For main author's note and disclaimer, see chapter 1, for further details, see below

Chapter 30

Burrowing in closer against the warm body beside him Éomer buried his tear stained cheek against the warmth. The wind whipping across the plains had driven the water from his eyes, and the tears seemed to freeze on his cheeks as the snow and wind pelted him.

At first his own fury had seemed enough to warm him against the icy winds, but that had soon proven to be a falsehood. Nay, as angry as he still was, it was hours since he had felt his toes in his boots or had any real sensation in his fingers. The cold numbness had spread through his body, creeping up his calves and his legs until he was hardly able to feel the saddle under him, just that odd, awkward hardness that pressed against his thighs.

It was a struggle to shift his hands on the reins, and he had soon given up holding them. Letting them hang from the pommel he tucked his hands into his armpits in the hope of maintaining some use of them, or at least of not losing them to the icy grip of gangrene.

It was a fool's errand, riding out into the storm, and he had protested it. Had argued, urged, and pleaded with his king to see reason. Tis was no matter of such great importance that it warranted riding to certain death in the storm.

Grima Wormtongue, the mere name made him seethe and Firefoot gave a whinny where he had taken shelter against his side. Firefoot was better equipped to handle the storm than he was himself, and yet the stallion was suffering the cold. An awkward, insufficient at best, a few larger rocks kept them out of the worst of the wind. His own cloak spread over the head of his stallion to spare him what he could, while he had tucked himself as close to his neck as he was able.

It was a fool's errand, nothing important at all, just a mere missive to inform the Lord of Aldburg that the heavy snows would hinder easy communications. Any fool looking out a window would have been able to tell as much, and yet Grima, the slimy worm had convinced the king it was of utmost importance to inform them of what they already knew, and that only the King's nephew would be able to do so.

Had Théodred, son of the king and heir to the throne been there he would have never allowed it Éomer knew. He would have been able to stand against the worm where Éomer could not, and when he got back with his men he was certain he would have words about it, and not because Éomer had stolen his boots from his chambers….

Aye, he had gone into his cousin's chambers and pilfered his spare boots, and no doubt if the worm found out he would attempt to have him lashed for treason for doing so. Knowing his uncle was losing his wit he could only hope he would not allow it, Théodred would not mind, that much he knew. When it was clear his uncle would not see reason he had little choice but to obey his wish, no matter how ill-advised the actions was. His cousin's boots were larger than his own, and he stuffed them full of wool as added protection from the bitter cold. His sister had met him in the stable with a pail of hot stones that he had used to stuff his pockets full. For some time he had been able to warm his hands on them, but they were long since cold and had been discarded. Firefoot didn't need the useless weight no matter how slight it was. He had instead wrapped lengths of woolen strips around his hands.

The storm had worsened, and though he knew he was like as not no more than a few hours from Aldburg, he would not get there now. Too weary with cold, too weak to even hold on to the saddle he had fallen from his horse. The snow was soft to land in, and he did not even feel the cold.

He would have remained where he was longer if not for the loyalty of his horse. When his whinnies and hoof pawing was to no avail, Firefoot had bit him. Bit hard enough to be felt through the thick coat and numbing cold. His horse would not let him keep him from the wam stable and delicious oats he knew awaited him or so it would seem. Pulling himself back into the saddle took such an effort he had not known how he managed, but he was there, and they trudged on. Until a hard gust of wind once more knocked him from the saddle and he never even knew it. Not until Firefoot once more bit him did he give a start and look at the horse that was standing beside him.

That was when he knew they could not continue before the worst of the storm was past. There was no use in anything else. Finding the stones for what meagre shelter they offered he struggled to dig a pit in the snow with numb hands. Deep enough for them both to lie down in, sheltered from the worst of the wind if not the cold. Hands in his armpits and face burrowed against Firefoot's neck all he could do was wait for the howling to stop.

It was Firefoot that noticed first when it did, for by then he was far too drowsy to pay the wind any heed. At first he even failed to comprehend why his horse rose on shaky legs in the snow. He was too cold to care, too stiff and too numb, and he did not care that Firefoot bit him again, he could not feel it anyway. Even though the area on the inside of his thigh should have been sensitive to the pain.

A nose was shoved into his face and he gave a whimper as it bumped his nose none too gently. With a whimper he batted at the horse, and found his hair pulled as Firefoot took a mouthful. That was enough for the pain to register through the cold and as his horse laid down again beside him he was able to pull himself into the saddle. He could barely hold on to remain there, but the storm seemed past and he allowed Firefoot to pick the way. He knew where they were headed, there was no need to guide him.

