Author's Note:

Although I'm rather new to , I'm not new to writing stories. I've written LOTR fictions before too, but none ever got passed Rivendell. I swear, that location is the bane of all my ideas. This is the first fan fiction I've come up with that actually works enough to try uploading. I have about 60% of the story complete in my head, I just need to work out the kinks and write it down.

Concerning the story: The story takes place during all three books, but almost entirely takes place in Rohan, as the title suggests. The main characters are Eomer, Eowyn, Grima, possibly Gandalf, and my OC. The story will not be told from the OC's point of view, rather, she will only appear in scenes where the other main characters are present. I think this will make the storytelling a bit more interesting. Also, I've decided to go with a mixture of the books and the movies. I'll make a note every time this happens for those who've only seen the movies.

I'm going to try to only write after reading a chapter of JRR Tolkien's works, so I can have the feel of how he writes come out in my own. . At least, that's what I'm going for. Wish me luck.

Have fun reading.

- In Amber Clad

Chapter 1: Of Fortunes and Fire

Early Spring, 3018 of the Third Age.

"Guthwine! How many?" the horseman called, though not from a horse's back. The horseman stood upon ground wet by black blood and powdered by ash. His horse was nowhere in sight, so he stood on the top of the embankment of the Entwash hoping to see what his ears could not tell. The sound of the village burning and the people fleeing from the savagery made it all the harder to hear Guthwine's course reply.

"Fourty, no fifty more! The blackened night air and chaos, I cannot tell difference between our own and the orcs!" Guthwine cried, coughing from the smoke.

"Then learn the difference! We must hasten our hunt n'er none be left alive!" said the horseman. He quickly scanned the sullied streets strewn with bodies marred by their quarry. "Where is the Marshal?"

"He's given chase with a small company to slay the orcs that follow the refugees. He's ordered us to protect those who remain, and save what provisions we can." Guthwine shifted the weight of his spear in his heavy hand, "Éothain, take my horse and spear until the Marshal returns." He dismounted quickly and gave the reins to Éothain, who took them without hesitation. Éothain was the better rider and better warrior on horseback, for he was older and more experienced. Guthwine however was an excellent swordsman, and could provide more support from a shorter distance.

After Éothain took leave of Guthwine's spear, for his own had already found the chest of an orc, he asked, "And what of you, Guthwine?"

Guthwine grinned in reply, "Of me? I will find your horse." To that, he sprung from the ground like a bird and followed the river, unsheathing his sword as he went. Entwash ran through the middle of the village, where a pool of water collected, now blacked with the blood of Men and Orc. Éothain checked his horse 'round and ran his spear into the first orc he found upon reentering the village. The grey shadows of night flickered orange in the firelight of burning homes. Éothain took to charging his horse to and from the unspoiled homes to the water's edge. He came out like a blur to the blinded orcs that were unwise enough to look into the light when they heard the horse's hooves. He lost himself in sound of thundering hooves and the cries of battle.

All around him his fellow Éored fought until every last vile creature had been destroyed by blade, spear, fire, or horse's hooves. It was not far into the night yet, not even midnight. However, it was still winter, so the nights were long and cold. The heat of the fires flicked at what little skin shown on the armored men. Their shining mail and hard leather plating had protected them. Some of the men came to Éothain and reported no losses of their own men, of whom had remained to protect the village at least. Though, the numbers of the civilian casualties was far greater than they feared.

Éothane cursed Mordor openly. "Everywhere the smell of death and smoke. Mordor will pay for this." As was tradition of the Éored, they began to assemble the bodies of the orcs to be piled and burned. To this, a change was made. Homes were already lost to fire and were then used to burn the bodies. He thought of the Marshal's decision to protect the majority who fled as he stared into the blaze, It is better that he did, for homes can be rebuilt, but lives are lost forever. He turned to the nearest horseman and said, "Send word to the Third Mashal that is it safe for the villagers to return." The horseman nodded and left swiftly.

Some hours passed and the fires finally began to die, whether from loss of fuel or put out by water and earth. Half of the men had quickly gathered the strewn supplies that were in danger of being burned, the others tended to the wounded. Graves were being dug for the lost souls, but progress was slow, for the earth was hardened by ice. Seeing that it was useless for the men to tire at a futile act, he told the men to instead gather stones. The stones would be built with soil over the dead to protect them until spring. When the earth was soft again, the bodies would be moved to their final resting places.

Éothane's temperament began to fall, now with the excitement of the battle waning. He did his best to keep occupied and others occupied, for there was much to be done and saved. But his nerves wracked him. The Third Mashal should have returned by now. Had something gone wrong? The thought spurred him and he grabbed hold of another horseman, "Rider! Go after the Mashal. He has not returned and may be in trouble. Gather forty men and give chase."

At that, a horn sounded clear in the night. They turned to the north and saw men and horses rising over the hill. Their torches were lit and shown brighter than the stars behind them. All in the village gave a cry of welcome and victory. There was a scene of families being reunited then, happy reunions of living, and sorrowful ones with the dead. Éothain urged his horse forward when he saw the white horsetail that fell from the top of the Mashal's helmet.

"Éomer!" He called, "My lord, what happened? Why is your arrival so late?" His horse met up with the Éomer's along with the horsemen he had sent the message with, and the three walked side by side as the Mashal recounted the events.

Éomer spoke, "We were attacked by a band of orcs awaiting us near the river bridge. They hid amongst the boulders until we passed, and then took us from behind. We lost three more, including a woman who was with child." His voice trailed off as a man walked by, hands still stained with his wife's blood. A pang of guilt took hold of him until the despairing man was out of earshot. The messenger horsemen also bowed his head.

Éothane was horrified, "And the baby…?" He almost didn't want to know. Before he answered, Éomer shook his head gravely.

