A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed part 1. Hope part 2 lives up to expectations.

Chapter 2: Captured

"Lothiriel!" Eowyn shouted her greeting as she raced down the steps of the Golden Hall, too excited to adhere to the strictures of an official welcome. "You are here at last."

"Indeed I am," Lothiriel replied with a laugh. She swung down from her horse, and met her soon-to-be-cousin-in-law with a joyful hug. "Look at you. So radiant." She snatched up Eowyn's hand and pulled her towards the wagon that had accompanied her. "I can't wait to show you what I have bought for you."

"Do you have news of Faramir?" Eowyn asked breathlessly. "He is well?"

Lothiriel laughed. "He is well, indeed. Although his impatience to be wed has been trying. I swear every other sentence begins with your name."

"Only every other sentence?" Eowyn said with a mock pout. Her eyes widened as Lothiriel threw back the cover on the wagon. "Silk? And in such beautiful colours."

"We will make you a bridal wardrobe so splendid I swear my cousin will be rendered speechless for a week," Lothiriel promised. She glanced around the courtyard at the honour guard that had hastily formed on her arrival. Her good humour dimmed slightly. "Is your brother so caught up with affairs of state, he does not have time to greet guests?"

Eowyn rolled her eyes. "My brother has gone hunting. He pretends that it is to ensure a marvellous wedding feast, but I think he was simply eager to escape from Edoras."

"Oh." Lothiriel's face fell further. "I trust it was not the prospect of my presence that drove him from the Golden Hall."

"Of course not," Eowyn said. She dragged her attention away from the bales of silk and eyed Lothiriel afresh. "Why the sudden interest in my brother's whereabouts?"

Colour flooded Lothiriel's face. "I simply wished to give due greeting to the new King of Rohan."

"Lothiriel?" Eowyn didn't believe that for a moment.

The young woman sighed. "Very well. I will tell you for I know you will drag it from me. When I said that every other sentence Faramir uttered began with your name, I was speaking truth. All the other sentences began with the name of Eomer."

Eowyn frowned in confusion. "Why?"

Lothiriel gave her an exasperated look. "My cousin has been trying to match make. And although I have absolutely no desire to be wed, nor to give Faramir the satisfaction of succeeding where my father has so far failed, I must confess he has made me most curious to meet this brother of yours. Is it true he is fair of face?"

At that, Eowyn gave a peal of laughter. "If you think the back of a horse attractive, then yes."

Lothiriel's face fell. "Then what of his character? Faramir told me he was a most brave and honourable man."

"And was he drunk when he said this?" Eowyn demanded.

"Well, no." Lothiriel's distress deepened, and Eowyn suddenly took pity of her.

She linked her arm through Lothiriel's, and drew her towards the steps of the Golden Hall. "My dear cousin, I am teasing you most mercilessly. My brother is indeed brave and honourable and yes, fair of face. But you must not let him know I said so. I would never hear the end of it."

Lothiriel gave a puff of relief. "Thank goodness. For a moment, I feared it was Faramir who was playing a jest upon me."

Eowyn laughed again. "My dear Lothiriel. It would seem his match making has been most effective."

"I am merely curious to see if the reality matches the description," Lothiriel said sternly. "Nothing more."

"Of course," Eowyn said with a smile. "Heaven forbid that the most eligible princess in all of Gondor should come to a wedding in Rohan to find a husband of her own."

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"Where is the king?" Elfhelm demanded. The riders had spread out, and he had been separated from Eomer. Now he was growing uneasy as the length of time since he'd last glimpsed the king grew longer. He urged his horse forward to the group of riders to his right. "Aldred, have you seen the king?"

"Not since we passed the great oak," the rider replied.

Elfhelm swore and reined his horse to the left. "Have you seen Eomer?" he asked again. "Has anyone seen the king?" A sick dismay was pooling his stomach. It turned acidic as they shook their heads. He spun round in his saddle, desperate for a glimpse of a royal cloak or the grey of Firefoot's flanks.

