A/N: A long time ago I wrote a one-shot story called "The First Love" – and I actually never contemplated making a sequel, although I wrote the beginnings of it at the time. But – as you might remember (if you ever read the story), the story ended with Éomer's first love dying, her father retiring as an advisor – and Théoden King appointing a new advisor; Grima, son of Grimod ….. and a very serious Éomer, and we have to get Éomer smiling again, now won't we?

It is movie verse, although not strictly as there is some inspiration from the book as well, and I have borrowed some of Peter Jackson's dialogue. Of course, I do not own the characters – I just borrow them once in a while …

RELEASE A Sequel to 'The First Love' Chapter One - Banishment

With only a few leagues to go, Éomer hoisted himself in the stirrups, stretched his tired muscles and looked towards Edoras. "Almost home; I wonder what awaits us," he sighed to himself. Not that he was not looking forward to being home, it was just so uncertain what would meet them – and it had been that way for the past few years.

The young Third Marshal of Rohan had led his men on a patrol of the Eastfold. A skirmish with a roaming band of orcs had led to a bloody encounter, killing off most of the orcs but also several of his men. This had almost become routine since Éomer had been appointed by his uncle a couple of years before, and it had been a regular occurrence this past year; it was as if their foes always knew when they were coming, how many they were and where to set up an ambush.

So much had happened these past years; the advisor that King Théoden had appointed after Béowulf's retirement – Grima, son of Grimod – had slowly, but surely woven the king into a strange net. The awkward looking, dark haired Grima had seemed an odd choice for an advisor, but there was no denying that he had a shrewd brain and that his convincing skills were equalled by none. His slick talk had more than once convinced the other advisors to let him have his way. On some occasions he had given sound advice, actually to the good of the people.

Lately, though, the consequences had at times been dire, but nobody, least of all the king, seemed to protest the decisions. Only Théodred, the king's only son and his nephew, Éomer, gave voice to their protests. It was as if everybody else was too afraid to oppose Grima. Even the most experienced of the king's advisors abstained from voicing their protests. No wonder, as strange things had happened to those who had actually been in opposition to Grima's decisions. Nothing could, however, be proven and suspicions, if any, quickly faded.

What remained, though, was that only years before Théoden King had been a man in his prime, ruling his country with wisdom and determination despite the dark times. He was certainly not young anymore, but he was a strong man with a robust sense of humour and keen wits – at times as mischievous as his son and his nephew. He was the patriarch of a household, which was perhaps gloomy, but had functioned well for many years even though without a queen, and he was a strong father figure both to his own son and the orphaned children of his sister. Even at his age he was a more than capable swordsman and rode with the best of his riders.

But no more. The king seemed to have aged unnaturally especially during the past couple of years; his mind was dimmed, his appearance unkempt and he had become more and more reliant on Grima – Wormtongue as the three young members of the Royal household had named him – and less and less on his son and his nephew or the other members of his council for that matter.

It was no secret that Grima had not approved wholeheartedly of the king's appointment of Éomer to Third Marshal, but he could not argue that Éomer did not deserve it and therefore had not contested it openly although it was obvious that it would not have been his choice. He did, however, never let a chance go by without voicing his opinion to the council that perhaps the young man was not yet prepared for the position – and perhaps only held it because he was the king's nephew.

It did not surprise Théodred or Éomer as they were fully aware of his scheming against them, and they did their utmost to steer clear of Grima unless when it could not be avoided, but they mostly held their tongue. The king would hear no word spoken against his advisor, and nobody wanted to evoke the wrath of the king, subsequently of Grima himself, as he surrounded himself with trusted cronies – mostly mere scum, who would stop at nothing given the slightest chance.

On his part, Grima wasted no time setting the king's mind against his son and his nephew, allowing them no say neither in matters of state, nor in matters concerning the well-being of the king, telling them that they were upsetting the king whenever they tried to raise matters of state with him.

Only Éowyn was allowed near the king, and she was the only one that Grima would listen to. When she made a demand on the king's behalf, Grima would oblige willingly. Always his eyes followed the young woman around; it was obvious that he, in his own crippled way, had feelings for her. Éomer was furious, when he saw the way that Grima looked at his sister, but he could do nothing – and although Éowyn was appalled and disgusted by Grima's grovelling behaviour, she managed to stay calm and polite and she begged Éomer to do so as well, fearing the consequences if he did not.

This past year, it was as if the entire court and the entire city of Edoras were sinking into a deep gloom, where no joy and optimism reigned; where the decay to buildings and surroundings was obvious, and where there was not much cheer in anybody – except when the éoreds were home and the men tried to wind down, usually with a keg of ale.

Théodred was worried about the general state of affairs of the kingdom, but he had been exempted from the council after he had spoken against some of Grima's past decisions. When his father had still been clear of mind, he had scalded him, telling him that he was still the king and Théodred only the crown prince, and that he would come down hard on what he considered mutiny from the part of his son or his nephew.

Éomer had had the most difficult time of accepting this, but he kept a strict hold on himself and he had also succeeded in staying Théodred's hand before he could do bodily harm to Wormtongue. Not that he did not want to himself; Grima had certainly wasted no time attempting to stir the temper of the young marshal whenever he could, throwing false accusations and mocking remarks at him, including covert threats concerning his sister and his cousin as well as accusations against his father, the late Éomund, and his erroneous decisions, knowing that therein lay his best chance of provoking the young man. But so far Éomer had succeeded in controlling his temptation to run his sword through Grima.

Grima had had no difficulty convincing the other counsellors that he spoke the mind of the king, and that the heir of Rohan and the king's nephew were a couple of hotheads, who spoke no sense and only thought of themselves, merely seeking to gain honour and glory on their own behalf as they put the people of Rohan in danger. Only two of the king's most trusted captains, Hama and Gamling, still trusted and supported the heir of Rohan and his cousin, and the four of them often relayed their worries to each other although it had to be in secret.

