Spring came that year with heavy rain and storms. Éomer and his riders were a muddy lot when they returned from this or that errand, but to him it seemed that at least his wife did not mind a wet man parading in the royal chambers.

The stablehands left to care for horses covered in mud and the servants cleaning up after pools of rain water and boot prints on the floors most like had their own ideas, though.

However, Éomer knew spring rains were not always a harmless phenomenon. These were known to cause mud slides and floods, especially in Dunharrow. So he had an additional concern in sending riders to evacuate the parts more vulnerable to the nature's disasters and making sure there would be provisions for people who had lost their homes.

Unfortunately his fears didn't turn out unwarranted: after almost two weeks of nearly continuous downpour, a call for help came from the lands of Dunharrow and even some parts of Westfold. Many families had lost their homes in landslides and they now possessed nothing but their lives. Some horses had been lost as well and Éomer knew those would be grieved more than any dwelling. Altogether it would have been a troublesome situation hadn't Aragorn sent goods to help with rebuilding. With his friend's aid, Éomer knew he could manage this.

"I think I should go and inspect the damage myself", he said on that evening to Lothíriel. She tensed noticeably at first, and even as she tried to relax he could see the slight frown on her features.

"Can't you ask Erkenbrand to see to it?" she asked him.

"I could, and I have no doubt in his ability to fix it. But I believe I should be the one to see to this matter", he said and reached a hand towards her. She took it and came to him, then slipped into his lap. Once she was there, he went on, "Many of the traitor's supporters came from the West-Mark. It could be they expect me to ignore their need. I want to show them their king cares about them still."

Lothíriel thought of his words and nodded eventually.

"You are right, of course", she said and absent-mindedly wove a lock of his hair about her fingers. She leant down to kiss his brow, and then murmured against his skin, "I suppose I'm just being needy."

"Hmm. It's quite all right", he replied and held her a bit tighter. Sometimes, it still surprised him when she revealed this vulnerability. But it reassured him somehow as well: he could depend on her and it did not make him weak.

On the morrow he was glad to see rain had stopped. Wind was chasing clouds towards east, giving him hope perhaps the rains had finally passed.

Lothíriel saw him on his way, her face a mask of determination but her eyes revealed her discomfort. As he bid her farewell and promised to be home soon, Éomer wondered if there ever would come a time when leaving her would not be so hard. Yet even if it was hard, he knew he could do it – had to do it.

After one last embrace he turned and fixed his eyes on Silfren, waiting for him down the steps of the Golden Hall. The riders of his Guard were gathered as well, ready for the road. Beside him strode Ceolwen, who had already proved to be as efficient a captain as Éothain had been. If they would be able to pour all that formidable spirit into their training of Edelric, the young rider would surely be a great one. He expected nothing less of Erkenbrand's son.

As he mounted Silfren, there was that brief moment of awe he still felt whenever he rode with the stallion. Perhaps it would never quite disappear... because every time they rode, Éomer knew he was worthy. After the events of past year the reminder still came to a need at times.

On that same instance as Silfren began to move he threw one last glance to the Golden Hall – or namely on the figure of his queen. Clothed in blue and her hair catching in the wind, she was a sight that meant so many things. Where she dwelt was home, and in her warmth the scars of his soul healed a bit more every day.

But it was only a glance and he turned, gazing ahead. Duty was calling him on the road again.


The King's Company reached the town of Harrow in late afternoon. After the rains the road had been in less than perfect condition, but at least weather remained clear; hopefully, it would dry up now and sowing the fields would not go awry with too much rain. Even with the provisions Aragorn had sent Éomer did not think the Mark could take many additional bad years.

His arrival was noted quickly: townsfolk stopped by the road to watch the King and his Riders and many came from their houses too. He deemed they remembered very clearly the last time he had been here... as he surely did. A cold shiver ran down his spine and he thought of another thing he would have to do once he had spoken to the Lord of Harrowdale and discovered how were things with the evacuees. He had yet to learn the extent of the damage by floods and mudslides, and if many people had been killed because of it. At least to his knowledge Heming and Eadgyd were safe, or so a Rider he had sent to inquire about them had reported.