When the hooves struck stone he forced his eyes open to see the courtyard stones under him. They had reached the keep and made it through the heavy gate. He had never even known they were near, but there were voices now, hands that reached for him and pulled at him. Tried to pry his hands from the reins where the wool of his mittens had frozen to the leather. Pulled and tugged until he fell from the saddle, hitting the courtyard stones when he could do nothing to aid them, and they were not able to hold him.

Firefoot stomped a hoof, annoyed, but the beast was too weary to object much and he struggled to stand. A rider always saw to his horse first. Only if he was injured too severely as to be unable was it acceptable to leave that to another. He attempted standing, but he could not feel his feet, could not tell when they were beneath him on the cobblestones, and the blasted voices all around him made no sense!

Finally after lurching forward and landing facedown on the stones did he realize he had to admit defeat. One of the voices carrying through the rest had a comfortable familiarity over it and helped convince him. What more, though his vision was blurry he saw how the men were attempting to tend to his horse, but Firefoot would not allow it as long as his horse worried about him.

Allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, and supported as he wavered he wrapped his arms around Firefoot's neck for a moment, master and beast comforting each other and offering assurance that all was well.

With a last whinney Firefoot allowed himself to be led into the warm stable while Éomer felt consciousness slip away from him as they entered the keep.

It was pain that brought him back to consciousness later, his hands and feet causing such agony that he could not fully bite back a cry. Clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut he tried to remind himself it was a good thing. Such pain meant that the digits were alive and still there.

"Éomer…" the voice was soft and gentle and very familiar and he forced himself to open his eyes as a rough and callused hand brushed the hair from his forehead. "There you are lad," the woman shook her head. "And no doubt miserable, what were you doing out in weather like that? Fool boy!" The last exclamation made him smile in spite of his misery. Aldburg had been passed down from Eofor, down until his father had come to reside there and take his bride there. He was equally certain that this woman could claim the same line of decent from the cook back then, like as not, her ancestor would have been the one putting hot porridge and ham in front of Eofor, as Cõcsian had done for him when he was nothing but a bairn. She had boxed his ears as well, whenever she found him getting up to something that he rather should not have. Aye, he knew her hand very well, how gentle it always was when tending bruises and cut knees, and how hard it was wont to be when he had his own in the honey pot.

Knowing her anger stemmed from worry he attempted a weak smile, "my lord and liege commanded me."

"The fool him then, and the fool you for having no better sense," she shook her head again, and words that might have been akin to treason from anyone else made him smile. She meant no harm, and she would no sooner disobey their king than he would, he knew this, but she had played a hand at raising him just as his own mother had, and she spoke out of worry.

"Tis darker times," he sighed, unwilling to think of the happy childhood escapes now. Stealing scraps and bits out of the larder, crawling into the huge stewpot to hide away as he ate them, knowing that she'd always know anyway. "I need to give my message…" struggling to sit up against the heavy blankets and furs covering him he noted he was in the same chamber that had been his as a child. His hands had been wrapped, and he could smell the salve that would have been rubbed into the skin to ensure there would take no lasting damage. It was hard to be certain through the fierce pain, but he thought he could feel all his fingers, trying to judge their condition.

"You will stay where you are, lad," she ordered. "You may have your duty, but so do I have mine, and mine is the harder for I have to attempt ensure that you do yourself no harm. I will fetch the master for you, and you may give him whatever message you have as I find some soup for you, if there is any left. T'would serve you right if all you got was the cold scraps from the bottom of the pot, scaring me so…"

"I care not, long as it is made by your hand," he beamed.

"Don't think you can sweet talk me, I've known you far too long," she shook her head as she headed out the door and he tried to take stock of the situation as he was left alone. The pain was severe, and he could not for certain feel his feet through the agony, but had he lost toes to frostbite he was certain she would have informed him so. She would never have sought to spare him the news to make them easier to bear. Cõcsian had always been brutally honest with him, as was true for their kin. He would never complain that she did not offer him the respect she should, and truth be told she could still make him feel a sheepish boy caught at mischief. He would not mind for he had always trusted her and always known that no matter what she cared for him. She had boxed his ears and sent him off after a fair thumping when he overstepped his bounds. She had also plied him with mince pies and warm bread when he'd entered the kitchen in search of comfort.

