Thanks for the reviews! Here is Chapter 5.
Eokat: Hmm, I had looked at the appendices. I was right in that he was imprisoned for one full day but you were correct in saying that he was imprisoned for two nights. He was imprisoned on the night of the 30th upon his return, after meeting Aragorn and such, and Gandalf healed Théoden on the 2nd, so he was in the dungeons for the entire day of the 1rst and the night of the 30th and 1rst.
Sorry, but Éomer's imprisonment had to be pushed back to the next chapter (again!). It would have just made this chapter WAY too long.
Disclaimer: The final book of the LOTR trilogy, ROTK, was copyrighted in 1965 by J.R.R. Tolkien. The rest were copyrighted before that and by the same guy. It would be dumb to say I own it; although I was alive in 1965 (for I am Aragorn) I was then living in hiding and presumed to be "presumed dead;" instead this "presumed" presumption wasn't disproved to not be incorrect.
Chapter 5: Cast Into Shadows
3019 T.A., the plains of the Riddermark
They rode steadily throughout the few hours remaining in the night, in utter silence, for they had to be purposeful; stalling would get them caught. The stars and moon served as a map to guide them during that period of darkness. Éomer rode at the head, his blood rushing from the sheer adrenaline rush of justified defiance. The young sun was barely touching the distant mountaintops as the plains of the Riddermark stretched out before the Riders of Rohan.
Éomer led his host in a descend into the plains and they rode following the tracks they had found until noon. Little could be seen for mileseven in the peak of the day's light. The trail was somewhat fresh, but the gently wind for an entire night swayed the blades of fading grass and made even large groups of footprints hard to locate, on top of the fact that the riders were weary from getting little rest and riding from midnight until midday of the 28th of February.
Finally, after hearing several complaints, Éomer granted the men and their mounts a rest. As they settled on the side of a broad hillock, Kaeril, an energetic young soldier and skilled fighter, approached Éomer.
"My lord?"
Éomer turned. He had been attending to his own stallion. "Yes, Kaeril?"
"I was wondering if it would be possible for you to send me out as a scout. I am not tired, and my horse is strong. He will be able to resume the ride shortly. Also, if the Orcs see us riding forth as a host they have time to prepare themselves to stand against us and we will have no element of surprise."
Éomer nodded. He had indeed been thinking of sending a scout, but had not yet had a chance to voice it. He was also worried about the peril. If one of the Rohirrim were to fall into the enemy's hands, Éomer would never forgive himself. Was he not the one who had gotten them all into this?
"It is a wise idea, Kaeril," he said. "But none of you would be here, in this danger, if I had not brought you. For me this battle is as much to avenge my cousin as it is to save our people. Therefore, I shall be the one to ride out."
Kaeril did not know how to respond, and simply stood there, staring. "But, my lord, we need your leadership..."
"All you need is each other." Éomer put a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder for a moment, then made his way to the top of the hillock (a summit which proved to be quite blunt) to address the men.
When Éomer called out to them, the conversation amongst the men died down to a few misplaced whispers and eventually silence. Many eyes turned to look his way. Even the horses ceased to cause any commotion, for the atmosphere around the Rohirrim of one that was dead serious.
"Men of Rohan," Éomer said, raising his voice so that it rang clear and could be easily heard by all one hundred five soldiers before him. "To avoid stumbling across our enemies in such great numbers, I shall ride out to see if I can notify you as to their whereabouts. I should return by nightfall."
Kaeril, as well as two other men named Rieiaur and Éothaincame forth and knelt before Éomer.
"You said we needed each other," said Kaeril softly. "You need others as well, my lord Éomer. At least let us four ride with you. As four, we will remain inconspicuous, but should things turn ill there will be at least some support."
Éothain, a man three years Éomer's senior, raised his head and looked Éomer in the eyes. Under one arm he held his helm and at his waist had his sword sheathed, and his spear was raised tall in his hands. "We pledge to serve you, Éomer. Do not turn us away."