More than once Éomer and Théodred had debated whether Rohan would not be better off if they betrayed their oath to lord and land and revolted against Wormtongue's regime, but loyalty and fear of the repercussions to the king and to Éowyn held them back. Éomer hated himself as he saw the consequences that his and Théodred's hesitation was having for the people of Rohan. But the oath was sacred to them both and so much a part of them that breaking it would be like breaking their hearts and going against their nature and honour.

The situation had gradually gotten worse. Orcs and Dunlendings were freely roaming the borders of Rohan, killing, violating, burning and plundering, and patrols could not keep them at bay. This was, of course, brought to the knowledge of the council, and the marshals repeatedly pleaded their cause. Not that this helped much; however much they wanted to patrol the borders and protect the people, they were only seldom allowed to do so, and then only after heated discussions between the council and the Crown Prince. Théodred often had almost to stake life and honour on being able to defend his country and his people.

It was obvious to Éomer and his cousin that their enemies were systematically laying Rohan in ruins, and at times, the marshals deliberately disobeyed orders and rode out on patrols, always with the feeling that they would cause serious trouble to everyone when they did, but so far it had only gained them severe reprimands and harsh words from Grima, who called them troublemakers and warmongers. The king seemed weaker than ever, completely in his own world, and Grima seemed to have taken full control of the kingdom's affairs, now also keeping the other members of council from the king.

This time the éoreds were returning after patrolling for more than four weeks; they had managed to send the enemy fleeing – again, but Éomer thought bitterly that it would probably only be a matter of days before reports on roaming hordes would send them on wild chases again.

Éomer felt sick to his stomach and gripped the reins tightly, as his thoughts returned to the villages in the remote part of the Eastfold that they had found raided; crops and houses burnt, herds scattered, men and children slaughtered and the women, young as old, savagely raped and left to die. He closed his eyes at the thought, remembering the very young girl – a mere child, who had been raped and left to bleed to death; Éomer had held her in his arms as she drew her last breath, crying for her mother. She could not have been more than thirteen at the most. He still had her blood on his hands and his armour.

Not far from her, Éomer had found the bodies of her parents and siblings, also mutilated and violated. Grima should be forced to see what we have to see – but that bloody coward just hides behind others, always has. Éomer cursed. Damn loyalty, damn his oaths to lord and land!

Théodred and his cousins had long suspected that there must be more to this hold on the king that just Grima's ability to convince him. It was also most unnatural that the king should have aged so much in so little time. They – or at least Éomer – had suspicions that went in the direction of Saruman and had often voiced it. This was partly because Grima had managed to convince the king that Saruman was a friend and ally of Rohan, partly because Gandalf the Grey was no longer welcome in Rohan ….. and finally because the orcs they were fighting seemed to come from the direction of Isengard, Saruman's stronghold. However, they had no definite proof that it was so.

At this, Éomer felt the cold anger rising in him again, he so wanted to rid Rohan of this manipulating snake and would gladly risk his life to run his sword through Grima. But – thinking thus was madness, and he knew it. He felt a deep weariness overtake him; he dismissed the thoughts and addressed Éothain, his friend since childhood, who was riding next to him. "It will be good to have a couple of days' leisure and to see our families," he said, deliberately keeping his voice more carefree that he felt.

Éothain nodded. "Aye, it will – and some release from this strain of always being on your guard – if that is at all possible." They did not have to talk about their situation; Éothain shared Éomer's concerns and had often discussed their situation with him. He also knew that his friend did only pretend when he sounded so carefree.

Éomer looked at his friend. "Aye, that too. Hopefully Théodred and his men will also be back by now."

The tired men and their tired horses were rapidly approaching Edoras. As they rode through the gates, the women and children were gathering, glad to see their men and fathers back. Éothain was met by a young woman with bright blue eyes and reddish-tinged hair. He had already been married for a couple of years now, having known his wife since they were both quite young. In her arms she carried a little girl with flaxen hair and bright grey eyes.

Éomer watched his friend as he dismounted and took them both in his arms. More and more often he found it difficult to witness such homecomings – and passionate leave-takings for that matter. His heart cringed as memories of what was once his filled his mind. It had been a long time, eight years in fact, but the memory of Fréya still was painful whenever it surfaced – and it had a lot recently.

He thought of the time, when Fréya had come running towards him when he returned from a patrol, and the way that she had smiled with joy that he was back with her again. His life could have been like Éothain's. In stead it was now only a faded memory, Fréya having rested in the cold ground for several years. He could not stifle a sigh as he fought the bitter feelings; they were no use to him anymore and only removed his focus.

His sister came running down the stairs from Meduseld, the king's hall, and he dismounted and removed his helmet as she reached him.

Éowyn embraced her big brother: "It is good to see you well and safe, brother. Théodred and his men arrived a few hours ago – looking every bit as tired and battle-weary as you."

Éomer could feel the relief in his sister's embrace. He knew that it was hard on her being left alone with Grima and her ailing uncle when Théodred and he were away. Fortunately the king's housekeeper and the wives of Gamling and Hama were there, too. Grima had never counted these women as adversaries. Éomer thought with a bitter grin that perhaps he should have – he knew what at least Éowyn was capable of with a sword.

"Thank you, sister. It is good to be back." he said, letting a hand glide over his face as if to erase his fatigue.

Éowyn looked at his hands and sent him a questioning glance as she saw the blood on them. He shook his head. "Don't ask."

His sister ignored him. "What happened?"

"A village was raided. The villagers were killed. It is simple genocide, Éowyn. The blood on my hands and armour? From a young girl who died in my arms. I hate them!"

Éowyn put a hand on her brother's arm. "I know, Éomer – and I will not ask you for details."

Éomer sent her a grateful glance. "Now, how is uncle?"

"As I told Dred, he is getting worse. He hardly recognizes any of us anymore – except for Grima, of course, and he only hears now what he is saying." The bitterness in her voice was very evident.

Éomer looked solemnly at his sister, his dark eyes blazing. "I swear that I will have his hide …." he snarled through gritted teeth, the anger making his voice tremble.

