," the dwarf uttered, sadly shaking his head. "That beast will crush him."

"He will not. He knows me."

Confidently, Halad met the scrutinising gaze of the large dark eyes. The sight of the blood on the grey's hide saddened him, and yet at the same moment, he felt pride over the stallion's courage to defend his master even against a pack of wolves when most horses would have bolted. Aye, the horses of Riddermark were special, indeed.

"Will you not let me help you, my friend?" he said, switching to Rohirric, and noticed how Firefoot's ears turned toward him at the familiar sound. "Your master would want you to be treated, but he cannot do it himself. Will you allow me to touch you instead?"

At last, the mighty stallion shook his head with a deep intake of breath, and all tension left his body as he approached the young man inside his stall with three steps and pressed his nose against Halad's chest. Smiling in joy over this great proof of the horse's trust, the young man reached up to rub Firefoot's brow, his fingers cautiously circling the gash on the stallion's cheek while he examined the wound. It did not look deep, but would need to be cleansed. Slowly working his way down to the horse's nostrils and noticing how the grey closed his eyes in enjoyment of his caress, Halad lifted the bowl and looked back over his shoulder.

"See, he trusts me. I will tend him, and then let him rest."

"Will you come with me then, my lords?"

Fléadwyn's voice suddenly rang out from behind, and the men turned around. Wrapped into a heavy shawl, the young woman nevertheless looked half-frozen with her hunched-up shoulders and the tip of her nose as well as her cheeks rosy from the frost. She also looked very young to Legolas and Gimli, but the expression of open friendliness upon her frail features prompted them to smile in return.

"The meal is ready, and I assume that you must be hungry after those days in the wilderness."

"The meal is ready?" the dwarf exclaimed joyfully, and his heavy hand landed with a slapping sound on his friend's back. "You certainly know how to revive a dwarf's spirits, lass! Come, Legolas, let us go! That horse will live on without your help, but without some food in his stomach, this dwarf will not!"

"I still don't understand it," the elf uttered, offering little resistance as the dwarf pulled him along, already having forgotten about the horse as he followed their host outside. "He should have trusted me…"

Chapter 20: The Nature of the Beast

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Aragorn knew not for how long they had treated the injured marshal on the ground before the fireplace, but it had felt like an eternity: steadily they had exchanged the cooling sheep stomachs for new, hot ones to gradually warm up Éomer from outside, while – at the same time - they had also succeeded through endless patience in administering him two mugs of tea. By and by, the Rohir's erratic breathing had steadied and along with the warming of his skin, some colour had crept back into his face, strengthening Aragorn's hope that the warrior would survive. But it would not be a success to claim solely for himself.

As he leant back into the chair that would be his resting place for the remainder of the night, a tired smile wandered over the ranger's face in fond memory of the three women's help: Freya and her younger sisters – as he had quickly learned – had done more than their share, always quick to provide what he asked them for, no matter how odd his request had seemed to them. His gaze unfocused on the flickering light of the candle that illuminated the room, Aragorn's smile deepened as he recalled their aghast expressions upon his request for mouldy bread. Yet to their credit, instead of questioning him, they had actually succeeded in producing the needed substance and even in sufficient quantity for his purposes. Then they had waited and observed him with almost professional interest as he opened the wounds on Éomer's hand with two quick incisions to drain the poisoned blood. With equal concentration they had watched him cleaning the cuts with the brandy after the red flow had slowed… and with fascinated expressions, they had followed his efforts of working the mould into the wounds before a bandage was tightly wrapped around Éomer's hand. At that point finally their questions became unavoidable.

"And this will help him?" Freya had asked him sceptically, but even though her expression had been doubtful, Aragorn had already detected a sparkle of intrigue in her tense features, as if no matter with which methods of healing he would surprise them, she would still lay her trust in his better knowledge. "It will not make the infection worse?"

"As astonishing as it may seem, the mould found on dark bread is a very potent remedy against infection," he had explained with a brief glance at his host while he quickly treated the arrow-wound in the same fashion and moved on to inspect the dark bruise on the Rohir's side. "I learned about it some years ago from the elves."

"The elves!" Willa had exclaimed excitedly, and her sisters' faces had mirrored her wonder. "I have never seen elves… before today. I always thought they only existed in fairy-tales, like dragons, and fairies, and dwarves. Dwarves… your friends – excuse me – are they… you know… "

At this, Aragorn had laughed good-naturedly, and because his fingers had found no broken bones during their examination of his patient's discoloured ribs, the tension had at last seeped from his body. It was then when they had all suddenly heard an audible moan from the man on the ground, and the sound had brightened their faces. Not only was he back from the brink of death, now it even appeared as if Éomer was on his way to consciousness. With a deep, satisfied sigh, Aragorn sat back on his heels and winked at the young woman who had inquired about his companions. As a people who had always preferred seclusion, the simple Rohirric peasants of course were not usually acquainted with the existence of other beings than men, except for orcs. Most of them never left the spot of land they were born on. It was only their armed forces and nobles who understood that the world beyond their borders did not solely belong to their kind, and that there were forces out there – both good and evil – which far exceeded their knowledge and might.

At this thought, the ranger's expression sobered. How sad to only know the vile side of creation when there were also such powers of light inhabiting this realm. He cleared his throat and again leant back, his thoughts returning to the topic of their conversation.

"As you have seen with your very own eyes now, Willa, many of these so-called 'fairy-tales' are deeply rooted in history, and not all that we take for make-believe is such. There were dragons once, and as you have seen, dwarves and elves are just as real as you and I. They may look strange to your eyes, and their language may sound foreign to your ears, and yet they are similar enough to man in their thoughts and deeds to understand and befriend each other. They know about the value of freedom, and about the importance of friendship and compassion. They know about honour and pride, and they are fierce fighters for those causes. And in this battle against Evil, they are on our side."

Awe-struck by his elaboration, the young woman had only silently nodded, her blue eyes wide with wonder as he shifted his attention back to her older sister. "I find no broken bones, so it appears to be merely a bruise. A hideous one, I agree, but a bruise nonetheless. If he rests for a few days – and by that I mean that he should stay in bed - he should recover quickly. Perhaps you could apply a salve to help the distribution of the clotted blood underneath his skin, but apart from that, I believe that this injury will need no further treatment." At his statement, the faces in front of him had visibly brightened despite the women's obvious exhaustion. It had been a long, intense evening and time to get some much-needed rest, at least for his hosts. "I believe then that we are ready to carry him over. Would you have a spare bed for him?"

Upon calling Osred, Gimli and Legolas over from the other house, the men had cautiously carried Éomer into the children's vacated room and laid him on their bed, still wrapped in the three layers of woollen blankets, and Aragorn had begun his silent vigil by the sleeping man's side. While he believed that the Marshal had braved the worst of the storm, he was nonetheless determined to stay with him for at least this night. He had barely settled back into the chair when Freya entered the room, a tray in her hands on which a bowl of strong-smelling stew and two thick pieces of dark bread in addition to two mugs had been placed.

"I know you said that it wasn't necessary, Lord Aragorn, but I fixed you something to eat. Your friends told me that they already had the evening meal at my brother's house while we were treating Éomer, but now it is late, and still you had nothing to eat. You must be very hungry, and I do not want to be a bad host."

She held out the tray to him invitingly and with a warm, slightly shy smile now that they were alone in the room, and he accepted it with a thankful nod, his empty stomach rumbling in anticipation as the delicious smell of the stew reached his nose.

"This is very kind of you, Freya. I am indeed very hungry." He tried a first spoon full, and his smile broadened at the spicy taste. "It is very good." He looked down and found to his surprise that the stew contained a great amount meat, something in no way to be taken for granted in a land where many people were starving because of the damage of war. "I know that in these hard times, it is not easy to feed additional mouths when there is a family to be taken care of, so my gratitude is even greater. I can only hope you are not giving us something you cannot afford to spare in this hard winter."

"You saved Éomer. That alone is worth more to me than everything I own." Freya's expression became sombre as she tilted her head to regard the sleeping warrior.

"But it is not your task to pay for it. We were merely paying off a debt, but even that was not our reason for helping him. It is a duty to help others in need, no matter who they are, " Aragorn said firmly, following her gaze. "We met him and his men on the plains some days ago, and he helped us greatly in our errand by lending us horses even against the orders of his king, although we were but strangers to him." He sighed and shook his head, once again silently contemplating what had brought the young Rohir into this dire situation. Inwardly cursing that they had been unable to keep their promise and come to his aid in Edoras. Aware that Freya was still listening to him as she sat on the edge of the bed, Aragon met her gaze again, urgency in his grey eyes as he spoke the next words: "In these dark times, we must stand united against the enemy, or we will be defeated." He fell silent, and his powerful statement seemed to echo in the air.

Thinking about his words as she absent-mindedly caressed Éomer's unmoving shape through the blankets, Freya bit her lip.

"You said that he was attacked by orcs," she said at length, not sure why she was asking, for her guest's answer would surely upset her even more. "Forgive me my ignorance, Lord Aragon, but what can you tell me about our enemies? Out here in the wild, far from the lords, we do not hear much. Éomer sometimes told me about incidents and battles, and that he suspected that those dreadful creatures were sent by some evil wizard in the west." She laughed nervously. "Please... an evil wizard? I do sound like Willa with her dragons and fairies when I say such things, don't I?"

Aragorn regarded her silently, using the moment while he was still chewing on his mouthful of stew to carefully consider his reply. Should he say the truth and frighten her further by telling her that that evil wizard was only one of two enemies, and the weaker one at that? Should he tell her that the world that she knew lay in the hands of two Halflings, and that it would end if they failed to destroy the enemy's mightiest weapon; that each being that refused to serve the Dark Lord would die and that the sun would be extinguished in the sky, plunging all of Middle Earth into a second darkness? Or should he lie? He chose a middle path.

"I admit that it sounds strange... but such things like magic and spells do exist, and there are people... or beings... who are born with a natural talent for mastering them. That may be all there is to the title of a 'Wizard'; that he is a man gifted with a special talent – or cursed, it depends on how you see it and what use that man is making of it."

"But even if there is such a man, and spells, as you say... why does he seek to destroy us?" Freya shook her head, searching for answers in the deep grey eyes of the man before her. She did not know why she thought that he could answer that question, except that there seemed to be an endless depth to him, a wealth of knowledge gained only by far journeys and an open mind willing to understand all that those journeys brought. "What did we ever to do him to incur his wrath?"

"Not all evil deeds are born from wrath, or revenge," Aragorn spoke carefully. "In fact, I would say that it is greed that does the most harm. And that wizard, he lusts for power."

"Power over a land of grass and horses?" She did not understand. "What would that man win by destroying us? This land is rough; it takes a lot of very hard work to get anything out of it at all. I doubt that he would set fields or plough the ground himself, would he? Apart from our horses, there are no treasures to be found in the Mark."

"It seems to be the very nature of evil that if often comes without apparent cause. We cannot always understand why evil deeds are committed; we can only try to fight back," Aragorn admitted. Even he did not have all the answers. "The mind of man often defies all explanation. Even the men themselves cannot say why they must act in a certain way; except for an inner urge."

"But this has been going on for so long! So many have lost their lives, men, women and children alike, and it appears to get even worse all the time." In an attempt to wipe the weariness away, Freya ran a hand over her face, but of course the gesture did not help. "Please, Lord Aragorn… I do not know who you are, or what your errand is in our land, but my feelings tell me that you are a good man, and you seem to know a lot about the nature of men and of war. So please, tell me if you think that this evil will end one day? Will we brave this storm? Or will the Mark become a vast, empty land once all of us have been slaughtered? When I see him—" she nodded at Éomer, "—I fear for the worst. He is a capable man, said to be one of our best warriors. He must be, or he wouldn't be a marshal at his young age. But even he was overcome." She had no defence left against the sudden surge of desperation that rose in her, choking her. Suddenly, she found herself in the stranger's embrace. "Oh, Béma, no…"

"Do not despair, Freya," Aragorn soothed her, the warmth of his breath comforting on her skin. She tried in vain to hold back the tears that surged up from the bottom of her soul. "´Éomer will live, and so shall the people of the Mark. My friends and I are here to help Rohan in its need, and for as long as there is a single drop of blood left in our veins, we will not yield." For a wile, he just held her while suppressed sobs shook her thin frame. "It is good, Freya. It will come to a good end."

Sniffling, she separated from him at last, an embarrassed smile of apology on her lips as she wiped a hand over her eyes.

"I am sorry, Lord Aragorn. I did not mean to break into tears in front of you, I usually don't. It is only…" she shrugged, her fingers performing a little, helpless gesture. "The shock to see him like this… and all this misery we keep hearing of…"

"It is hard to bear, and even harder not to despair, aye, I understand that very well, my lady." With his rough hand, Aragorn cupped her cheek, and his gaze intensified as he looked at her, almost burning her with his urgency. "Some days, it would appear as if there is no hope, but in these times, we must avert our eyes from the evil around us and concentrate on the good things which still exist, and we must draw our hope from them."

He could see the question forming in her features, and provided the answer before she could even voice it:

"Éomer is still alive, and he will recover. The people of the Mark are still alive, and still fighting, and nothing is lost yet. Life was never easy for the sons and daughters of Éorl, and yet after five hundred years of struggle, you still endure, and your enemies fear your hardiness, your courage and your determination. No one has ever defeated the Rohirrim for as long as they stood united... and now my friends and I have come to aid you in that fight; you stand not alone." He pointed his chin at Éomer. "On the plains, I promised him that we would draw our swords together one day, and I intend to keep my promise. Believe me, my lady, it is far too early to give up hope."

Through her tears, he saw her smiling, and was glad to have lifted the young woman's spirits. She was a true woman of Rohan, simple but honest, proud and hardy, and yet warm-hearted and compassionate at the same time to those deserving of it. A people like that deserved to endure, and if it was in his power, he would do his part in ensuring their survival. His hand sank from her face, and she took it and pressed it affectionately, thankful for his comfort.

"You cannot know what your words and your deeds tonight mean to me, Lord Aragorn. I can only repeat what I already said: the Gods sent you to us in this dark hour. Perhaps, they still look kindly upon us after all, even if they have a strange way of showing it."

"That I am convinced of," he assured her, giving back the pressure. "Even if I do not know whether it was them who led us here. But now that we are here, we intent on making the most of it." His smile deepened, and carefully, he smoothed away a strand of ashen hair which had fallen into her face. "It is already very late, you should go and get some rest now. I promise you that I will stay with him."

"But you must be tired yourself."

"I am used to long watches. And while I do believe that the worst lies behind him, I will find not rest myself until I am sure that he is on the way to recovery." Seeing that she was still not satisfied with his answer, he offered: "But if you insist, I will wake you around dawn for the continuation of the watch. Will you accept that?"

"Gladly," she nodded, and rose to her feet, no longer able to disguise how very weary she felt. Her hand reluctantly left its place upon the shape of Éomer's arm below the blanket. "And since you say that you are a man of your word, I expect you to keep your promise..."

"I will."

"...and that you will wake me if you need my help."

"I will do that, my lady. I can see how dear he is to you."

She believed him. However reluctant she was of leaving Éomer, she needed to sleep. He was in good hands, and the thought of a man she had known only for a few hours yet being the only one awake in their house did not trouble her at all; in her mind, Aragorn had already ceased to be a stranger. With a last glance back, Freya silently closed the door behind her, the despair which had haunted her for weeks suddenly replaced by a feeling so unusual that she first failed to name it, for it had been a long time since she had last felt this way. But yes, there was no denying anymore that with these three strangers, hope had returned into her home...

OOO

EDORAS

The night was cold and too bright for Elfhelm's liking. The light of the waning moon in addition to the blanket of snow on the ground allowed them to see far, and no doubt had their approach been visible from the watchtower of Edoras if the guards had paid attention. The city lights had died down a while ago, and while they had waited in the cover of the group of rocks upon the Snowbourn's edge, shivering from the cold even though they sat huddled into their thick blankets, hardly a word was spoken between the men.

"There is the signal! Look!" Arnhelm suddenly hissed, and pointed a finger in the direction of a small moving light in front of the gates, and his words prompted his comrades into motion. Still they did not talk, and as they swung into their saddles with limbs stiff from the hours of sitting unmoving in the cold temperatures, Elfhelm saw his own tension mirrored in their drawn faces. How easy it would be for the Worm to lead them all into a trap if his spies had found out about Céorl's plan! The feeling of foreboding was strong in him, and growing stronger with each step that took them closer to the mighty wooden fence that surrounded the city. Suddenly, Éon stopped and snorted.

"Marshal?"

His scout regarded him from beneath a furrowed brow, and it was only then that Elfhelm realised that – in his reluctance to enter the city – he had involuntarily pulled at the reins. Angry with himself, the experienced warrior gave his waiting men the signal to proceed, although his instincts were crying out at him to turn back. Stubbornly, he told himself that his anxiety stemmed from the exposure on this last part of their approach which offered no cover; something an experienced warrior always sought to avoid even if he wasn't riding into battle. Their horses, sensing their riders' tension, remained silent as well, although the familiar scents of the stables and of others of their kin would have prompted them to welcoming neighs under normal circumstances.

These were no normal circumstances. They were here to plan a revolution, an unprecedented event in the history of the Mark. His lips a thin, bloodless line, Elfhelm's eyes narrowed as he tried to identify the man with the now extinguished torch, who was awaiting them in front of the opened gates. It was not Céorl, and it was not Éothain, so much he could see already, and his discovery brought about another fit of agitation rumbling through Elfhelm's broad frame. Who else was left the Captain of Edoras trusted enough to appoint this precarious task?

Laying his right hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword to be ready, just in case, he approached the waiting figure… and finally recognised it as one of Éomer's captains.

"Westu hal, Anlaf!" he greeted the warrior in a subdued voice. "Is Céorl inside?"

"Westu hal, Marshal Elfhelm. Aye, he sent me to bring you to the meeting place." He tilted his neck to look up, and again Elfhelm felt a strange shudder at the sight of his guarded face. "Will you allow me to share the saddle with you, Marshal? I did not bring my own horse, for it would only have raised unneeded questions of why I needed it during my watch."

"I understand," Elfhelm said, and extended his hand to help the mand mount behind him. Of course Anlaf was tense, he berated himself, after all, he was risking his life by allowing them into the city as much as they were. "We do not meet him at his home?"

Anlaf shook his head.

"The Captain fears that his home is under surveillance by the enemy, therefore he chose another place. Let us proceed inside quickly. The tower guards are in on our plan and the city appears to be sleeping, but one can never know whether there are not malicious eyes watching from behind one of these dark windows."

Heeding the man's words, Elfhelm urged his steed through the narrow opening in the gate, and with a click of his tongue, reminded the stallion to move cautiously. His gaze fell upon the houses that surrounded the square they entered now, and a chill travelled down his spine at the thought of Anlaf's words. Were they being watched? Was there a group of the Worm's men waiting in the shadows for them to approach, their arrows already fitted to the string of their bows and ready to loose them as soon as their aim was true? Their horses hoof-beats seemed treacherously loud to his ears, certain to alarm the entire lower city. Perhaps it would have been better to leave them outside… but then again, five fully saddled, riderless war-horses in front the gates would likewise rise suspicion, and Elfhelm had no way of knowing how long their secret meeting would take. No, better to take them along and hide them away somewhere in a barn. The snow and mud muffled the sound, and it probably seemed only loud to his strained ears and would wake no one sleeping inside these houses.

In silence, the short line of riders proceeded through the sleeping city until they came to the last building in a hidden back-street, a weather-worn wooden structure that seemed to have been used as a shed for the craftsmen close by until a fire had recently destroyed part of it. Even in the moonlight, the charred black scars in the wood were still visible, and a faint burnt stench still wafted toward them through the crisp cold air. Upon Anlaf's silent signal, Elfhelm brought Éon to a halt, and after a long, thorough look at his surroundings, he finally dismounted, followed by his men. As the columns of their frozen breaths rose into the chill night, the warriors strained their senses until at last, all faces turned towards Elfhelm and the captain, awaiting their orders.

With a deep breath, Anlaf walked up to the large door and knocked his knuckles against the wood in a careful rhythm. Rigid, all hands on their swords and muscles strained to react to whatever situation they would find once the door opened, the men waited. Finally, the muffled sound of steps could be heard from inside, then a secretive whisper.

"Who is it?"

"It is I, Anlaf. I bring Elfhelm and his men."

They held their breath. At last, the sound of a bolt sliding aside reached their ears, and the door opened... to darkness. The face of the man who whispered to them from inside to enter quickly was hidden in shadows, and yet Anlaf seemed to recognise him as he disappeared into the blackness. Hesitant, the warriors looked at each other, until at last, Elfhelm took his heart in both hand and followed the captain inside, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his blade.

"Céorl?" It was too dark. He understood the import of secrecy, but not even a candle had been lit to help him see where he was going, and suddenly, the darkness was complete when the door closed behind them. "Céorl?"

It was a reflex that made him draw his sword, the barest notion of a presence near him, but it was already too late: his vision exploded in a fireball as a heavy object connected with his head, and the blade slipped from his hands. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Chapter 21: The Serpent's Lair

EDORAS

"Marshal? Marshal Elfhelm? Please, you must believe me, I did not mean to betray you, but they said they would kill my family if I did not deliver you. I have two little daughters! Please, I did not-"

A dull sound interrupted the anxious flow of words and replaced them with a pained grunt.

"Enough of that disgraceful whimpering," a rumbling voice spat disdainfully. "You betrayed your commander, get used to the thought! I don't think he wants to hear your blabbering now. You did it, now live with it."

Another rush of air, then breathless gasping. This was what Elfhelm woke up to from his brief blackout. He opened his eyes to the flickering light of fire... and to a headache that felt as if an orc had buried an axe in the middle of his skull. Instantly, a debilitating wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he spilled the sparse remainders of his evening meal onto the ground in a violent retching fit.

"Now will you look at him, your proud Marshal of Aldburg!" the same dark voice sneered with unmistakable glee. "Look carefully, all of you who think you are something better! Scrambling on the ground like a pig he is, ready for the slaughter. If I wanted, I could kill him right now without breaking a sweat!"

A foot prodded Elfhelm in the side and turned him around less than gently, and the Eastfold warrior could not suppress an anguished groan.

"What? Are you in pain?" the voice snorted. "Believe me, this is only the beginning. Once my master begins his work on you, you will wish that you were never born!"

Heat assaulted Elfhelm's face as the torch was lowered, threatening to burn him. The brightness of the flames assaulted his eyes like knife stabs, digging into the soft matter inside his head. Instinctively, he tried to evade them… and found his hands bound behind his back. Dirty laughter rose from several men before him he could not see in the semi-darkness.

"You think this will help you, traitor? You think you will get away from us? I believe not."

The torch came closer still, almost scorching his face now. Unable to breathe or get away from the fire, Elfhelm did the only thing he could think of: he kicked out. His feet found a solid aim, and with a surprised grunt, his torturer went down, dropping the torch... onto him! Quickly he rolled and extinguished the flames before they could settle in his garments. A wild curse was uttered in the guttural Dunlending tongue, another dirty laugh from the men further behind – and then a brutal kick landed in his stomach and left him gasping for air.

"Bloody mule-headed Strawhead! You do not understand when you have lost, do you?"

"Enough, Felrod! I need him alive! Step back!"

Now, this was a voice Elfhelm recognised, and even over the pounding in his head and the churning of his blood in his ears, he knew who had come to this shed, but what for? To torture and question him where no one would see? And what of his men? Where they still alive? Had one of them perhaps even managed to escape? He tilted his neck, yet found that he could still not see what lay in the darkness of the building.

"Wormtongue..." He hissed through clenched teeth, spitting out his adversary's accursed name as if the word itself were poison. "Tell me, is it Théoden-King's wish now that you assault the men who protect his people, or what is this? What crime is it you find me guilty of? Is it unlawful now to enter Edoras?"

"Ah, dear Marshal, do you really feel you have to ask me that?"

With a rustle of garments and leather, the dark-haired man squatted beside him, his pale features hauntingly to behold in the flickering half-light. The self-congratulatory expression the Counsellor's wore was unmistakable, and if Elfhelm's hands had not been bound behind his back, he would have snapped the man's neck right then. As it was, it took all of his supreme willpower to even lift his head. The smile dropped from Grima's lips, only to be replaced by a hard, merciless glint in the almost colourless eyes.

"I know perfectly well why you are here, Marshal! You planned to unseat me. Together with Captain Céorl, you intended to attack me, in what way I do not know, but do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me that you sneaked into the city in the middle of the night like a thief without treacherous intent! Do you really believe that I could not guess the reason for Céorl's little sidetrip to Aldburg four days ago? Do you believe that I did not know the purpose of that journey? If I had so little wit, I would not hold the key to power over the Mark in my hands now. But of course, your arrogance was very helpful, too. As long as the so-called warriors of this land keep underestimating me, you make my task very easy, and I thank you for it."

The triumphant smile with which Gríma rose was almost enough to lend Elfhelm the strength to kick out again, but as it was, it was he who found himself the aim of another well-placed boot, and he fell back gasping... and froze as his adversary's foot was placed upon his throat. From above, the Counsellor's voice dribbled into his reeling conscious like poisoned honey.

"I could crush you right now and be done with you, once and for all, Marshal, and it would not cost me a single drop of sweat."

The pressure on Elfhelm's throat intensified, and he struggled for air.

"How does it feel to be at the mercy of someone you hate? How does it feel to know that you have failed all who set their trust in you? Tell me."

"You will soon find out, snake!"

All air he had been able to collect was spent with his hateful rebuke, but the effort was worth it, even if the pressure on his throat now became intolerable. Would Gríma indeed kill him? Somehow, Elfhelm could not believe it. The next moment, the weight was taken from his neck, and he was forcefully hauled to his feet. The pain in his head exploded at the movement, and if it had not been for the strong hands holding him, he would have dropped to the ground like a stone. With a muffled grunt, Elfhelm squeezed his eyes shut to suppress another powerful retching fit. His chin was lifted, and for a moment, he hoped he would spew whatever was still left in his stomach onto the accursed filth, but then the dry heaving stopped.

"You think you are so smart, don't you? Sneaking into the city like you did, thinking that I would not find out what you had planned. I give you one piece of advice, Marshal, even if it will not be of help to you anymore: I know everything! My eyes and ears are everywhere, and you cannot even breathe without me knowing about it. You made it so much easier for me to capture you by stealing into the city like this! I could not have arrested you for entering Edoras had you arrived in broad daylight, underneath the citizen's eyes. They are afraid of me, but I do know my limits, and arresting a warrior they trust and respect without apparent cause would probably have resulted in an uprising, which I then would have had to end with much bloodshed."

There was a brief pause, and then Gríma clapped his hands in morbid delight.

"Ah, but now I understand: you wanted to spare your kinsmen the bloodshed! How very noble of you, Elfhelm of Aldburg! It shall not be forgotten when they sing the mourning song at your grave."

"You like to hear yourself talk, Worm, don't you?" Elfhelm spat. "If you want to kill me, just do it, don't talk about it. But make no mistake; the people will learn of it one way or the other, and one not-so-far day, what you fear will become reality. Only you will be powerless to subdue them when it happens. They will tear you to pieces, that I promise you!"

"We will see who will tear whom to pieces," Gríma dismissed his threat. "It seems to me that you forgot who stands behind me. There is a great army of orcs assembling in the west as we speak, and it can only be a matter of days now before they march for this city and erase every hint that this land was ever occupied by man. Perhaps I will let you live until then; it should be quite satisfactory to make you witness the slaughter before I allow you to die. Anyway, for the moment, you are of greater value to me alive."

