Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Middle-Earth. This is completely a non-profit story. As I'm sure everyone is aware of...

Broken - Chapter I

Confrontation

Westfold, Mid-February, 3018 T.A.

It was in the middle of the night when the screams started. They reached Dríana's ears like the blow of a horn that was mere inches away. She jumped out of her bed and ran to the closest window. The sight that met her was a sight she would never forget. Half the village was on fire and the chaos that raged outside was overwhelming.

Without delay, she ran to her sister's side and woke her up, her voice trembling with fear as she spoke. "Come on, Fréda. We have to get out of here. Now."

The little girl looked confused, but she obeyed. She had long since learned to trust her older sister.

They hurried out of the house and looked around. One of the neighbor houses was already burning, but the worst of the chaos hadn't hit this part of the village yet. However, as Dríana and Fréda started to make their way towards the stables to get their old draught horse, their way was cut off by four monstrous creatures that were something between Orc and human.

Out of instinct Dríana quickly put Fréda behind her and started slowly moving towards the house again. But, the Orcs circled around her, their yellow eyes glimmering in the pre-dawn darkness. The only reason why Dríana managed to remain calm was because of the little girl standing behind her. But, she knew that there was no way out of this.

Like the villagers of the neighbor town a fortnight ago, they would all be dead by dawn.

Dríana thought about screaming for her sister to run, but she knew the little girl wouldn't make it far. The Orcs came close and had the two girls backed up against the cottage wall, when Dríana could suddenly hear the thunder of hooves. Confused, the Orcs looked around and in the next moment a spear pierced the biggest of them.

The sudden interference caught the Orcs off guard and as an eored of riders emerged through the fog, they were an easy prey. Dríana watched the riders in awe as they slaughtered the Orcs and continued to hunt down the rest of the foul creatures roaming the village.

A loud crack suddenly came from above and then large drops of rain started to pour down on the burning village. Shouts of joy now blended with the screams of fear and despair, and beside her, Dríana could hear Fréda offer a quiet prayer of thanks to the gods.

When she could no longer discern the riders in the rain, Dríana fell down on her knees and embraced her sister. Fréda hadn't shed a single tear when the Orcs had threatened them, but now the little girl was crying from relief and exhaust. Dríana could feel her own tears, too, burning her cheeks and she was too shaken to notice that the riders were returning and that one of them had ridden up to the two sisters.

Only when the horse snorted and stamped its feet did Dríana raise her head to find herself looking up at a rider in green and brown leather and armor. She could tell from his proud stature and elaborate armor that he was a highborn Lord.

"Are you two all right?" The rider asked, his voice like cold steel and obviously used to shouting out orders.

Dríana struggled to her feet and bowed her head slightly. "Yes, my lord. Thank you."

He smiled ruefully back at her. "Do you have somewhere to go?"

Slightly surprised by his genuine concern, Dríana looked at the house and sighed. The flames were slowly dying, but the roof would need mending before the house was livable again.

She turned her gaze back to the rider. "We will manage, my lord."

He raised a fair brow skeptically, his gaze lingering on the damaged house. "Very well. Please tell the others that help is on its way from Helm's Deep."

He then swung his horse around and Dríana watched him go, a shy smile on her lips. In such deep thought was she that she almost jumped when the old Smith's wife, Felewyn put a hand on her shoulder.

"Every maiden's dream, huh?"

"By the Gods, you startled me." Dríana exclaimed, but she was happy to see the older woman. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Don't say you don't know who that was?"

Dríana shrugged and then shook her head. The riders had worn helmets and armor. There was no way she could have recognized one from the other.

"That, my dear, was Prince Théodred. The Second Marshal of Riddermark."

Dríana's face paled. "What?"

"Oh, yes. He and his men have been hunting those creatures in the Westfold for the past few weeks... disobeying the King's orders, some say."

Dríana frowned. Why would the Prince have to disobey orders to protect the land from those foul beasts?

-0-0-0-

Théodred ran a hand through his blond hair as he and his men camped for the rest of the night. As always, he was restless after an incident like this one and couldn't sleep. His men were anxious, too, but mostly because their Marshal was disobeying the orders of the King. They admired Théodred and saw the reason why he couldn't obey his father, but it unnerved them, too.

Two months ago, the King had announced that there were no Orcs in the Westfold and that the Prince's mind was prey to delusions. But, during the five weeks the riders had now patrolled with their Prince, three more villages had been attacked.

Things were different in the Eastfold where Èomer was fighting off the Orcs. Those Orcs were aimless and only destroyed for pleasure… but these Orcs and wildmen in the West… there was something else to it.

Théodred sat on the blankets in his private tent and was cleaning the scratches and cuts he had received in the battle when a voice from outside the tent interrupted him.

"My lord, Théodred? A messenger brings word from the King. He expects your immediate return to Edoras."

Théodred cursed and pulled on a shirt before stepping out of the tent. One of the older riders stood there, a written note in his hand. Théodred took it and read it with rising anger. The note came from his father, but Théodred knew that Grima Wormtongue had been the one to issue the summoning.

