Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I am only playing with the fandom for the enjoyment of myself as well as others.
Author's note: Take care that a spew warning might apply and be cautious when handling food and liquids while reading this.
Chapter 56
"Éomer!" the shrill cry of his sister caused the weary rider to look up. It had been a long harrowing month on patrol. As they returned to Edoras to make their report, not one man rode straight in the saddle. Men sat slumped with fatigue, the horses hung their heads and one or two occasionally stumbled. Just the same, the young rider strove to drag up a smile for his sister.
A few of the families stood by the gate, mostly the young wives and sweethearts who could not bear to wait until the riders had reached the stable yard before seeing if their loved ones were there.
They had only lost one rider in battle with a band of orcs they had tracked from a burned homestead. Though it had been far enough to quench some of the adventure lust in the youngest riders. Thinking back to the charred remains of the house, a broken and trampled doll in the mud outside. Amidst the foot prints of the foul creatures a boy's wooden sword in pieces he shuddered. The memory of the stench near made him retch still.
Watching his sister weave her way between the other riders he tried to sit up straighter in the saddle, though he found he lacked the energy.
The helm he had been so proud to put on not long ago seemed to cause his head to ache now, the cuirass and mail had come to weigh a ton.
"Éowyn," still the sight of her brought a smile to his lips as Firefoot pushed his nose forward into her shoulder in greeting. Whickering softly the grey stallion greedily accepted the pets and scratches from the young girl.
"Oh Éomer, we have been so worried," she breathed as she looked up at him.
"There is no need, we may be weary, but we are fine," knowing they were halted in the middle of the group of riders he quickly slipped his foot out of the stirrup and reached down his hand. Éowyn accepted it, and as he hauled her up managed to get her foot in the stirrup so that she could swing the other leg over the saddle and sit behind him. Firefoot tossed his head, turning his head around with something of a frown, but then seemed to shrug and move on. He was not happy about taking another rider, and after Éowyn had once tried to ride him without leave, was not overly fond of indulging her. Still, this time he seemed to sense that his master drew comfort from his sister.
Éowyn wrapped her arms around her brother, a few of the riders had taken their children to sit before them in the saddle, and she might have scoffed at being treated like a child if she had not overheard her uncle and cousin talking. Théoden and his son had not been aware of her as they discussed the matters that concerned them.
It was the first time she had ever heard her cousin, the heir to the throne, raise his voice to his father. One of the smaller villages had been all but levelled with the ground by an orc attack. The horses had been stolen, the houses burned down, and those who tried to stand and fight had been slain.
The Eored Éomer rode with had been dispatched to see what could be done, and from the looks of them, it was not much.
Théodred had wanted the Eored to go after them and not stop till the orcs were slain. Joining up with a second Eored if need be, though Théoden had refused, saying it was better to let the men see what could be done for the villagers. As she heard, Éowyn had felt her heart freeze with fears and her dreams that night had been tormented. It felt all too much like how their father had been lured into a trap and slain. It had not been much more than a year ago that Éomer might explode in the same red hot bursts of anger as had their father. Though it had never been directed at her, Éowyn well recalled her father's temper. It had always been clear to her that Éomer was the same. He could not see an injustice without needing to act, and he could not see a creature like the orcs and not wanting to go after it in fury. It was why Théoden had refused to let him join when first he demanded to, as they said if he could not control his temper, he would go the same end to meet as had their father.
Once he had finally learned to control his anger, Théoden had given him his blessing to join, and she had cried.
She had been determined not to show it, but it seemed every time the riders came back there was an empty saddle, or a horse missing, and how long would it be before Firefoot came home with his saddle cold and empty?
"Have everyone returned?" she asked softly, feeling his shoulders slump even afore he shook his head.
"Nay, we lost Cedric," he sighed.
"I do not know him," at least it was not Éomer though.
"It was his first time," Éomer was unable to stop a shudder run through him and Firefoot tossed his head. He settled down as Éomer stroked his neck, but it was clear to Éowyn the horse was as unsettled as his master.
"I am sorry," even if she was still so glad it was not Éomer, it was still someone else's brother, or son. She tightened her arms around him and felt him relax just a little as they halted in the stableyard.
"I shall report to the King," Elfhelm told the men. "Éomer, you shall come with me, the rest of you, once you have seen to the horses, I will see that there is food for you."
"We left most of our supplies with the villagers," Èomer told her quietly as he lifted her down. "We did not have much for the way back."
"I will take care of Firefoot for you," she stated as he too dismounted. "I am sure Uncle will make sure you get food."
"As soon as we have made our report, I'll come help you with Firefoot," he patted the stallion on the neck, dropping his forehead against it for a moment. "Do not try to remove the saddle, it's far too heavy."