The nasty smirk became threatening.

"There is a certain Rohirric maiden who needs to be taught certain lessons... and since I have no solid proof yet for her brother's demise, I think that keeping you as an insurance that no one will engage in any foolish acts of misunderstood courage and honour might be a wise precaution to take."

"You will use me to blackmail Éowyn? You filthy-"

Another blow to his head ended Elfhelm's heated outburst, and he slumped in the henchmen's grasp. Barely conscious, he felt his mouth being pried open and a gag applied, and for a moment, panic spread its nightblack wings in his stomach. With the nausea still not subdued, what if he had to retch while he was gagged? Weakly he fought against his assailants, but it was to no avail. A moment later, a slightly brighter quadrangle opened in the darkness before him and he was dragged outside into the street, stumbling and unable to walk by himself. Without warning, his head was yanked up by the hair, and Gríma's face filled his vision like a sickly pale moon.

"Listen closely, Marshal: we will take you up to Meduseld now. For every attempt you undertake to free yourself or to cry out and alert the citizens, we will kill one of your men. Do you understand?"

His men were still alive? Barely conscious, Elfhelm tried to turn his head, but it was forcefully held in place.

"Blink once if you understand. Fail to co-operate, and the first of your men dies right here."

He blinked.

"Good." Gríma released his hold and took a step back, his eyes narrow slits. "Remember it well, for I will make it true."

In ghostly silence, the line of men left the sleeping Golden Hall…

OOO

MEDUSELD

She could not sleep. No matter how she tossed and turned on her bed, Éowyn just could not find the position that would make her drift off. Her sheets and blankets were already a crumbled mess, impossible to disentangle, and she gave up fighting with them and for a moment, just lay still on the bed and stared against the ceiling in the eerie pale light of the moon.

Something was very wrong; she felt it with every fibre of her body. The atmosphere had been strange in the hall all day long; the tension even worse than all these past weeks. It had reached breaking point; the point where something had to happen, to yield one way or the other, even if she could not tell why she felt this way.

At first, Éowyn had blamed her strained nerves for this notion; after all, she had spent four days in the narrow confines of her chambers, forced to watch helplessly while the Mark's enemy was free to act as he pleased. And of course the general mood had to be bleak in the wake of the recent events: Éomer's banishment, Élric's disappearance, the sudden dismissal of Maelwyn, who had been after all a long-time member of the Royal Household… but while those incidents certainly depressed the remaining personnel, they were not responsible for this strange feeling of foreboding the daughter of Éomund felt; a weight lay upon her shoulders as if the roof of Meduseld was about to collapse and bury her beneath the rubble.

Abruptly, Éowyn sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, no longer able to remain inactive while all her instincts told her of something afoot. She had barely seen Wormtongue today; only once around midday had he briefly entered her chambers to see her, his expression tense and guarded as if something had happened that was not to his liking. She barely dared to guess what it might have be that disturbed him. Was Éomer returning with his éoreds to avenge himself on the Counsellor and his band of crooks? She was still not entirely convinced that her brother was at the Worm's mercy, and she did not want to believe in that possibility.

Quickly dressing in the darkness, Éowyn then rushed over to the window, anxious to find out what it was that had her instincts in an uproar.

The glass had frozen over from outside, and she opened the window to gaze out. From her bedroom, she had a partial view of the slope with the ascending path, the lower regions of the city and the plains surrounding it all the way to the White Mountains, whose snow-capped silhouettes were a ghostly contrast to the blackness of the sky. The moon was still more than half full and shed its silver light onto the sleeping land, illuminating the scenery…

A sudden chill wandered down Éowyn's spine, and it had nothing to do with the air from outside. There was movement on the slope, several dark silhouettes on the ascent to the Golden Hall. She narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. Who was roaming the city in the middle of the night? For another long moment, she just stood and watched.

There were no horses. They seemed to be men, but some were moving strangely, hobbling, and in tight groups, as if they were being carried or pulled along. The sight of them, even if it was indistinct, was so wrong that at last, the decision came easily to her: feeling for the comforting weight of her hidden dagger, Éowyn rushed toward the door… and found it locked! The revelation stunned her for another couple of heartbeats. It also confirmed what she had already felt: something horrible was afoot. Somehow, she had to alert the few people of it who she knew were still on her side. Hands balled to fists, she hammered against the door.

"Gamling! Háma! Help! Raise the alarm!"

Again she pounded against the wood, hearing some muffled words of the guard in front of her door but not giving a care as she turned to fetch the poker from the fireplace. With powerful swings, she attacked the door with renewed vigour.

"Wake up, all of you! Raise the alarm!"

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

The night seemed to have no end. Although experienced in long, lonely vigils, Aragorn could no longer deny that he was experiencing increasing difficulties in warding off sleep. The long days on horseback, the worry and concern for their friends and the Rohirric Marshal and not least of all, the heavy evening meal had done their share to lull the ranger into a stupor. Likewise, neither the flickering light of the candle on the nightstand nor the pleasant warmth in the small room helped in keeping himself awake. Briefly he considered opening a window to let in fresh, cool air to clear his head, Aragorn nonetheless quickly dismissed the idea as he turned his attention back to the man he was watching over. It had taken Éomer long to warm up again, and his condition was still fragile. Better to keep fighting drowsiness than risk a relapse, Aragorn decided. And also, it was time to get some more liquid into his patient and see how the young man was faring. He rose to his feet.

"Éomer? Marshal?"

He received no response, but had expected none. Even if the Rohír had improved to sleeping rather than being unconscious, he was probably so far out of this world after all that he had been through that he would not wake for at least another day. Gently, Aragorn laid his hand onto the warrior's forehead and found it warm to his touch… too warm. But even this development did not trouble him; he had applied the mould to Éomer's wounds only a few hours ago; it would need some time yet to do its wonders. Judging from the state they had found the warrior in, it was most likely that the son of Éomund had been burning with fever even when he had set out from the caves, the fall from the back of his horse a result of his weakness overwhelming him. Yet while the cold had almost cost his life, it had probably broken the fever, too, and Aragorn did not believe that it would rise to a dangerous level again… not if he could help it. Turning toward the nightstand, he calmly poured some more of the steaming tea Willa had left him in a temperature-preserving vessel before she had gone to bed into a mug.

He looked up, having caught the notion of movement from the corner of his eye. Éomer's eyes, however, were still closed and the warrior was obviously dreaming as he shifted on the bed, his brow creasing with worry. Quickly, Aragorn set down the mug and once more laid his hand against the side of Éomer's face, this time to calm the wounded man.

"Ssshh… be at peace, Son of Éomund. You are safe and among friends."

This time, there was a reaction to his words, and his wrist was suddenly grasped as he found himself the focus of dark, feverish eyes. He did not stir, and very soon, his hand was released when the Rohir's strength deserted him. Acting on impulse, Aragorn grasped it himself and pressed it reassuringly as he beheld the growing confusion in the young man's stormy gaze. "There is no need to worry. You were wounded, but none of your injuries are serious. Just rest, and in a few days, you will have fully recovered."

He could not tell whether he was being understood, but when he saw the younger man's fog over with drowsiness again, he quickly turned to pick up the mug. "Here, I have something to drink for you. It will help you sleep, and also quicken the healing."

With one hand helping his patient to hold up his head, the ranger gently pressed the rim against Éomer's lips, and although the young man was barely awake enough to keep his eyes open, he drank half of the contents in small sips before he lay back, utterly exhausted even from the small effort. When Aragorn addressed him the next time, he had already sunken deeply into the realm of sleep again. A tired smile wandered over the ranger's face. Even if it had only been brief, but that first moment of wakefulness so soon after the crisis had to mean that Éomer was out of danger. He felt incredibly relieved.

"Sleep, Son of Éomund," he whispered, carefully covering the warrior's hand with the blanket again. "And when you wake again, you will feel much better."

After a quick inspection of the bandages, Aragorn settled back into the chair for the continuation of his watch…

Chapter 22: Challenged

EDORAS

The way up the slope to the Golden Hall had never seemed so long to Elfhelm, but it was not only due to his injuries. Every step on the way, through the horrible pounding in his head, he had waited for the one opportunity to overcome his captors, the one opportunity to communicate with his men and tell them to hold themselves ready. And yet, nothing had presented itself to them. The Worm's henchmen held him firmly in their grasp, their fingers cutting off the circulation in his arms until Elfhelm could no longer even feel his hands, and while he still waited with rising desperation, his mind raced: what had happened to Céorl? Was he still alive? And what were Gríma's plans now that he finally held all the cards in his hands? Had he already disposed of Háma and Gamling, too, for Elfhelm was certain that this had to be the moment where their obedience to the King ended. Under no circumstance would they tolerate that the last men loyal to the Mark would be executed or thrown into the dungeon...or at least he hoped so.

Silently the mixed group approached the last switchback that shielded Golden Hall from their view, and from the last building before the stairs, a shed normally used to store provisions for the Royal Household, Elfhelm suddenly saw a group of men emerge. All of them were but dark shapes, strangers to his eyes, but the way four of them had arranged themselves in a half-circle around the fifth person in the middle, who stumbled toward them as if he could barely walk, Elfhelm knew who was joining them for the last part of the way.

His soul cried out as he beheld the bleeding, dishevelled figure of his brother-in-arms, and his jaws clenched around the gag in his mouth in helpless frustration. Gods, what had they done to Céorl? Blood encrusted the warrior's face from two gaping cuts on his left eyebrow and cheekbone and also below his nose and mouth, and the way he held himself indicated that the injuries to his head were by far not the only ones. Of course not, Elfhelm cursed silently, Céorl would never have betrayed them. He knew the valiant Captain of Edoras long enough to understand without words that his kinsman had silently swallowed whatever punishment his assailants had subject him to in order to make him speak. He had given them nothing, ready to sacrifice his own life to ensure that the chance of surprising their adversaries remained intact for Eflhelm, but he had been powerless to act when his torturers had turned on his men after forcing them to watch the terrible beating of their captain. And along with that horrible threat of killing his family, poor Anlaf had finally broken. As hopeless as his own situation seemed right now, Elfhelm could not blame the man. He could not tell what he would have done in the same situation.

When the two commanders regarded each other, the sight of his friend's swollen and bruised features prompted a surge of rage so powerful and uncontrollable in Elfhelm that he rammed his weight against the guard to his left, sending him to the ground and kicking him hard in the ribs. From the corner of his eye, he saw his men respond, and for a moment, he felt wild triumph and the possibility to free themselves well within reach. It was abruptly ended by a hard blow between his shoulder blades that sent a silver bolt down his spine. All feeling left his legs, and the warrior dropped to his knees like a sack of meal, grunting. With a brutal tug, his head was pulled up by the hair and he looked into Wormtongue's face.

"I thought we had an understanding, Marshal. Very well, it is you who will have to live with the consequences of your actions now." The Counsellor gave a short nod to one of his minions guarding a captive. "Kill him!"

Suddenly, there was thin, long knife in the thug's hand, and as Gríma straightened and walked over to where his followers had already suppressed the short eruption of mutiny among their prisoners, Elfhelm groaned. Against the gag in his mouth and the fire in his spine, he tried to shout out, he tried to scream, and he even tried to rise to his feet to prevent what would happen, but the hands that held him down were too strong.

"Watch closely!" Felrod sneered into his ear, audibly delighted by his opponent's dismay. "It is your fault that he dies now."

Before the widening eyes of the Rohirrim, the dark-haired guard buried his dagger to the hilt in the chest of the rider next to him, and with infinite sorrow and rage Elfhelm realised that it was Anlaf. The doomed warrior's jaw muscles clenched painfully around the leather in his mouth as he narrowed his eyes, and his muffled outcry tore apart his comrades' souls. For a moment, his powerful body tensed… and then sagged when the last remains of life left him.

No one could move. The Rohirrim were stunned into shock, and their guards tensed in expectation of their violent reaction. For a while, the world hung frozen. His almost colourless eyes scanning the prone figure on the ground for movement, Gríma cautiously prodded his foot against Anlaf's side. The man felt slack, thoroughly lifeless, and the pool of blackness spreading from beneath him did not lie. Satisfied he turned around to stare at the kneeling Elfhelm.

"You have still not learned that I keep my promises, Marshal." He extended his hand toward the lifeless man. "There, look what you did with your misguided sense of comradeship and honour. Although I do not understand why his demise should even distress you…" A cruel glint flickered to life in the pale eyes. "After all, this was the man who betrayed you. Shouldn't you rather thank me for his disposal?"

An unintelligible outcry of rage escaped Elfhelm at the evil councillor's mockery, and again he attempted to shake off his captors, but the men were too strong, and he could do nothing when they hurled him to his feet. Another cold gaze grazed him before Gríma turned to his own men and said with a curt nod at the dead man's body: "Take him with us and see to it that there is nothing left of his blood on the path. We will dispose of him in the dungeon. And now let us hurry, before the city wakes after all and we will be forced to kill even more men!"

With a warning glimpse, the Counsellor turned and approached the steps to the Golden Hall with firm strides. For the longest moment, Elfhelm and Céorl's eyes met, and both men saw the bottomless despair in the other's gaze before they were forcefully shoved toward the stairs.

OOO

MEDUSELD

"Gamling! Háma! Wake up! Please, you must—" From outside, Éowyn suddenly heard the sound of fast approaching steps, and then an angry voice exclaimed:

"Excuse me, my lords, but may I ask what you are seeking here in the middle of the night?"

"You may not; Kôr. Step aside, or I'll make you!"

It was Háma's voice, and its sharp tone and the long unheard determination in it caused Éowyn's heart to jump into her throat. They had heard her! They had indeed come! With renewed vigour, she pounded against the door with the palm of her hand.

"Háma! Háma, open the door! Someone is approaching Meduseld!"

"You cannot do this, Captain! The Counsillor's orders said—"

"I do not care for the Counsillor's orders! I am Chief of the Royal Guard, and if anyone has the authority to give me orders, it is but the King himself! To him alone I swore my oath and not to his couniellor, and since his niece is calling for my aid, I will see what she needs, regardless of what you have to say against it. Stand aside, if you do not want me to go through you!"

"Háma! Háma, quick, open the door!"

Outside, the men quarrelled for another moment, but at last, Éowyn heard the much anticipated sound of the key turning in the lock, and the door opened to the concerned faces of the seasoned warriors.

"Háma! Gamling! Oh Béma be praised, I was beginning to despair!"

She felt the strong impulse to embrace the two men, but knew that it was neither appropriate, nor was there any time. Rushing out of her room, Éowyn's gaze went over to where the massive doors of Meduseld still lay in darkness. She turned around, urgency in her features.

"Someone is approaching Meduseld, a group of men, and I feel that there is something wrong with them. They seemed to move with great stealth."

"A group of men?"

In an instant, the two warriors were alert. They no longer heeded the door guard as the man stole away into the shadows. Gamling stared at Éowyn in alarm.

"Whom did you see, Lady Éowyn? Enemies? Dunlendings even?"

She shook her head.

"No Dunlendings, or at least I do not think so, but they moved strangely. Quickly, Captain, you must summon your men and await them here, ready for battle, whoever it is!"

Instead of leaving, the old warrior simply turned and shouted into the silence.

"All men to me! Quickly! We are being attacked!"

Yet before he could proceed, the doors of Meduseld were thrown open and a great group of men spilled into the hall along with a gust of cold air. Yet it was not the air that chased a chill down the warrior's spine as he beheld the mangled and bloodied features of their two commanders in their midst.

Involuntarily, Gamling's fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. The King's niece had been right; evil was afoot, and this time, he could no longer afford to tolerate it; not for peace's sake, and not for Théoden-King's sake. With Céorl and Elfhelm, two of the four remaining men of power were in danger of being eliminated by the Worm, and he felt that at last, the time had come to make his stand.

Squaring his shoulders, the wiry warrior stepped forth together with his brother-in-arms to confront the darkly-clad figure who just now shed its hood and stared at them contemptuously from beneath a deeply furrowed brow.

"What is this, Counsillor Gríma?" Háma's tone was hard and determined as Éowyn had not heard the usually calm guard in a long time. "What evil is going on in Edoras these days that you felt you had to arrest Captain Céorl and Marshal Elfhelm, and in the middle of the night, too, sneaking into Meduseld in all secrecy as if you wanted to prevent that anyone sees your prisoners? It appears to me that this is not an operation sanctioned by the King, nor that he even knows about it."

Éowyn's heart beat furiously against her ribcage, and involuntarily, her hand went for her hidden dagger as the atmosphere in the hall abruptly thickened to the point where a single heated word would suffice to ignite it. Finally, the true servants of the Mark had decided that they would no longer tolerate the Worm's secret reign, and both Háma and Gamling were a sight to behold as they blocked Gríma's path. It was exhilarating to finally witness the confrontation that would see Wormtongue banned, or perhaps even killed… an event she had wished for for years.

And yet at the same time, a part of her was dying, because she knew that with this deed accomplished, her uncle's fate would be sealed… and Éomer's as well, if the snake truly held him captive. She did not fully believe it after the uncountable lies the filth had been telling her over the years, but still the possibility remained. And her uncle… perhaps there would be a way to save him; perhaps their healers would find the potion in Gríma's chambers and be able to find a cure to it in time. Perhaps, no one had to die… but even if all went wrong, it could not go on like this.

In the long sleepless nights of her captivity, Éowyn had at last come to the painful realisation that the protection of her loved ones could not mean the sacrifice of their entire people. As hard as the decision had been to make, she knew for a fact that Éomer would be content with it if by his death, he would buy life for theMark, and so would her uncle.

Still, how was she supposed to go on without them, knowing that she was responsible for their death? Perhaps, it would be for the best if this confrontation would be solved with bloodshed; perhaps, she could see to it that it would claim her life, too, so that she would not have to continue living with this great burden of guilt about sentencing her only remaining family. Her knuckles whitening around the hilt of her dagger as her fingers clenched it in unconscious distress, Éowyn fought back the despair that threatened to choke her. This was not the time to break down; first, they had to dispose of the enemy. Defiantly, she lifted her chin, determined to see this through.

Behind them, the remainders of the Royal Guard still loyal to Gamling and Háma emerged from the darkness of the throne room to form an expectant half-circle behind their captains and await the outcome of the confrontation, ready to assist if their strength was needed. Meanwhile, Gríma stared at the two men in front of him with the same amount of disdain he would have reserved for a rotting orc-carcass.

"These men you see here, they entered the city in a secret and most cowardly manner that leaves only one possible conclusion: they are conspirators against the Mark and planned to-"

"Conspirators against the Mark? Céorl and Elfhelm?" Gamling laughed. "I fear, Counsillor, that you will find no one here ready to believe your accusations! Take the gags out of your captives' mouths and let them explain themselves, or are you afraid to hear the truth, namely that they came to rid the Mark of its true plague, which is you and your men?"

"I see, old man. You are one of them. Alas, I wished I had known before how far the conspiracy against the King already reaches." The pale blue eyes narrowed to dangerously sparkling slits as Gríma raised his voice for all to hear: "Listen well, Gamling and Háma of the Royal Guard: you are herewith dismissed from your service to the King! You will step aside and leave this hall now, or I warn you, I will have you both arrested as well!"

"And what would our crime be, Counsillor?" Instead of looking intimidated, Gamling even took a step forth, and his fingers tightened around his sword. "That we protected our King and our people against your devious plans? Because it is not Théoden-King you serve, that much is clear to all present by now! But no matter who your true master is, he will have to find himself another pawn to do his bidding, because here and now, your rule over the Mark ends! Release your captives, or we will free them by force!"

"I do not believe that you fully understand the situation, Lord Gamling…"

Gríma's voice was almost too low to be heard, just like the slight rustle of dry leafs before the snake underneath them uncoiled for the deadly bite. Nonetheless he took a step back, which brought him closer to the safety of his men who had likewise unsheathed their swords and looked ready to kill their captives at the first command of their master.

Unsettled by their adversary' strange composure in the face of the uttered challenge, Éowyn followed the man's gaze beyond Gamling's shoulder into the darkness of the throne room, and the sight of many dark shapes silently emerging from behind the pillars froze her. In a half circle, they arranged themselves with readied swords behind the members of the Royal Guard who looked in shock and confusion at the new development.

These were Dunlendings! How in Éorl's name had Dunlendings entered the city, and even the Golden Hall without anyone having taken notice of them? Where had all these men come from? Éowyn guessed the answer, and her already pale features turned deathly white. So Gríma had pried from Théoden's captured mind the knowledge of the secret passage between the King's chambers and the foot of the lonely hill of Edoras; a path hewn through the rock by generations before them and thought as a means to ensure the King's survival in case that an enemy would ever gain entry to the Golden Hall. There, in all secrecy, Gríma had arranged his army within this passage, safe from detection until he would need it on the day when he would seize control. His plan was flawless, for the warriors still loyal to the King were now far outmatched.

The guards' expressions became grim as they realised their predicament. Instinctively, they moved closer together and formed a circle, daring the enemy to attack. For a moment, none of the men could breathe. His features darkened and his body tense in expectation of the first charge, Háma suddenly turned to Éowyn.

"My Lady, please, you should go back to your chambers now. I believe that he will let you do so..."

"Yes, Lady Éowyn, you must go. There is no sense in getting yourself killed!"

"No, Captain, my place is here with you. I can help you!" She drew her dagger, not evading the men's pleading gazes as she whispered: "Yes, we are outnumbered, but all we must do is kill the Worm! Without him, they have no purpose to fight for, they will submit!"

"Lay down your weapons, all of you!" Wormtongue now raised his voice, interrupting her, and on his pale face, open triumph sparkled for the first time. No longer did he have to hide his satisfaction, for his victory was complete; with the removal of Céorl, Edoras belonged to him. "As even the most stubborn Rohrric peasant would have to admit: you are outmatched! Don´t be foolish! You will lay your arms to the ground and step back now, or this hall will bear witness to a massacre of the likes it has never experienced before. You will either let yourself be arrested… or be killed, the choice is yours!"

The men looked at each other, doubt and fear on their faces, and for a brief moment, Éowyn thought that they would submit... but from the corner of her eye, she caught the silent exchange between Elfhelm and Céorl, nothing more but a wink, and suddenly, all hell broke loose...

Chapter 23: The Battle for Meduseld

MEDUSELD

The attack found Wormtongue's guards unprepared, and before they knew what hit them, they had been rammed to the ground and immobilised with kicks to their stomachs and heads by their captives.

"Free the prisoners!" Háma shouted and raised his sword, and despite the threat of the Dunlendings from behind, the Rohirrim charged in a wave against Gríma's men. Not thinking about her own safety when the future of their kingdom was at stake, Éowyn joined in their attack although she only carried her dagger, and in the first rush that swept them right into the midst of the enemy, she suddenly found herself standing before Elfhelm.

"Quick, turn around!" With a well-aimed cut, she freed him of his bonds, and he flexed his hands to start the circulation to his fingers again.

"I thank you, my lady, but now you must seek shelter, or your brother will have my head if anything happens to you! Duck!"

Pushing her aside even as he spoke, his fist landed in the face of the guard who had thrust his sword at Éowyn; blocking the strike. The man fell like an axed tree, but even before he hit the ground, Elfhelm had already wrestled the blade from his grasp and ended his foe's pain permanently.

"Éorlingas, to me! Form a circle!"

In the flickering light of the torches, it was difficult to determine who was friend and who foe; everywhere men were fighting in close proximity, sometimes even back to back, and battle cries and shouts penetrated the din of clattering swords and rushing footsteps. Not wanting to flee when every single blade was needed, but understanding her disadvantage caused by her inferior weapon, Éowyn stood frozen in the conflict for a moment too long, and suddenly found the way to her chambers blocked by an advancing Dunlending. His crude sword menacingly raised for the deadly strike, he grinned at her with crooked teeth as he realised that his intended victim had no means of defending herself.

"Do not kill the King's niece!" Gríma's voice suddenly rose above the noise of the battle, but it did not penetrate to the hillman as he lashed out. Her instincts dropping her to the ground in an evading motion, Éowyn suddenly found herself at her assailant's feet, and with her whole weight behind the thrust, she buried her dagger in the Dunlending's gut. Malicious eyes widened in unexpected pain, and the man's sword clattered to the ground as he clutched his horrible wound.

Not wasting her time to see him die, Éowyn rolled and grasped the blade she had won. More confident now that she had an adequate weapon, she regained her feet and looked around to get her bearings. Where was Gríma? He would not be in the middle of the melee without a weapon, she knew him better. And just as she had suspected, she caught a brief glimpse of the familiar dark cape behind the mighty statue of his guard Felrod, where he supposedly deemed himself safe. Hah, she would show him how wrong he was! If no one was allowed to attack her, she would put that advantage to good use.

Moving through the cluster of fighting men as if she were invisible, Éowyn focused on her enemy. She would end the Mark's captivity now; with Gríma's death, their enemies would surely surrender. Her only regret was that she would have to kill the Worm quickly to not risk that his reign endured if he was just wounded and their attack failed. Still several men were between her and the counsillor; and carefully she sought her way around them, avoiding any provocation that would cause them to attack her against Gríma's orders. Suddenly a voice cried out:

"Lord Gríma! Watch out! Behind you!"

She did not see the man who had warned Wormtongue, but his words had been heard and now the aim of her attack pivoted. Upon seeing her and instinctively understanding her intent, Gríma's pale eyes narrowd in disbelief before he tugged at his guard's shirt.

"Felrod!"

Driving back the Rohir he had fought with a powerful strike, the big man swivelled, and a nasty grin spread on his angular face as he waved his sword at Éowyn with a menacing gesture.

"How nice! I never fought a woman before. It is one experience in life I always wanted to make: first cut them up, and then—"

"Then enjoy this!" Éowyn shouted, and lashed out while Gríma dived away to seek shelter behind a pillar. Sparks flew as her crude Dunlending sword collided with Felrod's, and with a horrible clang, half of her blade was hacked clean off while the hilt of the mutilated weapon reverberated in her hands. Instinctively, Éowyn retreated, but Felrod had licked blood now and was determined to claim his prize.

"You still think you can defeat me, lassie? I already defeated your brother, so what do you think you can do against me?"

At his words, a red curtain lowered over Éowyn's vision. That pig had killed Éomer? With a shout of rage, she attacked him with the shard of the blade in her hands, succeeding in blocking the big Dunlending's countering strike and cutting deeply into his hand. The next moment, she suddenly found herself on the floor to his feet, unable to breathe and her stomach a ball of fire. Gasping, she looked up and saw the big hand that had punched her reaching for her. Strong fingers dug into her tunic and hauled her to her feet when suddenly, she was released from the grip. From her left, an angered shout reached her ears, and a member of the Royal Guard charged against her tormentor. So furious was his onslaught that he drove the halfblood back several steps before Felrod could block his sword and push against his attacker. It was Háma.

"Flee, my lady! Out of the hall! We cannot hold them for much longer!" The captain was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his eyes were wide in dismay as he cast her a brief glance of utmost urgency.

And as she followed his gaze, Éowyn saw that he was right: wherever she looked, their men were fighting one against three or four enemies at a time, their numbers dwindling even further when two more fell to the ground while her glance found them, hewn by their foes. She turned back and saw Gríma behind his pillar, almost within reach while the front doors of Meduseld lay equally far away on the other side. The exit was unguarded, all men involved in fights. No one would stop her if she fled now. But how could she leave Gamling and the others behind when they needed her? She turned back to Háma, just in time to see the guard block two mighty thrusts, but with the third, Felrod knocked the weapon from his hands.

