Title: Moondaughter's Promise

Rating: T/M

Pairings: Éomer/Lothíriel

Genre: Romance/Drama

Summary: Between two great battles, a promise is made to Éomer of Rohan by a young and unusual woman in the Houses of Healing. But promises have two sides, and he may have his own to keep.

Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings is the property of J. R. R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction, written for the enjoyment of myself and others. No financial profit is made by writing this.

Author's Note: So, here is the first chapter of the story I have been working on for a while now! The idea came to me last summer, but some bits I have not figured out until recently. I have been dying to get to this story for a while now, and am pleased to be able to share the first chapter with you.

I believe this will be told entirely from Éomer's point of view and I must say, it's always a pleasure to get inside his head and see things through his eyes.

I hope you will enjoy the story, and if you got time, let me know what you think! Your comments are always helpful in developing the story and keeping the muse alive. :)


Chapter 1

After the battle, silence came.

It hung over the city like a fog, thick and heavy. The contrast to the earlier noise and chaos seemed hideously pronounced, as though the horror of fighting and slaughter had robbed the very earth and sky of their voices. The songs of Rohirrim had long since ceased, replaced by mute grief that could not tell the count of tears that had fallen and would still fall over those who had breathed their last on the fields of Pelennor.

The way through the city had been long and wearisome. Éomer son of Éomund had seen it before years ago when he had come here with his men to aid in some campaign. A great ruin it had seemed to him then; now the impression was even stronger. The Enemy's siege machines had hammered it and orcs had reached the lower levels. Here and there city's defenders were still putting out fires. Éomer did not envy those who would have to clean up the mess and salvage what they could of it.

Eventually, his feet had lead him to the Houses of Healing. There he had found a joy he had not imagined: Éowyn still lived. It felt like a lone flicker of light in one long, moonless night. There, back in the crimson fury, he had lost himself to madness when he had thought that he was now the only one left of his family. And yet somehow, after charging through the Enemy's lines like a raving madman, he was still unscathed.

But if the battle on the fields was now over, another still raged in the Houses of Healing. There it was not silent. More and more of the wounded were being brought from the fields, some only to die with stone on their backs rather than trampled grass. Moans and weeping never really ceased. Down the corridor, a young voice was crying in Rohirric for his mother.

Éowyn did not weep or moan. She lay in her bed, quiet and still, and her face was white as snow. Aragorn had come and gone, helping her as much as he could and at least restoring her to life. But neither he or Éomer had been able to summon the will to live back into her clouded, hopeless eyes.

And now he was sitting next to her, still in his armour, and feeling more helpless than ever. What was to be done? Usually, he could come up with something. Years of warfare and leadership had taught him a thing or two about thinking on his feet. Now he had nothing. Even his dearly beloved uncle was gone, resting in majesty before the throne of Gondor, and there was no one left he could ask for advice.

Truly, it would have been a relief to follow Théoden down that shadowy path, rather than to bear this hideous burden of living.

With a sigh he got up on his feet again. No, he could not surrender to despair now. His sister needed him. If he fell, who would lead Rohirrim? Éowyn could not guide them from this sickbed. Their people could not lose another leader so quickly after Théoden. And Gondor still had a need of the horses and spears of Rohan – or what remained of them. What a terrible duty it was to keep on going in a time like this, but duty it was, and that was something he understood. He could will himself into moving onward if he had to.

It occurred to him that he was thirsty. Horribly so, in fact; he had got only a few mouthfuls of water since getting in the Citadel and his own waterskin had been empty since before they had reached the battlefield. Other matters had been more pressing at the time, and some of battle's heat had still coursed through his veins, making him oblivious to everything else except his current goal. Now the sustaining rush had passed and Éomer felt as feeble as any man who has ridden in haste for many days and then fought the worst battle of his life.

The long corridor was quiet and dim. There were not any healers around and so he couldn't ask for directions. They had better things to do than to tend to some Rohir whose only ailment was thirst. But Éowyn might require water when she came to, and so he went on searching.

Éomer came to a wide chamber. He couldn't tell what its use was usually, but now it was full of makeshift beds, occupied by warriors in various states of injury. So many had matted blond hair, he noted grimly.

Suddenly, there seemed to come a lull in the moans and the wailing. The noises didn't completely cease, but grew quieter a little bit. He didn't know why this was, not until he saw her.