"I saw him, my Lord." Fram trotted to Elfhelm's side, tugging a dead leaf from his hair. "We were together for a brief while, then he headed off with Ceorl and I lost sight of them both."

The mention of Ceorl sent a shiver across Elfhelm's shoulders. "Find the king," he said to Fram. "Find him now!" He urged his horse forward. "Eomer?" he yelled. "Where are you?" Shocked faces turned towards him, and then the cry rang through the forest. "Find the king!"

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The search seemed interminable. But then suddenly a voice shouted through the trees. "My Lord Elfhelm. To me!"

"Have you found him?" he shouted back, turning his horse in the direction of the voice.

"No, my Lord. It is Ceorl. He's been shot!"

Shot! Elfhelm felt his horse react as he tensed. If Ceorl was shot, then what of Eomer? Moments later he saw the sight for himself. Ceorl was propped up against a tree, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Elfhelm swung down from his saddle and hurried over to the young rider. His skin was ashen and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Elfhelm glanced at the arrow and concluded the injury wasn't life threatening. "Where is the king?"

The young rider looked up at him, his face pained. "Wild men," he said hoarsely. "They seemed to just come from nowhere."

"The king," Elfhelm repeated.

Ceorl licked his lips. "They attacked us. After I fell..." He grimaced and closed his eyes.

"Ceorl!" Elfhelm shook his good shoulder. "What happened to the king?"

"I don't know," Ceorl said. "After I fell... I think he pursued them." He raised his good arm and gestured to the west. "That way. I think he went that way."

"Was he injured?"

Ceorl shook his head. "No. He was unharmed." Elfhelm felt a moment of relief, but then Ceorl caught his arm. "There were so many of them, Elfhelm. If they were to turn on him..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the trees where he had said the king was last seen.

No. Elfhelm didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to believe that Eomer would be so foolish as to chase after a band of wild men on his own. Yet he knew what the young king could be like when his blood was hot. If he'd seen Ceorl fall, it was just possible he had acted without thinking.

He squeezed Ceorl's arm. "Someone will take you back to Meduseld."

"Where are you going?" Ceorl asked.

"After the king, of course."

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It was difficult to gauge how far his captors had marched him, but Eomer figured it was at least six leagues. Or perhaps it just seemed that far due to the difficulty of the journey. Sweat trickled down his face and into his eyes, half-blinding him. The gag was not only uncomfortable it made it difficult to draw enough air into his lungs for the pace at which they were travelling. And with his hands bound behind him, his sense of balance was off. Three times he'd been tripped by tree roots and, unable to right himself, had hit the forest floor hard and fast. His right shoulder was sure to be a mass of bruises. Plus, he was acutely aware of the tip of a sword aimed squarely between his shoulder blades. All in all, this hunting adventure was proving to be nothing like the enjoyable outing he'd envisioned.

A soft huff of breath to his left told him Firefoot wasn't impressed either. At first the men had attempted to lead his horse by the reins. Firefoot had immediately battled with them, snorting in indignation, and only Ceorl's intervention had prevented the men from firing their arrows to silence him. "He will follow the king unbidden," Ceorl had said. Sure enough, Firefoot had kept pace with them through the wood - every quiver of his muscles radiating his unhappiness that his master was travelling on foot.

Despite all of this, Eomer refused to be despondent with the state of affairs. He didn't for one moment believe that his captors did not care whether he lived or died. If that were true his blood would be staining the forest floor already. No. They were taking him to someone. He was sure of it. And that meant that they needed him alive, no matter what they might say in an attempt to frighten him into submission. Sooner or later he would get a chance to escape. And when he did, Firefoot would be ready for him.

The trees were beginning to thin now, and ahead Eomer caught sight of five tethered horses. Four were decent enough looking animals, but the fifth was in a sorry state. It barely looked strong enough to carry the worn saddle on its back, never mind a man. Beyond the horses, the trees gave way to a stretch of open plain. Further still was a range of craggy hills. Was that where they were heading?