"You will do nothing, Éomer. Please don't! We cannot afford losing you; if you touch Grima, he will make sure that you are thrown in the dungeons – or worse. He is powerful and has followers in Edoras, you know that!"

Éomer shook his head; he knew. But it was difficult just sitting back and letting Grima – or rather Saruman – getting a stronger hold over the king as the days went by.

He handed his helmet to Éowyn; then he led Firefoot into the stable, removed the tackle and saddle and gave the horse a good rubbing down as he and Éowyn were talking quietly. They were both reluctant to go back to the Golden Hall.

He fed Firefoot a bucket of oats and told one of the grooms to look after his horse, and the siblings walked up the hill to Meduseld, Éomer with his arm protectively around his sister's shoulders.

As they were ascending the stairs, the doors opened, and Théodred, the only son of the king, came out. "There you are, I wondered what was keeping you."

The blue-grey eyes of the prince glittered dangerously and his face was drawn; Éomer knew all too well what that signified. "He has already had a row with Grima – that does not bode well." Éomer ascertained. "I shall have to calm him down before he does anything rash."

"Good to see you, too, cousin. Obviously, your task was not as troublesome as ours, seeing that you are back this early," he said in a light tone, trying to seem unaffected.

Théodred laughed, although somewhat forced, and clasped the hand of his cousin, and Éowyn shook her head at them. She, too, had seen the look in her cousin's eyes and knew all too well what it meant.

"I believe that supper will be ready soon, but we will presumably have to dine without father, according to the Worm he is not feeling well and we should not upset him further just by our mere presence." Théodred's jaw clenched and Éomer could tell that he had difficulty restraining himself. "Not that it makes any difference, he hardly recognizes any of us anyway," he added bitterly.

Éomer said sternly, "Then it will just have to be the three of us, I will not suffer Wormtongue at our table. Not tonight."

Éowyn nodded. "I will let Fréalin know. Now, go and get cleaned up, brother. I will not tolerate you at the table, if you do not get rid of that smell!"

Éomer grinned, "I shall, sister. See you both later."

He went to his chamber and started removing his armour. Behind the screen which hid the washing facilities from the rest of the room, he could tell that a bath was being prepared for him by one of the maids; he could hear the rustle of skirts and light footsteps moving to and fro. As he kicked off his boots and started removing his outer leather tunic and his shirt, the maid peered out from behind the screen and hastily lowered her eyes.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I will hurry and get the bath ready." She said, sending him a hot glance through her lashes.

As most of the young women in the service of the royal family of Rohan, she obviously took pleasure in watching the tall and handsome nephew of the king. Even with dirt from the ride smudged all over his face and his blonde, shoulder length hair dirty and wind-tangled, he was an attractive man – and it was no secret that any of the maids would gladly have warmed his bed.

Éomer felt the heat of her gaze and smiled a little self-consciously, but also reminded himself of his rule of never getting himself involved with any of the women of the royal household. They all knew the story of his lost love and many had thought that they might be the one to comfort him, making him forget. None of them had ever succeeded breaking down his defences.

"Thank you, that will be fine," he said, pausing in his undressing until the door had closed behind the maid. He shed the rest of his clothing and lowered himself into the hot water, sighing as he felt his tired muscles relax.

When he emerged from his room, all cleaned up and dressed in a green suede tunic, even his sister could not help acknowledging that her brother was a very handsome man indeed.

"No wonder that half the girls of Edoras sigh for you, cousin." Théodred grinned. Éomer just shook his head at this.

"That may be – and the rest for you, cousin – even though I wonder why? After all, at your age you are rapidly decaying, you know," Éomer quipped.

His cousin snorted at this. "Brat! The same thing will happen to you one day, you know," he mumbled. "I will show you tonight that I am still man for drinking you under the boards."

"I assume then that you will be going out tonight?" Éowyn inquired.

"Aye, I think that we need to get a few ales under our belt." Éomer looked at his sister. "Hopefully you will not be too disappointed that we leave you?"

"No, we can talk tomorrow – when you have slept it off!" Éowyn smirked and her brother stroked her arm.

"An understanding sister – what more could a man want?"

"Perhaps a wife to take on my responsibilities of nursing you back to life when you have had too much to drink?" Éowyn quipped and Théodred laughed as he saw the look on Éomer's face.

The three of them sat down to eat, and the two men told Éowyn of the events of the past weeks. Not everything though; Éomer held back on some points and he had the feeling that Théodred did, too. They agreed that this was not the last that they had seen or heard of the orcs. Dark times were surely coming; the attacks on the borders were becoming more and more frequent and soon Edoras would be threatened. They feared what would happen to Rohan with its king so ensnared and weak.

After supper, Éowyn rose. "I will go see Cerwyn. I have promised to help her with the boys tonight; the little one has been ill. I do not particularly feel like staying here, I would rather hide from Grima tonight. Gamling will see me safely home."

After she left, her brother and cousin remained for a while, savouring the last of the wine. Luckily Grima did not show his ugly face. As he emptied his goblet, Théodred looked at Éomer. "Ale, cousin?" he asked.

"Aye, and lots of it!" Éomer proclaimed. "I need to get these past weeks and recent events out of my system."

Théodred grinned, "Then a certain wench may expect your company tonight?"

"Aye, she might. Unless you beat me to her." Éomer grinned.

"Even if I did, she would still prefer you as well you know." Théodred slapped his cousin's shoulder and the two men left the dining hall.

In the mead hall, which the riders usually frequented, they found most of their men already engaged in one of their favourite pass-times when off duty: drinking. The arrival of the two young lords brought about cheering, especially as Théodred ordered a round for everybody, and soon the ale and mead induced talk flowed easily. Tankard after tankard was emptied and filled again.

Wenda, one of the bar maids and one of Éomer's particular favourites, approached the table with another jug of ale. When she reached Éomer, she leaned over and purred in his ear: "My Lord, what has kept you so long?"