"No!"

She dashed toward him, meaning to help, but it was too late: his attention focussed on evading his assailant's next strike, Háma stepped back – and into the sword of a Dunlending who had sneaked up on him from behind.

"Háma!"

For a moment, the guard's eyes looked in utter bewilderment at the bloodied sword that suddenly protruded from his skewered chest… then his knees buckled and he fell, his weight ripping the sword in his midst from the Dunlending's hands. Black eyes stared at Éowyn in dismay as the hillman unexpectedly found himself unarmed, and his triumph over the Captain of the Royal Guard was short-lived as Éomund's daughter hewed his head clean off his shoulders with an enraged shout.

"You are defeated!" Gríma's voice could suddenly be heard over the fighting. "Drop your weapons and you shall live. Anyone still insisting on resistance dies! I mean it!"

Pivoting, Éowyn saw that is was indeed true. There were only few of her protectors left among the mass of dark-haired Dunlendings and the Worm's personal guards; too few to speak even of the faintest hope. Among them, she saw Elfhelm and Céorl, both bleeding from several cuts and surrounded by enemies. Gamling she could not see, but her heart sank at the discovery that she herself was encircled by their foes. There was no escape; not for her, nor for anyone. They had lost the Battle for Meduseld. All fighting spirit leaving her, she sank to her knees next to Háma, and her broken sword clattered to the ground.

"Oh Háma…"

Reaching out to caress the dying man's cheek in a last gesture of farewell, Éowyn felt a sudden desperate impulse to take up the razor-sharp shard of her blade and turn it against herself. What use was there in living on? What could she expect from her adversary, if not even more grief and horror? She had known Háma of the Royal Guard for most of her life. He had always been kind to her from the moment on when Théoden had brought them with him from Aldburg, and many times had he covered for her, deliberately misdirecting her stern teachers of needlework and court-etiquette who had sought her while she had been secretly at the training grounds, practising her swordplay. He had been her secret confidante, an ally in the strange world of the Edoras court she had been cast into. And now, he had saved her for the last time. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stroked his cheek, horrified by the sight of the steady stream of blood that flowed from the corners of his mouth.

"Háma, I am so sorry…"

"I wish…" He coughed up a spray of fine, red droplets, and the pain forced him to shut his eyes. "I wish you had escaped, my lady…" His rough hand grasped her fingers, and she held on. "You… you should have fled."

"I could not leave you behind," she cried now, oblivious to the sound of steps which approached her from behind. "But you saved me, Háma. Once again, you saved me. And it will not be in vain; the Worm will not win, I promise you that."

Háma could no longer speak, but the sadness in his gaze said more than words could ever have expressed. She squeezed his hand, and choked on her tears when the guard's eyes grew distant with death and his strength deserted him.

"My… lady…"

It was but a whisper, and with it, Háma of the Royal Guard died. The pain was too great for a scream, and so Éowyn just bent over the fallen man and cried silently when the steps came to a halt behind her.

"He left us no choice," Wormtongue's voice reached her ears. "You left us no choice. I did not wish for this bloodbath; it was your own fault. Why do you people not understand when you are defeated? Why can you not see when you are faced with impossible odds? The Rohirrim always pride themselves of their defiance and their stubbornness to accept someone else's superiority, but I say that it is foolishness. He needn't have died. It was your misdirected sense of pride and honour that put him into his grave, my Lady."

A hand dug painfully into her shoulder. It was an impulse, happening so fast she had no means to stop herself: suddenly, the broken sword was back in her hand and she thrust it upward in a vicious move. A pained shriek rewarded her before her wrist was seized and the weapon painfully wrestled from her grasp. Éowyn shouted in pain as she was hurled to her feet by her twisted wrist, and the next moment, her breath was cut off by a thick forearm that pressed against her throat.

"Did she hit you, my Lord?" Felrod's deep voice growled behind her, and as Gríma straightened, thick blood oozing from between his fingers, Éowyn felt a moment of wild triumph even through her pain and despair. Her adversary's pale eyes blazed with fury as he regarded her.

"Throw her into the dungeon! Take the darkest, loneliest cell you can find. It is about time this wench is taught a lesson she won't forget!"

"What about the others, my Lord?"

"How many of them are still alive?"

"Three. The marshal and the two captains. As you said earlier that you wanted to take them alive if possible—"

"Indeed, that is what I said."

Taking his hand from his cheek to regard the redness of his own blood, Gríma cast a last, dark glance at Éowyn before he turned to the men who awaited his orders.

"You did well. Throw them into the dungeon as well. Marshal Elfhelm will be given the cell opposite Lady Éowyn, and he will be shackled to the wall. The other two will be brought into another wing, out of earshot from each other, and without light. I will teach the stubborn descendants of Éorl the bitter taste of defeat!"

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

It was no longer easy to keep herself awake with the slow approach of dawn, Freya found. With Éomer resting save and soundly on the bed next to her chair, his cheeks slightly flushed from the fever, but nowhere near as pale and death-like looking as he had when the three travellers had brought him to her, the surge of energy that had flooded her veins during the treatment had vanished. She was still concerned for him, but it was more like holding the night-watch over her children on those occasions when they had played for too long outside and caught a cold. No longer did she believe that Éomer could still die, not when he looked so much better already.

"You will live," Freya whispered, her fingers brushing over his heated brow in a gentle caress although he gave no sign of hearing her. "I know it. You are strong."

Letting her hand sink, she settled for taking his hand into hers, hoping that he felt her presence even in the darkness he roamed and thus know that he stood not alone in his fight. With a tired smile, she leaned back into the chair and looked at the twilit world beyond her window. It was too early to lose hope, Aragorn had said. Was Éomer's survival then to be seen as a good omen, a sign not to despair yet? Her eyes resting on Éomer's still features, Freya felt the same, unsettling stirring in her she had always felt in the warrior's presence.

Ever since their first, fateful meeting, she had asked herself whether she had been right in sending him away when, after all these years, their feelings for each other were still as strong as ever. Every time he visited her here, he brought her emotions in an uproar, and she knew that he felt the same way about her; his secretly stolen glances even when his men were around, the little smiles on the face of that man who didn't smile often and the soft, loving expression in his eyes whenever he looked at her, they all gave him away, and it was an elevating feeling… and excruciating at the same time, with neither of them able to live out what their hearts truly wished for.

As if Éomer felt her turmoil in his sleep, he suddenly shifted his position and sighed deeply, but his eyes remained closed. With a loving smile, Freya bent over to smooth away a strand of flaxen hair which had fallen into his face… but suddenly, she froze. A well-known chill turned her skin to gooseflesh, and when she looked up, she saw Osred's face through the narrow gap behind the open door.

Quickly retracting her hand as if she had reached into fire – 'And perhaps that is the very thing I have done!' – she sat bolt upright and heat flushed her face, even if her own dismay angered her. She had done nothing wrong! Yes, she loved Éomer, and Osred had known it for a long time. They had never talked about it, but the looks he had given her whenever the Marshal had been around had spoken louder than words. But it was not anger she saw now on her husband's broad, shadowed face with the trimmed flaxen beard. It was defeat, something even worse in Freya's opinion. It would have been easier for her to bear had Osred shouted at her or flung the door, but this quiet submission in his expression was unbearable. While her mind still raced thinking about what to say, Osred suddenly turned away and left, and she jumped to her feet to follow him.

"Osred! Osred, wait!"

As quietly as possible, she shut the door behind her and followed her husband to the end of the corridor where he stood and gazed at Aragorn, who was sleeping on the floor before the fireplace, wrapped into a blanket. When he turned around, his accusatory gaze briefly grazed Freya, and without a word, he passed her by and went into the kitchen at the far side of the corridor. Her heart painfully beating in her chest, Freya followed him inside and closed the door behind her.

"Osred, please, it is not as you think…"

"Spare me, Freya," he mumbled, staring at the window as he felt not able to face her. "I know what is between you and the Marshal. I even understand you, for how could I – a simple farmer – compete with a lord of the bloodline of Éorl himself? Of course you feel flattered that a noble shows interest in you; every woman would. Who am I to complain?" He shrugged and shook his head. "Perhaps I should rather feel honoured because my wife is deemed worthy to belong to a captain of our riders."

Sitting down at the opposite site of the table, Freya reached for his hand, but he took it way, denying her touch. She sighed, shame burning her at the sight of her husband's torment.

"Osred, will you hear me out, please? Please?" Reluctantly, he looked at her. "Osred, you are my husband, and I love you, you must know that!"

"Not as much as him," Osred said quietly. "You cannot deny it; I have seen you together."

"And you feel that you have a reason to complain about the way I have been treating you? Do you not feel loved by me?" He remained silent at that. "Because I do love you, Osred, but it is a different kind of love. Éomer… I have known him for so long, he is like a brother to me."

"No." Osred shook his head, and now his voice was coloured with rising anger at last. "No, you do not look at him as if he were your brother; do not take me for a fool, Freya! Perhaps I must endure the thought that you long for another man, but I will not endure being lied to! I do not deserve that after all these years!"

"No, you don't." Now she had to avoid his gaze. "You are right."

"I love you, Freya; I took you for my wife because of who you are. I love our children and the life we lead out here; I love this land and I will do all that I can to ensure that we have a good life. I may not be a great warrior with shining armour and endless courage and honour, and I may not know much of the world beyond these mountains, but I do know what is needed to ensure the survival of my family even in these hard times. I work hard from dawn to dusk each day; I set the fields, I see to the animals and the buildings, and when I am done, I come home and hear how your day was and play with our children. I do what I can, Freya, but I see that I cannot compete against him, and it hurts."

"You do not need to compete," she said quietly, her eyes burning. "I married you even though Éomer asked me to become his wife years before we met. Do you not think that this is the answer to all your doubts?"

Obviously, it was not.

"But why did you marry me, Freya? Was it not only because you knew that you could never have him? That, and that you needed someone to take care of the farm for you, someone who would not always be away and might not return from his next battle. I was the reasonable choice, but never the one your heart wished for, is it not so? No matter what I do, I will never be more than second-best to you. It is not fair, Freya."

She swallowed, his words burning her soul because each of them was true. Béma knew how much she had tried to feel the same for Osred as for the son of Marshal Éomund, but her heart would not let itself be fooled, and it knew the difference between reason and love all too well. She had hoped to be able to hide it from her husband, not wanting to hurt him when he didn't deserve it, but apparently he had known it after all for all these years they had spent together, even though he had said nothing. Feverishly she tried to think of a way to tell Osred that he was mistaken, but her head was empty. Feeling the tears rise, she shut her eyes.

"Have you never wondered what you are for him?" Osred now asked lowly, defeated. "Have you never asked yourself this question? He knows as well as you that there is no future for the two of you together, he must have understood it from the beginning. He is only playing with you—"

"He is not!"

"—to ensure that there will always be a warm bed and a good meal waiting for him on his patrols through Eastfold. I know of what I speak, Freya! It was that way in the village I was born in. The young women there, they were always keen on making friends with the riders, because they would share their stories of honour and battle with them and take them out into the world even if it was only with their tales. Sometimes, they would even bring them gifts, small tokens they had won in battle and which they brought the woman of their choice to be sure she'd remember them after they had been away for a while. Not because they loved them, but to ensure that they would have a home away from home on their journeys; and perhaps even a woman in addition to the one waiting for them at their home; a body to use when this one urge became too great after weeks of separation…"

"Éomer is not like that!" she shouted, rising to her feet with such force that the chair toppled over behind her. Surely, all in the house were awake by now and listening to their quarrel, but this she would not take! "He never used me, and he never tried to, either! Years ago, when we were both much younger, he even asked me to become his wife, but I sent him away even then because I knew that it could not work. We are friends, Osred, even if I will admit that we feel more for each other than ordinary friends, but we have arranged ourselves with the situation. We cannot be together, not in that way; that is simply the way it is. I never betrayed you!"

"But you married me instead to make me feel every day that I would never be the one your heart beat for." Osred narrowed his eyes. "You got yourself a fool who would work his fingers to the bone to provide you and your family with food and protection while your love was reserved for someone else. I was blind, Freya, until today I never understood how cruel you were."

He stood up from the table, too embittered to further bear his wife's presence. He needed to leave. In a desperate attempt to escape the conflict, he rushed to the door.

"Osred—"

"Stay away from me, Freya! Please! Do not touch me!" Lifting both hands in a defensive motion against her, Osred shot his wife a warning glare, and the young woman's insides twisted into a hard knot at the bitter expression on his face. She halted, and her arms dropped to her sides as all strength left her.

"I do love you, Osred. Don't forget this when you leave me now. I love you in a different way, and that love is just as honest, if not more honest, as the one I have for Éomer. Think about it when you leave me now; think about the life we share, and whether you truly think that for all these years, we were living a lie. Will you do that, Osred?"

He lifted his chin, stubbornly, unsuccessfully trying to hide his inner pain.

"I cannot tell you yet what I will do, Freya. At this moment, I do not know anything."

He did not fling the door, but the silence he left behind was just as deafening.

Chapter 24: Abandon all Hope

MEDUSELD

Shock-numbed and grief-stricken, Éowyn offered no resistance as Gríma's henchmen lead her downstairs into the dark, forbidding heart of the mountain, a place she had only been to twice in her life. One time only recently, to bring her brother much needed sustenance and comfort when he had been unjustly imprisoned, and once in her childhood. Although it had just been a short visit then, it had been a frightening experience. It had been Éomer who had enquired eagerly about the dungeon after they had witnessed a trial in which their uncle had sentenced a man to a fortnight in a cell, because another man had been injured in a fight. A few months had passed since their relocation to Edoras, and while Théoden had deemed the siblings too young to visit such a dreadful place, their cousin had in the end persuaded his father to be allowed to show them the tunnels, his point being that – as possible future rulers – his cousins should be well aware of each aspect of life in the Riddermark. The darkness, the cold and leaden silence and the hollow echo of their footsteps had horrified Éowyn even then, and she had been glad to leave the dungeon shortly afterward to the mockery of her brother. This time, she would not get out so easily, or so soon, and yet the prospects did not frighten her – they didn't even reach her. She was dead inside.

As they passed the already occupied cells, surprised shouts and gasps could be heard upon the sight of King Théoden's niece. Éowyn neither heard them, nor did she care; in the wake of the battle, she was left bereft of all fighting spirit. Gríma was now in possession of the one thing he had craved for all these years: absolute power over Meduseld. The only remaining question was whether he would leave her uncle alive yet, counting on his worth as a captive just in case that Éomer wasn't dead, or that Erkenbrand and Grimbold, now the Mark's only two commanders and remaining men of power, would ride for Edoras because they felt that something was wrong in their capital.

Or would he kill the feeble King as soon as his business was done down here, convinced that he no longer needed him? And what would he do to her afterwards? So many questions and possibilities Éowyn denied herself to contemplate. What did it all matter? With Éomer banished and most likely dead, Háma killed and Gamling, Elfhelm and Céorl incarcerated along with her, no one was left to save their people from extinction. It would be too much too expect that this deed could be accomplished by the two remaining Westfold commanders. Not even the thought of the deep gash with which she had marked Grima's face could bring her the faintest hint of satisfaction.

What was that scratch compared to the agony poor Háma had endured, impaled on a sword and dying in his own blood on the floor of the Golden Hall? What was it compared to the sight of Éothain's father hanging between his captors like dead weight, too weak to stand and losing more blood from his multiple wounds with each beating of his heart? And Elfhelm, likewise a man she had known since her earliest childhood,as he had been their father's best friend; and the mentor and oftentimes saviour of her brother… he, too, was wounded and would rather need a healer than the dungeon. Gamling she had not seen as they had pushed her over to the door leading to the stairs ahead of the others, but she suspected that in the horrible fight, he, too, had not been spared from the sharp swords and axes of their enemies.

At a crossroads, they briefly came to a halt in the flickering light of a distant torch; and Wormtongue turned around to his men. The deep cut in his cheek throbbed and hurt, and yet the pain did not spoil his mood. He had won, and he was determined to savour each and every little aspect of his victory he had worked so hard for all these past years. Pain was a temporary thing; glory was forever, and he would wear this scar proudly. Even better, in the years to come, it would be a constant reminder to the hot-headed niece of Rohan's soon-to-be-history King of how she had failed. In fact, she had done him a favour by marking him in this way.. Clearing his throat, Gríma pointed in the direction of the crossing corridor and addressed Guthlaf.

"You, Guthlaf, will take Captain Gamling to the northern end of the dungeon; and Céorl to the western end. There will be no torches in their corridors. They shall be held in absolute darkness. As they have demonstrated to us too often by now, the Rohrrim do not learn lessons easily, so we must ensure that they understand their defeat this time. Go!"

"Céorl needs a healer, or he will die," Elfhelm growled, his voice tense from his own battle against the pain. His head felt as if the top half of it was about to fall off, and from numerous cuts he had not been able to avoid, he felt his hot blood running down his body. "Or is that what you want, to make us die slowly down here, Worm? You will not succeed, no matter what you do. Sooner or later, Éothain will find out what happened here, and he will alert Erkenbrand and Grimbold. Once they are at the Golden Hall's doorstep, you will wish that you never came to Edoras!" In vain, he tore at his bonds as Céorl and Gamling were led away.

"Is that so?" Gríma replied coolly, immensely satisfied with Elfhelm's obvious distress. He had yet some more information to share which would stun the arrogant Marshal of Eastfold into silence, and the haughty daughter of his king along with him. Every word tasted delicious on his tongue as he bent his colourless eyes on his captives to share his full knowledge with them at last: "I really hate having to kill your hope, but I fear that the Lords Erkenbrand and Grimbold will soon be too concerned with trying to save their own part of the Mark to even think in which direction to ride for Edoras…" Oh, how delightful it was to see the warrior's expression darken with this unnamed dread he had woken!

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?"

With raised brows, Gríma inclined his head to gaze at Éowyn. The King's niece had for once not even attempted to resist his guards up to this point, and he had almost believed for her spirit to be broken, but now the distance in her gaze gave way to a wary sparkle. Smiling, the Counsellor shifted his attention back to the warrior.

"I mean that within the next days, the men you are setting your hope in will be faced with an army of Uruk-hai so great that even the sky has not enough stars to rival their number. From the Gap of Rohan to the borders of Anorien, the grass of the Mark's plains will disappear beneath the feet of a host greater than anything this land has ever seen; a host so great that the earth will shake from their marching long before you can spot them even from this hill!"

Thoroughly satisfied with the growing horror in Elfhelm's eyes, Gríma bend forward to whisper in mock-confidentiality: "Your Westfold-armies will be crushed beneath their feet like ants, Marshal. Whatever aid you are expecting, no one will come. No one will be left alive to come for you, except the great orcs of my master. In about a fortnight, the Kingdom of Rohan will have ceased to exist. Enjoy its last days, even if you get to spend them in a cell."

With Elfhelm rendered unable to speak, Wormtongue refocused on Éowyn. Even in the flickering light he could see her turn deathly white.

"Perhaps, if you behave, I will let you witness the destruction of Edoras from the terrace, my Lady. It should be a most valuable lesson for you to see the power of Isengard swallow you insignificant realm of farmers and horses. Not even all the stubbornness of your people combined will suffice to let them survive."

Éowyn's lips were a bloodless, trembling thin line, but her voice was dangerously low when she replied: "The most devastating defeats are always received when one of the combatants thinks that he has already won. The sons and daughters of Éorl know how make good use of such haughtiness, Worm. Our salvation will come from a direction you won't anticipate, mark my words."

Wormtongue smirked.

"Proud and stubborn as ever, our brave daughter of Éomund. Very well, so be it; this is only the first day of your trial yet. Let's get her into her cage and be gone, for it feels rather draughty down here and I long for my warm fire. Go!"

He gave his guards a curt nod and slowly trudged after them while they pushed the King's niece into the small, barred niche in the rock, shut the door and turned the key in the lock even as she turned around. Then he watched with great interest as Elfhelm was shackled to the wall by his wrists in a standing position in the cell opposite Éowyn's.

Upon the completion of his orders, Felrod turned around, keeping half an eye on their female captive to take delight in her reaction as he asked:

"My Lord Gríma, do you want us to extinguish the torches in this corridor, too?"

Provokingly slowly, Wormtongue turned around to face Éowyn, and for the longest moment, let her remain in uncertainty while he pretended to contemplate his minion's question. She was afraid of the dark, oh yes. How much she dreaded to be left in this very real cage and to be choked by its narrowness and the absence of distraction from her hopeless situation! Not that what he had in mind for her was any better..

" No," he said at last. "Not yet. I want them to see each other. And I want her to witness how with each passing day, this man she cares for will weaken while he slowly starves, provided his injuries don't kill him first."

He stared at Éowyn.

"How slowly he dies will be your decision, my Lady. Each day, I will come down here once with water and food, and you will be appointed a task. If you solve it to my full satisfaction, he will get both. If I need to force you to do it, he will only get the water. And if you won't comply at all, he will get nothing."

He paused meaningfully, waiting for the creaking with which Elfhelm's cell-door closed to make his point before he added: "You now have a whole day to think about my proposition, Lady Éowyn. Use it well."

He granted his guards another sharo nod as an indication of his satisfaction with them as well as an order to leave.

"Now back to your posts. Our captives need the quiet to contemplate their situation, and I do believe that there is some cleaning up to do in the hall."

"You will pay for this," Éowyn shouted after him. "Sooner or later, you will be punished, and you will pay like no man has ever paid before!"

She received no answer, and when at last the sound of steps faded away, all strength left her and she leaned heavily against the bars, her despairing gaze meeting Elfhelm's. The warrior lifted his head, and urgency replaced the weakness and pain in his grey eyes.

"My Lady, I do not know what that Snake has planned, but I fear that he will try to use me in order to break you. But no matter what he does to me, you must promise me not to bend to his will. Lady Éowyn? Will you promise me this?"

She stared at him in dread.

"I do not know if it is in my power, Elfhelm. If he tortures you… I may not be able to endure it."

"But you must."

Elfhelm's gaze pierced her. Instinctively the seasoned warrior understood what it was their adversary would ask of Éomer's sister, and he knew that he would not want to live with the knowledge of being the reason for Éowyn's degradation and the destruction of her spirit.

"Promise me that you will not tolerate it that the Worm lays his hands upon you! Not for me, and not for anyone! If you succumb to his will, it would be my ultimate defeat. Pain cannot touch me; I have endured it before, and I will die gladly if I can ensure by it that your honour stays intact. Promise me!"

The moment stretched between them, and for the longest time, only the omnipresent trickling of water could be heard in the semi-darkness while the daughter of Éomund of Aldburg and the Marshal of Eastfold stared at each other. At last, Éowyn closed her eyes, and the two words she uttered despite the hard lump in her throat felt to her like the ultimate betrayal.

"I promise."

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

"I am proud of you, Cousin. This was a dire situation you were in, but you mastered it."

"So I am still alive?" Éomer looked at the older man doubtfully. "But then why am I talking to you?"

Théodred smiled.

"Because you are dreaming again. I exist only in your head, do you not remember? We talked before, and you did not ask those questions then. I am, in fact, you. And yes, you are alive."

Not understanding his cousin's strange explanation, Éomer creased his brow, but then chose to ignore it. If Théodred said that he was not dead, he would believe him, and wasn't that all that mattered? Silently, both men let their eyes sweep over their surroundings for a while. Once again, they were at the fords, but this time, the slaughtered men and horses of Théodred's éored were nowhere to be seen, and the clearing with the backdrop of forest and mountains looked almost idyllic in the misty light of early morning.

"And now you expect me to summon or riders against Gríma," Éomer began at last, and his gaze wandered over to where his cousin squatted on a rock that protruded into the river, his hands in the fast-flowing waters. "Even if I am still alive, I will need time to gather our forces… - provided they still follow me."

"They will," his brother in all but blood said confidently, looking up. "You underestimate yourself, Éomer. There are none among the Armed Forces who would ever believe the Worm's accusations. The Royal Guard, I cannot say, because they are the King's own men and closer to him than anyone else. Whatever my father says is their law, no matter what his condition is. But the riders are your weapon, and you must use them now. They are already waiting for you."

The moment stretched between them; a moment when Éomer studied his cousin's expression intensely to find nothing but honesty and reassurance.

"I hope it is like you say," he said at length and shifted his view to the distant mountains, unfocused. "But I fear that there is not much time left to act. It is only a feeling, but the dark clouds are already on the horizon. It cannot take much longer for the storm to break loose. There were too many orcs involved in those skirmishes of these past weeks, and their sheer number suggests that the White Wizard's army must be ready to strike any day now. "

"And your intuitions were always accurate," Théodred admitted. Refreshing himself with the clear cold water, he straightened. "I fear, indeed, that Saruman must be your first concern, as much as you ache to ride for Éowyn's aid. The threat he poses must be eliminated first, for if you wait too long, his army will invade our land, and even if we succeeded in stopping it later, the danger would be too great that we lose the entire Westfold in that first attack. Erkenbrand and Grimbold are valiant men, but they cannot withstand the assault of the White Wizard's entire host. They will need your help, Éomer, and soon. Once Saruman is defeated, Wormtongue himself is nothing, and every threat he could still utter would be empty."

"But what if we lose this battle, Théodred?" It was a thought Éomer was reluctant to concern himself with, but the mental image of the burning city of Edoras was hard to suppress. "What if we are defeated, and no one rides to Éowyn's aid?"

Théodred's gaze hardened.

"And what if you freed her and Edoras, only to be surprised by an army following on your heels, an army that killed everyone in Westfold and burned the land behind them because there were no sufficient forces to repel them when they crossed the Isen? Would she not die then, too, and everyone else along with her?" He paused, waiting for his words to sink in before he added, shaking his head: "No, Éomer, it is Saruman who needs your attention now. I am afraid that there is no other way."

Éomer remained silent. Théodred was right, as much as he hated to admit it to himself. His cousin had not been the Mark's mightiest man of war for nothing before his death; despite his youth in comparison to seasoned captains like Grimbold and Erkenbrand, Théodred had always been a shrewd strategist and won many skirmishes by superior planning as opposed to greater numbers.

Not waiting for his answer, King Théoden's son added: "You doubt, and yet the situation may not be as grim as you figure it, Cousin. No longer do you stand alone; and you made some mighty friends along the way. Mighty enough to turn the tide for us, even, with a little help from the Gods." He smiled faintly at Éomer's sceptical expression.

"You mean those three wanderers we met on the plains? Aye, I agree that they must be skilled warriors; or they would not have reached the Mark. Their leader had something to him I cannot put into words… but despite their promise to help, they did not come to Edoras. I do not know why… whether it is because they met with an unfortunate fate on the plains or… because I misjudged their character. They could have said anything to save their necks when we had encircled them, and desperation might have led me astray, wishing for something that was not there."

"You will find out," Théodred said cryptically. "But you are right in one regard: The enemy's army grows larger the longer you wait. Your only chance of defeating it would be to attack it while it is still not complete. Every day counts now, Cousin. You must strike first and surprise them, or we will be outmatched to an extent that no matter what we do, we cannot emerge victorious. And when you go, you must rip out the plant by its roots, never to grow back. No matter where the traitor has his breeding pits, you must destroy them, so that no one can ever use them again."

Éomer snorted, understanding what his cousin was driving at.

"What you are saying is that I should stop lying around and act."

Blue eyes stared at him intensely, and it appeared to Éomund's son as if the older man looked right into him.