A hand on his shoulder jerked him to a halt at the horses. He felt fingers fumble at the knot of his gag and then, to his sincere relief, he was allowed to spit the material from his mouth. He worked his aching jaw and prodded at the sore skin to either side of his mouth with a tongue that was as dry as desert.

"We will rest a moment," the leader of his captors said. He moved to one of the horses and retrieved a waterskin from one of the saddlebags.

"Who are you?" Eomer asked, trying not to reveal his thirst by following the progress of the water skin as it was passed from hand to hand.

"Our names are not important."

"Very well. From now on I will refer to you as Horsedung. The man over there with the red hair will be..." The man's arm moved so fast Eomer barely had time to register what was coming before the open-handed slap snapped his head to one side. One day he would learn to keep as a tight rein on his mouth as he did on an untried horse. He slowly turned his head back, and met his captor's gaze with defiance.

The man glared at him. "You will show respect."

"I will not show respect to one not brave enough to give me his name," Eomer threw back. He licked moisture from his lip, realised it was blood, and wondered if he had lost his grip on reason. Was this really worth a split lip? Yes, he decided. If only because he knew it was not so easy to kill someone who had called you by name.

"Selred," the man snapped. "That is what I will answer to." He eyed Eomer afresh. "So it is true what they say of you."

"And what would that be?" Eomer asked.

"That where Theoden-King was as cool as the winter's snow, you are as hot- blooded as an unbroken stallion."

"Why don't you untie me and find out?" Eomer challenged. Today, apparently, was not the day he'd learn to hold his tongue.

"Believe me, my Lord King, nothing would give me more pleasure than to break your infamous spirit. Sadly, I do not have the time for such an indulgence." Selred took the waterskin from one of his companions, drank deeply, and then - to Eomer's dismay - returned it to the saddlebag. With an exaggerated bow, he gestured Eomer towards the sad specimen of a horse. "Your mount awaits."

Eomer gave a snort and glanced towards Firefoot. "You would offend my stallion by having me ride such a creature?"

"Your horse will not be travelling further with us."

Horror was like a fist in his gut. They intended to kill Firefoot? Despite himself, Eomer knew his face gave away his distress. To his surprise, though, Selred shot him a look of sympathy.

"We are not that cold-blooded," he said. "We merely intend to drive him back into the forest. It matters not if his protests are now heard. Indeed, it will serve our purposes if he is found."

"You do not need to drive him away," Eomer said, not wanting to think how the men might achieve that. Firefoot would certainly not make the task easy for them. "He will not follow if I command him otherwise."

Selred studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."

Heavy-hearted, Eomer turned towards Firefoot and softly called his name. The horse immediately came to him. Standing before him, it gently nuzzled at his chest. His hands still bound, Eomer did what he could to reassure him. He rested his forehead against Firefoot's long face, feeling the warmth of the animal's body against his own.

"Make him stand," Selred commanded, his gaze on Eomer's sword, which was lashed to the saddle. "I will have that weapon before he leaves."

Reluctantly, Eomer did as he was bid. Once the sword was removed, he looked Firefoot in the eye, his face stern. "Go home!" he commanded, nodding towards the wood. Firefoot stared back at him, intelligence and defiance in his eyes. Eomer met his gaze sternly. "Do as you're told," he said. Go home!" With a huff of breath, Firefoot stepped forward and butted Eomer hard in the chest, letting him know exactly what he thought of the royal command. Eomer glowered at him, even though Firefoot's determined loyalty touched him deeply. "Go home!" he repeated tersely. "Go!"

With an indignant flounce of his head, Firefoot turned and headed into the trees. A heavy weight settled on Eomer's shoulders as his equine companion disappeared from view. He was truly alone now.

