Chapter 2- Battlerage
The year after their parents' deaths passed surprizingly quickly for Èowyn and Èomer. They quickly settled into their daily routines, helped by their jovial uncle, King Théoden and their beloved cousin, Théodred. The children had known Théodred since the day they were born and he had proved to be a very able playmate. They had only crossed paths with this uncle several times, but within two weeks he had won their hearts by proving to be quite accepting of the rowdiness required in any good game of hide-and-go-seek games.
A few days after Èowyn's eighth nameday proved to dawn as normal, though it would prove to be anything but normal. The children awoke simutaneously. After their morning pillow fight, in which Èomer defeated his sister, they washed their hands and faces and dressed. They quickly attended to their simple chores before skipping off, hand in hand to visit their cousin and uncle. By ten in the morning, the Golden Hall could have been easily likened to a meangirie. Èowyn was the hider and had chosen her ample place. However, at '62', she was positive she saw her twelve year-old brother peeking. "Cheater! Cheater!" she hollered. "You filthy little cheat!"
"I am no such thing!" protested Èomer, indigant that his little sister should catch him at breaking the rules.
"A liar and a filthy cheat!" roared Èowyn, charging her brother. Èomer shouted out a profanity that caused the King to start.
"Èomer," he said sternly. "That is no way for a gentleman to speak to a gentlelady."
"Èowyn ain't no gentlelady!" protested Èomer. "She is a-" But the nobles were never to discover what Èowyn was, for at that moment Èowyn bull-dozered her far larger brother to the ground and they began to scuffle furiously, fists flailing. Size was no advantage to Èomer, for Èowyn's ferocity made up for it. Théoden headed to the rabble, but Théodred and his friend Marshall Elfhelm, reached them first. "Shame on you!" Théodred scolden, not ungently. "Fighting a lady!"
"She knocked me over first!" Èomer pouted, hanging from Théodred's fist. "What was I supposed to do, run away?"
"Yes," replied Théoden sharply. "One of the Rohirrim should never fight a woman- attacked or no. That, combined with your language, proved to be very ill behavior. I should very much like to know who taught that profantiy to you!" Here he shot a suspicious glance at Elfhelm- well known to be the posessor of an ill tongue. The Marshall was saved from answering as he struggled with the 'gentlelady.'
"Èowyn, you are not behaving like a lady," Théoden said sternly.
"That is good!" retorted Èowyn. "I do not want to be a lady. Boys have ever so much more fun!"
Aghast, Théoden stared at his bold niece. She continued to struggle. At that moment, the cook of the hall, justly nicknamed 'Cook', entered the Golden Hall. "You summoned me, my lord?"
"I did," nodded Théoden. He turned to his niece and nephew. "Children, today you shall begin training for your future positions in life. Èomer, Théodred has agreed to teach you how to ride and fight, whilst Èowyn shall be taught by Cook on how to attend to a home."
Èowyn eyed Cook sulkily, still dangling by her collar. Cook was a stout woman with glossy white hair, cold blue eyes and an unsmiling face. She wielded her wooden spoon like a club, setting fear into the hearts of those beneath her. "I do not want to," Èowyn pouted. "She is very horrible and I do not like her at all. I will go with Èomer and Théodred please. A sword is more useful than a spoon."
Cook stalked over to Èowyn. Elfhelm set her on the ground, eager to see how the fiesty child would fair against the, in his opinion, beastly woman. "I will soon teach you how to respect your King!" declared Cook. "Be it with work, spoon or the back of my hand."
"If you do I shall whip you around your filthy kitchen with your own spoon, you old broad!" snarled Èowyn.
"Why you insolent-" gasped Cook, preparing to strike Èowyn. There was a flash of steel and Elfhelm's sword was at Cook's throat, the hilt in Èowyn's steady hands.
"Why don't you try?" challenged Èowyn. For a moment, she seemed to tower over Cook, tall, fair, noble and proud. Stern was her face and fiery were her eyes. She seemed to glow a brilliant white and all the court was entralled by her.