Éomer could not help feeling the rise of a strange emotion that seemed to be reminiscent of the fantasies of his childhood. To have others before him, swearing him fealty...it made him feel like somebody of worth.
With a slight smile, Éomer looked out at the rest of the riders. No longer were they simply fellow riders. They were more; they were his brothers, his kinsmen, who would ride with him to any fate. And he would be at their side through any danger as well.
So it was that Éomer set out across the plains, with three sets of hoof beats thundering behind him. He could hear the stallion's breathing growing slightly labored but the creature showed no signs of even slowing. Éomer's heart was hopeful, and as he made light conversation with Kaeril, Éothain, and Rieiaur, the dangers ahead seemed to be less of a threat, although there was still amount of peril lingering in the air.
Yet by evening Éomer was starting to worry. Why had they not yet found anything? The path was clearer as they progressed but they could not see definite signs. He could see the borders of the forsaken Fangorn Forest, and he would not dare lead his men there. The four riders were at that point coming up the side of a somewhat steep hill so that all Éomer could see were the dark treetops, cast with shadows amidst gnarled branches. The hill sloped into a valley and they had nearly reached its top.
Then Éomer heard something and called his men to an abrupt halt. They yanked back on their horses' bridles, gaining irritated neighs, but the beasts stopped the movement of their hooves save for the occasional stamp.
It was the sound of a large group, seemingly on foot. Grunts and growls indicated that the creatures were less than human. Éomer's heart beat faster, and he motioned for the horses to be moved back. The men obeyed and all four backed up the animals until they were well clear of the hill's summit.
Éomer dismounted and laid his spear on the ground a few feet away from his stallion. Kaeril, Éothain and Rieiar followed his lead and did the same. Then they went and stood behind him with questioning yet determined looks in their eyes.
Éomer crept up to the top of the hill and laid himself upon the grass so that only his eyes peaked up and gazed into the valley below. His three companions were soon at his side. Then, peering forward, Éomer gained vindictive joy, for he saw before him a great host of Orc; some also ran with them who were not of Mordor. They held the same grotesque characteristics of the Orc but were greater in stature and also bore traces of Goblin features. All were armed, and some near the front seemed to be carrying some things on their backs, but at this distance Éomer could not make out what it was.
"Bile rises in my throat simply at the sight of them," whispered Éothain. "Even the earth quakes beneath their foul steps. Our spears and sword will gladly spill such dark blood."
Some rebukes came to Éomer's mind for such bloodthirstiness, but he said nothing. He too would rather see these horrid creatures dead than alive.
The four men lay on that hilltops for quite some time, watching as their foes arrived at the borders of Fangorn and advanced no more.
"They must be stopping for a rest," said Rieiaur, shifting his weight on the uncomfortable ground.
Éomer nodded. "An opportunity," he whispered, more to himself than to the others.
As they started to head back, Éomer couldn't help but notice the sparkle of excitement in Kaeril's eyes. "Does the thought of battle excite you, Kaeril?"
"When it is against the servants of Mordor, yes, my lord."
Éomer sighed. "Kaeril, all that comes with war is loss."
Kaeril drew his horse around until it stood before Éomer's. "I know," he said. "I know that it is nothing but death, but it is necessary. For freedom for the people. We will all die, and none of us will choose how. But I would rather die with a sword in hand, fighting for what I believe in, than a feeble old man safe in his bed. That's why I became a soldier. Is it not the same for you?"
Éomer felt a smile upon his lips. "That's why we become soldiers," he agreed.
It took about two hours to ride back to where the other Rohirrim were resting with anxious expressions, as they busied themselves with minor tasks and restored their strength. Most had taken some hours of sleep. Éomer knew that his horse and those belonging to Kaeril, Rieiaur and Éothain were exhausted and had been pushed to their limits. The animals had been panting and not nearly achieving their full speed on the return journey.
Éomer swung down from his stallion and fed the creature some oats as he thanked him for his service. Then he turned the horse over to a soldier who offered to tend to its needs.
