First let me just warn you that by starting a Roheric story, I’m going way out of my usual ‘comfort zone.’ Perhaps it’s a bad idea, but perhaps its about time I’ve expanded my horizons in the world of fan fiction!

Marshal of the Mark

Chapter One

Éomer walked out of the Halls of Meduseld, head bowed, shoulders slumped; not at all the proud, steady stride of a soldier. He stopped before beginning the descent down the stone stairs. He stared out over the land of Rohan, hearing the banners bearing the White Horse flapping in the cool breeze of late winter. His keen eyes, a pale silver-grey, scanned the distant mountains, gleaming a soft lavender in the sun, and then to the wide plains below them, golden and flat. No creature stirred on its wide expanse, as far as mortal eyes could see. Far above him, wheeling in the brilliant blue sky, an eagle called. The sound echoed across the land, haunting and almost foreboding.

The lone Rider of Rohan, Éomer, sister-son of King Théoden of the Mark, stood silent for some time, his eyes straining to see beyond the wide plains and distant mountains to the northwest. Thither was the Gap of Rohan and beyond that, the River Isen. And thither was he to ride today, with a large éored and his cousin, Théodred, son of Théoden, at its head.

A small gust of wind blew Éomer’s golden hair, worn in the two thick braids down his back in the custom of the Rohirrim. The eagle called again, and then Éomer stirred, blinking as though awakening from a dream. He heard light footsteps behind him, and turning, he saw with joy his sister, Éowyn.

Her streaming hair of pale gold blew about her face, and her long white skirts fluttered about her ankles as she walked slowly toward him. “Brother?” she said softly, not wishing to disturb his thoughts. Éomer smiled and embraced his sister lovingly. “Éowyn,” he said. “It is well that you have found me! We ride in less than one hour. I feared I would not be able to say farewell.” His sister gazed up at him, her eyes blue as the sky overhead, filled with love and also sorrow at the parting that must now come. Éowyn and her brother shared a deep bond, and were fiercely protective of one another. By now, Éowyn had become accustomed to Éomer’s ridings with the Rohirrim, but it did not make the partings any less difficult.

“Your fears were unfounded,” the Lady of the Mark said, speaking lightly to disguise the grief in her heart. “Do you not know by now that I shall always come to bid you farewell?” Éomer smiled wanly at his sister, and she lowered her eyes for a moment. “Éomer,” she said presently, raising her eyes again to look into her brother’s eyes. “I am uneasy. I know not why, but I have felt a sense of foreboding, of…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Of dread, ever since Théodred announced that he was to ride out to attack orcs on the Plains. Must you go with him?”

Éomer smiled and tenderly ran his fingers, roughened from long years gripping the reins of a horse, down her cheek. “I must,” he said softly. “But fear not for me, sister. I will be safe, and your fears will prove unfounded.” She chuckled slightly, but her eyes were still troubled. “Éowyn,” Éomer continued, keeping his hand resting on her pale cheek. “I will return. I promise you.” Éowyn smiled, and but one single tear made its way down her face. She was a shield-maiden, able to fight and wield a blade; but she was also mindful of her duties as Lady of the Mark.

A horn sounded, breaking the still air. “I must go,” said Éomer reluctantly. “Farewell, Éowyn.” He embraced her again, burying his face in her golden hair, which smelled sweetly of lavender mingled with hay; she had been in the stables. “Farewell, Éomer,” she returned, kissing her brother tenderly on the cheek. “Tell Théodred to be careful, and return safely.” She smiled, reassuring herself as well as her brother that all would go well; that it was simply another ride.

“Farewell,” Éomer repeated, and quickly descended down the stone steps, shoulders now straight, head held high. He hastened to the stables, where the other Rohirrim were readying their horses, and a stableboy led out his favorite horse, Goldenwind.

Goldenwind was a steed great and powerful, but swift and agile as a deer. His neck was proudly arched, and his golden coat shone in the sun. Saddlebags had been packed and fastened to the saddle, and Éomer swung himself nimbly into the saddle. The stableboy handed up his shield, bearing the White Horse of the Mark, and his long lance.

The stablehand’s face was almost too delicate and fine to be a boy’s; but it was smudged with dirt, and a few bruises showed on his high cheekbones and vaguely around his right eye. He had a quick temper and was often impulsive, which got him into many a fight with the other stablelads, who were envious of his friendship and high position with Éomer and Théodred. 

“Thank you, Teren,” he said kindly to him. The lad looked up and brushed back the thick fair hair that fell over his forehead. “Will you not change your mind and consent to let me ride with you?” he asked hopefully, his pale blue eyes glimmering.

Éomer shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry, Teren,” he said sincerely. “But I cannot allow you to ride – not yet. You are but a lad of fifteen. Perhaps by this summer, you will be skilled and strong enough to ride, but not yet.” Teren’s face fell, but he knew better than to argue. He had been a stablehand for over five years, always having loved and admired horses. He had dreamed of becoming a Rider of the Mark, and battling with orcs. But he was ever told that he was too young for such things. He had begun seriously training little more than two years ago, and had shown a natural talent in wielding a blade. But still it was not enough.