"Èowyn!" shouted Théoden, not knowing what had befallen his niece, but mistrusting the figure who stood there, a fey look in her eyes, ready to slaughter any who dared oppose her. "You will drop your sword!"
For a moment, Èowyn turned her burning eyes on the King. Then she gasped and the sword fell from nerveless hands. The goddess of war vanished and once more she was a simple eight year-old, shaking violently. She swayed and fell backward, but Elfhelm was swift enough to catch her.
"Èowyn!" gasped Eomer, flying to his sister's side. "Oh Èowyn, I am sorry I fought you! Please don't you leave me too. Not you too!"
"Do not fear, young lord," soothed Elfhelm. "Your sister will be fine, she is just weary. Go off and play with the village boys, we will call you when she awakes."
Èomer trudged off, shooting many worried glances back at his poor sister. "I will not train this fey child!" announced Cook, near hysterics. "She is a demon and my death is in her eyes! You should get rid of her, my lord, if I may be so bold."
"No one will force you to train Èowyn," Théoden assured Cook. "Yet, you have been too forward. Èowyn is my niece and I love her as a daughter. No matter how fey, I will not 'get rid of her.' I suggest that you do not speak of this, or your job will be forfiet. Go now, take the day off."
"Of course, my lord," curtsied the Cook. "Thank you, my lord." She quickly departed.
"Come my good man, son," Théoden motioned to Théodred and Elfhelm. "We must take her to her bower."
When Èowyn had been changed and tucked in tight, King, Prince and Marshall stood watching her momentarily. "Well gentlemen," Théoden said finally. "What did you think of that?"
"If I did not know better, I would say Èowyn was taken by battlerage," Théodred said increduously.
"Battlerage?" repeated Elfhelm, eyes wide. "At her age?"
Battlerage. A dangerous disease, that if not treated properly, could prove fatal. It made the diseased unable to stop fighting, unwittingly and carelessly killing friend and foe alike. Those taken by battlerage had an uncanny knack of being very talent at weaponry even without the rage. Yet usually it came to seasoned troopers, not small children or even youth. A woman, let alone a girl, with battlerage was unthinkable. Théoden brushed his niece's hair off her face, tears in his eyes. Perhaps if the alliances between men and elves still held strong, Èowyn's malady would be naught to worry about. Yet without the elves, she was surely doomed.
For in Rohan and Gondor, there was no cure for battlerage. What would become of his sister-daughter? In the end would she be fair or fey... or worse, both?
~*~
Èowyn sat up in bed when Théodred entered her bedroom. "Good morning little one," he smiled, setting her breakfast tray down. "How do ye fare?"
"Horribly!" announced Èowyn. Seeing the look of concern on her cousin's face, she continued. "Oh I feel fine enough. I am just very very bored! Can I get up today... please?" She looked up at her cousin with pleading eyes.
"As it just so happens, my father has agreed you can get up today," announced Théodred. "But, only if you promise to go to your cooking lessons and not beat anyone with a spoon."
"Hurrah!" cried Èowyn, leaping up. Three days in bed was a sore trail for the young girl. "And I promise to do as you say."
"Very well," smiled Théodred. "Then get yourself up and change. Unless you intend to cook in your nightclothes. How would you like if I put you to bed tonight?"
"I would like it very much," Èowyn replied solemnly.
"Then I will see you then," Théodred promised. "If not before." He tapped her nose lightly, envoking a laugh.
He opened the door. "Oh, Théodred, wait!" called Èowyn. Her cousin turned to her. "Will you teach me how to use a sword, on the sly?"
Théodred blanked. "No," he said firmly. "No, I will not. Do not speak of it again."
"But Théodred," whined Èowyn.
"No Èowyn!" shouted Théodred. "Do you hear me? I suggest you lose any thoughts of being a shieldmaiden, because it will not happen. Goodbye."
Théodred closed the door firmly behind him, closing in a hurt child. He tried to block the grey eyes and their betrayal out of his mind. This was how it had to be, whether it hurt Èowyn or no. At least this way would not kill her.
