Chapter Three: The Wrath of Wormtongue

They rode hard most of the morning of their departure, stopping only once to fuel themselves and the horses. Lothíriel busied herself with caring for Firebreather and her own personal needs; the former she accomplished at a distance from the others to avoid talking to the men. She made a better acquaintance with her horse, because, really, she had to talk to someone, and she even spared another apple. She had four yet, which would last her until the last day of the journey; she heard the men saying that it would take five days to reach Rohan if the weather was on their side. With it being midsummer, that was likely. The food and drink for their small troop was being brought by the flag-bearer accompanying them, but she did not want to waste too much of her own personal store.

"Once we reach the Ringló," Lothíriel told Firebreather, who stamped at her gentle voice but seemed to listen inquisitively. "that will be the farthest I've ever been from home.

"You will keep me safe, won't you?" She whispered, running a hand up from his nose to his forelock. "I trust you to. You are a mighty steed, indeed."

Firebreather tossed his head in open agreement, causing her to laugh lightly. She stroked his big head then moved to his neck with a hearty pat, before the call to mount broke their discord. As if anticipating spending more of his endless energy, Firebreather sidled to the left and then back again, making it slightly difficult for Lothíriel to mount the beast.

"Easy, Firebreather," she cooed, grabbing the horn and the back of the saddle, lifting one foot to the stirrup. "Easy."

Firebreather, in fact, did not settle, but instead pranced to the left, taking her foot-in-stirrup with him. Lothíriel gritted her teeth against a curse no Gondorian lady should know and hopped after the horse, grappling for the reins and hoping against all hope that the rest of their group didn't take notice of the antics.

"Soldier! Control your mount!" The heavy voice of her brother sliced through the air and Lothíriel was sure her face was turning the color of those horrid beets her father liked to eat.

"Sorry, Amro-er… Captain!" Lothíriel hastily amended in her deep voice. Nearly too late she recalled that her brother was indeed Captain of the Prince Imrahil's Guard and that she had heard the men calling him so along their journey thus far.

"Firebreather!" She hissed, the reins slipping from her fingers time and time again as the other men chuckled at her behavior.

To her dismay, Firebreather gave a raucous snort and stopped abruptly, causing Lothíriel to lose the balance she had so ungracefully maintained and fall roughly onto her rump. The men chortled louder as Lothíriel glared at Firebreather and disentangled her foot from the stirrup, pulling herself up from the dusty ground. As she brushed herself off, out of the corner of her eye she watched as Amrothos rode up with a frown on his handsome face.

"Soldier, if you cannot control your mount you will be ordered to carry on afoot." Amrothos leered down at her, not unkindly, as Lothíriel grabbed ahold of saddle once more and was able to mount her steed. This put her at eyelevel with her brother, and she had to busy herself with managing her wares and her horse to avoid eye contact.

"What is your name?" He asked her, his own mount growing uncertain at the way Firebreather was still prancing from side to side.

"Lorin." She said quickly; it was something she had been thinking of before, as well as the next set of lies that tumbled from her lips. "Son of Borigan. His youngest, Captain."

Firebreather snapped at Amrothos's mount and Lothíriel jerked hard on his reins, causing the horse to lay his ears flat and turn angry, brown eyes her way. She shot him a look of warning right back but loosened the reins, willing him to behave so she could leave her brother's questioning gaze.

"I won't have a man of my company carrying on as such. You are a soldier of Dol Amroth; act like one."

At that Amrothos rode off to the front of the troop, leaving Lothíriel to glare after her brother. A quick retort rode hot on her tongue, but she held it back; he would know in an instant who she was, and they were still close enough to turn around and ride home.

The company took off as a single unit once more, with Lothíriel now bringing up the rear with her unruly mount. He was strong and wanted more freedom than she was willing to give, and she had to work doubly as hard to keep him at bay. Already her limbs were tired, her bottom sore from the saddle beneath her; this was the longest she had ever been ahorse for an extended period of time. Dust from the horses' hooves clung to her sweat-slicked skin and she could feel her face burning from the glare of the sun.

But the land surrounding her was absolutely breathtaking. The wonder of it all! The dirt road gave way to lush, green land, rollicking with hills and scattered with lumbering trees in full bloom. They had passed a few houses accompanied by wide pastures of cattle or sheep, but as they drew further from Dol Amroth the more countryside they came upon. Birds roamed the sky, slipping in and out of trees or bushes, calling happily to one another and giving chase to their winged brethren. Clouds strolled lazily across a high noon sky, blue as the ocean she left behind. With the summer sun shining bright from above and the wind at their backs, Lothíriel could care less about the dirt streaking her face and the chain mail weighing heavily upon her shoulders.