Éomer reached over and pulled her into his lap. "Have you missed me?" he growled as he kissed her neck.

She giggled: "You know that I have, my Lord."

The others grinned; they knew Éomer's appeal to women and his preference for Wenda – although he did not keep to her only. Hama and Théodred shared a surprised look; they realised that the Third Marshal must be rather drunk by now; otherwise he would never have behaved in this manner, sporting his lust so openly, especially in front of his men.

Ever since he had suffered the loss of the young woman that he loved, Éomer had not gotten seriously involved with women. He used them as a diversion and release, but he always kept it very discreet, hence his principle of never getting involved with women of the royal household.

Wenda giggled as she felt Éomer's hands on her body and his lips tracing her neck down to her exposed shoulder.

As they suspected, Éomer was drunk, and the only one coherent thought in his head was to seek his release in the arms of a woman; for the moment he did not care who saw and who knew.

He whispered impatiently in Wenda's ear: "Can we go to your room – now?" She nodded "Yes, my Lord." She stood up and dragged him with her. As they left the room, Éomer looked up; his eyes met Théodred's and his cousin read the despair and the guilt in them.

He understood –-- he had often felt the same way and did now as well. He grabbed the waist of the woman standing next to him. "Lass, will you grant me your favours tonight?" he asked. She laughed. "Certainly, my Lord," and dragged him towards the door. The men cheered as the door closed behind them.

Later in the night, Éomer woke. His head felt like lead and his mouth felt dry. At first he did not quite realise where he was, but then he remembered; Wenda's bed in the small house next door to the mead hall, where the women rented rooms to entertain the men. He felt her move beside him; luckily she was still asleep.

His head was spinning – and he sat for a moment on the edge of the bed cradling his head in his hands. As his senses cleared, he remembered what had happened. He felt nauseous. Usually he did not make such an open spectacle of whom he took to bed, and usually he did care how the girl he took to bed felt be she a whore or not – but not this night; it had only been about release. Release from the thoughts that swirled in his head – and release from the worries about his uncle, his country and his sister ---- and the memories of Fréya that kept creeping back into his mind.

For a split second, in his drunken mind, he had even imagined that it was Fréya he was making love to, seeing her sweet face before him as she had looked the last time that he had held her in his arms.

He moaned, rose from the bed and tried to find his clothes. Wenda stirred, but did not wake up. He put on his breeches and his shirt and took a drink from the jug of water standing on the bedside table. He did not feel any better for it, and sat down again to put on his boots. Wenda woke just then and rolled over in bed, reaching out for him.

"Why, my Lord. You need not leave now; it is the middle of the night, stay," she purred and put her hand on his thigh. He removed it rather roughly.

"No, Wenda. I can't stay – I must get back," he growled. He found his belt pouch and left her the usual amount of coins – and then some. Lately he had been feeling almost ashamed to buy the favours of women. He had never before, always finding it most natural; most single men did it. His surfacing memories about Fréya had not made it easier. He was lonely, and buying lust was just not enough for him anymore. He yearned for something else; also in that respect he was different from Théodred, who still preferred living a bachelor's life without any commitments although it was expected of him to get married and provide an heir for Rohan.

Wenda sat up in bed looking at him. She could tell the change in him – she had also felt the difference when he took her to bed. He had been very drunk and their encounter had been swift and brutal, not with the usual care; it had felt like he only needed release – and nothing else. "He will not be back," she realised. She smiled at him as he turned towards her in the doorway. "Goodbye," he said quietly, as the door closed behind him.

Éomer breathed in the cool night air as he walked up the path towards Meduseld and his room. As he passed the guards at the main entrance, he nodded. They hardly looked at him, acknowledging him without a word and let him pass.

He passed through the dark hall and into the corridor towards his room. He could see that Théodred had not yet returned to his room, the door was open. The rest of the household seemed to be asleep, not a sound was heard. He opened the door to his room and went in. Closing it behind him, he leaned against the door. He was still slightly reeling from the amount of spirits he had consumed.

His room seemed undisturbed, but he noticed in the dim light of the fire and as he lit a candle that his armour and helmet had been cleaned. His sister's doing, presumably. He smiled vaguely and went to the table to pour a beaker of water.

Then he went to the window and looked out over the dark city. Morning was still a while off. He sighed, "I wonder how long we will be able to go on like this." Then he pulled off his clothes and lay down on his bed; his head was still pounding. He lay looking at the ceiling for a while trying to gather his thoughts, but suddenly his weariness overtook him and he slept.

-----0000-----

In the morning, as the sun shone into his room, Éomer woke. As the light hit his eyes, he groaned. He got up and went over behind the screen where he found a jug of cold water, which he poured into the water basin, splashing cold water on his face and body, ultimately dipping his head in the water basin. Then he dried off, combed his hair, dressed and went to the kitchen to get some breakfast.

His sister had apparently already had her breakfast, and she was cleaning the table as he walked in. She looked up. "Up this early, brother? What has got into you?" Éomer just shot a glance at her and sat down at the big table resting his head in his hands.

The king's housekeeper Fréalin looked at him. She knew the young generation of the royal house better than anyone; she had practically raised Théodred after his mother died giving birth to him and had looked after Éomund's and Théodwyn's children since their early childhood when they had come to live with their uncle after the death of their parents. Éomer had always been her favourite.

"You look worse for wear, lad," she remarked, "Hit the ale too hard last night, did you?"

Éomer sent her a ghost of a smile, but did not reply.

"Apparently," she ascertained dryly. "And how about your brother in arms, the fair Théodred?"

Éomer shrugged. "I do not know; I lost track of him some time during the night."

Fréalin chuckled. "Aye, that sounds likely. Who was she this time?"

Éomer looked blankly at her and tried to sound surprised. "I do not know what you mean. For sure, I am not his keeper."

Éowyn chuckled and served her brother some breakfast, porridge, tea, bread and cheese. He looked at it and his stomach felt like it would soon turn inside out. He tried to ignore it.