~*~
"Be careful Èowyn," cautioned the young maid who was supervising her. Thelma was a fair girl, only thirteen. Her hair was a dirty blonde and her large green eyes followed Cook around in fear. "You do not want to cut you pretty little hands." Èowyn carefully sliced the large knife through the raw meat. She didn't mind cutting her fingers, but she did mind cutting her fingers off! She quickly got the hang of chopping things up. The knife felt as though it belonged in her little hands. It she were attacked right now, she would die fighting, which was satisfactory.
"Thelma!" roared Cook, storming across the large kitchen. She stopped in front of the two, bristling. She shot a fearful look at Èowyn, who stood on her stool, a confused look in her large grey eyes. The Cook turned to glower at Thelma. "I specifically told you not to let the child touch anything that could be used as a weapon!"
"How can she cook if she cannot touch a knife?" demanded Thelma.
"Silence!" bellowed Cook. "I shall have none of your insolence!" She rounded on Èowyn. "As for you- ai!" Èowyn was holding up a large salad fork. Théodred had said no spoons, but he had not mentioned any other utensils. Èowyn mustered all the strength in her little body and flayed the large woman across the stomach. She grinned rather malicioulsy at the satisfying crunch.
~*~
"Never in my wildest dreams did I think!" Théoden roared, angry eyes glowering at his niece, who was now very sorry she had hit the Cook. "Èowyn- why?"
"She was yelling at Thelma," replied Èowyn sulkily. "She had no right!"
"You had no right to do harm to our cook," Théodred remarked. He was calmer than the King, but Èowyn knew he was still frightfully angry. "I told you not to beat anyone with a spoon. You deliberately disobeyed me!"
"I did not!" snapped Èowyn. "It was a fork, and you never said anything about forks!" Théodred smoldered silently. It was undeniable she had not disobeyed in that aspect. "Why do I have to be a house tender?" demanded Èowyn. "Both mama and papa said I could be whatever I want and I want to be a Shieldmaiden!"
"You are not going to be a shieldmaiden," Théoden declared, finality in his tone. "Your parents have passed on and your upbringing lies in my hands now. I will not have a shieldmaiden for a niece. Do I make myself clear?"
Èowyn stared at him for a moment, in shock. Then she burst into tears and fled from the Golden Hall. Elfhelm made as though to go after her, but Théoden stayed him. "Let her go," he ordered. "If we must be harsh to save her, than so be it. Do not heal the wound until it has fulfilled its purposes."
~*~
Èowyn dashed to her room, crying the entire way. She yanked open the door and cast herself on to her bed, crying shamelessly. How could her beloved uncle say such horrible things to her? It was unfair! She scrubbed her face, will hardening. A noise from the adjoining room alerted her of her brother's presence. She rapped lightly on the closed door. "Come in!" called Èomer cheerfully, blissfully unaware of his sister's misery.
Èowyn opened the door. It was in this room that they kept their chamber pot, as well as a bowl for washing, a mirrior at their level and a copper tub. Èomer was standing in front of the mirrior, soap smeered all over his face and a gleaming razor in his hand.
"Èomer!" she gasped. "What are you doing?"
"Shaving," he replied. "What else, silly?"
"Where did you get that?" Èowyn inquired, pointing at the razor.
"Théodred's room," answered Èomer, peering in the mirrior again.
Suddenly an idea came to Èowyn's head. What if she...? Smiling, she continued. "Théodred's gonna be really angry with you!"
Èomer spun around, grabbing his sister by the arm. "Not if you do not tell him!" he snarled.
Èowyn angrily stomped down on his foot. He cried out in pain and let go. She fled, crying out her cousin's name.
~*~
"Èomer!" hollered Théodred. "What have you done to my razor?"
"Eh..." Èomer fumbled, shooting death glares at his sister, who looked all too smug.
"You are coming with me boy," frowed Théodred. "Honestly! The two of you would annoy a whole party of Orcs to death!" He grabbed Èomer's hand and stalked out.
