Two

The next morning was the same. Éomer walked into the stables to find Arìanna already there, tending to her horse. Her face visibly brightened as he appeared, and he felt a jump in his stomach at her fresh features.

"Good morning, Arìanna."

"Good morning, Éomer," she replied courteously. "I see you have risen early again. Are you leaving for the westfold?"

"I am. Théodred wants the herds moved." He picked up a saddle and buckled the girth on Firefoot as he spoke. "He asks for my help. It will take a few days, but it is not an arduous job."

"Aye. Frinan is staying with his éored to make sure the horses don't go back during the night."

"We're only there during the day," he answered, and they continued in pleasant talk for a while, until Éomer returned to the subject of Frinan. "We spoke last night and he seems a nice enough lad. He works hard?"

"Yes. He is always home, determined to look after us!" she laughed, the sound as rich and new as a cold, clear mountain stream running over smooth pebbles.

"Ah, but Freyja and yourself seem so capable." There was a hesitation in her voice as Arìanna replied;

"But my grandmother is ill, Éomer. And I cannot do two chores at once, though I wish it." He frowned, recalling her words the previous morning.

"But, you said that Freyja went well." Arìanna blushed and turned to him, her eyes searching his.

"I cannot lie. I believe she dies, Éomer. My respite is with my horse, Caradien, because it breaks my heart to see her frailty. The same frailty that stole my mother and seeks to claim her." Éomer was startled by her outburst, and even more surprised to see tears shining in Arìanna's eyes.

It surprised Arìanna too. She hadn't even spoken about it with her brother. But, standing now, in the quiet, peaceful, stables, with the king's nephew, she felt she had to say it. The words hung in the air, and she could no longer deny the truth. The truths that haunted her – that her mother was really dead, and her grandmother was dying. She hung her head in overwhelming shame. Her nervous demeanour of before returned as she buried herself in grooming Caradien, who seemed to sense her mistresses distress.

"I am sorry, Arìanna, to disturb you so. If I had known –"

"How could you have guessed?" she laughed bitterly. "Even my brother does not realise the severity of our situation. Oh, please, Éomer, I pray for you not to tell him." He saw the pleading in her eyes, her emotion so openly displayed.

"My ears are my own," he said reassuringly. "I could not, and would not, breathe a word." She smiled thankfully.

"Thank you, Éomer. You are truly noble." He laughed aloud at this, and she blushed, but he reassured her of his jest, and then bade her fare well.

"Until I see you again. Perhaps on the morrow?" Arìanna bowed her head in a nod.

"I shall be sure of it."

………

Firefoot pranced beneath Éomer's steady hands as he scanned the landscape before him. He stood on a hillock of tough tundra – thick, brittle grasses, dotted with yellow stonecrops. He felt restless and distracted, and it was reflected in his horse's nervy movements. His éored waited patiently for his command – but none came forth.

"Milord," came a grave voice. He turned to his second-in-command, Éothain. "The prince's éored closes in on the herds in the Westemnet. He calls for your help to drive them nearer to Edoras now." His gaze was steady, pressing Éomer with the importance of commanding his troop.

"Then we shall ride to his side," Éomer replied, digging in his heels and leading the way down the grassy slope towards the northern corners of the westfold.

The herd was a twenty-minute ride from the Fords of Isen. It was one of the biggest that Rohan had – near on sixty horses; mares, stallions, and foals roiled in a near-panicked frenzy as Théodred's éored drove them southwards in a direct line. Éomer cantered towards his cousin, hailing him with a raised hand and booming voice. Théodred replied, a broad smile on his face. The wind had tossed his hair about, and sparked his eyes brightly. Éomer instructed for his éored to spread out and help the drive. He studied his cousin closely as they rode, pausing only briefly for food and drink. None could deny Théodred his good looks. He was the pride of the king, and the women swooned at his charmed feet. He was diplomatic and strong – a good leader, and, one day, a good king. Éomer hoped that duty would not call too soon, though by Gríma's tongue, it would be so. His poisoning was weakening his uncle – making him feeble and susceptible to corruption. It angered Éomer to see Théoden King in such a way – wizened and weak before his time.

In that day, the herd was driven southwards and some way eastwards. Their progress was good, and spirits were high. Éomer had the opportunity to speak to Frinan as they were collecting firewood for the night-watch. Frinan had a bundle of wood that threatened to topple precariously, and Éomer took pity on him. He took some of the wood before greeting Frinan.

"It has been a good day," he said amicably. Frinan grinned.

"Yes, Éomer. It has," he shrugged, the wood rattling ominously before he threw them unceremoniously on the floor. "I hope the night will not bring too much drama. We are still to close to the Fords for me to feel comfortable." Éomer frowned and looked in the direction of the Isen.

"I agree, Frinan. But there is naught to do about it now. Just rest, take your watch, and my éored and I will return on the morrow."

"Thank you, Éomer. You are a good marshal," Frinan grinned as he struck flint to stone for a spark. Éomer laughed.

"Nay. I am simply a good leader."

- - -

Arìanna had ridden Caradien far, but she still could not stray because of her grandmother. Freyja had woken that morning with a bad cough, and when Arìanna had handed her a handkerchief, she saw spots of blood on the white cloth when Freyja coughed. It concerned her, as even the tea she had brewed had not eased her grandmother's suffering. Yet… her mind wandered. She was sat on a hillock, twirling a simblëmyne between forefinger and thumb. A breeze tugged at her emerald green skirts, and grazed her hair over her face. Caradien grazed nearby, copper-coloured buckles clinking slightly as she moved one foot at a time. Her mind roved over the imprinted memories of Éomer. His scent that was heady and oddly familiar, his feline stance, the soothing timbre of his voice as he spoke and the unexpected burst of his laughter – that doused the soul in a cool, clear freshet. She shook her head to free the thoughts, and let the delicate white petals of the flowers drop to the ground as she stood. Whistling sharply to call Caradien, she turned her eye back to Edoras, and her sick grandmother.

"Freyja?" Arìanna called softly as she entered the dim cool of the house. Freyja had refused the use of 'grandmother' from a young age, as she said it made her feel old. There was no answer. "Freyja?" she called a little louder, peering in her bedroom. The bed was unmade, she must be in the apothecary room, which was at the back of the house. She opened the door, and a blast of cold air hit her. Freyja sat on her stool, grey-haired head bent over a pestle and mortar. She was muttering and coughing to herself. "Freyja," Arìanna tutted. "It is too cold for you to be up. Come back to bed, and I will make you tea."

"No. No tea, Ari. I am perfectly healthy," replied the stern voice that had haunted Arìanna's footsteps from childhood. Arìanna laughed, sitting alongside Freyja and watching the healer ground up herbs expertly.

"As you wish Freyja." Freyja coughed into the back of her hand. It was wrinkled and shrunken, but no less deft in its work. As she retrieved the pestle, Arìanna saw the bright red spots of blood, and her heart sank. She rose sharply. "It is too cold in here. I will warm myself by the hearth," she said shortly, and strode from the room. In the kitchen, she sank weakly into a chair and buried her face in her hands. There, she sobbed long and unashamedly. Her tears burnt her pale cheeks, and flushed them red. Her eyes stung, and her fingers were wet and salty. Dusk drove around the house, but still she cried. She cried for the aching loneliness she felt in her heart, and she cried for stubborn grandmother – who was strong in her youth, and wilful in her age.