AN: At last, the story is starting to pick up speed. Most of the appropriate information in order to understand the Variags has been established. Feel free to continue sending me questions and I will do my best to answer them. To answer The Lauderdale: Boromir's travels will be featured, as he is a central character to the story. Although, everyone can expect him to reach Rivendell before this comes to an end.

In a change of pace, I have a question for you all. What would Eomer's éored call him? Captain? Marshal? Lord Eomer? Perhaps all of them? I have misplaced my copy of The Two Towers, so I haven't the luxury of pouring over the text to see if they refer to him at all. If whatever I choose bothers you, or is inaccurate, please let me know. Subtle inaccuracies, by mistake and not by purpose, drive me nuts.

AND: I will be using italics for when a character is speaking languages other than Westron.

Chapter 5: Company of Horse Lords

Eastemnet, July 10th 3018

His men were anxious. In these dark days, the emotion was not rare; however, their nervous energy was not restricted to roaming Orcs. Éomer, Marshal of the Mark, reined his horse as a band of riders appeared in the distance. He had sent a portion of his éored near the Falls of Rauros, where bands of Uruk-hai were known to stop and make camp. There had been reports of strange travelers in odd cloaks wandering the Brown Lands. If they stepped one foot in Rohan, he would be sure to know of it.

"Marshal!" The lead rider called out, his voice barely discernible over the pounding hooves. Within moments, they were feet away, barely tugging at the reigns as their steeds knew instinctively when to slow and halt. The rider gasped roughly, straining to catch the breath he had lost, as if he had held it the entire travel from the Falls. "Marshal – we've found something."

Éomer raised a fair but thick eyebrow, noting the tremble in the rider's voice at the mention of this something. He was loath to admit it, but the éored had become increasingly suspicious of strangers and the unknown as of late. The ever dwindling health of his uncle was likely to blame. He had heard the whispers around camp of Théoden's illness, now considered by many a possession, the work of evil spirits holding tightly to their king's soul. They had never been a superstitious people, at least not until the common occurrence of the one his uncle called Stormcrow. Éomer had quickly lost faith in the king's judgment, wondering if the wizard held more wisdom than he was credited.

"My lord?"

Éomer left his musings for the moment, grasping the reins tightly. "Show me."

Mímir could hear voices above her; deep voices, speaking a language that was foreign to her ears. She was afraid in that moment, forgetting where she was and what she had done to come to such a place. Only her fingers moved, feeling the pack against her thigh. She had been traveling, she remembered. And she was far from home.

"What is it?"

"A boy, perhaps."

"A Dunlending? What is that skin? Not a Warg."

"No, not a Warg. But something similar."

She felt a hand in her hair.

"But, Marshal!"

Gently, her head was turned to the side, where one of the speakers crouched. Hands brushed the wild mass of curls away from her face. Her eyes remained closed in fear, although her curiosity to stare at the stranger before her was beginning to overcome her uncertainty.

"Dark, isn't he? Not a man of Dunland."

The fingers left her hair and studied her clothing, tugging at the kötülfr skin on her back. Mímir hoped they weren't scavengers, like those who resided in the hills of Khand. Fai had always warned her about leaving items unattended when the camp travelled to their next location. Occasionally, those strange men of the hills would slither through the dunes in the night and take valuables or necessities. She had never seen one, but her father said they were outsiders, the exiled members of old tribes. These men, for all she knew, were exiles too.

Éomer lifted the strange wolf-like skin from the boy's body, peering beneath to see what state the stranger was in. From what he could detect, the boy was whole, despite a few cuts on his face and arms. He was also completely dirty. "Fetch my horse. We will take him back to Aldburg."

"Shouldn't we take him back to King Théoden?"

Éomer had no desire to return to Edoras, as an intensive interrogation over the works of his éored would be enough to leave him in mugs of ale for the rest of the night. "No, we do not need to worry my uncle over a small boy."

Mímir wished she could understand their strange words. Before she could contemplate what they would do with her, two arms wedged between her body and the dirt. She tensed as she was rolled onto her back and lifted from the ground. If the man holding her had felt her quivering muscles through his armor, he made no sign of it. The hands were adjusting their hold, and she felt her body being passed off to another, before lifting higher and again finding one arm around her shoulder and one around under her knees. The consistent movement reminded her body of how sore it was, and each hand that pressed into her skin almost made her gasp in pain.

"Three of you shall ride back with me. The rest of you head to the north. If there are others with him, I want them found."

