Thank you, to everyone who has read the previous chapters. As always I hope they have been enjoyed, and that this chapter shall as well; feedback makes my day and is truly appreciated, though not a requirement for my updates! I'm a slow, very slow, writer, but it's mostly influenced by my workload and not the story's traction.

To Diarona (guest review):
I would have absolutely loved to reply immediately, when all of your wonderful and heart-warming reviews came trickling into my inbox. And while you may not know it, thank you for that birthday gift! Your timing was perfectly lined up with that, so that just made me grin like a mad-woman when I secretly checked my mail. The fact you take your time to comment on the little things in the chapters, just really shows how much attention you've paid to my writing; I could not ask for anything greater. It feels like you understood exactly my purpose to what I've written, and sometimes given more thought to it than even I! Also, thank you for reviewing my Hobbit-story (currently on hold, whether I'll return at some point I cannot promise).Though I am certainly curious as to your thoughts on her relationship with Smaug? I hope you will enjoy this chapter as well, and, again, thank you!

I hope everyone enjoys a rather short chapter (that I admittedly struggled a bit with)!

Little Sparrow

Chapter IX: Dark Against the Skies

There had been made no end to the discussion; no plan to abide by, no certain orders to follow; nothing more than an agreement to watch. Wait and watch. For, as Théodred had then put it, a hidden enemy felt safe in the shadows, weaving deceit and lies with cunning moves, and the Wizard would not easily be drawn from hiding. They had yet no solid proof to force Saruman's hand into tangible action. But Grimbold's words were sound – the dealings of Isengard would no longer go unnoticed by the riders of Rohan, that, at least, they had agreed upon.

When Théodred felt nothing more was to be said on the matter, he then dismissed his advisors. As the heavy door had closed shut behind them, the prince finally found a seat; his dark eyes followed Éomer's pacings about the room, though neither of them spoke for a while. There was not much to be said, Éomer sensed. So the sun climbed further above the blackened walls of stone, and a warm glow slanted through the windows until the room was bathed in golden light. His boots sounded heavy against the floor as he paced back and forth in deep contemplation.

For a while they remained, until, at length, restlessness overpowered all other dismal thoughts. Staying idle did not sit well with Éomer, and the great and open grasslands called to him; for the cool air to brush against his face, to hear the gale winds howl, and the earth rumbling beneath the hooves of his horse. There was a dire need to be away, and with haste, so that all grim and horrid thoughts were swept from his mind. Swallowed by the wild freedom on the plains. He was a warrior, first and foremost, and what could not be handled by the tip of his sword was an unwelcome struggle.

And so it was that the Marshals rode from Helm's Deep, leading a small company of riders with swiftness forward, as they followed the road from the Gate to the Dike. In some other time and place Éomer might have been wholly pleased, but in the pit of his stomach ever-constant concern gnawed; a growth festering, malignant and hideous. While they had departed from the keep to take in the surrounding lands about Helm's Deep, they all looked with watchful eyes to the horizon. His ears and eyes startled by any sound. Their armour was heavy and their weapons sharp.

Side by side, Éomer and Théodred rode.

When they were but a mile beyond the fortified wall they slackened their pace a little. The mountain lay behind them, and ahead the plains stretched green in the sun of late midday. Dark thickets lay on the eastward flank, thin outcropses of trees growing in clusters where small streams chuckled down from the stony peaks. Melted waters that with Winter would still. The weather remained fair, and the chill wind held in the west; yet still the gloom in his heart could not be borne away despite the cold gales. He forced his downcast eyes away from the ground, instead looking out over the blue and white-dotted sky and the rolling hills.

The first foothills shimmered into view far ahead, painted hues of purple by the bright glow of the sun. For a while they followed the well-trodden road as it wound on through the landscape, but soon they made for a path that cut straight west. His thoughts turned once more to his sister, so far from his side, in Edoras; amongst noble ladies of court, bound by duty and without much freedom for herself, and he could not help but wonder if not Éowyn missed the clean air. To be with her brother and cousin, as they had when they were but children.

He knew she was too stubborn and proud to ever admit such thoughts; her duty was by the side of the king, even if her heart drew her elsewhere. To be wild and free once more.

Éomer looked to the prince by his side. Thirteen years lay between them, and many a time he had followed Théodred to the training rings, or watched the young man ride horses with swiftness and skill. Of course Éowyn had trailed along, proving a great nuisance in her attempts to not be left out, and more than once had she been found kicking and crying in her room.

Door locked and key gone.

Yet neither had he shied away from using her to nick candied apples and sweet bread from the kitchen, where only a smaller, more nimble body could fit through the window-hatch. Then she had been of great use. Together, in awe they had watched Théodred fight with sword and shield in sparring, and their cousin had welcomed them both to train with him. With mirth he had laughed whenever Éowyn came out victorious over her older brother – even if Éomer insistantly claimed it either a fluke or a purposeful loss on his side.