"Of course I realise that you will need at least a few days to recover. But you must find the balance. You will not be able to lead our riders if you can barely hold yourself in the saddle. But aye, I fear that there may not be enough time for you to recover fully before you must be on your way. It is a balance only you can find. For now, the best advice I can probably give you is to heed your saviours' words: rest while you still can, because the opportunity will soon pass."

And with a long, warning look, Théodred turned his back on him to wade toward the other side of the river. To his dismay, Éomer found that he could not follow him there. All of a sudden, an invisible barrier had formed between them.

"Théodred? Where are you going?"

"I must leave now. The world of the living is no longer my place. I gave you what help I had to offer, but the rest of the path you must walk alone. You know the direction you must take yourself now; you do not need my advice any longer."

"I will always need you, Théodred! Please…"

Feverishly thinking of arguments, but coming up empty, Éomer helplessly raised his hands.

"You have other help now, potent help, and it is given willingly. Accept it for the good of the Mark and free our people, Cousin! They are setting their hope in you, and they are right to believe in your abilities. You must find that confidence within yourself now, Éomer, there is no more room for doubt."

Having reached the other shore, Théodred turned around, and a choking feeling of finality robbed Éomer of his breath as his cousin raised a hand in a gesture of farewell.

"Follow your instincts, Éomer! Become the leader our people need in these evil times. They are waiting for you, and they are eager to follow the man they respect. Call them, and they will come!"

"When will I see you again?"

"I will await you on the other side in due time, and gladly welcome the saviour of our people in this realm, but not anytime soon. Until then, I bid you farewell, cousin!"

"Théodred!"

But already, a blanket of grey mist veiled the opposite riverbank from his eyes, and the river disappeared even as he dashed into the water, swallowed by whiteness. Disoriented and dizzy, Éomer halted. Turning on his heels as he tried to pierce the insubstantial wall around him, he briefly caught a glimpse of something darker to his left, and moved toward it. It was a path formed by trees on both sides of the way, their gnarled, leafless branches touching each other to form a solid roof.

Instinctively, Éomer understood that it was the path he was expected to take, and with a deep intake of breath, he straightened and squared his shoulders. Where it would lead him he did not know, but it felt right when he set foot upon it, and he submitted himself to its gentle pull…

Chapter 25: Awakenings

WHITE MOUNTAINS

After a long night of worry and concern, the world was ready to be born again and eagerly welcomed the first faint touches of daylight on the horizon. Yet they failed to lift Freya's spirits as they slowly illuminated the world beyond her window. Since her quarrel with Osred, the young farmer's wife had sat unmoving in her chair and listened to the soothingly regular breathing sounds of the wounded warrior, who was still lying motionlessly in the bed. Her gaze was unfocused and distant while her earlier argument with her husband echoed through her head.

'No matter what I do, I will never be more than second-best to you. It is not fair, Freya!''

No, it wasn't. Not for Osred, not for her, and not for Éomer. He had never asked to be born a noble and to lead a life of many privileges. She knew that those privileges were counterbalanced by high expectations and strict rules of conduct, a rather high price to pay, in her opinion. Why should the Third Marshal of the Mark not be free to take for his wife whoever he wanted, instead of who others deemed good or appropriate for their land?

And why should she not be deemed worthy, only because she could not write or read, or had no fancy dresses to wear or knew how to behave in the presence of the lords? All these skills were impractical when it came to ensuring the survival of one's family in this isolated part of the Mark, but still considered higher of worth than the vast practical knowledge she had accumulated in a life that had forced her to stand on her own two feet at a very young age. Where was the justice in that? Years back when she had just met Éomer, she had sent him away herself for those very reasons, having been raised with these traditions in her mind; but lately, she had begun to wonder.

Although she did not wish for a life at the court of Edoras, the thought that others might consider her unfit for it stung. What would those fine people do if they were ever forced to make a living out here in the mountains? Undoubtedly they would starve before the first month had passed.

Not that Éomer fit that description: though born a noble and taught the necessary skills to move securely and without fail at the court, her young rider had declared to her repeatedly how much he loved the straight-forward, uncomplicated life beneath the open skies. The dangers on the plains were well known to him and he was prepared to face them; even preferring to test himself against a severe storm or a group of enemies rather than being towed into a game of words with the council members at Edoras. It was the life of a rider he had been born for, and being part of a group of men loyal to the death to each other meant more to him that the approval of a court tactician ever could.

And that feeling was mutual: during each of his visits with his éored, Freya had clearly perceived the respect his riders held for their leader despite his youth. They respected Éomer for his skill and determination as much as for his humility; and his noble blood was of no concern to them. It were his deeds which had earned him that respect, not his lineage. The thought that one day, duty might call Éomer permanently back to Edoras and end the nomadic life he loved whole-heartedly, was a dark cloud on the horizon of his future, and for his sake, Freya prayed that it would never come to that.

'I do what I can, Freya, but I see that I cannot compete against him, and it hurts.'

She closed her eyes and fought against the rising tears at the thought of Osred's despair. Never had she intended to cause her husband pain, or to make him feel not good enough for her, and for all these long years, she had believed to have successfully hidden the true extend of her feelings for Éomer by disguising their mutual affection as ordinary friendship. With his powerful frame, his long golden mane and the contrast of his dark eyes in his well-cut face, the young marshal - in addition to the power which came with his title and his physical prowess - was after all a strikingly handsome man, and Freya was certain that women throughout the Mark regarded him with secret desire in each settlement he passed on his patrols. The sudden quiver of jealousy that thought woke in her came as a surprise, and she creased her brow. What was she doing? It was not her place to feel jealous about a man she could not have! Inwardly tensing, she returned from the foray into her mind to the narrow confines of the room to regard the object of her conflict.

Strangely, although he was slowly approaching the end of his second decade, Éomer had not married yet, and in the long years they had known each other, he had never told her of someone close to his heart except for his family. What did that mean? That he, too, was not ready to love another woman but her, that he instinctively sought her likeness and kept coming up empty?

It would have made it easier for Freya to give him up if she could tell herself that he belonged to someone else now, she mused, inwardly asking herself whether she was now blaming Éomer for her own failure. Yet how was she supposed to handle this emotional conflict in the future… provided that a future even existed for their people? Would it make things easier for her to ask Éomer to no longer visit her farm? Perhaps it would be the best solution, even if it would break her heart, and quite likely, his', too.

And what of her brother Halad? He had been eleven years old and unable to cope with their mother's death when that fateful winter storm had blown Éomer and his éored into their little valley, and at once there had been a strange connection between the lad and the young rider, one that endured even today. How could she cut that connection? What right did she have to do that?

The warrior's attention and understanding had brought Halad out of his self-chosen isolation, and Freya knew that up to this very day, he saw in Éomer a surrogate older brother and mentor, even if he had not followed in the rider's footsteps and became a warrior himself, for which she was thankful. As much as she respected the Armed Forces for their selfless service to their realm and its people, the thought of sitting at home worrying while her loved ones rode into battle was disquieting. She had lost her mother at an early age, and three years ago another hard winter had claimed her father's life after a long time of illness. Freya was not certain that she could bear another loss. With Éomer entering her life, she had not been able to avoid that fear altogether, but so far it had been helpful to hear of the battles he had been in only after he had survived them. She was not sure how that would be in the future, now that she had seen for the first time that he, too, was not immune against the dangers that roamed their lands.

So many questions, and after all these hours of pondering, Freya still felt unable to come to a decision. What was she supposed to tell Osred when she saw him later today, provided he would even speak with her? And what should she say to Éomer once he woke? No doubt would he realise the change if she suddenly kept her distance. How had her life suddenly become so complicated? With a soundless sigh, Freya settled back into the chair and though back to the day when she had first met her husband at the Harvesting Celebration in one of the bigger settlements in the Folde.

What had it been that had attracted her to Osred? His powerful frame and white-golden hair, a shade brighter than she had ever seen and which made him stick out of the crowd wherever he went? His broad, honest face with the big blue eyes which seemed incapable of hiding even the smallest thing from her, and which, during those the three days of the celebration, had sparkled with heartfelt joy whenever he had spotted her in the crowd?

Or the way he had treated his parents and younger siblings, with so much care and consideration that he had reminded Freya of her own family? Perhaps it was everything, and combined with the considerable skill Osred had demonstrated in the various farming competitions, she had somehow come to a reach the practical decision that he would make a suitable husband. She had liked him at first sight, hoping for love to develop between them; a decision of her head and not her heart.

Perhaps she had hoped to forget Éomer over him… and yet after all these years, it was still the son of Éomund who made her heart beat faster and who caused that pleasant flutter in her stomach whenever she thought about him. It was a sensation Osred had never evoked in her, and perhaps it was time to admit to herself that he would probably never do. Had she committed the worst mistake of her life by marrying him?

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Freya's gaze accidentally fell on Éomer's face… and with a jolt, she realised that his eyes were open and observing her intently; his expression a single great, unspoken question.

"So sad…" he whispered upon noticing her attention, his words almost inaudible, and his brow furrowed with concern as if he asked himself what had turned the spirited woman he had known since his youth into the sad creature sitting by his side.

While Freya still tried to think of an answer that would not result in a blatant lie, his hand emerged from underneath the blanket and opened to her in an unspoken invitation. With a lump in her throat and an involuntary glance at the still closed door, Freya finally laid her delicate fingers into his palm, her conscience crying out over her delight at Éomer's touch as he cautiously closed his hand around hers. The smile she forced onto her face felt entirely false, and nervously she asked herself whether he would notice. After a moment of mutual silence, the need to speak at last became too great.

"Not sad." The lie sounded awkward even to her own ears. "Worried, yes. And tired, too. I feared for you, Éomer, and I thank the Gods that they decided to let you live."

Anxiously she regarded his face, searching for the hint that gave his disbelief away. As was to be expected, he looked drowsy and exhausted, and yet Freya imagined seeing that glint of scepticism in his eyes she had feared to find. How could this man be so perceptive when he had only just woken after a night spent on the narrow ledge between life and death? But then again, wasn't this one of the qualities she had loved him for since the beginning? To this day, Freya had never felt so naked under Éomer's gaze, never more vulnerable: there was no hiding from these inquisitive, keen eyes, and she felt not surprised when, in response to his examination, he released her from his hold.

"I am sorry…" he whispered, a slight frown spreading over his face. "It is not my place to—"

She did not want for him to let go of her, and yet at the same time, she hoped that he would not touch her again. How was a woman supposed to endure that kind of conflict? Longer than necessary, she cleared her throat, but the lump that had formed inside would not disappear.

"You do not have to apologise, Éomer, please, don't be foolish." Ignoring the warning of her inner voice, she deliberately claimed back his hand. "How do you feel?"

He considered her question. The blistering cold which had mercilessly sucked the energy out of his body was but an unpleasant memory, and the throbbing of his wounds had ebbed to a more endurable level. In the wake of the fever, his body felt slack with weakness but at least pleasantly warm. His side and leg still hurt, but it was nothing unbearable, and as he freed his injured hand from underneath the blankets to look at the bandages, the swelling there seemed reduced, too. Aye, he had been lucky indeed, no matter how mangled he felt. His gaze found back to Freya.

"Alive," he replied at last, cautiously flexing his fingers. "I did not expect to…" His thoughts flowed apart, and in silent excuse, his lips curved upward in a sleepy, thankful smile. "You saved me," he whispered, the sincerity in his eyes sending a shudder down Freya's spine. Béma no… She wished he would stop looking at her like that.

"It was not I who saved you," she said at length and looked down upon her hands to avoid his gaze, attempting to give their conversation a new, less personal direction. "It was your friend; I only assisted him. He knows more about healing than I will ever learn. At some part of the procedure, he actually asked us for mould to work it into your wounds, can you believe it?" She laughed an insecure little laugh. "I thought he had lost his mind, but when I look at you now, I must admit that his unusual treatment has to be the reason that you are still alive… and it was he who found you, too."

She could see the confusion spread over Éomer's features. Too much information at once, too many words. She had been babbling, Freya realised. No wonder, considered how nervous she still felt in his presence. And she had so much looked forward to being by his side when he woke!

"My friend? Elfhelm? Éothain?" But what business would have brought Éothain into the mountains? And since when did he know about healing? Too exhausted to further follow the confusing train of thought, Éomer shut his eyes.

"His name is Aragorn. He said that he met you on the plains, and that you gave them horses to find their friends."

"Aragorn…" The sound of the unexpected name gave Éomer the strength to look at Freya again, even if his eyelids felt as heavy as horse-shoes.

'You made some mighty friends along the way. Mighty enough to turn the tide for us.'

Théodred's voice echoed in his mind, and through his exhaustion, he felt a sudden surge of excitement strong enough to prop his hands against the mattress in an attempt to sit up… but if his eyelids alone weighed too much to keep them open for longer than for a few brief moments, his body seemed to be made of lead, and he could not lift it at all. Groaning in response to the silver bolt that suddenly shot through his injured hand and side, Éomer sank groaning back onto the mattress.

"Careful, Éomer! Your wounds-"

Freya's hands on his chest, their pressure soft but insistent, were more than sufficient to keep him down. Fighting with his deteriorating concentration, Éomer gathered what focus he had left to ask.

"Is he still here?"

"Aye," Freya nodded. "He and his two friends spent the night here." Her mouth curved into a slightly wondrous smile as she remembered the sight of the three unusual strangers. "An elf and a dwarf accompanied him. They were the first beings of their kind I have ever seen, and still, I only had eyes for you, isn't that funny?"

Suddenly, heat crept into her face, and she stopped herself before she could say more than was appropriate given the current situation. It would not help things if she kept on letting Éomer know with each of her words how much she cared for him.

"The two slept over at Halad's house, but Aragorn is in the living room. It is still early and he is probably still asleep, but I am sure that he will look after you as soon as he wakes… he sat with you for most of the night, until he felt certain that the danger had passed."

"His friends… he found them?"

Gods, he could barely think. If only he wasn't so tired… There were so many questions to ask, so many things he needed to know. Like… Aragorn's presence in this isolated vale… what had brought him here, a long way from the Entwood and even Edoras, where he had intended to go? And what had kept him from honouring the promise he had made? He had not seemed to Éomer as if he was a man who gave promises lightly, and carelessly. Even in his feeble state, Éomer remembered clearly having perceived one thing about Aragorn son of Arathorn in the few moments of their conversation: that this man would always have a reason for his journeys and deeds, that he was not the kind of traveller who wandered through the world aimlessly.

"I do not know;" Freya spoke into his thoughts. "He did not mention them, but only the three of them are here, if that answers your question." She lowered her gaze to glance upon her restlessly moving fingers. Angered over giving away her emotions so easily, she folded them. "You can ask him later… but now I have a question, if you are not too tired to answer it, but I have worried about it all night."

From his own contemplation, Éomer's attention shifted back to her.

"Aragorn said that you were attacked by orcs, but I wonder, why were you alone? Where is your éored?"

A shadow fell upon his face, and Freya swallowed, fearing that she had said something wrong.

"Or shouldn't I ask? But I do care for them, especially for Éothain. Is he well?"

"I do not know…He was not with me. No one was."

Not feeling ready yet to confess what had happened, Éomer closed his eyes again, shame flushing his cheeks. No, it was not something he wanted to talk about; not yet. Not when he was just about to drift off again. But there was other one thing he had to know.

"Firefoot…?"

Freya smiled.

"He is here, and he is well. Halad looked after him yesterday. He says that he suffered a few scratches, but Firefoot allowed him to clean them, and they are no reason for concern. No need to worry."

"He protected me…several times. Without him, I would not be here."

"And you can visit him once you are better," Freya offered, readjusting the blankets and stuffing Éomer's hands back underneath. After last night, he still needed all the warmth he could get. "But for now, you must rest. Aragorn said that none of your wounds are too serious, but you were exposed to the cold for a long time, and also, that the infection weakened you. The best you can do for now is sleep and allow your body to heal. You are safe here, and there is no reason to rush things."

"There is," he mumbled, already half asleep again. "I must summon our forces… There's not much time left…"

"But I am sure that you will agree that you are in no condition to leave the bed yet, let alone ride through the Mark and give battle. They will have to wait."

"No time…" he repeated, barely audible, and then fell silent as he once again drifted off into darkness.

Although his words had been but a whisper, the sense of urgency in them chased a shudder down Freya's spine, and as she straightened, hugging herself, she could not shake the feeling that the storm which had been brewing on the borders of the Mark for so long was about to be unleashed…

Chapter 26: Revelations

Author's Notes:

At last, a chapter that brings a few new and heavily revised scenes again after the minimal changes of the last chapters. I hope you'll enjoy it.

EDORAS

It was the first sunny day in a long time, but the promise of spring it carried did not reach Éothain's heart as he got out of bed. His back still hurt, especially after the restless night that lay behind him, and as he shared the early morning meal with his mother, they both ate in worried silence and barely managed to swallow what little food Glenwyn had prepared for them.

Céorl and his men had still not returned, and both his wife and his son could not believe that they were still in Aldburg. As much as they wanted to believe it, but Éothain knew that his father would have been adamant to return to Edoras as quickly as possible in order to be ready for any of the Worm's moves. Where was he? Had something happened on the road? Or had they, too, fallen prey to Gríma's schemes in Aldburg, along with Elfhelm? Did the Worm control both cities now? The uncertainty of his father's fate threatened to drive Eothain mad, and he could tell from the deep shadows beneath her eyes, that his mother, too, had not slept the past night.

"Perhaps they are already preparing their actions in Aldburg," he mused, in an attempt to cheer up both her and himself. "Perhaps, they are right now summoning the Eastfold's éoreds and will march on Edoras to cast the Worm out. That would take a few days to organise."

Glenwyn looked at him thankfully, but unconvinced. She could see that her son did not fully believe in his own assumption, either.

"I hope so, Éothain," she said without much hope in her voice. "Believe me, I do… because the alternative would be that something happened to your father." Her eyes strayed over to the window, focussed on a reality far beyond it as she quietly whispered: "May Béma grant that he will be given back to us safely. It is the only thing I wish for."

A sharp knocking sound from the door interrupted her, and they both jumped. Éothain rose to his feet.

"I'll get it, Mother."

He hurried down the corridor and heard Glenwyn following, unsurprised. When he opened the door, he looked into Aedwulf's tense features and was immediately alarmed.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk, Éothain," his captain stated in a clipped tone, and, with a nod, asked: "May I come in?"

"Of course."

Éothain's stomach cramped at the sight of his comrade's obvious distress, as he opened the door further. A short glance at the world outside showed him that the streets were still empty. The sun had only just risen.

Quickly, the wiry Eastfold warrior slipped inside, and upon becoming aware of Éothain's mother, granted her a short nod.

"Good morning, Lady Glenwyn. I'm afraid I have bad tidings… or perhaps, they are not so much tidings than rumours…"

"What rumours?" Éothain asked him warily. Aedwulf inhaled.

"Anlaf is gone. We shared a room at the guesthouse, and last night, quite late, he said that he could not sleep and wanted to take a walk to calm down." A deep breath. "He did not return from that walk. I waited for quite a while before I nodded off, and he had not returned by then. And when I woke before sunrise, his bed was still empty. I looked everywhere in the guesthouse, but no one appears to have seen him."

Éothain lifted his eyebrows. A horrible feeling of growing dread began to occupy his mind.

"Is it known whether he has someone here he would visit? A woman, or…"

"You and I know that that is not so." Aedwulf's gaze pierced him. "However, I went out to look if his horse is still here, and as I walked down to the stables, one of the citizens opened his door and waved me closer." He swallowed and lowered his voice. "The man said that your father returned with his men last night. He saw them arrive…"

Éothain inhaled sharply, and looked over Aedwulf's shoulder into his mother's worried face, before his attention turned back to his captain.

"He also saw that they were at once apprehended by Gríma's guards, and taken up the hill. There was barely anyone in the streets who witnessed it, and he said that he watched it through his window, from behind the curtains, and therefore, probably, was not detected by the guards. It was purely by coincidence he even saw it, because it was all over very quickly." Aedwulf shook his head in mounting concern and narrowed his eyes. "I bet that if we looked for those other witnesses, that they, too, have miraculously disappeared. Perhaps, Anlaf was one of them."

His heart beating wildly all of a sudden, Éothain fought to squeeze his voice through the lump in his throat.

"So… you think they have been incarcerated?"

'Or worse,' was the silent answer in Aedwulf's eyes. There was no need to voice the terrible assumption, as they all shared it. "The question is: what do we do now? Surely, this is where all tolerance stops. Is it not, Captain?"

"You bet it is!"

Éothain inhaled, his thoughts already concerned with the necessary steps. Their weapons had still not been returned to them, and with good reason. Only now, in hindsight, Gríma's perfect plan to seize control became obvious.

Aedwulf lifted his chin.

"We will not be able to threaten them only with our hands though…"

"No, we will not." Éothain squared his shoulders. The path they had to take lay suddenly clearly before him. "Assemble our éored; I will summon Father's riders. We meet in the craftsmen's district in half an hour. I bet we will find a lot of things there we can use for weapons, perhaps even a few newly finished swords, spears and bows. When we tell the people what happened, I'm sure they will gladly give us everything we need. They might even join us."

His captain gave him a satisfied nod.

"What about any guards we meet? Not that I saw any on my way over, but…"

Éothain's eyes blazed with determination.

"Any guards you see are to be apprehended and immobilised. By force, if necessary. We cannot risk that anyone warns the Worm of our coming. This is it, Aedwulf. The day we have been waiting for. Let's make it count!"

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Daylight flooded the room through yellow curtains and bathed everything in a warm, golden glow when Éomer woke again. From outside, children's laughter reached his ears, a wonderful, long-missed sound of normality and joy. It market the absence of danger, and for a moment, while his body was still pleasantly heavy with sleep, Éomer allowed himself to just lie there on the mattress, unmoving, and stare at the ceiling, thinking of nothing.

"Ha ha! You missed! You are too slow!"

"Hrmpf! I will show you who is too slow here, young man!" a deep, rolling voice grumbled in mock-anger, and a lazy smile spread over Éomer's face when he recognised its owner. Béma knew he had made his own experiences with the temperamental dwarf; to the point where they had glared at each other over their drawn weapons. Had not Aragorn interfered at the last moment, they would have spilled each other's blood. And how foolish would that have been, for the enemies of the White Wizard to kill each other and help him in his evil task of emptying the plains of the Mark of all human life!

"The orcs do not fear Gimli son of Gloin for nothing throughout Middle Earth! Sooner or later, I'll catch you, and then I will tan both your hides!"

"You will never catch us!"

The sound of silent laughter reached Éomer's ears from the right, and cautiously, he turned his head to see Aragorn sitting in the chair Freya had occupied earlier. Strangely enough, the sight of Isildur's heir did not surprise him. Had not Théodred spoken of the mighty friends he had made and who had come to his aid? And Freya had mentioned him, too, he remembered. Their eyes met.

"He does not really mean it," Aragorn chuckled, amused by his friend's antics, which were invisible to him through the curtains, but which he could easily imagine. He was aware of Éomer's attention, and turned towards him now. "That dwarf loves to act as if he understands no fun, but he has a very big heart, that one, especially for young ones. Even though they are having their fun with him. I suppose they cannot understand how someone cannot be taller than they and not be a child. I can honestly say until today, I have never seen Gimli engaged in a snowball fight."

"A snowball-fight?" Éomer echoed in amused disbelief, trying to envision the stout, hairy warrior in that activity and failing. "I wish I could see them."

"You can, they are right in front of our window." Aragorn rose to his feet and walked around the bed to pull aside the curtains. The bright sunlight blinded Éomer, and he shielded his eyes as he adjusted to it after days of muted twilight in the caves. "Let me help you sit up." He offered his hand, and it was readily accepted.

Remembering how he had failed last time, Éomer cautiously pressed his free hand against the mattress and then slowly half-shoved, half allowed himself to be pulled into an upright position against the wall, grimacing against the renewed throbbing in his side. The effort brought beads of sweat onto his face, but it was a definite improvement from the first attempt a few hours earlier.

Aragorn nodded at him approvingly as he helped him make himself comfortable. Finally, Éomer leant back against the thick cushion in his back, and he smiled at the sight of the short-legged opponents racing through the snow in front of his window.

"Their aim is good. He stands no chance."

Aragorn nodded, satisfied, and thoroughly looked him over.

"I am pleased to see that you seem to recover extraordinarily quickly, Marshal. Finding you near death on that path last night came as a great shock… and I cannot help wondering whether your predicament was, at least in part, our fault. We had planned to join you much earlier, but circumstances were against us."

Éomer's smile died on his lips, and his gaze grew serious.

"I will not lie: your presence in Edoras would have been of great help to me. It might even have convinced a few important members of the Court that I was not a traitor."

Aragorn's eyes widened. He exhaled.

"They… expelled you for treason? That is why your éored was not with you!"

Éomer nodded bitterly.

"One of them betrayed me and breathed word of our meeting into the wrong ears. They made it look as if I planned to overthrow the King with your help… and saw to it that my Cousin, who would have been Théoden's successor, was murdered in an orc attack."

In stunned disbelief, the older man shook his head.

"I wish we had known. It certainly explains things…"

Éomer narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Aragorn straightened in the chair, and, with a last, fleeting glimpse at the happenings outside, turned around fully to face the waiting rider.

"We were hunted. That is why we were not able to keep our promise." He paused, looking into Éomer's aghast expression for a moment before he continued. "We made it to the Entwood and even found our friends alive and well…"

"That is good."

"…but we decided to leave them there for the time being. They are quite possibly at the safest place in all of Middle Earth. When we started back for Edoras, it was not long before we noticed that something was wrong. Legolas has the superior eyesight of his people, and it was he who noticed that there were several great orc hordes coming for us, long before they could catch our scent… interestingly, the greatest group seemed to come from the direction of Edoras, making it impossible for us to break through. They were too many, we had to evade them."

Éomer cursed soundlessly. He dimly remembered that Gríma had mentioned something like this to him in the dungeon. It seemed that he had, in fact, made a great effort to catch the three travellers. Of course, the question remained how such great orc hordes were able to move freely across the plains, but he assumed that the Worm had thought of that problem, as well, and grounded their éoreds.

"We were pushed far to the west," Aragorn resumed, "… until another great horde closed in on us from there, as well, threatening to surround us. The only way still open to us was the one into the mountains. We took it, after laying a few false tracks, hoping that they would not expect us here. Which is why we found you on that path."

"But they could still be on your tracks." Éomer narrowed his eyes. A shiver raced down his spine at the thought. Had they accidentally endangered Freya's family?

Aragorn weighed his head.

"Alas, I fear that I cannot rule out that possibility entirely, even if we tried our best to shake them off." He nodded at the younger man. "They could also still search for you. Last night's snowstorm should have covered whatever tracks we left, but…" he shrugged. "It would be foolish to assume that they'll give up so quickly. From what I'm able to gather from your words, your enemy is highly motivated to have you killed."

"Aye, without doubt," Éomer concurred, trying to put the dreadful thought somewhere into his mind where it wouldn't hinder him from planning. The man who might be the solution to the problems of the Mark was right here before him. Together, they would have to find a way to overcome their adversaries.

"There is one thing, however, which I do not understand," Aragorn confessed. "If they expelled you… why then would they hunt you? I have known Théoden-King for a benign ruler, although it has admittedly been some time since I have last seen him. Yet I cannot imagine that he would act that harshly against his own kin… that he would want you killed."

Éomer sighed.