She moved slowly from one patient to another. She was arrayed in the grey, shapeless garb that all healers wore, yet it did not hide her feminine features. A bit taller than average, she moved with quiet ease. Around her head a scarf was tightly wrapped, but a single strand of dark hair had escaped from under it. She carried a bucket and a ladle, giving water to drink to those who could take it. Slowly she moved among them like a grey spirit of pity and mercy, speaking softly as she went. Whatever it was she said to these poor, unhappy souls, Éomer could only guess. Yet it seemed that her words and her brief touch somehow comforted them for a little while. Momentarily she looked up from where she was kneeling at the side of one pallet, and her eyes pierced him. She was too far and the light was too dim for him to tell the colour, but their brightness did not quail in this hour. And she looked at him with that same mercy and kindness as the rest of the wounded.

Forgetting about his thirst, Éomer turned around and walked back. He wasn't sure why he did. He just knew how lost and alone he felt, how dark was the road before him. While his body was not wounded, inside he carried such grief as he had never imagined before. It beat against his chest like an open wound and somehow he felt like she had seen right into the heart of it.

Éowyn's door was slightly ajar, but on entering he met a pair of healers there, and they bid him wait outside while they tended to the lady. So he returned to the corridor and leant his back against the wall. Not far to the right, Éothain was sleeping on a low bench, oblivious to the world. His sword and his dented helm lay forgotten on the floor. How he had been able to get comfortable enough with his armour on was a mystery, though perhaps the man was simply too exhausted to notice. Éomer had told him to go and find a proper bed somewhere, but the captain had stubbornly insisted on staying with him.

"If you have any orders for me, Sire", Éothain had uttered, being first to call him by that impossible title. The whole matter seemed like a mad, unpleasant dream.

As for the rest of them, Éomer was not certain where the city's defenders had found places for all his Riders. Elfhelm should be back on the field, leading the search for survivors and putting the remaining enemy forces out of their misery. The Prince Imrahil, shouldering the duties of the Steward now that Denethor was dead and Faramir indisposed, was probably still busy trying to make sense of the madness. Éomer supposed Gandalf was with the Prince, shining as a lone light in this long, long night. Aragorn was somewhere among the injured, doing for them what his king's hands could. Others – well, he was too tired to try and think of it.

Suddenly a voice spoke, startling him from his thoughts.

"Are you well, Lord? Do you need healing?" it asked, soft and low and melodious.

Éomer looked up. Before him stood the woman he had seen before walking among the injured. She had the looks of her people, their dark hair and sea-grey eyes. In some strange, distant way, she reminded him a bit of Boromir. Perhaps her ancestors had come out of the Great Sea as well, and not of the wild fields and mountains of Middle-earth.

"I'm fine. Just really tired", he said and was surprised to hear how raspy his voice sounded.

"Here, have something to drink", she offered and gave him the ladle – the last of the water in her bucket. He accepted with gratefully and drank the ladle empty in one go. Water tasted strange here, unlike cold and fresh springs of the Mark, but he was too parched to care.

"Thank you, mistress", Éomer thanked her as he offered the ladle back. She smiled faintly.

"Why don't you go and get some rest? It is late, and you have ridden far and fought hard", she offered, still speaking in that same gentle tone. If she had used it with the injured as well, he could well understand why they had for an instance felt peaceful. There was something incredibly calming about the way she spoke.

But as tempting as her suggestion was, he could not accept it at the moment. Éomer shook his head.

"I can't leave my sister."

It took her only a second to understand his meaning. Her eyes flitted to the now closed door and then back to him.

"Ah, I see. Sire, it's an honour to meet you", she said, curtsying like a noble lady would. Was she some lord's daughter, then? It was hard to imagine that any nobleman of Gondor would let his daughter remain here and face the siege. Perhaps she was a servant who had observed the highborn enough to know how to conduct herself.

All the same, he was surprised that the news had already reached here. He had not been a king for a full twenty-four hours, and yet this slip of a healer was already aware of what had passed in the chaos of battlefield!

"No need to use the title. I doubt it will be mine for very long", he said at length, having recovered from his astonishment.

"You do not expect to survive? Even though you are unscathed after the hell that broke loose before our walls?" she asked him. There was something in the way she spoke, like she was a long lost friend, newly returned to him. Normally he would find it difficult to talk so with a maiden of Gondor, mostly fearing he would accidentally say something uncouth. But perhaps this was a time where all pretences were stripped off, and people could just be themselves without any burden from their titles or even different customs.

