Hi. Well, this is Chapter 2. I don't get many reviewers, only 3, but I will try to make it good for those few people who are interested. After this fic is done there are others on the way that might get some more attention, but for now, here's the second part of my Éomer fic! J

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien wrote Lord of the Rings, not me. Any who do not know that are simpletons and need to get out more.

Little bit o' angst in this chappie though not much action. Action will come later. Bear with me.

This text has been edited, due to an error that one of my reviewers pointed out to me. Thanks! I hope it's better now. If something contradicts itself, let me know, I might have missed it.

Chapter 2: The Might of the Horse-Lords

3006 TA, Edoras

After their parents' deaths, and Éomer and Éowyn were sent to live in the Great Hall with Théoden and his family. Théodred was the King's son, and a fine warrior at 28 years of age, who acted as a mentor to his young cousins. He had been one of the Rohirrim already when Éomund had died but had not attended the funeral due to a virus. After awhile, he and Éomer grew to be like brothers to one another, and slowly, Éomer began to adjust to his new life.

Théoden treated the children as his own. He was a kind man, and warm and loving, but because of his royal duties he seldom could spare a full day to spend time with them, as well as with his son. So Éomer spent most of his time with the Rohirrim warriors, whom he was introduced to by Théodred. They worked in the stables with the horses much of the time and helped the stable boys. However, Éomer most enjoyed being in the armory, helping the warriors prepare for their scouting missions. The weapons and armor fascinated him. On the rare occasions when he was left alone to his boyish whims and fancies, he would imagine himself someday, a Rohirrim warrior on horseback with his own sword and bearing the armor of his people. He would watch as the horse-lords rode out into the distance, with the trumpets blaring and their banners caught high in the breeze, tall spears glinting like tiny stars and their golden helmets shining. He would watch until they disappeared beyond his range of sight. Théoden had told Éomer that one day, he would be one of those warriors, as his own son was. He would ride and bring honor to Rohan. So he practiced with weapons in the yard, fencing other boys and squires with wooden practice swords, and learning archery and well as how to wield battle axes and spears, although the sword was his weapon of choice.

It had been intended that Éowyn be raised by the maids of the Great Hall, to learn their ways, as well as a minimal amount of swordplay- it was well known by the women of Rohan that those without swords were helpless. However, her lessons bored her. She persisted in following her brother. Éomer grew to accept this, although he was reluctant to do so. He had to admit that Éowyn had naturally talent in the wielding of a sword- maybe even more than he had himself. Of course, Éomer would never mention this to any.

Four years passed, at good times they seemed to pass quickly, and at ill times the rising and setting of the sun seemed to come ever so slowly. However, pass they did, and Éomer grew into a handsome youth of fifteen years. Éowyn was eleven. Both were still considered children, but they were beginning to abandon childish ways and accept more responsibilities in the Golden Hall and in Edoras. There was more work to be done and less time to waste. Éomer and Éowyn groomed horses and helped with chores around their home. They would go out into the city, and give the King reports of anything they saw that seemed to be amiss. Éomer's least favorite task of all was cleaning out the dungeons. He hated the claustrophobic feeling, the darkness, the hopelessness, and sometimes prisoners of war who were being held in there taunted him and made him feel uncomfortable. Théoden had warned him of this. He had said that the dungeons were a dreary place, where no one liked to spend their time, and it was a man's job to see that they were cleaned- which was why he entrusted it to Éomer and not too any of the other boys, whom he either deemed too young or could not trust.

It was Éomer's fifteenth name day. He was cleaning in the stables with some of the stable boys; his sister and cousin had been called to some other duties in the Hall. The early morning light was streaming in through the open door. His spirits were unusually high that morning, and he found himself making somewhat pleasant conversation with the stable boys, apprentices and squires who were working with him. Most of the older ones, including him, were already starting to train to become Rohirrim fighters. Éomer had the honor of grooming Snowmane. His uncle's horse was beautiful, one of his favorites, though the king had not chosen to ride her this time, and she was of a good temper so she was easy to work with.

"Do they not allow you to spend your name day with the King?" one of the boys, Kierian, asked. He was polishing horseshoes while sitting on a haystack.

"My uncle has not yet returned," Éomer answered. "He said that once he arrives, we will spend the remainder of the day together, along with my sister and his son."

Kierian smiled, although it seemed to be slightly more of a smirk. "You're very lucky, Éomer. Most of us hardly know the King. I'm surprised you spend your time conversing with commoners like us."

One of the older boys in another stall, a few years Éomer's senior, snorted indignantly. "Lord Éomer has special privileges. He's related to the king. Do you not see? Even when he lowers himself to the stables with us, he grooms the king's mare, while the rest of us are not allowed to go near her. He always carries his royal air. He treats with the King regularly. Why shouldn't he see himself as better than us?"

Éomer glanced at the other stall. He had received such ridicule many times and long learned to ignore it, although at times his temper could still get the better of him. Snowmane gave a whinny and he realized that he had tightened his grip on her hair and pulled it. He released it and soothed the horse, letting the other boy's words slip out of his mind.