The residence of Lord of Harrowdale was located near the centre of the town, not far from the place where Feran had meant to execute Éothain and Elfhelm. Lord Dúnhere, nephew to Erkenbrand, had previously held the station and done it admirably, but he had fallen in the Ring War, and now his younger brother Déor acted as the chieftain of Harrowdale. He was a very young man, lad almost; as such, Éomer did not wonder why his men had ridden with Feran during the Kin-strife. The recent happenings had been chaotic even for the experienced, and later events had further convinced the King that the young lord had not followed Feran because of truly supporting the traitor's cause.

At the King's arrival, Déor rushed outside, his face flushed and his flaxen hair a mess about it. The skin of his beardless cheeks was so fair a maiden might have envied it and his eyes were blue as the sky. Altogether he had a face that would mean trouble for the lasses of the Mark when he matured a bit. Déor wasn't as tall or strong as Dúnhere had been, and he quite obviously was still getting used to his position, but Éomer remembered Gamling saying he did show some promise.

"My lord! Welcome to Harrow!" called the young man and made a clumsy little bow before his liege-lord.

"Thank you, Lord Déor. I trust your stablemen can help with our horses?" Éomer inquired in calm, steady tones. Erkebrand's nephew blushed as though he was ashamed he had not thought to offer it himself.

"Of course, Sire", he replied right away and turned to give orders to his stablemen. Those flooded the yard, but dismounting Éomer saw the one reaching for Silfren wearing a deeply disconcerted look. Judging by the man's expression he was probably happy there were no ponds nearby.

"Don't be afraid. He won't harm those who treat him well", he said and patted the neck of his stallion. Silfren nickered softly as though to confirm his rider's words and let himself be lead to the stables, demure but majestic.

Ceolwen came to stand by Éomer and he turned to look at Déor again. The young lord seemed somehow lost in the middle of this bustle, and Éomer felt a sudden pang of sympathy for him. Most likely Déor had expected to become a lord so important as little as he had expected to become a king, and he at least had been a man grown at the time of Théoden's death.

His thoughts were interrupted, for an elderly man made way to Déor's side. He looked like he had been a big man in his youth, but age had shrunk him somehow, and he leant heavily on a cane. He was too old to have participated in the battles of the Great War of the Ring, but his bright eyes showed where his body had withered, his mind had not.

"Sire, this is Banstan, my adviser. He has been a great help since old Gamling died", Déor introduced the old man.

"My lord. It is honour to finally meet you in person", Banstan said, his dark blue eyes regarding Éomer unblinkingly. His lined face did not reveal what he might be thinking, or if the first impression pleased him or not. The King of the Mark wondered what had made the old man so wary.

"I am glad to meet you as well, Master Banstan", he said for his part, keeping his tone nondescript. He then turned his eyes back to Déor, "I had word of the floods and landslides. I would like to hear the details of these events."

"Of course, of course. Please, do come inside, my lord. We shall explain everything", Déor hurriedly answered.

Éomer and Ceolwen were led into the Hall. There, scattered about the feasting hall he saw what could only be families that had lost their homes. On bedrolls lay several injured men and an old woman. At the arrival of the King the refugees lifted up their faces, and silently they watched him as he passed. One little girl's face in particular stood out; she was clutching what could only be her newborn sibling. Her hazel eyes seemed enormous in contrast to her delicate features. She did not speak as she gazed at the tall man striding by her, but Éomer did not need any words to see the plead of help in her eyes.

I am their king. Who will fix this if not I?

Suddenly, a young woman leapt on her feet. She was perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers old and her curly golden hair was so voluminous it almost looked unreal. For her age she already sported a curvy figure, though her gown did not do her justice. Very fair, very young – and very much homeless.

"Éomer King! Please help us!" she cried out as she reached for his arm, clutching it with her both hands. Ceolwen shifted anxiously but did not try to interfere – really, one might have thought Éothain's spirit had descended on her.