"It does not seem likely. I know well enough Mundburg has never been assaulted by a greater army. We could defeat them only just barely, and at a grievous cost. And yet they are but a small part of the vast legions that the Enemy commands. No, I don't think we can weather this storm", Éomer said quietly. Long he had feared that the sword would fall in his time, and now it appeared he was right. It was the reason he had never married and started a family. Why bring children into such a world, if they could only expect to be slaughtered or live as slaves under the Shadow?

The maiden looked at him with depth and wisdom in her eyes that seemed to belong to a woman twice her age. If she was a healer by trade, then she had to know one or two grim facts about the world – and the sad state of it. Yet he saw no sign of despair.

She reached her hand to him. Her fingers were strong and slender as they pressed against his cheek like a cool balm. At any other time, it would have felt unusual. But her quiet, gentle manner made it the most natural thing that could happen right now. He felt calmer somehow and perhaps a little less burdened.

The maiden stood still. Her eyes had glazed over, like she had fallen in a waking dream and did not see him at all. Éomer grew worried. Was she overcome by the toil and horror of today? She too must have laboured hard since the siege began, and healers saw sights as gruesome as those on battlefield. Should he call for one of her companions?

His concern appeared to be needless. Suddenly her eyes cleared again and she looked straight at him. She tilted her head a little bit and her expression was curious. Almost it felt like she knew something about him he did not know himself.

"Don't be troubled, my lord, though you have travelled far and it seems now that you must go into the shadow. For I see the sun shining down on your path", she spoke, gentle and steadfast, and her words sounded like a promise.

Éomer stood still. His voice had failed him and so he just stared at this strange young healer. What made her speak those words so confidently?

Seeing he wasn't going to say anything, the maiden curtsied again and picked up her bucket.

"I beg your pardon, Sire. I must go and get some more water", she said, quiet and grave again.

"Of course", he uttered, having regained his voice.

"Be well, and may the light of Elbereth lead your way back home", she said, and then she turned away. She moved so quiet, he wondered if her feet touched the ground at all.

Éomer let out a sigh he had not noticed holding back. Whether or not the girl was right, he was sure he would soon know.


The ride to the Black Gate was the most dismal journey he had ever experienced. Even the desperate race to defend the White City could not compare. Éomer had ridden to many battles in his time, but never with such certainty of losing. What hope was there in challenging the Enemy at the very doorstep of his dark land? Aragorn and Gandalf said that there was some, and he trusted their wisdom more than his own. If this were the deed where the fate of the world would be decided, he would participate and do what he could to aid.

Even at the expense of his own life.

And yet, though the situation was bleak, he still remembered the words of the young woman. Often he thought of her during the ride, but most on the last night before they would reach the Black Land. Lying on his bedroll and gazing at the dim stars, he recalled that brief meeting in the Houses of Healing. Yes, one could argue she had just been trying to comfort him. On the other hand, she had spoken with such confidence, like she believed it truly.

He felt conflicted. A part of him wanted to believe it too, and yet his reason told him it could not be so. But still he could recall the touch of her hand against his cheek, the faith in her voice when she promised him sunlight… surely, no sun was given to anyone in the world where the Enemy ruled.

"Can't sleep?" Éothain's voice asked from nearby. He had spread his own bedroll close to his new king.

"No", Éomer said simply. He would have to be up before the dawn, and catching a couple hours of rest would be a good idea, but tonight his mind was too full.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?" his friend wanted to know.

The young king said nothing at first. He rarely worried about battles beforehand, unless it be for the sake for his men. But death could come any day, and for his own part, he had long since decided it was useless to fear it. What would Éothain think if he spoke the matter truly? That he was not asleep because of a young woman whose name he didn't even know? It was likely the captain would only misunderstand.

"It's too late to worry now. Either we will die, or live. I have not yet thought beyond that point", he said, fixing his eyes on the Sickle of the Valar, which his mother had first shown him in the sky. She had said it was a sign of doom for one even darker and greater than the Enemy they were fighting now. If his might of old could be overthrown, then maybe the lieutenant of that ancient evil could be defeated, too?

