This story, along with Steelsheen and Dark Horse (in Chinese; not yet translated), takes place before Till Death Reunites Us and may be read as its backstory.

Prologue. The Prince and the Marshal-to-be

It was well known that Théodred, son of Théoden King of Rohan, had neither brother nor sister. In truth, he could not even recall the face of his mother, Elfhild. She had died in childbirth—indeed, not yet queen in name when she passed—leaving him no memory of her, save what others chose to tell. Throughout his life thus far, the one nearest to him, apart from his father, was Théodwyn, the youngest of Théoden’s sisters. Even now, he held her in highest esteem, deeming her the fairest lady in all the Riddermark. When she wed Éomund, chief Marshal of the Mark, Théodred had been quietly disheartened—not out of any grievance toward Éomund; quite the contrary: in his youth, he had looked upon the Marshal as a man of honour and valour, and had held him for a hero.

After Théodred’s father, Théoden son of Thengel, took up the crown, duty bound him to remain in Edoras for most of the year. Thus it was that Éomund of Eastfold came to embody, in the young prince’s heart, all that the word hero might mean—valiant in battle, steadfast in judgment, and swift to oppose all that was base or cruel. In Éomund were found the chief virtues most prized by the Men of the Mark, and his bold, open spirit won him the esteem of many lords and marshals. Whenever the Marshal rode to Edoras, the sound of his voice and laughter rang through the Golden Hall. None, it was said, could give fuller voice to the old song “Where now the horse and the rider?” That such a man should win the heart of Théodwyn seemed only fitting—for the songs of the Rohirrim were rich with tales of valiant warriors and the fair maidens who rode beside them.

Yet not all such tales come to their ending in joy, nor in the grace of long years shared. Éomund fell before his time in an ambush, and not long after, Théodwyn sickened and did not recover. The tidings came heavy and swift, and only when the children they had left behind were brought from Aldburg to Edoras did Théodred at last face the cold truth: those who had departed would not return. And when the King himself came forth to the doors of Meduseld to receive them, Théodred was struck by the sight of his father’s golden hair now streaked with grey—as though ten years of sorrow had come upon him in a single night.

Éomer and Éowyn had grown since last he saw them. The boy was now a tall, lean youth, all long limbs and restless energy, still caught midway in his growing. The girl, though yet a child in years, no longer bore the unshadowed look of one untouched by grief.

“From this day forth, this shall be your home,” said the King to the only children of his beloved sister. “You shall be to me as my own son and daughter.”

Éowyn spoke no word at first, her small white teeth pressed hard upon her lip; but when she was gathered into a strong and gentle embrace, she stiffened—then, unable to hold back, broke into tears. Seeing his sister weeping in their uncle’s arms, Éomer’s eyes grew red, yet he stood unmoving at her side, too proud to weep and uncertain what to do.

Théodred understood all too well what the boy was feeling. And when he could endure it no longer, he stepped forward, bent toward him, and said, “Come with me.”

He led Éomer out of the Golden Hall and down the steps that ran from the high terraces on which Meduseld stood. At length they came to the stone carved in the likeness of a horse’s head, where clear water flowed without ceasing. Théodred knew that the surest remedy for sorrow was to turn the mind to other things. As they walked, he cast his thoughts back to what had filled his own heart at Éomer’s age—horses, swords, and maidens, in that precise order. The last, he deemed, was best left untouched for now: it was no jest fit for one still in mourning, and Éomer, after all, was yet half a boy. So he turned the talk instead to the other two.

“You will dwell in Edoras now,” said Théodred. “Have you thought what you would do here?”

“Not yet,” answered the golden-haired youth, his eyes following the stream as it wound down the hillside. “My mother used to say how magnificent Edoras was—but to me, the houses are only larger than those in Eastfold, and there are simply more people. The tapestries in the Hall are fine, I suppose, but the colours are so faded. They make the place feel close… and heavy.”

Though the boy had somewhat missed the heart of the question, his candour amused Théodred, and he took it as a hopeful sign. Éomer was not yet of an age to value such ancient adornments—and that was no fault of his. Théodred himself had only come to understand the meaning of royal splendour and the weight of heritage after journeying beside his father to Mundburg in Gondor. The Men of Númenórean descent held knowledge in high honour, but the Rohirrim asked strength and boldness of their sons. What was worth knowing was passed down by the elders of the folk; as for scrolls and written lore—such matters were best left to their kinsfolk in the south, those grave-minded scholars who dwelt in their houses of stone.

“And what did you do in Eastfold, back home?” asked Théodred.

“Ride, of course!” The boy’s eyes kindled with sudden light. “I am good with the bow and the spear—and better still with the sword!”

Of all the tales told in Rohan, none was more renowned than that of Eorl the Young, who tamed the great steed Felaróf and rode with him into legend. The Men of the Mark were raised in the saddle, and Théodred himself had learned to ride almost as soon as he could walk. Éomer, of course, was no exception. But swordplay—that was another matter entirely.

“You can wield a longsword already?” asked Théodred, brows slightly raised.

“Not yet,” the boy admitted, his shoulders dipping slightly. “Just an ordinary one. My father said I need to grow stronger first.”

“Would you like to be my squire?” asked Théodred, as if the matter were of no great account.

“Is there need to ask?” Éomer’s eyes lit at once with eager light. “Who would not wish to serve the Prince of the Mark? And what is more, it is as it ought to be—you shall be King one day, and I shall be your Marshal.”

Théodred laughed despite himself. “You would be a Marshal?” he said. Indeed, it was no great surprise. As the saying went, a Rider who did not dream of becoming a marshal was no true Rider. And with the blood of the Kings of the Mark in his veins, it would have been stranger still if Éomer had lacked such ambition. Yet because he had spoken with such bold certainty, Théodred found himself inclined to tease him. “And to what purpose?”

“To avenge my father!” Éomer lifted his chin, his young face grown solemn, and for a moment, he bore the look of a hero beyond his years. Then his eyes—so like his father’s—turned toward the Golden Hall, and his voice fell softer. “And… to protect my sister. I do not wish to see her weep again.”

“That, I fear, may prove harder than becoming a Marshal,” said Théodred with a hearty laugh. “What little girl does not weep?”

“Éowyn is different,” Éomer said, his voice firm with conviction.

He was, indeed, still a boy. And yet, there was something in his bearing—something that moved Théodred to believe him.

“Very well,” he said. “It is settled, then. You shall be my squire. And as for the days to come… we shall speak of them when they come.”

It was the Year 3002 of the Third Age. That year, Théodred was twenty-four, and Éomer but eleven.