"Éomer," Eorlhelm, keeper of the fortress and commander of the Eored there entered the room with a nod. He was too young to warrant the full respect he might have as the son of the former lord of the keep, but the man certainly did not scorn him for his youth. "What the devil would cause you to ride out in this weather?" he frowned as he sat in a chair.

"Not the devil, sir, but a snake," he muttered. "I was tasked to give a message, and I will never have it said that the sister son of our king does not do his duty. I have been asked to inform you, that as long as the storms lasts, there will be little we can do to reach you."

"Aye, and a look out the window would have told me the same," Eorlhelm shook his head. "But what cares a snake for common sense… Nay, we are heading for evil times for certain, lad, and I know not what to do to halt them. At least you got here, though block of ice you were. You shan't have suffered too badly for it. I had our healer tend to you and he informed me you still had all fingers and toes, and all other bits you were born with."

"And Firefoot? He was the stalwartly one," Éomer breathed.

"A block of ice he was as well, though a bigger heavier one," the old grizzled man smiled. "Once we thawed him out he started terrorizing our stablehands, so I'd say he's doing well enough. Once you can bear to stand you'll be able to see to him yourself."

"I've been ordered to head back as soon as I have given my message," hearing the howling of the wind outside he felt his heart fall.

"Aye, I had expected as much," Eorlhelm sighed. "But not before the storm dies, on my authority lad. And I will send some men with you for that matter. We have had orcs rooming the lands, and I will not send you out alone. We've lost too much already." He paused as the door opened and Cõcsian entered with a covered tray. The fragrance alone caused his stomach to growl and Éomer tried to push himself up. Forgetting about his wrapped hands until the spike of pain caused him to fall back with a cry of pain, struggling to bite back a whimper as he cradled his hands to his chest.

"I'd say that should teach you, but knowing you, it won't," Cõcsian shook her head. "For pity's sake lad, I have not let you starve yet and I have no plans to do so now.

I've missed you," and it was said with the conviction of youth, earnest and heartfelt and she shook her head with a blush, setting the tray down on the table. Giving him the bowl to hold clumsily between his stiff hands he barely felt the heat from it, but the food was heavenly. The cook in Meduseld was no less skilled, but she had taken a strong dislike to him for reasons he did not know.

Cõcsian had been more than cross with him for taking an old bearskin from the floor of the hall at the age of five summers, donning it to get to the honey pot on the high shelf. She'd been more than cross when the boxes and pots he stacked to reach it toppled and sent him, bear skin and honey all down to the floor and she had not hesitated to make her feelings known to him. Aye, he had known it then and he knew now why she had set him down on her lap after, tears streaming down her face as she rocked him. It had not made sense to him with his back ablaze, but it did later when he noted how close to the fire pit and the spit for roasting the meat he had landed. A little further and the daring adventure could have been his last, she had been furious with him, but she had never held a grudge against him. Théoden's cook seemed to carry such hatred for him, and to his knowledge he had done nothing to her. He'd only gone scrounging for food once, and after he was sent running for his life had never done so again.

There certainly had never been warm bread with honey as he was plied with now, almost wishing he did not have to go back and do his duty, for this was still very much his home.

It was not one he was able to keep though, not with the way the snake seemed to want to poison their uncle's failing mind even further. A mere few days later he was dressing to go back, frowning as the stolen boots were now almost too small as his feet were swollen, and his pockets full to bursting with odd titbits of baked goods. Cõcsian would no doubt cuff him over the head if she found out he'd left a shirt behind to fit more of them into his saddlebag, but she was the one who had pushed them on him. Enough for him to eat on the way back, enough to share with Éowyn whom she missed just as dearly when he got there. If Théodred was back as well they would be able to have a feast between the three of them. In the cold all of it would keep, if it would be half frozen for it. Even if Théodred was not back they could slip into his room and spread the rugs in front of the hearth. The worm would never dare go in there while Éomer had found him in his own chambers.

Returning he first saw to Firefoot, rewarding him with oats and apples, wrapping his arms around the strong neck and breathing in the scent of hay, horse and manure. The smell of home, of how it had once been before the dark shadow and the worm sought to destroy it. Then he sighed and limped up the steps to the hall. His feet and hands still pained him after the cold they had been exposed to before, and he had had to wrap his hands in wool as he rode back. Glad to have the company of the extra men though they had turned back just before Edoras came in view. Grima would have found some way to speak ill of him for it, so it had been agreed they would not enter, and there was no need for him to report their presence to his king.

