While I have previous branded my chapters short, this is actually short. But I would rather end it a bit early, than mix two different perspectives in one chapter – perhaps I can make up for it with a quicker follow-up update. Though I can make no promises, because life is a fickle thing and often things can get in the way. But as always, your reviews absolutely make my entire day (and week, really because there's not much else to do during this lockdown besides absolute boredom), so thank you!

I hope you will all enjoy this chapter.

Little Sparrow

Chapter VI: A Whisper of Betrayal

When the riders and the farmers had been laid to rest, and Éomer had cast the first earth upon their graves, the Éored made their camp two hours or so before the middle of the night. Darkness closed about them when they settled down to eat and rest; Éomer took the time to dress the shallow wound on his leg, once more cursing his brief inattention during the battle. His vexation stung worse than the cut. Under the starry sky and waxing moon, the darkness was brooding, and the cold increased.

Peering out he could see nothing but a grey land now vanishing quickly into shadow.

They lit fires, and guards were set; two at a watch, and the flames shone out brightly on the hills around them, where silhouettes moved about ever so often. The rest, after they had supped, wrapped themselves in cloak and blanket and slept. Éothain sat not far from the fire, head bowed but undoubtedly still awake and intently listening. Hands never far from his sword. Éomer had found a place partially sheltered by the walls of the stables, taking the worst bite off of the wind, and here he watched his men at work.

All were worn out from the long ride, and the battle, albeit swiftly passed, had taken its toll. It was soon becoming a starless and shadowed night, but also accompanied by an uneventful quiet heavy over the Mark. A gloom was about them. The riders shared their food with the Ranger, and she had no objection to what they offered. Stale bread and dried, salted meats. She accepted them all with gratitude, well-accustomed to the tasteless food of the road. All her arrows had been spent, and so she had attempted to trade for new ones with his riders; her quiver was filled for nothing in return. The men knew why the Ranger was without arrows.

They gave her all the best ones.

Éomer was silent for a while.

The children, now orphaned, lay together close to the fire, and the Ranger had come to sit by their side. Steadfast and vigilant. Her hood was drawn, cloaking her gaze, and the flickering flames made light and shadow dance across her face. He heard her sing softly to herself, and to the children, murmuring brief snatches of rhyme in an unfamiliar tongue. A few lines came clear to his ears through the rushing of the wind, and they soothed his mind though he knew not the words; for the language was fair and beautiful even to his ears. He could only imagine it was Elvish.

He watched her for some moments longer, unaware if she could feel his gaze and if she then remained indifferent to it; the dark grey cloak made her become almost one with the night, and the gloved hand never strayed far from the long sheathed sword. There was no edge of concern for her current company, but not once did she appear tired or with plans to settle for the night. Sleep remained far away – just as it evaded him. "Not all is well here," her quiet voice broke the silence, and he blinked her into focus. Clear grey eyes looked at him. "They were so very far from their own lands."

He knew of what she spoke. The Dunlendings.

"Indeed," Éomer answered. The thought troubled him greatly – though he did not voice his concerns to her. Instead, he looked away and turned his gaze to the heavens, where there was neither star nor moon bright enough to breach the cover of darkened clouds. The enemies of the Rohirrim, jealous of the rich lands given to the horselords in the days of old, were ferocious, and their loyalties lay with no lord nor king. They had but one wish; to see the lands of the Riddermark devoured by flames and all its people dead in the fields.

Many a time before had they waged war against Rohan, yet never had they won, and the strife was now many ages ago. There had been peace through long winters and summers. He pulled a hand across his face, rubbing his brow as thoughts wove through his mind. The two prisoners back at the village would be brought to Aldburg for questioning, and hopefully they could shed some light on the mystery of the sudden attack.

Éomer's mind feared some betrayal to be at hand, but his heart wished not to believe it.

It was long past midnight. The sky was utterly dark, and the stillness of the heavy air foreboded storm. A blinding flash seared the clouds in the far horizon, setting the westward hills ablaze for a moment. The rain had stilled some hours earlier, but the wind threatened another downpour. The thunder was rumbling in the distance now, and lightning flickered once more – albeit still far off among the mountains.

Only few stirred in deep slumber, undisturbed even by the promise of a storm, but the Ranger likewise peered to the west. Yet her thoughts proved to not be drawn to the dullness of the weather, for soon she spoke again. "Are the Fords of Isen not controlled by the Rohirrim?" Over his heart crept a shadow, the gnawing fear of great danger from an unknown place, and her words were but echoes of his own thoughts. They resonated in his mind and chest, like the heavy beat of a drum it pressed against his bones with unrelenting strength. A cold chill crawled across his skin.

