Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

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.

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.

“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?”

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.

Chapter 1. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It will be difficult,” the King warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 2

At first light the next morning, those appointed to ride with the Second Marshal on his journey to Eastfold were already making their preparations. The young squire Éomer, alight with energy, moved briskly to and fro—his high spirits so infectious that even the most exacting quartermaster found himself swept along by them.

Looks like he has come around, Théodred thought, watching his cousin’s retreating figure with a quiet surge of pride. Of course he has—I always knew he would. My brother was never one to brood, still less to wallow in pettiness.

Had they not already planned an early departure, Théodred might well have gone straight to Gríma and given him a reckoning. Few in Edoras were petty enough to spread such slander without hope of gain, and fewer still whose words Éomer might take for truth—even in part. That left but one likely culprit, and no room for doubt. As for why Éomer would credit such a man with anything—that was a long tale, and if you asked Théodred, he would say it was not one fit to be told. But we shall tell it here all the same.

Some days earlier, Théodred was in his chambers, reviewing the list of weapons and supplies prepared for the journey to Eastfold, idly debating whether to have Éomer give his sword one more polish, when the boy burst in—dishevelled and breathless. He spoke no word, offered no greeting, but strode in and shut the door hard behind him.

“What is it?” Théodred was taken aback. By now, he had spent five years in Éomer’s company; though they had not yet faced great war together, they had weathered no small number of scrapes and skirmishes. He knew well that Éomer, though still young, was not easily shaken. But now—for the first time—he saw the boy truly stricken. His face was pale as mare’s milk, so pale that the golden fuzz on his chin, not yet cleanly shaven, stood out stark against it.

“It’s Éowyn—she’s sick!” Éomer burst out.

Now Théodred was truly alarmed. “What do you mean, sick? Speak plainly!”

“I tried so hard to find a moment to ask her, but she insists she’s fine—told me not to worry!” Without waiting for questions, Éomer poured out the rest in a rush. “How could I not worry? You know what she’s like—stubborn as stone, proud to a fault. She’s been ill before and wouldn’t admit it, and if it’s overlooked again, what then?” The boy—now nearly as tall as Théodred—slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “My mother… when she fell ill, it was just like this…”

Théodred’s concern deepened—but he was older, and his mind was clearer. “Have you spoken to my father?”

“No,” Éomer muttered, his voice low and muffled. “I came straight to you.”

Despite his unease, Théodred was moved. “Then come with me. For such matters, We must speak to Gríma. Even if you had gone to my father, we would have ended up there in the end.”

Gríma, as it happened, practised the trade that the Rohirrim loosely named that of a wandering leech. The term was not used in scorn. Much of the Mark still followed a semi-nomadic life and lacked the learned healers or established houses of medicine known in Gondor. When illness came, folk turned to seasoned men of the road—herb-wise and hardened by long years of wandering.

In Théodred’s childhood, whenever he fell ill, the King would summon an old healer named Galmód—Gríma’s father. In those days, Gríma served as his father’s apprentice, and Théodred had taken an immediate dislike to the pale, slack-limbed youth. The men of the Mark were expected to be hardy: though Galmód was a leech, he bore strength in his arms and fire in his voice. Gríma, by contrast, looked as though he had never lifted anything heavier than a quill, and his manner—ever humble, yet never quite sincere—set Théodred’s teeth on edge. After years in the company of the King and his marshals, he had found no part of Gríma to his liking. But Galmód was long dead, and Gríma had taken up his mantle. And for now, there was no one else to ask.

They found the leech’s dwelling halfway down the slope. Gríma greeted them in haste and ushered them inside. The room was spacious but cluttered, heavy with the sharp tang of herbs. Old books and dried roots lay strewn across every surface—a chaos which, for all its disorder, suggested that its master knew his craft.

“Forgive my asking,” said Gríma cautiously, after hearing Éomer’s anxious tale, “but how old is the young lady?”

“Twelve,” Éomer replied.

“I see.” Gríma glanced up at them from beneath his heavy lids, gave a slight cough, and said, “You may rest assured—there is no cause for alarm. A few days’ rest will see her well again.”

“You are certain?” Éomer demanded, incredulous. “How can it be ‘no cause for alarm’ if she has been bleeding for days and it will not stop?” He pressed him again and again, but Gríma offered only evasions. At last, Éomer’s temper broke. “Why can you not give a straight answer?!”

“It is not my place to say,” said Gríma, his expression pained as he shrank back slightly. His dark eyes flicked toward Théodred—a silent plea for intervention. “Why not ask the King of the Mark instead?”

Théodred saw the flush rising in Éomer’s face and knew the boy was seconds away from striking the man. He himself had half a mind to knock some sense into him as well—but instead, he murmured a curt word of thanks, seized his cousin by the arm, and pulled him out the door.

No sooner had they stepped outside than Éomer burst out, “Has he never heard of plain speech? Why all the riddles—now, of all times?”

“Well, he did say it was nothing serious—that counts for something,” Théodred replied, his voice purposefully calm, with a hint of coaxing. “He knows how to treat illness, and he has no reason to lie to us—unless he wishes to be cast out of the Mark. And if he says we should speak to my father, then let us do so. If it turns out he was lying, I will help you deal with him myself.”

The King was in the Golden Hall, attending to matters of state. When informed that his son and nephew had come on urgent business, he at once suspended the council, dismissed the gathered lords, and summoned them in. Knowing that Éomer—left to his own devices in his present state—would likely entangle the tale, Théodred took it upon himself to recount the affair from beginning to end.

When he finished, the King’s expression grew… strange. He sighed deeply, opened his mouth once or twice—then closed it again, plainly uncertain where to begin. And so, in the great hush of the Hall—so still one might have heard a straw fall upon the floor—the three of them stood, gazing at one another: a grown man, a young man not yet wed, and a boy.

At last, the King sent for the steward of the royal household—a woman in her fifties—and bade her explain the matter in full to the Prince and his squire. When she finished and withdrew, silence returned: just as heavy as before, and so complete that once again, a straw falling to the floor might well have been heard.

Having taken his fill of the stunned faces of his son and nephew, the King clapped a hand to his brow and said, “That does remind me.” With a wave, he dismissed Éomer, then rose—slowly and with great deliberation—and crossed the hall to his son’s side.

“You are not so young anymore,” the King said. “Have you given thought to marriage?”

Théodred, whose face had already cycled through a full palette of hues, now managed to achieve a shade yet more remarkable. “I am only twenty-nine,” he said. “There is no need to hurry.”

“I was twenty-nine when your mother bore you,” the King replied dryly, brushing aside the excuse with a single line. Then his tone shifted, becoming more reflective. “You are heir to the throne. It is time you give thought to the future. You are much favoured by the maidens—or so I am told… unless, of course, you are simply too spoiled for choice?”

Théodred was still reeling from these words when his father, now musing aloud, added, “What of Harding’s daughter? He is Lord of the Wold—a sound match, by any reckoning.”

Théodred let out a long breath. “I daresay she is admirable. There is only one small difficulty.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“You truly do not know?—She is but five!”

Later, as he excused himself and fled the Hall—much like a hare from a fox—Théodred could not recall a time he had felt more embarrassed. Éomer, who had been waiting just outside, fell in beside him without a word—plainly contrite, and no doubt thinking himself the cause of it all, though too timid to ask what had passed after he left.

At the edge of the terrace upon which Meduseld stood, Théodred paused, gazing out across the wide plains of Rohan—recovering from his embarrassment, and wondering whether he ought to pay the King’s scholar a visit to ask why such knowledge was not taught before matters like Sindarin. From the corner of his eye, he caught Éomer doing his utmost to vanish into the background. Half amused, and half mischievous, an impish thought stirred in him.

“So, tell me—who do you think is the fairest maiden in Edoras?” Théodred asked.

Éomer blinked at him, utterly thrown by the question. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Honestly… I think they are all just—well, all right.”

