Hello to all, thank you so much for giving me more than three reviews! I was a happy person. I'm really glad people are showing an interest in the Rohirrim and in Éomer.

Disclaimer: Olay says the speckled dragon bunny, who has replaced the little guy known as Disclaimer. Disclaimers bug me. Speckled dragon bunny says that rights to LOTR belong to the genius of Tolkien and none other, especially not me, cuz I'm no Tolkien obviously. Maybe Disclaimer will return in the future when I grow weary of neotony.

There's not enough detail about Éomer in the appendixes, so I made up pretty much all of the events in this chapter, sorry. I tried to make them consistent with what was going on around that time. Goblins and Orcs roamed the mountains, as well as other servants of the Dark Lord, so I decided to have Éomer have a bit of a run-in with them. Small reference to the current whereabouts and actions of Gandalf and Aragorn. Wormtongue is here, I wasn't quite sure when he was supposed to come into the picture.

Here be third chappie. I had a bit of trouble with it. If it's not that great, let me know, I will do what I can.

Chapter 3: Never Surrender

3009 TA, The Misty Mountains

Éomer looked out at the distant horizon. His horse shifted restlessly, loosening the soft earth beneath its feet. The stallion did not like standing on the narrow mountain path without moving somewhat. Yet something about the bloodred hue of the sunset intrigued Éomer.

"Cousin, you must keep moving," came a voice from behind him, bearing an undertone of impatience. Éomer turned to look at Théodred. His cousin was 31 now, and one of the most courageous of the Rohirrim fighters, yet things had been different ever since Théoden changed. The king's son had grown somewhat haughty. At times, Éomer feared his friendship with his cousin, whom he had once considered like a brother, was waning. Their age difference seemed to be having an effect on it as well. He gently urged his horse forward and they turned up the path into an open area of the mountain.

There was a light cover of snow on the ground, but it always snowed in the Misty Mountains, and the temperature was mild. Éomer led his stallion to a fallen tree beside the mouth of a cave and there dismounted. He awaited the arrival of the rest of his troupe. The Rohirrim came up, one by one, and followed Éomer's example of taking a break to rest.

Théodred came up beside his cousin as they tended their horses. "So what do you plan to do?"

"We came to scout, not to fight. We are only trying to find Goblin trails in the mountains and see if there are any signs of Orc."

"We should be attacking!" said Théodred angrily. "Why must we do these monotonous scouting missions and take no action?"

Éomer sighed. "Because your lord father commands it, Théodred."

Théodred shook his head. "You are young, cousin, and far too cautious. A true warrior follows his own mind when it comes to matters of war, not the word of a man who no longer knows his own name." He stalked away.

Absentmindedly, Éomer stroked his horse's soft mane, deep in thought. They should be doing something. Théoden was not fit to rule. Sometimes, Éomer blamed himself, for since that fateful day three years ago nothing had been the same—and he had not been able to stop what happened to his uncle. What had truly happened, no one really knew.

Also, he would command the Rohirrim based on the words of his advisor. Gríma had come about two years ago. Although Gríma pretended to have Théoden's best interests at heart, Éomer did not trust the man. There was something devious about him. More than a few times he had seen Gríma staring after his fourteen-year-old sister, for Éowyn's beauty was beginning to flower. It was unnerving to leave her with him. Besides, it seemed that Gríma used bribery on the king far too often. And as the soldiers repeated scouting missions, Éomer could not help but feel that there was other work to be done, that the king, unfit to rule, was turning a blind eye to trouble that was said to be brewing. Somewhere the armies were truly needed; not here. Not now.

Éomer had recently turned eighteen. He was a man grown, yet still things confused him, especially this business about his uncle. It seemed lately that he was falling more and more under some sort of spell. His few actions were bitter, but most of the times he sat on his throne, with glazed eyes and his mind elsewhere.

A rueful time indeed for such to occur. Shadows were growing in the East. Whispers had reached Edoras of the Dark Lord, regaining power, of rumors that the Ring of Power had been found. Gandalf the Grey rode throughout Mirkwood and Rhovanion with one of the Rangers, searching for the treacherous creature Gollum. War was brewing…a great war, the doom of the Third Age. Éomer could feel it. The mountains and eastern lands were no longer safe. It was said that in this very area of the Misty Mountains, Sauron's servants treated with Goblins.

"Will we set up camp for tonight, Lord Éomer? The sunlight will be spent soon enough."