This, this freedom, was her heaven; she didn't need to ascend the clouds to know any different.


Éomer strode down the Golden Hall and burst from the double doors leading outside, his gaze hot and angry to match his stiff stride. He walked to the nearest battlement and placed both hands against the stone, his fury white and hot, churning his insides.

Gríma Wormtongue, he thought, his chest seething with heaving breaths, how I would like nothing more than to wring his filthy neck.

"Brother," Éowyn had followed him out, her red gown billowing out behind her as the wind whipped at her slight frame. "That vile beast would like nothing more than to exploit your temper against you; you must show better control."

"You think I do not know that." Éomer snapped, turning his flashing brown eyes on his sister.

"He knows just what to say to bring you to ire. Please, for my sake, do not tempt him." Éowyn begged softly, laying a gentle hand to his armored shoulder.

"You cannot expect me to keep my peace when he rouses me so." Éomer said through gritted teeth, the wind matching his temper by whipping his blonde hair about his head violently. "The way he leers at you. How he is always at Théoden's side, skulking in the shadows…"

They let silence lie between them, broken only by the whispering of the flags in the wind and the quiet comings and goings of the village below the Golden Hall. Not many people came near the Hall anymore, the townspeople too afraid of Gríma and his poisonous hold on their king. Éomer was disgusted by the cowardice of them; himself most of all. They were the great Rohirrim! How did one such as Gríma come to hold so much power over the mightiest of people?

No one dared to defy their beloved Théoden King, even though it was plain as day that he was all but lost. That is how.

If only his people could see him now… Éomer couldn't remember the last time his uncle had seen the light of day.

"Has Théodred returned?" Éowyn strove to change the subject, hoping for a lighter note.

"No, and I have not heard word." Éowyn visibly wilted next to her brother, turning her face to the land of the Mark beyond the city walls of Edoras. "I had planned to ask for leave to ride out to the Fords, but…"


Éomer knelt before his uncle, the King of Rohan, his blonde head bent in submission. "Théoden King, I come before you with news from the East Fold. Orcs have crossed Mering Stream and have begun pillaging the villages that lie there. Théodred has been at the Fords of Isen too long without word." He bit his tongue, watching as Théoden's head sagged to his chest and he struggled to raise it, his milky eyes gazing into nothingness.

"What is it that you would have your king do?" Gríma asked, his yellow teeth snapping. "What more can he do?"

Éomer's nostrils flared, and he had to mentally stop himself from pouncing on Wormtongue. "I would ask that we send riders to the East Fold. To secure Mering Stream and rid our land of that filth from Mordor."

"What…more…can I…do?" Théoden repeated slowly, turning his head towards Gríma.

"Théoden please, listen to me, for I worry for Théodred—"

"No news is good news, is it not, my liege?" Gríma interjected, nodding at Théoden, causing the king to mimic his movements.

"No news…"

"No!" Éomer raised his voice sharply, tired of tasting the blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. "Reports of attacks from Isengard have grown and Théodred is out there with only his éored. Théoden King please, send riders out there, or better still—"

"How easy of you to stand there and make demands of your king; you have no idea the burden that rests on his shoulders." Gríma hissed at Éomer, and the Marshal clenched gloved hands into fists to stop himself from pummeling the ilk of Saruman. He was no invalid. He saw what was going on, what Gríma was doing to his uncle. But what could he do? Théoden was law, and he had entrusted Gríma Wormtongue to be his eyes and ears.

But at what cost?

"Uncle please," Éowyn approached then, her voice soft and pleading. "Listen to Éomer. He only wants to help."

Éomer watched as Gríma's eyes fixed on his sister, and his slimy pink tongue darted out from between cracked lips to moisten them. A bellow of rage overtook Éomer, and before he knew what was happening the guards on either side of Théoden moved in to take his arms.

"Release me!" Éomer roared, pulling his arms from their grasp.

There would be no more talking to Théoden King.


Éomer's hands clenched against the stone before he straightened and tore himself away from the lifeless bustling of Edoras. Before Gríma had come along the city had always been bright and cheerful, boasting fairs, plentiful trade, and a raucous crowd always splendid and colorful. However, as the shadow in the east grew and King Théoden's hold on his crown slowly slipped away, Éomer could only watch as the life of his beloved Edoras leeched away.