“Glad to hear it,” Théodred said with mock gravity. “There are those who say that, since Lady Théodwyn, the Riddermark has seen no true beauties. Perhaps that is a harsh thing to say—but in all these years, I have yet to meet any who surpass her.”

He spoke with absolute sincerity. But having known him for five years, Éomer had learned enough to sense that something was very, very wrong. “…What?”

“There is a saying in Gondor,” Théodred said with a sigh. “Once a man has seen the sunlight, candlelight will never do. Perhaps your mother—my aunt—set a standard too high and ruined me for all the rest.”

A silence followed—weighted, stunned. Then, from atop the terrace, the folk of Edoras heard a strangled cry echo down the slope:

“Even though you are my cousin, that is no jest to make!”

Chapter 3. The Squire and the Second Marshal - 3

To serve as squire to the Prince was a privilege beyond the reach of most, for it granted early access to the workings of governance—an advantage few other posts could rival. The realm of Rohan differed greatly from that of Gondor. North of the White Mountains, its lands stretched far and wide—from the Gap of Rohan in the west, to the Wold in the north, and eastward to the Emyn Muil and the Fenmarch. Yet for all its expanse, the settlements of the Rohirrim were few, and most of the people still lived as horse-herders, roaming with the seasons.

The Kings of the Mark traced their lineage through but two lines, and counted only seventeen generations from Eorl the Young—a history not yet five hundred years old, far simpler than that of the Númenórean realms to the north and south. From king to commoner, the folk of Rohan had not yet strayed from the hardy ways of their forebears—ways which, to the eyes of the High Men in exile, still seemed rough-hewn and plain, untouched by the refinements of long tradition.

Éomer often stood at Théodred’s side in Meduseld, listening as lords both great and humble came to lay their tidings before the King. He was surprised to learn how many in the Mark still spoke no word of the Common Tongue.

Though the Kings of Rohan had honoured martial prowess since the days of Eorl the Young, the influence of Gondor had grown notably during the reign of King Thengel—grandfather to both Théodred and Éomer. Under Thengel’s rule, the speech of Gondor was adopted in the Golden Hall, and with it came a reverence for learning and book-lore. Thus, for Éomer, to serve as Théodred’s squire meant not only tending arms and honing his skill at arms, but also the study of letters and lore.

Some of Thengel’s companions from his years in Gondor had remained in Edoras as royal scholars, passing down their lore to those who came after. From them, Éomer learned songs and tales, both noble and grim, and came to know the tongues and histories of many lands. By now, he could follow most of Théodred’s references—even those drawn from Gondor—with little effort, and his speech in the Common Tongue was often praised for bearing the grace and cadence of their southern allies.

“You already know the meaning of A Hîr Annûn Gilthoniel?” Théodred had once said in surprise, quoting a verse from an Elvish lay beloved in Gondor. “I am impressed! That is worthy of a brother of mine.” [1]

Later, Éomer would often ponder those words. He never did find the right moment to ask Théodred what he had meant. Master Gléowine, the King’s scholar and minstrel, who had taught both him and Éowyn, had once been Théodred’s tutor as well—but whenever the Prince’s name arose, the look that crossed the old man’s face suggested anything but fond remembrance of a former star pupil.

At present, the Lord of Westfold remained Erkenbrand, who held command from the Hornburg in Helm’s Deep. The lands nearest to Edoras—from Dunharrow to Harrowdale—were held directly by the King and the Prince. Eastfold, once governed by Éomund, now stood without a settled lord. Éomer, born and raised in those parts until the age of eleven, naturally thought of it as home and took a keen interest in its condition. So when he was chosen to accompany Théodred eastward, he made his preparations with eager resolve, determined that the journey should not be made in vain.

Even while Éomund yet lived, the state of Eastfold had grown increasingly grim. Éomer, though still a child, had felt it. Darkness had returned in the East; Mordor stirred once more. Gondor’s strength was waning, and Sauron’s reach had begun to creep across the Great River and over the White Mountains. His messengers had even dared to ride into Rohan, demanding tribute in the form of horses. Éomund, fiery of temper and bold of spirit, slew the insolent spokesman on the spot and sent the rest fleeing. Thereafter, Mordor turned to plunder: what it could not take, it sought to lay to ruin. Orcs bearing the Red Eye—some larger and more savage than any seen before—began to harry the eastern border: burning, slaying, and stealing steeds. Their boldness roused Éomund’s wrath, and so they laid a trap for him in the Emyn Muil. Thus fell the chief Marshal of the Mark—and the Enemy rejoiced, for the thorn had been plucked from their side.

Éomer had not grasped these causes at the time. But in Edoras, with wider knowledge and Théodred’s guidance, the threads of cause and consequence began to take clearer shape.

“Eastfold is not the only region suffering,” Théodred had said. “There are scarcely any dark horses left in all the Mark. Whatever use the Enemy has for them, it cannot be for any wholesome purpose.”

“Why do we not wage open war on Mordor?” Éomer demanded, his voice low with fury. To learn that his father’s death had not been some cruel mischance, but part of a far darker design, was almost more than he could endure.

Théodred did not answer at once. He had spent the morning in council, and his golden hair, unbraided for once, gave him a less martial, more contemplative air.

“When my father made that decision,” he said at last, rising to stand by the hearth, “I asked him the very same question.”

He gazed into the firelight, where the flames danced like restless thoughts. “It is not so simple. Rohan has never lacked for foes. To the west, the Dunlendings watch and bide their time. Isengard grows stranger with each passing year—its words more guarded, its purpose less clear. The east you know well. To the north lies the Wold, where even Eorl the Young met his end; and west of it, the Entwood, where none willingly tread, not even by day. And farther still, the Golden Wood, where dwells a sorceress—or so it is said—and none who enter ever return.”

“Well, if we already have so many enemies,” Éomer pressed, “what harm is one more? Is there not a saying—‘More lice do not itch, and more debts do not trouble’?”

Théodred, who had been frowning, burst into laughter. “Lice and debts will not kill you,” he said. “Remember this, Éomer: Frumgar led our people from the Vales of Anduin to Langwell, and Eorl the Young rode to the Field of Celebrant—not to court ruin, but to win a future. That is what a king must do.”

They said no more on the matter, and Éomer, in the end, chose to place his trust in the King’s wisdom. But Théodred, unwilling to rest on counsel alone, soon sought leave to ride and see the East-mark for himself.

The journey was to be a guarded one, undertaken with caution. Théodred brought with him not only his own éored, but two full companies drawn from the Riders of Edoras. At sunrise, the Second Marshal rode forth at the head of his host, passing between the barrow-mounds of the Kings. On each green grave, white simbelmynë bloomed in profusion, glimmering like frost in the early light.

It was late spring. The willows along the roadside had leafed, and the plains lay cloaked in green. The company planned to follow the East-West Road and make camp by sundown near the confluence of the Snowbourn and the Entwash. The land was smooth and open—by all accounts, the march should have been uneventful. But before noon, a Rider returned at speed and spoke to Théodred in a low voice. At once, his eyes lit with interest. He turned to Éomer with a grin. “A lucky day. We have a rare guest.”

Éomer did not understand—until he beheld the great grey horse.

It bore neither saddle nor bridle and, at first glance, might have passed for a wild steed. Yet no wild horse had ever looked so: its coat shimmered like silk in the sunlight, and its mane gleamed silver, like water in swift motion.

“That must be one of the Mearas!” Éomer gasped, nearly stumbling in his haste as he leapt from the saddle and rummaged through his bag. He pulled out an apple, sliced it cleanly in two with his knife, and stepped forward. “Here—this is for you!”

The horse did not so much as glance his way.

Éomer waited a long while before the truth dawned: he had been utterly ignored.

“A horse that does not like apples?!” he muttered, staring at the fruit in his hand, then at the horse—completely baffled.

Théodred, who had been watching from horseback all the while, at last raised a hand. A supply Rider dismounted, opened a pouch, and laid out a heap of apples before the horse.