“As you wish, my lord,” Teren sighed, going back into the stables. Éomer watched with mingled regret, sympathy, and relief. He had been just like that at Teren’s age, but he had come now to see that youthful impulsiveness and impatience in a battle could be deadly. Much as he hated to deny the lad, his favorite and most faithful stablehand, he could not risk his safety.

A voice suddenly called out, breaking his thoughts. Théodred, seated on his prancing stallion, Wingfoot, was addressing the Rohirrim. “The orcs are pressing too close to the borders of Rohan,” he said, his voice ringing clear and fearless through the stableyard. His grey eyes burned with hatred for the detestable creatures as he spoke their foul name, and his golden braids blew in the breeze. “We will ride now to the River Isen, where they are seeking to cross into Rohan. We will stop them there, at the Fords, or die in the attempt. Up, Eorlingas!”

Up Eorlingas! Up Eorlingas! The cry resounded through the stableyard as the Rohirrim raised their lances and shouted their support for their leader. Thédred was much like Faramir of Gondor: a leader of men and beast, able to command and lead his men without cruelty or haughtiness; but with genuine love and care for them. He was loved by all in Rohan for his kind ways. But as Éomer and Éowyn knew well, although he was slow to anger, when his wrath was aroused, woe to those who incur his ire! His youthful eagerness had not left him entirely, but he had curbed it, having learned patience many years ago.

Éomer raised his lance and shouted heartily with the rest of the Rohirrim, and Goldenwind pranced beneath him, eager to be off. “Up Eorlingas!” cried Théodred for the final time. Then, turning his horse, he urged him into a gallop, and the Riders followed him. The Rohirrim came out of their homes to wave farewell, and soon, the Riders were out of sight past the gates.

Éomer rode at the front beside Théodred. “I fear that the orcs are multiplying and growing stronger,” he said as they rode out onto the flat Plains of Rohan. “I have heard that they have increased twofold in Ithilien, Gondor, and the far Eastern borders of Rohan.” He looked up at his cousin. “What think you, Théodred? You seem grim, as though you are keeping something unpleasant from me.”

Théodred looked down at his cousin with a bright smile. His thick beard, darker gold than the rest of his hair, hid some of the lines of worry at the corners of his mouth. He was nearing forty-six now, but he did not look older than thirty. His grey eyes held the same depth and wisdom of his mother, Elfhild, but they had also a glint of cold fire in them. “You are perceptive,” he said with a smile. “My heart is troubled. I had a dream last night of ill omen.”

Éomer drew his steed closer to Théodred, concern in his eyes. “Tell me of it.” Théodred sighed. “Not now,” he said. “I will tell you when we have made camp.” Éomer nodded, puzzled by his cousin’s obvious unwillingness to discuss his dream. It must have been evil indeed, to trouble him so. Théodred occasionally had dream-visions, although not many were evil. That was another way he was like Faramir of Gondor.

Young Faramir’s face appeared in Éomer’s mind and he smiled, full of fondness and a brotherly affection for the valiant Gondorian soldier. Rohan was closely united with Gondor, and Éomer had met – and fought beside – both sons of the Steward, Denethor.

Boromir, the older one, was proud and willful, but certainly not without wisdom. He was very skilled with battle strategies, and a great leader of men. He was kind-hearted, and although life as a soldier had hardened him to some things, he cared deeply for his land. He enjoyed children immensely, which Éomer had always thought odd. That a battle-hardened soldier could be so gentle and loving to children, and yet never take a wife. He had not time for raising a family, and although any maid would have been honored to call him her husband, he did not marry.

Faramir, the younger, was wiser than his brother, although there was no rivalry between them. He loved books and studying, under the teachings of Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer. He was passionate about many things, but war was not one of them. He was a good soldier, and one of the most courageous, but he detested bloodshed. Only to orcs did he show no mercy; when fighting against Men, he showed them the most kindness he could, careful not to harm a woman, child or elderly person, and treating the prisoners not too gently, but with compassion. He was a great leader, beloved of all in Gondor, and renowned for his brave deeds in battle, as was his brother.

Éomer had great respect for both Boromir and Faramir, and was proud when he fought alongside them. He wished that now the sons of Denethor were going on the orc-hunt with them – he longed for their pleasant companionship. Not that he did not have friends in the éored – indeed, he had many, for he was kind and well-liked – but Faramir’s wisdom and humility, and Boromir’s courage and strength were a comfort to all, and perhaps, had they been there, Faramir could have eased Théodred’s mind.

‘Ah, well,’ Éomer thought, jerking himself out of his melancholy. ‘They are not here, and we Rohirrim are on our own – one éored against the orcs. The odds are certainly in our favor; the orcs shall see what the Riders of Rohan are made of.