The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought.

He could not help but wish to return; to return to times long gone, where each day was untroubled by concerns for the future. They passed through upland grass and heaths, and the wide flats stretched continuously on ahead of them. It was less than a day's journey to the Fords of Isen, the only place to cross the river south of Isengard, but whether the company would carry on so far had not been discussed. The sky was darkening to the east, and light clouds were cast with grey. Éomer wished to see for himself what was afoot at Isengard, in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, but something warned him against pressing further.

As the thought came to him he gave a shout, and the riders about him came to a swift halt at the sudden command. They stood upon a high ridge, giving them a clear view to all sides. The prince drew his horse close to Firefoot, gaze sweeping across the plains, before he spoke. "What do you see?"

Éomer missed something. He had traveled through the Westfold in many seasons; no folk of Rohan dwelled here now, too close to the unclaimed realms about the mountain range, but many other creatures lived there at all times. Especially birds and small beasts. Yet now all things were quiet apart from the riders and their horses around him. An eerie silence lingered. He felt as if there was no sound for many miles about them. He did not understand it, except for a clear sense of unease and watchfulness that had drawn him to a halt.

The mere swish of Firefoot's tail and the hoof-stomps against the soft mud became loud noises in his ears.

Dead silence was around him, and over all hung a clear blue sky. "It is too quiet," Éomer said. He gazed intently at the sky, and before long he could see what was approaching. Away in the West a dark patch appeared, and grew, and drove east like flying smoke on the wind. Yet the wind blew against them from the northwest. The riders stood together, fencing in their prince as spears and bows were ready. Flocks of birds, flying at great speed, came wheeling and circling, and traversing all the land as if they were searching for something.

They were steadily drawing nearer, and as if they moved with one single mind the birds now came straight towards them. A dense shadow followed the flock, passing darkly over the ground below. The creatures passed overhead, harsh croaks tearing through the silence; dipping low, barely out of reach from the riders, and large wings beat upon the wind. The sound roared in his ears, as the swarm carried on for many long moments, circling them. Then, all at once, they veered off with renewed haste.

The riders watched them, shoulders tense and grips tight on their spears, and barely did they dare to breathe until the birds had dwindled into the distance. The sky was clear once again. The birds disappeared from sight. Flying the straight way to Nan Curunír. Whispered voices broke out around Éomer, speaking of wizardry and omens of ill, and the quiet voices made the ground seem to echo. Again a silence fell upon the lands around them. There was no life to be found, as if something – something malicious – had driven it away.

And now that evil had turned its gaze on them. The urge to turn and flee came to the riders, clutching at their hearts with an icy grip; smothering bravery, until even the horses tossed and neighed in rising terror. Éomer met Théodred's gaze. There was no need for words between them. The prince raised his spear and pointed its tip east, before he turned his great steed around. Away from the watchful eyes of Isengard. His riders fell into place around and behind him, drawing close as they thundered across the plains with haste. Hearts chilled.

It took many long moments before the fear left them, though they still felt uneasy and their minds were wary. Only when the high place, where they had halted, stood far behind them did Théodred lessen his pace. They passed along the edge of a long rock-wall, bathing them in shadow, and Éomer's mind turned to the strange and unnerving sight of the birds. They were not native to the lands of Rohan.

The large, black crows were found only in the deep and dark places of the Entwood, under the eastern flanks of the rocky range, and beyond the Misty Mountains to the west. In Dunland. Never before had he fled from the mere sight of birds, and deep in his heart he knew it was not the beasts that made them turn in fear. It was the hidden hand that controlled them, a whisper in the air, but a quiet voice laced with sorcery.

Dismal thoughts and cheerless silence followed the company of riders throughout the last leg of their journey. Spirits broken. The sun became veiled by dark clouds, now drifting in with the wind, and a promise of rain was heavy in the air. A formless grey under the coming of night, and a chill wind blew. Once, looking back across his shoulder, as if some prickle of the skin told him that he was being watched, Éomer caught a glimpse of a small shape upon the hilltop. Whether he truly saw it, or it was but a shimmer of disarrayed thoughts, he could not tell.

When he looked again, it was gone.

Éomer spoke not of it, for the riders were burdened enough. Though the feeling of being watched followed him all the way until the Dike came into view ahead, and further still it lingered over him. Relief was palpable on the men's faces when they passed beneath the gate. A collective breath released as it shut closed behind them. Upon the last stretch back to the Hornburg, heavy droplets began to fall. At first it was but a light drizzle, cold against his face, but soon it came down hard; beating down on them, soaked into their cloaks as the ground turned to slippery mud. Firefoot's coat glistened silver.