Reluctantly he told the man to inform the riders that they would be heading back to Edoras at dawn. He simply had no other choice. Like a helpless beast in a snare, Théodred was caught between two choices – to endure the snare and await his captor's mercy, or to madly struggle and make it worse.

At dawn, Théodred and his men set forth towards Edoras, leaving Erkenbrand and his eored to patrol the western borders while they were gone. A sinking feeling filled Théodred as he sighting the great hall of Meduseld less than a day's rider later. He knew, however, that he couldn't keep avoiding his father. Ill advised or not, he was still the King.

When Théodred entered the Hall, he found his father on his throne, but to his great relief Grima Wormtongue was nowhere to be seen. Instead, it was Èowyn who was by the King's side.

The King of Rohan looked up and a weak smile appeared on his lips. "Son, welcome back. You made it faster than I had dared hope for. Please, come closer."

Théodred walked up to the throne and kneeled respectfully in front of his father. As he stood up again, Èowyn walked over and embraced him. "You've been gone for far too long, cousin."

Théodred smiled at his younger cousin and answered the embrace. It pained him that his young cousin had to stand the King's advisor day and night, but it comforted him that his father had someone of his kin around.

When Èowyn released the embrace, she turned to look at her uncle. "I shall leave you with your son, my lord. If I'm needed, please let me know."

The King nodded and Théodred watched his cousin leave before turning towards his father. As he spoke he kept his voice calm, not wanting to end up in an open quarrel with his father again.

"Is there a reason for this urgent summoning, my lord?"

"Yes." The King said with a sigh, motioning at the chair next to him, but Théodred remained standing. "I wish we can speak openly to one another, my son. There's a reason why you are here, but first I want to know how you are fairing?"

It took most of Théodred's self-control to keep his emotions in check, and all of it before he could speak with a steady voice. "Yes, my lord. I feel quite well." He fought the desire to add 'as I've always done'.

Théoden smiled. "Good. That's good."

As Théodred looked his father in the eye, he could feel tears forming in his eyes. The King meant no offense by those words. He simply believed everything Grima Wormtongue had told him about Théodred's supposed 'illness'… and he only acted as any parent would. He was concerned.

"I became worried when word reached Edoras that you were patrolling the western borders, so I thought it best to summon you back to Edoras for a while. You are my son and therefore I've been willing to overlook your follies, but I have my limits. Why did you ride to Helm's Deep?"

Théodred swallowed. This was it. He had to try to get some sense into his father. "Three villages in Westfold have been attacked by Orcs and wildmen during the last few months… and I don't think you can deny it any longer. What more proof do you need? Whether they are Orcs from the east or the west, they are not supposed to roam our lands."

"As for my decision to leave… Helm's Deep is my keep and it is my duty to visit there every now and then. The riders are getting restless all there by themselves."

Théodred paused for a moment to see if the King was even listening. "Father, three days ago we came upon a band of Orcs and the next day they were burning a village…"

The King raised his hand and Théodred fell silent. "Theo… you said you were feeling better. Even if there are stray Orcs roaming our lands, they're hardly organized or a threat to the kingdom. A small band of Orcs couldn't possibly burn an entire village."

"But shouldn't they still be dealt with?" Théodred said, raising his voice slightly.

"Calm down, son. I didn't say that they shouldn't be dealt with."

Théodred was just about to speak as an oily voice interrupted him. "Orcs in the Westfold?"

Grima Wormtongue emerged from the shadows and bent down by the King's side. He looked quickly at Théodred with a slight bow of his head. "It's a pleasure to have you here again, your Highness. As for these Orcs, I don't think we have to worry about them. Stray Ors have always roamed the borders of Rohan."

Thédored tried to breathe calmly, but the fact of the matter was that he found it very hard to breathe at all. "Father… what about the safety of our people? Should we just leave them to die?"

"Théodred, do we have to deal with this again? You heard what Grima said. There's nothing to worry about."

Théodred couldn't hold back the bite in his voice anymore. "You used to listen to my counsel, too, you know. Not that long ago. And now the only time you talk to me is regarding my 'delusions'."

The King stood slowly up, leaning partly on Grima. "Son, I want those times back, but as long as you…"

"Enough." Théodred knew this had gone too far, but he couldn't pretend anymore. Not when his father was obviously blind to everything else except Grima's word. "Why can't you see? These are all lies set up by that snake you call advisor. He doesn't serve you with good will."

Grima hissed. "Do you doubt your King's judgment?"

Théodred ignored him. "Father, whether you think I'm in the wrong or not, you should be able to listen to your own son before listening to a stranger's advice."

The King's eyes watered as Grima motioned for two guards to grab Théodred firmly. It was obvious, though, that they weren't quite sure about what to do. The King released himself from Grima and took his son's face in his frail hands.

"Why did Bema do this to you, my son? You are burning with fever and I can see that you are hurting. Stop now. I beg you…"

He then turned towards Grima, his voice surprisingly strong and angry. "You said you could cure him. If you can't, I'll tell a healer to take care of him until the fever is gone and he calms down."

Théoden then gave his son one more look. "Son… if you do not heal, I have no other choice than to take from you your right to the throne and hand it to Èomer."

Théodred was too shocked at his father's words to respond. As the guards took him to his chambers, he no longer resisted. There was nothing more he could do.