Suddenly, the trumpets sounded. The boys all looked up, and, giving one another surprised looks, and dropped their things before running outside.

None of the Rohirrim had left the city, so the trumpets rang for another reason. A group was returning from dealings with some of the Rangers and Gondorian warriors. Éomer saw Éowyn emerge from the hall. His sister ran to him, her bare feet kicking up dust and her golden hair streaming out behind her. She was dressed in a boy's working tunic. Many of the common people crowded the entrance to the city, waiting to see if their King had returned.

"Is our uncle back?" asked Éowyn.

"I don't know," Éomer answered. "From here it's hard to tell if that's the party he rode out with."

They pushed through the crowded streets of Edoras and watched as the Rohirrim began to ride through the gates. Many shields and helmets were dented, and some tunics stained with blood. Some had suffered serious injuries and were taken immediately to be seen by the healers. Éomer moved forward until he reached one of the younger riders.

"What happened, my lord?" he inquired. "Did the events go ill?"

The rider nodded weakly. "We were ambushed by a party of Goblins, my lord. It has been long since Goblins have been seen in such numbers as we are seeing them now. However, their attacks are becoming more frequent and we have yet to find out what it means. We lost two men. Many suffered injuries, some are seriously wounded."

"Where is the king?" blurted Éowyn. The rider looked at her and his eyes flashed briefly with anger before it ebbed. Girls were not supposed to demand such things of men. Éomer elbowed her gently, and she glared at him. Éowyn did not usually pay heed to courtesies.

"The King is riding, my lady," he said quietly. They breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "He was not seriously wounded, but enough that he yielded the head of the party to one of the generals. See? There is our king now, who fought bravely and fiercely as always."

The children muttered some rushed words of thanks and hurried to Théoden's side. Théodred rode by his father, his expression worrisome.

"Uncle!" Éowyn cried. "Are you all right? Are your men all right?"

Théoden bore a gash in his arm and across his forehead, and was slumped in the seat. He managed, however, to smile weakly and dismount without assistance. "Yes, we will manage," he said with sadness in his eyes. "We suffered two losses…good men, good fighters, men that I mourn and will miss sorely. I must see that these wounds are tended too; only after they see to the wounds of my men of course." He gave another sad smile and put a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Then I have something for you, Éomer. I have not forgotten your name day."

Éomer managed to smile. "You are wounded, Uncle. Your men must be tended to. My name day is of no great importance."

"Of course it is," said Théoden. "And you best remember it, for only when a man knows his own value and importance can he truly serve others." With that, the king went to help the wounded soldiers.

"You, young lady," called a voice, one of the elderly women who served as healers. Éowyn looked up. "Come and help in the healing hall. We need everyone who can help."

Éomer could see his sister's reluctance; she hated tending to the sick in the healing hall. She gave her brother a look and trudged off after the women and other girls.

Théodred noticed the look of worry on his young cousin's face. "Worry not, Éomer," he said.

Éomer nodded. "Are you all right, cousin?"

Théodred was nearly unscathed. "The battle was fierce, but short. We were able to prevail. You will see that many of the men did not

Éomer was then instructed to return to his duties. He murmured goodbye to his cousin and was on his way back to the stables when he was told to help in the armory, with the weapons and armor of the Rohirrim. As can be imagined, he was very content to do this instead, and reported there at once. However, Éomer's mind was unsettled. How could the Rohirrim have nearly been defeated by an ambush of Goblins? They seldom left the Misty Mountains, but now they were leaving more often. Yet Éomer supposed he had gotten used to the silly notion that the army of Rohan was invincible.

The armory was adjacent to the stables, so that the warriors could be suited and mounted quickly when needed. It was large and filled with sunlight that reflected off the many golden helmets and breastplates, as well as off the swords that were mounted on the walls. Many of the higher ranked fighters preferred to keep their armor and weapons in their own private chambers. Éomer understood this; if it were him, he would want to keep his weapons and armor in his own chambers so as not to be confused with those of others—even though each warrior's things were kept separate. The young squires who worked in the armory often messed things up.

Éomer was soon joined by a few other boys. Not long after, Rohirrim warriors and healers began to come in, bearing armor and weapons to be put away and cleaned. Éomer had the task of polishing. He and some others were cleaning the dirty metal until it shined, and if armor came in that was severely dented, it would be redirected to the smithy. He spent many hours there. The armory soon became crowded and stuffy, and his arm ached from rubbing. There was much to be done. Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, a servant entered the armory.

"Lord Éomer's presence is requested by the king," he said. "He asks that you report to the Hall."

Éomer was relieved to finally be able to leave, although work there was preferable to the stables. He ignored the jealous glances that followed him outside. The sunlight was growing dim. He followed the servant up the steps of the Hall, and looked up as they were ascending the steps at the way the golden pillars and roof shined. This was his home. It had been for the past four years, and it always would be. He looked forward to spending time with his family after working hard.

