Éomer felt heavy drops of rain hit his face and his hands touched the wet ground. His eyelids fluttered open. He laid on his back, above him he saw the star studded night sky framed by the silhouettes of tall tree tops. He listened intently but heard nothing but the rustling of the wind through the trees. It smelled of fresh spring rain, yet different. He knew not what difference it was, but he found trying to pin point it was like trying to describe a color one had never seen. Watching the sky above he could make out the bright seven stars. With some effort he sat up. He did not suffer a great deal of pain, but he felt beyond weary. The rain kept pouring down but it did not become him.
His eyes adjusted to the night as he scanned his surrounding and found nothing familiar about them. Finging himself on the edge of a field, surrounded by what seemed like tall pine trees, he knew he was no longer in Dagorland, he was no where near Mordor and he was alone. There was no point in worrying about how he got there, where his friends were or whether or not they still lived before he even knew where he was. He must find shelter and then a sense of location, before he would even let his mind tread down that path. He stood on trembling legs. Weary from battle, hunger and thirst. He recalled falling into the great gap in the ground. He remembered how he kept falling until darkness overwhelmed him. After that he recalled nothing until the heavy rain had awoken him here. He had lost his sword in the fall but was relieved to find his dagger sheathed in his belt.
Among the trees he saw peculiar towers that stood in a straight row yet quite far from one another. They seemed to be no more than framework with a number of ropes tightened between them. How strange they stood among the trees, so strangely unaffected by the wind. His eyes followed the towers and ropes as well as he could in the dark. Further away, across the field and between the trees he could make out a cluster of lanterns burning. With no idea where he was or in what direction he ought to go, it seemed as good a goal as any.
He walked along the edges of the field to conceal himself in the shadows, he had no way of knowing what hid in the night. As he came closer, the farm became clearer. There was a log house, a barn and a couple of shack surrounding a yard. On every building lanterns burned unaffected by the heavy down pour. He paused in the shadows and studied the area for a moment. He could no longer see any of the peculiar towers, yet their ropes reached all the way to the buildings, seemingly disappearing into each of them. Light flooded through glass-covered windows in the log house. He thought it must be a wasteful amount of lanterns and hearths burning in there. Yet no smoke rose from the chimney, it was very odd indeed. He inched closer with great care as to not alert anyone of his presence just yet. He snuck up to the corner of the barn and kept kept out of the light dome created from the lantern that burned not far from him. His eyes sought the source of the light.
It was a small flame, captured in a globe of glass. The flame floated, perfectly still within and shone with an immense power. As he looked to the other lanterns around the area he noticed the lack of movement in them too. He thought it must be some sort of magic, he knew no other way to capture light in this way. Éomer was not conversant with magic. Éorlingas in general had little interest of the practice of elves and wizards. Such an interest would have been wasted on men of his kind since they possessed no ability to wield the power.
He saw no traces of elves in this place so he figured there was a great risk he had entered the dwelling of either wizard or some other unthinkable creature practicing sorcery. None of the latter was of the kind he wished to have dealings with. Men as a whole tended to avoid them with good reason. Apart from Master Gandalf he had little experience of it but the tales he knew, spoke of fickle tempered yet powerful beings with little love or patience for his kind.
With the rain whipping his face he pondered his next move. Perhaps he could find shelter in the barn? Maybe even something to eat. If it was good enough for horses and cattle, it would likely fill him too. The light from the cottage was alluring, it seemed so warm and welcoming, yet the mere suspicion of wizardry deterred him.
Éomer jerked at the sound of the barn door creaking. Out from the barn stepped a short and slender being holding a coat above their head to fend off the rain. The person called out, it was a woman's voice. She held a rod in her hand with with a captured flame in one end of it. She wielded it left and right and it cast a vertical pillar of light in front of it. He pressed himself up against the wall as the woman kept calling out a word he did not understand. Was she calling for him? A rustle came from the darkness not far from where he stood and a cat bolted towards the woman. She bent down and picked it up. She talked to it and though Éomer did not make out any words he could tell it was encouraging. She had found what she was looking for, and it was not him.
He looked to the sky again and found comfort in the seven stars. It was the only recognizable thing to him. After only a short moment he followed the barn wall to the back of the building. Away from the light and away from the house. He found an unlocked backdoor and stepped inside. He had entered a stable. Two horses lifted their heads and stared right at him. The stable was lit by two of the captured flames and as familiar as he was with stables, he found this one to be no less strange than the rest of this place. It indeed contained items one would expect. There were reins and saddles , buckets and broom. He took a closer look at the reins and saddles. They were quite like the ones he rode with but he marveled at the craftsmanship. Every cut was flawless, every stitch perfectly fashioned. To his vast knowledge, no man's hand could produce such impeccable work.
He picked up a blue bucket from the floor. It weighed almost nothing in his hand. It was much different from the wooden buckets he was used to. This one was smooth, almost as if it was made out of starched silk, and never had he known anyone to waste precious pigments on such things as stable buckets. His eyes fell on the hay fork that stood leaned against the wall. A robust wooden handle and a somewhat rusty fork. He ran his hand down it as to assure himself there was nothing odd about it, it was the first real familiar thing he had seen since waking up in this strange place.
The horses had grown tired of watching him by now and was back to munching on their hay.
Along the wall stood a big wooden box. Éomer opened the lid and found oats. He took the scoop from the box, it too made in the same strange ways as the buckets. In the horses stalls he found water and helped himself to a scoop full. He grabbed a handful of grain and poured it into his mouth. It was dry as dust and tasted slightly from mold. He chewed as best he could before swallowing it down with water. He did it a few times until he could not muster anymore in hopes that he would escape hunger for a while longer.
A doorway led out of the stables and into the greater part of the barn. The lanterns in the stables cast just enough light for him to be able to make out the large hayloft. He climbed it until he reached the top. There in the corner he dug a small hole to keep him hidden. He spread out his cloak and laid down. Many issues awaited him in the morning but for now he settled for having shelter. He closed his eyes and was soon lulled to sleep by the steady down pour outside.