"We tore the baby from the womb, but it would not cry. …It was too soon." The three men were in silence atop their horses.

At a length, Éothan recounted the events of the village during the time they were absent. When he finished, Éomer nodded and then turned his attentions to his men. He gave orders and they followed them, for that was their love for their leader. Éomer was a man of action, as his decisions shown earlier by going himself to protect those who fled. However, he was also a man of great discernment. He told the men what duties to perform in which order; who to tend to first, that food should be made available, and the weary be given makeshift beds. Although Éothain had done well, things seemed to run faster and smoother with their leader returned to them.

The night continued this way until dawn. Only when it seemed that the villagers felt some ease did Éomer decide to rest. The company remained in the village for several days. The help of a full Éored (well, almost full. Guthwine was missing, so their band of one hundred and nineteen men at the moment instead of one hundred and twenty), gave the village a head start on recovery. A whole new house was built using the wood that could be saved from the burned ones, albeit quite bare since it was a rush job to provide shelter. Éomer sat on the roof, thatching it. He only wore his mail shirt over his clothes, and left the armor below beside his horse. He couldn't climb properly with it on, despite being used to it.

There was a munching sound coming from near his foot. "Firefoot!" Éomer scolded. "Stop that!" His horse lowered its neck with a mouthful of hay that had just been a part of the roofing. Éomer sighed, "You're going to make me do it all over again, aren't you?" The horse looked at him with his big brown eyes. Éomer could have sworn there was a smirk in them. "Spoiled horse. Here," he dropped a bushel on top of the horse's head. It made a disgruntled noise, but began munching on the bushel anyway. "I will hear no complaints from you. You asked for it."

The horse's ears pricked upward and it lifted its head, looking east toward the edge of the village. Éomer followed its gaze and his eyes fell upon a rider. Éomer quickly surmised that it was Guthwine, returned from whatever errand he had been on, for Éothain had told him not to worry. However, the rider's pace told another story. Éomer jumped from the roof and called over some of the men. They waited in the plaza.

Guthwine entered the village in a hurry. The horse he rode was none other than Simbold,Éothain's lost horse. With him, he bore a young man. Without verbal command, he stopped the horse only a yard away from the men. Guthwine said quickly, "Éomer, my lord! Sorcery! There is sorcery at work near Fanghorn. The pure waters of Ent Spring is alight with unnatural flames!"

"Sorcery you say?" Éomer mused. "Come off your horse, man, so I may hear you clearly."

"But it is true!" the boy squeeked, his voice cracking from puberty. The boy slipped off the horse and almost skinned his knee.

"So you are the one who stole my horse," Éothain said gruffly, walking up to the group. He took Simbold's reins and petted his nose. The boy shrunk.

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I thought I would die if I did not. But I only wished to join my mother who was with the others running away," he pleaded, "But the horse would not heed me. He ran and ran away from the fires into the night." Éothain went to slap the boy, for it seemed that the boy was accusing a war horse to be a coward, but the Mashal stopped him with a raised hand.

"Let him speak. Continue your tale, boy. Where did the horse take you?" Éomer was, again, was a man of great discernment. There was no lie in the boy's eyes.

The boy gulped, the memory renewed, "To the Ent Spring. I knew it was the Ent Spring. My father and I oft went there to collect the healing mosses." His eyes fell downward, "But this time was different. The horse stopped and we both stared into the pool. The longer we stared, we began to see images, faces on the water." The men grew silent as the boy went on. "I awoke then," he paused, "Only when Master Guthwine found me as the sun rose in the east."

"The Orcs came from the West. Do you think the Ent Spring was where they were headed?" Éothain guessed aloud.

Guthwine said, "If so, then surely to poison its clear waters."

A light opened in the boy's eyes, "My lord! Many tales of good fortune surround the spring. We cannot let them destroy it!"

"The boy is sure of this. He insisted on returning to the pool, convinced not to miss what good fortune that was to come from its depths," Guthwine said, dismounting. "That is why I am late. When we were to return a day ago, he leapt from the saddle and ran back. Three times he did this whenever I caught him, until I agreed to see the pool for myself in the moonlight. We returned there, and I saw that his story was true. And now here we are, though the boy still did not want to come."

"I have also heard tales concerning the fortunes of that spring, but not all of them are good," Éomer said. "It is said that those who drink of it go mad."

The boy's chest filled with air, he seemed to be ruffling his feathers like an agitated magpie. "Only bad Men go mad! And I am not mad, nor did I drink from it!"

Éomer nodded. "What is your name young master?" The boy paused at the sudden question. Éomer's eyebrows lifted, "You claimed not to drink, so does thirst stop your tongue? Speak now." The men chuckled at the tease and the boy shrunk again, but this time embarrassed.

"Éarthang, son of Thengel, my lord," he finally said.

"Your father bears a kingly name, Éarthang."

"Yes, my lord."

Éomer turned to Éothain, "Gather a host of forty men. We ride for Ent Spring. The rest will remain here and continue the repair." The boy's head lifted with amazement.

"My lord!" grunted Éothain, "Surely you..." He stopped before he questioned his commander, but his commander ignored him and his eyes remained fixed on the boy's face. He then turned to Guthwine, "How can you encourage the boy?"

Éomer spoke before Guthwine, "Because the boy does not lie, nor does Guthwine. They saw what they saw, whether they were bewitched or not. We will go to the Spring, Éothain. We shall receive what fortune it shall bring us. I pray for good fortune, if only a little good news would make these dark days better." With that he turned to gather his things and to saddle his horse. The men separated to follow the command. Before an hour was up, forty horses and men, and one boy, were ready to ride. They set out from the charred buildings with Guthwine taking the lead, now on his own horse, for only he and the boy knew the road ahead.