Thanks to those who reviewed, but I'm afraid I may have lost some of them. . . The orcs at fanfiction.net deleted the link to my story for a few hours, and I was in hysterics trying to repost the whole thing.

Final Exams are over! (Phew!) I'm off from school for three weeks! (Yay!) And The Two Towers is coming! (HALLELUJAH!) Could life get any better? I say it can not. A friend of mine already saw the film, and he said it was ten times better than the first one (if that's even possible!).

_________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 5: The Riders of Rohan

Night had come, and the moon was yet rising over the dim peaks of the mountains, waxing into its full, luminous shape as Boromir reached the rocky base. Here the road branched, one way following the river, bending slightly with the coast as it ran to the North. The other way led to the Riddermark, and would eventually bring Boromir to the grasslands west of the Gap of Rohan. This was the route that Boromir chose, not wanting to find himself in the treacherous lands east of the Misty Mountains.

For long he had known his intended path, having borrowed a few useful maps from his brother. There was a hidden dell, now overrun with trees, north of the White Mountains, that only the Gondorrim knew of. But a problem presented itself as reality finally began to sink in, and the thrill of being out in the world began to subside.

It had been many, many years since anyone had traveled through the valley of Stonewain, and even then it had been a difficult passage, from what he had heard. Some people said that wargs and goblins lurked in the caves that lined the valley walls. Others, that bandits and wild men plundered or killed any who happened to travel through. Boromir did not know which, if either, tale was true. But in any case, Stonewain Valley was not a place one wanted to visit, let alone when unaccompanied.

But Boromir, like most men of his age, was not inclined to listen to the old tales of aged hunters, whose stories grew steadily less credible as the years went by. While he was by no means impulsive, he had grown more adventurous as of late, and had reached an unspoken decision that he would judge the world only by his own experiences. Or, at least from verifiable fact.

And so, he found himself within a day or two having passed the narrow entrance of the dense forest and having descended into the menacing, shadowy valley. He rode through in silence, stopping only at night and when his horse was in need of rest. He half-expected, at every moment, for a warg to suddenly lunge at him, or for a thief's arrow to come flying in his direction. But another day went by, and Boromir found himself out of Stonewain and facing the broad plains of Rohan. All in all, the trip had been surprisingly easy.

"Two easy," he thought warily, not quite able to shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

* * *

At the same time, in an enclosed region south of the Misty Mountains, the white wizard Saruman was pleased to recall the events that had led to his final return to Orthanc.

He had already attempted to kill the King's son, Théodred, during a brutal attack by the wargs. The murder could have looked like an accident under such convenient conditions. But his scheme had failed; Théodred had proved a better warrior than even Saruman had expected. However, there would be another chance to kill off the Crown Prince, in a few months or so.

As for now, he only had to wait, and watch as his plot unfolded. Gríma would get rid of Éomer, and then would be given his unwarranted and yet expected award: Éowyn.

That wizened fool, Théoden, would soon pass away. It was a wonder he had lasted this long; Saruman's skill was great, and while the King was visibly aged a great deal, he still seemed to have a good year left before his expected demise. It was then that Saruman would execute his plan, and he would be one step closer to his ultimate dominion: Gondor.

* * *

Éomer led the riders in their pursuit of the orc-band which had wreaked havoc on their camp two nights prior. The company's number was less than the norm, being only fifty men. But the twenty or so orcs that they were tracking would be no match for the skill of the Horse-lords.

They rode on through the plains, underneath the night sky. The air was comfortably cool and dry, but the lands were not well-lit by full moon, which was obscured by the dark clouds. The hour was late, and men far more seasoned than they may have grown tired. But they were used to such labors, and felt the need to lessen the growing number of goblins that swarmed their lands.

Éomer led them onward. Up ahead, familiar shrieks of challenge could be heard, undoubtedly the orcs. But there was also the faint sound of metal clashing with metal, which immediately alarmed them; the orcs were attacking someone. Urging his horse forward, Éomer brought the riders to the sight of the commotion.