Thoughts that had stirred his mind ever since news of the Wild Men reached him.

Perhaps even long before then.

She watched him with honest eyes, expectant of his answer, and the grey orbs flickered in the light of the fire.

"At Helm's Deep, indeed, the great fortress overlooks the deep valley at the foothills of the Misty Mountains. There is no other way to cross the Isen unnoticed," he said, though his thoughts belittled his trust. Then how did they cross? There were no other places where a large force could effectively cross the river without fear of drowning, yet no word had been sent forth to warn his people. Surely the sentries in the Westfold would have seen them pass. They would not have let them pass unhindered.

He hesitated.

"Unless they headed far north and crossed the pass at the Gladden River," he muttered; more to himself than to the Ranger.

"I cannot tell you how they came to be here, but I do know that the lands to the north are well-guarded," the Ranger replied, certainty clear in her voice. "The Elves would never allow them passage, even if they would pose no threat to them or their lands. You may not believe it, but you have an ally in the woods of gold. No ... The tracks came from due west, straight across the Eastemnet." She drew in a deep breath, shifting in her spot, as if from discomfort, and an anxious tension flickered across her features. Now it was her turn to pause. "While it may not be within my right to speak of such, my lord, I fear you should be watchful of your closest allies. Of those you call friends."

"Such a statement would seem too bold to many," he said, words sounding colder than he had expected. But she appeared unfazed, except perhaps for a flicker in her eyes that showed she was startled; alarmed. The Ranger lowered her gaze, and the hood fell down further, shadowing her features. Éomer did not intend to sound cruel, but her words felt far too true. "But tell me, then, what advice do you have for a Marshal of the Mark?"

"I am not certain, so I will say no more," she replied carefully, and he knew her words were weighed. "Perhaps it is simple to speak when you are a stranger looking in; speaking of things I know little of, in a land that is not my own. I apologize for the rashness of my words, my lord. I only spoke of what I believe to have seen, nothing more and nothing less."

For several long moments he watched her, and neither spoke in the wake of her regret; instead the crackling fire and the shuffling of his men and the horses filled the quiet, settling about them. One hand was drawn to the silver brooch, fastened to her cloak, fingers slowly trailing across the pointed star as she peered into the flames. With careful deliberation, Éomer considered her words in his mind.

A keen wind was blowing from the North again. The clouds were torn and drifting apart, and the first faint and pale stars peeped out.

Despite the darkness in his heart, there was still some light in the world; and in the quiet he saw, above the rolling hills, the westering moon flicker between the breaking clouds. Glimmering yellow in the storm-wrack. It hung low on the horizon, barely reaching the summit of the rock, but its light was enough to cast the lands in silver. "There was no reason for your apology," he finally spoke, gaze once more returning to the Ranger. "Your words did not stem from mindlessness. They ring true in my heart, though I much wish they did not."

She stirred and looked up.

"My uncle often warns me, that I think very little and speak too much." A wry smile played on her lips, but it disappeared not long after, and again her face grew grim. "I know only little of these lands, and most from the words of others and ancient writings, but I do know what surrounds your borders. I know the Elves, and I know my kin – the paths to the North are kept safe, and there is no doubt in my mind." Her eyes were shining with resolution. "The Wild Men did not cross Limhîr. So we must turn our gaze westward."

Éomer knew of what she spoke. For there was another way, one that would bring the Dunlendings to the plains of Rohan unseen, but only if a great betrayal had seen the light of day. His blood ran cold. In the great tower of Isengard, the white wizard Saruman had been a close ally for many hundreds of years; he had been welcomed to take command by King Fréaláf, to protect an otherwise little guarded region in return for the keys to Orthanc, and so he had done. Faithfully and unfaltering ever since.

"You speak of Saruman."

It was not a question.

"He is held wise, and his words are known to be just," she answered; Éomer noticed her hand once more came to clasp the six-pointed star, and there was little warmth in her voice. It was now low and secret, and none save Éomer heard what she then said. "Yet how can there truly be trust in one whose name means the Cunning One?" In that very moment a great rustle came upon the wind, and her free hand grasped the bow on the ground by her side; birds soared by high above their heads, large wings beating until they were gone once more into the darkness. "Master of beasts and birds."

"Fair are his words, and many a time he has come to the aid of Rohan," Éomer said, "–but it would not be a first for allegiances to change."

