Thanks to everyone who's still sticking with this story! I know there's a lot of time between updates, and sometimes I lose my inspiration to write when reviews taper off, but hopefully the story will still stay strong through its end.

Disclaimer: I do not own the book dialogue in this chapter or anything else recognizable as Tolkien's. However, I did put in a scene between the Three Hunters that isn't in the book. : )

Chapter 13: Another Beginning

...You enter
Into a delicate balance,
A clash of life and death,
A battle.

You pass through a gray sheen,
A blaze of the unknown,

And arrive at another beginning,
Where darkness has not expired
And sunlight is delayed;

But it is a beginning
All the same.

Éomer did not wish to enter the forest.

He was not alone in his reluctance; the Riders who formed part of the host that rode towards Isengard also halted hesitantly before the ominous, misted boughs. It seemed that to cross into that entanglement of reaching tendrils would be a certain death, for the earth, black beneath the cover of the trees, was so obscured that it seemed it could open by its own will and swallow them into fathomless darkness.

Éomer rode towards the front of the host, among the ranks of Gandalf and Théoden, along with the three who rode with Gandalf. He looked to the king and saw the same apprehension mirrored in the eyes of the Rohirrim, but they nonetheless plunged forward behind Gandalf as the wizard continued his course. As soon as they passed beneath the canopy, they were engulfed by an aisle of light isolated from the rest of the forest, where the sun still managed to penetrate and illuminate both road and stream.

It was impossible, however, for Éomer to keep his eyes from the rest of the forest. To his left and right it was still the same vast, chaotic gloom.

It was here that the Orcs came, Éomer remembered suddenly. Had that been the reason for his earlier fear, the possibility of meeting the enemy once more?

No. He realized quickly that this was not the case. There was power here greater than any enemy, something detached from the Middle-Earth he knew; it was a part of the world that had existed since the beginning of time, a home to the dormant energy of creation and the embodiment of all of the anger that the world had accumulated. What being could step in here and survive if it was not welcome?

Éomer shuddered involuntarily. For a moment, he almost pitied the Orcs...but only for a moment. He bowed his head slightly, letting his helmet and dirty strands of golden-brown hair cover the corners of his vision. The eyes of slaughtered Orcs, full of malice and pain, had started to appear to him in the shadows. He had no desire to witness any more of the hellish apparition, though he still saw the deep grey of the darkness creeping into the corners of the lighted path.

There was scarcely a whisper to be heard; when someone did venture to speak even from the rear of the company, it was a scathing noise. Human speech had no place here. Only Legolas and Gandalf were engaged in soft conversation. From the way they glanced about them—not with fear, but with calculating understanding—Éomer could guess the nature of their words. It seemed somewhat natural that they should speak. They alone were immortal and part of the lifetime that this forest would see.

At times, Éomer lifted his eyes solely to catch a glimpse of them. The two rode very close together. They seemed to encompass all of the light that the sun chose to shed on their path, for Gandalf was radiantly white and Legolas unblemished gold. Gimli sat behind Legolas, and his knuckles could be seen through the cover of his skin as he gripped the elf's tunic—he was afraid. This fear touched the calmness of his counterparts, Éomer noted, for the elf and the wizard glanced at him frequently and tenderly. Aragorn rode behind them slightly, choosing as his place one beside Théoden. This was what was directly before Éomer's sight: immaculate reassurance, blatant fear, and regal countenance.

And where was he in this? Éomer could not help feeling the inferiority of his imperfection, of his status as heir, and his helplessness at leaning closer to the fear.

The path gradually became less mysterious in its clash of light and dark and instead became familiarly unnatural. There was no longer need for complete silence in awe of the forces that surrounded them, but Éomer knew that most every man here longed to leave the forest. Voices were rising, but the voices were uncertain. He himself chose not to speak. He listened instead, for distraction, to the latest argument that had arisen between Legolas and Gimli—some discussion about which was more fascinating and beautiful, the ancient voices of the trees of the ever-glistening walls of a cave.