He gave the girl a gentle smile and reached to pat her shoulder.

"Worry not, lass. I will do all I can. You will have your lives back", he promised her. She moaned out loud in what he thought as relief and threw her arms about his neck. The grip felt nearly tight enough to break a man's neck.

Éomer blinked in surprise and couldn't react at first, until Ceolwen spoke up, "Lass, I need to ask you to let go of the King."

As he was trying to unfasten her arms from around his neck, the girl suddenly pulled back and looked at the captain with wide eyes.

"You're a woman", she blurted in surprise. A wry smile touched Ceolwen's face; it was not the first time someone was astonished that a Shieldmaiden would serve as the King's second in command.

"Aye, that I am. But as the King's Captain I must ask you to let him go. There is much to do, if we are to fix what has happened", she replied. Éomer could not tell if it was her words or the girl's sheer surprise which had her letting go.

"Do forgive my granddaughter, Sire. Hlísa has been very upset by the loss of her home", Banstan muttered and made a shooing gesture towards the girl.

"It is quite all right. I know the love one has for their hearth and home", Éomer said graciously, glancing at Banstan and Déor by his side. He took notice of the frown on the young lord's face and recognised it as well. Béma, the things I get involved in.

He ushered away that thought and looked straight at the two men, "Shall we proceed, then?"

Déor shook himself and blushed once more. He lead the way again and the King and his Captain followed; Éomer just about had time to share a glance with Ceolwen. She controlled her face masterfully, but the glint of her eyes spoke in volumes.

The Hall had a tiny study to serve such needs as the Lord of Harrowdale might have. There were only two chairs, and Banstan claimed one of them as though he was the owner. While the old man and the King sat, Ceolwen stood by her liege-lord and Déor remained on his feet as well. A servant from the kitchens appeared with mugs of ale to wash away the taste of the road.

He has a lot to learn. Would that Gamling were here, Éomer thought to himself before he asked about the recent events in Harrowdale. Déor and his adviser proceeded into an explanation of the damage caused by the rains, and the King of the Mark received a rather well-detailed account of all the lost property. Unfortunately, six people had died, and many more had lost their homes. Most had come to Harrow for help, though apparently some had gone to Erkenbrand as well.

"We are housing some of them here as you noticed already, my lord, but there is only so much we can do, and many more are depending on the good will of the townsfolk. We can barely feed them as it is. I am afraid we do not have the resources to rebuild the lost homes. In this we look to the throne", Banstan finished the account. The young lord nodded emphatically and fingered his mug in a rather anxious fashion.

Éomer sat silent for a while before he answered. He considered all that he had heard and his decision was more or less made. It was obvious he could not abandon these folk now, especially when the memory of the Kin-strife was still fresh.

"And the throne will deliver", he said at last and set aside his mug, which he had half way emptied. "I shall require someone who knows the damaged farms. I would inspect them myself to determine if I will have to make purchases in Gondor. Goods will be sent here in Harrow, along with someone to supervise their division to those who need it."

"Now, Lord Déor, does my company have your hospitality until morrow? I know your household must be stretched thin for the moment, but I assure you will be fairly compensated for all your trouble", he spoke, and the young man nodded quickly.

"Of course, Sire! You are most welcome in my humble home", he said and stood up straighter. "Let me find my chatelaine – she will organise lodgings for you and your men..."


"May I have a word with you, Éomer?" Ceolwen inquired, hovering at the doorway of the chamber given to the King of the Mark. He had come to rid himself of armour before he would enter the hall again, as he meant to speak more closely with those evacuees who were being housed here.

"You may have two, my friend", he replied and put aside the vambrace he had just been unfastening.

His captain entered and closed the door behind herself. She glanced around as though she expected there might be others hiding in the chamber.

"I thought perhaps you should know that this old man Banstan supported Feran during Kin-strife", Ceolwen stated – it was like her to get straight to the point. Her words certainly roused his interest right away.

