Hey, cool, I got more reviews this time. Yay!

Book dialogue in this chapter. I might make a notation and I might not; I am feeling very lazy at the moment.

Disclaimer: I disclaim the claim which is nonexistent. Must I put disclaimers any more?

Chapter 7: A King Reborn

It was the next day that redemption came like a swift answer to long-sought prayers, upon the break of dawn.

Éomer himself was not witness to the miracle performed that morning. He was in a semi-unconscious state, drifting between sleep and awakening, for the conditions would not allow rest to come and yet his weariness did not wish to permit otherwise. But many in the court were present. Éowyn was among them, and would later recount all of the occurrences to her brother.

The trumpets had blown at sunrise, bearing the news of visitors. Gríma's eyes had darted to the far window at this...and, to his horror, he had seen none other than Gandalf Greyhame whom Éomer, along with many others, had thought to be dead. At his side were three beings whose faces were not familiar to those dwelling here but who had already played a critical role in the fight for Middle-Earth and who would continue to do so: Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur who had sworn only two days before to Éomer that he would turn his sights to Edoras, as well as his companion: the sylvan elf Legolas, who stood out due to being so uncommonly fair of face, and Gimli son of Gloin, the dwarf whose great respect for the Elven kindred would one day land him in places unimaginable. Wormtongue knew upon seeing these visitors that there was nothing he could do to stop their entrance. He ordered them disarmed, which stirred a bit of a quarrel among Aragorn (who did not wish to leave his mighty sword into the possession of another) and the Rohirrim guards posted at the doorway of the Golden hall. Yet it was resolved due to Gandalf's urgings.

Then, the four had entered, and things had occurred that were so surreal (beginning with the fact that Mithrandir was indeed alive) that few could later find words to describe them. There had been a powerful feel of light conquering darkness, good over evil, in which demons were cast out back to the abyss from whence they came. There was a transformation that was more like a return after a prolonged and accursed absence. Gandalf had risen in triumph, performing the unimaginable before the eyes of many onlookers, and in the process throwing aside his grey and faded cloak to reveal white garments that shone like the face of the sun.

And Saruman, whose presence had ever been so unwelcome in Rohan and caused so much misery, was sent out of King Théoden's mind, leaving a righteous man to fulfill righteous deeds while he, a fallen Istar, would remain locked in his Isengard tower with no control in the Riddermark.

All this happened well out of the dungeons' reach, although even through them a strange sensation was awoken in Éomer. He became suddenly more alert. It was as though an inner fire had been kindled within his heart, of things once lost and now renewed that would lead to something greater. He opened his eyes groggily to see the light of the torch brighter against the wall outside of the barred door to his cell. A familiar presence could be felt—actually, four, and without knowing of anything that was actually occurring in the hall, Éomer sensed that it might have come time for the Flame of the West to arrive in the Mark and with it bring surmountable good.

The light against the cold, black wall seemed to be growing more intense. Éomer observed it keenly. Could it be his imagination? No, he decided. Torchlight was approaching. Pretty soon the warm light of the flames pierced the bars of his cell and was cast across the ground to the dirt-encrusted walls. Somehow, Éomer felt that it was not a repeated visit, that it was not someone who wished him ill. There was hope within him.

And that hope had good reason to be. For the one who came to Éomer's dungeon was none other than Háma, one of the older members of Théoden's court who served as a guard. Háma's eyes were glistening and his face, lined with wrinkles of experience, was lit with joy. In his hands he held a key.

"My lord Éomer!" cried Háma. "Faithless was I that such as occurred today would ever happen, and yet happen it did. Those who did wrong will face justice and those who did right face it as well!" He continued to speak excitedly while unlocking the door, and his elation was so contagious that Éomer found his own lips forming a smile. "Every day of your imprisonment was like a blow to my own heart. I have long served and it hurts me to see Rohan so fallen that a man such as yourself is reduced to the dungeons, and today, I was stunned by everything that happened and at its end I was summoned to bring you forth!"

"What has happened?" asked Éomer. He was surprised to find how hoarse and weak his voice was.

"A miracle," was all that Háma said. He had entered and for a moment looked about with disgust and sadness at the conditions of the cell, at the blood and dirt and dried vomit, taking in the putrid smell.

