Disclaimer: Everything is Tolkien's except the plot, which is mine.

Chapter VII: Golden Flame

"Father."

Théoden looked down at his son, his brow creased. "What news, Théodred?"

Théodred rose. "My king, the battle goes ill. Éomer and his éored have been forced into retreat, and the army of Saruman is almost to our gates. We need a rallying point. Father, will you not come out to speak to the troops?"

Théoden frowned. "My son, I would, but I grow weak in recent times. My bones are old, and I am practically confined to this chair by my own fragility."

"My lord . . ." started Théodred, but stopped. There was no real hope of convincing his father. At least, not for him . . . he glanced to the side, to where his cousin Éowyn sat. Seeing his gaze, she shook her head, a wordless reply to a question unasked. If he could not convince the king, nor could she. There was no hope.

"Nay, Théoden King, you are not so weak yet," said a voice from the shadows. Gríma, the advisor called Wormtongue by all save the king himself, stepped forth. Théodred frowned at this assistance from such an unexpected source. He exchanged another anxious glance with Éowyn, seeing that she shared his suspicions of ulterior motives on the part of Gríma. Meanwhile, oblivious to their silent exchange, the advisor continued. "Though the burden of age does lie heavy upon you, a short trip should not be too hard on you body."

Théodred gave a mental shrug, and turned back to the king. "Gríma is correct, my liege. Come, take my arm, and I shall escort you to where our troops wait, prepared to defend our fair city."

Théoden still seemed uncertain, but at that moment the doors to Meduseld slammed back and Éothain entered at a run. All those in the hall turned to see him, and all heard his news. "Éomer has fallen, and the éored is fallen back to Edoras. We must leave the city."

"No!" cried Théodred and Gríma with one voice. As Théodred glared at his unlikely ally, Gríma said, "My king, surely this proves my point. You must address the troops."

Théoden sighed deeply, and then rose unsteadily to his feet. Swiftly, Éowyn and Théodred dashed over to support him. As they led the aged king from the Golden Hall, neither of them noted the sinister grin forming on Gríma's face, nor the way the advisor slipped out of the rear of the hall.

Théoden stood on the steps before the great hall, alone, but with Éowyn and Théodred prepared to rush to his side should he need extra support. With great effort, the king stood straighter, and began to speak,in a weak voice. "Riders of the Riddermark . . ." But he got no further. He gasped, then fell forward, displaying for all to see the arrow in his back. As Éowyn dashed to the fallen king's side – too late, for he was already dead – Théodred span around, fast enough to catch a quick glimpse of movement in the Hall's corner tower.

"Wormtongue," he snarled, and took a step towards the doors, intending to slay the treacherous advisor with his own hand. Then he span around again as the screams began.

The orcs of Saruman's army had broken down the gates of Edoras, and had begun to tear through the houses, spreading out, but still heading up the hill, to where the combined armies of Rohan milled in confusion at the loss of their leader. Théodred knew what he had to do. Stepping down beside Éowyn and the dead king, he exchanged one look with his cousin, and then spoke in a loud, clear voice.

"Riders of the Mark!"

The horsemen turned, looking away from the destruction towards their new leader. Heartened, Théodred continued. "Riders of the Mark, on this day the treachery of the wizard Saruman has taken King Théoden from us. But Saruman does not recognise the strength of the Eorlingas. When one leader falls, another will rise in his place. And so I say to you, Riders of Théodred, rise now! Ride now! Your city is burning – drive the orcs out with swords and spears and blood! Forth Eorlingas!" And with that last great cry he leapt onto his horse, which waited where he had left it but a few minutes ago, and charged off down the path, slaying orcs right and left. Behind him, the Riders of Rohan wheeled, drew their swords, and let out a great cry, charging after their king to save their city.

It was a mere ten minutes later that Théodred rode back up to the Golden Hall, stopping beside where Éowyn still knelt next to her king. Looking down at her, he said softly, "He was a great king, my cousin, but the time for mourning is not now. We have driven back the orcs, but they will come again. We must flee the city."

Éowyn did not look up, but her tone was angry. "My brother died defending this city, and now you say we must leave? I say we stand and fight!"

Théodred dismounted his horse and rested a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "If there was any hope of victory, I would agree with you in an instant. But there is none. The hordes of the wizard are greater than I would have thought possible, ten times the force we can field. There is no hope if we stay, merely a way to destroy ourselves and let all memory of our people pass from the world. We must leave."

She nodded, and then looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes. "But where shall we go, that Saruman cannot follow us?"

Théodred shook his head. "There is no such place. But listen! You shall lead the people of Edoras to Dunharrow. The éoreds and myself will guard your retreat. We can defend the Hold almost indefinitely. It is our only hope."

Éowyn sat up, her mind whirling with tactical considerations. On her face, Théodred recognised the grim look her brother had often worn, and knew that she was the best advisor he could have on that day. "The road to the Hold of Dunharrow is some twenty-five miles in length. Even if we make haste, that is a half day of travel, perhaps more with the elderly taken into account. Can you hold them off for so long?"

Théodred closed his eyes and nodded. "We must, Éowyn. If we do not, all is lost." Then he straightened, and leapt astride his horse. "Now go, dear cousin, and gather the people. Tell them to leave all that cannot be easily carried. And hurry! For Saruman's forces are already regrouping, and I fear they will attack again before nightfall. When they do so, they will find an empty city."

And so they did. Éowyn had led the people from the city within the hour, and when the orcs charged through the undefended gates in the early evening, the Rohirrim were some distance into Harrowdale. Éowyn, leading the procession with her cousin alongside her, glanced back at her home and gasped. Théodred turned in his saddle, following her gaze, and saw what had so shocked her. Flames rose over Edoras, pouring a column of smoke far into the sky. Sighing sadly, he looked down at Éowyn. "The city is burning, dearest cousin, but that which it represents lives still. The Kingdom of Rohan will never fall, and that is more important than mere buildings. The heart of our country is not in the land, but in the people."

He was about to say more, but at that moment a piercing whistle from the back of the procession caught his attention. He knew at once what it meant – the scouts had returned, and the orcs were closing in. Théodred looked down at Éowyn one more time. "Lead our people well, cousin, while I defend them from these abominations. Farewell!" With that, he turned and galloped back to his troops, while Éowyn watched him fade into the gathering gloom.

Not much to say, except that I'm trying to use lesser-known characters where I can, such as Théodred. That, and please don't kill me, Rohirrim fans.

Cloaked Eagle