All were looking at the small party expectantly. Éomer was weary, but the thought of riding with the Rohirrim to battle beneath the rising sun invigorated him.
"They rest outside of the Fangorn Forest," he said as loud as possible. "Two hours more of rest, give or take, for me and your three other faithful brothers to recooperate. Then, we ride, Sons of Eorl! For wrath and ruin, and the coming of the sun. We bring down our enemy at dawn!"
By the end of the speech, Éomer's voice had risen to a yell, and the others cried out in response, raising their spears and swords with cries of "Eorlingas!" and "For the Mark!"
Once the ferver had died down, the men waited with mixed feelings of anticipation, dread, joy and sorrow, and Éomer's own feelings of such were most prominent among them. Yet he welcomed the harbor of sleep. After two hours of dreamless sleep, he was roused, and stood groggily and reluctantly. Éothain stood before him.
"The sun rises in about two and a half hours," Éothain said.
Éomer clenched his fists in determination. "And a red sun will it be."
The Rohirrim assembled their ranks atop the very hill that Éomer had used as a scouting position the night before. The enemy was vulnerable; the remains of their fire was flickering out and some were asleep whilst others polished weapons. There was no conversation among these monsters...and none had their scimitars and knives at ready.
The sky was barely beginning to lighten. Night was still clinging to its final moments, but the sun was beginning to push through and would soon come into view in the distance.
Éomer needed only a few yells to rouse the men as he held Gúthwinë up for all to behold. "FOR THE MARK!" he called. "FORTH, SONS OF EORL!"
And with war cries roaring forth from their mouths, the Rohirrim charged, and the galloping hooves of the hundred-odd horses flattened the yellowing grass. As Éomer pointed his mighty sword forward and imagined it piercing the black throats of the Orcs and their companions, the first rays of light came up from the east.
The Orcs never had time to organize. Bewildered and disconcerted, they tripped over one another trying to grab weapons, but even armed it was impossible for them to beat a force more than twice the size of their own that rode on horseback.
Suddenly, the charge was over, and the battle began. The first regiments of the Rohirrim had reached their enemies. Some bore bows and arrows, which sang in the morning as the arrows whistled through the air; others thrust forward spears while yet others slashed with swords. The frenzy of the battle of overwhelming—the Orcs were severely outnumbered, disorganized, and fought chaotically against foes that they could not by any means defeat.
Yet they did manage to unhorse severalmen. While the battle was still raging, it was impossible for Éomer and the others to see if any of their comrades had fallen...but the disorder would be over soon enough.
Just like at the Fords of Isen, Éomer looked around and felt his sword tensing in his hand; there was nothing to attack. Everywhere he looked he saw only the other Rohirrim. Some yards to his left he heard the death cry of one final Orc, a hoarse scream ripped from its throat as a spear went through his chest and came out protruding from his back and covered in blood. But there were no more.
"HOLD!" yelled Éomer. The rest of his men stopped, and looked around. All that remained were foul and bloody carcasses of the Orcs. The stench was horrible, and more notable now that the Rohirrim had no battle left to fight.
Éomer looked to the sun, which was now shining in the morning sky. The sun is red...a sun of blood has risen.
"Search for any of our wounded!" he called out. The men began to dismount, and their horses fidgeted uncomfortably amongst the corpses. Éomer's eyes scanned over the dead. Many of the Orcs' eyes, open and glassy, stared up into his, and Éomer found that though his task was accomplished, he felt no sense of pride. All that comes with war is loss. The Orcs had been Elves once...for them to have become this now, worthless, evil scum that angered the very earth, that was a terrible, terrible loss.
"Lord Éomer! Here, please!"
Éomer did not know who was calling to him, but went out to where most of the men were standing, on the outskirts of the battleground, where bodies were much fewer.
Éothain, a bit flustered but not seriously wounded, led Éomer to where several soldiers were standing in a semicircle. "Fifteen dead," he said grievously. "Twelve wounded, and fifteen dead."