Éomer turned to the soldier who had questioned him and nodded. The caves were large and warm, and plenty enough to house the twenty-odd men he had in his company. The horses would like to rest for the night as well. The space was open, with many a place in the rock to tether the animals to in which they could rest comfortably.

The sun sank low and the blanket of night began to slowly work its way across the sky.

Gríma looked at King Théoden from a distance. The old man was falling more and more under Saruman's control, he thought with a sneer. Every day his own will weakened.

You will be handsomely rewarded, Gríma, had been the wizard's words.

How so, master?

You will have your share of the gain…I promise you.

Saruman had offered him more than being a man of Rohan ever had. Now, he nearly had Rohan under his very rule, for Théoden trusted him wholeheartedly and obeyed his every whim. Ah, for the king to be such as a puppet in his hands! Gríma licked his thin lips in devious glee.

His gaze was then averted to the slim figure who entered the room. Her golden hair was mussed, and her clothes dirty, but she was lovely and shapely nonetheless, and despite her young age as well. Gríma found that his stare often lingered on the Lady Éowyn—she was so lovely, yet always so depressed. It was an enigma that he found himself thinking about constantly.

It was the other two that posed a problem. Théodred, the king's son, was certain that Gríma had something to do with the king's state, and had already threatened him once. How much longer before the prince found out? He was much too suspicious. Gríma knew that he may have to exterminate this threat. Éomer, too, knew too much for his own good. They both regarded the king's advisor with hostility and kept a close watch over him. The only way for the plan to be carried through was to make the king send them away as much as possible. Then again, Gríma knew that none of the Rohirrim bore any love for him. Wormtongue, they called him when they thought he had turned a deaf ear to their conversation. They did not know that their name befit him only too well.

"Gríma, I am in need of your counsel," came a weak voice. The king had turned his pale eyes over to his advisor, to the dark corner where Gríma lurked in the shadows. Éowyn sat near her uncle, sadness in her expression, and she turned her face downcast.

You will have your share of the gain…I promise you.

"I come, master…"

'Twas not any loud sound in the night, nor was it furious wind that woke Éomer from his sleep. It was an uncertain feeling following an odd dream.

In his dream, a ship had been waiting at bay. The waters were calm and passive, dark under the evening sky but reflecting glints of moonlight and starlight. The ship's crew was sleeping silently beneath the deck. Suddenly, dark clouds had coated the sky, and ruptured in the middle in a large crack. From them came forth a black shadow that took the form of a ghostly ship with tattered sails. The dark ship overtook the waiting one, sweeping over it, and groups of indistinguishable shadows slew the men, and took the rest captive, sweeping them aboard their own ship and into darkness. When they had left, nothing had remained but broken remnants of the vessel's wooden body.

Éomer had awoken with a start. He sat up, and looked all about him. There was no sound save for the usual ones men make in sleep. Nothing seemed unusual. Even the horses were restful, for the night was clear and not too cold. Nothing seemed terribly amiss.

Sighing, Éomer tried to ease himself back into sleep, but not before reaching for Guthwine and drawing the great sword up beside him from its position propped against the cave wall. He shut his eyes but could not get the foreboding feeling out of his heart as he fell into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, the mountain peaks were bathed in the early red and gold hues of the sunrise, and the men of Rohan continued their scouting of the various trails.

Théodred and Éomer led the unit that they had slept with the night before. The other flanks were carrying out their duties in other parts of the Misty Mountains. The paths that wound up to the summit were somewhat narrow, and several times the horses nearly lost their footing. Éomer could feel himself growing impatience. He saw no sign of any Orcs, nor of Goblins, and what foolhardy folk would make an encampment in clear view, even this high in the mountains? Would they not choose a place darker, fouler, in the bowels of the mountains? Éomer had heard that Goblins dwelled in the heart of these mountains once, but that they had fallen into ruin once their leader was slain. Yet that was so long ago...

"My lord Théodred! My lord Éomer!" came a breathless voice.

The two cousins turned to see one of the Rohirrim of another flank come galloping up the trail to join them and the other men of their unit. His horse was weary, and he was breathless, so he had obviously been riding hard.

"What do you report, rider of Rohan?" asked Théodred.

The man pointed down the path. "Last night, my leaders came across a party of Orcs and Goblins near the foot of the mountains. They had set up an encampment deep in the heart of a cave. There is not many; but there is forty at least, so they instructed us to fetch this unit. It took me an entire night's worth of riding to reach you here. We must slay them, but keep one for questioning."

