KNOW THY PLACE – Part 1

White. The world was white, but it was not the soft whiteness of gently falling snow that made it a joy to ride under the open skies. No, the air was a savage white beast, assaulting him with a thousand of needle pricks whenever he dared to lift his head in search of the path, throwing its load of ice crystals at him with gale-force winds.

It was hopeless. No direction could be kept in this storm which had darkened their surroundings to the point where not even the most experienced of the miserable warriors trapped in these elements could tell whether it was still day or already night. There was no light for orientation; neither from the sun, nor the moon or stars. All was swirling, grey-white and biting cold. Éomer knew not how their scout was supposed to find the farm they were headed for under these conditions, but he knew one thing for certain: if Arnhelm failed, they would die. Already he could sensel his horse's exhaustion underneath him. Stormwing's face was ice-encrusted; her breath rising in white clouds in ragged bursts as she sought her way through the accumulating snow.

Hunched over her neck in search for a little cover and miserably trying to keep his heavy fur-lined cloak wrapped around him, Éomer heard Éothain cough somewhere behind him. It was a hard and dry cough, and already the night before it had hit him that his friend was in trouble. Éothain obviously had run a slight fever then, and when he had mounted this past morning, he had looked pale except for the dark circles underneath his eyes. More than all of them, he needed shelter and a warm bed, and preferably a warm meal. The blizzard had hit them unexpectedly, the clouds moving so fast that it had already been too late to make for one of the distant villages when the first signs of it had revealed themselves. Understanding, however, the danger rolling toward them, Captain Elfhelm had ordered their éored to disperse and make for the nearest settlements in four different groups, as he knew these to be only small and not able to accommodate an entire host of riders. Thus their group of only fifteen riders was making for a farm in one of the valleys of the Ered Nimrais like their scout had suggested, and while the narrow winding path eliminated the chance of getting lost on the way, it also channelled the wind and makes the ride an excruciating experience for horses and riders alike. Also, Éomer's glance repeatedly went up to where the mountain tops disappeared underneath the swirling grey. Even if it was impossible to see the snow accumulating on the slopes, he knew that it was there, threatening to bury them if the storm blew its mass loose. He could not tell for how long they had been riding through this white inferno, but he could not wait to leave the narrow path they were currently travelling through. Just when he had finished the thought, the mountains retreated and gave way to a broad valley he could rather sense than see.

"We're almost there! Follow me!" Up ahead, Arnhelm forced his exhausted steed into a reluctant gallop, and Éomer kicked his heels into Stormwing's flanks to catch up, not quite daring to hope just yet that their ordeal would end. Yet soon enough dim lights appeared through the snow like a mystical vision, only solidifying to reality when they have almost reached the battered group of wooden huts at the end of the valley.

Finally, out of the cold! It was the only clear thought Éomer was capable of as he slid from the saddle and led his exhausted mare into the barn, leaving the wind to angrily roar its fury over their disappearance outside. Around him, the men began to unbridle their mounts with numb fingers. It was still cold enough in the building to see their own breath, but at least they were out of the biting storm. Fighting with the ice-encrusted tack, Éomer whispered soothing words into Stormwing's pricked ears and gently rubbed the mare's cheeks and nose in an attempt to get both her and his hands warm. Behind him, Éothain led his gelding in with stiff legs. A short glance confirmed how awful he looked, and a moment later, another hard cough fit rattled his lanky frame.

"Let me handle Scatha, Éothain," Éomer said, seeing Elfhelm approach them over the young rider's shoulder and feeling the other men's attention on them. "You should take your bedroll and lie down immediately."

"But I can do that," his friend protested not very convincingly. It was a rule set in stone that before a rider would see to his own comfort, he first had to take care of his steed. It was a rule none ever would question. "And it will get me warm, too."

"You look as if you are already far too warm, son," Elfhelm's deep voice cut into their discussion. "And you also look as if you can hardly manage to stay on your feet."

"It is not –"

"You will lie down immediately, Éothain. I do not know when we will move on, but an ill rider will slow us down. See to it that you get some respite. Fréalaf will tend to your horse."

"But I can do that for him," Éomer objected, not understanding why the captain would not allow him to take care of his friend's errands. Determined grey eyes turned toward him.

"No, you cannot, Éomer, because you will accompany Arnhelm and me outside. Leave the tack on your mare and come over here."