As Éomer made his way over to where the bodies obviously were, he felt his heart once again sink with grief. Fifteen dead...I would rather die with a sword in hand, fighting for what I believe in, than a feeble old man safe in his bed. Young Kaeril was among the dead and Éomer felt a surge of guilt, though at what he was unsure. An elder soldier named Gárulf was among them as well, but mostly the dead consisted of younger soldiers, who were often more rash and thought themselves invincible. Éomer sighed. Two were no older than seventeen. To have lived so little...
Éomer said a silent prayer to whatever gods would hear. "We must burn the carcasses of our enemies," he said. "And we cannot burden ourselves with these dead either."
Éothain looked to him. "What are we to do then with our own dead? Surely we cannot simple burn them unceremoniously with the rest!"
Éomer shook his head and looked down at the lifeless bodies. "No. We will bury them. We have time, before returning to Edoras. Let us move the bodies of our kinsmen aside and prepare a mound for the funeral. I will need men to do this, as well as some to tend to the wounded. Others, with me, will prepare a fire to burn the Orcs. Let us make haste."
The early sky was still painted with the red of the blooded sun as Éomer's orders were carried out.
The stench from the burning Orc bodies was strong even from afar. The ceremony for the fifteen dead of the Rohirrimhad been brief, but solemn, and the voices of the Riders of Rohan had lifted as they sang praises for the fallen.
Now, however, both were done, and it was high afternoon. The Rohirrim were riding in silence towards Edoras. None looked forward to the confrontation with the king after going out against his orders, and brooding thoughts in their minds silenced normally conversational tongues. The hoof beats of the horses were rapid, for haste was necessary nonetheless.
They were descending the downward slope of one hill when a call from the rear of the host broke the quiet.
"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"
The Rohirrim had practiced before for such intrusions. Without so much as a word to one another, they halted their horses and turned, riding towards three figures that they had nearly passed over. Éomer irritably wondered how he had passed them over; they would have needed to be camouflaged behind the rock they had emerged from. Could they be Orcs? Éomer quickly dismissed that silly notion.
As they made a formation around the strangers, the Rohirrim drew forth their weapons and pointed both spears and arrows. Éomer rode to the front.
Before him was an odd ensemble. The nearest to him was a man, tall and limber, with lank, dark hair and a gray cloak about his shoulders. There was something intriguing about his gray-green eyes. There is something strange about this one. Éomer rested the point of his spear before the man's chest, noting that the man before him did not so much as flinch. His companions were of two different races. One was obviously an elf, who was fair of face, with golden hair and pointed ears, and there was an ornately carved longbow in one hand and an arrow in the other, which he had drawn from a slender quiver upon his back. The other was very small and stout, with a dark beard and eyes that were shadowed by a square helm. A dwarf, obviously. In his hand he held a long axe which was planted on the ground. What business did an elf, a man, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?
They most likely spoke the Common Tongue. Éomer could speak it fluently, and so shifted to that language rather than the native language of Rohan, which was different from that of their kin in the north.
"Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?"
The man looked up and answered without hesitation. "I am called Strider. I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."
These three did not seem to pose immediate threat, but Éomer was wary. He dismounted and handed his spear to Éothain, who came up beside him and dismounted as well. Éomer then stood before the man's face. Surely, this was no Strider. It was a false name. He looked the man up and down.
"At first I thought you yourselves were Orcs," Éomer confessed, before going on to question them. How could they go about pursuing swift, armored Orcs on foot with such scant weapons and so few in number? And how had they hidden from the sight of the Rohirrim? Éomer then noticed Elven brooches clasping their cloaks. "Are you elvish folk?"
Strider shook his head. "No. One only of us is an Elf, Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood. But we have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favor of the Lady go with us."
Then there was a lady of the Golden Wood. "Few escape her nets, they say. If you have her favor, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe." Éomer turned to the elf, Legolas, and the dwarf. "Why do you not speak, silent ones?"
The dwarf drew himself up to his full stature, and his eyes were full of anger as they peered out from under the helm. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides."
