I was unable to speak privately to my uncle until late in the morning. By some miracle Gríma had left the room, though I feared it was only to cause more difficulty for Éomer. I cautiously approached Théoden and knelt next to his throne. “My lord?”

After a long moment, he turned his head towards me. I decided to go straight to the heart of the matter while it seemed he might hear. “Uncle, I beg you to please reconsider your judgment against Éomer.” I paused, watching his face carefully. I could see in his eyes that he was greatly torn over the matter, but he did not answer. I continued, “He is loyal to you, my lord, no matter what Gríma might say against him.”

“That is a lie,” I heard a cold voice say, and closed my eyes as what little hope I had of being able to speak further with Théoden crumbled. He just had to come back now… I thought, irritated at the sight of Wormtongue as he continued, “Unless loyalty now comes in the form of disobedience.”

I stood up and turned to face him. “It is better to disobey and fight to help our people than to mask a heart full of cowardice under flowery words and unwise counsel,” I said, defiance marking every syllable. His eyes narrowed maliciously, but I whirled around and walked away before he had a chance to reply. I did not want to trouble the king by making him listen to yet another argument, nor was I in a mood to withstand Gríma’s presence long enough to hold such a discussion.

I left the main hall and closed the door behind me in one of the side hallways, staring blankly out the window. The sky was still overcast and I could see no sign of any break in the thick grey blanket above. This is hopeless! I thought angrily. How could I possibly make my uncle see reason if I could not even speak to him? Everyone else in the court, even the many who sympathized with my brother, would not dare to dispute the king’s verdict. I felt the heavy weight of Éomer’s fate resting on my shoulders, all the more so because I was powerless to change a thing.

I was so lost in desperately trying to come up with something, anything that would get Wormtongue away long enough for me to speak to my uncle again that I did not hear the footsteps approaching behind me. Suddenly I felt the coolness of steel pressing against my throat. In the same instant, a hand clamped tightly over my mouth and nose, muffling my scream and leaving me nearly unable to breathe.

My heart began to pound as I tried to force down the fear that was rising in me so I could keep my wits about me. I struggled wildly to get away, and finally managed to elbow my attacker hard in the stomach. I heard a soft groan as the wind was knocked out of him at the same time that I felt a light stinging sensation on the side of my neck. I reached up my hand and was surprised to find blood on my fingers. This distracted me just long enough that the next thing I knew, I had been forced into a corner with the dagger pressed against my throat once more. Gríma leered at me as he moved in closer, leaning against me to keep me from escaping as he cut off my cry for help with his hand once again. I bit down hard and he jerked his hand away, dropping the dagger and cursing as I spat at his feet in an attempt to get the vile taste out of my mouth.

He shoved me hard enough to knock the back of my head into the wall, causing stars to dance before my eyes. “Now will you just be quiet?” he sneered, clamping a hand around my throat. I nodded, too stunned to do anything other than play along until I could find a chance to escape. Even if I had not struck my head, he had never dared to lay a hand on me like this before, and though I had long feared being trapped in a situation like this with him, now that I was in it I knew not how to get away since my attempts had already failed. Of course, I had always assumed before that, were something like this to happen, someone would be around to help.

He watched me warily for a moment, until he was satisfied that I would not struggle. “Much better,” he said, a leering smile on his face. “You know that the king is not going to listen to you, Éowyn. Just accept that.”

“I will not abandon my brother to an unjust imprisonment,” I replied, loathing him even more with every second that passed.

He stepped a little closer, and I could feel his breath on my neck. Then without warning, he pushed me even harder against the wall and pressed his foul lips roughly against mine. His kiss felt cold and slimy, and I involuntarily shuddered as he forced his tongue past my lips. One hand wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer, forcing my body against his, while the other brushed against my neck and down towards my collarbone. For a long moment, I was too paralyzed with shock to react; then I quickly jerked my knee up as hard as I could. I could not help feeling a grim satisfaction as he released me and fell back, doubled over in pain. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand in revulsion as I ran for the door. He quickly scrambled over and barred my exit.

“What do you want from me? Will you not let me go?” I cried out, beginning to panic.

His face was still twisted in a grimace of pain as he said, “I want only your assurance that you will not tell anyone of my little….indiscretion, my lady.” He looked anything but remorseful.

“Of course I will! You have no right or claim to me, and I refuse to consent to this sort of violation,” I spat, even as I looked for another escape route.

“Have it your way, my lady, but you may want to consider the cost of your actions if you speak against me.”

