Disclaimer: 'The Lord of the Rings' belongs to J.R.R Tolkien, The Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises and any and all other copyright holders. No money is being made from this piece of fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is in any way intended.
Author's Note:My first LotR fic. I've tried to keep it book-verse, but since it's been a good while since I read the books (I'm in the process of reading them again now, but since I don't have as much time to read as I used to, it's going to take me a while) and not so long since I last saw the movies, I might have mixed up somewhere (but hopefully not). Because I'm bringing an OC into the mix, this story will probably be slightly AU. I'm also semi-planning for it to be an Eomer/OC story, but I'm giving it some time to see how the story develops before I decide for sure. But, as a warning, if you're a die-hard opposer of Eomer/OCs, this might not be the story for you. I'm hoping many people will still give it a chance, though.
I love feedback, both positive and negative (well, I suppose I love positive feedback more, but negative feedback help me in the right direction, and for that reason I like that too), and I'm really hoping for lots of feedback in general on this, since it's my first venture into a fandom I love. So, please read and review, and I hope you enjoy my story.

Dusk had crept upon the fortress of Aldburg and its inhabitants; a Marshal of the Riddermark and his knights and household. The knights had begun to gather around the fire in the Great Hall, but the mood was unusually sombre and only half whispered conversations could be heard around the tables and along the benches. The lord of the house, Éomer sat absorbed in conversation with two of his closest advisors at the High Table.

Outside of the Great Hall, the servants went about their business as they usually did, but not without a certain awareness of the fact that something had to have happened to cause the quiet whisperings in the Great Hall that evening. Every time a servant ventured into the Hall, he or she tried to pick up some notion of what the whisperings and quiet conversations contained, to bring the news back to the kitchens or wherever they came from. From this, the servants were able to discern a tale about a high-born Gondorian traveller who had sought passage across the Mark. What purpose he had in the lands beyond their own none of them could say, as none of the servant had heard anything that could explain why a man of Gondor would undertake such a perilous journey in times so insecure.

Among the servants was a woman named Maerwynn, who had followed her lord to Aldburg when he was made a Marshal of the Mark, and served him well for the year or so he had kept house there. This night she had been chosen, along with a few others, to serve those who had the right to settle at the High Table, swiftly moving back and forth between the kitchens and the Hall, for if the mood in the Hall this night was more sombre than usual, the Marshal and his men consumed no less food or drink than they did on any other night.

From the shadowed corner where she stood when no one called on her she could hear fragments of the conversations that rose up from the tables around the hall, but most of what she heard she could not understand. She knew little of the world outside the lands of the Mark, seeing as she had been born and raised within it and nothing had yet called for her to leave, but lately she had not been able to escape the feeling that something foul was approaching, and that neither she nor the rest of her people would be able to escape the consequences of it should it choose to strike.

And then a few words seemed to float by and instantly grab her attention, without her being able to either explain or understand why those words had so abruptly entered her mind. Now they were just there, like some echo of a strong but long forgotten memory.

The Sword that was Broken…

The words whispered in the conversation by the High Table had long since died away when she made her way out of the Great Hall, but still they rang in some deep of her soul, the memory of a tale of courage and faith pitted against an unspeakable evil. It had taken her hours of thinking to remember where she had first heard those words spoken, but now she had finally found the memory. Clearly in her mind she saw her father, where he sat in front of the fire at home in Edoras. She had been much younger then, no more than a little girl, six or seven winters old. Quietly she had crept up on his lap and into his arms, and she could remember his face, as it had appeared to her with the flames drawing their patterns on it. And she could remember his voice, which seemed to become her whole world as soon as he spoke. With one ear she heard the beating of his heart, and with the other she heard the tale of the great war and the great men who fought in it, until her eyes fell shut and she slept and dreamt of lands far beyond her own.

In the kitchens it was warm and crowded, as always, but those who worked there quickly learned how to navigate between boiling cauldrons, sharp utensils and the burning embers of the large fire. Besides being the heart of the fortress it was also the gathering point of all the servants of the Great Hall and the fortress stables. It was not often a night went by without the kitchens having been visited at least once by all who served the Mark at Aldburg. It was where they gathered to hear news, gossip or tales of old, and where they came to eat and talk to one another when they had some time to spare.