Éomer introduced himself curtly as Éomer son of Éomund, Third Mashal of Riddermark. The dwarf looked up and glared at him straight in the eye.
"Then Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin's son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you."
There was slight commotion among the Rohirrim, and they rode inward, inclosing the three wanderers and advancing their spears. Éomer himself felt fury rise in his heart at such indignation. "I would cut off your head, Master Dwarf," he said contemptuously. "If it stood but a little higher from the ground."
Legolas took action so quickly that Éomer's heart skipped a beat. The elf's hands moved like lightning as he bent his bow and fit an arrow to the spring, his silver eyes flashing. "He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell."
Éomer knew that the Rohirrim were ready to drive their spears through Legolas' chest. The man Strider went between the two, and raised his hands, calling for peace. He turned to Éomer and assured him that they meant no evil to Rohan. "Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"
Éomer agreed, but knew that there was something he must know first. "First tell me your right name." Strider countered the question with another.
"First tell me whom you serve. Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor?"
"I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden King son of Thengel." Éomer did not care to include that they were out here against the king's orders. Saying the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "We do not serve the Power of the Black Land far away, but neither re we yet at open war with him; and if you are fleeing from him, then you had best leave this land." The land was, indeed, though it hurt Éomer to admit it, forsaken. He went on to tell Strider about how danger dwelt on the borders of Rohan and how they desired nothing but freedom and the life that the Riddermark had once held. Éomer felt a strange pang of guilt. Before, strangers had been welcomed kindly in Rohan, but now he had advanced on these three as though they were enemies.
I am only being cautious. Dark things dwell here, and I must not be quick to trust. He looked Strider in the eyes again.
"Come!" Éomer said. "Who are you? Whom do you serve? At whose command do you hunt Orcs in our land?"
An odd look came into Strider's eyes. "I serve no man, but the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go." Éomer watched as Strider's hand moved towards his waist and the sword that must have been concealed beneath the cloak. He tensed his grip on Gúthwinë. "There are few among mortal Men who know more of Orcs; and I do not hunt them in this fashion out of choice. The Orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends." More strange folk, perhaps? thought Éomer. "In such need a man that has no horse will go on foot, and he will not ask for leave to follow the trail. Nor will he count the heads of the enemy save with a sword. I am not weaponless."
Éomer wondered if this Strider would draw. He took a cautious step back. Then, Strider threw his cloak back, and drew a longsword from the sheath at his side that made barely any sound as it swept into the air. Sunlight glistened brightly in the blade and hilt, and Éomer felt recognition...he had seen this sword before. "Elendil!" cried Strider. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly."
There was utter silence among the Rohirrim. Éomer felt his heart beat quickly in wonder...a legend, a myth, the heir of Isildur...in these days dreams and legends seemed to spring to life from the very grass. He looked into Aragorn's eyes. They are the eyes of a king, fair, yet filled with desire for justice. The crown would fit this one well.
"Tell me, lord," Éomer said, his voice sounding weaker and less authoritative. This man's power far outdid his own. "What brings you here?" Briefly, Éomer remembered the latest tidings that Rohan had heard of Gondor, that Boromir, son of the Steward, whom he had met several times on occasion, had long been gone seeking an answer to questions of darkness. He asked Aragorn what he knew of this, but the man only answered that they would discuss such things at a later time.
"You heard that we are pursuing an orc-host that carried off our friends. What can you tell us?" Aragorn looked at Éomer expectantly.
Éomer felt guilty again. Could they have slain Aragorn's friends? No, they had seen only Orcs! "That you need not pursue them further," he answered quietly. "The Orcs are destroyed."
"And our friends?"
"We found none but Orcs."
Hope seemed to extinguish in Aragorn's eyes. "Did you search the slain? Were there no bodies other than those of orc-kind?" He motion with his hands. "They would be small, only children to your eyes, unshod but clad in grey."
Éomer tried to imagine what Aragorn could possibly be talking about. Dwarves? "There were no dwarves nor children." He told of the pile of carcasses, whose ashes still burned and smoked.