Only then did the steed approach—stately and unhurried—and begin to eat, one by one, with serene composure.

Éomer stared, jaw agape.

“He is no ordinary horse,” said Théodred, now dismounted and standing beside him. “Even I hold no claim to his heed. That is Shadowfax, lord of the Mearas. He bears none but the King of the Mark.”

When Shadowfax finished, he lifted his head, and his gaze grew softer.

Théodred cast Éomer a sidelong smile. “Go on—he will let you touch him.”

Éomer stepped forward, laying his hand along the great horse’s neck and flank, scarcely able to believe it. Even when Shadowfax drew back a pace in courteous dismissal, he lingered, unwilling to part.

He watched as the silver-grey steed vanished into the wind-swept grass. Beside him, Théodred said, “I only wish he were less particular. Then perhaps, one day, you might know what it is to ride him.”

Éomer turned, startled. But Théodred met his gaze with a smile—open and unfeigned.

“You are as a brother to me,” he said. “Whatever I have, it is yours also.”

The next day, they rode deeper into Eastfold. Ever to the right, the White Mountains loomed, and ahead, the dark peak of Halifirien rose like a sentinel at the border of two realms. Beyond that height lay not the Riddermark, but Anórien of Gondor.

By the time they reached this point, Théodred had drawn a grim conclusion: the state of Eastfold was worse than he had foreseen. The great East-West Road, which cut across the breadth of Rohan, was a vital artery of travel and trade—one the servants of the Dark Lord might be expected to avoid. Yet time and again, they came upon signs of Orc-raids not far from the road: rotting horse carcasses, and bones left to bleach unburied beneath the open sky. Later, the scouts returned with darker tidings still—large Orcs, calling themselves Uruks, had been sighted in the mountains.

“These Orcs travel by day,” said a seasoned Rider. “We believe they have followed us since we first set out upon the Road—watching, tracking our every move.”

Éomer frowned. “The land here is too open for an ambush. And we ride three hundred strong. If they seek trouble, perhaps they have wearied of life.”

Théodred, however, was not so quick to dismiss the threat. Their own strength was not inconsiderable, and had they been trailed by mere rabble, the foe would surely have scattered at the first glimpse of Riders. Small wonder, then, that Éomer—whose encounters near Edoras had thus far involved only such lesser foes—should think so. But Théodred had once faced the Uruks at the Fords of Isen, and he knew them for what they were: a breed apart. Grimbold of Westfold had reported their presence often in that region—fierce, disciplined, and far stronger than their kin. They did not strike without purpose.

Twilight drew near. Behind them, the sun sank low—a great red orb swallowed by the endless sea of grass. Not a breath of wind stirred. The green-and-white banner of the Mark hung limp upon its staff, and a slow, nameless weight settled on the heart.

“Give the order to make camp. Double the watch,” said Théodred. Éomer relayed the command at once, and the Riders moved with quiet efficiency, leaving the road and making their encampment upon a chosen rise. By the time dusk had flooded the hollows and folds of the hills, the camp was set: tents raised, fires kindled and burning steadily. Théodred took a few swift bites of the meat stew Éomer had brought, then gestured for him to sit. Of late, the Prince had grown used to unburdening his thoughts to his squire—most often when the path ahead was shadowed with doubt.

“The matter is plain,” said Théodred, his voice grave. “Eastfold cannot be left so long neglected, or it will become a haven for Orcs. Yet the trouble is this: I carry too many burdens already. Isengard grows ever more menacing, and the mind of Saruman is veiled. Erkenbrand of Westfold is of an age where successors must be considered, yet Grimbold does not command the stature to take his place. Elfhelm is tied to the defense of Edoras. Soon, I must take Westfold into my own charge—and when that day comes, I shall have to dwell more often in Helm's Deep, and no longer abide in Meduseld as I do now.”

“I am your squire,” Éomer replied without hesitation. “Where you go, I shall go also. You shall lead, and I will follow—that is the way of things.”

Even burdened by cares, Théodred could not help but smile. “So it shall be. And I will not leave you behind—at least, not yet. But you must understand: you will not remain a squire forever, nor can you follow always.” He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Every fledgling must one day leave the nest. And you—well, you are the right man for Eastfold. Your father once ruled it, and you were raised among its fields and folk. You know its ways better than any.”

Éomer said nothing. Théodred had touched the very heart of his thoughts. As he neared manhood, he had indeed pondered the path ahead. With his lineage, it was only a matter of time before he would be called to defend—or govern—a part of the realm. And of all its lands, it was Eastfold he most longed to serve. Yet each time he dwelt on it in earnest, his heart would falter. To leave Edoras would be to part from the King, whom he had come to love as a father; from Éowyn, still young and not yet grown; and from Théodred himself.

“Enough of this gloomy talk,” said Théodred, brushing the air as though to scatter midges. “Only see to it that you do not shirk your duties. Speaking of which—I hear Elfhelm’s sister has been paying you rather frequent visits. I have known her since she was a child—and fortunate it is, that she looks nothing like her brother. I must say—”

“There is nothing between her and me!” Éomer’s face flushed crimson, and all thought of duty vanished in an instant. “And in any case—is that truly a matter for the Prince to concern himself with?”

“It is precisely the sort of matter an elder brother must concern himself with,” Théodred replied, with a face of perfect solemnity. “I squandered my own chances—I will not see you repeat my folly.”

Éomer looked genuinely despairing. His cousin had thirteen more years of practice in shameless teasing, and there was no hope of besting him. But before he could muster a retort, a sharp horn-blast split the air outside, followed by a swell of voices—and amid them, the coarse, rasping cries of Orcs.

At that, Éomer sprang to his feet, sword in hand in the blink of an eye. Théodred had drawn his blade in the same breath and was already striding toward the door when a figure appeared at the entrance. Instinctively, Éomer stepped before him, shielding his cousin. But the newcomer was no foe—only a guard, come to report.

“A small band of Orcs crept near the horse-lines,” he said. “Two steeds were wounded. We slew several of the creatures, and the rest fled back into the mountains.”

“Do not pursue,” said Théodred at once—only to hear, in the same breath, Éomer speaking the very same words.

Their eyes met. Éomer, struck by the impropriety of speaking out of turn, dropped to one knee and murmured, “It is the same ruse. I remember well how my father fell. They always came in small bands, under cover of night—wounded a horse, and fled. And then, one day…”

Théodred was silent for a moment, then turned to the guard. “You heard him?”

When the guard had gone, Théodred did not at once bid Éomer rise. The sounds outside faded into stillness. Candlelight flickered across the table, casting long shadows upon the walls of the tent.

“I have pondered this for some time,” Théodred said at last. “It was your likeness that gave me pause—you bear your father’s face so closely, and I feared you might have his temper as well. But now… I see no cause for doubt.”

A flash of cold light—and Éomer felt the weight of steel settle upon his shoulder. It was Théodred’s sword.

“By the authority of the King, and in his name, I, Théodred son of Théoden, Second Marshal of the Riddermark, do proclaim: Rise, Éomer son of Éomund, Knight of Rohan, and Rider of the King’s Guard!”

Éomer rose slowly, a little stiff from kneeling—his face alight with wonder and astonishment. Théodred laughed, returned his sword to its sheath, and drew him into a firm embrace.

“Well, what are you gaping at? You are but sixteen, and already a knight of the Guard! That sets you one step closer to Marshal, does it not?”

“You are ever the first to scold others for hedging,” said Théodred, amused. “And now you fall into it yourself?”

As he had expected, Éomer rose to the bait—but the words that burst from him were not at all what Théodred anticipated:

Chapter 5. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 1

“Lord Éomer—have you heard? Gríma the leech has returned.”

After six years in the King’s Guard, Éomer—now twenty-two—had a squire of his own. Éothain had but lately turned fourteen, a lad of Eastfold stock. His father had once ridden in the éored under Éomund in the old days. Fair-haired, quick of hand and light of foot, Éothain bore a cheerful temper and a habit of darting about the city whenever left idle. No rumour ever stirred in Edoras without brushing his ears.