The fire was burning low, and the sky was quickly clearing to the east. The sinking moon was shining brightly, but the light brought little hope to him. The enemies of the Riddermark seemed to have grown rather than diminished. Despite his weariness and a heavy, grieving heart that felt the truth in the Ranger's words, there was no proof of the White Wizard's treachery. The Marshal sat silent.

And so the Ranger spoke again. "Truth shall come to those that seek it."

Or an early end, Éomer thought grimly, for surely shedding light on such a grave betrayal would not be without repercussions. But he did not fear death; his loyalty was first and foremost to his people; his King and country. If no one else saw the grasping shadows, fighting for dominion over the grasslands of Rohan, then the duty fell on him. At the break of dawn they would ride out, at first to return to Aldburg but soon, and with haste, Éomer would turn his gaze to the Westfold. To hopefully find answers – be they good or bad.

Restlessness overcame him, and Éomer stood.

He looked at the Ranger briefly, her gaze turned to meet his, but then he nodded briskly and stepped away from the fire. Éothain stirred from his place in the shadows; here he had listened, taking no part in the conversation, and quickly he found a place by his lord's side. "What is the matter?" His squire asked, yet Éomer did not respond. With long strides he put a good distance between himself and the woman, now climbing the gently-sloping hill. All things about them were black and grey; there was a great stillness. No shape of cloud could be seen, for it was but a formless cover high above.

To him it appeared as naught but a groping gloom crawling onwards, and only little light leaked through them. Somber and featureless, and the glow of morning seemed rather to be failing than growing in the far horizon. Further along the crest of the hill watch-fires burned yet, and finally he paused as the slope began its descent. "Dark is the night," he said, hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. "Yet darker still the morning appears to me."

Éothain looked back to the farmstead, looking for the grey-cloaked figure that was the Ranger, and a frown marred his features. "Should one heed the words of an Elf-friend? One that comes from the North, passing unscathed through the Golden Woods?" And while Éomer could understand his squire's distrust, for he, too, had thought much of the same, he had seen no lie in the woman's eyes. They had been clear with honest belief. "No friends of the Rohirrim are to be found there."

"What path, then, do you see for the Dunlendings? For I see no other." Éomer asked, tone grim with exasperation; but his ire was not turned to his friend, but upon himself. The unknown was dangerous, more so than perils seen clearly in the light – the hidden enemy worse than all. Still, unwavering, his gaze was turned to the dark western sky. "The trails all lead to the Fords of Isen."

"Yet you know who holds command at Helm's Deep. Trust you not your cousin, Prince Théodred, to guard the region admirably?"

"You know the answer," he replied, "Théodred has my loyalty, and his own is with no other than Rohan and its people. It is not he that concerns me. No, Éothain, it is another I fear has let enemies cross our borders; for not even my cousin's watchful gaze holds power against that of a wizard's. Could Saruman not so easily mask evil deeds with a cover of sorcery? Blind our eyes to the truth?" Tendrils of light wove across the bleak cover of clouds, reaching further as the sun began climbing the eastern sky. "If Saruman has turned against us, I fear for our people."

He could see further still into the valley with the breaking of dawn. Neighbours were made enemies; such a beautiful night made restless by unwanted thoughts. Éomer was once again silent for a while, but behind him his riders began to stir from their slumber. New life was brought to the fires, and soon the dale was lit with many orange eyes flickering in the gloom.

As day opened in the sky, he saw gentle slopes run down into dim hazes before him.

They had come to the weary end of the night.

While the wind turned, bringing with it an air now clearer and colder, Éomer placed a hand on Éothain's shoulder. He breathed deeply. "I suppose it is no good thinking horrid thoughts without proof. We shall return to Aldburg, but prepare the men for a swift departure – I shall ride for the Westfold and see what treachery is afoot for myself!"

How grim his mind was full of doubt.

Éomer turned his back on the plains and went downhill, returning to the campfire and to the Ranger where he found her busy at work. Long fingers weaved meticulously through dark tresses of hair; twisting and pulling, revealing a face previously hooded. Young, much younger than Éowyn. But the lines; the bruises and cuts, tiny white scars, spoke of a harsh and long life. While finding a seat by the flames, he watched from the corner of an eye. The braid was simple, practical rather than decorative, and not soon after she was finished and allowed it to fall down her shoulder.

"My lord?" Her voice broke the silence, and he stirred from thought; her gaze was expectant, and Éomer understood she had previously said more. With a softness to her features and a mirthful light in her eyes, she spoke once more. "If one came from the north, passing around Sarn Gebir but otherwise following the banks of the Anduin, what way would he then take to reach Anórien?"