Gimli spoke again for the first time. "We do not speak of dwarves or children. Our friends were hobbits."
What? Éomer was growing more perplexed by the moment. "Hobbits? And what may they be? It is a strange name."
Gimli's eyes were downcast as he spoke and Éomer felt the sadness that these three felt suddenly in his own heart. "A strange name for a strange folk," the dwarf said. "But these were very dear to us. It seems that you have heard in Rohan of the words that troubled Minas Tirith. They spoke of the Halfling. These hobbits are Halflings."
Éomer felt ashamed when Éothain barked out a laugh.
"Halflings!" Éothain said, laughing. "Halflings! But they are only a little people in old songs and children's tales out of the North. Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?" The joyous look on his face was wiped off when Éomer glared at his fellow rider sternly.
A mysterious look grew in Aragorn's eyes. "A man may do both," he said.
Obviously Éothain had not taken the meaning of Éomer's look. He turned to his leader. "Time is pressing. We must hasten south, lord. Let us leave these wild folk to their fancies. Or let us bind them and take them to the king."
A prize for having disobeyed his word? I think not. Éomer addressed Éothain in the tongue of Rohan. "Peace, Éothain!" he said. "Leave me a while. Tell the éored to assemble on the path, and make ready to ride."
Éomer waited until the grumbling Éothain had gone off and begun to lead the host away before speaking to Aragorn again. "All that you say is strange, Aragorn. Yet you speak the truth. The Men of the Mark do not lie and therefore are not easily deceived. But you have not told all." Éomer wanted the entire truth behind this strange story. "Will you not now speak more fully of your errand, so that I may judge what to do?"
Aragorn told his tale. They had set out from Rivendell, in a company including Boromir of Gondor. He was very vague about what business this company had. "Gandalf the Grey was out leader."
Gandalf. Éomer remembered the old wizard, Gandalf Greyhame, bent and cloaked with a great pointed hat. He remembered Gandalf coming to Edoras, and warning the king against Saruman the traitor, and had been angry when Théoden had refused to listen and sent the wizard away. Then Gandalf had taken Shadowfax, a great but wild stallion that had the lineage of chief of the Mearas. Shadowfax had been set aside exclusively for Théoden; though the king never was able to ride him. The horse had returned, but even more wild than when he had left. Éomer voiced all these thoughts and let Aragorn make what he would of them.
Aragorn looked away with grief in his expression. "Gandalf will ride no longer. He fell into darkness in the Mines of Moria."
Perhaps Éomer should have held the same feelings for Gandalf as his uncle had, but his uncle had grown to be a fool, and knew that it was not true. He felt suddenly grievous. Aragorn agreed that it was the most grievous tidings the land had ever known. The heir of Isildur proceeded to reveal even more ill news—that Boromir had been slain by the Orcs that they hunted.
Éomer remembered having long conversations with Boromir. He had been a friend, very spirited and hopeful, constantly giving that hope to others, and they had shared meat and mead under the roof of the Golden Hall. "When did he fall?"
"It is now the fourth day since he was slain. And since the evening of that dya we have journeyed from the shadow of Tol Brandir."
So far? "On foot?" Éomer asked.
"Yes, even as you see us."
"Then Wingfoot I name you. Hardy is the race of Elendil!" Éomer then thought of what was to be done. A few days before sneaking out of Edoras he had cleared lands under his charge of innocents in case ill things should occur, and wondered what Aragorn would advise him to do next. "But now, lord, what would you have me do? The East-mark is my charge, the ward of the Third Marshal, and I have removed all our herds and herdfolk, withdrawing them beyond Entwash, and leaving none here but guards and swift scouts.
Gimli looked up at him. "Then you do not pay tribute to Sauron?"
"We do not and we never have." Anger was in Éomer's mind. He told Aragorn of the trials Rohan had faced, in which several Orc attacks had been sent forth into the Mark by Sauron and Saruman. "Do I hope in vain that you have been sent to me for a help in doubt and need."