"Snitch," muttered Èomer, before he was yanked out the door.
Èowyn watched them go for only a few moments. She quickly ran to her wardrobe and threw out a sack. With Èomer angry at her, no one would notice her gone until at least nightfall. She tossed some clothes and blankets into the sack, as well as the lunch that the servants had ony brought a few moments ago. She also stuffed in the food they had 'borrowed' from the kitchen for late night snacks or treats for any stray animals they might find.
Èowyn closed the sack and shouldered it. She stealthily made her way to the Golden Hall's stables. It was lunch time, so all of the stable hands were out. Her beloved pony, Brytta, was happily munching on oats in his stall, plump from much rest and little toil. "Come on Brytta,' she coaxed. "We are going for a ride." She expertly saddled him up and mounted. Shieldmaidens might be frowned upon, but in Rohan, the young and old, male and female, all knew how to ride. Èowyn put some oats into the saddlebags.
"Yah!" she cried. Brytta leapt into his waddle that was his version of a canter. Éowyn kept Brytta to the backroads; dark alleyways that none went upon save beggars and children during their games. When she reached the city gates, she waited until a party of villagers, setting out for home after a morning in the city left. She lead Brytta into the end of their party and kept her face down when she passed the guards, so as not to be noticed. As soon as they were on the plains, she veered away from the group and went in the opposite direction. After about one hour, Èowyn turned around. Edoras was very small in the distance. So this was it. She was actually running away from home. But where to go?
She had visited Minas Tirith once or twice and had greatly enjoyed the company of Théodred's friend, Boromir. Yet, Boromir would likely send her home, if he did not bring her himself. No, east was not the way. To the south were the White Mountains, and she could not hope to cross them. To the north was Fangorn Forest. She shuddered. She had heard dark tales of that land. So that meant west- to the Fortress of Helm's Deep and beyond. It was as good a way as any. With a shrug, she kicked Brytta into his rather pathetic excuse for a gallop.
The year after their parents' deaths passed surprizingly quickly for Èowyn and Èomer. They quickly settled into their daily routines, helped by their jovial uncle, King Théoden and their beloved cousin, Théodred. The children had known Théodred since the day they were born and he had proved to be a very able playmate. They had only crossed paths with this uncle several times, but within two weeks he had won their hearts by proving to be quite accepting of the rowdiness required in any good game of hide-and-go-seek games.
A few days after Èowyn's eighth nameday proved to dawn as normal, though it would prove to be anything but normal. The children awoke simutaneously. After their morning pillow fight, in which Èomer defeated his sister, they washed their hands and faces and dressed. They quickly attended to their simple chores before skipping off, hand in hand to visit their cousin and uncle. By ten in the morning, the Golden Hall could have been easily likened to a meangirie. Èowyn was the hider and had chosen her ample place. However, at '62', she was positive she saw her twelve year-old brother peeking. "Cheater! Cheater!" she hollered. "You filthy little cheat!"
"I am no such thing!" protested Èomer, indigant that his little sister should catch him at breaking the rules.
"A liar and a filthy cheat!" roared Èowyn, charging her brother. Èomer shouted out a profanity that caused the King to start.
"Èomer," he said sternly. "That is no way for a gentleman to speak to a gentlelady."
"Èowyn ain't no gentlelady!" protested Èomer. "She is a-" But the nobles were never to discover what Èowyn was, for at that moment Èowyn bull-dozered her far larger brother to the ground and they began to scuffle furiously, fists flailing. Size was no advantage to Èomer, for Èowyn's ferocity made up for it. Théoden headed to the rabble, but Théodred and his friend Marshall Elfhelm, reached them first. "Shame on you!" Théodred scolden, not ungently. "Fighting a lady!"
"She knocked me over first!" Èomer pouted, hanging from Théodred's fist. "What was I supposed to do, run away?"