"Like I said on the plains: the Théoden-King you are speaking of is no longer the man ruling us. That man is but an empty shell our enemy uses cunningly to weaken the Mark from within, for there are still too many men of power left who will do Théoden's bidding regardless of how strange or unwise his orders may sound to them. I assume there is no way of expressing it differently: my uncle has become the ultimate tool for the undoing of the Mark. He does not know how much damage he inflicts upon his kingdom. It is his so-called 'counsellor' who is the real problem: his name is Gríma, son of Gálmód, but we all only call him 'Wormtongue', as he is just as slimy and slithery. It is clear to everyone that his true master is Saruman, but they are all too afraid to act." He inhaled and lowered his voice, shaking his head. "How my uncle ever came to trust him, I will never understand."

Éomer fell silent, broodingly staring with unseeing eyes at the window when memory briefly overwhelmed him. At last, his attention returned to Aragorn.

"You say that you knew him before he fell under the enemy's influence… when was that? I do not remember ever having seen you in Meduseld."

"It was a long time ago," Aragorn said, deliberately imprecise as he knew that the younger man would be sceptical when he told him the truth. "It does not matter now. We will concern ourselves with him," he assured Éomer with conviction in his voice. "Once we defeated him and his minions, your uncle's condition may even be reversible."

"I must unfortunately say that I have my doubts."

From outside, a shrill shriek and ensuing laughter indicated that the son of Gloín had at last caught up with his tormentors, presumably treating them to a good, cold face-rub in the snow. For a moment distracted, Aragorn glanced outside, and the sight was indeed unusual enough to chuckle despite their serious conversation. Shaking his head in amusement, he turned back to the waiting Rohir.

"You already said during our first meeting that you know Saruman is your enemy now. Alas, I fear that I have further bad tidings for you; as it seems that he has turned not only into the Mark's foe. We have reason to believe that he is, in fact, in league with the Dark Lord, against all the free peoples of Middle Earth."

Once again, Éomer could only stare at the older man. Béma, And he had thought things could not possibly get any worse…

"So, Saruman is not the only foe for us to fear," Aragorn spoke slowly, reluctant to burden the still weakened warrior with the weight of his knowledge, but it was something Éomer urgently needed to know. "And the weaker one at that, I am afraid. Much weaker. The true adversary awaits us further east." He looked into hazel eyes in which rising alarm could be clearly read.

"The Dark Lord? Is that what you're saying? We need to fight him, too? Béma…" For the longest time, the two men regarded each other while the merry laughter outside seeped into the quiet of their room, suddenly very distant. "Is he the one secretly behind all that is happening in the Mark? So far, we thought he was only stealing our horses."

"For his armies, aye." Aragorn nodded, his keen grey eyes firmly focussed on the younger man's expression. "It seems that a union has been concluded between the two towers of Isengard and Barad-dûr; their aim being nothing less than the complete annihilation of all who are not on their side; be they men, elves or dwarves. Sauron is readying his forces to cover all of Middle Earth with a second darkness, and with each passing day, his power grows. Soon, he will be ready to strike, and if he gets hold of his most terrible weapon, there will be no withstanding his onslaught no matter what we do. In this hour of peril, my friends and I have come to Rohan to join the sons of Éorl in their fight and ensure that the war will not be brought to us from both sides. I do not know whether our presence here can tip the scales in our favour, but whatever can be done to achieve victory, we are prepared to do."

Chapter 27: Rebellion

WHITE MOUNTAINS

For the longest time, Éomer could only stare at Aragorn as he tried to grasp the meaning of the older man's words, and his stomach plunged into a deep hole as he contemplated the full extent of the ranger's revelations.

"Béma help us…" He sank back into the pillow, suddenly feeling bereft of all strength as his gaze sought the ranger's eyes again. "Once again, you bring me heavy tidings, Lord Aragorn. And this while I am not even convinced that our strength will suffice in dealing with only the one foe that we knew of."

"I know," Aragon sighed. „ And believe me, I would have liked to wait before I told you, but time is running through our hands, it would seem." He fell silent, and for a while, both men pondered the implications of the other's revelations and silence thickened in the small room until their attention was diverted from the problems at hand by a shadow that suddenly moved in front of their window.

"Are we interrupting something?" a cheerful voice, muffled by the glass, inquired, which was all the more disconcerting as all the two warriors saw was the large head of a grey horse. "I could not help noticing that the curtains had been drawn aside, and thought that this would be the sight that would brighten your spirits, Éomer!" The next moment, the laughing face of a young man appeared in front of the glass.

"Halad!" Éomer beamed and with astonishment, Aragorn watched as the young warrior's expression change without transition from dread to heartfelt joy. "How good it is to see you! And what a splendid idea of you to bring Firefoot!"

Éomer straightened again and allowed himself to be helped by Aragorn, miraculously finding some reserves of his strength within his body. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, although he could not suppress a hiss as an angry bolt of pain raced through his injured thigh. Yet not even this could ruin his sudden enthusiasm as he looked at the ranger, who respectfully stepped aside as to not interfere with what seemed like the reunion of good friends.

"Lord Aragorn, please, could you open the window for me?" Éomer's smile broadened when, in reaction to his words, the horse's head turned around and the stallion's warm breath obscured his sight as Firefoot sought for his master, whose voice he could hear without being able to detect his comforting scent on the air.

"Only if you wrap yourself into your blankets," the ranger demanded sternly. "I spent all of last evening trying to warm you up; I will not let you undo my work now!"

"Oh well... now you sound like my father, even if you could not possibly be old enough." Éomer grinned, to which Aragorn nodded in mock-threat. As the Rohir turned around, he noticed the sceptical look on Halad's face.

"I hope you don't mind me agreeing with him, Éomer, but it does sound reasonable. I did not see you myself last night, but Freya said that you looked like death personified when they brought you in, and while you certainly look no longer dead to my eyes, I would not yet go as far as to say that you're looking at the peak of health again."

"I see. It's a conspiracy!" Éomer nodded, his eyes narrowed, but of course, he had no valid points to make against the two men's concern, and so he sighed and blindly groped for the blankets behind him. "Very well, if you insist…"

"I do indeed. And as you know, I always get my will," Aragorn confirmed with a wry twitch at the corners of his mouth, but then helped Éomer to untangle and spread the blankets over the injured man's shoulders.

Briefly creasing his brow as he noticed that – during his unconsciousness - he had apparently been gifted with a new shirt and trousers - Éomer then looked up with the expression of a child promised a very special gift as the ranger opened the window. A whiff of crisp cold air carrying the distinct scent of horse immediately wafted into the room, and the rider's smile widened in untainted joy as he reached for his horse.

"Firefoot! Come here, you big, grey, courageous, stubborn mule!"

Hooking his fingers into the simple halter, Éomer pulled the big head closer and rejoiced at the sensation of the stallion's warm breath against his chest.

"He guarded you well," Aragorn said, smiling at the sight of the Rohir's reunion with his animal ally. He had never seen any man beyond the Mark's borders so attached to his horse, but then again, the memory of how the stallion had risked his life for his master was still vivid and strong. "There cannot be too many horses on the face of this earth that would defend their riders against a pack of starving wolves. He was a sight to behold when he fought them."

"Aye. Aye, he is special through and through," Éomer said proudly, his fingers circling the healing bite on Firefoot's cheek. "He knows it though and thinks it an excuse for his unsurpassed haughtiness. Don't you, Meara-mule?" With narrowed eyes, he regarded the thick crust of dried blood which had formed on the gash, sharing Halad's opinion that it was barely more than a scratch that would be forgotten in a few days. With a brief glance at Freya's brother he asked: "Is that his only wound?"

"There are a few more scratches and another bite on his left foreleg, but it does not hinder him. He doesn't even limp. I cleaned everything and he didn't even twitch." The young man clapped the stallion's muscled neck adoringly, and his smile broadened as Firefoot began to chew on Éomer's shirt. "He, that is my shirt you are destroying there! Watch what you are doing; I don't have so many that I can afford to let you eat them!" He gave the halter a quick tug, and the stallion tossed his head in refusal. "Èomer!"

"Now you want my help again, Halad, hm? Where is the cheek now that you showed to me earlier?"

The young man shrugged.

"Oh well, do nothing then. What do I care if your untamed horse eats your borrowed garments, for it is not I who will have to walk around naked in the snow once these are gone, as I have no others to spare." Immediately, Éomer tugged at the fold of the fabric Firefoot had in his mouth.

"It is good, Big One. I know how much you love me, and I love you, too. Now please, leave me this shirt if you will." He pressed against the grey head, and reluctantly, the stallion let go, but instead tried to seize his master's bandaged hand. "No. No, Firefoot!"

Having followed the playful exchange for a while, Aragorn strained to look past the stallion.

"Halad, can you see my friend back there?... Legolas, I mean?" Legolas had left early after the morning meal to search for tracks and find out whether they had been followed. He had been gone for a while now, and while Aragorn knew that the elf could certainly look after himself, he found himself getting increasingly impatient.

"The elf? Not since he left this morning." Halad's playfulness change to nervous uncertainty as he noticed the shadow that suddenly fell upon the Dúnadan's weathered face. "Do you believe he might have… found something unexpected?"

It was too early yet to be alarmed. Legolas was thorough, Aragorn told himself; there was no doubt that he would cover a great distance to ensure that his report would be well-founded. Distinctly aware of Éomer's suddenly wary look, the ranger fought the sudden feeling of foreboding and shook his head.

"No. It is nothing." None of the two Rohirrim looked particularly convinced, so he added: "Our company has been through a lot since we set out, and it makes one cautious. My friend is probably still underway, but if he is not back in an hour, I will go after him." He inhaled deeply and looked down on Éomer. "First though, I will have another look at your wounds and change the bandages. The injuries seemed less inflamed last time I checked, but I will not take any chances."

For a moment, the rider's gaze seemed to penetrate right into his thoughts, and in response, the younger man's expression likewise hardened as Éomer gave Halad a curt nod, dismissing him.

"Thank you for letting me see Firefoot, Halad. And thank you for taking such good care of him, too. There are few who could have done that."

The younger man smirked and briefly tugged at the stallion's halter to catch his attention.

"I know. And it makes me feel thoroughly special, knowing that your ill-tempered demon likes me enough to let me tend him." He clicked his tongue. "Come, Demon, and meet the ladies on this farm. We could do with some Méara-blood around here..."

With a last nod, he took the stallion with him and left the two warriors alone. Silently and brooding, Aragorn closed the window while Éomer leant back into his pillow, staring at his new-found ally with precisely the same sense of foreboding he had read in the older man's eyes.

"Orcs do not hunt in the daylight," he said slowly, yet not entirely convinced himself. The new breed of orc the White Wizard had bred was oblivious to the sun. Their skin did not burn, or they did not mind the pain as much. Of course it was possible that something had happened to the elf out there on the mountain path, and this very moment, a sling could be tightening around their necks they did not even know of. Aragorn nodded, instinctively understanding from Éomer's tense tone that the Rohirrim had likewise already encountered the new orc-species.

"He will soon be back. He just wants to be certain, that's why he is taking so long. I know it." Blinking as he shook off the cobwebs of the dark vision haunting his mind, the Dúnadan nodded at his patient. "Now let me see your hand again…"

OOO

EDORAS

The omnipresent buzz of the citizens on the way to their many errands came to an abrupt halt as all on the market square as well as the winding path froze in their tracks, and the atmosphere abruptly thickened with the weight of looming violence. A serious conflict was about to erupt, blood was about to flow, this much was clear to all of the onlookers as they watched with obvious tension in their bearing as their riders marched toward the Hall of Kings.

The sight and sound of the city's two éoreds storming up the hill with grim expressions, their hands on the hilts of their swords, spears and bows, and preceded by their young captain, whose blue eyes blazed with determination, could only mean one thing: the patience of their Armed Forces had ended. Word of Céorl's mysterious disappearance in the wake of his return from Aldburg had spread like wildfire through the city, and not only the people well-acquainted with the Captain's son expected that the numbness of the warriors in the face of Wormtongue's dubious orders would end with this unsettling incident. Meaningful glances were exchanged between the people, whatever could be used for a weapon was picked up, and suddenly, a great upwards movement set in, drawing the citizens to the place of the expected conflict…

OOO

MEDUSELD

"My Lord Gríma, quick! There seems to be mutiny in progress!"

Guthlaf the broad-shouldered half-blood threw open the door and stormed into the throne room, not caring who heard him as he frantically sought for his master's pale shape in the deep shadows. He finally heard the door to the King's chambers open and saw Wormtongue emerge with an expression of disbelief on his face.

"What are you saying, Gúthlaf? Mutiny? Who? And where?"

"A great crowd is coming up the path, and they look very angry! Captain Éothain leads them, and it looked to me as if he is accompanied by both éoreds! And not only that, many citizens seem to have joined them as well, armed with hayforks and shovels and whatnots. They must soon be here, and I don't think my men can stop them! There are too many of them, and they look quite determined!"

"Éothain, huh?" Gríma sneered menacingly. "What does that brat think he's doing? Does he think he is the Marshal now?" With a deep breath, he swivelled and looked to where his most loyal henchman was silently awaiting his orders. "Felrod, take a few of your men and get me Céorl and Éowyn from the dungeon. Meet me at the door, quickly! I don't care if you have to carry them. All others-" Wormtongue waved at the host of heavily armed Dunlendings occupying the throne room, who had already risen in expectation of finally being allowed to slaughter their adversaries without having to care for secrecy anymore. "Follow me! The moment for which I prepared you has arrived. It is sooner than I anticipated, but that changes little, they stand no chance against us. Come, my brothers!"

OOO

EDORAS

"What will we do once we're up there, Éothain?" Aedwulf asked underneath his breath, not wanting for anyone else to hear. Only two more switchbacks ahead, the dark silhouette of Meduseld stood in stark contrast against the cloudless sky. As the sun was behind it and blinding them on their way up, he could not see whether they were already being expected, but it would be foolish to think that they could surprise Wormtongue. "If they deny us entry – will we fight our way through to the King? I do not wish to fight against Háma and Gamling."

"If what I feared happened to my father, then Háma and Gamling won't welcome us at the doors," Éothain growled, his hand already sweaty on the hilt of his sword. Of course, it was not really his sword, but one of the ten they had been able to acquire from the craftsmen. They were unfinished yet, still lacking their ordered decorations, but their blades were sharp, and that was all that counted. And what was more, the craftsmen had been able to supply them with plenty more useful things: several finished bows and spears and axes, and a couple of war-hammers. Enough to make short shrift of whatever minion of Wormtongue's would dare to stand in their way. Many of them had even chosen to accompany them, armed with  hammers, clubs and iron bars, ready to finally make their stand.

"At least I hope it for them, for if they tolerated that, I would not spare them. Still, the other option is not really better, because it would probably mean that they are dead."

Once again, Éothain changed his grip, silently asking himself whether this was indeed the day when he would at last hew the Worm's ugly head from his shoulders. The whole situation felt decidedly unreal.

"Perhaps not," Aedwulf muttered without real hope, yet not wanting to resign to dread when nothing was proven yet. "Perhaps he locked them into the dungeon instead. As hostages. They could be of great worth for him… and your father, too."

It was not a question, and Éothain felt not inclined to answer. The rising noise behind them told him that many citizens had joined their éoreds, and his heart beat furiously in his chest, as for the first time in months, a feeling close to exhilaration flushed his veins. It was enough; finally, all were ready to fight against what they had earlier accepted as fate, and perhaps they would succeed in casting out the poisonous snake that was Wormtongue from the Hall which had provided him shelter to this day. Oh, how satisfying it would feel to stick his sword into the filth slowly and avenge all his brothers-in-arms who had died as result of all the cunningly laid traps Saruman's orc-hordes had been able to set with the help of the spy in their midst! And Éomer… Gods, he would cut the Worm into stripes for what he had done to his best friend!

"What will we do then?" Aedwulf interrupted his train of thought again. "What if Gríma locked up all who are not on his side and holds them hostage: Théoden, Éowyn, Háma and Gamling… what are we supposed to do then? Tolerate that they will be killed when we attack?"

Éothain's heart froze at his captain's question, for he had no answer to his very valid question. Angrily shaking his head to himself, he hastened his steps instead, quickly approaching the last switchback which would lead them to the stairs. He inhaled deeply.

"We will see how it goes, Aedwulf. But no matter what my orders will be, I need to know now that I can trust you to follow me." He turned his head to look at the older man without stopping and read consternation in the grey-blue eyes. "Can you promise me that?"

"Why wouldn't I-"

"Forget I said that," Éothain suddenly interrupted him, inwardly swearing at himself. Now was definitely the wrong time to alienate his brothers-in-arms. "I did not mean that-"

The sight awaiting them on the top of the hill silenced him like a blow to the gut, and as his men followed his gaze, gasps and swearing rang out into the air. Of course their ascent had not remained unnoticed, and he wouldn't have suspected so. Yet what he had not anticipated was the sight of the terrace in front of the Golden Hall brimming with dark-haired men dressed in rags and armour; all of them pointing their bows at him and his warriors. Dunlendings! Their swarthy appearance gave them away even though they were clad in Rohirric armour from head to toe. There were so many of them that the narrow space in front of the opened doors hardly seemed sufficient for all of them. He had not yet recovered from the sight, when a cold, familiar voice rang out into the stunned silence.

"No step further! Or all of you will regret it deeply! I will not hesitate to let my men riddle you with arrows if any of you so much as twitches!"

CHAPTER 28: A Siege and a Vow

EDORAS

Before he knew what he was doing, Éothain found himself stepping away from the mass of his comrades and setting foot upon the first step to the Golden Hall. Immediately, a thicket of arrows was aimed at him, and he understood that it would be the easiest thing in the world for his enemy to dispose of him now if he really wanted to… and dared to in front of the angry éoreds and citizens. Éothain did not believe that he did. Courage had never been Gríma Wormtongue's strongest trait. He was sly, and cunning, and opportunistic like a seasoned scavenger. Not the one to kill the prey, but the one who took it away from others when the opportunity presented itself.

"Why not shoot and be done with us once and for all, Worm?" the son of Céorl shouted, his voice firm and determined. "Why do you hesitate? Are you afraid that this would at last cause the uprising that will be your undoing? I fear that your assumption is correct. The people of Edoras have finally had enough of you, and they are ready – and eager - to demonstrate it."

Another step, closer yet. Now he beheld the pale figure amidst their enemies. In stark contrast to him, Gríma did not present himself as a target, and for good reason. Apparently, Saruman's minion had foreseen this confrontation, and there was no guarantee that his enemies would not use the first opportunity they saw to rid their land of their oppressor.

In fact, this had been the first instruction Éothain had given the best of his archers before they headed up the hill, and even now he knew that they were standing among the crowd with their arrows fitted to the string of their borrowed bows, ready for the first clear shot that would present itself to them. Briefly Éothain wondered why he felt no fear at the prospect of possibly walking straight into his death, but the answer was obvious: he was too furious to be afraid. Inside him, a cold rage burnt with devastating force; a fury that could only be extinguished with the blood of his adversary.

He lifted his chin.

"If you don't lay down your weapons and surrender this very instant, they will storm Meduseld despite of everything you've been threatening them with for the last months and years, Worm! Our éoreds and I are, in fact, your only chance to survive their fury. Accept it, or pay dearly for your crimes against the Mark! The choice is yours."

"What do you want, youngling?" Gríma sneered, his colourless eyes blazing with unspoken disdain, and Éothain halted on the little platform at the middle of the stairs, figuring that he had approached as far as possible without running the risk of being seized by the Worm's henchmen and taken for yet another hostage.

"You know what I want: I want my father, out here, safe and unharmed, leaving with us when we go. And I want Éowyn, and our King, and all you hold captive released immediately, or Béma help me, you will live to regret it!"

A disconcerting smirk distorted his opponent's features at the mention of these names.

"Is that so, young man? How comes that you feel in the position to make such a bold request? Alas, I realise that it is the fault of youth that makes you ask for far too much. Of course you are aware that I can't, and I won't, simply give my captives to you. They are my insurance that you and your men will not stupidly try to storm this hall and die in a hail of arrows, as would your kinsmen if they dared to follow. By keeping them, I am preventing, in fact, a bloodbath, so you should be thankful!"

Lifting his chin in a display of calm superiority, Gríma's gaze swept the crowd before him before his attention returned to the young captain.

"Of course, you must ask yourself now why I hesitate to kill you where you stand, but I fear that you must forgive me for now for leaving that question open. All happens for a good reason, is all I have to say to that, and I have another proposal for you as well, one you would be wise to accept: leave, and you and your men shall live… at least for a little while longer. Sheathe your swords and walk down that hill again, son of Céorl, and make sure that none of your comrades will be seen upon these steps or this path again, or I swear that your father will die a slow and painful death… at my very own hands."

With a brief glance over his shoulder, he gestured to someone still hidden within the shadow of the hall, and as that man stepped out, a dismayed gasp rose from the assembled riders, soon changing to shouts of rage: it was Felrod, the muscled guard in charge of Gríma's men, and behind him, chained and slumped between the two armoured Dunlendings supporting his weight, Captain Céorl of Edoras was brought forth, his tunic and breeches torn and dirtied by large stains of dried and still wet blood. Éothain felt the colour drain from his face.

"Father!"

Aedwulf could only see his captain from behind, but the young warrior's enraged trembling was unmistakable, and he knew that it was he who had to save his brother-in-arms from committing the greatest mistake of his life as he stormed forth and grasped Éothain before he could storm up the stairs.

"No! No, Éothain! Don't!"

"Take your hands off me, Aedwulf! That snake has my father, and I will-" More hands seized him, holding him back, although he fought like a beast to shake them off.

"That is what he wants, Éothain! Don't you understand?" With a quick glance at the waiting Dunlendings, the older man stepped in front of his captain, blocking his view. Éothain's cheeks were flushed with red-hot fury in stark contrast to the deathly whiteness of the rest of his face, the veins on his temples and neck standing out like strings as he fought against his own men. "He wants you for another hostage! Don't give him that!"

"But he has my father! Look what he has done to him!"

"Aye." Aedwulf seized Éothain's garments with both hands and stared at the young man with blistering intensity as he lowered his voice: "Aye, and it is terrible, but there is nothing we can do about it now, not while they have their arrows aimed at us and just wait for our attack. We must retreat for now, and return with a better plan when they don't expect us. We will free your father, I promise, but this is not the way to do it. We would lose!"

Breathing heavily, he studied his captain's expression, which changed only slowly from blind rage to a mixture of anger and defeat, and read in the blue eyes that at last, he was getting through.

Giving up the struggle against his own men, Éothain stared at Aedwulf, trembling with emotions he was not allowed to act on, his hands clenching the hilt of his unfinished sword so fiercely that his knuckles were white, then his gaze once more went over the other warrior's shoulder to where Wormtongue waited with an expression of confident superiority for his decision. He swallowed.

"What will it be, Son of Céorl?" the evil Counsellor raised his voice above the din of muttered curses as soon as he felt the young man's attention on himself again. "Do you want me to kill your father, or will you retreat? To make this decision easier for you, I should perhaps prove to you that he is, in fact, not the only person you care for who is at my mercy at present!"

Again he looked back and nodded, and if possible, the horrified reactions from the crowd were even louder when they beheld the lithe figure of King Théoden's niece in the cruel grasp of her captors. Clenching his jaw so tight that the muscles stood out from his neck, Éothain stared at the unravelling nightmare in front of him, rendered speechless.

"You will get what is coming to you, Counsellor," Aedwulf spat instead of him, the fingers of the hand he had laid onto Éothain's shoulder in a comforting gesture painfully digging into his comrade's flesh. "Béma sees what you are doing here, and when his punishment comes, you will regret that you were ever born!"

His outburst earned him a nasty smirk.

"Considering all ill that has happened to the Mark ever since your forefathers seized it by force from the Dunlendings, you still seem to put an incredible amount of trust into your gods, Rider! Tell me, where were your gods when your people were massacred in the Westfold? Where were they in the endless winter which ended the lives of so many of your kinsmen? And why, do you think, do they allow that your people suffer if they are supposed to be on your side? Explain that to me, please, for I do not understand it!" Silence answered him. "You have no explanation, isn't that so? Could it be that, perhaps, your gods do not care for weaklings? Could it be that your gods favour those who take destiny into their own hands instead of crying rivers of tears over the injustices done to them? Could it be that they favour the determined and strong instead?"

"They certainly do not favour filthy liars and deceivers, Worm!" Éothain finally managed to utter, steaming. "They may bide their time and observe thoroughly before they act, and I certainly would not want to be you when they at last enter into the fray. Aedwulf is right; your punishment is only a question of time and it will be befitting your crimes!"

Shrugging off his angry retort with a dismissive gesture, Gríma's cruel stare found back to the him after a suggestive glance at the barely conscious Céorl.

"Believe whatever you may, young man; I couldn't care less. Just tell me what I am supposed to do with your father now: slit his throat right here on the steps of Meduseld… or will you retreat?"

His voice quivering and his insides in an uproar as he met his father's gaze and then Éowyn's, Éothain at length pressed: "We will retreat… for now." He collected himself and his tone hardened when he added: "But there is one thing you ought to know: each man you sent into the city, no matter on what errand, will be killed upon sight. From this moment on, we lay siege to Meduseld, and whoever leaves it and is regarded as an enemy will forfeit his life. You cannot hide within the Golden Hall forever!"

He did not like the smug look on Gríma's face in response to his threat; it was as if the filth knew something that he didn't.

"We will see, young rider," the counsellor spoke with a tone that matched his expression. "We will see. If you think you can threaten me thus, you should know that it will be the captives who will suffer from a shortage of water and food, first. Now leave, if you don't want your father's blood to soil these stairs after all."

His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt, Éothain turned his back to the man he longed to kill more than he longed for the next breath, and Aedwulf relaxed slightly when he read in his comrade's expression that the danger of committing that deadly mistake had passed. If anything, Éothain looked even more determined now.

"You are right, Aedwulf," he muttered under his breath, taking no chances that the Worm could overhear them. "We cannot harm him now, but from now on, I want this path guarded day and night. If any of his scarecrows leave the Hall, we take them. We'll see how long they can do without water. He will not let his hostages die, nor will he kill them, or he won't have anything left to bargain with. It is an empty threat. Come. There is much to discuss!"

With a curt nod at his men, Éothain descended the stairs. Though the defeat hurt and the fear for his father and the woman he had regarded as his sister since his youth still threatened to choke him, he at last succeeded to lock his emotions away in a place of his mind where they would not impair his strategic thinking. It was cunning they needed now; a superior plan. Violence could not solve this problem. With a last look back from below at the stark silhouette of Meduseld, Éothain narrowed his eyes. Very well, if Gríma wanted to play a game of chess with him, he would do so. If only he had not this feeling of missing something important...

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

After the ranger had left and drawn the curtains before the window again, Éomer had settled back into his cushion and waited for the throbbing of his wounds resulting from Aragorn's inspection and cleansing to subside. With relief he had heard the older man's comment on how much better the gashes looked already, and yet he found it hard to accept his saviour's stern advice of a few more days of absolute rest. With all the ill news he had learned, how could Aragorn possibly expect him to stay in bed even for another day? His kinsmen needed him! Each day he waited, the Mark's doom drew closer... and at the same time, Eomer knew that the other man was right.

Though possessed of a will that was legendary and feared among the Armed Forces, his body was still too weak to follow the insistent urging of his mind. Simply being awake for the last two hours although he had barely moved had exhausted him to the bone, and once again Éomer felt as if all strength had been sucked out of his body to the point where even keeping his eyes open seemed impossible. Shutting them, he had dozed for a while and walked the strange land between wakefulness and sleep, when a hesitant rap asked for his attention.