"My Lord," he sketched a bow as he stood before his King. "Your message has been delivered to Aldburg, and I have returned."

"Èomer…" Théoden seemed to falter for a moment. "Ah aye, the message, good, good, it pleases me to hear so," he finally decided and Éomer felt a brief pain in his chest to see his once strong and sure king thus. "I thank thee for thy service."

"You were gone much too long Éomer, son of Éoumund," Grima suddenly appeared by the kings side. Coming from the shadows. "It should not have taken you so long we think."

"My apology," he bit back a desire to growl at the man, or better yet, decapitate him. "I was delayed by a storm, but Lord Eorlhelm sends his regards as well as his thanks."

"Yes, yes, Lord Eorlhelm," Théoden nodded. "Aye, that is good, sister son, you have performed your task well."

"My wish is ever to serve you," he sketched a bow again.

"Is it?" Grima stepped closer and Éomer ached to throw a punch. "Tell me, then honorable sister son to our dear King. Why, if you only wish to serve have you taken it upon yourself to take that which is not yours? To make free of the goodwill of your lord?"

"What?" Théoden blinked wearily.

"Your sister son is wearing boots that does not belong to him, nay, indeed they were given to your son by your own hand…." Grima leered.

"And I am glad you found them, for I was not certain if I had not hidden them too well," a new voice called from the door.

Spinning around Éomer felt he had never been more relieved to see his cousin, Théodred, who gave him a curious look but embraced him just the same. "Father, you know you never need worry about Éomer. He would never seek to make use of that which is not his to make use of."

"Aye, of course not, Grima, you know this," Théoden nodded now, beaming at his son.

Théodred would understand, Éomer had known this and not worried for his cousin, but he should have expected Grima to notice he realized.

"Théodred, it is good you have returned, Éomer has come back from Aldburg and we can have a feast tonight," the King decided.

"With the snow it was a near thing, but I would not let it stop me," Théodred laughed. "Not when I could smell our dear Cõcsian's mince pies all the way the last few leagues. I'll never begrudge you my boots, cousin, and you may have my cloak to if you need it, but if you try to deny me those pies, then I shall drag you out into the snow by your ears…"

"I would never commit such a crime against the crown," pretending to sound horrified Éomer fished a cloth wrapped bundle from the pocket of his coat and gave his cousin. Théodred must have met the men from Aldburg then, for he looked worried. Still he unwrapped the parcel with great care, handing one to his father.

"Behold my Lord, and beloved father, for your sister son has taken great care to preserve this for you," he beamed. "I'd say he loves them as much as do we, and it takes great strength of will not to devour them all. why, I for myself if I had been entrusted them would have done so."

"You are a faithful and loyal son, Éomer," seeming to rouse a little Théoden took one of the small pies. "You have ever done me proud."

"Tis all I ever wanted," and if it helped his uncle keep his wits, he would go right back down to the stable and saddle Firefoot to ride back for more pies.

With Théodred back they did indeed have a small feast, and Éomer shared his spoils with his uncle, cousin and sister, saving some back for later when he went to Théodred to explain it all to him. Including how Firefoot had saved him, and why he had stolen his boots.

"I know not what ails my father," Théodred sighed. "But I fear for him, I beg you, my brother, even if he seems to lose his faith in you, do not lose yours. He will need you even more then."

"Never," Éomer promised.

"For your loyalty, I thank you, even if that snake tries to undermine us," Théodred shook his head. "And so that he may never try the same trick again, if ever you need anything of mine, be it boots, cloak or just the solitude of these chambers, it is ever yours, my brother. By my explicit words you may make use of it as needed, and he shall never be able to say otherwise."

"Thank you," Éomer shifted closer to his cousin, sitting shoulder to shoulder as they had done when much younger and Théodred slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him against his side. Indeed just as he had done when he was just a boy newly orphaned. Munching on the last berry tart he tilted his face up to his cousin and gave a sudden grin. "For I'll need the use of your boots a while longer, until my own fit again…"

Laughing Théodred gave him a half shove, attempting to steal half the tart from him, but he also tightened his arm around his younger cousin. In the uncertain times they were facing, Éomer had to admit it felt good, to have the certainty of his cousin's love and protection to count on.

Together with his sister's love, it seemed sometimes to be the one thing he knew he could relay on.

A Temporary End

Thank you all who's read and reviewed, the Cricket is thrilled...

Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.