Hullo, the edited version of Chapter 5 has now been posted, yay. Much thanks to Eokat.

As of now, I only have about 2 regular reviewers. How sad. Oh well! I like my reviewers because they are nice and don't call me a codfish. Don't even think about it, Irish Anor, that OR the munchy bunkin thing. Where the heck did that come from anyway? Sapphire Orb might review sometime...to my dear friend orbi, I say busca busca.

Disclaimer: MY CLAIM IS DISSED

Chapter 6: Falling to Ruin

Éomer found no rest that night. After recovering from unconsciousness, he found reality even worse than the darkness that he had just come out of. The stench of the cell was so unbearable that he wondered when was the last time it had been cleaned out, for when he had cleaned the dungeons in his youth he had never found them in such condition as they now were. Was all of Rohan falling to ruin? Also, Éomer found that he was hungry and parched with thirst. They had eaten very little during the entire orc-hunt and the long rides and exhilarating battles had exhausted him. Yet he could not sleep. His only gladness was in knowing that the other men had not been faulted for his defiance, though they had followed him wholeheartedly.

The cell was cold. Torches lit far walls, but their meager light and warmth were scarcely comforting. Éomer's head was throbbing. Welts and bruises covered his skin and sent pain rushing through his body at the slightest contact with the rough, cold walls, and several had opened to send blood coursing down his skin. His left eye was so swollen that his vision was blurred and it was agonizing to keep it open long. On top of everything, his wrists had been fastened to two steel shackles that were rusting away on one of the walls, and the rotting metal hurt when it dug into the skin on his wrists, and Éomer could feel warm blood trickling down his arms.

I have committed no crime.

The other prisoners found nothing more amusing than a Marshal of the Mark being thrown in among them like a low-life criminal, and would not give Éomer a moment without jests and taunts that he tried hard to ignore.

It was impossible to know when the night of the 30th became the morning of the 1st, because of the windowless dark. But eventually the morning came, unbeknownst to Éomer, and it was signified after those long hours by someone entering the cell.

The sounds of movement in other cells suggested that the prisoners were being brought their first meal, which Éomer knew to usually be a stale heal of bread or some sort of tasteless broth. I will not act as a desperate man. The thought of food was wonderful, but even here Éomer knew he must uphold his reputation...however long that reputation was to last as every moment dashed away a slight bit of hope.

However, the man did not visit his cell. Éomer listened to the sounds of the other captives as they wolfed down the rations given them. He felt empty, and leaned his aching ahead against the wall, closing his eyes.

I am a Marshal of the Mark. I did what I did in service to the people.

Why, then, do I feel like such a traitor?

The darkness seemed to close in, and Éomer shivered as the cold penetrated his light tunic. He could not so much as wrap his arms about himself, as they were restricted, and so the lengths of his arms were exposed to the icy touch. Who knew what would happen here, or how long he would remain in this place? Maybe a few hours, a few days, or maybe his life...it would be a story to ridicule, surely—that the king's nephew, a lord of Rohan, rotted away in the dungeon of his own home, slowly succumbing to darkness and cold and starvation and thirst.

And fear, perhaps. Do I even know what these emotions are that I feel?

His only hope was in a single promise of one man, and in that he instilled more faith than anything else, for despite being quick-earned Aragorn was his friend, as were Legolas and Gimli, and Éomer trusted them and their word more than he trusted anything else in Middle-Earth at the moment. He said a prayer for them. May they find their friends, and take the halflings out of harm's way. May they make haste and turn to Edoras.

Éomer was just nodding off into fitful sleep when somebody came to his cell.

It was Derimir, who had mocked and hated Éomer ever since their youth, especially when both were vying for an army promotion and it had been given to the king's nephew. Éomer could still feel the cuts and bruises that the man had caused him the day before.

A cunning mind...but a black heart.

Derimir's eyes held a haughty look. "So, this is what the Third Marshal of the Mark has been reduced to; lying in a dungeon for treason. You were never worth your position."

Éomer ignored him, and leaned against the wall engrossed in shadows that filled his heart and mind.

"I trust you're hungry?"

At that Éomer responded, for when he turned there was a sneer on Derimir's face. "It was you who told them to deny me food."

"Actually, no, though I wouldn't have hesitated to. That was Gríma. I'm afraid you don't have many friends in the court, my lord."

"My friends are those warriors who are still loyal to Rohan."