I stepped back, a cold feeling of dread settling in my stomach. “What do you mean, the cost of my actions?”

“I mean,” he replied, a wicked smile on his pale face, “that if you breathe a word of this to anyone, do not doubt that your brother will be executed for treason before nightfall.”

I stepped back again as I felt the color drain from my face. “You cannot do that,” I answered, trying to sound confident, but the doubts arose even as I spoke the words.

He knew this, and having found my weakness he went for the kill. “I cannot? Go ahead and speak to the King. Whom do you think he will believe—the solemn word of his most trusted advisor, or the slanderous delusions of a grief-stricken maiden?”

I was speechless, yet I knew he was right. Théoden would not listen to me; in the days before his illness he would have, but not now. My silence was the only way I could save my brother. With this knowledge, a dark wave of despair swept over me. Seeing that I was defeated, he stepped aside at last and I fled the hall.

My first thought was to go to Éomer and tell him what had happened, but I just as quickly decided against it. Even if I said nothing about it, Éomer would know that something was amiss. And once he knew that Wormtongue was involved, he would lose his temper completely and slay him the moment he was released—if he was indeed released at all—and thus seal his own doom. And, knowing that Wormtongue would not hesitate to carry out his threat, I knew that I could not go to my uncle. I did the only other thing I had the presence of mind to do—I pushed the doors open and ran out onto the stone platform, pacing and clenching my fists to try to suppress my fear, mingled with humiliation and disgust.

I will not cry, he cannot make me cry, I told myself sternly as I forced back the tears as best as I could, though a few still spilled out and ran slowly down my cheeks, drying quickly in the wind. My light golden hair was whipped about me and into my face, but I did not bother to push it away. My breath came in gasps as I fought to regain control of myself—I could not go back into the hall like this, or everyone would know something had happened and raise questions that I could not afford to answer. I took a few deep breaths as I looked out over the walls and onto the fields beyond. That was when I first saw them.

Three horses approached swiftly. Though I could not see the riders from where I stood, one of the horses seemed to move quicker than the others, and his white coat glowed in the sunlight. Even from a distance, the horse’s proud gait reminded me of Shadowfax. But that could not be; he had never before consented to bear a rider, not even the heir to Rohan’s throne. As I stood there and watched, I heard a tearing sound and saw the green flag that usually flew proudly above me floating away in the wind and over the gate to where the riders approached, and my heart sank further at this omen. I bowed my head, only to catch a glimpse of my blood-stained fingers. My hand flew to my neck, which was still bleeding a little from the shallow cut.

I turned and rushed back into the building and down the hall to my room. I held a kerchief to my neck until the bleeding stopped. Then pushing my hair back over my shoulders, I poured water from a pitcher into a shallow basin next to my bed with trembling hands. I quickly cleaned the blood from around the wound, then violently scrubbed my face to rid it of all traces of Wormtongue’s defilement, wishing I could wash away the memory just as easily. Then as the water stilled, I used it to study my reflection. My face looked pale, but I noted with a bit of relief that I did not appear to have been crying. My hand drifted down to my neck. A thin reddish line was visible on the side of my neck but, thankfully, I had no blood on my dress. I experimentally pulled some of my hair over my shoulder, then looked at it from the side. It hid the cut well enough, I decided. Any other means of hiding it would draw too much attention.

I glanced down at my white dress, smoothing the skirt, then twisting my head to look at the back to see if the wall had dirtied it when Wormtongue pushed me against it. It had not, at least not where I could see it. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself mentally since I knew he would be in there too. My eyes opened and searched the room, resting on a small, sheathed dagger. I had gotten into the habit of carrying it with me, but had forgotten that day in my rush to talk to Théoden about Éomer—Of course this would be the day I needed it, I thought ruefully. I glanced down at my dress, then finally shoved the sheathed dagger into one of my boots, hoping I would have enough time to draw it if necessary. Finally, when I believed I had sufficiently calmed myself, I opened the door and approached the great room. My duty was to stand at the king’s side when visitors came, and I reasoned that if I entered from the side, I could probably reach him in time to slip into my place with relatively little interruption.

When I arrived in the hall, Wormtongue was already sitting in his customary place on the steps in front of the dais. As I moved to stand behind the King’s chair, he glanced back at me. The look in his eyes taunted me, daring me to speak of what had just passed between us, and all I could do was look away as the doors opened.