"Why do you ask?" He said, brow furrowed at the inquiry. Éomer had heard very little of the Ranger's purpose so far away from the lands of her kin, but now it seemed the journey would take her further still. No good comes from the East, came the warning in his mind, there is naught but perils. Death awaited travelers that went to the east. "And does the one you seek travel by foot or on horseback?"

"I believe he took his horse with him."

Éomer nodded. "It would be foolish to pass any other way than crossing the Entwash. South of the great rapids of the Anduin you would find a land of marshes, for here the Entwash widens and joins the Anduin. It is advisable that travelers avoid the river delta, lest they wish to pull through pools of sludge and mud, and treacherous mires for many miles."

She looked at him. A gleam of sun through fleeting clouds fell on her hands, which lay now upturned on her lap, as if she cupped the light in her palms. At last she looked up and gazed straight at the climbing sun. The Ranger appeared as if she saw things far away that Éomer could not see. "So I must head further south?"

"That is the road I would take," Éomer said, "South, until you cross the Entwash into the Eastfold; then following the White Mountains you will reach the border between Rohan and Gondor. Many miles lie between, but it is much the fastest and safest way. The path is straight and even, and any rider would find it to be the clever one to take, much rather than the straight way through the marshes. And such is my advice. Take it if you will."

"I shall, my lord, and I thank you for your guidance." Then, with her final words, the Ranger looked far east to the rising sun and pulled the hood once more over her head. All about them, Éomer's riders made ready to depart; the horses were saddled, fires stomped out, and it would not be long before the Rohirrim would meet with the others back in the village.

Firefoot was brought forward, well-rested and eager, and Éomer was greeted as one would an old and welcome friend. The children were roused carefully, and each was assigned a man to ride with on their way to Aldburg; their faces were streaked with tears and sorrow lingered still, but with quiet looks they settled into a saddle each. It was but a little comfort, that they siblings still had each other.

The Ranger had brought her own mount from the stables.

Resting her forehead against the large animal, and with whispers in a strange but lilting language, she stroked the grey-dappled coat. In the glow of the sun it appeared almost silver, so beautiful it seemed unearthly. Éomer mounted, making Firefoot turn restlessly, for it much wished to run freely after the long night. The light about them was growing ever still, and the clouds parted to reveal the blue sky of morning; bird-song welled up from the tall grass, and a buzz was in the air. The silvery-grey mare was brought to his side. Much smaller and lighter than the steeds of Rohan, but with a fiery and wise look in its dark eyes spoke of cleverness, and its simple harness was cared for well.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," she said, smiling beneath the hood. "The food I will cherish, and the arrows I will put to good use."

He gave a short nod, but much before he could respond Firefoot attempted to sidle up to the other horse. Trying to impress, blowing air through its nostrils. Quickly, Éomer reined him in hard, yet the Ranger merely laughed. The corners of his mouth tilted upwards, though he swiftly put on his helmet and looked around at his riders. "I must admit your horse is beautiful, and I believe she has captured the attention of Firefoot," he spoke with fondness.

"I am afraid Luin is not easily impressed." She laughed again. "Much too used to Elf-horses!"

With the light of day then coming into the sky, albeit grey still, Éomer was ready to depart. The company was all mounted between the ruins of the farmstead. The woman by his side brought a hand to her chest, inclining her head, before gloved hands pulled at the reins. Her smile widened.

"Farewell, and may you find what you seek," Éomer said, "And perhaps our paths will cross again, though I hope in better circumstances if so."

"Farewell, my lord," she replied, "And I shall pray for the best, for you and your men."

With that they parted ways.

Very swift were the horses of Elves, and soon she was but a small, grey dot on the green plains. Far away, heading towards a fate unknown to him – to the East, where dangers were many. For a while he watched quietly, until she left his sight and was entirely gone. "Éored!" His voice rang out, clear in the din, and his riders stilled to listen. His spear, glistening in the sun, was raised to the sky. "We ride!"

So they passed on, hooves trampling; thunder running like tremors through the ground.

Behind, they left the blackened ruins of the farmstead and the mounds of his riders. Dark spears were stark silhouettes against the sky, upon the ridge now rising up behind them, and cloven helmets would soon be covered by green grass; here they would lie in their final rest, and he would bring words of sorrow to their families. They had given their lives in the line of duty, against an enemy that should not have stepped foot into the Riddermark.

Éomer swore he would find the truth.

And betrayal will be met with death.