"You ready the Rohirrim. I will reapproach uncle with your plans; he will not refuse me." Éowyn offered boldly.

"Sister…" Éomer turned to face her, taking in her soft features. But do not mistake her for a gentle maiden! "I cannot ask you to face that worm alone."

"He does not frighten me." Éowyn spat, lifting her delicate chin in defiance.

"I would think not." Éomer smiled, though the gesture did not reach his eyes. "However, it is his power you should fear."

Éowyn ducked her head before turning a lovely set of blue eyes to the fields of the Riddermark beyond the village, and Éomer could not help but notice her small hands curling into fists at her sides. She stood tall and shone golden under the light of the sun, her gown turning from deep, blood red to sharp crimson. Her yellow hair fell in waves behind her, and a golden circlet lined her head. "One day we shall wipe the earth of his ilk." She whispered vehemently.

"And gladly." He agreed, rousing a smile from his sister.

"Go, and see to it our cousin returns whole." Éowyn bid him.

Éomer bowed shortly to his sister and then took the stairs to the courtyard below. He exchanged a few nods with the guards as he made his way to the stable before falling into stride with Éothain, his second-in-command.

"What news, my lord?"

"We ride for the Fords of Isen to bring back Théodred. There has been no word for three days and I am not waiting for the word of leave from Wormtongue." Éomer stopped and turned to his second. "Muster the Rohirrim; we ride out at noon."

Nodding at his command, Éothain turned to do just that as Éomer himself took to the stables to ready his own mount. No one but himself count handle Firefoot, and he needed the time alone to steady his mind.

At the front of the stables next to his Uncle's famous Snowmane he found Firefoot, who stamped and tossed his head at the sight of his master. Éomer moved into the box with his steed and picked up a nearby brush to quickly clean his mount.

"We ride for the Fords, Firefoot." Éomer spoke to his horse. So deep a black he shone blue in the sunlight, Firefoot whickered and stamped a white-socked hoof in response. All four of his legs boasted white socks, licking like flames well past his knees, hence the name Firefoot. That, and to speak of his temper and flight, Éomer thought, recalling many a swift mission brought to fruition by his faithful steed, as well as broken skin from his quick and willfull nips.

"The time of war is upon us, though I wish it weren't so." Éomer said, brushing the neck boasting of satin horseflesh. "There are many who would see the world of Men falter. We must stand strong, Firefoot."

Firefoot tossed his head and whinnied, now eager for what he knew lie before him. For many years Éomer and Firefoot had ridden together and had fallen into a camaraderie that even some men did not have between them. Standing with him now, Éomer knew the horse was just as impatient as his rider to take to the open fields.

"We will meet peace again one day. But first, let us drive that orc filth into the ground!"

Firefoot reared slightly and Éomer laughed, tossing a green saddle blanket onto his back and running a hand across his flank. "Easy, friend. We will spend that energy soon enough. Save it for the adventure that lies ahead."


As the sun dipped below the White Mountains, Amrothos held up a gloved fist and called a halt to their ride. Exhausted and sorer than she had ever been in her life, Lothíriel gladly pulled Firebreather to a stop alongside the River Morthond. They had crossed through Edhellond in the late afternoon and fattened their stores of food, before deeming to follow the Blackroot to Erech.

"From there we will take to the mountains to pass unto Edoras." Amrothos was telling a soldier as he disembarked from his steed, swinging to the ground with ease. "We will make camp here for the night." He announced to the rest of the company.

Thank the gods, Lothíriel thought wondrously as she readied to dismount. Taking for granted how tired her body truly was, she stumbled when her feet hit the ground and had to grapple for the stirrup to steady herself from toppling onto her knees. She drew the looks of two of the soldiers closest to her, but forced herself to recover and ignore their stares.

If you do not pull yourself together you will give yourself away before the sun sets. She chastised herself hotly, straightening her spine. She looked around at where they had stopped next to the cool rushing of the Blackroot, trees surrounding them on all sides. The temperature was dropping already and with it came the sounds of nocturnal creatures. Crickets chirped through the tall grass, sounding from the banks lining the river and the forest wide, and owls hooted in disapproval at having men in their midst. Squirrels and rabbits darted into the woods under Lothíriel's inquisitive gaze, before her grey eyes moved to the rippling waters. Streaked with gold, orange, purple and hues of blue, the River Morthond shone with the dying embers of the sun and the promise of twilight, boasting stores of fish beneath the surface. She took a deep breath of the mist from the river and closed her eyes at the cooling sensation.

