The next morning was blessed with a fair sky, save for a band of red that swept across the horizon. The wind whipped strongly around Edoras as it always did, bringing no sounds save for those of the birds. In wartimes though, such peace was deceptive. When the Riders were gathering at the gates, Théoden was already in his throne and Gríma was already kneeling by his side, whispering to him. When Théodred entered the room, Wormtongue looked up, a smile crossing his face. The young Rider was dressed for battle, with armor glinting on his chest, forearms and legs. He held his helm in one hand and his sword was sheathed at his waist. A dark blue cape was draped over his shoulders.
"Good morning, Théodred," he said, a false warmth in his voice. "The day dawns bright and fair. Perhaps it is a sign that you will be victorious today."
"Gríma," Théodred replied distastefully. "Since you arrived in Rohan, no dawn has ever been bright or fair. And until you leave, every dawn will be a sign of foreboding and treachery."
Gríma made as if to swoon in indignation. "Again you have wounded me, Théodred."
"Gríma, I have not wounded you yet. But should you come within range of my sword, you will find it in your gut," Théodred warned. Gríma glanced quickly to either side and Théodred could hear muted mutters as the guards Gríma had enchanted moved closer to him. He knew that with a single word from Gríma, they would kill him and only later would they realize what they had done.
"Go, Théodred," Gríma snarled. "The Fords await."
Théodred's eyes flashed angrily, but he made no move towards Théoden's ill-chosen advisor. Just then, the loud clear ringing of a horn sounded, calling the Riders. Théodred left without a sound, but Gríma still cringed half-behind the throne, worried about Théodred's return, and hoping that the young man would not return.
Outside, Théodred felt no better, even when he saw the assembled Riders waiting, banners held high and snapping in the wind. They were ready for whatever foe Isengard threw at them and none were fooled by Gríma's argument that it would not be Saruman attacking them.
"Théodred," Éomer came up, already mounted on his stallion Firefoot. He held the reins of Théodred's horse, a regal bay stallion called Brego. The horse nickered when he saw Théodred, for the Riders all had a strong bond with their horses. Théodred swung up onto Brego's back, moving with Éomer to the front of the group. He looked back once, up at the hall of Théoden and saw a flash of black cloth as Gríma hurriedly hid himself from sight.
"Riders!" Théodred shouted as the gates swung open. There was a thunder of hooves as they swept out of Edoras, beginning the three-day ride to the Fords of Isen. All day they rode, their horses easily keeping a steady pace as they ran westward. That night, they rested lightly, always watching for any sign of the Uruk-Hai of Saruman. Early the next morning, they rose and rode again, mostly in silence, though sometimes the Riders would sing a song of Rohan, in the slow, beautiful language of their own people. The following two days and one night went in the same manner, and by then, they had nearly reached the Fords. During that final night, the Riders were sterner than usual. There were no songs or stories told by the fire. Groups of the Riders guarded the camp, watching both their fellow Men as well as their horses. Éomer found Théodred in the shadows at the edge of their small encampment, wrapped in his dark cloak, his knees drawn up to the chest and his head bowed. His helmet and sheathed sword lay near his side.
"Théodred," Éomer said softly. The Second Marshal of the Mark looked up slowly.
"Éomer," Théodred replied, "There will be a battle tomorrow."
Éomer nodded. "There may be."
Théodred grabbed Éomer's shoulder forcefully. "No, cousin, there will be a battle. And many of us will fall."
Éomer tried to laugh. "You now have the foresight of an Elf?"
Théodred's glance hardened reproachfully, and Éomer wished he hadn't tried to joke. "You have been away defending Rohan from Saruman, Éomer, so you have not seen how Gríma has wore down my father. My father is weak now, dependent on Gríma's evil whisperings. It is the only way he knows to rule his country. I have seen enough of Gríma's treachery to know that he will have found a way to tell Saruman that we are coming, or else he already knew that Saruman would send troops to the Fords."
Éomer sighed. "Then we ride to death, perhaps."
"Perhaps," came the reply. "But even if we should win this battle, there will be little glory found."
"Glory can wait when lives must be kept."
Théodred smiled faintly. "You have a noble heart, Éomer. You would be a better King that I, and will be if I fall."
"I promised Éowyn I would not let that happened," Éomer reminded him. "You will be King, as it should be."
"Tomorrow afternoon, though, we will see things as they are," Théodred replied darkly. Éomer left him alone then, seeing that the young Prince wanted to be by himself, left in the growing shadows with his own thoughts of battle and deception.