Four figures entered—three men and a child, I thought at first. But I paid the others little mind as all my attention was immediately drawn to the old man who walked in front, cloaked in grey and leaning on his staff, and I blinked in surprise. Had not Éomer told us just yesterday that Gandalf had fallen in Moria? The four of them stopped in front of the dais, and a tense silence settled over the hall. Finally, Gandalf spoke. “Hail, Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned. For behold! the storm comes, and now all friends should gather together, lest each singly be destroyed.”

My uncle slowly rose to his feet, leaning on the staff he had taken to carrying. “I greet you,” he replied, “and maybe you look for welcome. But in truth, your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf. You have ever been a herald of woe, and troubles follow you like crows. I will not deceive you; when I heard that Shadowfax had come back riderless, I rejoiced at the return of the horse, but still more at the lack of the rider; and when Éomer brought the tidings that you had gone at last to your long home, I did not mourn. But news from afar is seldom reliable.” I winced inwardly at his words, knowing them to be mere reflections of the lies that Wormtongue had been feeding him for so long, as well as another slight against Éomer’s trustworthiness. “Here you come again!” he continued then. “And with you come evils worse than before, as might be expected. Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow? Tell me that.”

As he sat down, Wormtongue spoke. “You speak justly, lord. It is not yet five days since the bitter tidings came that Théodred your son was slain upon the West Marches—your right hand, Second Marshal of the Mark. In Éomer there is little trust. Few men would be left to guard your walls, if he had been allowed to rule.” My loathing of him rose further with every word he spoke against my brother, and my hands clenched into fists as I fought the impulse to reply to that. But I knew it was not my place to interrupt, so I helplessly listened as he continued, “And even now we learn from Gondor that the Dark Lord is stirring in the East. Such is the hour in which this wanderer chooses to return. Why indeed should we welcome you, Master Stormcrow? Láthspell I name you, Ill-news; and ill news is an ill guest, they say.” He laughed at his own jest, though there was no humor in it.

“You are held wise, my friend Wormtongue, and are doubtless a great support to your master,” Gandalf said, and I was astonished to hear him call Gríma by that name, especially in front of the King. “Yet in two ways may a man come with evil tidings. He may be a worker of evil; or he may be one who leaves things well enough alone, and comes only to bring aid in time of need.”

Grima smirked a little. “That is so, but there is a third kind: pickers of bones, meddlers in other men’s sorrows, carrion-fowl that grow fat on war. What aid have you ever brought, Stormcrow? And what aid do you bring now? It was aid from us that you sought last time you were here. Then my lord bade you choose any horse that you would and be gone; and to the wonder of all you took Shadowfax in your insolence. My lord was greatly grieved; yet to some it seemed that to speed you from the land the price was not too great.” More to yourself than anyone else, I added silently to myself as he stated, “I guess that it is likely to turn out the same once more: you will seek aid rather than give it. Do you bring men? Do you bring horses, swords, spears? That I would call aid; that is our present need. But who are these that follow at your tail? Three ragged wanderers in grey, and you yourself the most beggar-like of the four!”

“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden son of Thengel,” Gandalf replied, looking at my uncle. “Has not the messenger from your gate reported the names of my companions? Seldom has any lord of Rohan received three such guests. The weapons that they have laid at your doors are worth many a mortal man, even the mightiest. It was the Elves who clad them in grey, after their own fashion, and thus they have passed through the shadow of great perils to your hall.”

Wormtongue’s voice was almost eager as he retorted, “Then it is true, as Éomer reported, that you are in league with the Sorceress of the Golden Wood? It is not to be wondered at: webs of deceit were ever woven in Dwimordene.”

The shortest of the four companions stepped forward, looking angry, and I could see now that he was no child; a thick reddish-brown beard obscured the lower portion of his face. I blinked in wonder, for I had never seen a Dwarf before, though I had heard tales of them. Gandalf gripped him by the shoulder as if to hold the Dwarf back while he sang softly, almost to himself. Though I did not catch all the words, images came to my mind unbidden of sunlight filtering through golden leaves and sparkling on silver water. For a moment, I almost relaxed.

Then suddenly, Gandalf straightened up, his eyes intent on the figure crouching on the steps. “The wise speak only of what they know, Gríma son of Gálmód. A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to exchange crooked words with a serving-man till the lightning falls.” He abruptly threw back his grey cloak, revealing that underneath he was clad in white, and raised his staff. I looked up in alarm as the light in the hall suddenly failed. There was a rumble of thunder outside as the clouds seemed to grow darker, and the fire in the hearth faded to the faintest glow. As for the wizard, his garments and hair shone brilliantly white against the gloom.

