A/N: I give you my latest little fanfic, published to celebrate the release of my most recent original fiction (See my profile for details). This will be a two-parter; the second half is nearly finished.

Kingship- Chapter One

Éowyn wound her way through the camp, drawn by the firelight, the noise and laughter of celebrating men. And much they had to celebrate. The Dark Lord was defeated, the king of Gondor returned, and they had survived.

The proper Gondorian matrons of the Houses of Healing would have been appalled that she went abroad alone at night. But she was a woman of Rohan, not a sheltered child, and the dagger at her belt proclaimed her right to visit her brother in camp if she chose.

Talking of Éomer, there he was, sitting by the fire, looking both weary and amused at his friend Éothain, who was singing a rather rude song as he draped one arm over Éomer's shoulders.

She accepted a cup of ale from one of the men and claimed a sawn log for her seat, smiling at the dull roar of laughter and song that ebbed and flowed through the crowd. The Houses were peaceful, and she needed a bit of peace after the last few years, but she'd grown to miss the company of fighting men. Their stories were more interesting, to be sure. One of them, Alford she thought his name was, had stood up in front of the others and was telling of how his beloved king Théoden had fought the mûmak on the very field upon which they now stood.

It was a compelling tale. Too much so, if Éowyn was being honest. Alford had a gift for speech and song, and he wove a description of the fight so vivid that Éowyn could see it in her mind's eye- the great gray beast facing down a lonely figure on a white horse, her uncle's sword raised aloft as he cried out a defiant challenge, his narrow escape from the falling beast once he and his men had dispatched it.

Dear uncle. She loved him so, fretted over him when he was under the wizard's spell, watched him ride to war while she was bursting with pride and burning with envy. Defended him as he lay dying. Wept over his body until the darkness claimed her. Éowyn blinked, allowing tears to roll down her face, unashamed to weep for a great man who'd died well.

Not everyone saw grief in the same way. Across the fire, Éomer was still and silent, arms resting on his knees, staring into the flames. Éowyn watched him rise and quietly leave, unnoticed and unremarked.

She might have gone back to listening to Alford's song, but something about her brother's face as he left made it impossible to enjoy the celebration. She waited a moment, then slipped away, worried by the flash of desolation that he'd been unable or unwilling to hide.

After a few increasingly anxious minutes of searching, Éowyn found him at the horse pickets, draped over Firefoot. Both man and horse rested one toe on the ground, and she would have thought him completely relaxed, even asleep, had one white-knuckled hand not been tangled in the horse's white mane.

She went to the horse's head so he wouldn't startle and leaned on his neck, looking at her brother. She couldn't see his face. "Tell me," was all she said, in the way they'd done as children, wanting to speak of their feelings yet not knowing how to begin.

He raised his head from Firefoot's withers and smiled faintly. "Hello, little sister. Did you follow me?"

"I saw you leave the celebration. Too many people for your comfort?"

He nodded. "Too much noise. Too much happiness. I don't begrudge them their joy. They should be happy. The Dark Lord is dead and the king has returned. I-" He fell into silence.

"You're not happy?" she prompted.

"I am, but-" he broke off and ran one hand through his hair. "I can't explain it." There was a long pause. "I feel… empty. Drifting. Like a leaf on the wind." This time he looked at her. "All our lives, we were at war. All we had to do was survive. It was difficult, but it wasn't complicated. We rode from here to there; we fought; we buried the dead. We hated the enemy and praised the fallen for their courage.

"And we won," he said simply. "But- now what? What do we do now that there's nothing to fight against?"

"You're the king," she pointed out. "That keeps you busy."

"Busy with what? I don't know the first thing about kingship. None of my captains can advise me. I never had time to learn from my uncle after Théodred died and I became Second Marshal- even if I could have learned with the Worm whispering in his ear."

"You should talk to Lord Aragorn- Elessar, that is," she suggested.

"He's new to kingship, too," Éomer argued. "And Rohan is so different from Gondor. We might stumble upon the correct solutions, but only by accident. And I don't even know what I'll face when I return home. The dispatches say villages have been destroyed, horses driven off, people killed. I don't know how to rebuild a kingdom."

"I don't, either," she said, biting her lip. "But people have been building houses, breeding horses, and raising children since the beginning of time." She shrugged. "Perhaps all you have to do is, well, let them get on with it."

"Not very kingly of me," Éomer said dryly.

Éowyn patted his arm, then before he could think her grown soft, punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I gave you my advice. I don't know what else to tell you."

"I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, then Éomer asked, "Shall I bring you back to the Houses of Healing?"

"I hardly need an escort," she argued, unoffended by his concern.

"I know. But I've barely seen you since we rode out to the Black Gate."

She couldn't argue with that, and they slowly made their way back to the city, two anonymous figures in the dark, unremarked by any watchers and unintelligible by Gondorian ears.