"Eat!" she ordered, "You will feel better for it."

"I am not sure about that; it depends ---- did you or Fréalin make the porridge?"

Éowyn's eyes shot arrows at her brother. "Fréalin did …. So, eat!" she repeated.

Éomer obeyed; from vast experience he knew that it would be a waste of time protesting. As he was finishing his breakfast, the door opened and Théodred entered the kitchen, looking as if he was coming directly from the mead hall.

"You are looking even worse than Éomer." Fréalin assumed a stern face. "What or rather who was so thrilling that you could not find your own bed this night?" she inquired.

Théodred shot her a glance from bloodshot eyes. "Do not meddle in my affairs, woman!" He growled. "I am sick and tired of answering to everybody about my actions. Béma knows that I am old enough to handle my own affairs!"

Fréalin looked at the man that she had come to regard as her own son. "That you are. Then behave like a grown man!" she said sternly, a little smile curling her mouth as she put some breakfast in front of him and pressed him down on the bench. Théodred smiled embarrassedly at her, an apologetic look in his eyes.

He settled down to eat and then looked at Éomer. "The reason why I have not been to bed is that I have just received reports that a small party of orcs have crossed into Rohan again, the report says at the Fords of the Isen. I have rounded up my men; we are leaving as soon as we can."

Éomer looked inquisitively at him. "Do you consider this wise? Without the council's permission? From whom have you received these reports?"

"Not from Grima, if that is what you think. I know the messenger, who brought them."

"And how do you know that the reports are true? That Grima has not planted them? Can we really trust anybody these days? At least wait until I can summon my éored and get them ready to go with you!"

"No – and that is an order. You will not go! I am the king's son and I must take the responsibility. Besides you and your men did have a heavier task that we did last time. Éothain told me about the village – and the attack. We cannot both go – Elfhelm's éored is not in Edoras at the moment, and Erkenbrand's is guarding the Eastfold. We cannot leave Edoras unprotected!"

"We will not; the Royal Guard is still here – as well as the reserves! Do not be foolish, Théodred. You need me with you," Éomer said, pleadingly.

Théodred looked at his cousin, suddenly looking much older than his years. "Éomer, you will be in trouble if you also act without permission from the council; you have done that too many times now. Grima has got it in for you. It is easier to hit the Third Marshal than the heir to the throne!"

Éomer shook his head. "I will not be in trouble – no more than you, cousin. And I am not so sure that I am the easier target. Bloody hell, Théodred; uncle cannot - and will not - save us! And we are in this together; please let me help you! I fear that it is a trap!"

"Éomer, you stay here with your men; that is an order! I demand your loyalty in this!" Théodred growled. Éomer sighed; Théodred was right; he stood above him in command. He looked at his cousin. "All right, then, I will obey you but if I do not have word in a couple of days, I will go looking for you. I do not trust these reports. You may encounter heavier resistance than you think. I suspect foul play! But – you have my loyalty, cousin."

Éowyn, who had remained silent while her brother and her cousin argued, said quietly. "Listen to Éomer, Dred, his premonitions are usually true – and please do not just rush out because you are hurt and angry."

Théodred nodded and looked solemnly at his cousins. "You are both right, but the Worm ----- attacks my pride every time I see him or try to talk to father. I am the king's son and heir to the throne – and he reduces me to, to … nothing." His voice sounded hurt and sad.

Éomer looked calmly at him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know – and I feel what you feel, but please – be careful, Dred. Do not take any chances. Rohan needs you!"

Théodred nodded determinedly. "Rohan needs you, too, Éomer. But I shall heed your words and I will see you soon, both of you. Watch over father." He kissed Éowyn's cheek, nodded to Éomer and left to go with his men.

Éomer's gaze stayed on his cousin until the door closed behind him. "I do not trust the worm one bit; these reports are planted, but Dred will not see this; he is too hurt and upset to realise it. I will wait two days and then we will go look for him. And I do not care what Grima has to say about it – or what happens to me." He rose. "I must find Éothain and prepare him."

The two women looked after him. "I worry so," said Éowyn, "for both of them. Rohan cannot afford losing any of them now. Somebody must protect our people when the king cannot."

Fréalin nodded, putting a hand on the young woman's shoulder. She had a feeling that she had seen her prince for the last time, but she did not word it. Éowyn leaned against the older woman, noticing the tears in Fréalin's eyes, and she felt that the older woman was in pain. She put a comforting arm around the housekeeper. After a while, they let go of each other and returned to their work in silence.

Two days went by; Éomer had a hard time restraining himself when he saw the self-satisfied smirk on Grima's face every time he encountered him. He was now sure that he had assumed correctly; Grima had been behind the plot to lure Théodred away. No messages came in from Théodred and Grima looked more and more satisfied.

In the evening of the second day, Éomer decided that he dared wait no more; he gave orders that his men should make ready to ride before dawn the following morning.

"I fear that the reports that Théodred received were false and that something has happened to them, otherwise we would have heard," he told his men. "We must find them – and I fear that we might be too late."

He spoke of his intentions to Gamling, who was one of his uncle's most trusted men, and Éomer's friend, though closer to Théodred's age. He told him to keep this knowledge to himself; he was quite sure that Grima would do everything he could to keep him from going, if he knew. He also trusted that Gamling would do whatever was in his power to protect the king and Éowyn, should the worst happen.

Gamling nodded his consent; he, too, was certain that something had befallen Théodred and his men. He advised Éomer to thread warily. "He will do everything he can, Éomer, to get you out of the way – and Rohan will be left bared to his whims if both Théodred and you are gone."

Éomer put a hand on his older friend's shoulder. "Then it will be up to you and Hama to protect my sister and the king – and to get word to Gondor," he said.

Gamling nodded, smiling grimly. "Take care – and come back, Éomer. I shall do what I can to cover for you." They parted.

Very early the next morning, before dawn, and before the city stirred, Éomer led his men out of the gates of Edoras heading for the Isen. Éomer had a heavy feeling in his chest; he was now sure that something had befallen Théodred and his men. They rode in silence all through the day and night. The rain was pouring down, which did nothing to raise their spirits.