“Did I not counsel you, lord, to forbid his staff?” Wormtongue suddenly cried out in a hissing whisper. “That fool, Háma, has betrayed us!” As he finished speaking, a blinding flash suddenly lit up the room; I gasped and instinctively raised my hand to shield my eyes from the light. As the light faded, the room fell completely silent, and as my eyes readjusted to the dimness, I could see Wormtongue was lying face-down on the ground, looking as one dead.

“Now, Théoden son of Thengel, will you hearken to me? Do you ask for help?” Gandalf asked, raising his staff and pointing towards one of the high windows on the side of the hall, where the daylight was still filtering in. “Not all is dark. Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find. I have no aid to give to those that despair, yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you. Will you hear them? They are not for all ears.”

The darkness within the hall lifted slightly at his words, and I could sense the conflict within my uncle; I gripped the back of his chair, unsure what to do. The wizard’s voice became more commanding as he continued, “I bid you come out before your doors and look abroad. Too long have you sat in shadows and trusted to twisted tales and crooked promptings.” With these words, he cast a dark look towards Wormtongue, still lying on the floor.

After a long, tense moment, Théoden began to slowly rise from his chair and step forward. I rushed around the back of the chair and took his arm, helping him down the stairs. I glanced down at Gríma as we passed him; he did not stir, and I wondered if I was to be free of his presence at last. Then the King’s steps faltered, and I tightened my grip on his arm to support him. As we approached the doors, Gandalf knocked on them loudly and called, “Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!” The doors swung open at the command, and the cool wind stung my eyes, blowing my hair about my face. Gandalf asked for the guards to be sent to the foot of the stairs, then turned to me. “And you, lady, leave him a while with me. I will care for him.”

My uncle looked at me steadily, and to my surprise I saw that much of the color had already returned to his face, and his eyes were clear once more. “Go, Éowyn sister-daughter,” he finally said. “The time for fear is past.” I nodded reluctantly and turned to go back inside. As I passed through the doorway, I paused and looked back at my uncle, wondering what the wizard had to say to him. It then struck me that only now would he fully realize the import of all that had passed in recent days—especially the loss of his son and his imprisonment of his sister-son. It would be a great deal to bear all at once, and I pitied him for it.

Then my eyes turned towards the three travelers who had come with the wizard, since I could now see them clearly. Besides the Dwarf, there were two others. The first was fair-haired, beardless and tall with gently pointed ears, and a light was in his clear grey eyes as he watched Gandalf and my uncle. I had never seen an Elf before either, and it was a surprise to see him standing beside the Dwarf with no trace of animosity showing on either of their faces. From what little I had heard of the two races, I had not thought that they would willingly travel as companions. Then my eyes drifted to the third of Gandalf’s companions.

He was tall, taller than the other men in the hall, though not quite as tall as the Elf. He appeared to be a good deal older than I, as if toil and care had aged him untimely; the dark hair that spilled over his shoulders was lightly frosted with silver in some places. His eyes were a deep grey, the color of the sky just before a storm. He had the look of one who was used to travel and battle, yet there was an air of majesty about him that I could clearly sense, unlike anything I had ever seen in the men of Rohan. Then, for an instant, his eyes met mine with a level gaze and I was unable to move. I could feel my pulse quickening as my mind filled with questions—who was he? Where was he from?I suddenly realized I was staring, and my face grew hot as I quickly turned and walked back into the hall.

I stood there for a moment in the shadows of the entrance, as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, and tried to make sense of what had just happened. I had been around men my entire life—growing up, my playmates were my brother and the other boys training to be warriors, and now as a woman I spent my days with the men who were part of the king’s court. But I had never cared what any man thought of me, until now. I felt a sudden urge to run back and speak with him, but my head reminded me with infuriating calm that my first responsibility was to tell my brother of what had happened. I hurried down the hall and out of a side door.

The prison was just ahead, and I ran inside and down the stairs before any of the guards could stop me. “Éomer!” I called out breathlessly as I stopped before his cell. He lay on the low bed, seemingly asleep. “Éomer, wake up!” I shouted, a little louder this time.

He opened one eye and groaned a little. “Éowyn? What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“It is late in the morning, but that matters not,” I answered. “Éomer, you were wrong. Gandalf is not dead, he is here right now, and our uncle is well again, and…”

He jumped up and hurried to the door, suddenly wide-awake. “What? Slow down a little. What is this about Gandalf and the King?”