"Yes," replied Théoden sharply. "One of the Rohirrim should never fight a woman- attacked or no. That, combined with your language, proved to be very ill behavior. I should very much like to know who taught that profantiy to you!" Here he shot a suspicious glance at Elfhelm- well known to be the posessor of an ill tongue. The Marshall was saved from answering as he struggled with the 'gentlelady.'
"Èowyn, you are not behaving like a lady," Théoden said sternly.
"That is good!" retorted Èowyn. "I do not want to be a lady. Boys have ever so much more fun!"
Aghast, Théoden stared at his bold niece. She continued to struggle. At that moment, the cook of the hall, justly nicknamed 'Cook', entered the Golden Hall. "You summoned me, my lord?"
"I did," nodded Théoden. He turned to his niece and nephew. "Children, today you shall begin training for your future positions in life. Èomer, Théodred has agreed to teach you how to ride and fight, whilst Èowyn shall be taught by Cook on how to attend to a home."
Èowyn eyed Cook sulkily, still dangling by her collar. Cook was a stout woman with glossy white hair, cold blue eyes and an unsmiling face. She wielded her wooden spoon like a club, setting fear into the hearts of those beneath her. "I do not want to," Èowyn pouted. "She is very horrible and I do not like her at all. I will go with Èomer and Théodred please. A sword is more useful than a spoon."
Cook stalked over to Èowyn. Elfhelm set her on the ground, eager to see how the fiesty child would fair against the, in his opinion, beastly woman. "I will soon teach you how to respect your King!" declared Cook. "Be it with work, spoon or the back of my hand."
"If you do I shall whip you around your filthy kitchen with your own spoon, you old broad!" snarled Èowyn.
"Why you insolent-" gasped Cook, preparing to strike Èowyn. There was a flash of steel and Elfhelm's sword was at Cook's throat, the hilt in Èowyn's steady hands.
"Why don't you try?" challenged Èowyn. For a moment, she seemed to tower over Cook, tall, fair, noble and proud. Stern was her face and fiery were her eyes. She seemed to glow a brilliant white and all the court was entralled by her.
"Èowyn!" shouted Théoden, not knowing what had befallen his niece, but mistrusting the figure who stood there, a fey look in her eyes, ready to slaughter any who dared oppose her. "You will drop your sword!"
For a moment, Èowyn turned her burning eyes on the King. Then she gasped and the sword fell from nerveless hands. The goddess of war vanished and once more she was a simple eight year-old, shaking violently. She swayed and fell backward, but Elfhelm was swift enough to catch her.
"Èowyn!" gasped Eomer, flying to his sister's side. "Oh Èowyn, I am sorry I fought you! Please don't you leave me too. Not you too!"
"Do not fear, young lord," soothed Elfhelm. "Your sister will be fine, she is just weary. Go off and play with the village boys, we will call you when she awakes."
Èomer trudged off, shooting many worried glances back at his poor sister. "I will not train this fey child!" announced Cook, near hysterics. "She is a demon and my death is in her eyes! You should get rid of her, my lord, if I may be so bold."
"No one will force you to train Èowyn," Théoden assured Cook. "Yet, you have been too forward. Èowyn is my niece and I love her as a daughter. No matter how fey, I will not 'get rid of her.' I suggest that you do not speak of this, or your job will be forfiet. Go now, take the day off."
"Of course, my lord," curtsied the Cook. "Thank you, my lord." She quickly departed.
"Come my good man, son," Théoden motioned to Théodred and Elfhelm. "We must take her to her bower."
When Èowyn had been changed and tucked in tight, King, Prince and Marshall stood watching her momentarily. "Well gentlemen," Théoden said finally. "What did you think of that?"
"If I did not know better, I would say Èowyn was taken by battlerage," Théodred said increduously.
"Battlerage?" repeated Elfhelm, eyes wide. "At her age?"