The following day, they reached the Ford of the Isen. The rain was still falling heavily. As they reached the river, they saw that its water was red – as if of blood and as they came closer they saw the reason; bodies of men and orcs were strewn all over the ford. Their blood mingled in the water and gave it its colour.

Éomer halted Firefoot; he was soaked through, water from his hair was drizzling down under his collar, but he did not feel it; he felt numb, as he watched the spectacle before him. Obviously the men had fought bravely, judging from the number of enemies that had been slain but it was quite apparent that the attackers had been too strong, too ruthless – and too many. As he had feared the reports of a small party had spoken falsely.

Next to him, Éomer heard Éothain's disbelieving cry. "Almighty Béma – what has happened here!" The terror was very evident in his voice.

Éomer looked desperately around him, as he roared: "Théodred – find the king's son!" They all dismounted and began searching through the bodies of Rohirrim and orcs. He gritted his teeth. "It was as I feared – a trap. I curse the worm!" he cried.

One of the men rose from examining a mutilated body and exclaimed: "Mordor will pay for this. Those savages!" He cursed, his voice strained and hoarse.

Éomer had been kneeling beside a body and now rose to stand. He had just found the younger brother of one of his friends since childhood, who had been killed six months earlier in an orc attack on the Eastfold. Now his parents had lost yet another son. He drew in a sharp breath, as he kicked over a body of an orc in anguish. He saw the insignia of the White Hand – Saruman's mark – on his cuirass. Another of his suspicions had proven correct.

"These orcs are not from Mordor," he hissed. "The White Hand; this is Saruman's doing!"

He kept on searching through the bodies; suddenly he heard one of his men shouting: "Lord Éomer – over here!" Éomer rushed over and saw him turning over a limp body – "Théodred." He looked at his cousin's lifeless face, desperately searching for life signs. A small movement of the eyelids and a shiver around the lips made him realise; "He's alive; he is breathing."

He rose from his squatting position and shouted, "Quickly – my horse. Éothain – take six men and follow me. The rest of you – gather the bodies of the orcs and burn them – and bury our comrades; we have no time to take them all back to Edoras; give them a decent burial here – they will rest as well and as honourably here as in any other place. Note the names of the dead so that their kin can be notified." He bowed his head in respect of the dead and then he turned; there was no time to lose.

Éothain and he carried Théodred to Firefoot. Before he sat up, he bent to remove a helmet from one of the orcs and put it in his saddlebag. Éothain and a couple of the men helped him lift up Théodred and supported him as Éomer swung up behind him. "We must make haste, he is badly wounded."

They rode towards Edoras as fast as they could. Éomer had to use all his strength to keep his cousin's limp body in the saddle; Théodred remained unconscious during the entire ride, only moaning from time to time. As they approached Edoras, Éomer sent one of the men ahead to summon Éowyn and the healers. He rode right up to the stairs, dismounted and he and his men carried his cousin to his room and laid him on his bed after removing his armour and chainmail. He bled heavily from several fatal wounds.

Éowyn had been to the market, but had seen the riders approaching and now hurried up the stairs to Meduseld and through the corridors to Théodred's room. As she entered, she found her brother kneeling by the bed, stroking his cousin's hair. She sat on the bedside, trying to assess the extent of her cousin's wounds. His face was all bloody, the blood stemming from a gash on the left side of his head. "What happened?" she whispered to Éomer.

He shivered slightly. "Béma knows; they were all slaughtered – Théodred was the only one alive."

Éowyn looked at him with wide eyes. "All of them, but Halmund …… and Góerf ……?"

"Aye, them too. I need to go and tell their parents …….," Éomer's voice broke. Both of them had been childhood friends of Éowyn and rode with Théodred's éored. Tears fell silently from her eyes; he put a comforting hand on hers, and they both turned their attention back to Théodred.

Éowyn bent over Théodred and whispered his name softly. He seemed to react, moving his lips as if to say something. He seemed barely alive, his breathing was abrupt and troubled. "Sweet Béma," she whispered as she removed the blanket, which had been laid over him. When she saw the slash wound to his stomach, she closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer. It looked as if his wounds were already festering. The Valar knew what poisons the enemies used.

She exchanged a look with Éomer; his eyes were dark and worried and his face held all the graveness of the situation. She could tell that he held no great hope that Théodred would survive.

Through the door came the healer Merwyn and his helper, followed by Fréalin. Fréalin's face was contorted in grief; she took Éowyn's place at the side of the bed and clasped the hands of the man, who was like a son to her. Éomer put a hand on the older woman's shoulder, but could not find a word to say to her. He just squeezed her shoulder.

The healers examined Théodred, but the look on their faces as they exchanged glances told Éomer that they did not hold high hopes for the survival of their prince.

Éomer consulted with Merwyn, "I think that you should both go to the king and tell him that his son is severely wounded, perhaps dying," the healer said.

Éomer nodded. "Aye. Come, Éowyn. I know that it is perhaps foolhardy to believe that we can get uncle to understand, but we need to tell him that his son is dying; he must see him before it is too late." His dark eyes shone passionately.

Éowyn nodded. "Aye; although uncle has heeded nothing any of us had said for the past months, perhaps the graveness of this message will wake him."

The siblings went to the Great Hall to seek out the king. The king was alone, seated on his throne at the far end of the great hall; Wormtongue was nowhere in sight. Éowyn went up the dais and stood before her uncle; she closed her eyes at the pitiful sight. Éomer followed closely behind her.

He watched his uncle compassionately. The once powerful Théoden King was now reduced to a dribbling dotard. His hair and beard were long and unkempt and his eyes seemed to be without life, milky white and almost blind, his hands weak with clawlike fingers. I will be damned if this has happened in a natural way, only a few years ago he was a man in his prime, Éomer cursed to himself.