She listened as the men began to make camp, and swiftly opened her eyes. Firebreather was beginning to graze, and she realized suddenly that there would be no stable hand to take and brush down her mount, readying him for the night to come. Her mind halted on a complaint, quickly reminding herself that this is what she had asked for.

"Come on Firebreather," she urged, pulling him toward the pile of saddles deposited on the ground for the night. He followed obediently, though she swore the beast laughed silently at her as she struggled to pull the saddle from his back. It was slick with horse sweat and quite heavy, and her shaking limbs all but dropped the monstrosity to the ground. She ground her teeth at her own weakness, berating herself.

You have to remain strong. Think of the rewards that lie ahead! Mountains and adventure, new lands and a new people to meet!

She pulled the saddle blanket from his back and draped it over her saddle, then took the reins to lead him to water, his brush in her hand. The other soldiers were gathered together and talking lowly amongst themselves as they did the same to their mounts, but she moved a ways downriver from them, not wanting to stand out. Although, she was sure she did; they had long removed their helmets and weapons, yet she remained fully armed.

"Expecting an ambush?" Her brother's voice broke her reverie, and she whipped around to find him standing near to her with the reins of his de-saddled mount.

"I…would rather care for my horse first, Captain." She said hastily in her man-voice, at his gesture at her fully armed self.

"Good; you can care for mine as well." Amrothos lifted an arm to hand her the reins and Lothíriel bristled in defiance. Care for her brother's horse as well! She would not— "Unless you want to find kindling and start a fire?"

Her face must have betrayed her abhorrence, for her brother merely tossed her the reins and turned his back. Is he this tough on all his soldiers? She thought to herself, twining the reins to his mount around her hand as she turned back to Firebreather. Or have I gotten off on the wrong foot?

Something told her it was the latter rather than the former.

I should feel lucky though, she thought with a small smile as she began to brush off Firebreather as Amrothos's horse took to drinking from the river, that he doesn't recognize the Lothíriel streaked with dirt and sweat, sunburned and exhausted from a hard day's ride.

I will have to tease him for being so foolhardy when this is over, she relished.

Some time later, still helmeted but shed of her bow and arrow, Lothíriel sat near the fire with the other men as they ate their dinner of meat and greens. She was exhausted, and sitting still brought light to how badly her body ached and how desperately she would pay for a quick, private dip in the whispering river to her left. She was caked with grime, and although she had washed her face, neck and hands, and had even taken off her boots to dip her feet, she was riddled with sweat and dust.

"I did not know Borigan had a son." One of the soldiers suddenly quipped loudly, and Lothíriel realized he was talking to her.

"Aye, I thought the old stable master was cursed with a brood of girls." Another replied, earning a chuckle from the men.

Lothíriel fought the narrowing of her eyes, but she was sure the black look on her face was not entirely missed in the dancing firelight. "I am his youngest." She replied, not having to work too hard to shield her voice; it was rough from disuse and the exhaustion in her bones.

"So you said."

"Is this your first journey?" Amrothos asked through a mouthful of food before he swallowed it down with cool water they had fetched from the river.

Is it that obvious? She decided to tell the truth and nodded. "Yes."

Amrothos nodded. "Be ready for a long ride tomorrow; we have much ground to cover."

"Yes, Captain." Lothíriel replied, effectively ending the conversation and returning the others to their meals.

Not long after that they all retired to their sleeping places, with Amrothos taking the first watch. As Lothíriel snuggled into the thin blanket covering the grass where she was supposed to sleep, she was glad she brought the extra cloak in her satchel because she was already shivering. As she tossed to her other side on the ground, she heard the sound of someone snoring already and shot a look of contempt in that general direction. She was sure she would not sleep well tonight without her feathered mattress.

But this is all part of it! Think of how Celís will laugh when I tell her that I slept on the ground like a vagabond, groomed my own horse, and laid in sweat and dirt. She smiled, because indeed in some strange way, she cherished all that she had encountered so far. As she closed her eyes to the hooting of an owl and the rumblings of the river, tossing once more to her other side, she willed herself to dream of the adventures to come.


With the moon high in the sky and the stars beckoning to them below, the shout of returning riders hailed Éomer from the gates of Edoras. He rode hard and steady, the life of his cousin perched precariously in the saddle before him.