Then again, this was not a time of great stories. They were come to something else. Heroes of Men were gone and Elves went over the sea, never to return to these lands of weeping. Last night by the campfire, Gimli had sang a song about Durin and the great Dwarven kingdom of old. In it was said that the world had grown grey. Was it worth saving?

Éomer recalled a pair of sea-grey eyes and decided that yes, yes it was.


And the impossible happened.

He stood on that dusty battlefield and witnessed a sight that would never leave his memory: Orodruin belching out its fiery contents, a great shadow passing in the mighty wind, and the mindless, chaotic flight of orcs as the will of their lord ceased to drive them. Wonder and disbelief washed over him. That he should live to see this thing! Next to him, Éothain and his Riders were laughing and singing, as Eorlingas ever did. And then great weariness almost overcame him and he nearly fell on his knees. How many years had he spent fighting? How many nights had he thought and worried, dreading what new devilry the morrow would bring?

The war was over. And it was a true ending, not merely a truce that would eventually bring the Dark Lord back, greater and stronger than he had ever been. For the Ring was destroyed and the spirit of Sauron passed with it. Earth was won at last for the children of the world.

He suspected it would take some time to truly comprehend what it meant.

The Host of the West did not remain in that barren land. They removed back to the river Anduin, in a fair field of Cormallen, where spring had already come. There the wounded and the weary were brought to rest. On the first night, there was no feasting; the time of celebration would come later. That night the company just slept.

In his free moments, Éomer wandered in the green, sunny woods. It was a fair, good land, though some memory of Shadow still lingered. But he had hard time delighting in the beauty of this new spring. Truth be told, he felt lost. Like he had told Éothain, he had not planned this far. What was he supposed to do now? Why did he feel guilty for surviving? The world was in bloom and around him he saw the happy, incredulous faces of those who had not dared to dream this day would come. His guilt only grew when he felt like he couldn't truly share in their joy. And with it grew the sadness that his uncle and cousin were not here to see this day.

Do you need healing? she had asked him. What an astute question. His body was intact, but not all wounds could be seen.

She had told him not to be troubled. I see the sun shining down on your path. It was a hopeful thing to say, and turned out she was right at least about one thing. He had survived.


At long last, they began their journey back to the White City. Healed and restored, the Host of the West was now returning victorious. And there was more than just the joy of hard-won peace: Aragorn was going back to reclaim his birthright. Only a year before now, few people would have believed that there would be again a king on the throne of Gondor.

It was indeed a time of great tidings. But Éomer found his own thoughts were more preoccupied with a young healer. He was thinking if he should go and seek for her in the Houses of Healing. But then, what would he be saying to her? That she had been right? That he was thankful? He had not even asked her name. And he didn't know if she was one of the regular healers, or a woman of the city who had stayed behind to help with the wounded. Maybe she had already left and returned to wherever her home was.

He had not spoken of her to anyone, not even Éothain, who had snored not six feet away when he had met the girl. What could he say, in the end?

Perhaps it was just one of those chance meetings that sometimes occur in darkest of moments, moderately small and yet somehow more meaningful than one would realise at the time. And that was where its significance arose, in the very unique nature of it. To see her again would be to spoil the memory.

By the time he rode through the broken gates of Mundburg, Éomer had already made up his mind: he was not going to see her again.

So he thought at the time.


Éowyn had remained in the Houses of Healing even after she herself had grown hale again. Offers had been made to house her according to her rank, but she had refused them. Instead, she had kept to the small, bare chamber and the company of healers, with the exception of Faramir. When she was not with the Steward, she was studying under the guidance of Mundburg's most skilled healers.

Éomer had to admit he was surprised by this change in his sister. He had felt hurt when she had not come to meet him in the Fields of Cormallen, but now that he saw the new-found peace in her eyes and the eagerness she pursued her studies, he couldn't be angry with her. Not when he recalled her despair so clearly. She was going to leave him, go and live far away from the Riddermark, and yet… after everything, he owed it to her to let her go. Let her be happy.

Once again, Éomer began to doubt the young healer's words.

He hid his thoughts the best he could when he went to visit Éowyn in the Houses of Healing, only a day after the Host had returned. She showed him around, introducing him to grey-robed healers and Rohirrim who were being tended to, and taking him to eat lunch in the garden. It was one of the very few places in the city that did have a spot of green and growth. Éomer couldn't help but wonder how did anyone stand to live in the middle of so much stone. He would have to have a few strong words with Aragorn, and make sure his friend didn't mean to let this thing stand.