"Yes?" His head felt too heavy to lift it, so he just looked at the opening door from underneath half-closed eyes. It was Freya's face which appeared in the narrow gap, an inquisitive smile in the corners of her mouth. Although weary, Éomer was glad to see her, even if her gaunt appearance and the dark circles underneath her eyes filled him with a sudden sense of guilt for being the cause of her concern. In a brave attempt to lift her worries, he cast her a sleepy smile to let her know how much better he already felt.

And yet he could not see whether his effort had been successful, for a most pleasant smell wafted into the room from the tray she carried, stealing his concentration, and his stomach, having seen only sparse rations of smoked deer meat and dried fruit for days, rumbled in anticipation. Embarrassed, Éomer pressed his good hand against the source of the noise in an attempt to silence the sound. Involuntarily, his body's reaction was what widened Freya's smile, even if there was still something in her bearing that disturbed him, something he could not name… except that this was not the uncomplicated woman he knew. With a smile that would not have raised anyone else's suspicion, but which did not reach her eyes, the farmer's wife slipped into the room and placed the tray onto the nightstand.

"So at last you are awake, Éomer! I was trying to ask you whether you were hungry several times today, but every time I did, you were either asleep or otherwise occupied, and I did not want to intrude." She nodded her chin at his middle section. "And now I no longer need to ask you, because your stomach answered that question for you quite clearly. You must be starving!" After a quick, nervous glance at the window almost too brief to notice, she helped him to sit up. "Try to eat as much of the meat as you can; it will give you back your strength."

"Thank you, Freya. This smells wonderful." Studying her strangely guarded expression, Éomer could not help feeling a sudden quiver of unease. He had never seen her like this; why was she so nervous in his presence, half of her attention apparently directed at the door even as she was addressing him? Unable to prevent a slight frown from creeping onto his face, he asked: "Has the elf returned yet?"

She shook her head; her thin lips forming an even thinner, bloodless line as she stared over to the veiled window apparently deep in thought.

"No. Aragorn and his friend went after him a while ago. I hope they find him soon, and that nothing happened to him."

Éomer looked at her sharply, a cold feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

"Aye. I hope so, too."

Not only for the elf's sake, but because Legolas' disappearance would mean the existence of orcs in the vicinity of the farm, a thought that froze his blood. What if the orcs Aragorn had spoken of had followed them into this valley and killed Freya and her family, just because their hunt for him had led them into this sheltered little vale? To soothe himself as much as his host, he added: "Those three know how to handle themselves, or they wouldn't have made it here all the way from the North through hostile lands and great peril. I am sure the elf's delay is only the result of his thorough search. They will be back soon."

Yet some vague shadow of the disturbing mental image which had assaulted him for a moment seemed to be written upon his face, for Freya's expression was now overcast with even greater concern as she turned her eyes from the window to stare at him.

"But you are not convinced of it, Èomer, are you?" She swallowed. "You do not need to say it, for I can see it in your eyes. Do you think your enemies will follow you here?"

He inhaled deeply. There was no point in hiding information she needed to know, not while the situation was still uncertain.

"It is possible," he admitted at last, meeting her frightened gaze. "Aragorn told me that they were hunted by a great host of orcs before they escaped into the mountains. They did their best to cover their tracks, but orcs hunt mainly by smell. I do not know…" Another breath, before he looked her full in the face. "The enemy wants my death, Freya, and I fear that he will take any measure he can think of to ensure that I am out of his way before he sets his armies in motion."

"Who is 'he', Éomer?" she asked lowly, her stomach clenching into a tight knot. Never had she seen her young rider so intense. "That evil wizard? And why were you alone when they found you; where is your éored?"

And at last, he told her of all the evil things he had kept from her for so long, meaning not to frighten her further when life in the isolated part of the mountains was already hard enough for her family. Hesitantly at first, but with growing conviction, Éomer explained about the King's predicament and the treason of Gríma Wormtongue, ending with the murder of his cousin and the ensuing events which had brought him to her farm. And she listened, never once interrupting him, and finally understanding that these were the days which would decide about the fate of their entire people. The realisation left her frozen. Wordlessly, the silence in the small room weighing down upon them, she stared with unseeing eyes into the distance.

"So it could very well be that we are all are dead before the next full moon." Her voice sounded dead already.

Éomer shook his head.

"There is still hope. I was on my way to summon Elfhelm and the Eastfold's éoreds to take them west and give battle when those orcs intercepted me. I know my men will still follow me, whether I am their marshal or not, and I am convinced that it won't be different with the rest of the Armed Forces. Even with Théodred dead, there are still mighty warriors on our side, and all is not lost yet." He inhaled. "And I would not underestimate what Aragorn and his friends can do for us; I have a feeling that they were sent here for a reason."

She furrowed her brow.

"Sent? By Béma, you mean?"

He knew how it sounded. And yet while he had never been the most god-fearing man, he also did not believe in coincidence… at least not in coincidence of this magnitude.

"First I met them on the plains, and despite Uncle's orders, I instantly felt that I had to help them. I can still not explain what made me place my life in the hand of three complete strangers, but I did, and in return, they saved me. No, this happened for a reason, and it is my firm conviction that the last word has not been spoken yet. The traitor in Isengard is too sure of himself, and it will be his downfall."

He fell silent, confused how he had suddenly come to feel so confident about the Mark's fate when he had watched it fall apart piece for pieces for so long. Once again, their eyes met.

"And I promise you something else: I will ride for Edoras, and I will kill the filth who helped him myself, with my bare hands if I must, and if it is the last thing I will ever do! As long as there is a single drop of blood left in my body, I will pursue the death of Gríma Wormtongue!"

Chapter 29: Confessions

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Éomer had eaten in silence, the atmosphere in the small room leaden in the wake of his dispiriting tale of the Mark's decline. He understood Freya's wordless brooding and the far-away look on her face as she contemplated the meaning of his words, but it was beyond him why she still held herself so stiffly in his presence, why her body language was so rigid, as if she barely dared to move.

She had been tense the entire time she had sat beside him in her chair, her gaze sooner directed at the distant world beyond the window than at him, evading him as much as she could in the narrow confines of the children's room. It irritated him greatly, and at last, Éomer felt that he had to inquire about the reason for the strange behaviour of the woman he had known well for eleven years and yet never seen like this.

"Freya?" His voice woke her from her absorption, and those grey-blue eyes that looked so large in her gaunt face turned to him with a distinct notion of wariness in her gaze. His frown deepened. "Will you not tell me what happened? Or what the cause is for your discomfort around me? I must say that I do not understand. Did I do something?" She flinched in response to his words, her involuntary reaction confirming to him the correctness of his suspicion: her strange bearing was not just an imagination. "Or is it something you would rather not talk about?"

It took no intensive studies of his host's expression to interpret correctly the two contradicting impulses on her face: the daughter of Féonwar reminded him of a wild animal, a deer perhaps, that still curiously listened to the cracking of dry twigs in the undergrowth while its muscles already vibrated with the impulse to fly. And she looked guilty, too, distinctly aware of what he meant, even if she still remained silent. Her expression more guarded than ever, Freya averted her eyes to concentrate instead on placing the emptied bowl he had sat aside on the tray to take it out.

"And what good would it do?" she replied at length in a flat voice bereft of hope. "For there is nothing that could be changed about it." Hesitantly she slanted him another glance, and although the moment was fleeting, the hurt in her expression sent a bolt of alarm through Éomer even in his state of leaden exhaustion. Straightening against his pillow, he extended his hand to touch her arm, an instinctive gesture to which she reacted as if he had meant to hit her, pulling away from him. Dumbfounded he stared at her.

"Was it is, Freya, tell me! Is it about Osred? Is he not treating you well?" He could not explain what had directed his thoughts in this direction, other than her repeated nervous glances at the door and window while she had sat with him, and was sceptical when she shook her head.

"Osred is a good husband, Éomer. It is not he who is the problem... it is I." Her surprising statement hung in the silence while she contemplated for a moment longer whether to tell him or not, whether to reveal her secret. But didn't he already know, deep inside, what she was hinting at? Didn't he feel it, too? Briefly shutting her eyes in a desperate hunt for the right things to say, Freya exhaled deeply before she summoned all her courage to meet Éomer's gaze, grateful that he had not interrupted her and thus granted her the time to bring at least some kind of order to her thoughts, even if her insides still felt in an uproar.

"Osred... he is the kind of man every woman in these isolated settlements hopes to find one day: he is crafty and practical, he is eager, he is strong and protective and selfless. He works hard to ensure our survival out here, and he is a loving father."

"But something is missing, you mean. Something you would seek for in a man with whom to share your life."

It was a statement, not a question, and she nodded slowly as she stared at the closed door, still seeing all-too-clearly the expression of deep hurt engraved in her husband's weathered face as he observed her tender moment with the warrior and understood that he would never be able to evoke the same emotions in his wife as the esteemed rider of the Armed Forces.

"Do not misunderstand me, Éomer; I do care for Osred, but I fear not in the way he deserves. It is a different form of love that I have for him. I respect him for his commitment and dedication and his hard work… but in the end, it is just this: respect... and partnership. We work well together, and we get things done. Our farm has never been in a better state, but that is not what marriage should be about, is it?"

She fell silent, an expression of remorse and guilt wandering over her face, for a moment uncertain whether it was wise to go on, but now that she had started, Freya felt it impossible to hold back the outpouring of her emotions any longer. She had to get this out once and be done with it for all time. Perhaps Éomer would understand, and perhaps he wouldn't, it was not in her hands.

"I always thought that I should feel differently about the man to whom I swore my oath. That he should make my heart beat faster whenever I thought about him. That the thought of him should fill me with a warm feeling, and that I should barely be able to stand being separated from him. That we should be two halves completing each other; the sum of us being more than one whole thing, something greater."

Her lips tightened, and a terrible honesty shone in her eyes as she looked Éomer straight in the face.

"My marriage is none of these things, Éomer. Osred doesn't know how to make my heart beat faster; he doesn't know how to make me dream, nor would he understand what dreaming was good for, for he has no dreams himself. He only knows common sense and the world he can see and touch. For him, the world is divided into 'useful' and 'useless' things. All those things your friend told us about, the far reaches of the lands he wandered through and the beings and creatures he has seen... Osred has no interest in that; it does not exist for him. As long as it does not concern our farm-life, he is not even curious to hear about new things. He is satisfied with being faced with the same challenges year after year after year; he doesn't want to hear about other people or other races. He doesn't like surprises and thus he never surprises me..."

She swallowed at the disillusioned tone of her own voice.

"Life with Osred is predictable, Éomer, and it is all about duty and work and reality. All these years that I lived in this vale all alone with my parents and my brother and sisters... I never felt that our world was too small or that there was something missing. But lately, it feels as if the mountains are closing in on me, as if their ring around our valley narrows each day that I spend here. Some days, it feels as if I am slowly suffocating. If it were not for our children…"

She broke off, uncertain about the continuation of her confession.

Listening with mixed feelings, Éomer could not help but wonder: "Did you ever tell him? Try to change things? Perhaps he doesn't know what it is you want."

She looked at him wearily and shrugged.

"How do you explain the importance of dreams to someone who has none himself?"

"But there must have been a reason for you to choose him. I remember that you wedded very quickly. From one visit to the next, things changed from where you did not even know Osred to him living on the farm with you. I was very surprised, to say the least." Did she hear indignation in his voice, or was it just wishful thinking?

"It is the usual way to marry out here in the wilderness, Éomer. We live so far apart from each other that there can be no courtship. We meet at the spring or the harvesting fairs, and if we do not find each other too terrible, we will take them home with us if they possess the necessary skills. I do not have to tell you how hard life is out here. I could not manage it on my own, no matter how crafty I may deem myself. There will always be a task that requires more strength than I have, or an additional pair of hands. It was my head that chose Osred; it was reason, not emotion. We cannot afford to wait for love out here; we must take what we are offered. I needed a man who would take care of my family and me, and I thought that with time, love might develop between us. And yet my heart would not let itself be fooled, for it had experienced that feeling once and to this day, it is someone else who evokes it in me."

She looked at Éomer openly as she submitted herself to his judgement, not entirely sure what she wanted to hear. Perhaps, it would make things easier if he laughed at her; perhaps it would be best if he found her secret longing ridiculous. Her heart would probably break, but she would be cured of her ridiculous dream. But Éomer did not laugh; he frowned like someone who had been given bad tidings instead of a declaration of love. Was this better?

"Freya..." Visibly shocked by her confession, Éomer reached for her hand, and she allowed him to take it at last, savouring and hating the feeling at the same time, for it tore her apart. "You know that there is no way for us-"

"Aye, we decided long ago that we could never be together. You are a warrior; I am a farmer's daughter. You are a noble, our next and perhaps last king the way it looks, and I am a commoner. The Mark can not have an uneducated farm girl for her queen; nobody understands it better than I, and I wouldn't even want to live at the court of Edoras. We talked about this before. And yet what can I do when my heart feels differently? All these years, when you visited us on your patrols, it was you who lifted me from of the bleakness of my life; with your tales of your battles and the bravery and courage of your riders. Or when you sat with Loégar and Edilda when they were smaller, telling them of our ancient kings and legends. It was not only them who listened with baited breath; I was, as well. The way you told those stories, the way you made them come alive…you made me feel the adventure as if I was right there. And I remember the passion with which you told me of your dreams and plans for the future…it is something Osred could never do. He doesn't know about passion. I have lied to myself for so long, Éomer, telling me how foolish I was to feel that way when I lay next to Osred in the night and listened to his breaths instead of yours. I thought that with time, I would learn to take those feelings I had for you and shift them to him… but I cannot." She took a shivering breath, and when she continued, her voice had lowered to a whisper.

"It all came to me last night, when your friends brought you here on the edge of death, bloodied and pale and cold like the snow… and I understood at last what it would feel like to lose you forever, and it was devastating, Éomer. I…"

Sshe wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and ran it nervously through her hair, uncertain whether she was right in confessing her innermost feelings when it would only make things harder.

"I felt that with your death, something in me would die as well, something that would be lost for me forever. My children would have forced me to carry on, but life would have held no more joy for me . It would have been like waking to a world without sun for the rest of my days. Osred must have seen the realisation on my face when he saw me sitting with you at dawn, and he understood it at once. Aye, I still love you, Éomer, even though I know that I mustn't. I cannot help it."

Now the tears came and she hid her face in her hands, embarrassed to cry in front of the man who had once admitted to love her for her strength. It did not help in keeping her composure that she suddenly found herself enveloped in two strong arms, but she could not fight against something she had longed for for so many years: to be close to Éomer, to feel his warmth and the firmness of his muscles underneath her fingers; to hear his soothing voice whispering into her ears. She knew that all these things were wrong, and yet at the same time, they felt so very right. Caught in the storm of her contradicting emotions, she surrendered to the sheer hopelessness of her situation.

"Sssshh…" Éomer soothed, for once speechless as he held her head against his shoulder, his mind racing as he feverishly sought for a solution. "Freya…" but the words would not come. Or rather, he had something to tell her, but hesitated to utter it for fear that it would crush her completely. Yet before he could think of anything else, she straightened in his arms and leant back; probing his expression with an intensity he had never felt from the frail-looking farmer's daughter.

"It is not the same for you, Éomer, is it? You would have told me now if it was so. I can see you are battling with something you do not want to tell me. Please, I need to know. It might make it easier for me to let go of this ridiculous dream of mine."

"It is not ridiculous," he objected, squirming awkwardly. How to bring this to her without hurting her? "Freya…" He inhaled deeply. "We have known each other for a long time. We were both very young when we met…"

"And your feelings for me have changed since then," she completed the sentence for him, laughing unhappily. "Aye, I understand. I told you that we could not be together, and you took your passion elsewhere. Of course, I never expected you to wait for me to change my mind. I just wondered…"

"Yes?"

"Why did you never take a wife, Éomer? Each time you visited me, you always spoke of your riders and errands, and your sister and your cousin. You never told me about anyone else dear to your heart, and it made me wonder…" She summoned her courage. "It made me wonder whether I was not still in your heart, too, blocking the way for anyone else seeking entry."

For the longest time, he looked at her, thoughts racing his mind he had pushed in the background for what suddenly felt to him like an eternity. How long had it been since he had last contemplated matters of the heart, rather than battle strategies?

"Perhaps it was so at first," he admitted at last, thinking back. "It took me a while to understand, and then, to overcome my disappointment. For the first several times we met afterward, I actually dreaded to see you for fear of what your closeness would stir up in me."

"Aye," she nodded, like he lost in their shared memories. "You avoided me. I remember fearing that I had lost you after all, that you were unable to maintain a friendship with me even though you had said that you would make the effort." She looked down upon his hands, which still held her much smaller one firmly in their grasp. "May I know what changed your mind in the end?"

"It was not a conscious decision, at least not one that I could remember. It was a process; a combination of knowing that we were simply not meant to be, a constant need to be on the road in search of the enemy and at the same time, the growing conviction that I had been born a warrior. Elfhelm had been right back then when he told me to my face that I would never find contentment in the life of a farmer; it would have ended in misery for the both of us had we stayed together, Freya."

"I know this," she admitted silently, lowering her gaze. "It was the one thing I perceived when I first laid eyes upon you: that despite your youth, you were a man bursting with purpose. That you would not rest until you had achieved your high goals, and that you would never abandon them to sow crops in an isolated part of the Mark." The conviction in her expression grew as she added, bravely forcing herself to smile: "You have become our land's greatest protector. It would have been selfish and irresponsible of me to keep you from your true calling. Perhaps it is this I should try to remember whenever I feel again that life has been treating me unfairly."

"We may not have become lovers, but we have become kin, Freya. We are as close to each other as we can possibly be. You are right in saying that my feelings for you have changed, but it is not for the worse: you are as dear to me as my sister by blood, and I would tear myself in two to keep you and your family from harm. You will always have a special place in my heart, which may be more than any woman I marry in the future may ever be able to claim."

He wondered of which future he was talking. By the look of things, his worries would be non-existent before the next full moon, his dreams and desires like those of his uncounted kinsmen trampled underneath the feet of the White Wizard's armies.

"Do not speak so," Freya interrupted him, deeply moved by his confession even if it did not change things. Perhaps she could learn to live with this thought, even if it still felt strange to regard the man who had evoked the strongest emotions in her she had ever known as a brother. Yet faced with the choice of either that or nothing, how could she choose nothing? Laying her free hand against his lips, she whispered: "You will find a wife you love, and she will love you back, I know it. Once this war is ended, you will find happiness and contentment in a woman's arms, and I will be glad for you when it happens."

She leant forth to kiss him gently on the cheek.

"And you?" he asked, uncertainty colouring his tone. "What about you?"

"I suppose I will have to learn to fill out this new role you appointed to me…" She smiled at his sceptical expression, but it was a sad smile. "From now on, you have an older, wiser sister. You will hate me soon enough."

He returned her smile although he felt its true nature and could not help admiring her for her courage.

"I doubt it. But what about you and Osred? How will you go on?"

Her gaze travelled over to the door, and now even the sad smile vanished from her face.

"I will have to speak with him. I do not know if we can change things between us; I doubt it in fact. I know that I will not be able to change who he is, but perhaps I can make him understand what it is that I need from him. If we both make an effort, perhaps… we can solve this. I cannot imagine living a life without love." She looked unconvinced, but no longer as hopeless as she had at the beginning of their talk. Lovingly, Éomer stroked her face.

"I wish you happiness, Freya. You deserve it." A thought entered his mind, and although he felt reluctant to utter it, he had to know the answer to it. "Perhaps I should stay away for a while. For as long as things are not clear between the two of you, Osred will continue to consider me a threat, no matter what you say. I know I would do the same in his position."

"Would you?" She straightened at the sound of running from behind the still closed door. She had been with Éomer for a long time; now it was time to speak with her husband. "Aye, I believe you are right. But don't stay away for too long, or your new family will feel neglected. As for now, I have but one more request for you: Get well soon!"

"Mother? Mother, are you in here?" Her son's voice sounded to her through the thick wood, and Freya rose to her feet.

"You should rest now, Éomer, you look tired. Please, forgive me for bothering you with my personal problems. You already have enough to think about without my petty- "

"There is no need to apologise, Freya," he interrupted her. „I feel honoured that you told me, and I do believe that something good will come out of it for the both of us."

He smiled weakly; barely able to keep his eyes open as a leaden heaviness overcame him. He sunk deeper into his pillow.

„I hope you are right, Éomer. Now sleep. It will help you heal."

Picking up the tray, Freya gave him another grateful glance before she turned to the door, opening it. A young expectant face looked at her.

"Mother? Can I ride Snowflake? Halad said that he would take me with him, but I should ask you first. Please, can I?"

"Can I, too?" As usual, Edilda was not far whenever there was the possibility that her brother could be allowed a thing that she might not.

"Snowflake? That horrible white thing Halad calls a horse?"

"Please!"

"Please, Mother!"

"Well, if Halad says that it is safe…"

With a last glance back, she closed the door behind her, her smile dropping from her face when she discovered that Éomer's eyes were already shut and that he seemed to be half asleep already. Now all who was left to pretend happiness to were her children, and they were by far too excited by the prospect of being allowed to ride her brother's big plough-horse to notice her misery.

"All right, you two. Go. But tell him that I want him to be cautious, or I will need to have a word with him. Do not leave the farm, and no galloping!"

With a cheerful shout, the two children stormed out of the house, their voices soon muffled by the closing door as they raced over to their uncle's house. A faint smile on her face at the sound of the little ones' enthusiasm, Freya went into the kitchen and set down the tray, for a moment lost in thought. She did not know whether to feel saddened or glad at the thought of Éomer's confession. While the depth of the feelings he held for her was comforting, they were of a different nature than she would have wished for. Still, wasn't it better this way? Wasn't it better than knowing that he, too, longed to be with her, and that all that kept them apart were the strict rules of their people? If he had learned to accept this fate, perhaps she could, too, all the more as there seemed to be only two possibilities left for her: to either send him away for good or to learn to be satisfied with what she could have. She did not want to send Éomer away.

With a deep sigh, she turned her attention to the pile of used dishes that had accumulated since the morning. Perhaps it would help to work some of her frustration away. It took her another moment to come to the realisation that she was not alone. Turning around on her heels, her gaze went back to the door she had just passed. It seemed that Osred had been waiting for her to notice him, and from the look upon his face, he had heard every word of her conversation with Éomer.

Chapter 30: Battle Plans

EDORAS

Numb in mind and body from the horrible scenes she had been forced to witness, Éowyn offered no resistance as the guards brought her back to her cell and sat down on the wooden bench that served as the laughable imitation of a bed. Not that she expected that she would be able to sleep anytime soon. What she had experienced over those past few days alone would probably suffice for a lifetime of nightmares, and she had the distinct notion that she had not even witnessed all the cruelty her adversary was capable of, yet. Involuntarily rubbing her arms to restart the circulation of blood to her hands after the guards' cruel grip, the King's niece stared wordlessly into the flickering twilight until the echoing of steps died down and the distant thunder of the shutting door told her that they were alone again in their part of the dungeon.

"What happened?" Elfhelm asked hesitantly, his tone and expression tense as he lifted his head. "What did he want from you?"

"To show me to his enemies. Me and Céorl," Éowyn replied in a flat voice, still seeing the scene vividly in front of her inner eyes: the horror in Éothain's eyes when she had been presented like a trophy, and his anguished outburst when the Worm had confronted him with his severely wounded father. For a moment, she had prayed that Éothain would order the attack regardless of the Worm's threats and end this farce of a Dunlending-held Meduseld, no matter how high the price. But even before he had answered to Wormtongue's challenge, deep inside Éowyn had known that the young captain would never dare to endanger his kin and friends even before she had seen his strikingly blue eyes cloud over with the signs of defeat.

With a soundless sigh, the daughter of Éomund tilted her head to face the chained warrior in the opposite cell. The man her adversary would use to break her, she held no illusions in this regard. She could not yet imagine the torture the Worm would submit Elfhelm to in order to bend her to his will, but the half-breed's inventiveness was beyond doubt. Would she be able to stay strong upon having to hear the anguished cries of the man whom she had known since early childhood when Elfhelm had served as an ordinary rider under her father? The man her brother regarded as his mentor? Her blood ran cold at the thought, and she fought to push it away for the time being. She would be faced with the reality of it soon enough. Lifting her chin, Éowyn sought the Captain's gaze, forcing herself to answer his question with the calmest voice she could manage. It would not help their situation if she broke down now.

"Éothain and his riders threatened to storm Meduseld, and they were accompanied by many angered citizens. It seems that finally, they are no longer willing to tolerate his reign. They challenged Gríma, but the Worm once again held the sharper weapon in his hands. He threatened to kill Céorl and me if they attacked, and Éothain would not dare it… I almost wish that he had. He places the worth of our lives higher than that of all citizens combined. That cannot be right. I do not want my life bought with that of dozens of our people."

"Don't blame him," Elfhelm soothed. "I would have acted the same way. Most of us would have. The filth knows that. It is our weakness, but it is a weakness I am proud of. The Éorlingas care for each other, and we will never abandon our kin and friends lightly; it is for this reason that our people still endure after five hundred years of hardship. If we gave up more easily, we would have perished a long time ago. So, I say that this weakness is, in fact, our strength. Our enemies fear us for our determination."

He fell silent, trying to think, although it became increasingly more difficult with the pounding pain in his head and the intensifying thirst and hunger. The gashes he had sustained in the fight did not bother him much yet, but they added to his overall weakness and Elfhelm knew that they would get infected if he did not see a healer soon.

"So, Éothain retreated, you say. I wonder what he will do now. He is smart, he will think of something."

Éowyn looked at him doubtfully.

"He threatened to kill Wormtongue's men if they leave the hall for water and supplies, but I don't think they will…" Nervously chewing on her lower lip, Éowyn recalled what she had seen. "It looked to me as if the filth counted on such an outcome and made the necessary arrangements long beforehand. I saw many sacks and large vessels stacked in the throne room when they led me to the door… as if Gríma expected a siege. I would not be surprised if he emptied the entire storage shed. If Éothain thinks he can get to him this way, I fear that he is mistaken." Her attention returned to Elfhelm, and if possible, her bearing became even tenser. "Still, I cannot shake the impression that Wormtongue does not count on a long siege… One of his remarks made me wonder whether he knew something no one else has an inkling of yet."

"You mean that he is waiting for something to happen? Or for someone to arrive to solve the problem for him?" Elfhelm inhaled, and his frown deepened. "Even if he got his greedy fingers onto all of Edoras' supplies, holing up in Meduseld will not get him out of danger. He has to know that sooner or later, our people will find a way to get to him, even if they have to turn every little pebble the hill consists of to find the secret tunnels in the rock. No, he is waiting for his master armies, or perhaps even his master himself will come here."

The thought of the White Wizard upon the threshold of Edoras robbed him of his breath. What would Saruman do to their people once he took possession of the City of Kings?

"Could it be that they are already on the way?" Éowyn forced herself to remain composed, although the images of bleeding people and the burning city suddenly overwhelmed her. "Could it be that the Westfold is already ablaze with war and its inhabitants dead, and that the plains are swarming with orcs marching for Edoras?" She stared at the shackled warrior and saw the paralysing dread she felt herself mirrored in his eyes. "We have no way of knowing, Elfhelm, but I fear that it might be so. The wheels are turning and the last pieces of Wormtongue's plan have fallen into place, and there is nothing left to do for him now but wait for the host that will murder his foes and free him. That is why he was so calm when Éothain challenged him: there is no need for him to leave Meduseld. Without a miracle, in a few days the Riddermark will be a deserted wasteland bereft of human life, and he knows it."

