((Notes: I blame the people at Elendor for this. We were talking about the
current re-enacting of the events leading up to and including Helms Deep,
and someone came up with this alternate storyline. And of course, the plot
bunny chose me to bite. So, here it is.))
Death in the Mark
The Riders of Rohan crested the hill, their ash hafted spears held high, pennants fluttering from their metal shod tips.
The leader stared ahead, his gray eyes hard and visage grim beneath his plumed helm. Eomer's thoughts were dark on this bright morning. Exiled from his home, from the country he loved by the slithering serpent Wormtongue, he brooded.
As the eored swept on northwards, a strong voice called out from behind them
"Riders of Rohan! What news from the north!"
With an economical motion of his spear, Eomer motioned the eored to scatter and wheel to surround the interlopers. Within his mind, curiosity warred with irritation.
Firefoot turned easily in response to Eomer's slight movement. He spared a brief instant for admiration of the precision of the eored. The three interlopers were surrounded in a circle now, threatened by a thicket of spears.
Eomer rose his way through the circle, staring at the three that were trapped there.
"What business does an elf, a dwarf and a man have in the Riddermark?" he demanded. For if they were servants of Saruman, then their lifeblood would water the grass. For he was loyal to Rohan and would not see harm come to the Mark. "Speak quickly!"
"Give me your name Horsemaster, and I will give you mine." the dwarf replied truculently, glowering up at Eomer, his hand fondling the hilt of an axe.
Eomer felt anger boil up inside him. With a swift movement he had passed his spear to the rider next to him and dismounted lithely, his sword rasping from its sheath.
"Trespassers in the Mark would be wise to guard their tongues." he spat out. "Otherwise it will be removed from their heads."
The dwarf scowled threateningly, but the man held up a placating hand.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, this is Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas, of the Woodland Realm."
Eomer nodded, some of his hostility fading with the giving of names, but he still remained wary.
"And what business do you have in Rohan?"
"We track a party of Uruk's westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive." Aragorn explained.
Eomer frowned. "The Uruk's are dead. We slaughtered them during the night. We left none alive."
"None?" and Aragorn's face remained impassive, but Eomer sensed more than saw a shift of his stance, from hope to despair.
"None." Eomer concurred.
The dwarf roared, in his voice was both grief and pain. He blindly swung a revenge seeking blow at Eomer who parried and returned an instinctive blow of his own.
The blade was deflected partially by the armour that Gimli wore, but the stroke was still true and penetrated deep into his body. The dwarf's eyes dimmed.
Then Eomer's world exploded in pain before instantly fading to darkness as his lungs released their last gasp of Rohirrim air, and his eyes looked upon his homeland for the last time.
The eored sat in silence and shock as they watched their leader fall, pierced through the eye by a single green and yellow fletched shaft. Then reaction kicked in. With a cry of grief that rose from many throats, spears were thrust forward, inwards, into the two that remained standing.
And once more blood watered the grass, glistening thickly in the sun. And far distant in Orthanc, Saruman laughed.
Death in the Mark
The Riders of Rohan crested the hill, their ash hafted spears held high, pennants fluttering from their metal shod tips.
The leader stared ahead, his gray eyes hard and visage grim beneath his plumed helm. Eomer's thoughts were dark on this bright morning. Exiled from his home, from the country he loved by the slithering serpent Wormtongue, he brooded.
As the eored swept on northwards, a strong voice called out from behind them
"Riders of Rohan! What news from the north!"
With an economical motion of his spear, Eomer motioned the eored to scatter and wheel to surround the interlopers. Within his mind, curiosity warred with irritation.
Firefoot turned easily in response to Eomer's slight movement. He spared a brief instant for admiration of the precision of the eored. The three interlopers were surrounded in a circle now, threatened by a thicket of spears.
Eomer rose his way through the circle, staring at the three that were trapped there.
"What business does an elf, a dwarf and a man have in the Riddermark?" he demanded. For if they were servants of Saruman, then their lifeblood would water the grass. For he was loyal to Rohan and would not see harm come to the Mark. "Speak quickly!"
"Give me your name Horsemaster, and I will give you mine." the dwarf replied truculently, glowering up at Eomer, his hand fondling the hilt of an axe.
Eomer felt anger boil up inside him. With a swift movement he had passed his spear to the rider next to him and dismounted lithely, his sword rasping from its sheath.
"Trespassers in the Mark would be wise to guard their tongues." he spat out. "Otherwise it will be removed from their heads."
The dwarf scowled threateningly, but the man held up a placating hand.
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, this is Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas, of the Woodland Realm."
Eomer nodded, some of his hostility fading with the giving of names, but he still remained wary.
"And what business do you have in Rohan?"
"We track a party of Uruk's westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive." Aragorn explained.
Eomer frowned. "The Uruk's are dead. We slaughtered them during the night. We left none alive."
"None?" and Aragorn's face remained impassive, but Eomer sensed more than saw a shift of his stance, from hope to despair.
"None." Eomer concurred.
The dwarf roared, in his voice was both grief and pain. He blindly swung a revenge seeking blow at Eomer who parried and returned an instinctive blow of his own.
The blade was deflected partially by the armour that Gimli wore, but the stroke was still true and penetrated deep into his body. The dwarf's eyes dimmed.
Then Eomer's world exploded in pain before instantly fading to darkness as his lungs released their last gasp of Rohirrim air, and his eyes looked upon his homeland for the last time.
The eored sat in silence and shock as they watched their leader fall, pierced through the eye by a single green and yellow fletched shaft. Then reaction kicked in. With a cry of grief that rose from many throats, spears were thrust forward, inwards, into the two that remained standing.
And once more blood watered the grass, glistening thickly in the sun. And far distant in Orthanc, Saruman laughed.