Chapter 4.

5 years later

The hall seemed somber in that moment, the weavings that shimmered on the walls shone out boldly. Eorl the young rode into battle bravely, his flaxen hair shining on bright mail. Éomer stood still in the midst of it, his blue eyes showing grey in their depths. He was sixteen now and ready to prove his manhood.

Sixteen was the significant age of all young men in Rohan. Tradition stated this because at the age of sixteen, Eorl the first king of the mark had chased his father's murderer, a horse; the forefather of the mearäs over the plains. He had spared his life, and mounted him and named him anew Felaròf, and the horse bore him until the end of his days.

Through the side door Théoden entered, his mail already donned in expectation of the battle to come. Then Éowyn came forth, dressed in white, cold beauty as that of steel already blossoming forth at the age of twelve. In her hands was the raiment of war from the king's own hoard. Théoden drew closer as Éowyn helped to fasten the chain mail on Éomer.

In silence they both helped with the mail. On Éomer's head Théoden placed the helm which held no design but was sturdy and plain. In his hand Éowyn placed a round shield whose bosses were overlaid with gold and set with gems of green, white, and red. Over the corselet of chain mail they placed a green, leather coat decorated only with strange runes that likewise decorated the floor of the hall.

Then both stepped back in unison and Éowyn bowed her head in reverence as Théoden called out.

"Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden! Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward. Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded! Forth Eorlings!" His deep voice reverberated throughout the empty hall.

Éomer answered with equal fervor, "Command me!"

Éowyn raised her head, eyes shining with unshed tears. Solemnly, Théoden left the hall. Éowyn hugged Éomer, "Be careful."

"I will come back Éowyn, do not be worried! Make sure to give Lord Thode a hard time for me will you?" he said playfully tugging his sister's hair. Éowyn nodded and handed Éomer his short sword; the type used by all Rohirrim for its tactical advantages on horse. It was nameless until, as tradition stated the young man had fought his first battle, and the sword was stained with the blood of his enemy.

Éomer left then to the stables to join the other soldiers, his quick footsteps sounding loud on the stones of the hall. On this day rumors of orcs pillaging villages sent them out. Éomer was the youngest, no other young man had come to prove himself. They mounted, thirty or so strong and rode east. Éomer found himself next to a grim soldier whom he recognized as Grima son of Gàmóld, the king's advisor who now rode up front. And Théodred flanked his other side where he talked merrily and assuaged Éomer's growing fears of battle.

Grima stayed mysteriously quiet all the while, sometimes looking to the side as if expecting something. He acted strangely as if waiting for something to happen. Éomer was able to ignore it as the ride was pleasant otherwise. Summer had just recently arrived and the sun shone down warmly across the golden fields which seemed alive when rustled by a faint breeze. In fact any danger seemed miniscule while basking in the beauty of the plains.

Théodred was worried inwardly but covered it well with his talk. He feared for Éomer, and was determined to watch over him, he would not have another life on his hands. They rode for nearly two hours before finding the orc's trail. Éomer was surprised at the obvious tracks but being inexperienced did not worry over it.

The battle came at the base of a large hill, on the edge of steep drop which went down to the bank of a rushing river. The orcs attacked as they came around a bend forming the hill, first only with arrows, but then with full force towards the riders. Éomer was overcome by the sounds, smells, and sights of the scene laid before him. At first he was frozen but necessity forced him into movement. An orc attacked viciously, slashing his sword aimlessly. Éomer drove his sword into him, and pulled it out.

The metal was now stained with dark, oozing, blood. He wanted to stop and ponder the meaning of that moment when he had passed over the threshold of youth into this strange and brave new land of manhood, but he could not. More orcs came, and each had to be destroyed.

Théodred was overcome. Movement escaped him as he was overwhelmed with memories of past battles, of defeats, of the defeat. He did not know what had triggered such memories, perhaps seeing Éomer there fighting with the ferocity of his father had done it. Self-preservation urged Théodred on, his life, but more importantly Éomer's caused him to shout out his fierce battle cry and move into action as he had done so many times before.

