Hey everyone, thanks so much for stopping by to read my story! This will hopefully be the first of a series centering around the lives of the Kings of Rohan, working backwards from Éomer.

Disclaimer: I'm only going to put this here one time, I do not own LOTR in any entity (movie or book) and I do not own any characters, dates, locations etc. that are of the LOTR trilogy. I do own all original characters never mentioned in his books and the story line is my interpretation of the timeline of Éomer's life. Thank you.

Again I hope you all enjoy this, and in further chapters please see the end for responses to reviewers!

Part 1. White Horse upon Green

Chapter 1.

"Ride on, ride on, soldiers of Eorl!" The marshal shouted above the deafening noise of horse's hooves on ground, and men's war cries. The orcs were retreating; the Rohirrim had chased them for a long time, and over many miles to fight and now the remaining survivors were in close reach. The ground was hard, and vegetation scarce as spring was just beginning to arrive in the plains. The sun seemed bright and new as if returning for the first time from its winter solstice.

Éomund the second marshal of the Mark looked over to his nephew Théodred, who was riding with the company for the first time. The young man's face was all exuberance. His smile shone joyfully and fiercely against the stains of battle on his face and armor.

"Ride on!" they shouted in unison, feeling any moment their elation would carry them above the whole scene and into a land of inexpressible joy. Honor was their food and glory their sweet, strong drink. However glory is intoxicating.

On the borders of Emyn Muil, the survivors slowed, and turned to face their attackers. The riders slowed, and Éomund saw Théodred's confused look but raised his hand confidently.

"Do not leave them alive, kill them all," he shouted. Théodred looked at the foreboding spires of rock worriedly. Some deep fear seemed to tug at his heart when he saw the jagged points against the sky which was quickly filling with clouds.

Five or six soldiers moved forward to kill the orcs. An archer strung his bow and let it loose, instantly it found its target in the orc's heart. Men started to yell, startled. Éomund looked back, the archer was dead. As his arrow had found its mark, so had another arrow taken his own life. Éomund turned around dumbfounded.

Leering faces answered his question. "A trap!" he heard his nephew shout. Arrow met with flesh as their opponent was revealed. A company of orcs had lain in wait in the rocks to trap the riders. Men fell off their horses, as the orcs ventured into the fray. Éomund plunged his spear deep into an orc's heart, much as he had done many times before. But this time it was different, in his heart, he knew they would not win.

Frantically, he looked for his nephew, until finally he saw him. Théodred was in combat with an orc and not far off was another, with a crude black arrow aimed at Théodred's heart. Many thoughts passed through Éomund's mind; none regretting his final action.

Éomund, second marshal of the mark thought of his family as he urged his horse forward. Only of his wife, as he fought through the crowd; of his children, dear things and their future; and finally of Théodred his nephew who would one day be king.

Théodred glanced up as his uncle's horse trampled the orc with whom he was engaged. Horrified, he fell to his knees as a black arrow pierced his uncle's neck, an arrow, undoubtedly meant for him. Then all was black and he knew no more.

Théodred woke but did not open his eyes immediately. He did not know what had happened, had he fainted? No he decided, but when he opened his eyes it seemed different altogether. The light made his head spin and his stomach lurch. Éomund, the memories came flooding back, each one like a searing slap in the face. He was still on his horse, but Emyn Muil was gone, and so was his uncle.

Determined to find the battle grounds again, Théodred took in the surroundings. He would not leave his uncle's body to rot or worse, on some unknown plain. He recognized the place now; he was only some ways off from his destination, near the mouths of Entwash. Shrubs and such plants gave proof to this conclusion, as they surely fed from the moisture in the area. But first he would let his horse rest. He had undoubtedly carried Théodred to safety, and then stood still with his burden for many hours.

Slowly the young man dismounted, clenching his fists in pain. His muscles were a throbbing, misplaced mass with no inkling as to their appropriate uses. Théodred took a small amount of food from the bag and left Aros to graze.