Éomer had only just exchanged a few words with Háma, who had told him that a courier had arrived at first light with news: Théodred, long absent on patrol in Westfold, had departed from Helm’s Deep and was expected to return to Edoras before nightfall. The tidings had lifted Éomer’s spirits—until Éothain uttered those unwelcome words. At once, his mood darkened.

“On such a fine day,” he grumbled, shooting his squire a glare, “could you not find something better to care about?”

Yet the thought lingered, in spite of himself. It struck him that the leech had been gone these two full years. And the more he considered it, the clearer it became: Gríma’s sudden departure from Edoras had not been entirely without connection to him.

He had just turned twenty then, newly granted the right to command, and was leading a mounted patrol for the first time in his life. The thrill of it needed no saying. But they had barely ridden beyond the city when he noticed a stir at the rear of the column. A closer glance revealed a sight that took the breath from his lungs: his sister—astride her grey steed, clad as a Rider and wearing a helm in a vain attempt at disguise—yet unmistakable.

His shock was matched only by his concern. He brought the company to a halt, his face darkening like a thundercloud, dismounted at speed, and bade Éowyn do the same. Then he drew her aside.

“You are the Lady of Rohan—”

“I know what you are going to say,” Éowyn whispered, cutting him off. “Théodred has said it often enough before. Can you not think of something new?”

Something new?! Had they not been surrounded by Riders, Éomer might well have torn off his helm and seized his own hair in frustration. As it was, he could only sputter, “Even if you care nothing for the duties of other maidens, that is no excuse to go taking after Hild!”

Hild was, in truth, Elfhild—Elfhelm’s younger sister. A year younger than Éomer, she was strikingly fair of face, with none of her brother’s roughness; and among the young women of Edoras, none drew more glances. But appearances could deceive—for, as the Gondorians would say, “A face is no map of the soul.” Though she bore the name of the late queen, she had little of her gentleness. Her most famed deed was still fresh in the telling: disguised as a Rider, she had slipped unnoticed into her brother’s éored and joined battle against a raiding host near the Fords. She unhorsed their chieftain and slew him in single combat, though her helm was lost and her face revealed. And he, dying, would not believe that it was a woman—and one so fair—who had struck him down, or so the tale ran.

The tongue of the Dunlendings was little known in the Mark, and Éomer suspected that last part of the tale had grown in the telling. But that Elfhild was fiercer than many men, he did not doubt. When he was still a squire, she would turn up around him constantly, always with some excuse or errand. Théodred, amused, had called it a girlish fancy and teased him without mercy. At first, Éomer too had believed it—but he had been sorely mistaken.

One afternoon, as he was grooming Théodred’s horse in the stable, she appeared without warning, seized him by the arm, drew him into a corner, and kissed him—hard and without a word. It lasted long enough to leave him blinking, dazed. Then she stepped back, frowned slightly, touched her lips, and muttered to herself, “Is that all? I cannot see why my brother and his friends find it so endlessly fascinating.” And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Éomer frozen where he stood—until the shock wore off and fury set in.

It was, indeed, a hard thing to endure. For one, he could not strike a woman. Nor could he speak of it—for what sort of man would confess to being manhandled by a maiden? So he swallowed the affront. The only mercy was that he had taken the lesson to heart: never once did he speak of it to Théodred, no matter how deep the cup. He had no wish to go down as the greatest laughingstock the House of Eorl had ever produced.

And back to Éowyn—Éowyn had ever been headstrong. She had learned the sword from Théodred in her younger days, yet she had grown into a composed and stately lady of the Mark—no less the equal of any who had borne that title before her. That she would now attempt such a thing—he could only surmise she had heard of Elfhild’s exploits and sought to follow in her stead. The thought alone chilled his blood more sharply than the first time he had faced a warg-rider.

“I am your brother—I would never do you harm. Just trust me, this once.” He drew her a little farther aside and lowered his voice. If rebuke would not serve, then persuasion must—for that much, at least, Théodred had taught him. “And if that truly is your intent, then at least let it pass as such. Your hauberk fits poorly, you still wear earrings, and your hair is not braided fit for a helm. If I turn a blind eye, how will my Riders regard me?”

Éowyn glanced down at her attire, and her expression faltered. Éomer had only just begun to breathe easier when a voice sounded nearby:

“Long have I heard tell of our lady, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Were Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnach to walk once more in the Riddermark, she would be as this.”

Éowyn lifted her head at once. Éomer turned—and there stood Gríma the leech, half-veiled among the willows, a basket of herbs slung across his back. His lids were lowered, but his eyes gleamed with an uncanny light.

Ever since that man had once sown seeds of bitter doubt in his heart—turning him, however briefly, against his own kin—Éomer had found it hard to look upon him without anger. Worse still, he could never quite disentangle Gríma from that shameful misstep of youth which had brought embarrassment upon Théodred. The way the leech looked at them now made Éomer’s hackles rise—and already in a foul mood, he was ready to strike him then and there. But before he could act, Éowyn laid a gentle hand on his arm and said quietly, “The fault was mine. Let it rest.” Then she turned, mounted, and rode back toward the city.

With that interruption, Éomer had lost the will to strike. He cast a curt, “My sister is not for your idle speech,” over his shoulder and led the company away. Yet later, the more he brooded on it, the more it chafed. He half considered calling on Gríma the next day, to make plain what ought and ought not to be spoken—but the leech was gone. It seemed Gríma had read the wind and chosen the wiser course: he had gathered his wares and slipped from Edoras of his own accord.

Shaking off the memory, Éomer turned back to Éothain. “And what of it, if he has returned? Is that truly something worth fretting yourself into a panic over?”

“My lord, please—just hear me out!” the boy protested. “I would never trouble you over nothing. It is not merely that he has returned—folk saw him speak with the Lady Éowyn at the gates, and now she has ridden from the city with only two companions!”

At that, Éomer felt a sharp ringing in his ears. He ordered Éothain to ready the horses at once—but before they could depart in pursuit, a horn rang out. Moments later, an éored swept into view, riding swift and sure toward the city gates. At their head flew the green-and-white banner of the Mark—the Prince’s own standard. Beneath it rode two abreast: one in dark green mail laced with gold, the other in white, cloaked deep in green—Théodred and Éowyn.

Éomer found his cousin outside the stables, just as he was removing his helm. Éowyn was nowhere in sight—she had likely hastened to the Hall to see to the preparations. Théodred, catching sight of him, handed over his helm by reflex—a gesture born of their days as prince and squire.

“She surprised me—and pleasantly so,” he said, before Éomer could speak. “But what sort of brother lets her ride out with so little company, even knowing I had chosen to return early and was already near?”

Éomer lowered his head and accepted the rebuke without protest. Théodred eyed his cousin—taller by a couple of inches, yet wearing the look of a chastened boy—and let out a sudden chuckle.

“But I have just realized something,” he said, his tone turning solemn. “Éowyn is truly grown.” Then, after a pause and a crooked smile, he added, “At times, I think I am doomed to be outmatched by the high standard set by the women of your house—first your mother, still called the fairest lady in the Mark after all these years, and now your sister, grown into one who will surely outshine all her peers. With each passing day, I grow less certain that I shall ever meet one to match them—and begin to wonder whether I ought to say so the next time the King chews my ear about marriage.”

With that, he laughed and turned toward the Hall, striding away—leaving Éomer too stunned to muster a protest.

“Why should I rush? It is women who grow anxious with age, not men. And besides, I am not so old—am I? I am only thirty-seven. Our grandfather, after all, was thirty-eight when he wed.”

“And you know how rare that was,” Éomer scoffed. “Besides, does one not need to meet someone first? Come now—tell me: have you even met anyone at all?”

Usually, when pressed like this, Théodred would parry with a stream of jests and effortless deflections. But this time—whether from drink, or the lack of it—the words would not come.