One of the cooks, a stout woman named Brynhild, looked up from behind a stack of pots and pans as Maerwynn entered the kitchen and crept up on one of the benches that were placed along all sides of the room. She was finally done with her work for the night and another servant had taken over serving those few who still remained at the High Table, the young Marshal of the Mark among them. Brynhild smiled kindly to Maerwynn as she shuffled to find some leftovers for the younger servant. A moment later she was at Maerwynn's side carrying a loaf of dark bread and some chicken that was left from the serving in the Great Hall.

Maerwynn had only just begun eating when a young man, a couple of years her junior, stood in front of the bench where she sat. His name was Eadhelm, and he had become as dear to her as a younger brother. The downside was that he could sometimes be as annoying as one as well. Now he stood in front of her, his eyes beaming with pleasure for the fact that he could finally get to question her.

"What news from the high places, Maerwynn? Did you hear anything about this mysterious traveller?"

Maerwynn stopped eating and looked at the young man standing in front of her, who was almost jumping up and down in front of her at the prospect of new information that could add a piece to the puzzle that all the servants had worked to piece together that day. She could not help but smile, Eadhelm had always been curious about absolutely everything, including the things he had no business with.

"Yes, I heard of him. But I heard nothing that others here have not already shared. Except…" Maerwynn hesitated "…I heard whisperings about a sword"

Eadhelm looked at her with disbelief written all over his face.

"Is that all? A sword?! There must be thousands of swords in the Mark alone, why would one matter?"

"How do you expect me to know that? I only know what I heard, and I heard talk about a sword, of one in particular…They called it the Sword that was Broken."

"The Sword that was Broken?"

Two voices echoed with the same question. One was Eadhelm's, as she had expected, but the other belonged to Brynhild, and made her turn towards her in surprise.

"Do you know about this sword they whispered of, Brynhild?"

Brynhild shook her head, and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. She smiled over at the two of them, and said:

"Only from the legends of past ages. The sword is nothing but an old tale, a tale that has been told for many, many years in the Mark."

Brynhild turned away and continued to scrub the pots and pans that had been used before in the evening, not noticing the look of anticipation that had appeared on the faces of both Eadhelm and Maerwynn. Finally it was Maerwynn that could no longer disguise her eagerness. She was surprised that Brynhild knew the tale of the ancient battle, for although Brynhild had shared with them many stories, they were mostly stories of great love, put through as many trials and tribulations as only stories would allow. Maerwynn had thought Brynhild ignorant of the tales of old wars, but apparently she had been wrong.

"Well?"

Brynhild turned, looking at the two of them, both now seated on the bench, with a quizzical look.

"What is it, darling?"

"Tell us this old tale, then!"

Brynhild stopped what she was doing and turned her whole body to face Maerwynn where she sat. Her blue eyes caught Maerwynn's brown and studied them. Maerwynn on her part could see the older woman hesitate. To urge her on, she added;

"It is late in the evening and those in the Hall will soon be on their way to their beds. After all of them have left all that we have to do is clear the tables…"

She let the last few words hang in the air to underline that the work they had left to do was very little, hoping that it would persuade Brynhild to relent and tell the tale of the Sword that was Broken.

Brynhild did relent, when she saw the eagerness that burned like a flame in Maerwynn's eyes. That girl had always been fond of the old tales, too fond perhaps for a servant. But who was she to blame a kind young woman for wanting to sometimes dream herself away from the servant's life she had been given and into the legends of old. With a sigh she put away the brush that she had been holding and dried her hands on her apron, then went to join the two youngsters sitting on the bench. Both of them moved to make room for her, sending telling looks between themselves silently saying that they had gotten exactly what they wanted.