Derimir's dark eyes flashed angrily at that. He took a step closer, and gripped one of the rusting steel bars tensely. "You think you know so much," he said, in a low and bitter voice. "But you are so naïve. Don't you understand? Have you ever understood? There is no 'good and evil'. There is nothing we have to stand for anymore. All there is for me, for us, for all of the Rohirrim, is power and glory. Gríma is giving me that, while our dying king has given you a prison cell. Look, Éomer, at where your worthless honor has landed you. You have to realize that there are bigger things happening here."

Éomer could not respond. He did not feel anger, or sadness, or resentment, simply...emptiness. It was as though everything he had ever believed in was gone. His eyes were starting to get used to this darkness that filled them, to the cold, and he just had a strange feeling that everything he had lived for had come to naught. The king was dying...and Rohan with him. Finally Éomer spoke in a quiet voice tinged with sorrow.

"My honor is still worth something...while you, you insult everything the Rohirrim believe in, and have forsaken the oath you took to serve and protect. You may not be wasting away now, but someday you will be, and all of your treasons and lies will return to haunt you."

At that, Derimir's temper flared, and he pulled a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked to door. Éomer braced himself for a blow as the man strode in. It came, another punch full in the face, and Éomer felt dazed from the sudden pain. What was worse was his helpless position, and he could do nothing but take the beating as Derimir kicked him in the stomach, causing him to retch what little food was left in him. The odor was horrendous. The disgusting mixture of vomit and drying blood on the ground was too much, and Éomer began to feel sick all over. Even Derimir grimaced at the sight and took a step backward.

As all this was taking place, Éomer turned his aching eyes to the doorway, and watched as a pale figure came into view. Wormtongue's lips parted into a malicious smile. Éomer felt rage in his heart. Rohan has no honor left, not judging by these who lead it now. Gríma, Derimir...all of them were once men of the Mark, and now what are they, but turncloaks and murderers with no regard for what honor really means?

See, Saruman, Sauron, what scourge you have laid upon us. Look at it and laugh while you can. Soon it will come around and destroy you, smite you until you are nothing more than ashes on the barren ground and dust in the wind.

Wormtongue spoke Derimir's name silkily, and the man turned. Giving Éomer one last glance, he stalked away, after locking he door giving the bars a furious shake and leaving them vibrating, with the sounds of rusted steel's shrieks echoing in the corridor. Gríma did not need to say anything...he simply looked over Éomer with those cold eyes, which were readable enough: he had won. The traitorous advisor turned and left after Derimir.

"Valar," Éomer whispered, shaking his head while he spit blood out onto the floor. He licked his dry, cracked lips, and his mouth salivated from lack of water while the pit of his stomach went through a painful cramp.

Éomer's mind went to his people. Were they starving in the streets? Whilst Wormtongue and his henchmen plotted with Isengard, what was truly becoming of the once proud and honorable realm of Rohan? Innocents were suffering as much as prisoners in these forsaken lands. Was Illúvatar abandoning his children that dwelled in the Mark?

There are bigger things happening here.

Derimir was right, but not in the way that had been expressed. The selfish, such as himself, did not look past their own gain. There are bigger things happening here. And there were. The battle between good and evil, the two extremities themselves...it was the biggest thing of all, and the narrow-minded would simply never see it. Saruman was a traitor and would eventually betray even those that he had tricked into his service. Éomer even felt a bit of pity for their deception...just a bit, though, for his wounds that ached and bled and his empty stomach willed him to think otherwise.

There is still good in the world, thought Éomer. I have seen it.

There were many people remaining who were good of heart, Éomer knew. His sister was among them, and all those soldiers who had come with him, and the three travelers who had been seeking out their halfling friends...and a grey wizard. Gandalf had been truly good. Éomer felt a sudden pang of grief for the wizard he hadn't truly known, for in losing him, the world had lost the person who might have been its greatest source of hope. And my uncle, he is still good, deep down in the soul that hides beneath the broken body. Théoden must be alive somewhere...not as a cold and withdrawn old monarch, but as the man who once acted like a father to me and placed my sword in my hands. Éomer's fingers groped blindly, longing for the feel of Gúthwinë's familiar hilt.

It was now in Men that Middle-Earth must hope. The Elves were leaving to distant lands, and soon enough none would remain. I have to be strong. Willing or not, I am a leader in the world of Men, and I must be so even in these dark times.