Aragorn paused for a brief moment before answering. "I will come when I may."
"Come now! I fear that it may go ill for us." Éomer sighed. They had kept no secrets from, and neither must he. He told them of his going out against the king's orders and of the events that followed. Then he turned to Legolas and Gimli. "Will you not come? There are spare horses as you see. There is word for the Sword to do. Yes, and we could find a use for Gimli's axe and the bow of Legolas, if they will pardon my rash words concerning the Lady of the Wood. I spoke only as do all men in my land, and I would gladly learn better."
Aragorn sighed. "I cannot desert my friends while hope remains."
"Hope does not remain."
"Yet my friends are not behind. We found a clear token not far from the East wall that one at least of them was still alive there."
"Then what do you think has become of them?"
"I do not know. Can you swear that none escaped your net?"
"I would swear that none escaped after we sighted them."
Aragorn motioned to his cloak. "Our friends were attired even as we are, and you passed us by under the full light of day."
Éomer felt slightly embarrassed. "I had forgotten that. How shall a man judge what to do in such times?"
"As he ever has judged. Good and ill has not changed since yesteryear."
"True indeed."
After a few more words concerning such matters, Aragorn revealed that he had served in disguise in Rohan, and Éomer found himself wondering just how old this man was, for he still had somewhat a look of youth, but the blood of Númenor gave forth long life, and he may not be as he appeared.
Aragorn gave Éomer a look of understanding and Éomer felt a strange hope within him. "Come now, son of Éomund, the choice must be made at last. Aid us, or at the worst let us go free. Or seek to carry out your law."
Éomer thought for a moment. "We both have need of haste. You may go; and what is more, I will lend you horses. This only I ask: when your quest is achieved, or is proved vain return to the high house in Edoras where Théoden now sits. Thus you shall prove to him that I have not misjudged. In this I place myself, and maybe my very life, in the keeping of your good faith. Do not fail."
Éomer did not doubt for a moment that this man would do so. Aragorn's eyes were determined and he responded, "I will not."
The men were uncomfortable with giving Hasufel and Arod, two spare horses that had belonged to Gárulf and Kaeril. Gimli was not given a horse but rather rode beside Legolas atop Arod. The elf removed the horse's saddle and bridle, and the normally feisty horse was tamed at his gentle touch. Would it be that I had the gift with horses that these Elven folk hold, thought Éomer.
"Farewell, and may you find what you seek!" he cried as the Three Hunters began to ride away. "Return with what speed you may, and let our swords hereafter shine together!"
"I will come," Aragorn replied.
"And I will come, too," Gimli said, looking uneasy atop the horse. "The matter of the Lady Galadriel lies till between us. I have yet to teach you gentle speech."
Éomer found himself smiling. In so little time, these three had become friends to him. "We shall see. So many strange things have chanced that to learn the praise of a fair lady under the loving strokes of a Dwarf's axe will seem no great wonder. Farewell!"
And so they parted, and as the sun set, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rode into the distance, their grey cloaks flowing out behind them, ever mysterious in their journeys as they went forth to serve a cause greater than Éomer could have imagined...for indeed, never once had they directly mentioned the Fellowship of the Ring and its purpose.
It was nightfall when the weary Rohirrim at last passed through the gates of Edoras, and were greeted by the stares of the people, some curious, some angry, some betrayed, and some ever hopeful and grateful. Éomer instructed that the rest of the host be returned to their homes.
"This is my battle," he said. "It was my idea and I will resolve it."
The king awaited him in the throne room, with Gríma at his side. There was more devious glee in Wormtongue's eyes than usual, and he looked at Éomer with a smile on his face as he whispered something in Théoden's ear. Éowyn was near the throne, and embraced her brother, voicing her concern for him. After greeting her as well, Éomer lightly brushed his sister aside and went before the king.
"You went against my orders," said Théoden, his eyes not even on Éomer.
