A/N: It's Tari again. I'm turning away from my more lighthearted stories, to Rohan. Please review and tell me what you think: I'm thinking about doing a series of one shots based on Éomer and Éowyn as children, but I want to first see how this goes.
Disclaimer: You know the drill...
"Papa!" a shrill scream rent the night and ripped through the sleeping city. Éomer jolted upright in his bed, heart pounding as he tried in vain to peer through the darkness. The voice that had cried out, he was almost certain, was that of his sister, Éowyn. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his tangled sheets in his haste, so strong were his fraternal compunctions. But where was he? These cold stone floors and small windows were not from the humble house he called home. Almost frantic, he scanned the dark room, mind spinning as it tried to recount the recent events. He called again for Éowyn, his voice low, bleating and lonely. No response, but now he remembered: Papa was dead and Mama had brought them to her brother. So he was in his new room, the room he shared with his sister, but she was nowhere in sight.
His heart pounded and Éomer ran from the room, "Éowyn? Éowyn, my sister! Answer me!" No door was left unopened and no room unsearched, for as he ran down the hall, he had pulled a torch from the wall to aid in his quest for his missing sister. He was frantic with worry: Éowyn had not been herself since the riders had brought Papa's body back, and now that they were in a strange place, who could say where she had gone or what she had done? Then, just as he neared the end of the corridor, a heavily-cloaked, dark-haired man met him: in his arms, Éowyn was sobbing and whimpering for her papa.
It was at that time that a horde of sleepy-eyed servants and their mother rushed towards the three from the other end of the hall. "Éowyn!" Mama shrieked, and pulled her daughter from the stranger's arms, her movements seeming agitated, "Oh my darling! What is the matter?"
"I want," a desolate hiccup, "Papa!"
In the light from the torches, Mama seemed old and tired: as though she was fading right before Éomer's eyes. He shivered convulsively and stepped forward to embrace her tightly, burying his face in her tiny waist. Mama's gentle hand caressed his curls and he shivered again, hugging her more tightly, the way a man clung to his horse's neck in a snowstorm, caring not what any might think of him. "All right now," Mama pulled him to her side so that her legs were unencumbered and she began the walk back to their room, "Back to bed…" her flinty grey eyes sparked, "everyone." The gawking servants turned, and, murmuring amongst themselves, returned to their own chambers. All except the man who had appeared with Éowyn: he stood where they left him, watching the three with an almost wistful eye.
Still clutching Mama's waist, Éomer turned to look at the stranger. As their eyes met, he felt a sudden wave of pity for him, though he knew not why. After reassuring himself that Mama and Éowyn were going nowhere fast, he released Mama's skirts and hurried back to the stranger. "I am Éomer, my lord," he bowed low and touched his forehead in greeting, just as his father had taught him.
"I am called Gríma, young master." The dark haired stranger, or Master Gríma, as Éomer supposed he should call him, repeated the gesture. Suddenly embarrassed by his boldness, he whipped around and ran back to Mama as she waited for him at the bedchamber door. Just before he ducked in, Éomer looked back again to see Gríma, still standing where Éomer had left him. His wistful eyes watched even as Mama closed the door.