Exhausted, he collapsed and did not move. With much effort, he forced his hand to his mouth and stuffed the bread in. It was soggy and slightly moldy but Théodred forced his teeth to grind, and his jaw to press down and retract in a fashion that he would laugh to see himself if, he had the energy. Hours later, he forced himself up with a groan, and mounted unsteadily, the memories were not forgotten. He urged his horse to a gallop and hoped that he was not too late to bury his dead.

He was not. Théodred leaned over and retched. His eyes would not look at the slaughter. Orcs were to blame, the filthy victors who had killed the riders and then, feasted. After that, Théodred did not notice when he threw up, it became as natural in that time as breathing, until there was nothing left in his stomach, and then he gagged. With resolution, he dismounted, and started to dig. His hands became scratched and worn and ragged. Finally he took up a man's broken spear and bound to it a wayward breastplate with an orcish whip.

Then he proceeded at the same pace, using his make-shift shovel. All the while he thought of his uncle and the black arrow meant for himself. Once he rested and only once, though his body begged for more. Two days, two nightmarish days in which he had sweat and bled and it was done. Now he buried his dead, all the while looking for his uncle and mourning for the lost. He did not find it embarrassing to cry, openly sob, for death had struck a foul blow.

Then he found it, a body, mutilated as the others, but with an arrow through the neck and a helmet with a plume of white horse hair, spotted with dried blood. He carefully laid it in the grave and looked away. Time was meaningless, the twenty or so riders whose bodies could be buried, were.

Dirt was thrown over and Théodred planted the spears in a circle on the burial place. His uncle's helmet he placed in the middle of the mound, with no desire to keep it. He mounted his horse and was glad to be facing home and not yet another dead man's body.

Théodwyn watched the water flow over her hands numbly. "He saved my life." Théodred said softly fingering his helmet sadly, not wanting to meet his aunt's eyes.

"And he would." The silence engulfed the room. Sorrow seemed to fill every corner, the fire and inviting chairs no longer held any comfort. The dancing flames seemed very cold.

"We were unprepared."

"He was ever unprepared. Hasty in his attacks, with few men. He just always had good fortune before now. It was folly."

"He was brave. Your husband died with his honor," he looked up and Théodwyn turned to him forlornly, sorrow intertwined with the blue of her eyes.

"My husband was ever brave, and never wise. What has he left us now? His honor will not greet my children every night, nor teach Éomer how to ride well." Droplets of water splashed onto the ground, silently, from her outstretched hands.

Théodred said nothing, but rose and gathered her in his arms. "No, no it will not."

The children cried that night. Éowyn sobbed, and Éomer upon learning he was now the man of the house sniffled, keeping the tears in check, with all the dignity of his eleven year old tear ducts. Théodred tucked Éomer in awkwardly and bade the children farewell. Then Éomer lay in the darkness and attempted to sleep. He could not. His father was gone, and the responsibilities weighed on his shoulders like an overfilled bag of meal, each one pressing him closer to the ground. Somehow, he had to stop himself from falling under the weight.

He could still see his father smoothing the mane of his horse and helping Éomer into the saddle in front of him. The horse had seemed so tall to him when he had first mounted. His father's strong arms had encircled him and guided the horse onto the plains, down the familiar dirt road towards the other horse herder's homesteads. The sun had shone in the sky warming his head. He remembered watching his father's silhouette on the ground and realizing how tall he was.

Lying in his bed he saw the silhouette once more, of the horse, now his father had disappeared from the shadow and all that remained was the slight, thin, wavering outline of himself. He was alone on the horse, alone in the world, alone to the responsibility of taking care of his mother and sister. Utterly alone.

Note: Yes, sadly I have begun to take the musical lyrics off of my story. This is very hard for me since I believe all mine were properly accredited and added something special to the story. I will still put them on the story and you can email me if you would like to recieve the chapters with the lyrics intact.