Battlerage. A dangerous disease, that if not treated properly, could prove fatal. It made the diseased unable to stop fighting, unwittingly and carelessly killing friend and foe alike. Those taken by battlerage had an uncanny knack of being very talent at weaponry even without the rage. Yet usually it came to seasoned troopers, not small children or even youth. A woman, let alone a girl, with battlerage was unthinkable. Théoden brushed his niece's hair off her face, tears in his eyes. Perhaps if the alliances between men and elves still held strong, Èowyn's malady would be naught to worry about. Yet without the elves, she was surely doomed.
For in Rohan and Gondor, there was no cure for battlerage. What would become of his sister-daughter? In the end would she be fair or fey... or worse, both?
~*~
Èowyn sat up in bed when Théodred entered her bedroom. "Good morning little one," he smiled, setting her breakfast tray down. "How do ye fare?"
"Horribly!" announced Èowyn. Seeing the look of concern on her cousin's face, she continued. "Oh I feel fine enough. I am just very very bored! Can I get up today... please?" She looked up at her cousin with pleading eyes.
"As it just so happens, my father has agreed you can get up today," announced Théodred. "But, only if you promise to go to your cooking lessons and not beat anyone with a spoon."
"Hurrah!" cried Èowyn, leaping up. Three days in bed was a sore trail for the young girl. "And I promise to do as you say."
"Very well," smiled Théodred. "Then get yourself up and change. Unless you intend to cook in your nightclothes. How would you like if I put you to bed tonight?"
"I would like it very much," Èowyn replied solemnly.
"Then I will see you then," Théodred promised. "If not before." He tapped her nose lightly, envoking a laugh.
He opened the door. "Oh, Théodred, wait!" called Èowyn. Her cousin turned to her. "Will you teach me how to use a sword, on the sly?"
Théodred blanked. "No," he said firmly. "No, I will not. Do not speak of it again."
"But Théodred," whined Èowyn.
"No Èowyn!" shouted Théodred. "Do you hear me? I suggest you lose any thoughts of being a shieldmaiden, because it will not happen. Goodbye."
Théodred closed the door firmly behind him, closing in a hurt child. He tried to block the grey eyes and their betrayal out of his mind. This was how it had to be, whether it hurt Èowyn or no. At least this way would not kill her.
~*~
"Be careful Èowyn," cautioned the young maid who was supervising her. Thelma was a fair girl, only thirteen. Her hair was a dirty blonde and her large green eyes followed Cook around in fear. "You do not want to cut you pretty little hands." Èowyn carefully sliced the large knife through the raw meat. She didn't mind cutting her fingers, but she did mind cutting her fingers off! She quickly got the hang of chopping things up. The knife felt as though it belonged in her little hands. It she were attacked right now, she would die fighting, which was satisfactory.
"Thelma!" roared Cook, storming across the large kitchen. She stopped in front of the two, bristling. She shot a fearful look at Èowyn, who stood on her stool, a confused look in her large grey eyes. The Cook turned to glower at Thelma. "I specifically told you not to let the child touch anything that could be used as a weapon!"
"How can she cook if she cannot touch a knife?" demanded Thelma.
"Silence!" bellowed Cook. "I shall have none of your insolence!" She rounded on Èowyn. "As for you- ai!" Èowyn was holding up a large salad fork. Théodred had said no spoons, but he had not mentioned any other utensils. Èowyn mustered all the strength in her little body and flayed the large woman across the stomach. She grinned rather malicioulsy at the satisfying crunch.
~*~
"Never in my wildest dreams did I think!" Théoden roared, angry eyes glowering at his niece, who was now very sorry she had hit the Cook. "Èowyn- why?"
"She was yelling at Thelma," replied Èowyn sulkily. "She had no right!"
"You had no right to do harm to our cook," Théodred remarked. He was calmer than the King, but Èowyn knew he was still frightfully angry. "I told you not to beat anyone with a spoon. You deliberately disobeyed me!"
"I did not!" snapped Èowyn. "It was a fork, and you never said anything about forks!" Théodred smoldered silently. It was undeniable she had not disobeyed in that aspect. "Why do I have to be a house tender?" demanded Èowyn. "Both mama and papa said I could be whatever I want and I want to be a Shieldmaiden!"