She opened her mouth to object, then at how weary he looked decided not to. Instead she took Firefoot's reins. Leading the warhorse into the stable she noted how meekly he followed. Firefoot generally liked to make a point of showing that he was only indulging her. He was rather obstinate that way. Truthfully she had always been jealous of Éomer for the horse, and she wondered if Firefoot knew that. Her brother did not, but then as much as she loved him he was something of an idiot.
All men were, or so she had come to understand. Éothain's mother had confided as much to her, declaring it to be true of both her husband as well as son, though she proclaimed to love them both dearly. She figured that meant it was alright to treat her brother like the fool he was, as long as she did not love him less for it.
Stroking Firefoot's nose she wondered how he seemed more placid with her than he had ever done before. While they most certainly had worked out a truce, where she supplied him with all the treats Éomer would have denied him, and he tolerated her, now he seemed to even draw comfort from her. Resting his mule on her shoulder as she stroked his neck and removed the reins and bridle. She allowed one of the stable hands to remove the heavy saddle, then grabbed his brushes from the low shelf where they sat.
She would have expected their uncle to make the report brief, so that the men were allowed to eat and rest. Yet things had been different lately. For most parts, Théoden was still the uncle she had come to love when they came to live with him. Other times though, it seemed that he listened to Grima Wormtongue more than he did them. So far, when they needed him, that need had always taken over, but she wondered sometimes. Not so long ago when she had a light fever, he sat with her and told her stories. Had the cook make her the treats she liked the best. He had been like her uncle of old then and she had hoped it would last.
He had been just as kind with Éomer after he returned from one patrol wounded. She recalled well the way he had looked at him as he stood with Elfhelm to make their report. He had not seemed to realise that the need for him to learn give the reports was only half the reason Elfhelm made him give it with him. It was also so that Théoden would be allowed to lay eyes on his nephew and know that he was well before Éomer took care of his horse.
It was not proper for the King to wait with baited breath on the steps. Not for his sister son, and only barely for his son.
She had expected that Théoden would see how weary Éomer was and urge him to take food first, yet before long her brother entered the stable. Stepping into the stall beside her where she was still brushing the stallion who stood munching his grains with great enjoyment.
"He was truly hungry," she mused. "And you look to be to."
"Aye," he nodded grimly as he lay one arm around Firefoot's neck before picking up the brush. As if he felt the need to support himself on the horse. "We all are, like I said, we left most of our provisions, and we found more families needing aid desperate on the way. So we gave what we had left to them. For the last few days, we only had a little hard bread and dried meat."
"Then you should eat, I am well able to see to Firefoot, and I am near done anyways," she stated firmly. "Have Uncle not seen to the food for you?"
"Aye, it was set out in the hall as I came here," he nodded. "Though he gave me leave to see to my horse afore I ate, and so I shall do."
There was a set to his jaw and a hardness in his eyes that told her Grima was in parts responsible. That the despised councilor had tried to make it sound as if he was neglecting his horse. She would not put it past Grima, for many times had the loathsome man tried to twist his words and make it sound as if Éomer was not worthy of the stallion.
On this at least, so far Théoden had stood firm. He was proud of his sister son she knew. Éomer was a skilled warrior and one of their best horsemen. This was commonly known and something that Théoden took great pride in. Éomer was even a better horseman than Théodred, their cousin and heir to the throne. Though he was better with the sword than Éomer and could still best him when they spared.
His stomach growled though he ignored it, giving a sister a comforting smile. "Firefoot deserves it. We had no grain for the horses either. They truly gave their best for us." As he took the hoof pick Firefoot lifted one front hoof, and as he bent to clean it, nuzzled his neck.
"Do not eat me, you oaf," still he grinned as he pushed the stallions nose away absentmindedly. Éowyn was giggling lightly, amused by their antics as the war horse pushed at his shirt, as if searching for apples in it.
Grinning, Éowyn went to the barrel in the fodder room to fetch one, feeding it to the magnificent stallion with a smile. This time, she noted Éomer said nothing about her spoiling his horse. Instead he leaned tieredly against the wall of the stall, watching as the stallion devoured the apple.
Wiping her hand on her dress, Éowyn took a step back to lean herself against her brother's chest, a soft sigh of relief as his strong arms enveloped her. Resting his chin on the top of her head and this once she was not annoyed how he was so much taller and stronger than she was. "Firefoot wants for nothing more now, you should go in and eat," she urged.
"Aye," yet Éomer did not move. Instead he stood where he was, until Firefoot raised his head, and ambled over to them.
The large war horse, trained to kill with his steel shod hooves stuck his nose forward, and with great care rested his head against her shoulder, his cheek against both her's and her brother's and she wrapped one arm around his neck as her brother still held her.
She thought they needed this, this peaceful quiet and Firefoot no doubt knew it. The horse was very perceptive for such a young stallion, and fiercely protective over his master.
She hated how Grima Wormtongue made her feel, and how the slimy counselour seemed to want to cause her brother grief, but Firefoot was one thing he never could touch.
For what little that was, it gladdened her.
A Temporary End... Please review, the Cricket is hungry...
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.