Chapter 2

Éowyn stormed out of the Golden Hall, hands clenched in fury. Within a few steps she had reached her brother, grabbing him by the arm and restraining herself with difficulty from shouting in the vast quietness of the outer antechamber.

"Where is it?" she hissed, giving him a menacing glare.

Éomer feigned innocence and looked surprised, tactlessly breaking her hold on his arm as he turned aside and began walking toward the outer doors.

"Where is what, sister dear?"

Éowyn followed with as much dignity as she could manage while struggling to keep up with her brother's long stride. Her long skirts shortened each of her own ladylike steps, but she gathered them with a smothered growl and marched doggedly after him.

"You know what, Éomer. You know exactly what I'm talking about because you're the one who took it."

Éomer dignified her with a backward glance, but didn't slow his steps, much to his sister's vexation.

"Really, Éowyn," he said, a twinkle of mischief escaping his brown eyes. "I have no idea what you're going on about."

Impatient with his denials, Éowyn grabbed his arm and put all her strength into jerking him to a stop.

"My sword," she said in a low voice. "I left it beside my bed this morning and it's not there anymore. I tried to find you before supper but you were conveniently," she gave him a meaningful look, "'called away' to speak with Uncle. Now where is it?"

Éomer sighed and gave her a look that has often passed from older sibling to younger.

"Now, Éowyn. Just because I didn't let you join us on the hunt the other day doesn't mean I stole your sword."

"But you did," Éowyn insisted, jabbing him with a sharp fingernail and thanking Eru belatedly that she hadn't cut them in ages as she watched him wince. "Hild said she saw you coming out of my room holding my sword. And so I repeat, dear brother of mine: where is it?"

Éomer met her gaze evenly, and then looked aside to nod casually to a friend of his who was passing. When he looked back at her, there was something akin to annoyance in his eyes.

"If you must know, delight of my eyes, I took your sword for safekeeping."

This time, Éowyn's look was one of triumph, and then of confusion.

"Safekeeping?" When Éomer did not answer directly, she continued. "You'd better be glad, brother, that I don't have it right now. Or you'd be a pretty sight indeed. In fact, if you don't tell me what's going on very quickly, you'll find yourself—,"

"Well I can't very well tell you if you keep filling the air with meaningless threats, now can I?" her brother retorted.

She shut her mouth and waited. Patiently. After a moment of making her wait, Éomer continued.

"A company of men has been sighted riding from the north. They're headed in our direction."

Éowyn's eyes widened in excitement and fury.

"So you took my sword? Are they our enemies, Éomer, that you should be concerned about me joining in a battle against them?"

Éomer let out a weary sigh and leaned up against one of the walls.

"No, Éowyn. They're from Gondor. And last time you had anything to do with nobility from Gondor the Steward's son ended up with a bruise on his cheek the size of a horse's eye!"

Éowyn glared at him. In fact, she glowered at him. Younger siblings despise being reminded by their elders about past incidents such as the one mentioned by Éomer. All the memories that remained in Éowyn's mind of the occasion were mostly centered around the fight with the Orcs that had taken place; her first fight. Oh. And that boy named Faramir whom she'd fought with.

"Really, Éomer," she said, drawling the words to emphasize her displeasure. "I was just a child then. And anyway he's the one who started the fight. I'm sure I know much better now. And as for my sword, I might need it, what with the horse-nappings and all."

"The horse-nappings," Éomer scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Éowyn, it's nothing more than a few boys getting restless and pulling a prank. You always exaggerate things and make them sound worse than they really are."

"Always? Now you're the one exaggerating," his sister replied irritably. "And you're trying to change the subject. You had no right to take my sword, even to protect me!"

"All right," Éomer said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "That's not why I took the sword. I only wanted to study the design on the blade and hilt. It was mother's, you know," he added, softly.

Sympathy replaced the anger in her eyes. How many nights had Éowyn sat alone in her room, tracing the curling lines on the blade of her mother's sword? She had already memorized every line, every nick and bump in the hilt. Éomer had taken the blade of his father, of course, but though it was a good weapon, it was not a blade as ancient as Théoden's sister had once carried.

They'd both received their parents' swords from their uncle on the day of their sixteenth birthday. Éowyn's had been only a few months before, and the novelty of owning the sword of her mother was still fresh in her mind and heart.

"You still should've asked," she managed to mumble, though all her fury was now gone. "Where is it?"

Éomer looked away, his ears turning bright red.

"Well…I'm not…exactly sure where…"

"You lost it?"

Éowyn the Angry was back in a flash. Her eyes glinted like steel, but she sighed and rolled them heavenward.

"However shall you live in this world without my help? Where did you have it last?"

Éomer shrugged.