"Your son is badly wounded, my Lord." Éowyn knelt before her uncle, taking one of his weak hands in hers. "Uncle, he may be dying – will you do nothing; will you not go to him?" Her voice was trembling and tears rolled down her cheeks, as she pleaded. The king did not react.

Éowyn rose, taking a step backwards. Her shoulders shook; she was crying now. Éomer went up to stand beside his sister, putting a reassuring hand on her arm, but she turned away, overwhelmed in her grief.

Éomer looked at his uncle. Obviously he seemed quite unaware of them. Anger and sadness swelled in him, and he barely managed to keep his voice calm and entreating as he spoke.

"My Lord, we found Théodred and his men at the Ford of the Isen, only Théodred was alive. They were ambushed by orcs, slaughtered." He paused for a moment and then continued, pleadingly. "Uncle, please listen to me. If we do not defend our country, Saruman will take it by force."

Grima Wormtongue chose this moment to make an entrance. It was obvious that he had been warned by his spies that Éomer and his sister had gone to seek their uncle, and he now looked suspiciously at the siblings, especially at Éomer, narrowing his eyes.

"That is a lie; Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally," he said in his low, affable voice. He knelt beside the king, looking apprehensively up at him. The king murmured something hardly audible to him. To Éomer it sounded, as if he was saying Grima's name and trying to say something about his son. Grima patted the hand of the king as if reassuring him that everything was all right.

Éomer narrowed his eyes as he looked at Grima. He suppressed the anger that he felt and only this suppressed anger, which made his voice tremble, gave him away as he spoke.

"You worm! How can you call Saruman a friend and ally of Rohan? Orcs are roaming freely across our lands. Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will. Orcs bearing the White Hand of Saruman," he said as he prayed silently. Oh, Béma, let me get through to uncle; his only son is dying; he needs to understand before it is too late.

"Here is proof if that is what you need!" He spat out and tossed the orc helmet, which he had brought with him from the ford, at the king's feet. His uncle did not respond to this gesture, he just stared blankly at him without comprehending.

Grima squinted up at Éomer, slowly rising from his kneeling position by the king's side. "Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind? Can you not see that your uncle is wearied by your malcontent; your warmongering?"

"Warmongering?" Éomer retorted, feeling his temper rising. No longer able to restrain himself, he took one step towards Grima and grabbed him by the throat. "How long has it been since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Grima?" he snarled as he pressed him up against one of the pillars. "When all the men are dead, you will take your part of the treasure?"

Éowyn had withdrawn from them, watching her brother's actions with rising fear. She thought of getting help from Éothain or Gamling. As she was leaving the room, she felt Grima's eyes on her. His pale, snake-like eyes flickered as he was watching her. She stopped for an instant in her steps, looking back over her shoulder; then she fled towards the door, shivering from what she had seen in Grima's eyes.

Éomer's eyes narrowed dangerously, as his gaze followed Grima's and recognised the lust and desire in his eyes. White anger flashed in him and he pressed Grima further up against the pillar. His voice was harsh and menacing: "Too long have you watched my sister, too long have you haunted her steps. Keep away from her, worm – or I will ….." He did not get any further as he felt hands grabbing him from behind and he saw Grima's eyes light up in delight and malice, as he was hauled backwards.

"You see much, Éomer – son of Éomund; too much," Wormtongue hissed maliciously.

Éomer struggled to get free of their grip, but the guards were too many and held him back. Obviously those planted by Saruman and paid by Grima, he thought as one of them punched him in the stomach. He flinched from pain. As he was regaining his breath, he heard Grima's triumphant voice.

"You are hereby banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Rohan under pain of death!"

Éomer did not believe that he had heard right and he struggled even more. He shouted defiantly, his eyes blazing towards Grima: "You have no authority here, worm, your orders mean nothing!"

Grima's face contorted in a malicious grin as he held up a piece of parchment: "Oh, but this order does not come from me. It comes from the king; he signed it this morning. And Marshal – should you succeed in getting your men to follow you, please remind them that they are banished as well."

Éomer realised with all certainty that his leaving to find Théodred had been the final excuse for Grima to get rid of him. He had only waited for this chance, and now he was rid of them both. He closed his eyes in pain and the gall rose in his mouth. He had let them all down, his uncle, his sister, his people … Théodred.

"You traitor!" he shouted and tried to lash out at Grima, but Grima's men strengthened their hold of him and dragged him out of the hall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gamling approaching. He tried to turn his head to signal to him, but was prevented. He made one more attempt to escape their grip, but in vain. Two of the thugs held him as the other two let blow after blow rain down over him. "You will not learn your lesson, now will you," one of them sneered. He flinched but did not give them the satisfaction of crying out. He relaxed; although it was humiliating to stand down, he realised that he would be no good to anybody if he was beaten to death.

One of the men grinned evilly. "Truly a disappointment. I did not think that it would be so easy to break this proud stallion, but – a coward he is like all royalty of Rohan." Éomer cursed under his breath, but bit his lip not to provoke another attack.

On the steps of Meduseld, one of the thugs looked at him: "Well, then – Marshal. You have only a short while to get your things, your horse – and to say goodbye to your sister! Use it well!" he said mockingly. The man's face lit up in a malicious grin as he and his friends shoved Éomer down the stairs.

Éomer landed face down on one of the lower steps. He raised his head, cursing under his breath and looking defiantly up at the grinning men. Then he pulled himself up to stand and dried the blood from his face with his sleeve. His entire body ached and blood oozed from a wound to his forehead and his split lip.

Éowyn came rushing down the stairs towards him, her eyes wide in terror. "Éomer! Are you all right? I cannot believe that uncle signed this willingly. What will you do?"

Éomer looked at her "What can I do? I will gather those men who will go with me – and then try to find reinforcements so that we can come back and free Rohan of this malice!" His eyes flashed, as he continued to wipe the blood off his face.

"I will go with you!" Éowyn cried. "Please do not leave me here!"