He had found the éored of Théodred's riders on the return across the Riddermark, most wounded, some carrying dead riders. They had been attacked just outside the Fords of Isen not two days ago, outnumbered by enemy troops ten to one, Éomer was told. Théodred had ordered a retreat, but it had already been too late; wargs, uruk-hai, and Dunlendings had surrounded the Rohirrim on all sides. Théodred had been lost in the fray, cut down by an orc twice his size; even now, he barely clung to life.

"He had said he wanted to lie there and hold the keep until you came, Lord Éomer, but we couldn't leave him there to die." One of the guards had told him.

"Open the gates!" he heard the call take up through the night as his riders happened up the hill to the city of Edoras.

He rode through, Firefoot taking them swiftly and safely into the courtyard before Meduseld. The returning Rohirrim were surrounded by their own folk, and quickly Éomer was shed of the burden of his dying cousin's body.

"Fetch a healer," he barked at a passing servant, and he hurried to do as the Marshal bid. Éomer dismounted from Firefoot and cast his reins at a stable hand, who stood gaping at the lieutenant.

"B-but Marshal…" he stammered, as the tall warhorse leered down at the boy.

Éomer ignored him, not once breaking stride behind the servants that carried Théodred's body up the stairs to the Golden Hall. He was covered in dust from the Mark and the blood of his kin, but his first and foremost matter was to see that Théodred received care; Éomer did not like the sickly, grey color his cousin had turned.

"Théoden King!" Éomer bellowed, following the servants into the Hall.

The king was no where to be found, but Wormtongue slithered into the wide room, his black robe trailing behind him on the floor.

"What is this? This ruckus?" Wormtongue hissed, his ebon hair hanging oiled and limp around his gaunt face.

"Where is King Théoden?" Éomer demanded, coming to a halt before Wormtongue as Théodred was taken to his own quarters. Éowyn had darted into the hall at the sound of her brother returning, dressed in her night robe, and upon seeing Théodred she gasped, clutching at her throat.

"Théodred!" she breathed, rushing to his side. However she paused and turned back to her brother when she heard him demand, "Fetch the king! His son lay dying!"

Instead of obliging, Gríma laughed, and Éomer took a menacing step toward the vermin.

"You dare to make orders at me, Marshal? Have you forgotten I speak for the king?" Gríma's wicked brown eyes sparked in the torchlight of the Hall and everyone that was in audience suddenly grew very still. "Pray tell, what happened to our dear Théodred?"

"They were ambushed at the Fords of Isen, by uruk-hai, wargs, and Dunlendings." Éomer breathed, his chest heaving.

"Is that so?" There was a drawl to Gríma's voice, one that Éomer had long despised.

"We came on the éored as they were returning from the Fords."

"So, tell me if I am right." Wormtongue began, folding his knobbed, pale hands behind his back. "Not only did you directly defy the orders of the king by taking troops from the city of Edoras, but you just happened to come upon the heir of Rohan beaten and on the brink of death?"

Éomer's heart stilled. "What are you saying, Wormtongue?" he asked quietly.

"It is no secret that if Théodred dies you are next in line for the throne." Gríma began, and Éomer failed to notice his sister's eyes widening, or the looks of shock the others in the Hall shared with one another at Gríma's wild and preposterous implication.

"Are you saying," Éomer began slowly, his fingers twitching for Gúthwinë. "That I attacked my own flesh and blood, and stand before you now as a liar and a brigand, trying to claim a throne that still rightfully belongs to my uncle?"

The silence that descended upon Meduseld could chill the bones of the dead.

Gríma, however, remained unfazed. "What other explanation would you have me give my liege?"

"He has not, nor will he ever be your liege, because I vow to strike you from this earth henceforth!" Éomer roared, pulling Gúthwinë from his scabbard. Before he could even so much as take a step in the direction of Gríma, guards were upon him; though let it be known it took three of them to hold back the rage of Éomer.

"Éomer, son of Éomund, I hearby banish you in the name of our great King Théoden!" Gríma shrieked, lifting a gnarled finger to point in the face of the uncontrollable lieutenant. "Now get you gone!"

Éomer was pulled from the Golden Hall flailing and shouting, cursing Wormtongue and begging his uncle to hear his cries. But Théoden did not hear, and Éowyn watched as her brother was cast from Edoras, his loyal éored in his wake.


I am completely aware that some of the dialogue or actions are not the way things happened in the books or movies; I had to make some changes to fit my story. As always, thanks for reading! :]