And the world of Men must now place their trust in the only ones who could save them...Aragorn and his companions. Isildur's Bane had been found, and Éomer knew not what had become of it, but he did know that Isildur's heir would play a part in salvation from the doom it would someday bring. It was a privilege and gift to know such a man. Memories passed through Éomer's mind, and he remembered the Sword that was Broken as it was swept from its sheath and glistened with its own fire in the sunlight.

Éomer peered through the bars of his cell, and saw his own light, flickering on the wall from the far torch. He managed a small smile.

Even in this darkness, there is light.

And soon it was burn bright enough for even those in the darkest places to behold...

For me to behold.

Out in the main hall, Gríma paced with a feeling of satisfaction in his foul heart. The two men who had posed a threat to Saruman's dominion in Rohan had been eliminated. Théodred was dead, his body rotting away in a stone tomb by those of his forefathers, while Éomer was incarcerated in the deepest and most fetid of dungeons for treason against the king.

However, he was not fully satisfied...now, with Éomer out of the way, Gríma saw an opportunity to take something else he greatly desired. I was promised my share in the treasure. Now, my time is come, and I will claim it, Saruman.

He exited the throne room, and went down past several chambers in the Golden Hall, unhindered by guards who averted their gazes...until he arrived at a far room in which the only window had been shut, and the woman within dwelled in darkness.

She was standing beside a wash-bowl, running the cold water over her fair hands, which had grown pallid from long hours of shying from the sun.

"Might I interrupt?" said Gríma, standing in the doorway.

Éowyn looked up, and there could be seen tears brimming on the edge of her large blue eyes. Her golden hair was unkempt but lovely, falling across her white shoulders in gentle waves. Her dress was of pale silver that accented her features perfectly. "I would prefer to be left alone." He walked in nonetheless, feeling desire growing within him, for her beauty was too great to bear—especially for a man whose life had been so detached from love.

She turned away from the bowl and wiped her hands lightly on a towel, then turned to Gríma, unsure of what to say as he approached. He felt her tremble slightly as he put a hand on her cheek, and found it as cold as a midwinter night.

"Look at you," he said, caressing Éowyn's face softly. "So beautiful, yet you have grown so cold, avoiding light's touch. Why, Éowyn? Why are you so distant and cold, like a spring flower still clinging to the frost of winter? Why do you fall into this depression?"

Her lovely eyes met his, and there was unspeakable grief and anger lingering within. They were roughly of the same height, which pleased Gríma to note. "My cousin is dead," she said, her voice quiet and shaky. "My cousin is dead, my uncle, the king, dies upon his throne, and my brother is locked away in a prison cell. All that I love has been taken from me and I can do nothing. Do you see my grief as ungrounded? I am but a woman, and considered inferior in the eyes of the world, therefore must stand on the side and watch as the only family I have left is taken from me. I always had my brother, at least, and now here is gone. What do I have left to love?"

"There are other things to love in the world." He took both her hands between them, and ran his fingers lightly over the smooth skin. "Come to me, Éowyn, and I will show you love. I can give you power, so that you can make changes that you so desire, and be rid of that sadness that I know haunts your heart so. Do you not desire to be loved as well to love in return? I can give you that, my lady. My masters are strong and powerful and can give to you whatever it is you seek. If you should wish for Rohan to be prosperous, they will make it greater than any realm in folklore, a land straight out of the legends of old. Come, you know you desire this."

He licked his lips, seeing that she was considering, knowing no other way out.

Then Éowyn's eyes grew hard and angry. Her hands tensed, and she withdrew them quickly to her side as though disgusted by Wormtongue's touch, and she pursed her lips.

"Get away from me, snake!" she stepped away, and continued to distance herself from him as he reached for her. "Your words are poison. You mean to draw me to darkness, but the blood of my ancestors dwells in me and I will not fall prey to your temptation." With that, Éowyn turned decisively and strode from her chamber, her hair and dress flowing out behind her.

And Wormtongue was left alone, so very alone, in a room that now seemed devoid of beauty.

tHe EnD oF cHaPtEr SiX

Coming soon: When Théoden is freed from Saruman's spell, what will become of Rohan and Éomer? The king awakens to find the world about him in ruin...and that the enemy plans to strike his land. The time will come for the Rohirrim to arise and once again see the light of battle.

This chapter was much shorter than the last one. I'm thinking that's a good thing. But maybe it all comes down to cheese either way.

pLeAsE rEvIeW