Éomer himself preferred an open field over both. Given the choice, he would never cease to choose a stretched of rolling hills, bright at dawn, with the autumn grass blending into the early sunlight; a place where he could ride for hours and not reach the end, or stand still and feel impossibly small, or simply look out at the beauty and be proud to call it his home. He was quite content to leave the changing green and gold of the forest to the elves, the night-and-stars of the caves to the dwarves, and the cold touch of white and grey stone to Gondor. Rohan was all he needed. It was there that his heart went now, and he poignantly felt the dull ache that was always present there intensify.

It did not help that he was so close to its security. As the veil of the wood was finally lifted and the sky appeared once more above the world, Éomer realized that he could easily ride east and be promptly in Edoras. He could arrive just as the sun was rising the next day and ride into its blinding magnificence. He could continue all the way to the Golden Hall, letting his steed lead the way through streets that would now be empty. He could go there and let himself be led all the way back to his childhood.

Instead, their destination lay north, towards the Fords of Isen; towards obsidian and emptiness and an evil land that meant nothing.

The entire host had nearly escaped from the trees when Legolas chose to break his calm, quiet demeanor and become the focus of attention for the large number of Riders who had emerged. He cried out, turning abruptly back towards the forest.

"There are eyes!" he said. "Eyes looking out from the shadows of the boughs! I never saw such eyes before."

Everyone was now turned in that direction. To Éomer's surprise, Legolas started to lead his horse swiftly back to the wood, nearly at a full gallop. He wondered for a moment if someone ought to go stop the elf, who was dragging a horrified Gimli back with him, but he and the others had no desire to ride back towards that eerie place for the sake of halting what appeared to be brief lunacy.

But as Éomer looked back at the trees, his thoughts strayed from Legolas and Gimli—the latter of which was shouting in protest—and instead focused on the fact that he did indeed see pinpricks of an intelligent gleam, things that seemed to be none other than strange, unearthly eyes, accompanied by gentle creaking motion.

Gandalf turned Shadowfax partially and called out to his friends, once again able to intervene where nobody else could. "Stay, Legolas Greenleaf! Do not go back into the wood, not yet! Now is not your time."

Now everyone was turned back, watching as Legolas brought his horse reluctantly to a stop. However, none of their eyes lingered there for long, because the forest had come to life.

The trees, tall and bent, were moving the line of the forest forward to engulf the company—or so it seemed. Éomer soon realized that it was not a single moving mass, but a collection of individual bodies. They had elongated limbs the color of bark from which earth-tone garb adhered so closely that it seemed to be part of them. Their eyes peered out from above long tangled beards. One by one, they called more, each calling through their hands and emitting the sound of a low, resonant horn.

More emerged. They were a walking legend, and Éomer, with a touch of childlike delight and intrigue, knew what they were even before Gandalf and Théoden ventured to discuss them: they were the Ents, the herdsmen of the forest.

He was consumed by interest, and alive for what seemed like the first time in days. Instead of hearing his uncle speak of them, Éomer let his own mind wander, and savored the rare luxury of amazement and imagination.

The clear calls of the Ents did not linger into the night. After sunset, they were replaced by the shrieking, sad cries of the birds that leeched off of the remnants of war. Éomer watched the thin black shapes silhouetted against the night sky with disgust.

"The carrion-fowl have been busy about the battle-field," he said bitterly. Nobody replied, but he had not expected them too.

The world around him contrasted sharply with the images of Edoras that had surfaced earlier and even with the mythical beauty of the Ents. All of the lines that made of the world had faded into a single mass of washed out color, and the moon illuminated only a ghostly sheen of water that was pressed between featureless earth.

"This has become a dreary place," he said, his voice flat. Gandalf looked at him; the dullness of his eyes was an immediate agreement. Éomer looked down at the stream as its thick fluids brushed his horse's hooves. He unwillingly remembered the times when those springs had glittered with clarity.

"What sickness has befallen the river?" he wondered aloud. "Many fair things Saruman has destroyed: has he devoured the springs of Isen too?"