The older man knelt and unlocked the shackles, which fell with a reverberating clang to the ground, now with Éomer's blood dried onto them atop that of others. Éomer's shoulders ached agonizingly from being held in such a position. He drew them forward slowly, and the bones of his shoulder blades seemed to resist the change; when they were finally in their regular formation, it was more painful than it had been with the chains on. Standing was another matter. Éomer's legs were numb from disuse, and he fell the first few times when trying to stand, even clutching to Háma for support. When Éomer did manage to make it to his feet he could not walk straight and stumbled many times.

I will stumble here, in the darkness, and trip and perhaps even fall...but when I am out in the hall again, in the place where I belong, I will stand and walk erect even if it were to kill me.

Háma and Éomer made their way to the exit, and Éomer ignored the steel glares of other prisoners who had indeed deserved such punishment as they were given.

The light once leaving was dazzling to wan eyes, causing Éomer to blink several times. It took a bit of walking to reach the main hall. At least by that time Éomer was walking on his own again, and a welcome feeling it was—to be in control again. Yet when they were nearing a different corridor, Éomer stopped and turned to Háma.

"Háma," he said. "I would like for you to fetch something for me from my chambers or from wherever they have stashed it."

"And what is that, my lord?"

"Bring to me Gúthwinë, my long sword. I should like to hold its hilt in my hand once more."

"My lord Éomer, if I should bring a prisoner forth armed..."

"I will lay it at the feet of the king."

Háma considered for a moment, then left Éomer alone as he went to the end of the corridor and turned the corner.

So Gríma has put it in with his own belongings. Éomer grimaced.

It seemed a lengthy amount of time before Háma returned, Gúthwinë in his hand, sheathed and radiant as always. Éomer reached out and took it eagerly. He unsheathed it partway, so that the steel might reflect light before his eyes, and shine. Wormtongue and his men had obviously not bothered to clean the blade. Dried blood still lingered on it, flaking off as it was pulled from the scabbard. But despite this Gúthwinë still held its perfection. Éomer smiled.

Háma was shifting beside him, in a mixture of impatience and excitement.

"Come, please, good sir, for in the Great Hall you will find a true king and things your eyes never thought to see!"

Éomer laughed outright, such was his joy, joy for virtually no reason as he had not yet seen Théoden or any others. It was a simple elation that came from the feeling of being alive. To be so full, complete, in control of your own actions, free to move about and not be chained to a wall like a restrained beast! To see light and beauty! There was sudden regret in his heart for thinking of those prisoners, they deserve this. No one deserved it. Perhaps when things were sorted out, Éomer would see to it that they were given a more just punishment.

Éomer then re-sheathed the sword let Háma lead him forth to the Great Hall. A nervousness fluttered in his mind at what he would encounter, and within the few seconds that it took to reach the throne room of the Great Hall, that nervousness would be replaced by a mixture of surprise, bewilderment, relief, and happiness.

At that moment everything came into view.

Éomer's eyes grew wide, and he felt at once all the above mentioned emotions in a landslide.

There stood a wizard, garbed in white that seemed to glow with an inner light, carven white staff in hand. Yet his face was familiar.

The dead walk again, thought Éomer. Gandalf the Grey, now Gandalf the White...he lived indeed. Shadows were rising from beyond the grave. Unless Aragorn was playing me false when he said the wizard was dead. But that notion seemed unrealistic.

Speaking of which, Éomer's eyes drifted over a few yards to see the heir of Isildur standing by one of the engraved pillars. There was something that stood out about this man and his company. Though his earth-tone clothing might be commonplace and worn, there was a regal and determined look to his eye. Legolas and Gimli flanked him with their own foreign features noticeable among the men. There also was Éowyn, Éomer's sister, and they exchanged a smile. It brought so much relief to Éomer's heart to see his sister smile...so long had she dwelled in bitter darkness with depression overcoming her from within. Her smile brought out the beauty that suited her so.

But where all stares were fixed was upon the king of Rohan.