Théodred and Éomer shared a brief glance. Éomer understood what his cousin was thinking...yet to go against the king's orders? But when the king's orders meant for them to let be a group that could be a danger to the free folk of Middle-Earth...

"Lead us to them," Éomer said.

Late afternoon was approaching by the time the Rohirrim led by Théodred and Éomer reached the foot of the opposite side of the mountain- it was indeed a long ways. One of the marshals, by the name of Terin, was the leader of this group, and greeted the others when they arrived. Théodred went aside with him for private counsel. He then returned, and notified Éomer of what had been occuring.

"Not a cave, really," he said. "But if you follow that narrow path that has been formed in the rock, it leads to a large, open area. That is our enemy has been spotted. A clever place to hide, but not clever enough."

Éomer looked deep into the dark path, which lay some yards away. The men spoke in hushed voices so as not to make their existence known. It was just wide enough for three horses to walk abreast; and went so deep that it proved impossible to see what lay within...except to wander within oneself. His hand wandered to Guthwine's hilt.

"Was there no guard?" he asked.

Théodred shook his head. "Our guess is that they did not want their whereabouts to be obvious. Few would venture into such a place without cause."

Éomer fell silent for a moment. "Do we strike now?"

"Terin thinks we should, while daylight is still on our side."

"And what do you say?"

"I agree."

Éomer nodded his consent. He joined Terin and Théodred in joining the ranks into groups of three.

"We have to enter quietly," instructed Théodred. "When you reach the last length, spur your horses to a gallop, before they've time to gather their weapons and such." He then moved to the front, and Éomer and Terin rode at his side. He pointed forth his sword, and the blade gleamed, reflecting the sun's rays.

"Forth, sons of Eorl!"

Éomer entered alongside his two companions. The next three followed only a few feet behind. They kept their horses at a walk, going as slow as possible, but the confines caused the hoof beats to echo somewhat. The Rohirrim drew their swords and raised their spears; others notched arrows.

As they continued, torchlight could finally be seen in the distance, and murmurs could be heard.

"We will be in hearing range soon," Éomer said.

Théodred nodded. "May Eru watch over you, my cousin," he said quietly.

"And you as well."

Terin remained silent, his gaze fixed solidly ahead.

Finally, Théodred gave a quiet command to charge.

Éomer took his stallion to a gallop, and could feel the wind as the wall rushed past him, only a few inches away. Guthwine felt light in his hand. The entrance to the cavern was drawing nearer and nearer, until Éomer could see their enemies, sitting around a small fire and discussing matters in their fetid voices. Several had stood and gone towards the entrance to see what this sound was that was coming their way...

Upon entering the cavern, Éomer went to the right, Terin to the left, and Théodred down the center. The other riders that followed separated in the same manner. The place was soon filled with commotion, starting with the first cry as Éomer, Théodred, and Terin cut down those foes that had come to the entrance.

Guthwine drank deeply of the enemy's blood. Soon, its stainless blade was coated in darkness that shone a deathly red in the torchlight, and Éomer could feel his own blood running down his face, leaking into his eyes and blurring his vision.

The air soon reeked of blood and chaos. The Orcs and Goblins fell about them, yet Éomer had not time to look and see to the safety of his own men amidst the confusion. Nor did the rest—for all had given themselves up to the lust of battle. But now and then, Éomer would hear the scream of a dying horse, a horrible sound that echoed in his mind and that remained with him in every battle...

By now, the cavern seemed so much smaller, and the walls almost seemed to close in, for the forty who had before been in it had been dwarfed by its side—but now, joined by about fifty men on horseback, there was not much breathing room. A few of the Rohirrim fought by the entrances in order to block those attempting to flee.

The number was growing to be less and less. Their battlefield had been bloodied, and was laden thick with the bodies of the dead, and few remained standing.

"Hold!" shouted Théodred. Éomer's arm was eager, and he looked around for more of the fetid creatures to slay but found none. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered it.

Six of the men had cornered one Orc, a small, foul creature with a greedy and fearless look in his crazed gray eyes. He raised his scimitar but it was quickly knocked aside.

Éomer dismounted. He and Théodred went over to the last remaining Orc, parting the ways of the Rohirrim around him. Théodred grabbed the creature by the neck and pulled him close. He raised his sword in front of its eyes, making sure that it saw the blood-soaked steel.