Immediately the rumble of hooves filled the air, the party ordered to depart left without question. Mímir, although frightened, had remained unseeing for longer than she could bear. As discreetly as she could manage, she opened her eyes enough to see the light of day, yet still have her vision obscured by a cloud of eyelashes. The man on whose lap she rested was quite broad shouldered and wore a curious leather breastplate. It was heavily decorated and carved with silver swirls, unlike any armor she had ever seen. His hair, too, was a wonder. It was the color of dried prairie grass, or the soft amber sand found only near river beds. She had never seen such hair on a man. It cascaded down his shoulders in waves, like rippling water. Smooth, unlike her own. And his eyes –

"I see you are awake."

The ride to Aldburg was tense and silent. When they reached its gates, Éomer led her to one of the main fires. It felt deliciously warm, and Mímir was thankful that she had packed insulated clothing. This climate was cooler than she was used to. She watched the man slave over a large black pot, where he stirred a liquid, before passing a clay bowl to her.

Éomer had made attempts at conversation, realizing his native tongue wasn't understood, and switched to the Common Tongue. It was apparent that the child caught pieces of what he was saying, as those dark eyes met his quickly before turning away. It was also clear that the child was no boy.

Her dark hair, although covered in grime from travel, was fashioned strangely but clearly feminine. Her choice of apparel, however, was what caused his initial confusion. The long robe was too loose in the shoulders and much too long for her short frame. It must have belonged to a male relative, a father or brother. The animal fur she had draped over her was equally large, so he assumed it wasn't typical female attire, whatever those customs were in her native land.

"Will you tell me your name, girl? And where your company has gone?"

She eyed him again, rather suspiciously for someone who had been sitting in his lap for so long. He had hoped that she would realize he wasn't going to hurt her. Her fingers were twisting strands of her dark hair roughly, revealing her nervousness, while the bowl of stew sat untouched in her lap.

"Eat." Éomer gestured to his lips, hoping the sign was universal enough to be understood by this strange girl. Her coloring, although unusual for a maid of his knowledge, appeared rather sickly. He had seen sickness enough to recognize it, regardless of the body it resided in.

Mímir partially understood what he was asking of her, although his thick accent was difficult to sort through. He wanted her name, or so she translated. Could she give it to him? So far, he hadn't aimed to injure her. He was even feeding her now, which was a great sign of respect for her people. To be invited to a stranger's camp and be offered a meal was a sign of truce. Her already uneasy stomach turned at the sight of foreign meat chunks hidden behind odd white lumps in a pale amber broth. She lifted the bowl her nostrils, inhaling the aroma and finding it actually rather pleasant, before taking a dainty sip. When was the last time she had eaten? Her days began to merge the longer she traveled, and the confusion mounted when the stars began to change.

Éomer held back a smile as the girl appeared to be enjoying her meal, although she trying very hard to be discreet about it. "Good?" She hid her face behind her bowl, but nodded. He laughed outright. "I will have to tell my sister that I can best her over a meal as well."

A sister? She had seen no women in this tribe, only strikingly tall and muscular men, all with long hair of similar color. Unless, some of those were also women? Strange people.

Éomer watched the girl inspect the goings on around camp, wondering if their ways were similar to hers. Perhaps he could try again to glean information from her. "Name?"

At this point, staring down at her almost empty bowl, she felt indebted to this stranger who had so far treated her with nothing but kindness. "Mímirovä." She glanced at him quickly. "My name." It was the first moment that she had ever been thankful to Bátkhu for using her to practice his Westron. Fai had never seen the point in training a young woman for anything not involving homemaking and horses, and frankly neither did Bátkhu or Bataa, but the latter was always too busy to review language lessons.

"Ah, Mímirovä." He nodded in greeting, his low voice rolling over the vowels in a strange way. "Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark." He gestured to the grassy planes before them. "The Mark." Had she actually been a boy, as they first presumed, he would not be sharing such information with her. He might have even taken her to his uncle, if the trespassing proved a threat; however, as he studied the girl, he knew she could be no threat to anyone. The company she traveled with was an entirely different matter. He wished to know what his men would find.

"The Mark." Mímir repeated. It truly was beautiful and unlike any expanse of land she had witnessed. Everything was so…green.

Her admiration was amusing to Éomer, who sat a little taller with his head held higher. "Yes. The Mark." He gestured to himself and then to her. "You?"

What could she tell him? She was concerned for the safety of her people, and her current quest loomed over her shoulders like an impending storm. "Far away." She studied her fingers. "Very far."

Night had closed in, and the girl lay before the fire on a mat that he had supplied. Éomer had tried questioning her further, but she became more introverted and solemn as he progressed. He decided to let her rest for the night. That alone took some persuading, as he had to repeatedly convince her that his men would not harm her, and that he would be here when she woke. She seemed slightly alarmed that he would be so close to her for the entire night, but eventually she finally managed to rest her head and close her eyes when fatigue won over.