Drenched they came to the open courtyard. Éomer held Théodred's gaze for a moment in silence; the prince looked harrowed, grim-faced, but then his features grew gentler. With that they turned to the other riders, who were still awaiting orders with despondency. Their armour was dark with rain. "There can be no doubt," Théodred spoke quietly as his men drew closer. "Some wickedness is at large. It has crossed the Fords of Isen and entered our lands. Strange powers have our enemies, perhaps, but forget not this." His eyes gleamed and his voice became louder. "The courage of the Eorlingas will not break, nor ever yield, for as long as we can draw weapons! As long as there is breath in our lungs."

The prince dismounted, and a hushed quiet lay about them.

"We will not yield," the prince said, gloved hand rested against his horse only briefly, before disappearing inside the keep.

Knowing well the look of steeled determination on his cousin's face, Éomer took to sorting out the men. "Take rest," he ordered, "Speak not of what you have seen this day. It was naught but crows sent to frighten us; but our enemies forget the strength of the Rohirrim. Do not fear what you saw! Believe in the courage of your hearts." He looked from one to the next; some only briefly, and for others he held their gazes long enough for the terror to change to a clear resolve. Théodred's voice resounded in his head. Birds and tricks of a wizard had made them turn tail, like a whimpering dog beaten, and the shame was washed away by anger.

In the end, the men who were gathered round him broke up into smaller groups, and went off this way and that. Soon they vanished into the shadows of the Hornburg. Éomer slipped out of the saddle, took Firefoot by the reins, and pulled the horse off with him to the stables. The dark stones beneath his feet were glossy, slippery from the rain; a heavy downpour that seemed to grow steadily, until it became hard to see more than an arm's length ahead. The sound roared in his ears, and his boots splashed as he waded through the forming puddles.

For a while he stood, mind blank, in the damp and dimly lit stall; droplets trickled off his brow as he meticulously and unconsciously groomed the horse. He had waved off the stable-hand that had come to assist. His fingers trailed the mud-covered hooves, picking out small pebbles lodged in the iron shoes. Firefoot stood patiently waiting, motionless except for the soft movements of his large head as it picked through fresh oats, and appeared keen to enjoy the attention. Éomer's fingers combed through the soft mane, stalling when he came into contact with rough, unmanageable tangles; pulling, easing, allowing just the right amount of preasure, his thoughts began weaving fretful wanderings once more.

Éomer had gone through all the steps, and was midway through cleaning the horse-shoes once more, when a sound alerted him to another's presence. Easing Firefoot's hoof to the ground, he stood and turned to look at the young stableboy in the doorway. He appeared drenched and out of breath, shoulders heaving with great effort as if from running. "My lord," the boy said. Then he bowed quickly. "A rider at the gate to the Dike asked for entry. He is foreign to the wardens, and to these lands, and he urged to speak with one in command when the road was barred to him."

Brow furrowed, Éomer nodded shortly; brushed his palm across the flat forehead, from the ears to the muzzle, of Firefoot before stepping out of the stables. The rain came steadily down still, an unending veil of grey, but the pale blue of the sky had turned darker. His time spent with his horse had been longer than first expected, and now the sun had set beyond the western ridges of the mountain. The night was young and cold.

Following the boy across the square, bringing his cloak closer around his shoulders for warmth, Éomer looked to the archway and the open gate. There, sheltered and with hands held forward to the flames of the brazier, stood a figure hidden by the shadows. Surrounding him were two tall, mail-clad guards; spears gripped tightly as they flanked the traveler in the narrow space. Upon the Marshal's approach, the man – for it was a young man, with keen and clear grey eyes – looked up and met his gaze evenly. Raven hair clung to his forehead, dripping down his nose and cheeks, and his dark fabrics, green and grey, were flecked with mud and rain. His woolen cloak was grey as stone.

The face was young, still with traces of boyhood; with fluid movements he raised his arm, yet quickly stilled when the guards stiffened to attention, and instead allowed it to fall to his side once more. "My lord," he said with a voice both deep and buoyant, "I come not here to bring trouble, and I left my weapons with my companions at the Dike." He smiled, making it easy in the firelight for Éomer to see many white scars running across his face. The young man could be no more than twenty, yet clearly he had seen many a battle in his short life.

Éomer drew to a halt, regarding the stranger with quiet curiosity, and the rain lessened on his back.

"Tell me then, wanderer in the Riddermark, what brings you to our lands?" He spoke.

The boy, this time with greater care, raised a hand to the collar of his cloak. "My name is Brenion. My companions and I come from the far North," he said and then, much to Éomer's astonishment, drew forth a very familiar brooch clasped to the cloak into view; the silver star shone and flickered as if lit by a sudden flame. But just as quickly the light dimmed and the star faded, returning to the folds of his cloak. "We search for our missing kin and have traveled for many days. Have you seen one bearing a star of the North here in the Riddermark?"