Or perhaps he simply no longer had the heart for such careless sport.

The King’s illness began early last year. One night, without warning, Théoden fell into fever and did not rise with the dawn. The old saying proved true: “Illness strikes like a falling mountain.” Théoden, son of Thengel, was sixty-six—not in his prime, yet by the reckoning of the Rohirrim, not so very old; many among them lived well into their eighties. Strange, then, that the sickness came with such sudden force. But healing took precedence.

Gríma the leech, a healer of no small repute, happened to be in Edoras. Whatever Théodred or Éomer thought of him, neither could deny his skill. Théodred summoned him to the Golden Hall without delay. To his credit, Gríma laboured without rest for a full day and night—and at last, the King opened his eyes.

“Our lord King has borne much toil and care in these past years,” Gríma said to Théodred outside the chamber, with Éomer and Éowyn nearby—his face pale as linen, yet his manner composed, flawlessly courteous, and offering no fault even to the most discerning eye. “Though he has weathered this trial, he will require closer care for a time. With your leave, my lord, I would dedicate my service to the King and remain near, that his needs might be swiftly met.”

He had reason—and Théodred had no grounds to refuse. Together with Éomer, he stood at the King’s bedside and watched Éowyn gently wipe the sweat from her uncle’s brow. Only then did he realize how deeply the worry had settled in him—how heavy the burden on his shoulders had truly grown.

Since then, the King had never truly recovered. His strength waxed and waned without pattern, and so Gríma remained ever at his side, gradually taking it upon himself to speak on the King’s behalf. At first, the court murmured at this; but over time, as the matters proved trifling, they grew accustomed. Théodred took up the duties of heir more fully, holding court in Edoras, while the defense of the realm fell to Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Éomer. Thus it was that, when a summons to council came from Gondor the following year, Théodred found it no easy thing to spare himself for the journey.

Ever since the days of Eorl the Young—when he and Cirion, Steward of Gondor, swore an oath of perpetual friendship and alliance—the Rohirrim had dwelt in the Mark, bound to Gondor as steadfast allies. Many times since, the horns of the Eorlingas had sounded in the southern lands, and the knights of Gondor had ridden north to their aid. Far away in South Ithilien, the barrows of King Folcwine’s twin sons—Folcred and Fastred—still stood tall upon the banks of the river Poros.

The royal line of Gondor had long since failed, and for over a thousand years the realm had been ruled by the Stewards. The current Steward, Denethor son of Ecthelion, was known for his pride, keen insight, and tireless vigilance. Théodred was no stranger to the growing troubles of the world—threats pressed upon both Rohan and Gondor from many quarters. That Denethor should seek to gather the lords of his allies and vassals in such a time was, therefore, no surprise. At first, Théodred had not hoped to attend—until, by some rare grace, his father rallied enough to sit once more in council and resume a portion of his duties. Only then could Théodred spare the time to journey east to the White City, taking Éomer with him.

The White City—called Mundburg by the Rohirrim, and Minas Tirith , the Tower of Guard, by the men of Gondor—was built into the eastern face of the White Mountains, beneath the hill of Mindolluin. It rose tier upon tier, a city of seven levels, hewn from stone and held to be the mightiest stronghold of the Free Peoples. Théodred had seen it before, yet its majesty struck him anew. As for Éomer, beholding it for the first time left him openly awed.

Council, after all, was never merely a matter of policy—it was the study of those with whom one might, in time, make either war or peace. Later, Éomer would remark that Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, was “more like to the swift sons of Eorl than to the grave Men of Gondor.” [1] And Théodred had agreed heartily. That day, as he stepped from a meeting with the Steward, he saw his young cousin in the courtyard, deep in talk with Boromir. Éomer, clear-voiced and unyielding, was saying: “Rohan will hold to the Oath of Eorl—but only because we stand beside friends, not beneath masters. We serve no foreign lord, good or evil.” [2]

The words were not untrue—but to speak them to the heir of Denethor? That was bold indeed.

The thought crossed Théodred’s mind, and in that moment, he missed Boromir’s reply—only to hear Éomer speak again, firm and unflinching: “We speak plainly. The Men of the Mark do not lie, and therefore they are not easily deceived.” [3]

At that, Théodred made a mental note to call on the King’s scholar who had once tutored Éomer and Éowyn in diplomacy—and to inquire precisely what manner of reasoning had been imparted. But to his relief, Boromir only laughed, clapped Éomer on the shoulder, and said, “That is the way of it! I have no patience for those who speak in riddles and vanish when deeds are called for.”

Seeing that the future Steward of Gondor remained as forthright and large-hearted as ever, Théodred relaxed, the impulse to intervene slipping quietly away. As he lingered beneath the Tower, his gaze wandered—and there, across the courtyard where the withered White Tree stood in solemn silence, he beheld a maiden. She appeared no more than twenty, her dark hair a vivid contrast against the pale stone of wall and floor. At first, he thought little of it—until she turned and met his eyes. Then he was held fast by the sight.

So that was it, he thought later. It had never been a matter of readiness—only that none had ever been the right one.

He had seen many golden-haired maidens—warm and bold, beloved of the Riddermark. It was not that they lacked beauty; they were fair indeed. But this one was different. There was in her a quiet, unearthly grace that stirred a word in his mind: Elf. He had seen Elves but once, long ago in his youth, and the memory had never faded—though he had never spoken of it. The beauty and bearing they possessed… no Mortal could ever truly hope to match.

He came back to himself to find Éomer still pestering him, and said at last, with a faint smile, “And what if I told you I had met someone?”

“What?!” Éomer nearly dropped his cup, his eyes wider than a bull’s. “You are not jesting? Who is she? Do I know her?”

“You have seen her,” Théodred said, brushing the question aside with a wave of his hand. Of course he had made inquiries—her lineage was in no way unworthy. But he was much her elder, and though his grandfather Thengel had wed Morwen of Lossarnach despite a span of seventeen years between them, that was far from customary. And now, with the King’s health failing and the realm darkening under shadow, there was little room left for such thoughts.

When they returned from Mundburg, Théoden had waned once more—and Éowyn had changed. In their absence, she had borne the weight of both hall and household, tended the King with tireless devotion, and held Edoras steady through uncertain days. All spoke of her grace and wisdom, yet she grew quieter with each passing day. She had never been reckless, and her will had ever been strong—but once, she had been more open. Théodred remembered it well: how she would ride out to greet him, eager and radiant, her face alight with joy at his return from long duty in Helm’s Deep. In that moment, the burdens of the West-mark had seemed to weigh less.

When he learned from Éomer of her attempt to follow in Elfhild’s steps, he had been troubled at first. But he trusted her judgment—and chose to wait. It was only later, on a quiet night, as they sat together on the terrace of Meduseld beneath the stars, after a warm meal and a generous measure of ale, that he asked.

She had not needed much urging. “I learned the sword from you,” she said. “You know I am no less than Elfhild. But that time—I did not think it through. It will not happen again.” Then she paused. “You are dear to me as a brother, Théodred—and so you are to Éomer. He holds you in high esteem, and he will listen to you. Will you tell him not to fret so much? I am not made of glass. The daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn does not break easily.”

But he had never spoken of that conversation to Éomer—for in truth, he knew his cousin too well. That fierce protectiveness—they shared it, and it was not easily set aside, even when they knew it to be against reason. He trusted Éowyn’s strength. And yet, with so much now laid upon her shoulders, he feared for her all the same.

And then there was Gríma. Whether it stemmed from suspicion or some deeper instinct, Théodred could not say. Yet he had begun to watch the man more closely—with a mounting unease he could neither name nor cast off.

“If you truly have met someone,” said Éomer beside him, unaware of what passed through his mind, “then you must not delay! The King has long wished to see you wed—and if you did, who knows? His spirits might lift, and he might yet recover.”

At that unexpected reasoning, Théodred choked slightly on his drink once more. “Enough. The road is long, and the land still uncertain. Let the war be over first.”