Two of men manhandled him on to his new mount. He could feel its ribs beneath his legs, and he wished he were a lighter load for it to bear. He murmured a soft apology to it, and was rewarded for his compassion by a sharp look from Selred.

"Do not think to win his favour," he said. "He responds to naught except a riding crop across his rump."

Eomer didn't reply to that. The horse might not respond to Selred, but it had already registered his presence on its back albeit with only the slightest twitch of an ear. He relaxed into the saddle, settling his weight as best he could for the animal's comfort, and tried to bring to mind the long conversations he'd had with Legolas following Sauron's defeat. Elven magic. He'd been sceptical at first. But then he'd seen the way the Elven prince could persuade a horse to do things that he would scarce have believed possible. The words themselves carry much power, Legolas had told him. Though no Elf blood flows through your veins, you may still be able to draw upon them if your need is sufficient. He certainly had need now. But could he remember the words? And, once remembered, could he force his tongue to form the gentle vowels of the Elvish language.

Mounted now, Selred came up behind him and smacked the horse sharply with his crop. The animal lurched into a reluctant walk. So confident were they that the horse would not respond to Eomer, they'd simply tied the animal's reins short about his neck. Not that Eomer could use them with his hands tied behind his back. There was more to controlling a horse than a bit and bridle though. As they set off across the plains, he began to experiment with a gentle pressure from first one leg, then the other. The horse seemed oblivious.

Not wanting to draw attention to what he was doing, Eomer leaned forward as far as he dared and murmured one of the Elvish words Legolas had taught him. Nothing. No response. He tried again, adjusting his pronunciation, trying to roll his tongue around the word. And this time he was rewarded with a twitch of an ear. He tried again, smoothing the vowels even more, and his mount's ears pricked up. Sitting back he now combined the two – elvish words and his own skill as a horseman. To his delight the creature began to veer to the left. Quickly he corrected the movement, bringing the animal back in line with the column. Relaxing back into the saddle, he smiled to himself. He had control. Now he just needed to find a way to put it to good use.

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Elfhelm's heart grew heavier as the sun travelled across the sky. Soon it would be dusk and then night. Already the shadows were lengthening, stealing his hope that he might look up and see Eomer crashing through the trees towards him, a triumphant look on his face and the blood of Ceorl's attackers on his sword.

Wildmen. Surely they would be no match for the king. Eomer had proven his skill and intelligence as a warrior time after time. Indeed, the favourite song in the alehouses of Rohan was of the Marshall who had bought down two Mumakhil with a single spear - a deed that the Rohirrim took much pleasure in pointing out surpassed the exploits of the much praised Prince of Mirkwood. A handful of Wildman was nothing in comparison. So where was he?

Elfhelm shivered as his mind supplied unwelcome images of injured and dying men. He still remembered the dark blow of finding Theodred lying fatally wounded at the Ford of Isen, his chest bloody and torn. Losing his prince had been devastating. Yet worse was to come. He had been there when they found Theoden's broken body. It had fallen on his shoulders to say what had to be said. 'The king is dead. Long live the king.' They hadn't known where Eomer was then either. Had not known if he'd lived or died. Indeed, the words had come from his mouth more as a prayer than a declaration. It had seemed like an eternity passed before the new king of Rohan - ignorant of his status - had suddenly appeared as though from nowhere, stumbling towards them, filthy, blood-stained and with his sister's apparently lifeless body in his arms.

Those had been dark days. Days Elfhelm had hoped not to revisit. He did not think his heart could bear to lose another king. Another friend.

"My Lord Elfhelm." Fram drew up beside him. "It will be dark soon and our horses grow weary. What should we do?"

He knew the answer but it weighed heavily on him to utter the words. "Tell the men we will make camp here. At first light we will resume the search."

Fram nodded obediently, but Elfhelm saw the look in his eyes. If they had not found Eomer today, the chances of doing so tomorrow were slim. The chances of finding him alive even more so.