Éomer looked to where the attack seemed fiercer. Théoden was in the midst of it. Théodred came to the same realization at that moment and the two horses sprinted to the king's aid as one. Éomer was forced to wait and make a path by hewing orc's heads to the ground. Théodred was detained in the same manner. The orcs seemed to have created a hedge around the king and a few other men, making it impossible to reach them.

Another horse hurried past in a blur. Éomer blinked several times sure his eyes were deceiving him. The orcs did not attack the rider and almost seemed to make a clear path. It was Grima.

At that moment two orcs had trapped the king. One Théoden did not see was ready to kill. As he lunged Grima met the crude sword with his own and drove his sword through the orc violently. The battle continued but few orcs remained, many had fled seemingly at the moment Grima had saved the king's life.

Éomer looked around to number the dead. One drew his attention. Grima walked towards his father's body and knelt by his side. Grima whispered unintelligible words in his father's ear. Then he rose, drawing his own dagger out from his father's heart. Éomer's breathing stopped as he looked around for another witness but there was none. He looked back and Grima was mounting his horse with a smug expression of victory on his face.

Gàmóld was the only dead man among all the riders, killed not by an orc but unbeknownst to the others by his son's hand. A voice drew Éomer from his reverie. The king was addressing Grima. "My son, I am sorry for the loss of your father, he was an honorable man who always spoke the truth. I thank you for your service in this battle and for saving my life. As heir to your father's household, I pray you will take his place as my advisor."

Éomer drew closer, joining the riders who were watching. "You honor me my lord, and I pray I may be as helpful a man to your majesty as my father," Grima bowed, mock grief in every gesture.

Éomer wanted to shout out his crime, yell Grima's sin to the whole world and run the snake through where he stood. His mind screamed "WORM!" All the men yelled a salute to Théoden and Grima. Éomer remained frozen, his eyes met Grima's and both pairs were filled with hatred for each other. Éomer knew in the depths of his heart that Grima would stop at nothing to kill him also, and every other man loyal to the king and to truth, out of his way.

The entire ride back, Éomer longed to tell Théodred but something urged him otherwise, and Grima's steely eyes were fixed on him. Now he longed to be back in the hall, he longed for Éowyn's ear but he feared for her also and resolved to keep silent. This snake seemed more dangerous than he could comprehend, ready to strike at his heel whenever unguarded.

But, he had fought in his first battle and that pride filled his chest, he was now a man. When they reached the hall after a weary ride Éowyn greeted him. "Hail man of Rohan! What have you named your sword?" she asked a bright smile on her face. Éomer turned and met Grima's gaze once more and with determination answered.

"Gùthwinë, for it shall be a battle friend to me and it will bring swift and silent death on anyone shown traitorous to Rohan." Éowyn looked concerned at her brother's tone of voice but Éomer did not look to her for reaction, he looked to Grima.

"A very good name master Éomer," he answered, and Éomer could almost see the forked tongue flicker between pale lips. "Ah, but you have not introduced me to your beautiful little sister, master Éomer," he spoke again.

Éomer's eyes lit with fire, "Nor shall I wor…" he started but was interrupted by Théodred's hearty backslap. "A very good name for your sword indeed young one." He complimented, guiding his young companion towards the bath house. Éomer looked back to see Grima talking to Éowyn who was smiling in return. It took all of his strength not to slay him at that moment.

He tried to be merry as were the other men, and revel in the compliments they gave him, but it was useless. All he could see clearly was Gàmóld dead and Grima wiping the dagger on the ground.

A worm had entered the center of their lives and the rot could already be smelt from where Éomer was standing.

Note:

Hey everyone, if you are reading my story I would really appreciate a review! This one had quite an age jump of 5 years and hopefully you will all like the plot being built here. Anyway thanx for reading! by the way the name of Éomer's sword means battle friend in old English.

Isilhén- thank you so much for your encouragement!