Neither of them guessed, then, how long that war would endure.

Chapter 7. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 3

Night had fallen deep. In the darkness, the patrolling guards moved like shadows—vague figures shifting through the gloom. The air was thick with the sharp scent of horses, and now and then came the restless scrape of hooves against the earth.

Éomer, son of Éomund, had held the post of Third Marshal of the Riddermark for nearly two years. And yet this night, he sat by the dying fire, tightening and loosening his whip again and again, until the leather thongs at its end twisted into a matted tuft. Still, he hesitated—uncertain how to begin.

To hold such command and office at six-and-twenty was a rare feat indeed—his lifelong wish fulfilled, and a distinction even his father had not achieved. Yet the years since his appointment had been anything but peaceful.

The King’s illness showed no sign of abating, and the orders issued in his name—filtered through Gríma—grew ever more circumspect: “Make no rash move,” “Provoke no open war,” “Pursue not the foe without leave.” In sum: make no enemy of Isengard. Most of what came from Edoras now served only to bind the hands of captains and marshals. And though the old man upon the throne had grown clouded of late, he remained the liege-lord of all—and to Éomer, more than that: a father. To cast aside that bond, to defy the King’s will, was unthinkable.

But slow constraint, over time, brought disaster. When Elfhild led a company that found signs of the enemy and gave chase, another host emerged and trapped them in the hills. Word reached Edoras, and Elfhelm sought leave to ride in support—but an order had been issued not long before: “No Riders of Edoras are to pass beyond the Folde.” Éomer hesitated only a moment, and sent a Rider to seek Théodred’s leave. But by the time the answer came, it was too late. Elfhild had fallen—and only when Elfhelm rode in at last and slew the wildmen to the last were they able to recover her body.

Théodred, when he heard the whole of it, was furious with him for the first time in their lives.

“You are a Marshal—you must have the courage to bear the weight of command! When the time comes to act, you cannot falter for fear of orders!” The Prince had shut the doors behind them and unleashed a storm of rebuke, sparing neither rank nor pride. “What were you afraid of—that my father or I would doubt your loyalty?”

Éomer had bowed his head and taken the censure in silence. Shame and regret lay heavy upon him—but mingled with them was a wordless, unshakable gratitude.

And in the summer, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, came unlooked-for to the Riddermark, seeking the hidden refuge of the Elves—Imladris, as they named it. Éomer received him in Eastfold and afterward rode with him to Edoras. Théodred, long counted among his dearest friends, saw him off in person at the Fords of Isen, lending him a steed fit for the long road ahead. Yet ere long, the horse returned alone, bearing no rider—and no word of Boromir. What came instead was not the son of the Steward of Gondor, but Gandalf Greyhame.

Gandalf’s name was known throughout the Mark, though opinions differed. Some called him a bringer of storms, for trouble ever seemed to follow in his wake; others whispered that he was no mere dealer in fireworks, but a mighty wizard, akin to Saruman of Isengard. Whatever the truth, the King had long granted him leave to come and go as he pleased. Éomer, though he had never met the man, had heard no few tales. And when at last he beheld him, he saw only a weather-worn wanderer—little better than a beggar at first glance. So when Gandalf seized upon a loophole in the King’s words and—with neither shame nor pause—laid claim to the famed Shadowfax, and the horse indeed consented, Éomer could scarcely believe his eyes.

“I thought Shadowfax would bear none but the Lord of the Mark!” he complained afterward. “Who does this old man think he is, to have more claim in Shadowfax’s eyes than you?”

But Théodred only shook his head and smiled, untroubled. “He is no ordinary old man. He looked the same when I was a child—and so, they say, did he when my father and grandfather were young. He has not changed in decades, and cannot be of mortal kind.”

“So he is a wizard, then—like Saruman the White?”

Théodred nodded. “It would seem so.”

Éomer frowned. “Then is this not merely a quarrel between wizards? How are we to know which side we ought to take?”

Théodred’s smile faded. “Whether Gandalf be friend or no, I trust Saruman far less. The hill-men we have taken speak of a white-robed old man who stirred them to war. And of late, Orcs bearing the White Hand have been seen near Edoras. That is Saruman’s mark.”

Even as he spoke, a knock came at the door. Háma entered and bowed slightly before addressing him. “My lord—Erkenbrand has sent word from Westfold. Saruman has declared that all of Rohan now falls under the rule of Isengard.”

It was as good as a declaration of war. Théodred and Éomer sprang to their feet and made for the door at once—but in the corridor, Théodred halted abruptly. Éomer, catching his gaze, stopped as well.

Though the torchlight was dim, they saw it clearly. Éowyn, clad in white, was hastening away down the hall—and behind her, half-veiled in shadow, stood Gríma. One hand had only just withdrawn, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable. No man could have misread it.

Éomer’s blood surged—but Théodred moved faster. The Prince strode forward, seized Gríma by the collar, and slammed him hard against the wall, pinning him with one hand tight around his throat.

“Éowyn is as a sister to me,” Théodred said, slow and quiet, each word keen as drawn steel. “Stalk her again, and I shall call you to single combat.”

“You would slay me—and fear not the King’s hea—”

“Do not flatter yourself,” Théodred answered coldly. “You are not the only leech in the land.”

He released his grip, and Gríma crumpled to the floor.

“Send word to Elfhelm,” Théodred said, the words meant for Éomer. “Remuster the garrison in Edoras. From his command, draw four companies of Riders—we ride for Helm’s Deep. From this hour, all reports are to be sent to both Meduseld and the Hornburg.”

He turned on his heel and strode away, sparing not so much as a glance for the leech. “If Saruman seeks war,” he said, “then war he shall have.”

Éomer did not answer at once, for he still trembled with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. But Háma stepped to Théodred’s side and, after a brief pause, said quietly, “My lord… the King has given no such command.”

“I am his heir. The burden of regency lies with me. I am also his son—and I know he is no coward,” Théodred snapped. “And how many feeble, hollow decrees have we obeyed—neither my father’s nor mine, but hissed from the forked tongue of this snake?”

Now that war had come in earnest, Théodred took full command. Yet still, orders bearing the King’s seal continued to arrive—ill-suited more often than not to the needs of war—and Éomer found it ever harder to reconcile duty with necessity. Rumours began to spread: whispers that he defied the will of both King and Prince, that he overstepped his place, that his ambitions reached too far.

This time, too, he had acted without express leave. Delay would have endangered the defense. Théodred was still in Westfold, and to send for his word would have cost precious hours—perhaps a full day. Éomer made the call—and at dusk, they struck, utterly routing the foe.

Yet on the ride back, he crossed paths with another band of scouts—these bore the livery of the Second Marshal. Théodred himself had taken the field. Their two companies joined ranks, and with their numbers now sufficient, they chose to make camp.

Théodred said little when they met. Whether it was mere weariness or something more, Éomer could not tell—but the rumours had grown thick, and though his conscience was clear, he dared not presume. At last, as the fire dwindled to red embers, he made up his mind.

“Théodred.”

His cousin had long since wrapped himself in his cloak and lay resting—but after a moment, he murmured, “Hm?”

“You are the heir to the King of the Mark. You always have been. As for me—” He paused; the words caught in his throat. How could he speak without sounding as though he sought to excuse himself? “I know my place. You shall lead, and I will follow. Such is the way of things. I have never wished for anything else.”

There was a rustle from across the fire. Théodred shifted with a groan and yawned.

“Did I not tell you to pay no heed to Gríma’s venom? A snake’s mouth spits only poison. If not for my father’s illness, I would never have suffered him to remain in Edoras.”

He paused. Then, more softly, as sleep crept into his voice, he added, “Éomer, you are as a brother to me. If I cannot trust you—then what remains worth living for?”

Soon, Théodred’s breathing settled into a steady rhythm. Éomer listened—and slowly, the weight upon his chest began to lift.

Théodred trusted him. Théodred still trusted him.

Thank Béma for that.