"Éowyn. No! You cannot come. It is too dangerous; they will stop at nothing to have me killed! And you must be here for Théodred – and uncle." Éomer grabbed her by the upper arms. Éowyn looked at him with wide, tear filled eyes.

"I have not got much time. How is Théodred?" he inquired.

"Worse, I fear; it is still uncertain that he will survive." Éowyn's eyes swelled with tears. "What am I to do without you; why am I to stay here – not knowing what is happening to you!" she said as she leaned against her brother's chest, now crying openly.

"I am sorry that I let you down and that I must leave you here. I do not know what to do – but I will think of something. Now, sister – take care; watch your back and if it gets worse, you must flee. Gamling and Hama will help you. I promise you that I will come back to rescue you and uncle – and our people!" Éomer embraced his sister fiercely. "I have to find Éothain."

Gamling came running towards them. "So he finally succeeded," he said bitterly.

Éomer looked at him. "I need your help – yours and Hama's – to watch over Éowyn and uncle. And ….. Théodred." He closed his eyes for a second. Gamling nodded. "We shall. Now go before they find an excuse to kill you. Take care of yourself!" He clasped Éomer's shoulder. "I promise you that I shall keep them safe."

"I know that you will, my friend." Éomer put his hand over Gamling's.

"Now go, Éomer. Éothain is waiting for you at the stable," Gamling said.

Éomer nodded, his face was drawn and his jaw clenched. He kissed his sister and left her standing on the stairs with Gamling as he rushed towards the stables. Éothain was already there, waiting with Firefoot and his own horse "Here," he said, handing Éomer his helmet, "we have packed your things and weapons; we are ready to leave. The men have returned from the ford, most of them are waiting outside the gate."

Éomer looked at his friend: "But how did you manage this?"

"Éowyn rushed in, telling us that Grima's cronies were beating you up – but Wormtongue's faithful men have been bragging about the fact that their trusted leader had succeeded in finding a way of getting rid of the king's nephew all morning, and that he would set his plan in action today. So we were prepared. And when we saw them entering the hall, we set in motion, even before Éowyn alerted us."

Éomer could not help smiling: "Did I tell you recently that you are a good friend? But – Éothain, I cannot ask you to go with me. I am banished from Rohan – under pain of death! You will be banished, too, if you follow me. Think of Melia – and your child!"

"I know, and I do think of them," said Éothain. "I spoke with Melia, and she agrees with me that I should follow you. She will go to her parent's house and stay there with our child. Halfred and his sons will protect them. You are my friend as well as my commander – and what would my father have thought of me if I were not loyal to you?"

Éomer clasped the wrist of his friend. "Thank you, friend. Let us go. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get back and free the king and our people." As they were leading their horses out of the stable, Éomer looked up at Meduseld; Éowyn and Gamling were still standing on the stairs. His sister looked so forlorn, but her eyes were dry and she held her head defiantly high. He raised his hand in a gesture and then mounted.

He rode out through the gates, followed by Éothain. His heart felt heavy and he cursed inwardly that Grima had succeeded in outmanoeuvring him so easily. He must have prepared this a very long time; I fear for Éowyn – and for Théodred. He does not need them as much as he does the king. He needed to contemplate what to do next. He knew that he had to go; he would be no good to them dead. And his sister would be able to take care of herself, he knew that.

Outside the gate, almost a hundred riders were waiting. Apparently, his men had acted quickly and had gathered all the men that they could muster. Most of the riders were scattered all over Rohan and they were all bound by their oaths to the king. It would cost them dearly to follow Éomer into banishment. As the men saw Éomer approaching, the men saluted him. He acknowledged the salute and addressed them in a firm voice.

"As you know, I am banished from Rohan – and if I return, it will be under pain of death. I will not ask of you to follow me, because you will be banished as I am, but if you do so of your own free will, I will be forever grateful! We ride, Rohirrim!"

None of the men even hesitated; they all followed behind him.

He turned and cast one last glance back towards Edoras; he saw Éowyn's lonely figure standing outside the Golden Hall, as she had done so often when he went away. He closed his eyes in pain and then spurred Firefoot on. His men followed in silence. They are leaving their families, too – and follow me into Béma knows what.

---ooo000ooo---

Éomer ordered scouts sent out ahead of them; he knew that they had to be careful as there might be parties of orcs waiting for them and he would not lead his men into an ambush. He was sure that the worm had wasted no time sending word to his master about the recent progress.

After several hours' hard ride, they dismounted near a small mountain stream to water and rest their horses. The scouts returned, reporting that they had seen a large party of orcs and uruk-hai running as if evil powers were behind them across the plains towards Isengard.

Éomer contemplated this for a while and then turned to his men. "We need not worry that we will be punished for slaying Saruman's hordes now, and at least these orcs shall not roam our lands anymore. We will follow them at a distance – and then when night falls, we will attack." Éothain nodded, passed on the orders and the riders mounted.

They followed the orcs at a distance for the remainder of the day. When night fell, the orcs stopped at the outskirts of Fangorn and started chopping wood for fires. The Rohirrim crept nearer and waited in the dark.

The uruks and the orcs started a fight between them, presumably over food. Éomer smiled grimly. "I think that now will be a good time to interrupt them; they seem rather occupied," he whispered to Éothain, who nodded his consent. He whispered his orders to the men, and at a sign from Éomer, the riders split up and attacked the camp from both sides.

The attack was swift, but intense, and their rage bitter. They all had something or someone to revenge. In no time, the ground was covered with dead orcs; none were left alive. Two of the riders had been killed and the others buried them in silence before they piled up the corpses of the orcs and burned them. Being so close to Fangorn made them uneasy; it was as if the entire forest rumbled and whined menacingly. They felt uncomfortable about camping so close to the forest and removed themselves to find a place to rest for what remained of the night – also to get away from the burning pyre of foul-smelling creatures.

Éomer ordered them to settle down until sunrise. Some slept, some – among them Éomer - could not and he just sat staring out in the darkness, contemplating their next move until he saw the blood red sun rise on the horizon.

17