"I am sorry, uncle," said Éomer courteously. "But it was not in vain. The Orcs have been destroyed, and I have much to tell you besides."
Gríma stood. Even standing, he was hunched and somewhat inhuman, and his pale face was in shadow. "What makes you think the king is interested, son of Éomund?"
Wormtongue began to descend the steps, and each footfall of his echoed in the hall. Éomer felt the presence of men behind him, and saw some of the soldiers who had refused to accompany him advancing on him. He felt suddenly wary and slightly fearful. As he looked at the anger and contempt in Gríma, however, realization came to him.
"You are a pawn of Saruman," Éomer said quietly, his voice seething with fury. "How long since he bought you, Gríma Wormtongue? What is it he promised you?"
Éomer did not miss it when those dark eyes darted in his sister's direction, and then rested once again on him. "You know too much, Éomer son of Éomund," said the sinister voice.
"LEAVE HER!" he yelled. "BY MY OWN HANDS I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU!"
Suddenly, Éomer felt rough hands grabbing his arms, and struggled against the restraints. One of the guards on him ripped Gúthwinë from its sheath and held the blade against his throat.
"Stop fighting it, lord Éomer," said the man called Derimir as he spit at Éomer's feet. "Or would you like to die by a stroke of your own sword?"
"Éomer!" called Éowyn, rushing forth to help him. "Let him go!"
"Éowyn, no!" Éomer turned and looked at his sister. They shared a brief glance, and defeated she turned away.
Derimir withdrew the sword. One of the men punched Éomer unexpectedly in his stomach, and Éomer doubled over with the breath gone from him. Another came before him and kicked his chest. Éomer felt a sudden burst of pain, and bit his lip to keep from crying out. As another punched his face and warm blood fell into his mouth, he began to get disoriented. Pretty soon his body was wracked in pain, and he could see Éowyn crying beneath swollen eyes as they continued to beat him. His breath was soon coming short and ragged. Yet as Éomer grew weaker, it seemed that the guards hit him harder and would not relent.
I must be strong, he told himself as another fist hit him square in the jaw. All this time, he had not cried out. Nor would he. But there was now not only blood in his mouth, but leaking into his eyes from cuts in his forehead, and as he looked down he could see dark bruises on his arms as his captors ripped the mail from him and left him in nothing but the tunic and trousers he wore underneath.
Strong and weak exist no more...
"You are hereby sentenced to imprisonment," said Gríma, holding forth a scroll of parchment.
Éomer looked up. He had fallen to his knees as they beat him, and now they stopped and he looked at the paper before him. "You are not authorized to make such an order." Every word was taxing, and pained him even more.
Wormtongue smiled again. "This order does not come from me; it comes from the king." Éomer looked, and sure enough saw his uncle's signature scrawled at the bottom of the decree in dark ink. "Take him away."
The guards dragged Éomer to his feet. They roughly forced him forward, and with stumbling steps Éomer was led to the darkness of the dungeons. The prisoners already therein, driven mad from the perpetual gloom, laughed at Éomer and threw pieces of filth at him as he passed.
Derimir leaned in close. "See, you've already made friends," he said.
They shoved him into the farthest cell, where no torchlight infiltrated and the ground was covered in dirt. Former prisoners had written incomprehensible things on the stone walls in dried blood. It was there that Éomer's own men, having been jealous of the king's nephew, cast him into the shadows, and as he hit the wall and the world began to turn black, Éomer wondered what would become of Rohan.
I will not fail, Aragorn had said. Éomer could only hope it was true and clung to that promise as the blow from having hit a wall when thrown in drove him to unconsciousness.
Fin! Sorry it was so long, I'll try to condense the book parts more. Maybe I should have done it by the movie...but I love the books too much. Tell me if it was too long. If someone fell asleep, then I know something has to be done.
Coming soon: FINALLY ÉOMER'S IMPRISONMENT. Jeez. Okay, and besides that, the White Wizard comes to the Golden Hall. Will he be able to free Théoden from Saruman's grasp?
Please R & R!