The sheer enormity of her sudden realisation choked her.

"Béma…" Stunned by the same imagery, Elfhelm stared into the flickering semi-darkness. Éowyn's assumption made perfect sense. Shaking his head as he fought to subdue the terrible cries and pictures which threatened to flood his mind, he lifted his head with an effort, involuntarily grimacing at the stinging of his wounds. "But such a miracle… who should bring it to us? Your brother?"

His expression left no question that he did no longer believe Éomer to be alive, and his hopeless demeanour caused a sharp bolt of pain to pierce Éowyn's heart. If not even the always optimistic Captain of Eastfold believed in her brother any more… She could not speak, choking despair leaving her mouth dry like sand.

"I assume that we can forget about Gondor coming to our aid," Elfhelm meanwhile continued, looking through her as he wrecked his brain for a flicker of hope that would help to carry them through the darkness of these days. "They did not answer to any of our calls for a long time. Like the Steward's son said, they are hard-pressed themselves to repel the enemy again and again and can spare none of their soldiers. Not that I believe that they would send them even if things were different. Gondor has long forgotten about our old alliance. Five hundred years have passed since Éorl's glorious ride, and to many of that high folk, it is barely more now than an ancient myth. A tale for their children when they take them to bed, but not something founded in reality. Nowadays, those fine people think of us as barely more civilised than the hillfolk. We are savages to them, not worthy of their allegiance."

"If that is indeed what they believe, then both Gondor and and the Mark will fall," Éowyn said lowly. "Do they not understand that the war will come to them from both sides if they allow Saruman's armies to slaughter us? Our foes are the same, why then do we not fight together?" She waited for another reply, and when none came, looked to the side to see Elfhelm's face contorted into a pained grimace, his eyes tightly shut. The sight of his distress chased a shudder down her spine and she jumped to her feet. "Lord Elfhelm?"

He groaned.

"Forgive me, my Lady. It is just my head. That coward whom the Worm calls his right hand hit me last night when they captured us. Not to worry, I've experienced hangovers that were decidedly worse than this; it takes more to take me down." Éowyn's gaze was still sceptical when he looked up, and to divert her attention from his problems, the Marshal of Eastfold decided to change the topic of their conversation. "How was Céorl faring when you saw him? You said that the Worm used him, too, as a shield against Éothain. Could he walk by himself?"

Her expression even graver than the one with which she had regarded him, Éowyn shook her head.

"He seemed to be barely conscious and had to be supported by two men to walk. I fear for him. He needs a healer urgently, but I doubt that Wormtongue will allow Yalanda to see him. If he gets no help…"

She had not the heart to finish the sentence, but the Captain of Eastfold understood her regardless, and he evaded her compassionate gaze. Summoning what strength was left in him, he inhaled deeply and then shouted into the darkness: "Céorl? If you can hear me, Brother, then answer me!"

Anxiously, they both listened into the ensuing silence.

"Céorl?"

Another breathless moment passed, and then a faint echo answered them, and it was a voice they recognised, even if it wasn't the one of the Captain of Edoras; its words so distorted that they were almost impossible to understand.

"That must be Gamling," Éowyn said tonelessly.

"Aye, but could you understand what he said?"

"I am not sure…" Her eyes widened with dread. "But I think he said that Céorl no longer answers him either. And they are in the same corridor…"

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Loose pieces of a distant conversation trickled into Éomer's refuge from outside, gradually waking him from the state of dozing which had overwhelmed him after the meal and the intense conversation with Freya. The young woman's difficult situation had even followed him into sleep, resulting in a strange dream where he and Osred had entered into a shouting match about who had first mentally deserted the farmers' daughter.

Glad to leave the disturbing scene behind as he woke to the reality of his room, Éomer soon recognised with relief Aragorn's calm and at the same time firm voice as he spoke with Halad, and yet he already caught an undercurrent of urgency in the ranger's tone that troubled him deeply enough to reach for the edge of the mattress in an effort to sit up.

"Lord Aragorn! Thanks be to Béma, you have returned! We already feared for the worst because you were gone for such a long time… But I see that you found your friend."

"Our apologies, Halad. Yes, all is well with us, but we made a discovery that needed our attention, and I am afraid that we return with bad tidings. Can you please go and fetch your wife and Osred and meet us in the main house? We must talk immediately, and it would help if all were present. A decision needs to be made at once."

In the muted twilight of the children's room, Éomer struggled to push himself up against the headrest of the bed, the cold hand of fear clenching his innards at the thought of what the ranger had found. When the door opened at last and Aragorn's serious face appeared in the gap to find out whether he was awake, Éomer saw his worst assumptions confirmed in the other man's gaze even before the words had left the ranger's mouth. The question of who the three travellers had run into had just been answered. Swallowing, the Rohir asked the only other question he could think of his state of stunned shock.

"How many?"

"Twenty-five. And they will be here soon."

OOO

Following the ranger's brief recapitulation of their encounter with the enemy, the silence in the room cramped with anxious people was thick enough to cut through, and for the longest time, only the crackling of the fire could be heard. Already feeling exhausted even from the few steps over to the living room he had taken with the help of Halad and Aragorn, Éomer leant against the wall and looked at the Dunádan from his improved cot on the ground with the feeling that the bottom of his stomach had just dropped out.

It was not as if he had not expected for the enemy to find him. The orcs' senses were sharp, and the strong winds must have carried his scent halfway across the Ered Nimrais while he had first battled the elements and finally lain in the snow for hours, long enough for them to estimate his location. He had not wanted to pull Freya's family into this mess, but there seemed to be little that could be done about it now.

"Twenty-five orcs! And you are sure that they are headed our way? They could not be just passing through on the way to Aldburg?"

Osred, too, stared open-mouthed at the ranger, all blood drained from his face. He then checked the expressions of the man's strange friends, involuntarily hoping to find a hint there that it was only a very cruel joke. Of course, he found none.

"Alas, I fear that it is so." Aragorn's gaze wandered over the family's faces, feeling pity for their hosts. The two small children sat huddled on their parents' laps, their little faces pressed against their shoulders in a vain search for cover. Aragorn knew better. Once the enemy's host entered this vale, there would be no hiding. It was either running or making a stand, a decision they'd have to reach very quickly. "We attempted to lead them away, but the effort was unsuccessful." He lowered his gaze to regard Éomer, who nodded silently upon listening to his words, knowing the enemy too well himself. "Orcs hunt mainly by scent, and though our tracks were not to be missed, they did not care for them."

"Of course not. It is me they want," Éomer stated grimly, his insides clenching into a tight knot as all faces turned to him. He ignored them as best he could, although the frightened expressions were painful to behold, and looked at Aragorn instead. "How far away were they when you left them?"

"About halfway between the cave where you slew their brethren and where we found you. I would say no further than four leagues from here."

"Four leagues!" Osred cried, and his son's little hands clenched in his shirt. The child whimpered with fright. "But then they are already on our doorstep!"

"They were moving slowly though," Legolas added in an attempt to calm him. "They are wary after finding their dead brothers, and very cautious not to run into a trap. We tried to get close enough to reduce their number, but the wind worked against us. If they proceed in this fashion, they should arrive here sometime during the night."

"Then we must flee," the farmer decided with a glance at the frightened expressions of the members of his family. "There are yet a few more hours of daylight left; if we saddle the horses now, we could make it to our neighbours before nightfall. And tomorrow-"

"No."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach at the sound of Freya's fearful and yet determined voice, Éomer stared into the fire. He knew what would follow; after all, he had already witnessed himself how this shy and vulnerable looking woman had fended off wargs with a hayfork to protect her kin. She would not run, even if he desperately wished her to leave.

"No. This is the farm of my parents, and of their parents before them. My family has lived in this valley for generations; building and adding to it in uncountable hours of hard work. If we run now and leave it unprotected, those things will burn it and slaughter our stock, and there will be nothing left for us to return to. We will be uprooted like so many before us; we will be left without a home, and more people will starve because we can no longer supply them with food." Clutching her daughter in obvious distress, Freya stared at Éomer, her expression confrontational. "You know how important our farm is in sustaining the people in the mountains, Éomer! You cannot seriously consider abandoning it without a fight!"

"You do not suggest that we stay here, Freya, do you?" Osred threw in, not wanting to believe his ears. "Or do you value this farm higher than even the lives of your loved-ones? I am not even talking about myself here, but your children and your sisters. Do you believe that your home is worth more than their lives? "

"You do not know what is coming at you, Freya," Éomer rebuked, for once ignoring Osred although he supported his position. "Twenty-five enemies—"

"We can defeat them, Aragorn!" Almost expectantly, Gimli fondled the haft of his axe, apparently the only one not dismayed at the prospect of a fight upon the farm's grounds. "Twenty-five orcs, that makes only five for each of us if we count the Rohir and him in." He looked at Osred. "We've been faced with grimmer odds."

"I can fight, too!" Halad piped up, but Éomer was faster when he asked Aragorn:

"Were there only orcs, or were there Uruk-hai among them?"

"Most of them were Uruk-hai, I fear."

"Freya…" Determinedly shaking his head, Éomer turned back to their anxiously listening host. "Listen to me: you must leave. Osred is right, it is too great a risk. Take your horses and put as many leagues between them and you as you can. And bear in mind that it will not be safe at your neighbour's farm either; come dawn, you will have to proceed, and your neighbours, too. There is no stopping a host of twenty-five Uruk-hai without the help of an éored. Trust me, I know! I fought but one of them, and he almost killed me!" He shifted his attention back at Aragorn. "One of us should ride ahead and alert the riders in the closest settlements. We are halfway between Aldburg and Marshal Erkenbrand's stronghold, so-"

"We killed far more than twenty-five Uruk-hai at Amon Hen, Aragorn!" Gimli tried again, his gaze travelling over his friends and the banished Rohir, whose brow creased in anger over his intrusion. To Aragorn's left, Legolas nodded thoughtfully. "If you and the elf diminish their numbers with your bows from a distance first, we will not even have to face twenty-five in a battle one-on-one. And since they do not know that we are here, we will have the advantage of surprise! They think they will face some unarmed farmers without battle experience. If we use their haughtiness to our advantage, we can make short process of them. Think about it!"

"It would still be a great risk," the Dunádan said, unconvinced.

"But he is right," Freya hurried to say, slanting the dwarf a brief, thankful glance before she addressed her brother: "Halad, you and Fleadwyn and Willa and Wyndra will ride, and you will take Loégar and Edilda with you." She turned around to Osred, sad but determined. "And you ride too, if you must, Osred, but I will stay. I was born here, and if the gods have decided that I should die here, too, then I will, but I will not let them destroy my home without a fight."

"And I will stay, too," Halad said, and looked at his younger sisters whom he knew as able-bodied riders. "Willy, Wyndra, you and Fleadwyn will ride, and you take Loégar and Edilda." He felt his wife tense beside him and wrapped her even closer in his embrace as he looked at the man he had regarded as an older brother for a long time. "Éomer, you taught me to fight. You even gave me a sword. You need me here. What did you prepare us for for all these years if not for this case?"

Éomer shook his head.

"You do not understand, Halad. These are Uruks; this breed is far more powerful than ordinary orcs. I fought one of them in the caves, and he almost killed me although I am much more adept at battle than you. I do not want you killed."

"And I do not want to leave my home, and my sister, defenceless!"

"You will not have to leave her because we will all leave!" Osred threw in, glaring at Freya. "And I will hear no more!"

"I will not abandon my home, and that is my last word!"

„This is not about possessions, Freya. This is about survival. Surely even in your priorities, it should come first?"

Freya narrowed her eyes, angered.

„Have you ever seen people who lost their homes to the enemy, Osred? Because I have! Uprooted, robbed of all their lives' accomplishments and purpose. Forced to take alms, as they can no longer contribute to what their community needs. Have you seen their empty eyes? Those people... they are barely more than ghosts." She shook her head. „I do not want to become like that. 'Survival' is more than just continuing to live. That is my choice, and it is not your right to take it from me!"

Helplessly listening to the family quarrel while he stared at Aragorn and simultaneously wrecked his brain for a solution, Éomer suddenly found it.

"I will ride." Disregarded the deepening lines on the older man's brow, he continued with sudden enthusiasm: "It is me they want. So it is I alone who can lead them away from here."

Chapter 31: Storm Clouds

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Aragorn narrowed his eyes; his expression that of a man not believing his ears. His voice, likewise, indicated what he thought about the Rohir's idea.

"You cannot even stay in a saddle long enough to leave the farm's grounds, much less lead a host of Uruk-hai through the mountains that will shoot you the moment they get within range!"

"I can do whatever I must; it is not the first time for me to ride under less than perfect conditions!" Éomer rebuked against better knowledge, fighting not to raise his voice as he did not want for Freya's children to hear his words, although it was dripping with intensity. "Even if you have to bind me to the saddle, I will not stay here and become the reason for Saruman's brood to slaughter these people!"

"But you will not help their cause by getting yourself killed!" Aragorn, too, now added intensity to his voice as he stepped in front of the younger warrior, his back to the family and thus blocking their view. His suddenly hard grey eyes tore into Éomer's. "Or who else should lead your armies against the enemy if you are dead? Do I really have to remind you of the state we found you in just last night? Would it not be self-evident to a man who set himself a higher goal that he cannot simply throw away his life over a matter of pride?"

The two men stared at each other, both attempting to impose their will unto the other while the rest of the present listened to their argument in dismayed silence. What were they supposed to do if even their leaders could not decide over the right course of action while time was running through their hands?

"So you expect me to sacrifice their home, is that it?" Éomer asked, his eyes widening with incredulity. "You are saying that I should let their home burn to save my own hide? If that is the impression you have of me, I must tell you that you are wrong! I have never hidden behind-"

"You have not even heard my suggestion yet," Aragorn replied, fighting to calm down. Nothing would be resolved if they just shouted at each other. "Will you not hear me out first before raising your voice and feeling insulted over things I haven't said? I was always under the impression that a marshal of the Mark has to be open to common sense. I am perfectly certain that you are capable of that, Son of Éomund. So tell me, are you willing to listen to what I have to say?"

He watched as, right before his eyes, Éomer's expression change from anger over pensiveness to wariness, confident that the younger man would eventually see the logic of his words.

Although many years had passed since then, he had ridden with the Rohirrim long enough to be well-acquainted with their occasional flares of temper and fits of stubbornness. In the end, Aragorn had always found the sons of Eorl open to reason, and he had no doubt that it would be no different with the young warrior before of him, who reminded him so very much of his proud father: possessed of the same powerful build and manners of movement and speech. It was the unyielding will of Éomund of Aldburg directed at him through his son now; the determined gaze of which he found himself the focus similar to the late Marshal of Eastfold's, even if Éomer's eyes were– for a Rohir - of a peculiar mixture of greens and browns instead of his father's piercing blue-grey. No, the wilful young warrior was very much his father's son, and it was in him where the Mark's hope lay. Having risen to one of the highest military positions in the realm of Rohan at a very young age, Éomer had to understand about the value of outside advice, especially as Aragorn had gained the distinct impression that – although they had not known each other for long – the Rohir trusted him limitlessly.

And really, although he still seemed disgruntled, Éomer swallowed whatever objections he had had on his tongue in an effort to be constructive, and his voice sounded calm enough when he asked: "And what is it that you suggest, Lord Aragorn?"

Eyeing him for a moment longer with approval in his gaze, Aragorn straightened and turned back to the anxiously listening family, his eyes wandering over the row of concerned faces.

"Those Uruks are on their way, and by now they must have passed the last intersection that would lead them away from this valley." Again he looked at Éomer. "So even if you could ride, there is no point. Their path will lead them here, no matter what we do, and here is where we will make our stand." His gaze found Freya just long enough to see the brief spark of hope in her large, concerned eyes. "Gimli is right, on our journey to the Mark, we were faced with far worse odds several times, and we braved them even though our foes had the element of surprise on their side. This time though, it will be our advantage. We were very careful when we followed their host today, and I doubt they know yet that they have been detected."

"But you cannot be entirely certain of that," Éomer summoned, and Aragorn nodded solemnly. "What about the tracks you made to lead them away?"

"Like I said, they paid them no heed. Of course there are no guarantees, but let me assure you that we were extremely cautious. We would not have reached Rohan if not for our skill of passing unseen right beneath the enemy's eyes."

Satisfied with his confident reassurance, Éomer nodded. Aragorn inhaled and lifted his chin.

"With the rest of the afternoon and probably a good part of the night to plan and prepare ourselves, it should be possible to develop a strategy for the defence of your farm, perhaps even a trap. Yet first of all, we need to call for aid. If we can alert a nearby éored, there might not even be the need for battle." He looked at Osred. "We need to build a fire; a big fire that generates lots of smoke. Do you have enough wood?"

Osred shrugged.

"We have our supplies, but this being a hard winter, I'd rather not use it all up. It is hard to get firewood up here in the mountains."

"I understand, but wouldn't it be worth the effort? If an éored is in the vicinity, will they not ride to find the source of the fire to see whether their help is needed?"

Aragorn turned back to Éomer and found to his surprise a wry smile on the warrior's lips.

"If there is enough smoke, certainly, they will investigate." A brief glance at the window confirmed to him that the sky outside was still clear. "In these conditions, smoke will be seen for many miles. I would say that it is definitely worth a try, but we will have to make haste. There are not too many hours of daylight left."

"How great are the chances that an éored will see the smoke?" Freya asked, barely daring to hope.

Éomer fell silent for a moment, calculating.

"With the increased orc-activity lately, many of our patrols are constantly roaming the mountain paths, so I would definitely count on their appearance… It all depends on whether they will be here fast enough, for the orcs will see the smoke as well and know what it means."

He looked at Aragorn, who nodded pensively.

"That is doubtlessly right, but since they are headed for the farm anyway, it does not matter. Stealth will not help us in this case."

"I can build it," Halad offered hesitantly, his gaze travelling from his sister to his brother-in-law and back. "But shouldn't we at least get Loégar and Edilda away from here?" He looked at the two scared children, then at his young wife who pressed herself against him, painfully reminding him of her rounded stomach in which life also grew. No, she could not stay here. Searching for understanding in her blue eyes, he looked down upon her. "And Fléadwyn, I want you to leave, too. And you, Willa and Wyndra…"

"And you?" His wife asked in a low voice, her eyes large and frightened. She could not have heard him right. "Won't you accompany us?" 'Please!' her eyes pleaded silently while her hold of him intensified, and it hurt Halad having to deny her wish.

"I am needed here, Fléadwyn. For all these past years, Éomer taught me to fight, and I am well prepared."

He turned his head to the man he had always regarded as his older brother, hoping for the warrior's consent. And Éomer granted him the little nod he had hoped for, but the expression in his dark eyes spoke of less confidence in his apprentice than Halad would have wished for.

"Do not fear for me, Fléadwyn," he whispered, and pressed her against his chest. "I am sure there will not even be a fight; our riders will see the smoke and be here before the orcs can reach us."

"Perhaps that will be so, but I will not take that risk. You are riding with them, Freya!"

Osred's expression indicated that he would tolerate no further discussion in this regard, and for a moment, his wife was rendered speechless as she stared at her husband, even her free hand which had reassuringly stroked Edilda's head for the duration of their conversation halted.

With an insulted edge to her voice she finally asked: "You mean that you expect me to leave you and our guests behind? Do you honestly think that I could leave after having just asked you to help protect our possessions? I run, while you fight for me?"

Incredulous, she looked at Éomer, in whose face she read to her dismay the same determination as in her husband's. Of course she wanted to be with her children and protect and comfort them, but what if the men died because of her objections against leaving their farm unguarded?

"Éomer, you taught me to fight, as well! You even gifted me with a sword. You know what I am capable of."

"Aye, Freya, I know." The warrior nodded, fully aware that his next words would rose his host's and rescuer's anger. "And that is why I have to agree with your husband. Leave. Your children will need you out there. And it will make it easier for us to defend the farm, too, knowing that we won't have to look out for you to get hurt." He saw a sudden crease building between her eyes and immediately understood its meaning even though he had never seen her like this. "And yes, I know that you never ran from anything, and that you defended your farm against wolves and wargs since your youth, but Uruks are no wargs. They are no animals, and while they may lack the sheer weight of a warg, their ferocity is the same… but it is paired with cunning and intelligence. Those creatures are bred and trained for battle since birth, Freya, whereas wargs only seek to fill their stomachs. They are easily discouraged when they meet resistance, but those things coming for you now are beyond your capabilities!"

"Listen to him!" Osred entered the discussion, still incredulous that he should have to convince his wife of such an obvious thing, and for the first time, Freya paused. Edilda whimpered in her tight clutch, and soothingly, she stroked over the girl's head.

"Ssh… it is good, Little One. No need to be scared." Suddenly uncertain, she looked at Aragorn, but the ranger's attention seemed to be solely focussed on the wounded Rohir.

"They are beyond your capabilities, too, Éomer, at least for now." He steeled himself for the young man's outburst, which he knew would come.

But Éomer surprised him. With a sly smile, the son of Éomund tilted back his neck and met his saviour's glance openly.

"Like you said, I am too weak to ride, so I am afraid that I will have to stay." He could see that Aragorn was less than amused by his rebuke. "I can fight, Aragorn. That Uruk in the cave only had a chance against me because I was no appropriately armed."

"How far is your neighbour's farm away?" The Dunádan looked at Osred, but it was Halad who answered.

"It is a good afternoon's ride if they travel fast. They may be able to make it there until nightfall, but they will have to leave immediately."

He looked uncomfortably at Fleadwyn, not wanting to imagine his young wife riding through the mountains without protection.

Having seen his worried glance, Legolas stepped forth and met Aragorn's gaze, finding affirmation there even before he had uttered the first word.

"I can accompany them on the way and then return, there should be time enough. And I can see well enough in the dark to find the way back." He acknowledged Halad's silent thanks with a gracious nod and laid a hand upon the young man's arm in a comforting gesture "They will be safe with me, fear not."

"I do not doubt that. Thank you, my lord." With a sudden lump in his throat, Halad nodded at Aragorn and then looked at his sisters and his wife. "I will go and ready the horses. Pack a few things quickly and then meet me at the stable. We must hurry."

"We have yet to determine who rides with them," Éomer said with a challenging gaze at Aragorn. "Freya will; I will not. I assure you that I can handle myself. I agree with you that a long ride through the cold would not be in my powers yet, but if I have a few more hours of rest, and with the proper preparation, I will be able to fight. I can still handle a bow, and with a tight bandage around my leg, I should even be able to walk. I have fought under worse conditions before. You cannot afford to send me away, Aragorn. You need me."

The ranger's expression indicated that he knew this to be true, however reluctantly that realisation came to him.

"But you have no weapons."

"I will take Freya's sword." Éomer saw dread in the young woman's eyes in reaction to his words. She still felt guilty about leaving when it had been her intervention that could now result in the death of her husband, her brother and her guests. "It is a very good sword, as are Osred's and Halad's. They are razor sharp and well-balanced. I saw to that when I ordered them for you. With those, we are well-armed. Any Uruk who comes too close will regret it."

His words were followed by a meaningful silence as each of the present realised the high stakes. At last, it was Freya's brother who broke it.

"I must go now. Meet me at the stable when you are ready."

"Let me help you," Legolas offered, looking around and finding approval in Aragorn's gaze. "The sooner we leave, the better."

"And I will concern myself with the fire, if someone would be so kind and show me where the necessary things are," Gimli grumbled, glad to finally have something constructive to do. The dwarf seemed to be extraordinarily pleased at the prospect of battle.

"I can do that," Wyndra stepped forth, looking at her sister. "Willa, can you please pack something for me, too, while we build the fire?"

"Of course."

"Then all of us have their task." Aragorn looked around, until at last, his eyes found Éomer, and the message they conveyed was clear to the Rohir. Their task would be to determine the strategy that would either ensure their survival… or result in their death.

OOO

EDORAS

The day had been almost too busy to look forward to the little educational visit to the dungeon he had planned for the early evening, but as Gríma stood in the kitchen, waiting for the few servants they had kept within the hall to prepare the tray with his prisoners' meals, he could no longer help feeling excited.

Impatiently tapping his foot, Wormtongue's thoughts went back to the confrontation with the young Captain Éothain of Edoras, and the role his captives had played in it. As a matter of fact, he was surprised that it had worked so well; that it had not been necessary to shoot a single arrow into the angered mob of people. And how much he had welcomed it, because the situation could easily have spun out of control if one of their attackers had so much as been wounded in the quarrel.

Now, Éothain and his men had retreated, and though Wormtongue harboured no doubts that the young man had meant the threat he had uttered, it did not bother him. He was well prepared, the throne room and the kitchens of the ancient hall packed with enough food and water to easily last for at least two weeks, and even longer if they rationed the supplies more strictly. Not that he expected for the siege to last for long. The last message he had received from Saruman had indicated that his master was finally ready to deliver the killing blow to the stubborn peasants of the Mark. Any day now, the western horizon would turn black with their marching army of Uruk-hai, and the earth would shake beneath their feet. Until then, he and his followers would sit safely inside the barricaded hall and enjoy their secret knowledge of the city's near destruction each time they looked out at the thatched roofs below. A satisfied smile wandered over the counsellor's face while he silently followed the kitchen maid's frantic efforts to fulfil his order and be rid of him.

Perhaps this was the very reason why he still kept the King alive. At first, Gríma had considered simply letting the weakened man die in his chambers now that Théoden was no longer of any use to him; too weak to rise to his feet by himself, he would be forced to soil his bed while he slowly starved to death; probably the most shameful exiting of this world a man of the Mark could imagine. The thought of it was sweet; but even sweeter was the plan which had formed in the Half-Dunlending's mind only two days earlier: he would bring the King back from his dazed state; allowing Théoden to wake from the nightmare he had wandered for years, and when Saruman's army tore into the capital of Rohan, he would lead him out onto the terrace to watch his people's destruction.

Yes, this measure felt appropriate to Gríma as a revenge for all the years since his early youth when he been the object of the strawheads' spite and cruelty. It would be a pleasure to watch their dying throes from the elevated position of Meduseld with their devastated ruler by his side. Another event to delight in… but now, another task waited for him he had been looking forward to for a very long time, and he was determined to savour every moment of it.

"Your tray is ready, Master Gríma," the kitchen maid at last approached him, her gaze lowered submissively, and he granted her a benign smile, prompted by his extraordinarily good mood this evening.

"Thank you, Hilde. I am certain that the Lady Éowyn will appreciate your care in fixing her meal." From the corner of his eye, he saw the success of his words as the old woman flinched at the thought of her captive mistress, and then turned to Gúthlaf who had silently waited behind him. "Take it and follow me!"

For a moment, the guard paused and Gríma could virtually feel the man's reluctance in carrying the tray after his master like a serving wench, but one brief glance back over his shoulder reminded him quickly of his place, and he followed without protest. In front of the kitchen doors, two more guards awaited them.

Already in a triumphant mood although nothing had been achieved yet, Wormtongue preceded his group of loyal followers to the door leading to the dungeon, opened for him upon a curt nod by the nearby guard who also handed him a lit torch. A ghastly procession of darkly-clad men with grim expressions except for their leader descended the narrow, winding stairs into the darkness, their steps echoing threateningly through the vast corridors. The few prisoners who had spoken with each other in hushed voices fell silent as the guards passed their cells, inwardly glad that it was not them those men were coming for, even if it meant that someone else would suffer instead.

A fat rat with a crippled leg was too slow in evading as the guards turned into her corridor, and Felrod gladly took the opportunity to crunch the animal beneath his heavy boot. Upon reaching the main crossroads, Gríma turned back to his most loyal follower, a knowing smirk upon his face. He had heard the rat's dying squeak and knew that the big fellow was in the appropriate mood for what he had in mind.