Théoden was seated on his throne in the main room. At his side were two of his knights, his friends and advisors, and Théodred and Éowyn as well. Théoden smiled broadly when Éomer entered.

"Éomer," he said, standing. "You are growing into a fine young man, with extraordinary fighting skills."

"Thank you, Uncle," Éomer said, giving a slight bow.

"You have already begun to train with the Rohirrim. You train with the squires, fighting with the practice swords, at times brandishing steel. But now I recognize your growth into manhood. Therefore, I would like to present you with this."

With that, one of the knights came forth, bearing a sheathed long sword. He knelt before the young lord and held it up to him. Éomer tried to conceal his excitement. He took the sword and unsheathed it, looking at the length of the pure, unstained steel blade and the unique hilt of winding horse heads that wrapped around the blade rather than joining in the center. It was truly a work of art.

"I had it made especially for you," Théoden said. "The hilt is different from the style of most Rohirrim swords, although the horses on the hilt are a sign of royal lineage."

Éomer stared, dumfounded. "Uncle…thank you. Thank you so much. I don't know what else to say…"

Théoden smiled. "It is called Guthwine. Long may you bare it in the name of the Mark."

The knights then left the room, and Éomer laid his mighty gift to the side. He spent the rest of the evening with his uncle, cousin and sister, and they dined together and shared much conversation and laughter. Théoden told them that he wished he could set aside more time to help in their upbringing, but that he was proud of their accomplishments, and that night everything went well. However, Éomer couldn't help feeling that something was wrong with his uncle. At times he appeared to be in pain, and would hold his head in his hands, and his eyes were rimmed with red. Éomer decided to ask as night fell. Éowyn had been sent to bed, after much protest, and he remained alone in the throne room with his uncle and cousin.

Théodred yawned. "Father," he said. "I take my leave for the night, though the moon is yet young. I'm afraid the riding wore me. It has been an eventful day."

"You fought well, my son," said Théoden. "Rest well."

Théodred gave a slight bow. "Good night, father, until the morrow. To you as well, Éomer, and happy name day." With that, the king's son retired and left Éomer with his uncle.

"Uncle," he asked. "Are you all right? You are sure that your wounds were only minor?"

"Yes, yes, my lad," the king answered with indifference. "I just had a bit of a headache, and the fighting and the heat of the day added to it. I grieve for the men we lost. At my age these things are common." He gave his nephew a smile. "Now the hour is late. I desire some rest, and you should get some too."

Éomer hesitated a moment. "Tell me something, Uncle," he said. "Did the Rohirrim really come close to defeat at the ambush?"

Unashamedly, Théoden nodded. "Too close. You will find, Éomer, as you grow, that glory and triumph are not all they're made out to be, and that no army can win every time. Even the might of the horse-lords is not infallible."

Éomer remained silent for a moment. Then he walked over to the throne, next to which he had placed Guthwine. "Thank you, Uncle," he said. He was thanking his uncle for everything—for the evening, the gift, and for being his father for the past four years. There were no more words that he could say to express his gratitude.

"You're welcome, Éomer," he said quietly. Éomer smiled at his uncle and took his sword to his chambers, ready to rest for the night.

Théoden watched his nephew's retreating back. Once he had left, Théoden himself sought out the solitude of his private chambers. There, the king finally let go.

He had kept his calm for his nephew's sake. But this pain in his mind, it was unlike anything Théoden had ever felt before. He waved away the servants who offered to help him. His vision was blurred, and his head was pounding like the drums he had heard when they had fought. The pain was intense. He had lied to his son, his nephew, to the healers, to everyone. This was nothing like he had ever felt before. Théoden collapsed onto his bed.

You were almost defeated yesterday, Théoden King.

Voices. One voice, actually. Or was it? Whatever it was, this was the third night in a row that it had plagued him. Each time, it seemed to eat away at his hope, at his will. What was happening?

Who are you? Théoden asked silently.

I am your greatest friend…or your worst enemy. It all depends on your willingness. Open your mind to me, and there will be no pain.

You cannot control me.

Then I suppose if you will not yield I must pry it open myself.

Then another onslaught of pain arrived, only stronger. Théoden ground his teeth to keep from crying out, and clutched at his head. Thoughts and images flashed before his mind's eye…thoughts not his own that seemed to have no order. Anger, Joy, Triumph, Humiliation, and Agony, they all came as one in an attack of some sort of dark magic. Théoden tried to fight back. However, try as he might, his vision was darkening, and he could feel himself slipping into a state of unconsciousness.

As everything went black, the last thing Théoden of Rohan heard was an echo of his own words:

Not even the might of the horse-lords is infallible…

No translations, yay. I'm lazy, sorry.

Coming soon: Théoden slips more and more under Saruman's control. Can Éomer and Théodred take command of the army as animosity begins to grow between the twoso, enter Wormtongue…

Please review! (I hope to get at least 3 again)