There were indeed about twenty orcs, but one or two of them already lie dead on the ground. Éomer could see a tall horse standing nearby, ill at ease, watching the fight before him. A man was fighting the goblins, and he would not be able to last against all of them any longer. With a shout at his men to commence their attack, Éomer leapt off of his horse to help the struggling warrior. To be sure, he must have been a warrior, for he fought with much skill, his broadsword moving with surprising agility and grace. Well, at least the man had been moving with ease a second ago; now he was perceptibly slowing, his body tiring from the strain of battle.

Éomer ran towards the orcs that were rallying against the stranger. He unsheathed his sword, Gúthwinë; it glinted in the moonlight, and he sprang into action.

"For the Mark!" he cried, driving his blade into the gut of the nearest beast, sending the lifeless form to the ground. He did not wish the stranger to come to any harm, and Éomer would certainly do what he could to prevent such from happening. Dodging a blow from a club, he thrust his sword into the neck of another orc. Glancing up, he now recognized the man as wearing the raiment of Gondor.

"Gondor?" he thought, startled, "None from Gondor have sent word of their coming here, what business could this man have?"

But his thoughts were soon replaced by the even greater urgency to keep the bloodthirsty creatures away from the man he now recognized as his Southern kin.

* * *

Boromir had been filled with tremendous relief when he had spotted the Rohirrim coming to his aid. He had been caught off his guard by the sudden onslaught of goblins; they had surrounded his horse, preventing him from out-riding them.

Now, as he rammed the hilt of his sword into the skull of a particularly unsightly orc, he looked up to see the hewn bodies of the fell beasts scattered across the ground. The man nearest him was very tall, taller even than Boromir. He removed his helm, and in the reflecting moonlight Boromir could clearly see his face. His relief, if possible, doubled.

"I am in your debt, Éomer son of Éomund," he said breathlessly. "I am grateful for your timely arrival."

"Boromir?" Éomer exclaimed, surprised, peering more closely at the Dúnedain, as if he doubted who he spoke to. "Forgive me, I did not recognize you in the dark; it has been long since last we met. It is good to see you again, son of Denethor. But tell me, what business brings you to Rohan, and by yourself?"

Boromir hesitated. He did not know how well it would seem to the listening men if he told them he was seeking out a lord of elves. "I bear a message for the North. We are under attack, so no men could be spared to accompany me. But I am well, thanks to you."

If Éomer felt at all suspicious about Boromir's words, he did well to hide it. "The you must ride with us to Edoras, for you are clearly in need of rest. If you wish it, we will provide men to aid you in your travels."

"I would appreciate your aid very much, Éomer," Boromir said warmly, his mood lightening. Boromir's horse was brought to him, and the riders mounted. Éomer asked Boromir to sit beside him at the front, and the men were off at great speed towards Edoras.

"Tell me, Éomer, how fares the Mark in these dark days?" Boromir asked civilly.

For a moment, it seemed to Boromir that a darkness was impressed into the hard glint of Éomer's eyes. "So, Rohan fares not much better than Gondor, I see," Boromir thought wistfully.

Éomer glanced at Boromir. "Not very well, I am afraid. Odd things have been happening as of late...Strange people have been coming and going, and Théoden has not taken any steps to clear things up."

Boromir frowned. "What do you mean?"

The Marshal sighed. "I do not doubt the wisdom of my liege; he has been a father to me for many long years. But as of late the King has acted…rather oddly. He is never in his usual character, behaving distantly even to Éowyn and myself. He has aged so greatly, even Théodred fears for his health."

Boromir was surprised, and yet he had a feeling that there was more to this tale than Éomer was revealing. "Not that I can blame him," Boromir thought, "I have not been completely honest with him myself." It was not Boromir's place to pry into the dealings or events of another land. However…it seemed so odd that such foul events could so inconveniently coincide with the attacks on Gondor.