"How do you know this?" he wanted to know.

"I assume you haven't forgotten Éothain was kept as a prisoner here in Harrow before they meant to execute him?" Ceolwen asked back.

"Of course I haven't forgotten. What of it?" Éomer said and narrowed his eyes. The memory of what the traitor had meant to do to two of his best friends still angered him.

"He told me of it lengthily – as you know, we have been talking a lot since you made me your captain. He also mentioned many of the names of Feran's supporters. I understand Banstan was present when Éothain was brought to Harrow... in any case, I have memorised all the names he gave to me, as we agreed your captain should be aware of such things", Ceolwen explained.

He was frowning now, and so deeply was his mind on this matter that he barely paid attention to the buckles of his gear.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he asked.

"Because until now I did not know Banstan to be very powerful. Apparently he does have some noble lineage, but not enough to warrant him a lord. At any rate I thought you have enough concerns as it is, and an old man did not seem like a threat on the safety of the throne... which is not your business, but mine", Ceolwen replied and smiled wryly, "if you get what I mean."

Éomer let out a non-committal sound and finally released his other arm of the vambrace.

"Déor is very young and inexperienced", he stated at last, moving his fingers to the buckles of his chest plate. "Do you think Banstan will have a bad influence on him? Should he be dismissed?"

"I would not advise it, my lord. Feran is gone and even if this old man fancied him, what can he do about it now? Dismissing him would show distrust not only to him but to all who made the mistake of following the underking. I do not think it would help with mending the realm and uniting the people again", Ceolwen answered at length. "He has done good job in helping Déor to care for the evacuees."

"Aye. That is right", Éomer had to agree. His captain did have a good point. He let out a sigh and laid down the plates, quite like the old ones he had lost. These bore similar devices but the colour was not the same. Now he was arrayed in green so dark it almost seemed black. It seemed appropriate somehow; his old gear had belonged to a young reckless Marshal, but this array was carried by a King who has walked through fire and returned alive.

The Lord of the Mark looked tiredly at his captain, "I wish Gamling was still here."

"He would keep an eye on things – and especially on this Banstan", she agreed softly.

"Hmm. Even so, Déor is Erkenbrand's nephew and cousin to Edelric", Éomer stated thoughtfully. He looked at her again, "Do you think it would be a good time to introduce him to the political aspect of being my captain?"

Ceolwen picked up his meaning right away.

"You mean to have him to take care of Déor?" she asked.

"It is not a bad idea, is it? I think a kinsman's words would be more influential in his case – whereas my own interest in him would raise more than just few eyebrows. As my captain Edelric will have to consider such things anyway", he answered and sat down to work over his greaves. Quickly he looked up at her, "Like you said, Feran is gone. I do not think we have more to fear from those who supported him. Still, it is a matter I would like to bury for good, and be reassured it does not emerge again. I would not have young Déor getting caught in things he is not yet ready to deal with."

"Aye, my lord. I will speak with Edelric of this", Ceolwen promised solemnly. Then suddenly she smiled, "But to be honest, I have a feeling he is more like to begrudge you for a rustle of skirts than because of an old man's mutterings."

"You noticed that too? What nonsense. She's not much more than a child", Éomer snorted and sat back.

"They certainly did not seem to think like that, my friend. You might want to set a a guard and lock your door tonight, lest you find yourself a bedfellow", she chuckled.

"What does that lass even see in me? Surely she should be more inclined to chase a young and fair lord than some grim and greying man", he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. Ceolwen laughed again.

"I don't think you see yourself very clearly. You really haven't changed that much, and half the lasses of the Mark have been in love with you since you came of age", she said, grinning as she spoke. The damned woman was enjoying this much more than she should. "Not to mention you are a king and a famous warrior. She has just lost her home, and then you arrive on your great silver horse and promise to make it all right... what else did you expect?"

He could only snort again.

"Béma be kind, I thought marriage would save me at last. Will I ever have peace?" Éomer said with just a hint of drama and leant back his head like a tired old man.