Speechless at the sudden prospects of having to head back into the raging elements, Éomer exchanged a brief glance with Éothain before he followed the order and approached Elfhelm, who was already back in discussion with the young woman who had granted them shelter. Finally getting his first thorough look at their host, Éomer furrowed his brow at the realisation that she seemed extraordinarily young to be alone on this farm, and not only that, but caring for three little children, too. The smallest one sat heavily clothed on her arm and regarded the fierce Rohirrim talking to them with obvious distrust, while the other two, who were already old enough to walk, half hid behind their mother's legs and only peered at them with reluctance, afraid. Coming to a halt next to his captain, Éomer gave the young mother another glance and found himself confirmed. She could not be much older than he, if she even was. And the oldest of her children had at least seen four, if not five summers. Did they indeed start so early in these outer reaches of the Mark?

Before he could further ponder the answer to his question, their scout halted to his left, and Elfhelm turned toward them, his face grim.

"Freya here just told me that her father and brother are still out there. The storm probably surprised them as much as it surprised us. Since she is offering us shelter, the least we can do to repay her kindness is look for her family and bring them home safely. Do you feel up to it? Arnhelm?"

"Of course, captain."

"Aye, captain." Éomer fought to keep the rising dread from his expression as a particularly strong gust of wind howled along the barn. Béma, he had hardly succeeded in getting the blood circulating in his fingers again yet. But as the young woman's thankful gaze found him, he nonetheless found himself attempt an encouraging smile with his half-frozen face.

"I assume they have sought cover somewhere in the outer fringes of these hills here," Arnhelm mumbled, already concerning himself with the map. "The terrain is quite rugged and should have many suitable cornices and caves. We might be back even before darkness falls if they are there."

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am, my lord," their host brought out, gently rocking the babe in her arm as it began to weep. "My family has been living here for generations, and my father knows the terrain well, but this is an unusually fierce storm, and a hard winter. We even had wolves circling our farm over the past weeks, because they can find no other food, and I am concerned."

"If there are wolves, they better see to it that they don't cross our path," Elfhelm grumbled, one hand on the hilt of his sword "But let us not stand here idle and chat. The sooner we ride, the sooner we will be back." He opened the barn door, and driving snow at once blew into the relative warmth of their shelter. Taking his heart in both hands, Éomer followed his captain and the scout outside.

It was astonishing, but the storm was still gaining strength. Whereas before it had only slowed down their proceeding with poor visibility and occasional strong gusts, it was now attacking them with the savageness of a hungry predator, pushing and pulling at them and sucking the warmth out of their bodies through the layers of clothes they were wearing. Visibility had decreased to the point where it was virtually non-existent, and as he looked repeatedly back to orient himself, Éomer found to his concern the light from the huts already vanished and not even the mountains enclosing them visible. They were riding through a swirling world of grey and white, a world without directions, and he deemed it quite possible for them to freeze to death almost at the doorstep to the farm without finding their way back. All he could still see and all he concentrated upon was the indistinct shape of his comrade in front of him. If Arnhelm lost the way, they would die.

Shivering miserably under the layers and layers of clothes he was wearing, Éomer almost bumped into the scout's horse as the older man suddenly pulled on the reins and held up his hand, shouting:

"Do you hear that?"

Straining his ears for anything apart from the constant angry roar of the gales around them, Éomer straightened in the saddle. For a moment, he thought he heard something; a snarl, almost drowned out from the elements, but definitely not the wind. He tensed and concentrated harder, and thus was caught unprepared when Stormwing suddenly reared. He landed in the snow with a soft thud, his face burning from the cold whiteness, and embarrassed to the bones.

"Éomer? Are you all right? What happened?"

Elfhelm's concerned voice sounded as if the captain was at least a quarter-league away as Éomer scrambled to his knees and knocked the snow from his front.

"I—" Four pairs of pale yellow eyes suddenly appeared through the swirling snow and locked on him with deadly intent. Instantly going for his sword, Éomer's numb fingers locked around the hilt. "Wolves!"

He jumped to his feet, but was knocked over when a great weight crashed against him from behind, and the impact knocked Gúthwine from his hands. Even while he was falling, he saw the eyes in front of him jump, and the dark shapes surrounding them solidified into snarling faces and bared fangs flying toward him. Then suddenly a great dark silhouette blocked them from his view, and he heard an anguished yelp.

"On your feet, lad!"