"The armory, maybe. Not my room. I remember taking it from my room and going somewhere…it might have been the kitchen, I suppose. Or the Great Hall. But then…"

With a grimace, Éowyn turned and marched in the general direction of Meduseld, leaving Éomer standing with a bewildered expression on his face as he tried to remember the last place he'd seen her sword. But as she turned a corner and disappeared from sight, he grinned and glanced down at his feet to make sure he hadn't tracked in any hints.

"That should keep her busy for a while. She'll never think to look in the stables…"


Riding through the gates of the wall that surrounded the city of Théoden, Faramir felt a thrill of destiny wash over him. At last, as he'd promised himself so many years before, he'd found his way to Edoras.

The workmanship of the gates and houses inside them were made of crude wood, rough and primitive in comparison to Minas Tirith's white stone, but Faramir found the look appealing—in a rough, primitive kind of way. The proud standard of Rohan fluttered high above the visiting warriors, a white horse on a green field. The standard bearer for Prince Imrahil hefted his banner higher, and the Silver Swan on blue and White Horse on green touched briefly in a gentle caress.

For an instant, Faramir wondered what his cousin was thinking about. It being Amrothos, he was probably pondering how quickly a well lit torch could turn the great city into a pile of blackened rubble (not that he would ever try such a thing), or how the people might respond if told that all their horses had suddenly escaped all at once.

Never a peaceful moment with Ro around, Faramir thought with a wry grin. However he was too fond of his cousin to wish him ill or think him a nuisance. He was more like a younger brother—something Faramir had never had but had always wanted. Amrothos certainly didn't have any objection to that relationship, finding it a relief to find someone to laugh at his jokes and pull pranks with—and on.

At the stable they were met by a young man with light brown hair that hung past his shoulders. He looked vaguely familiar, and indeed, introduced himself as Éomer, nephew to King Théoden. He and Boromir exchanged greetings and formalities, and, jerking a head toward their mounts aimed at the stable boys, the young man led them up the stairs toward the King's Great Hall.

Once they at last stood before the King of the Mark, Boromir knelt calmly before King Théoden's throne without so much as a nervous glance toward his uncle or Faramir.

"My lord, we come with a request for aid from Gondor. Our lands are under siege by the evil forces of Mordor. Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, humbly requests that Théoden, King of Rohan, send men and arms to assist in the protecting of Middle Earth."

Théoden watched Boromir gravely, his eyes serious and thoughtful. Then he looked up to Imrahil.

"And you, sir? Have you a message as well?"

Prince Imrahil bowed smoothly, a well practiced gestured, Faramir was certain. Amrothos watched with an awed look as his father spoke to the King of the Mark.

"I am Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, your majesty, and have come only as the leader of the Steward's guard, and as protection for his sons."

"Sons?" Théoden asked quietly, turning his gaze to Faramir. "Of course. I believe we have met before. Faramir, is it not?"

Faramir bowed stiffly and gave the king a solemn smile. Perhaps he remembered the incident with that girl…the king's niece, wasn't she? Funny, dramatic little thing. Packed a wallop of a punch. But it'd been ages since their last meeting, and he hardly remembered her.

"You'll remember my son, Theodred, and nephew Éomer," Théoden added, indicating the two young men standing on the right side of his throne. "And this, my advisor, Grima."

The advisor's face was a sickly shade of white, and he gave Imrahil's company a wan smile before turning and whispering in his king's ear. Théoden nodded at his words, and stood to face Boromir.

"We are afraid, Boromir son of Denethor, that there is little Rohan can do for your lands. Cave trolls and wargs have been in abundance this year, and our numbers have fallen to nearly half their usual strength. If your need is not urgent, we would urge you to stay a few days here in our stronghold while we send word to see how many men we can offer without causing danger for our own realm."

Faramir glanced at his brother and saw the tightening of his jaw that indicated his growing impatience, but really there was little any of them could do. Rohan had no duty to Gondor, save that Gondor was the only thing between them and the enemy. There had been an alliance once—many years before. And still, some vague hint of an agreement lingered in the air between the two nations, but time and an uneasy silence from the enemy had corroded the bonds that first joined the two in friendship.

"On behalf of Gondor, I thank you, Théoden King," Boromir said with a great effort. "We would be honored to remain in Edoras for the time it takes you to consider our request and inquire as need may be."

He bowed again and stood, looking like he was struggling to keep silent while the blood of his people was being spilled with every passing second. While Théoden spoke with Grima (presumably about their lodgings) Boromir quietly asked his brother to go make sure the horses were seen to. Faramir agreed readily, feeling stifled inside the dark, heavy atmosphere of the hall. Amrothos, spotting him as he made his way toward the exit, came along as well.

"Where are you going?" his cousin asked once they were out in the open air and could breathe more freely again.

"The stables. Boromir knows I get claustrophobic when there are many people about." Faramir flashed him a grin. "Besides, there's nothing else to do except wait for the servants to show us to our quarters."

"So how is going to the stables more exciting than that?" Amrothos wanted to know. His cousin shrugged.

"Who knows? Maybe something will happen."

TBC….