Gandalf murmured an agreement, and as the wizard and Théoden began to argue about the necessity of passing through the fords of Isen, Éomer continued down towards the river. He peered into the bleary darkness that fell around its banks, and he thought he saw yellow eyes; avaricious orbs illuminated in the midst of shadow. But the moment Gandalf and Shadowfax came into view, they shrunk away, as though the very light of the Valar was meeting the darkness within them. Éomer smiled grimly at the Istar's unconscious power.

But then he saw a sight that made his heart freeze within him.

There was a mound, something organized and somber in the midst of the wilderness. Stones were set neatly about it, which was what had caught his eye, and now upon further inspection he saw spears standing around it, glinting stalks laying down a tribute to Rohan. Éomer would know those spears anywhere—he saw them daily in the armory at Edoras.

"Look. Friends have labored here."

The voice was Gandalf's, but Éomer scarcely heard him. His mind was leafing through old memories, memories of death and sorrow. Had those brave men who had fallen beside his father so many years ago also been laid to rest like this? Were they remembered only by a ring of stones, a loose mound of soil? But then he remembered that their bodies had been released into a river. Some were buried in earth, others in fire, others in water. It was all the same thing. Corpses were the dismal, lifeless remnants that were now ingrained constantly in his mind. He could go nowhere without seeing the bodies of the dead, lying on a battlefield or on a pyre or beneath a mound.

"Here lie all the Men of the mark that fell near this place," continued Gandalf, confirming what Éomer had already known: that these were fallen companions from Rohan.

Éomer felt something fierce rise within him as he beheld the spears, still standing guard over Isen—signs of phantoms who followed duties even in death. "Here let them rest!" he said, his voice bearing solemn conviction. "And when their spears have rotted and rusted, long still may their mound stand and guard the Fords of Isen!"

Théoden gave his nephew a momentary, understanding glance, then turned back to Gandalf. "Is this your work also, Gandalf, my friend? You accomplished much in an evening and a night!"

Gandalf went on to quietly describe the burial to those around him. Although Éomer appreciated the gesture, he did not want to hear about more death. He wanted to walk away and go somewhere free of death.

But on this road, there was nothing else. They were heading toward further battle and war. Where one ended, another began, and Éomer knew at that moment that he would never escape the harsh cycle of death that had come to characterize his life.

They continued to ride until they had left the Fords of Isen, and their procession onward was relatively silent, as each member of this company was buried in thought. Éomer almost did not realize it when they arrived at the foot of the Misty Mountains, and a foul mist was shrouding the sky—exhaust from Isengard. His body bore the impact of the journey, however. His mind may have been elsewhere, but every muscle ached for rest.

Éomer's eyes wandered to the pillar of smoke that was mounting itself in the sky; a permanent, hideous, fluid mosaic. The gazes around him were also arrested by the unnatural phenomenon.

Aragorn, who had not spoken for quite some time, finally let his deep, resonant voice be heard as he addressed Gandalf. "What do you think of that, Gandalf? One would say that all the Wizard's Vale was burning."

It was an accurate image—for the most part. But as Éomer watched the vapor, he could tell that it was not the black smoke that rose from a fire; it looked darker than it was, silhouetted against the night sky.

No. It was steam. The steam of Saruman's diabolic, uncaring industries. Éomer had seen many fires, but he had never seen such an all-consuming haze come from the workings of metal and the destruction of life.

"There is ever a fume above that valley in these days," he remarked, "but I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us." He thought of the shallow, inky waters of the fords. "Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the river runs dry."

Gandalf nodded thoughfully. "Maybe he is," he said. "Tomorrow we shall learn what he is doing. Now let us rest for a while, if we can."

It was a strange thing. Éomer had never been so exhausted, mentally or physically, and yet as he lay here beneath the stars he could not sleep. Too many thoughts plagued him. They kept him awake, just as they had on all of those nights during his childhood and adolescence when times had been darkest. Éomer had an active, inquisitive, sensitive mind—it gave him no rest.