"If you ask me, you need to introduce them both to Lothíriel. That should take care of things", Ceolwen offered helpfully. "I don't know if you have noticed but your lady wife can be a fairly intimidating woman when she wants."

He had to smile at the mention of his Lioness. Anyone who doubted his love and devotion to her, especially when faced with her, was either blind or a fool.

Éomer shook his head then – he could not get distracted by daydreams of his wife right now. Moreover, there was one more thing he had to speak of with Ceolwen... potentially it was the most unpleasant of topics today.

"I have a favour to ask, my friend", he said then. She seemed to sense the nature of this favour, and the smile fell from the captain's face and she looked at him intently.

"What is it?" she inquired.

"Send someone to ask about where Gamling is buried. I would pay him my respects... I did not get a chance to tell him goodbye properly", Éomer said and the words came out even more painfully than he had thought. He could hear the fall of his voice too – try as he might, he could not hide the grief.

"Of course. I will see to it right away", she promised gently. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she strode next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "His death was not your fault, Éomer."

"That is kind of you to say, but I'm afraid I cannot agree", he said quietly and looked away. "I could have prevented it, Ceolwen. If I had taken Feran captive the moment I came back..."

"You were trying to come back as a just king. Feran had people imprisoned for ludicrous reasons – I ought to know, better than most – so how would it have looked like if you went down to his level the very moment we got you back?" she stated firmly. "Gamling loved and respected you, my king. This much even I know, though I was not familiar with him. But Elfhelm knew him well, and my husband says Gamling would not have regretted what he did for you. He would only be glad to know that his sacrifice bought the freedom and safety of our king."


Éomer had feared Feran had not granted a proper resting place for Gamling. But perhaps the traitor had possessed some instance of decency, for inquiries revealed Gamling had been buried next to his late wife.

The visit to that tomb Éomer made alone, as it was not something he wished company for. The way there felt just as long as it had been when he had gone to visit Théoden's barrow after the ending of Kin-strife.

He found the right tomb easily enough. The sight brought him a choking feeling instantly, and he remembered his last conversation with Gamling. His friend's words came back to him, almost like the man was speaking to him through the grey rain curtain: "I have seen my King alive and returned. That is more than enough for an old man like myself... Please, Éomer. You have to live."

In grief he lowered his head and the words came out, his voice carrying them weakly: "I know you are far beyond hearing me, but I am so sorry, Gamling. I'm sorry I could not save you..."

Gamling should have lived to see the peaceful days dawn at last in the Mark. The world was a different place without him; in the first bewildering months of Éomer's kingship the old man had been an irreplaceable help. He tried to imagine how it all could have gone had he not...

The memories of the south remained too vivid, and whatever might have been was lost behind the heat and dust and blood and that stink. That was another story he had never been able to tell Gamling. He had to fight the sudden feeling of being short of breath, but fortunately it faded quickly enough.

"I will make sure you did not die for nothing, Gamling. I will live, like you asked me to – and I will make the best of it", he spoke out loud, as though the wind could somehow take his words to the friend he had lost.

He reached for the flask he had taken with him and took a mighty gulp of it. The strong Rohirric liquor felt like fire as it rolled down his throat. On Gamling's tomb he poured carefully the same amount; in a strange way, it helped to think his friend was sharing the drink as he sat among his forefathers.

The liquor was still burning in his stomach when Éomer turned at last and made way to return to Déor's Hall. Yet even as he walked he knew already that tonight, he would remember the south.


A/N: Here's a somewhat longer update for Thursday! I guess this little story thread had me especially inspired and things got out of hand, like they sometimes do with me. I wanted to write about Éomer doing some kinging and also build his relationship with Ceolwen a bit. Also, I thought it would be good to show him paying his respects to Gamling.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!


Jo - Thank you! It seemed to me Éomer would sometimes lose his patience, but he knows it's not right. Most of the time he has it under control, but there are moments his temper emerges and people who have not witnessed him working through his issues (meaning, people who are not Lothíriel) don't really understand it.