"Let me make myself clear," he said. "I am going to ask you a few questions, and you are going to answer them without hesitation, or I will make your death slow. Is that understood?"

The Orc said nothing, but Éomer thought he saw a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Whom do you serve?"

"The Dark Lord..."

Théodred looked briefly to his companions, then back to his prisoner. "What does your master want in these lands?"

The Orc's smile became evident now. "You think I would tell you, to hold to life?"

Théodred tightened his hold on the creature's throat. "Answer me."

Now his prisoner laughed aloud, mockingly. "You think you can win this war. But I will never yield to you, man of Rohan. The Orc yield to no one. The war is only brewing, and the storm has not yet begun. But when it does...you will never see your enemies surrender."

"Théodred!" cried Éomer, but he was too far to do anything.

He could only watch as the Orc's hands found the grip of a hunting dirk that hung at Théodred's waist and plunged it into his own neck...and Théodred stepped back in horror, watching as black blood sprayed forth from the creature's neck in a dark fountain...

Two days later, Edoras could be seen in the distance. Yet the Rohirrim did not rejoice. They returned home with heavy hearts, for after the Orc had taken his own life, they had turned to see that six of the Rohirrim warriors had fallen.

They had no place to bury the men, and would never have burned them along with the carcasses of the Orcs and Goblins. Théodred had finally led the men in a small ceremony, and released the bodies gently into a nearby river, though they had no barge in which to bear the warriors.

"May the waters carry you hence to the seas, my brothers," Éomer had whispered.

Now they had to report this grievous news to the king—not only that six of his men had fallen, but that there was indeed dark activity in the lands, and that the servants of Sauron went free.

The Rohirrim walked slowly into the Golden Hall, leaving behind them crowds of people who had seen them return. Théodred and Éomer walked at the front. They arrived at the throne and bowed before the king.

"My lord father…" began Théodred. Then he looked up.

Théoden's skin was pallid and his face drawn. His eyes were distant and did not glance once in his son's direction. His hair, white and thin, hung limply on his face, and his lips were slightly parted. Finally, his eyes wandered, and rested on Théodred and Éomer in an unsettling fashion.

"You are late," he said hoarsely. "Can a man not even see a simple mission carried through by his own kin?"

Éomer was startled. This change in Théoden was drastic. Had it happened during their absence? "Uncle, we—"

Théoden raised his hand, commanding silence. "I am too weary for this talk now. Be gone from my sight, and I will come to you later."

Éomer saw defeat and hopelessness in Théodred's eyes as they turned slowly and began to retreat from the hall. The last thing he saw before turning was Gríma Wormtongue, his eyes gleaming and his lips pursed, as he stroked the arm of the throne with skeletal fingers.

As they retreated from the hall, Éomer felt tears in his eyes and knew not why. He furiously kept them back.

Do I feel the desire to weep for my fallen comrades, for my uncle's state, for the deceiver at his side...for what?

Then the answer became clear.

I weep for Rohan...not only for Rohan, but for all of Middle-Earth, and those people who may just meet their ruin in the dark years to come...

For the unknowing ship that is to be swept off into fathomless shadows.

The war was indeed only brewing. But as Éomer tried to put the thought of Gríma's dark eyes behind him, he thought of the enemy, and of the Orc's last words, and found himself making a promise in his mind.

Do not think yourself invincible, Sauron. I swear upon the graves of all those who have lost their lives to your shadow that you have not seen the last of the Rohirrim, nor the last of me.

Never, Sauron, will you see Éomer of Rohan surrender.

Ok, there it is, I hope it was ok, I had a lot of trouble with it, because this is the time period in Éomer's life that barely anything is known about. In future chapters, as Théoden's condition worsens, I plan to follow the movie's idea that he is possessed by Saruman rather than merely influenced by him. Sorry, I just think I can make it more interesting that way. In the rest of the events I will try to follow the book, including that Éomer will be imprisoned, not exiled, and meet Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli before that. The year span between chapters 3 and 4 will be ten years, the longest one yet, cuz Éomer's eighteen in this chapter. He is 28 during the War of the Ring (3019 TA), which is when he meets everyone.

Coming soon: The War of the Ring is underway, and Éomer hears of Orcs descending into Emyn Muil. He pursues them against the king's orders, meeting Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli on his return…and, upon returning, is sentenced to imprisonment. Will he be able to save his uncle and sister from Wormtongue's corruption?

Please review! (I'm ok with flames)