He drifted aimlessly through many topics: battles, friendship, weariness, death, family, weariness, valor, renown, weariness. Valar, was he tired. But he could not help wondering at what lay ahead and remembering what was in the past. His eyes ached to be shut, but again and again they opened heavily and blearily. Finally, Éomer gave in to the dreadful insomnia. He looked at his sleeping companions. Some of the men turned restlessly, as he did; in fact, he could tell that the majority had not fallen deeply into sleep.

Suddenly, his ears picked up the sound of quiet conversation somewhere to his right. He turned to his side, and could see three figures underneath one of the trees that stood on a slight incline at the beginning of a mountain path. One leaned against the trunk, his head back, touching the bark. The smaller one sat directly in front of him. The third was sprawled out delicately across the lowest of the tree boughs, which was only a foot or two above his companions' heads.

"Our paths have led us to strange places," said Aragorn quietly.

Gimli's gruff voice came up next. "Indeed. Here we set out from Rivendell with the sole idea of reaching Mordor, and our roads diverged. Only two of the company are headed there. Then, we set our minds upon finding the other hobbits, and we have yet to see any trace of them."

"We know that they are alive, and that they are safe," Legolas pointed out, looking down at the dwarf from his branch.

The three hunters were silent for a moment. Éomer imagined that relief passed between them; the knowledge was a small comfort.

Then Aragorn spoke as he absently fingered the leaves and twigs that littered the ground. "And yet everything seems to fit together, does it not? We were diverted from our original purposes, but we found Gandalf when it seemed that he had gone, and we were there to fight alongside my kinsmen at Helm's Deep. It all feels wrong, and yet it all feels right. Everything stands in contradiction. There is much to think on."

Another pause, another moment of night drifting solemnly through their private ring of friendship.

Gimli laughed quietly. "Do you know what I miss the most about those four?" the dwarf asked. "That they could be surrounded by death and battle, yet still find something to smile about, some reason to laugh. Even Frodo, with the Ring about his neck. How is it that our races, the ones with the names and the power and the renown, cannot have the mirth of hobbits? They have wisdom, if anyone does. I miss them."

The last statement was so simple, so pure, that Éomer felt an ache in his heart—not for the hobbits, even though Gimli's description of them made him wish that they were there, but for everyone that he himself missed.

"They were always talking, always laughing," agreed Aragorn.

"Always eating," added Legolas.

Gimli barked out a laugh that caused a few of the slumbering men to start. He immediately brought down his volume, especially when his two companions glared—even though Éomer could tell that their own laughter was rising within them. He did not need to see their smiles in the dark of the night to know that they were smiling.

"Aye, always eating," said the dwarf. "Even when there was nothing to eat!"

And the three laughed quietly as they reminisced.

The conversation continued, but Éomer turned away. He did not belong in that secluded world; he belonged in another, and it was time to let these dear friends have their privacy. He felt lonely—not because he had any lack of love and friendship in his own life, but because the people he loved were not here speaking to him, laughing with him. No part of a fellowship was with him now. Some people that he loved were here, but he could not speak to them about the things that troubled him.

If Éowyn were here, they could have spoken. If Théodred were alive, they could have spoken. But no; his dearest friends were far away, either distanced by land and time or by worlds and death.

Éomer felt many things right then, but the most poignant were sorrow and loneliness.

Then, suddenly, something happened that brought Éomer violently out of his thoughts, and that brought the entire host to their feet.

There was a collective cry from those standing watch. Darkness was closing in on them—but it was not the dark of the night, not the kind of shadow caused by light. It was complete absence of light, something opaque and menacing. It came from all directions, ready to engulf and consume.

There was a slight moment of chaos; men clamored for weapons, cried out in alarm. Then Gandalf's voice rose above the madness.

"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "Draw no weapons! Wait! And it will pass you by!"

Suddenly, it was upon them. Éomer shut his eyes, honestly wondering if he would be left only with death once the mist passed away.

Coming Soon:

Chapter 14: The Hopeful and the Fallen

For the first time, Éomer encounters hobbits, as well as the darkness of the wizard Saruman. Life and death, mirth and evil, collide in the world as well as in his heart.