***

That evening, the Riders made camp on the plains. Théodred, though he participated in the merriment and fun, soon retired to his tent, where he stayed most of the night with his chief advisers and captains.

As for Éomer, he had almost forgotten the melancholy of earlier that day, and even the thought of it he banished to the back of his mind. He sat around the large campfire beside his two closest companions, Éorlan and Thenan: two of the youngest Riders, only just turned twenty. They had proven themselves courageous and patient in battle – although they were known as the mischiefmakers to the men around camp.

“Do you know, Éomer,” said Thenan laughingly, his blue-grey eyes sparkling and a strand of his strangely dark golden hair blowing in the soft breeze. “Theno asked me yesterday about Halflings.” Theno was his younger brother, an imaginative, playful lad of ten, not interested in the life of a soldier, but that of an artist. “He asked if they truly existed,” Thenan continued, chuckling at the naïveté of his young brother.

“Does he believe the old tales?” asked Éorlan curiously. His queer green eyes flickered in the firelight, which highlighted his fair, still beardless face, and turned his shoulder-length hair, not tied back in the customary braids of the Rohirrim, but allowed to hang loose, a pale gold.

“Of course,” replied Thenan with a dismissive laugh. “He believes all the old stories; about Lórien, and Halflings…everything.”

“Quite the imaginative lad,” Éomer chuckled.

“Aye,” Thenan agreed. “His head’s always in the clouds. He actually told me not a week past that he saw a tree move.”

There was laughter from the other men gathered around, and a tall, strongly built one called Haldred, said loudly, “He saw a tree move, you say? The lad’s not imaginative – he’s gone mad.”

Thenan’s eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared, although Haldred did not notice. Éomer and Éorlan did, however, and they also became silent. All three of them were fond of little Theno, even if he was a bit odd. He was sweet-natured and gentle, and very pleasant – not to mention interesting – company.

“Theno’s spendin’ too much time around Captain Faramir and those Gondorians,” Haldred continued. “Why, I heard that another one of them went into Lórien!”

“You should not listen to everything you hear,” cautioned another man, named Léof. “That way, you will be able to judge between truth and falsehood.” He looked around at the circle of men, holding their attention with his soft, but authorative voice. “As for myself, I would enjoy a trip to Lórien of the Blossom. Perhaps one day, I shall go there.”

There were startled murmurs from the gathered men, but Léof did not seem to notice their astonishment. He stared coolly at them with his deep grey eyes, the fire throwing shadows on his weather-beaten face.

Éomer, Éorlan and Thenan respected Léof greatly, as did the other Riders. He was well traveled and a renowned soldier; and his soft, gentle speech and kind manner made him a respected captain. He had a wife, Eldreth, as well as two daughters, who were both married and raising families of their own. Through his long years as a soldier – and even for a time as a Ranger of Ithilien (for he had a little of Númenorian blood in him), he had learned wisdom, and his gaze was keen. He was uncommonly skilled at reading a man’s heart and judging his character on first meetings.

Haldred and the other men were respectfully silent, and Léof lowered his stare. After a long moment, someone started a conversation again, and everything returned to normal. When they had finished their dinner, Éomer, Éorlan and Thenan stretched out on their bedrolls, hands clasped behind their heads, gazing up at the stars.

“When do you think we shall meet our first orc-troop?” asked Thenan as the camp became still and the first three soldiers began their watch.

Éomer yawned. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Likely tomorrow. We’re nearing the place where they were last sighted.”

“I just hope they don’t attack tonight,” Éorlan commented, closing his eyes and beginning to drift off to sleep. “But I’m too tired to worry about that now. My watch is after this one, and your’s is, too, Éomer. We had both get some sleep.”

“Yes sir,” Éomer grinned playfully. “I imagine you’ll be waking me ten minutes early, as usual?”

“Of course. You take so long to fully wake up, we need at least a ten minute start.”

“Ha,” Thenan laughed. “My watch is the fourth. I get to sleep in!”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Éorlan teased. “We’re waking you up with us, right, Éomer?”

“But of course. Poor Thenan couldn’t sleep without us, now could he?”

Thenan growled playfully and gave Éomer a clout with his pillow. “Well then,” he retorted. “I’ll see to it that you two stay up with me on my watch.”

Éomer laughed. “Oh no, you won’t. After my watch, not even a stampede of wild horses could wake me up until morning.”

Éorlan yawned and nodded. “Aye, Thenan, he’s right. He sleeps like a stone after his watch.”

“If I yawn much more, I shall split at the ears,” Éomer commented. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Good idea,” Thenan agreed. Éorlan nodded silently, already mostly asleep. Thenan quickly joined him, and the last thing Éomer saw, before sleep took him, was a slim, small figure, sitting alone at the edge of the campfire, watching him silently. But then, his eyes closed, and he drifted into strange dreams of Lórien, Elves, and…Halflings.

To Be Continued...