"You are thinking," Éomer said softly, glancing at Boromir, "that I am not disclosing the greater part of my story. And you are correct to think so; for there is another reason than hunting orcs that has caused my departure from Edoras."

Boromir said nothing. Éomer continued:

"My King has been having dealings with a foreigner, who is named here Saruman. He is a wizard of great power and skill. Originally, I thought our prayers for aid had been answered. He strengthened our walls, practically doubled our livestock, and healed the sickest of our people. But when the time for his first departure arrived, he appointed the King an…advisor. His name is Gríma, but we call him Wormtongue. He has poisoned my uncle's mind, and has said naught but ill to myself and Théodred. I fear that Saruman is using his supremacy to influence my uncle into doing something rash."

"Rash?"

Éomer nodded. He looked again at Boromir. "Don't you see? He wishes for Gríma to take over the thrown. I am afraid that Théodred's life is in danger, as well as my own."

"Oh," Boromir said lamely. "So, you have left Edoras in fear for your life?"

Éomer let out a mirthless laugh. "You make me a coward with such words! I am no safer here than within the very walls of Meduseld. But I left Edoras for a short while because it pained me to see my King so blind, my cousin so afraid, and my sister…" he paused for a moment, reflecting on the happenings at his home. "…so distraught."

Boromir could think of nothing to say to this. He had never heard of any by the name of Saruman or Gríma. Nor had he witnessed any of the events that Éomer had just described. He did not doubt his comrade's words, but in order to fully understand the situation he knew he must at least try to maintain an objective view on things.

"Then let us make haste," he said finally.

* * *

Hours passed, and still they rode on, underneath the pale moonlight. They continued across the plains, following the smooth path that lay ahead of them, leading them closer to the settlements of Rohan. The lanterns of a village could be seen in the distance, the buildings of which were barely visible in the darkness.

They reached the village, and continued on; the houses flew by as their horses gained speed, anxious to be home. Boromir shivered slightly in the cool night air. The wandering moon appeared from behind the clouds. A dark form suddenly appeared up ahead, and as they drew closer, Boromir could see the large hill that loomed before him.

The riders passed over the dike, and then through the thorny fence that encircled the mount. Their road was now on a slope, and they rode up the hillside to the great city that stood upon it. Glancing at the sky, Éomer said softly to Boromir that dawn would soon arrive.

Reaching the top, Boromir could see the wooden buildings with thatched straw roofs that littered the summit. The houses were quiet, and very few people gathered on the side of the street to watch Éomer's return to Edoras. But the few who did wore ragged clothing, their hair unkempt, looking most forlorn. It was plain to Boromir that Rohan was suffering, and that fact annihilated any hope of the Riddermark lending Gondor their aid…at least for the time being.

The Halls of Meduseld remained just as Boromir remembered them. This building was more ornate than any other in the city. Each house had beautiful markings and detail in every segment of wood, but this grand structure outdid the rest. It stood tall and mighty upon a green terrace, and its pillars and roof were lined with gold.

They reached the courtyard and dismounted. Boromir, like the other riders, was about to lead his horse to the stables, but Éomer gestured for him to stay. Two stable-hands saw to their horses.

"Come with me," Éomer said briskly. "You must speak to the King."

Boromir blinked. "At this hour? Why?"

"It is nearly dawn. He will have taken to the throne. You must tell him of these attacks on Gondor which you spoke of, they will doubtless be of interest to him."

Boromir nodded.

Two of the sentinel guarding the entrance to the hall turned and entered the building, closing the door behind them. Seeing his puzzled expression, Éomer told Boromir that they had gone to report their coming to the Lord of the Mark. A few moments later, the men returned.

"The King would see you now."

_________________________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading! Just in case I am involved in an accident of sorts that proves serious and prevents me from writing the next chapter before Christmas:

Happy Holidays! Enjoy The Two Towers!

Oh, and please review!