"This tale is old, and I will tell it to you as it was told to me a long time ago. It was in another age, another time when great heroes still could be found among men, and the elves were our friends and allies. But a great enemy of the two did also exist, his name was Sauron. The elves named him The Deceiver, for his powers lay in deception and betrayal. He could appear fair and sometimes came bearing gifts, but his intentions were never good.
In one last attempt to stop Sauron from gaining control of all the people of Middle Earth, a last alliance was made, uniting the forces of elves and Men. This great army marched on the gates of Mordor, the land of darkness that Sauron had taken for his own, and fought for days and months on the great plain before the Black Gate. Many brave soldiers lost their lives, but the armies of elves and Men managed to breach the Black Gate and besieged the Dark Lord's fortress, Barad-dûr. The siege lasted for seven long years, and the Alliance suffered greatly and yet more brave soldiers lost their lives. When the seven years ended, Sauron himself came out onto the battlefield and engaged the Alliance in what was to be the battle to end an age. And a great battle it was indeed, there on the slopes of Mount Doom. Elves and Men fought the evil hordes, and looked to be victorious. But the Dark Lord himself fought with such power and strength that neither Man nor Elf seemed to be able to stop him. Only the two commanders, Gil-galad and Elendil were able to hold their ground for a while. Both were slain by Sauron himself, and Elendil's sword, by the name of Narsil, broke beneath him as he fell."

Maerwynn noticed that several others were listening as well, silently seated around them. The kitchen fire was slowly burning out, but still cast a golden glow over their faces. Brynhild paused for a moment, before continuing.

"It was then, when it seemed all hope had been lost that Isildur, Elendil's son, in anger and despair took up what was left of his father's sword and swung it with all his force against the Dark Lord. He cut off but a finger, but it proved to be enough…for on that finger was a ring that was the source of the Dark Lord's power, forged in the fires of Mount Doom, with the deception in which Sauron was so skilled. The shards of the king's sword were gathered and kept, and the story has it that it has been handed down as an heirloom in the house of Isildur, but no one in these lands knows if this is true, for after the untimely death of Isildur his heirs hid themselves from the world, in fear that Sauron's minions would find and destroy their line, the only line who could rightfully claim the kingship of our neighbours in Gondor. But none has claimed that kinship since the death of Isildur."

Brynhild paused again, her eyes rested on Maerwynn and she smiled when she saw the young woman's eyes shine with a joy that was far beyond what anyone in the Riddermark usually exhibited, especially in these times when it was becoming increasingly more difficult to distinguish friend from foe.

"That is the tale of the Sword that was Broken," Brynhild said quietly, "and now we best be getting started on our final chores of the evening…and that includes you too, Maerwynn!"

Brynhild tried to sound strict, but did not quite manage, and Maerwynn only smiled as she rose from her seat and followed the other servants into the Great Hall, where all now was quiet, for the Marshal and his knights had ended their discussions and presumably gone to their respective quarters.

With many hands sharing the work that needed to be done, it did not take long before the servants too could go to their own quarters for some rest before another day began. It was pitch-dark outside, as most of the fortress and its inhabitants were already sleeping and all fires had been reduced to glowing embers. Maerwyn remained standing at the foot of the stone steps leading up to the Hall and looked with wonder at the stars, shining brightly in the night sky. She had always been fond of star gazing, though most thought her foolish for it. The stars showed her a world she did not know, and never would, except at a distance, but still she found them alluring. Her father had sometimes woken her in the middle of the night, when all others were asleep, and brought her outside to show her the stars and how they formed pictures of heroes and beasts of old. The memories of those nights were among her most cherished, and the stars and stories of old had become her escape when the life of a servant sometimes seemed to claim more than she could offer.

The house was silent when she snuck through it as quietly as she could, not to wake anyone. Her bed-mate Freda, a freckled, red-headed young woman her own age, muttered some inexplicable words down into the hay-filled mattress as Maerwynn crept under the blankets next to her.

"You're freezing! Why can't you go straight to bed like other people?! Why do you keep looking at the stars, Maerwynn? Not even the elders can read from the stars what will happen…"

"I'm not trying to read anything," Maerwynn mumbled, creeping further into the blankets, "I'm just trying to imagine how we look to them… My father used to tell me that all the heroes and great kings of old are looking down on us from among the stars…"

"That is only stories, Maerwynn. Let's go to sleep now."

"I know that, but still..." Maerwynn sighed, then continued;
"Peaceful sleep, Freda."

"Peaceful sleep, Maerwynn."