For without it, Éomer might well have begun to wonder if there was anything remained worth living for.

Chapter 8. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 4

When Éomer received word that a band of Orcs had descended from the hills of Emyn Muil, he chose to ride out with his éored—defying the orders issued in the King’s name, never guessing what strange encounter lay ahead upon the road.

The Man called himself Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He bore the manner of the Men of Gondor—yet in stature, strength, and presence, he surpassed them all. “Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!” [1]

And so Éomer had to choose.

The Sword of Elendil—broken long before the Eorlingas came to the Riddermark—had been reforged. Halflings, once no more than hearthside tales to amuse children, were real. Elf, Man, and Dwarf—three wholly disparate peoples—journeyed together in pursuit of two halflings taken by Uruks, and in less than four days they had covered forty-five leagues. A Dwarf had stood in steadfast defense of an Elven lady. To find oneself in such a world, where dream and legend had become waking truth—what was a man to do?

To this, the Man had replied: “Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” [2]

And so Éomer made the choice his heart could bear.

On the road to Edoras, he told himself he must share the tale with Théodred—all of it. And if ever the chance arose to know those strange companions better, so much the better. But no sooner had he returned than he sensed something was amiss: the air in the city hung heavy, stifling, and the awe and wonder of his encounter vanished—shut away, as if by a closing door.

He had scarcely passed the reins of Firefoot to Éothain when Háma emerged through the gathering crowd, two soldiers close behind, and came straight to him.

“What are you doing here?” Éomer asked, taken aback. The Captain of the King’s Guard had no reason to come down for so routine a return.

“Wormtongue gives orders: you are to be brought before the King the moment you return, without delay,” Háma said—but Éomer heard the name Wormtongue, and that said enough. He suppressed the urge to spit; it would change nothing. Since the day Théodred had first named Gríma thus, the name had spread swiftly. Those who mistrusted the man used it freely in private—and a few, even to his face.

When Éomer first discovered Gríma’s blatant and presumptuous desire for Éowyn, he had been ready to act at once—but Gríma had moved faster. By what means he swayed the King, no one could say. The old man had not only placed guards about him, but had also warned Éomer against any rash deed beneath the roof of the Golden Hall. Left with no recourse, Éomer could only restrain his fury. Each time he rode out from Edoras, he reminded Éowyn—again and again—to be careful. She never voiced complaint. She only showed him the dagger she kept hidden at her side—and that, more than words, pained him all the more.

He walked with Háma in silence for a time toward the Hall. Then, as they reached the base of the steps, Háma spoke—suddenly and low: “Lord Éomer… I am sorry for the loss.”

“Loss?” Éomer frowned, mounting the first step. “No wonder the city feels strange. Who is it?”

“You have not heard?” Háma paused, then said quietly, “It is the King’s son.”

The words struck like a thunderclap. Éomer stumbled and nearly fell. “Who? Say that again!”

“Word reached Edoras four days ago,” Háma answered swiftly, as if fearing his strength might fail if he delayed. “The Prince fell in battle at the Fords, on the twenty-fifth. Grimbold and the others had no choice but to bury him there—per his own wish.”

“Lies!” Éomer regained his footing and seized Háma by the chest. “It cannot be!”

“It is true. Grimbold himself planted the Prince’s banner over the mound and said, ‘This will be defence enough.’ ” [3] Háma met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “For before he died, he said, ‘Let me lie here—to keep the Fords till Éomer comes.’ ” [4]

Éomer’s knees nearly gave, and his grip slackened. His ears rang. The solid earth beneath him felt as though it had split—no longer able to bear his weight. Théodred is dead. Théodred is dead. The twenty-fifth—that was five… no, six days ago. Six days. While his cousin fought and fell at the Fords, still hoping Éomer would come—where had he been?

Six whole days—and he had not known.

He did not remember how he reached the top of the stairs. Háma led him through the doors of Meduseld and remained just within. Alone, Éomer walked the length of the Golden Hall and came before the man who had ever been as a father to him—now white-haired, weary, seated upon the throne, crowned in gold. And in that familiar face, he saw not even the faintest trace of sorrow.

He heard himself speak in a flat voice, recounting his journey. All that had once stirred awe in him now rang hollow. One thought circled endlessly in his mind: Théodred is dead. The shock had passed. What remained was a numb, unyielding disbelief. Do you not know? he thought. Théodred is dead.

The answer came—but from another voice.

“Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark—do you know your fault?” Gríma stepped forward from beside the throne, his voice cold and lofty.

“What fault?” Éomer asked, the words falling from him by rote.

“First, you disobeyed the King’s command and abandoned the defence of Edoras. Second, you gave aid—and horses—to strangers of uncertain purpose. And third—you failed to answer a call for aid from the Prince. A grievous failure indeed.”

Éomer looked up sharply. Gríma descended the steps with measured tread, his voice calm, each word laced with venom.

“Elfhelm received word that the Prince had called for aid. He set out at once—and sent a rider to Edoras, bidding you come swiftly. And yet, you made no move to ride to the Fords. Instead, you went north—on feeble excuses. Why? Was it to consort with outsiders? Were you scheming for the throne?”

Éomer stared at that pale face, at the lips still moving, uncomprehending. What is he talking about?

Then Gríma leaned in, his voice low—meant for Éomer alone: “You do not understand? Naturally. Because I withheld Elfhelm’s message.”

So—you withheld Théodred’s call for help? Then it was you who caused him to die?

The moment the truth struck him, Éomer felt his blood surge—his vision blurred. With a shout, he drew his sword. Only one thought burned in his mind: Kill him. Why did I not strike him down the moment I saw how he looked at Éowyn? Why?

“Guards! Guards!”

Gríma sprang back like a serpent, fleeing up the steps to the dais with uncanny speed. Háma rushed forward with his men, and the Golden Hall erupted into chaos. The guards tried to hold Éomer back, but he thrashed and lunged like a cornered beast. The struggle roused the dozing King; Théoden stirred and groaned. From behind the throne, Gríma raised a pale hand and shrieked, “What are you waiting for? Will you rebel with him?”

In desperation, Háma shouted, “Lord Éomer—are you mad? Do not force our hand!”

“I am mad!” Éomer roared. “But I will kill him today!”

“You heard him! Seize him!” Gríma shrieked. “If the King is harmed, who will answer for it?”

At last, the guards moved with force. Éomer, for all his rage, would not strike his own. They overwhelmed him. A blow to the head drove him to his knees. His sword was wrenched away, his armour stripped, his weapons seized. Blood streamed down his face. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes—as Gríma’s gloating voice rang out across the hall:

“Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, acted without leave, and now turns to violence. His intentions are plain. He shall be—”

“Éomer!”

It was Éowyn’s voice—never before had he heard such panic from her. She came running, her footsteps swift and desperate.

At the sight of her, Gríma faltered. “—shall be imprisoned pending judgment,” he finished hastily. “And from this moment, no one shall bear arms in the Golden Hall.”

Éomer, raising his head with effort but in vain, saw her halt—her eyes flickering from him to the murmuring King. She bit her lip, then darted to the dais. Gríma had straightened and now gently clasped the King’s aged hand, his gaze turned to her, full of feigned pity.

No—do not give him heed! Éomer wanted to cry. He schemed to murder Théodred. He schemed to have our brother slain.

But no sound came. Darkness closed in. The last thing he remembered was the clang of the guard-house door.

It was March the first, in the year 3019 of the Third Age—the day before Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli reached Edoras.

Notes:

[1][2] Quoted from LotR.

[3][4] Quoted from UT.

Per UT: “But Gríma used the curtness of this advice to further his policy of delay.” This I read as evidence that Gríma had already been employing delay—deliberately aiding Saruman’s design to see Théodred slain at all costs.

Per LotR: “Éomer grasped his sword. ‘That I knew already,’ he muttered. ‘For that reason [Gríma's desire of Éowyn] I would have slain him before, forgetting the law of the hall. But there are other reasons.’” And this, I believe, is one of the other reasons.