"Marshal."

Éomer's eyes left the girl and returned to the fire. "What did you find?"

"There are tracks, one heading to the forests of the Wood Witch and the other toward Stoningland, but they are old."

Odd. Éomer wondered if the girl was traveling alone, or if she had been left behind purposely. He clenched his fists, thinking of the cursed souls who would do such a thing to someone so young and innocent. If anyone treated Éowyn as such-

"Sir, you should also know that we have a visitor."

As the man spoke, the front gates opened to reveal a well-dressed traveler, leading a weary horse behind him. Both seemed slightly worse for wear, although the white stone on the traveler's collar glimmered in the fire light.

"Ah - Boromir, Captain of Stoningland!" Éomer leapt to his feet and greeted the visitor. They clasped arms whiles Éomer's men whispered excitedly. "To what do we owe this honor?"

Boromir's stern gaze softened in his weariness, his arm still gripping the other man's tightly. "I am on a journey, seeking counsel in the North." He observed the curious faces of the éored. "But I will discuss it with you later. After I have sampled your fine mead."

All of the men laughed heartily, delighting in the novelty of their famous guest. All had heard of Boromir, the great Captain of Stoningland, who lead his troops to multiple victories. Éomer offered him the best spot in front of his fire, and ordered a round of mead to be served immediately. Men that had huddled around other fires were tempted to inch closer, although knew it would be wise to wait for a word from their own captain.

After taking his seat on a long log before the fire, Boromir noticed a curled body lying next to its warmth. A young, female body. A quick glance at the blond Marshal, who appeared strangely sheepish, made him realize that the girl was forgotten at his sudden appearance. "Have you finally taken a wife, Éomer?"

The blond snorted. "Nay, not yet. Do you not think that she is rather young?"

Boromir wouldn't pretend to know anything about such matters. "Not for one as young as yourself, no."

That answer did not seem to appease the horse lord. "She is no matter, I wish to hear of this counsel you seek."

Boromir was still curious about the girl, wondering if she was of ill repute. Although, of his knowledge, the Third Marshal had never received any into his camp before. And she appeared to be no shieldmaiden. A mug of strong drink was handed to him, and Boromir took a swift gulp. The liquid burned his throat in a not entirely unpleasant way. His soldiers were fond of the stuff, but he chose not to indulge often. A captain had to be aware every second, especially in such times, and his pride prevented him from losing his good sense.

"Is it to your liking, Captain?"

Boromir ignored the Marshal's smug grin. "I dreamt of a riddle, telling me to seek a sword that dwells in Imladris." He set down his mug. "According to my father, Imladris is the Elven realm of Rivendell. I know it resides in the north, past Enedwaith, but that is all my maps can tell me."

Éomer was silent, reflecting on the information just shared. He met Boromir's eyes, his face half in light and half in shadow. "There I cannot help you. We do not travel so far, as part of that land is inhabited by the Dunlendings. There is bad blood between us, and you would do well to avoid them."

Boromir knew of such people, although had not dealt with them as the Rohirrim had. "I will heed your advice."

Both men finished their drink, one occasionally prodding the fire with a long poker.

"Of course, we may not have the maps you seek, but we will supply you with a fine horse."

Boromir glanced up at the blond. "And what is wrong with my horse?"

"You may have an impressive city built of stone, Captain, but we Eorlingas know a decent horse when we raise one." Éomer grinned.

"Fine, I will take a horse.

Mímir awoke to the sounds of laughing men. She stayed completely still with much effort, almost flinching as a body sat down near hers. Their conversation was difficult to follow, as most words were too foreign for an adequate translation. However, she did understand that the man next to her, whose face she couldn't see, was seeking advice on the meaning of a dream. If such was true, perhaps this wise person who could translate dreams could also tell her where she could find her family? It felt like a lifetime since she had laughed with Og'drel, teased Bátkhu, or fought with Bataa. She squinted tightly and her eyelashes grew damp. There is a price for everything.

ANx2: A note on Westron – I know it's not actually called 'Westron', but going into too many different languages and translations would be exceptionally confusing (I think, anyway). Most tribes of have their own dialects, although they are all very similar to the central language of Khand. And, since they rely on trade, I figure they would have been rather exceptional linguists. Ev'iyesi would have needed to speak with the men of Rhûn on occasion, perhaps Harad, and probably some men of the North. As Gondor was historically a primary enemy, knowing Westron would have been an excellent strategy.