At first Éomer did not speak. His thoughts turned to the Ranger, for surely they searched for her; a week had soon passed since he saw her disappear eastbound, over the plains of the Eastfold until the horse and rider were swallowed by the green hills. Alone she had traveled, and he had heard nothing of companions following after. Although it was clear that she was following, hunting, for something or someone. Uncertainty came to his mind; could he trust this cloaked stranger, bearing the mark of the Rangers?

There was no lie to see in the boy's face, but the servants of the Enemy often wore the mask of innocence. The woman proved to be an ally through her actions, but the one standing before him now had not. "What makes you believe your kin has passed the Fords into our land?"

This time it was the Ranger's turn to hesitate, and his mouth twisted into a thin, white line. Grey eyes flickered before settling on the ground. Everything around them seemed still. Waiting. "I cannot say more of our purpose, except that the one we follow requires our aid. We bring no malice to your people, my lord, and only wish to pass through without any trouble. And, if possible, unseen; though the leader of my company prefered to ask first for permission."

The answer rang in his head, echoes of words he had heard before, and the proud woman came clear to his mind's eye. Much the same was said when Éomer had questioned her. It reassured him, and he prayed to Béma that his decision was right. "There has been no sightings of Rangers east of the Isen for many years," Éomer answered. "She did not pass by Helm's Deep."

It took the boy – Brenion – several long moments, before the words of the Marshal settled and the meaning behind them became clear.

Then his head snapped up, and hope was in his face and voice. "She?" It was clear that the news was good and much welcome. "Then you have seen her, my lord? When? Where?"

"Indeed I have," Éomer replied, taken aback by the sudden eagerness in the Ranger's words. Almost bordering on hopeful desperation, and he wondered about the haste in which they sought out their female companion. He had found her to be young, truly, and perhaps she was not meant to travel alone in the wilderness? "But it was not in this region that our paths crossed. She had followed the banks of the Anduin, and when we parted ways it was less than a day's journey from the Mouths of the Entwash. That is now a week ago."

"So she managed the Pass of Imladris before the storm," Brenion mumbled, mostly to himself, then caught Éomer's gaze. "Did she tell you of her destination?"

"Nay. She was following another on horseback, heading for Anórien, but that is all I know."

The Ranger asked many questions; how the Marshal came to meet her, and if she was injured or well at health? Clearly he was greatly concerned for his kin, and it seemed they had ridden hard and far after her departure. "A great storm came upon us on the High Pass, forcing us to turn away until the skies became clear. It was then that we lost sight of her trail." He brushed wet hair from his face. "We left a group there, to climb the Misty Mountains and take the road along the Anduin, while my companions and I went south."

At this Éomer listened intently, for what was recounted proved useful to his own plight. The journey would have taken the Rangers through the wilderness following the mountain range. Unclaimed lands, except for the most northern parts where the vicious hillmen dwelt. What have they seen there? "You traversed the Isen? Did you come about anything amiss there beyond our borders?"

"I have never before seen the lands of Enedwaith – what is now called Dunland in your tongue – but my elders found the air to be strange, indeed. Both bird and beast had grown silent, and the very hills felt hostile to us. We were watched and followed throughout the journey, though we could not see our pursuers; we slept very little at a time. But late one evening a roar came on the wind, swift approaching, like the thundering beat of many wings. Crebain swept down over us, circling back and forth, and they only dispersed when we took branches to the fire."

Éomer nodded thoughtfully, but motioned for the Ranger to continue his tale.

"We saw them again just earlier today," he added. "But this time they were farther away from us and swooping down, much the same as they did to us, against something hidden by the hills. When we came closer there were many signs of horses in the mud, and we followed the path here. And that is my story recounted, my lord." The rain came down in grey sheets around them, hammering against the stones and battlements, unrelenting and ceaseless. Much had been said, leaving Éomer with many new thoughts.

"You have my gratitude, Ranger of the North," the Marshal replied. "Know that you and your companions are welcome to ride out the storm with us."

The grey cloak was drawn tight, and the white scars shone again as the Ranger grinned. He gave a swift bow. "Thank you, my lord, but I fear there is no time for rest! And soaked to the bone I already am, so the rain can do no more than what it already has. When you are wet, then you are wet! Haste is needed, and we must be away at once to find our kin. There is still a great distance between us if she left the Riddermark a week ago." Then he glanced to the skies. "Dawn is not far off."

So it was that the young Ranger slipped quietly into the night, a blurry figure of grey that soon disappeared in the haze. The air was heavy, still, and the first rumble of thunder echoed between the walls. Dawn may have been close, but the storm was with much strength left and would not soon wane. Day would be bleak and wet. Éomer stood for a while and watched, then finally he drew away from the flame and into the downpour. He stepped across the courtyard to the keep.

Much had to be done.