The Great War that changed the fate of the world and brought the Third Age to its end is told in full elsewhere. Let it be said here only this: from forest to fen, from mountain to sea, minstrels in many tongues have sung the tale of King Théoden, son of Thengel, who rose in the last year of his life. He led the Rohirrim first against the malice of Isengard and cast down Saruman; then, fulfilling the Oath of Eorl, he rode south to war.

On that day, when darkness veiled the Tower of Guard and the world stood poised upon the brink of endless night, horns rang—sudden as thunder—from the end of the mountain range. Beneath banners bearing the white horse upon green, six thousand Riders broke through fire and ruin and thundered across the fields of the Pelennor, with songs and war-cries fair and terrible—arriving with the sunrise, and with hope.

And from that hour, the tale unfolded as Gandalf had foretold: help came from the hands of the weak when the Wise faltered. [1] At last, Frodo the Halfling, alone with his faithful servant, endured peril beyond all reckoning, and came to the very fires where the One Ring was forged—and there they cast it down. The Dark Lord perished. The Shadow was broken. Peace returned to the world. Arnor and Gondor, long sundered, were made one again, and the long-awaited King was crowned.

More than a year had passed since the War of the Ring, and now the Fortress of the Stars of Osgiliath, spanning the great river Anduin, stood rebuilt and proud, welcoming guests from near and far. Ships from both the North and the South came and went upon its waters, and the air was rich with the hum of life and trade.

Éomer had crossed the bridge from the east alone, strolling westward. For all its strength, the Gondorian city felt a little stifling to one bred beneath open skies and raised upon the wind-swept plains. He sought the sky—a breath of air. Éowyn had wished to accompany him, but Faramir had gently dissuaded her; she had but lately shared the glad tidings that she was to become a mother, and thus had become the Prince of Ithilien’s charge of particular care.

As for Éothain, Éomer had expressly forbidden his lieutenant to follow. Newly wed to his southern bride, Éothain had grown even more lively—or talkative, depending on whom one asked—though his prattle now centered on the “lifelong happiness” of his liege-lord, to Éomer’s increasing dismay and annoyance. His curiosity, once confined to the Riddermark, had now extended to encompass all of Gondor.

She appeared little more than twenty, with dark hair and eyes of grey—features not uncommon in the South. Yet there was something about her, something that set her apart, as if she gleamed with an Elven light—not unlike the Queen Evenstar herself. And stranger still, he felt certain he had seen her before.

“Well met.” Sensing his gaze, the maiden turned with effortless grace and offered a bow. “I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil.”

“…Well met, Lady Lothíriel,” Éomer replied, not quite accustomed to being outpaced in introductions. “I am—”

But she smiled before he could finish. “I know you. You are Éomer, son of Éomund—King of the Mark.”

They walked the rest of the way together, pausing at the western end of the bridge to gaze out over the water. From there, even the busy Harlond beneath the White City could be seen.

“I saw you once in Minas Tirith,” she said, lifting her face in thought. “Five or six years ago, perhaps? You were in someone’s company. He seemed older—not quite so tall, but proud, and fair of bearing. While you and Lord Boromir spoke, he watched me. When at last he came near, I thought he might speak—but he only nodded, and walked on.”

Like lightning cleaving the dark, those long-buried words rose from the depths of memory and echoed in his ears:

Éomer had never deemed himself sentimental, yet he would not forget the day he left Aldburg and first came to the Golden Hall. Before the doors of Meduseld, he had seen Éowyn weeping in the King’s embrace, while he stood silent—sorrowful and unsure. Men do not weep, they were told, but only sweat or bleed —even in grief. Yet it was hard. And just as his resolve began to falter, the young cousin behind the King stepped forward, stooped slightly, and whispered: “Come with me.”

“You shall be my squire. And as for the days to come… we shall speak of them when they come.”

Seventeen years… in which a boy, bereft of both father and mother, came into his prime—squire to the Prince, Knight of the King’s Guard, Third Marshal of the Mark—ever following the elder cousin held dear as a brother, who remained to the end the Prince and Second Marshal, and never once spoke the name of the maiden who had once touched his heart.

“Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?” So ran the old song. In youth, he had heard only its might—now he heard its mourning. The helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing—they had passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow. [2]

To fall in war was no shame for a son of the Mark. From Eorl to Théoden, death in battle had ever crowned their path. And Éomer had said it himself: “Mighty was the fallen; meet was his ending. …War now calls us!” [3]

But now, the war was over, and the dust had settled. The ache left by the dead could no longer be denied. The voice, the laughter—long buried beneath the grass of the Fords of Isen. That short, bright life had vanished into a patch of dark earth, marked only by the white simbelmynë that bloomed there, year after year.

And those who remained—they were left to taste the long-delayed sorrow, which now came swift, and could not be turned aside.

“Was I mistaken?” asked the Lady of Dol Amroth softly, watching the young King remain silent for so long.

“No,” Éomer said, lifting his gaze toward the western shore. There, at the far edge of the Pelennor, beneath the shadow of Mindolluin, the City gleamed in white and gold. The White Tower of Ecthelion rose like a needle of pearl and diamond. And beyond… beyond the mountains—he could almost see the green plains of Rohan once more.

When the breeze had dried the wetness at the corners of his eyes, he exhaled—and at last, he said:

No man in Edoras would deny that Elfhelm’s younger sister was a fair maiden—but what lay beneath that fair face, few had the wit to reckon with.

Théodred, for his part, had long grown used to Elfhelm’s weary refrain: “Why can she not behave like a proper maiden?” So he was not entirely unprepared. And yet, when she found him halfway through lunch, sat herself down, and—without the faintest preamble—asked, “What is it like, kissing a man?”—a question that danced dangerously close to the line of what a maid ought and ought not to ask—he very nearly choked. With all haste, he shoved aside both his meat and his mead.

“Hild,” he said—once the hazard of being the first of the House of Eorl to choke on his midday meal had passed—“why ask me? Why not your brother?”

“I heard you are far more popular with the maids than he is. You must be more experienced.”

Men are truly pitiable creatures, Théodred thought—both pained and, in some strange way, honoured. A sense of duty stirred within him; such praise could not go unanswered.

“Well,” he said, gathering himself, “that is easily solved. Try it once yourself, and you will know.”

“But with whom?” She said, frowning. “He would have to be decent. And absolutely no misunderstanding—I do not want him thinking I intend to wed him!”

At that, Théodred laughed outright. “As it happens, I have just the man in mind.”

And so, it went from there. He laid out the whole plan for her—from casual acquaintance to the intended conclusion—each step made plain and precise. Along the way came exchanges such as:

“By the way… have you ever considered me?”

“You are nearly twice my age, my lord. That is far too old!”

The full execution of the scheme took time, and Théodred, ever patient, watched and waited. From time to time, he gave his younger cousin a subtle nudge, diligently stirring the pot. But when all was done, and Elfhild returned to recount the outcome—detailing, with great confusion, what had occurred in the stables, and concluding with a disappointed, “Is that all?”—Théodred realized the result was nothing like what he had imagined.

He felt on the verge of a sigh—and yet could not help but burst out laughing. Even with his eyes closed, he could see Éomer’s flushed face, caught somewhere between outrage and helplessness, fists clenched and utterly at a loss.

He had expected the lad to blurt something before long—but Éomer surprised him. No matter how much he drank, not a word of it passed his lips. Even between blood brothers, some things went unspoken—Théodred had always known as much, and never held it a fault. After all, every man bears secrets that are his alone.

Very well, then—if the one involved chose to keep his silence, Théodred was more than willing to help him guard it. As for the other party… he was rather less certain of her discretion.

So, in the end, all of Edoras knew the tale of “Is that all,” though none were so unkind as to speak of it aloud. For even those who do not lie may yet possess the grace of silence—and the mercy of understanding.

(The End)

Brethren by Ecthelion of the fountain