Where was the feeble man? The old withered slave of his mind, crouched and crooked in a chair with a distant look in glazed eyes? That man was nowhere to be seen. The man that stood in his place was one that stirred Éomer's memory...a king, with his look alert and bright, golden hair bearing slight tinges of grey and white. The son of Thengel sat upon his throne erect. His skin was more taught and less wrinkled. The Théoden of my youth. Théoden, king of Rohan...my uncle whom I love.

How did this come to be?

At that moment, Gandalf was speaking. Théoden was looking at his hand, flexing his fingers, unfamiliar with the strength in them.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt," said the Istar.

Théoden rose and looked about. His hand went instinctively to his waist, where a scabbard would normally hang, but nothing was there. "Where has Gríma stowed it?" the king said quietly.

Éomer looked at Gúthwinë in his hand, and with boldness stepped forth and called out. "Take this, dear lord! It was ever at your service!"

The men looked upon Éomer, at his haggard appearance, and it seemed that some scarcely recognized him. Éomer knelt and bowed his head low, raising the sword forward.

"How comes this?" Théoden's tone held an edge of anger.

Háma came forth, nervously, his frail frame trembling slightly as he confessed to doing what he had thought right. "It was my doing, lord; I understood that Éomer was to be set free." He turned to Éomer, a wide grin coming to him. "Such joy was in my heart that maybe I have erred. Yet, since he was free again, and he Marshal of the Mark, I brought him his sword as he bade me."

Those around gazed upon Éomer expectantly. The room was silent.

Éomer tilted his head slightly upward, until his own eyes locked with Théoden's.

"To lay at your feet, my lord."

Tension followed. Théoden said nothing as he looked down at his nephew before him, nor did anyone move or make sound. Finally it was Gandalf who spoke and broke the pending silence.

"Will you not take the sword?" Gandalf asked.

Éomer watched as Théoden's hand came forward, and touched Gúthwinë's hilt in little more than a caress; then strength and color came upon the king. His hand gripped the hilt with vivacity and he swung the blade free. The sound of steel against sheath reverberated, and Éomer felt himself smiling as he looked at it slicing the air, proud, being raised high for all the Mark to see. Then the hall grew silent, and as the blade was held high over the heads of all in attendance, Théoden, king of Rohan, began to chant in the tongue of his forefathers. His voice was full of a vigor that Éomer had missed more than he could ever say.

Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward.
Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!
Forth Eorlingas!

The Rohirrim in the hall came forward triumphantly, drawing their own swords to shine beside the one in Théoden's hand. In unison, they raised their voices to the king. "Command us!

Éomer's grin broadened as he looked from Gandalf to Théoden. There was hope left; he had just witnessed as much, and it gave him determination and pride. The Riders of Rohan would help bring this Middle-Earth to justice.

"Westu Théoden hál!" he said, still kneeling. All who looked at the Marshal of the Mark saw his eyes glistening, more bright and joyous than they had seen in years. "It is a joy to us to see you return into your own." Éomer turned to Gandalf, feeling apologetic for every time ill-spoken tongues had convinced him to think ill of the wizard. "Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief!"

Théoden's expression, which had been stern before, was now relieved and alive. He beckoned for Éomer to rise. His nephew did as much, and Théoden handed him Gúthwinë. The hilt was still warm from the king's grasp. The warmth of life, thought Éomer.

"Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son!" said Théoden.

The two looked to one another, with fond memories in their minds, and held that gaze just for a moment in which they were not king and subject, nor misunderstanding of one another...they were family. Uncle and nephew as it had been before. While the rest of the world had a great king returned, Éomer had more. Before him now someone he had once considered almost a father, someone he loved, and who had been lost as though to the icy touch of death.

No more.

There is good in the world. There is hope. And after seeing this, this miracle, I will never forget it.

Théoden turned and beckoned Háma to fetch his own sword. Éomer was left, then, with contentment in his heart, and hope for the dawning of a new world that had almost fallen to darkness...but that never would.

The end of Chapter 7.

Coming soon: Éomer is proclaimed the heir of Rohan, which bears responsibility as well as more leadership than he has ever experienced before. Is Éomer prepared to be the voice of the Mark? Also, Gríma Wormtongue is cast out of Edoras...and the city must prepare to escape, to flee to mountain refuge, for danger unlike Rohan has ever known is coming.

I am much obliged to all readers and reviewers. J