Éomer tried to comply, but was suddenly thrown forward as again something crashed into him. A furious growl next to his ears and a hard tug at his hair told him that the wolf had sunken its fang into his hood. Not even attempting to find his sword in the snow, he went for his dagger instead and lashed out. The pull on his hood ceased, but only a heartbeat later, teeth closed around his wrist with great pressure and made him drop the blade with a yell. Beating at his opponent with his free fist, Éomer threw himself at the wolf, acting on instinct. His arm locked around the animal's neck as he pulled it down with his greater weight, his wrist still in its maw and the pressure mounting as he sunk his knee into the wolf's flank with all the force he could muster.

"Left, Éomer!"

Arnhelm's voice was coming from directly behind him, and instinctively he shifted his weight to the left, just as the scout's lance cut through the space he had occupied a heartbeat before to skewer the predator. For a moment, the pressure intensified to the point where Éomer expected his bones to crack – and then he was released so suddenly that he fell back forcefully in the snow… and landed on something hard. His sword! Pullling it out from underneath him just as another pair of yellow eyes advanced, Éomer thrust it into the swirling snow in front of him. A brief moment of resistance… and then the blade sunk into the predator's chest, killing it so fast that it died without a noise. More movement behind him. Whirling around on his knees, the bloodied blade scythed through the air.

"Ho! Ho, lad! It is only me! They are gone. Have mercy on your captain!" Open concern coloured Elfhelm's tone as the captain slid from his saddle to look for the youngest member of his éored. "Are you hurt?" Extending a hand, he helped Éomer to his feet and already saw the answer to his question in a red line which wound down its way his opposite's face from underneath the hood. "Let me see that."

"I am fine," Éomer objected, still feeling mainly embarrassed over having fallen from his horse. Even the older warriors were looking to him for his riding skills. Now he had most certainly ruined his reputation as one of the best riders of the Mark, something he had been furiously proud of. Carefully, he opened and closed the fingers of his right hand and grimaced. It appeared that nothing was broken, but by Morgoth's stinking breath, it hurt! Meanwhile, the captain had pulled back his hood and smoothed aside a strand of hair to look.

"Ah, 'tis but a scratch. You were lucky, son. Your hood, however, is a lost cause." Elfhelm nevertheless looked dismayed over having the youngest member of his éored wounded in a battle which had not been necessary, but there was also pride in his expression. "You handled that well, Éomer. You moved fast and were not frozen by fear when they attacked you. You even killed one of them yourself, and if Arnhelm had not speared the other one, I am sure you would have strangled it."

"They were only wolves," Éomer rebuked with more self-assuredness than he was actually feeling. Now that the battle was over, he realised with embarrassment that his legs were starting to tremble, and he was glad when Arnhelm rode up to him to press Stormwing's reins into his hand.

"Only wolves!" roared Elfhelm as he ruffled his apprentice's hair with amusement. "That is the spirit! Let's tie our trophies to our horses and bring them back with us, for they've got very thick, very warm fur. You will be glad to have it before this winter is over." He was in the process of unfastening the length of rope from his saddle when suddenly another voice could be heard over the howling wind, and the next moment, two dark shapes, a tall and a smaller one, stumbled toward them.

"Béma be blessed! Thank you! Thank you, my lords!" The man was barely recognisable underneath the heavy layers of wool and fur he had wrapped around him, but the Rohirrim did not doubt for a moment that they had finally found whom they had come to find. "We sat on that outcropping there for hours after the pack of wolves encircled us, and then the storm came! You saved us! Say 'Thank you!' Halad!"

"Thank you, my lords!" Even through his cloak, it was obvious that the lad was at the end of his strength, shivering violently. Éomer estimated that he could not be older than ten summers. Very young to be outside in these conditions. Feeling awkward, he concerned himself with tying up the dead wolves and fastening the other end of the rope to Stormwing's saddle.

"'tis nothing," Elfhelm said with a dismissive gesture. "Your daughter sent us. It is the least we could have done after she offered my men shelter for as long as this storm lasts. But let us not talk. It is getting dark, and I think we all will feel better with a roof above our heads and a cup of warm broth in our hands." He watched as Éomer swung into the saddle and then followed his example, extending his hand to the waiting man. "You will ride with me. Arnhelm, you take the lad. Let's make haste before Béma decides to dump all the winter's snow onto our heads!"