But as his sister lead him through corridors and passages, he was often gazing around himself, and studying intently the faces of each healer that they met. To his disappointment, she was not there. It was a surprising thing to feel, considering he had already decided not to look for her. But it was also alarming, as Éomer was not used to doubting himself in this manner.

It was foolish to think his sister wouldn't notice it, although she didn't address the matter until they were seated on a bench in the garden and she was opening the lunch basket they had been provided with at her request. She was producing small berry cakes, some cold meats and cheese along with freshly baked rolls, and even some last year's fruit. There was also a pitcher of crisp apple cider. Apparently, Faramir's favour was a thing that was taken seriously in the House of Healing and its kitchens.

"Is everything all right, brother? You keep looking around, like you have lost something", she wanted to know as she poured cider in blue earthenware cups.

Éomer did not reply at first. He stared at the plate he was balancing on his knee and tried to think of what to say.

"There was a young healer here after the battle before the walls. We talked for a little bit that night. I was wondering if she might still be around", he said at length and did not look at his sister.

"Why are you looking for her?" she asked him. Her tone did not imply she was assuming anything; she was just curious.

He shrugged and took a sip of the cider. Personally, he preferred ale, but it was not the worst brew he had tasted.

"Just to thank her. She had been tending to the wounded for Béma knows for how many hours, and yet she could still spare some words of encouragement to a man in the middle of bleakest moment of his life", Éomer answered. Was that the whole truth? Or, how could he assume it to be anything else?

The face of his sister grew serious. He knew that while her despair had passed, some guilt had come now to take its place. She thought she had almost driven him to death, for she had appeared as one of the slain; in red, reckless fury he had ridden to meet the hosts of the Enemy. But thanks to her, the Black Captain had been removed from the field. Some said that without Éowyn, he could still have turned the course of battle, even with the arrival of Aragorn and the Dúnedain – and perhaps weakened both Gondor and Rohan so that no challenge could be thrown at the Dark Lord to help Frodo and Sam on their last desperate trudge across the barren land of Mordor.

Éomer now reminded her of this. Perhaps it assuaged her a little, as her expression softened.

"I did not remove from my chamber on those first days, and I believe some of the helpers were dismissed from the Houses of Healing after the Host had departed. But it's possible I saw this healer and even spoke to her. Why don't you describe her to me, Éomer?" Éowyn suggested and sipped her drink.

With renewed hope, he proceeded to tell her all he could recall about the girl. Her grey eyes, so calm even in the middle of shadow, her soft and full mouth, and features that hinted at an exceptionally sound character…

Éowyn listened to him in silence. She tilted her head a little bit and cast him a keen, studious look.

"Brother, are you certain you wanted just to thank this girl? I have never heard you describe a woman in such loving detail", she noted wryly.

Well, he supposed it would sound quite unusual to his sister. But how to tell her of the maiden's strange, unforgettable words? Éomer wasn't certain Éowyn would understand the peculiar significance he had felt in that moment. You had to be there to know.

"Maybe so", he said at length. "But you wouldn't wonder had you met her, too."

His sister raised an eyebrow but did not pursue that particular topic.

"Either way, I'm sorry to say I can't recall seeing her. It could be she had already left when I was allowed to begin to move. But you could ask the high warden of the Houses. He might know who she was", Éowyn suggested.

Éomer let out a sigh.

"No, perhaps you are right to wonder. Maybe my interest in her is uncommon and untoward. She might not even remember me… Béma knows there were a lot of distraught folk in the Houses that night", he said at last and refrained from shaking himself. What was he doing? Obsessing over some girl he had not spoken to for more than once, and whose name he didn't even know? She had to be long gone by now, and perhaps the memory of that night was as evil to her as to anyone else. Who would wish to remind themselves of it?

"For what it's worth", Éowyn said, reaching to touch his wrist gently, "I am glad you met her, and that she was able to encourage you. I hate to think how alone you felt."

"It's past", he said steadily, knowing what thought was now returning to her mind. "We must all look forward and move on."

So he told her at the time. And yet, when the celebrations were finished and Rohirrim took their leave of Gondor, it would have been a lie to say that Éomer King of the Mark did not think of the strange young woman he had met in the darkest night of his adult life.

To be continued.