"You are not going to be a shieldmaiden," Théoden declared, finality in his tone. "Your parents have passed on and your upbringing lies in my hands now. I will not have a shieldmaiden for a niece. Do I make myself clear?"
Èowyn stared at him for a moment, in shock. Then she burst into tears and fled from the Golden Hall. Elfhelm made as though to go after her, but Théoden stayed him. "Let her go," he ordered. "If we must be harsh to save her, than so be it. Do not heal the wound until it has fulfilled its purposes."
~*~
Èowyn dashed to her room, crying the entire way. She yanked open the door and cast herself on to her bed, crying shamelessly. How could her beloved uncle say such horrible things to her? It was unfair! She scrubbed her face, will hardening. A noise from the adjoining room alerted her of her brother's presence. She rapped lightly on the closed door. "Come in!" called Èomer cheerfully, blissfully unaware of his sister's misery.
Èowyn opened the door. It was in this room that they kept their chamber pot, as well as a bowl for washing, a mirrior at their level and a copper tub. Èomer was standing in front of the mirrior, soap smeered all over his face and a gleaming razor in his hand.
"Èomer!" she gasped. "What are you doing?"
"Shaving," he replied. "What else, silly?"
"Where did you get that?" Èowyn inquired, pointing at the razor.
"Théodred's room," answered Èomer, peering in the mirrior again.
Suddenly an idea came to Èowyn's head. What if she...? Smiling, she continued. "Théodred's gonna be really angry with you!"
Èomer spun around, grabbing his sister by the arm. "Not if you do not tell him!" he snarled.
Èowyn angrily stomped down on his foot. He cried out in pain and let go. She fled, crying out her cousin's name.
~*~
"Èomer!" hollered Théodred. "What have you done to my razor?"
"Eh..." Èomer fumbled, shooting death glares at his sister, who looked all too smug.
"You are coming with me boy," frowed Théodred. "Honestly! The two of you would annoy a whole party of Orcs to death!" He grabbed Èomer's hand and stalked out.
"Snitch," muttered Èomer, before he was yanked out the door.
Èowyn watched them go for only a few moments. She quickly ran to her wardrobe and threw out a sack. With Èomer angry at her, no one would notice her gone until at least nightfall. She tossed some clothes and blankets into the sack, as well as the lunch that the servants had ony brought a few moments ago. She also stuffed in the food they had 'borrowed' from the kitchen for late night snacks or treats for any stray animals they might find.
Èowyn closed the sack and shouldered it. She stealthily made her way to the Golden Hall's stables. It was lunch time, so all of the stable hands were out. Her beloved pony, Brytta, was happily munching on oats in his stall, plump from much rest and little toil. "Come on Brytta,' she coaxed. "We are going for a ride." She expertly saddled him up and mounted. Shieldmaidens might be frowned upon, but in Rohan, the young and old, male and female, all knew how to ride. Èowyn put some oats into the saddlebags.
"Yah!" she cried. Brytta leapt into his waddle that was his version of a canter. Éowyn kept Brytta to the backroads; dark alleyways that none went upon save beggars and children during their games. When she reached the city gates, she waited until a party of villagers, setting out for home after a morning in the city left. She lead Brytta into the end of their party and kept her face down when she passed the guards, so as not to be noticed. As soon as they were on the plains, she veered away from the group and went in the opposite direction. After about one hour, Èowyn turned around. Edoras was very small in the distance. So this was it. She was actually running away from home. But where to go?
She had visited Minas Tirith once or twice and had greatly enjoyed the company of Théodred's friend, Boromir. Yet, Boromir would likely send her home, if he did not bring her himself. No, east was not the way. To the south were the White Mountains, and she could not hope to cross them. To the north was Fangorn Forest. She shuddered. She had heard dark tales of that land. So that meant west- to the Fortress of Helm's Deep and beyond. It was as good a way as any. With a shrug, she kicked Brytta into his rather pathetic excuse for a gallop.