I quickly tried to compose my thoughts. “A little while ago, Gandalf came with three other travelers.”

“What kind of travelers?” he asked, a hopeful light jumping into his eyes.

“Strange ones, the likes of which I have never seen. One appeared to be a Dwarf, the other two a man and an Elf.”

I was surprised to hear Éomer laugh. “I knew he would keep his word!” he exclaimed, looking more at ease than I had seen him in a long time.

“You know them?” I asked.

“Yes—the very same I met on the way home a few days ago. The Dwarf is Gimli son of Gloin of the Lonely Mountain; the Elf, Legolas son of Thranduil of Mirkwood; and the man is Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor.”

Aragorn. I repeated the name silently to myself, matching it to the face that had engraved itself upon my mind. So he is a king after all. I was not surprised; he looked every bit the part to me, though he was not dressed as one who would claim the high throne of Gondor. Éomer pulled me out of my musings and back to the present then as he asked, “Éowyn, what about the King?”

I quickly told him of what had passed between the wizard, Wormtongue and Théoden, and how the years had suddenly fallen off of him. “All this time I thought he was lost to us forever, Éomer,” I said in wonder. “I must go back, but I had to come and tell you first. And with Wormtongue out of the way, I am certain that he will release you now!”

I heard the sound of feet rushing down the stone steps as if answering my statement. For a moment my breath caught in my throat, fearing that Wormtongue had returned even now. I sighed in relief to see that it was Háma, carrying a ring of keys in his hand. He nodded in my direction, smiling as he called out, “My lord, I have come to release you. King’s orders.”

Éomer flashed me a triumphant grin as he answered, “Give the keys to my sister, Háma, and if you could get my sword, I would greatly appreciate it.” Háma bowed his head and handed the keys over to me, then left the room. I fumbled with the keys in my excitement and had to try several different ones before I found the right one, but once I did the lock turned easily and the door swung open. Éomer hurried out and clasped my arm briefly, then ran up the stairs. I followed as quickly as I could, holding my skirt out of the way to keep myself from tripping.

Háma was waiting at the top with Éomer’s sword belt. He quickly strapped it on as I handed the keys back to the guard. “Thank you,” I said quietly, and the guard nodded, smiling at me. Then the three of us left the prison.

As we reached the steps, I saw our uncle sitting heavily on a low stone bench at the top, with the wizard sitting on the topmost stair before him. He seemed to be fighting with despair once more. “Alas that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of the peace which I have earned. Alas for Boromir the brave!” he lamented. “The young perish and the old linger, withering.” My heart sank again to see the agony on his face, and I knew that the loss of his own son was what grieved him most.

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt,” Gandalf replied, not unkindly. Our uncle stood up again and reached to his side, then glanced around and muttered to himself as if looking for something. I could not even remember the last time I had seen him with his sword.

Éomer silently drew his own sword and walked up the stairs with Háma at his side. I followed a few steps behind. “Take this, dear lord!” my brother called out, and knelt with the hilt towards the king as he added, just loud enough for those of us nearby to hear, “It was ever at your service.”

Théoden straightened up, and I could not tell if he was shocked, angry or both. “How comes this?” he asked.

Háma bowed quickly. “It was my doing, lord,” he said, sounding extremely nervous. “I understood that Éomer was to be set free. Such joy was in my heart that maybe I have erred. Yet, since he was free again, and he a Marshal of the Mark, I brought him his sword as he bade me.”

“To lay at your feet, my lord,” Éomer quickly added. Then my brother and uncle looked at each other for a long moment, unmoving. I could feel the tension passing between them from where I stood, and a familiar feeling of dread crept up on me again—what if Éomer was sent back to the prison, or worse?

Gandalf finally broke the silence. “Will you not take the sword?” he asked softly. At that moment, Éomer and our uncle seemed to finally reach some kind of an understanding, as Théoden reached out and grasped the blade. It seemed to me that his strength fully returned at that moment; he swung the sword around and lifted it into the air with a cry, the blade flashing in the sunlight that had suddenly emerged. As he called the Riders to arms, my vision blurred with tears once more, this time for joy. I looked around as I knelt with those of my people gathered there, and my gaze drifted once again to Aragorn as he knelt with the rest of us in homage to our King. And in that moment, I truly believed that maybe there was still hope for us after all—perhaps even for myself.