"All except Gúthlaf, wait here. I will first see how our dear captains Gamling and Céorl are faring before we will concern ourselves with the others." Leaving them standing, Wormtongue and his minion strode down to the other end of the cells and came to a halt in front of the last one before the corner. As he had ordered, the corridor lay in complete darkness, and the red-haired former Captain of the Royal Guard squinted at him from his bench like an owl caught in the daylight as he lowered his torch.

"Lord Gamling, how very wonderful it is to see you here, alive and behind bars. I hope you find everything meeting with your expectations?"

The man's pale face reddened with anger as he came to his feet and grasped the bars.

"You think you have won, Snake! You haven't, let me tell you this! Enjoy these moments while they last, for your end is coming."

"Oh, I am certainly enjoying them, dear Gamling," Gríma laughed, unfazed. "After all, they are my sweet revenge for uncounted years of ridicule. Do not think that I did not see it in your eyes whenever you looked at me. Lord Háma was only the first to pay the full price of his haughtiness, and if you don't watch your mouth, you will be next."

Meaningfully, he turned to the guard still holding the tray and picked up a bowl of undistinguishable contents and a mug of water.

"This is your meal. The dogs had the same this morning, and they liked it well enough, so it should agree with you." He set it down upon the ground and straightened, mindful not to get too close to the bars as he lowered his voice confidentially: "I am in a merciful mood today because I understand that the shock of what happened is still fresh. Yet know that if you continue to speak with me in this fashion, I will be forced to withhold your meals from you for as long as you refuse to use courtesy in my presence. You have an entire day to make your decision before I return, and since I have always known you to be a reasonably intelligent man for a Rohir, I trust that you will see the wisdom in my suggested course of action. Enjoy your meal!"

He left the swearing warrior behind, not listening to the man's enraged words while he silently counted the cells he passed. At the other end of the long corridor, again the last cell of the row, he found what he had been looking for: a dark shape on the ground, crumbled like a bundle of rags; unmoving.

"Captain Céorl? Here is your meal."

He placed the mug and bowl on the ground within reach for the injured man if he woke from his unconsciousness. Wormtongue doubted that it would be soon. Very well. If Céorl did not eat what he had brought him, why should not the rats enjoy a rare feast? Feeling safe that the warrior would not suddenly jump up and grab him through the bars, Gríma stuck his arm with the torch through them to have a better look at the prone shape to his feet. Was the man still alive?

"The filth is dead, Master," Gúthlaf grumbled with deep satisfaction. In the battle, the warrior had almost defeated him before the rest of his Dunlending brothers had come to his rescue. Even now the long cut on his arm stung as he stared at his fallen adversary, and not even the knowledge that it had been he who had delivered the hardest blow to the wounded Rohir before Céorl had surrendered had lifted his mood the entire day. It was only now that he saw the man crumbled and bloodied, in all likelihood dying on the floor of his dark, cold cell that Gúthlaf felt appropriately avenged. Yet even as he turned away, he saw out of the corner of his eye the smallest of movements and swore: Céorl had turned his head toward them, and his eyes were open, their expression not the broken expression he had hoped to see, even if the man looked more dead than alive.

"Not yet, Gúthlaf," Gríma stated the obvious, half waiting for the Captain to speak even though he could see that the warrior was too weak and barely conscious. "Not yet. But it will not take much longer until the rats down here will have a feast of the likes they have never experienced before. Too bad, I would have loved to let him witness the death of his son first." He narrowed his eyes as he beheld the strange expression on his prisoner's face. Was Céorl actually smiling at him? "What?"

But instead of an answer, the warrior just turned his back on him.

For a moment, Wormtongue felt angry enough to open the door and teach the prisoner that he had chosen the wrong object for his ridicule, but only a heartbeat later, common sense had the rule over him again, and with a derogatory snort, Gríma turned away from the now again unmoving figure. In another corridor, someone else was waiting for him, and he would take his rage with him now and unleash it against her!

"Come, Gúthlaf!" he barked, already storming ahead so quickly that the guard found it difficult to follow his master. "We have an appointment, and I would really hate to keep her waiting!"

OOO

In the semi-darkness of her cell, Éowyn had sat and listened to the distant interchange even though the words had been low for her to understand the conversation. And yet when it stopped and was replaced by fast steps, she instinctively understood that they were coming for her now. In the eternal darkness of the mountain's insides, her sense of time had suffered a quick, merciful death, and it was only her empty stomach that insisted it had to be almost evening by now. Gríma had said that he would return for her in the evening, and he was known to keep such dark promises. He would not miss this opportunity to cause her yet more torment.

Torment… her insides twitched at the thought of what they would do to Elfhelm, and what the Worm hoped to achieve by brutalising the man she had cared for deeply since her childhood days. The notion that her ideas were presumably not far off did nothing to comfort her, and when Elfhelm whispered her name from the other side of the corridor, she hesitated at first to face him, afraid to let him see the depth of her fear.

"Èowyn! Please, remember what I told you! Give him nothing, especially not because of me. I can take what he has to give; I am not afraid of him. But if you bend to his will, you will make my resistance worthless. We must be of one mind in this. Éowyn? Promise me this!"

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her throat as she listened to the approaching footsteps. How could Elfhelm still have hope? Why not make it easier for themselves by complying?

'To the Worm's will? Where is your pride?'

It was Éomer's voice in her head, surprising her with its forcefulness, and in the narrow confines of her cell, Éowyn straightened as she listened to her brother.

'You are the reason for everything that Gríma does, Éowyn! It was because of you that he turned to Saruman, knowing that you would never be his under normal circumstances. He still wants you, and with your submission, you would make his triumph complete. Without it, victory will be a hollow, tasteless thing for him, even if the Mark comes to ruin. In your hands lies the ultimate act of defiance, and if you remain strong, you can destroy everything he wants to achieve. Be strong, Little Bird!'

Tears stinging in her eyes even as she shut them, she nodded, and with a choked whisper said: "I promise."

Silence answered her, and at first, she thought that Elfhelm must not have heard her, but when she turned her head to finally face him, she found him looking at her with a strangely touched expression softening his tense features. It was a brief moment of comfort in the darkest night of her life, and it gave her the necessary courage to swallow her tears and await their captor and his minions with dignity.

Chapter 32: The Eagle of the Star

EDORAS

"Dearest Lady Éowyn," Gríma smirked. "I see that you have been waiting for me. Is it just because of your growling stomach, I wonder, or had perhaps a part further above in your body also a saying in this?" His smile widened in response to the young woman's irritated expression, and with an exaggerated gesture, he presented to her the tray which Gûthlaf held in his hands, obviously enjoying himself as much as his master: "I am bringing you your meal, my Lady. I hope you will find it to your taste."

"I am not hungry," Éowyn said, lying straight into her captor's face since Gríma's superior attitude angered her too greatly to grant him even this simple satisfaction. Coolly, she looked away, as if the walls of her cell were of greater interest than anything the Counsellor could offer, inwardly dismissing her tormentor. Wormtongue however was not surprised by her cool demeanour. He had studied the White Lady's body language for long years and knew what each little gesture, each blink of her eye meant. Éowyn was still very much listening to his words even if she pretended not to care. Oh, how satisfying it would be to see this cold facade of hers crumble!

"I see," he oozed, slick as honey, in a tone that feigned understanding. "You are still too proud for your own good, just like your brother… and see where it got him!" He noticed how she twitched at the mention of Éomer. "Of course, the King's niece will never accept the crumbs from the hands of the man she despises, even if it is he who is now in the position of power. Very well, have it your way. But you would do well to remember my last night's words, Lady Éowyn: I am on a quest to curing you of your haughtiness and unparalleled arrogance. Through me, you will learn about humility and gratitude for the one who alone is in the position to spare you from a fate you do not even want to begin to imagine. Your behaviour will determine the fate of your friend, our valiant Marshal Elfhelm of Aldburg. Did you ask him whether he was hungry? Perhaps he does not see things your way. Perhaps, he would rather not starve to death or die of thirst just because the arrogant young thing in the opposite cell insists on keeping her pride intact?"

"You will not succeed in driving a spike between us, Worm!" Elfhelm spat, a hard glint in his narrowed eyes. "Your intrigues and net-weaving fail against the virtues of the Éorlingas. It is the blood of Éorl that will ultimately defeat you!"

Slowly, his chin raised, Wormtongue turned around to him.

"Perhaps it will, even if I do not believe it. But either way, you will not be around to witness it if this golden-haired maiden here insists on playing coy with me for much longer."

Inclining his head in mocking mirth, Gríma looked at his chained adversary and found to his pleasure that Elfhelm looked already weaker than the past morning. Of course, as yet another prime specimen of the stubborn horse-lords, the warrior would sooner swallow his tongue than admit his worsening condition to his adversary, but there could be no mistaking the way he hung, rather than stood, in his chains. Slowly but surely, his wounds, the hopelessness of their situation and the lack of food were getting to him, and this was just the beginning. His brows arched, Wormtongue looked back over his shoulder at the King's niece.

"I believe that I already told you how it worked, my Lady, did I not? Co-operate and do what I say without protest, and the two of you get rewarded with food and water. You comply, but only after a discussion, and your poor Marshal will only get the water. You continue to be a nuisance, and he gets nothing. I would urgently advise you to remember those rules, Lady Éowyn, unless you want for your friend to suffer." Lifting his chin as he waited for a reaction that didn't come, Gríma continued: "Or perhaps you think that the Marshal is not hungry either?" He shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. "What do you say, Marshal? Perhaps you should talk with each other; after all, I can imagine that it must be gruelling to hang in these chains for so many hours. I see that your legs have already given out under the constant strain. Who knows, a little food might give you back at least enough of your strength to stand again, but like I said, it is your decision to make." His expression a cruel parody of compassion, Wormtongue picked up the earthen mug from the tray and then slowly turned his hand, watching as the precious water spilled onto the ground. "You can only keep this up for a very short time. By tomorrow you will beg me for water, and you should pray that I will be in the mood to give it to you."

Nodding to Gûthlaf who stooped to place the bowl and the other mug on the ground before Éowyn's cell, Wormtongue did not miss the guilty expression in the shieldmaiden's eyes as she looked up to him from her cot, although she quickly replaced it with anger.

"It takes more than this to break us, Worm! You cannot touch us!"

Gríma cocked his eyebrows meaningfully.

"And I have more to give, don't think for a moment that I am at my wit's end! You will beg me, oh haughty daughter of the Mark! You will crawl in the dirt before me and kiss my feet and plead with me before long, I promise you this." He paused, and the weight of his threat seemed to resonate in the flickering semi-darkness. "Yet despite your discourteous manner, know that I am yet willing to exercise mercy on you, but only for today. But I will not allow you to threaten me with starving yourself to death. If you are not hungry yet, even if I don't believe you, then you won't have to eat now. I will leave your meal here, in front of your cell. It is a very good meal, something the poor citizens outside would be overjoyed to have on their table once a month, and certainly not something the common prisoner could ever expect to receive. The meat is fresh and hot now, almost rare and with a seasoning of herbs on a bed of steamed vegetables. It is a delicacy now; it will be old and spoiled by tomorrow. And when I return tomorrow evening and find that you haven't touched it, I will let my men force-feed it to you. Think about it, my lady. One way or another, you will eat this; you choose whether it will be a pleasant experience or something to give you yet more nightmares. I will leave you to your contemplation now and bid you a good night."

Wormtongue did not linger to see Éowyn's blue eyes glaze over with seething hatred. He knew he had reached Éomer's sister from the shocked silence behind them when he and his men excited the forbidding darkness of the dungeon. By tomorrow, the White Lady of Rohan would be more than susceptible for his devious games…

OOO

EDORAS

Upon nightfall, the tavern in the guesthouse was filled way beyond capacity. Both the riders of Éothain's and his father's éoreds were present, and after the shocking events the day had brought, each of them was eager to hear about their further way of action.

Directly after the confrontation, Éothain had felt for a while unable to think, and Aedwulf, who had been descending the path by his side, had likewise been shocked into silence. It was only when they had reached the marketplace when he had spoken up again in a muted, dispirited voice.

"What now, Captain?" he had asked, and for the longest time, the son of Céorl had only stared at him. At last, he had shook his head.

"I will have to bring my mother the bad tidings, first. That will take a while. Grant me two hours, and then come to our house with the captains of my father's riders. We will need to determine our further course of action."

So here they were now, and after a traumatic morning and heart-breaking midday, Éothain found himself staring into the expectant and hopeful faces of their warriors. These men wanted to do something right now. They would take whatever weapon was available to them and storm Meduseld if he asked it of them. Sadly though, this option was not open to them. Not with the hostages' lives at risk. Slowly, he rose to his feet and inhaled.

"My brothers! I am glad you all have come, and I understand that you expect answers to the situation we find ourselves in after this morning's events." His gaze travelled from face to face. "It is an altogether untenable and formerly unthinkable situation, and I guarantee you that we aim to remedy it as quickly as possible." His eyes found Aedwulf. "Alas, the very nature of Gríma Wormtongue's crime makes it hard to act against him. As you have seen, he has taken the entire Royal Household hostage… as well as my father. If we move openly against Meduseld, they will suffer. I am certain that none of you wants that."

The riders nodded gloomily, and low mutterings were exchanged between them. Éothain scratched his head.

"We tried all afternoon to come up with a solution to the problem, but for now, we fear that the only thing we can do is to guard the path day and night. If anyone leaves the Golden Hall, we take them – alive, if possible, but I do not insist on this. Perhaps they could be exchanged for one of the Worm's prisoners, even if I do not believe in it."

He straightened.

"And there is something else. I remember that I once heard about it from the Third Marshal, many years ago, but I do not know whether it is just a legend or whether there is indeed some truth to it. Éomer never mentioned it ever again. There is supposed to be an ancient, secret tunnel system hewn into the rock, constructed to give the royal family a chance at escaping in the event of an attack. We tried all afternoon to verify this information, but among the citizens of Edoras, no one has ever heard of it. If any of you know more about it, now is the time to speak up."

Éothain looked expectantly around, but the faces before him seemed as bewildered as the ones of the citizens they had interrogated. His heart sank, but he tried his best not to show it. They needed hope now.

"So, it might exist or it might not. If it does, it could be our best, or even our only chance to act against the Worm. Thus I want you to turn each and every stone in the city for its exit. It could be anywhere… beneath a rock, in a hut, a storage… Count no possibility out!"

The men nodded grimly. Éothain continued.

"Those not holding watch or searching for the tunnel will begin to fortify the city and prepare it for battle. I am not certain what Wormtongue hinted at when he said that we would live at least a few days longer if we did not storm Meduseld, but I did not like his tone. In any case, we should prepare for an eventual attack. The craftsmen were already informed to turn everything they deem suitable into weapons, and the blacksmiths already confirmed that by tomorrow, they should have sharpened all the training swords. I already sent an errand rider to Aldburg this afternoon, too, to call for aid, so reinforcements will hopefully be on their way soon. We must hold Edoras under all circumstances, and I know that I can count on you, my brothers-in-arms, to give your best for its defence! Let's show our enemies what the Éorlingas are made of. If Gríma Wormtongue thinks he has already won, we will prove him wrong!"

A challenging yell from many voices answered his speech, and impulsively, the warriors jumped to their feet.

The smallest trace of a smile tugged at Éothain's lips as he exchanged another glance with Aedwulf. All day, he had felt the crushing burden of helplessness, and he had dreaded having to tell their men that immediate action was out of the question. He had feared to see disappointment, perhaps even resentment in their riders' eyes, and yet they seemed barely able to restrain themselves from bursting out of the room to begin looking for the tunnel.

He took a deep breath, the expression on his face telling his men how proud he felt.

"That is all I have for now. I need ten men to guard the Golden Hall through the night, and I will leave the detail of this watch up to you. Come daylight, we will begin with our search and our preparations. Now see that you get some rest, the next days promise to be taxing."

OOO

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Darkness had fallen over the land when the five men left for the defence of the farm had finished with their preparations, and frantic activity was replaced by the even more gruelling task of waiting for the inevitable.

Éomer had always found it difficult to wait for the enemy even after the heated hatred he had felt for the orcs as an adolescent had been replaced by the greater strategic wisdom of the young man and then the extraordinary battle-skills of the Third Marshal of Riddermark. To sit around with one's sword readied while nerves and muscles vibrated with tension, waiting for the enemy to appear, was nothing short of torture, and many times had he wished to just jump upon his horse's back instead and ride in a reckless charge against his foes.

Instead, Éomer lay on his back on an improvised cot in the little shed used as storage for fodder and gear when the family's livestock was on the higher feeding grounds in spring and summer. It was narrow and uncomfortable between the various sacks and boxes, and the cold in the unheated building which he shared with Aragorn was getting to the wounded Rohir even through the thick blankets into which he was wrapped.

Éomer was aware that he was only still alive because he had at last mastered the hardest of lesson in becoming an achieved warrior: the value of patience. How many times had Théodred and Elfhelm lectured him about its import; how many times had they admonished him until it had finally stuck? In the end, it had taken a disastrous turn of events to drive the knowledge home, inextinguishable for the rest of his life when he had been forced to witness the annihilation of an entire éored – not their own – because their leader had not followed Elfhelm's orders to wait for reinforcements.

Patience was an essential ingredient of every victory, and yet after all these years, Éomer still found it hard to exercise. Even now as he was supposed to rest and spare his strength for the coming fight while Aragorn held watch, the son of Éomund found himself too tense to sleep even in his weakened condition. It also did not help that each time he closed his eyes, the images of the advancing host and what they would do to the people he had dragged into this mess if their defence failed assaulted him with increasing force. So instead of sleeping, Éomer lay awake and contemplated the many possible turns this night could take, preferring to stare at the ceiling over seeing Halad's and Osred's mutilated bodies if their strategy proved wrong.

It would be a hard blow for him if Osred died. The farmer's dispirited expression with which he had bidden his wife farewell while his children cried as they were lifted into the saddle had filled Éomer with regret and guilt, even if he knew that he could hardly be blamed for Freya's confused emotions. He was afraid that Osred's realisation that his wife's heart belonged to another man would drive the farmer to a foolish attempt to win her heart in a battle against a foe he had never been prepared to handle. And if this thought was not distressful enough, there was also the question of what would happen with Freya's younger brother.

Innocent Halad, who even as a lad had instantly recognised an older brother in him and striven to become like the man whose courage and skill he admired. Young Halad, who now felt the obligation to prove himself to his mentor despite his lack of battle experience and the fact that not far away, his wife feared for his life as their child grew within her. Though frightened by the prospect of facing the nightmarish creatures of which the warriors had spoken, Halad had kept his composure while they had worked all afternoon in their preparations for the fight. Éomer was convinced that he had only succeeded at it because the young man could not yet imagine the horror awaiting him. He would learn a hard lesson tonight, and Éomer prayed to Béma that he would survive it.

'Oh Freya,' he thought with a sudden bitter taste of despair in his mouth, the tear-streaked faces of the leaving women and the sound of their suppressed sobbing assaulting his mind with new force from the vault of his memories. 'You understood too late that your wish to defend your farm might result in the loss of your brother and husband. How will you live with yourself if you return and find them slaughtered and your possessions saved? I know that your farm is important in the feeding of our people, but this price is too high.'

He refused to continue the thought all the way to its consequent end, which was the death of them all, including him and his three saviours.

With a sharp exhale, the Rohir turned on his good side, involuntarily grimacing against the pain caused by the movement. Reluctantly, Éomer had heeded Aragorn's advice to rest for the remaining hours of daylight which the others used to build barricades of ice and heavy logs as their defence position in front of the barn. While the smoke of their signal fire formed an impressive dark column in an otherwise clear winter sky, the men prepared their weapons for the battle, oppressive silence between them.

Upon waking, Éomer had found that night had already fallen. No éored had arrived to aid them in their plight, and after a light meal, Aragorn had helped him dress his wounds as tightly as he could bear, the bandages lending support to the severed muscle of his thigh and his injured side. Under the ranger's sceptical scrutiny, he had then made a few tentative steps and known at once that in a close-quarters battle, he would stand no chance against the ferocity of a Uruk-hai. In his feverish hunt for a way to be of use in the upcoming fray and not another obligation, it was then when the idea had struck him, the result of which was that instead of the warm main house, he was now sharing the shed with the Dunádan, waiting.

Aragorn's features had been sceptical when Éomer had first made the suggestion of splitting their already small numbers in favour of a strategy that would allow them to attack the orcs from two sides. While Legolas would reduce their foes with the deadly accuracy of his bow long before they would reach the barricade, Aragorn and he would spring their trap by assaulting the host from behind on horseback with arrows as well, thus hopefully creating enough confusion among the enemy to kill many of them before close quarters' battle would ensue.

It was a good strategy, the ranger had at last admitted, but one that depended on the wounded Rohir to stay in the saddle for the battle. With more confidence than he had actually felt, Éomer had assured him that he would find it easier to fight this way rather than on the ground, as most of the work would be done by his experienced war-horse.

The question of where they would get the additional bow was quickly settled when Halad had produced the weapon he had built under Éomer's supervision years ago for hunting and defence. While it was not as powerful as those of the ranger or the elf, it would suffice to weaken the enemy, especially since the young farmer had then – with a weak smile – handed his mentor the flask Éomer had once gifted the family together with their swords and almost forgotten about. It contained a thick, dark-green syrup; a potent poison which, once it entered the bloodstream through a wound, quickly paralysed the victim until it could conveniently be killed. After the warg-attack on the family he had witnessed in that fell winter of his youth, Éomer had long mused over an efficient and easily used weapon to give them to substitute Freya's rusty hayfork. He had found it in the form of the poison which would change even simple wooden spears into weapons that would kill with the first wound inflicted with them. With the tips of their arrows prepared this way, each hit would fell one of the beasts. Aye, it was the best strategy under the given conditions, and still, Éomer felt horrified by the prospect of the fight.

Another distant grumble of the likes they had heard several times in the course of the afternoon woke him from his brooding. Osred had explained it to them as the sound of wet snow tumbling down the steep slopes as its weight became too heavy due to the rising temperatures. That fact had been hard to miss the way the snow had turned to mush underneath their boots during their work and the water had dropped onto their heads from the roofs of the buildings, and still Éomer could not help wondering whether the avalanche he was listening to now had caused by the vibrations of marching feet.

"It is another avalanche," Aragorn's low voice reached him from the window where the ranger gazed intently through the small gap of the shutters. With a hiss, the Rohir pushed himself into a sitting position. There would be no more sleep for him tonight; too much was racing through his head. With a brief glance at their horses in the back of the shed, which were likewise listening intently to the strange noise, Éomer turned his attention to his brother-in-arms.

"Aye. I figured as much. But I couldn't help thinking…"

"…that it was them who caused it?" Aragorn raised a brow, and his gaze again swept over their treacherously calm surroundings. "We will know soon enough; it didn't sound too far away. It would be bad tidings though, because I did not see Legolas return yet." And with a brief glance at the pale moon, which hung in an otherwise inken sky like an ill omen, he added: "The time would be about right. If they hurried, it could be them… but perhaps, the snow has taken them to their cold, wet grave."

"I wish I could share your optimism," Éomer gave back with a heavy breath. "But I do not believe that Uruk-hai can be killed by snow. No, they are still out there, coming for us and hungry for our blood."

Involuntarily, his fingers clenched around the hilt of Freya's sword. It fit his much larger hand less than perfectly, but it would have to suffice as there was no other weapon available. It was a good sword though, and in any case, infinitely preferable to the little wooden axe with which he had fought the Uruk-hai in the caves.

"How do you feel?" Aragorn spoke into his thoughts, one eye upon him. "Will you be strong enough to ride? Did you find enough rest during the afternoon to replenish at least part of your strength?"

"I would worry if I had to fight on foot, but my horse is very skilled at this way of doing battle. It is our most efficient strategy against the Dark Lord's brood, and I would even go as far as saying that Firefoot must be the best at it in all of the Mark. Those of my éored who have seen him evading the orc's bows call him Arrowdancer. He sees those skirmishes as a welcome opportunity to prove his skill to everyone looking." With a proud, loving smile, Éomer's gaze wandered over to the grey shape in the back of the shed. "You love to show off, don't you, Grey One?"

The stallion snorted indignantly, and, having come to the conclusion that that the strange noise he had heard outside meant no immediate danger, took the few steps over to his master's cot to lower his head in expectation of a caress. He was not disappointed.

Feeling the older man's amused attention upon himself as he affectionately massaged the silken softness of Firefoot's muzzle, Éomer looked up, suddenly remembering something the ranger had mentioned earlier that day, and his brow creased in thought.

"This morning, you told me that you were here in the Mark before, a long time ago… and that you knew my father. May I ask… may I ask how you met him?"

"I rode with your people for a while," Aragorn explained, registering Éomer's surprise and at the same time, sensing the young man's growing suspicion. "Since my youth, I have been travelling through many countries to learn about the different peoples and their ways. It appears that in these dark times, this kind of knowledge is becoming ever more important in understanding our foes."

He fell silent and his gaze turned distant with memories both fond and fell.

"I was not in your father's éored, but we went to battle together more than once. Although still very young when we met, he was already an extraordinarily skilled warrior and greatly respected by the riders, and I was grieved when I heard of his death." He smiled as he returned to reality. "I see a lot of him in your appearance and your demeanour: the same pride, the same love for your people and the same determination and unyielding will, and on the plains, I saw the same love and respect for you in the faces of your riders that his men held for him. Marshal Éomund would be proud to see what kind of man his son has become."

He could not be certain in the darkness of the shed, but it seemed to him as if the Rohir's complexion had darkened in reaction to his words.

It took Éomer a moment to recover from the older man's high praise, and his voice still sounded strange when he said: "I only do what needs to be done. Whatever is in my power to save the Mark from the abyss that is yawning at us, I will try, but whether it will be enough to defeat our enemies in the end, I cannot say."

"If you do not find a way, nobody will," Aragorn answered, feeling compassion for the young rider who had been raised under the pressure of having to follow in the footsteps of a great man, and who had ultimately risen to the challenge even if he still doubted himself.

"When you rode with our forces," Éomer then inquired further as something dawned to him from the well of the long distant memories of his early youth, "…did our people know you a under different name perhaps than 'Aragorn'? I never heard of a stranger with that name riding with our warriors, but often, my father would tell us about the deeds of a captain of the éoreds not born in the Mark, a man from a far-off land and with dark hair. A man who was unusually skilled at battle and shrewd at reading people, although he was much respected for his kindness also."

"You want to know whether I am Thorongil?" Aragorn asked calmly, his gaze meeting the Rohir's as he gave him the little nod Éomer had obviously awaited. "Aye. I was known under that name here once."

Breathless beats of silence passed between the two warriors, the atmosphere suddenly changed. For a moment at a loss for words even if once he had followed his suspicion, he had unconsciously already guessed the result of his interrogation, Éomer's smile suddenly broadened, and a new expression of awe and wonder suddenly lit up his features.

"And so at last, the mighty 'Eagle of the Star' returns to aid the Mark in its darkest hour. It appears as if Béma has at last heard our prayers. Now there is hope indeed for the sons of Éorl to brave even this fiercest of storms in the history of our realm."

He stared at the older man, suddenly feeling very young again in the presence of the mighty warrior whose deeds had inspired many of the rousing songs and tales he had grown up with, but before he could continue, the bloodcurdling din of the watchdogs' alarm rose into the night…