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Little Sparrow

Chapter VIII: The Counsel of Kin

Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, was a man that, above all, would not admit that he was worried. Perhaps even scared. The feeling was kept close to his heart, a secret never shared nor spoken of with any besides his own mind in the darkness. Not only because he led two hundred men by example, and if he faltered so would they, but also because it was against his understanding of himself. He was a prideful man, that he knew well, and he would not bend against any enemy.

But what he had seen throughout the last days – nay, weeks – left a bitter taste in his mouth. Cold air blew on his face, and evening was coming. Approaching with swiftness; a darkness that no light could pierce. The sky above was growing dim. In his mind Éomer pieced together the memories from a long and weary day; the Dunlendings, the burning village and his people; the injured and the dead. The words of a woman, speaking of trails leading him west.

Betrayal.

Their journey had been hard, and he had spared his riders no rest throughout the day. Through sunset, and slow dusk, and gathering night they rode. The captured Wild Men lay bound and gagged, thrown across a horse each, and were pulled along amongst a great sea of riders. Spears surrounded them. There had been no attempts to escape, and Éomer had seen terror clear in their faces whenever he had looked back. Whether they could tell him much, or anything, was yet to be seen; and neither did he know what to do with them after. They could not be released or returned, but it was a great effort to keep them alive in captivity. It would be cheerless work for any of his men set to the task, and while loyalty demanded his orders be carried out, it would be done with no love spared.

Easiest of all would be to kill them, for they were of little use.

The thought did not sit well with him.

His pondering was set aside when little watch-fires sprang up, golden-red in the darkness. Behind the light, ghostly pale, the foothills of the White Mountains towered into the darkness. The hill, ever-green in daylight, wide before the feet of the mountain came into clear view. The fortified hill-town, ancestral home of Eorl the Young and his descendants, was now also Éomer's dwellings for many years. Aldburg was encircled by a broad wall, and commanded the road with a clear view over the Folde. Upon their approach the dark gates were swung open, and the many riders entered into an open square. Horses milled about, hoofs thundering against stone, and Éomer gave out orders.

The prisoners were to be safely guarded until he was ready to question them, and his men would eat and rest for the night; but by morning all were to be ready for departure. Éomer dismounted. A stablehand was quick to take the reins of Firefoot. At first he checked to see that the orphaned children would be taken good care of, as they with tired eyes were carried off to a warm meal and a warm bed.

With Éothain by his side they followed a broad path, paved with hewn stones, as it winded upward. The iron-bound gate shut behind them and the men returned to their posts on the battlement. Guards dragged along the hillmen; neither fought back then, but they were moving very little of their own accord. Passing many houses standing close together, until at length they came to the crown of the hill.

Here stood a mighty hall built entirely from wood. Door wardens stood and bowed upon his approach, and the doors were opened before them into a large chamber; a fireplace smoldered throughout the night, turning the air heavy and warm, and was flanked by long tables on both sides. Lit torches hung between woven tapestries; old pictures painted in glory. From the battle of the Field of Celebrant; Eorl the Young and his son, Brego; the Golden Hall, to horses of many colours running over vast fields.

He and his sister had spent many nights beneath those pictures, under pelts and wools, listening to their mother telling stories from times of old and ages gone. But that was many years ago now. His mother had long since died, and his sister was many miles away. With heavy and long strides he walked past the fire, finding his place in the high seat upon the dais, and the Dunlendings were brought before him. With faces flat against the floor, groveling in fear of an unknown fate, one rambled away in their low, guttural language. To Éomer's ears it sounded more like the snarls of an animal, than words of a man.

The other remained silent.

Giving sign to Éothain, his squire stepped to the quiet hillman; digging into the tangled mess of hair, he pulled back the head to reveal a bushy face. The hair was matted, with blood and mud, but the dark eyes shone with both malice and fear. Soon mingling into anger, and suddenly the man started to fight. Kicking, twisting in the grip and against his bindings, Éothain took him by the back of his neck and pressed him to his knees. Though not before landing several hits across the captive's face. The guards had then drawn their swords.

The other Dunlending whimpered and curled further in on himself.

"Sheathe your weapons," Éomer dismissed, shifting in his seat as the struggling captive was once more forced to look up at the Marshal.

Gúthwinë came clear into view as he rested the sword across his knees. Then he leaned forward, head resting in his hand as he looked sharply at the pair. From one to the other with quiet, calm, deliberation. Although they had a language of their own, the Dunlendings understood – some with more difficulty than others – the language of the Rohirrim. They could not claim otherwise. One returned his gaze evenly, hatred burning in deep-set dark orbs, while the other had yet to look up from the floor.

"I am no merciless lord," he started, "–despite your best attempts to harm my people and my men. Answer my questions with truth and without deceit, and you will be spared. Say nothing, and your life is forfeit."

The Dunlendings did not respond.

Éomer caught Éothain's attention, and without a word his squire understood. Never releasing his grip, he yanked the restrained Dunlending away from the hall; accompanied by shouts that, even if the words were incomprehensible, they knew to be curses. Horrible snarls and screams echoed across the walls for many long moments after. The trembling man, flanked by a guard on each side and then the only hillman still in the hall, had peered up from the floor as his companion was dragged away. "Now, then," Éomer said, "What can you tell me?"

It was to great wails and many more incomprehensible mutterings, that they finally came to some resemblance of understanding. Their captive knew very little, and he could tell them even less, but the Ranger had been right in that they came from the west. Passing a great river, deep and cold from its mouth in the high peaks; many drowned in their passing, and through a deep valley in the deepest dark. A black tooth, horrible to behold, and a lot of hurrying. Open plains, trees and more trees. Old. Whispering. Another river. Riders, cornered, killed. They ate the horses.

A shadow had passed over Éomer's face; then it went deathly white the longer the Dunlending spoke. Misery and ruination was upon them. When he had finally heard enough, he waved off his guards to take away the hillman, and he was left in solitude with his thoughts. The fear, that fell upon him, weighed his mind. Heavy and chilling. Maybe he had felt it, not knowing it sooner; all his concerns, restless and sleepless nights, were heralding the coming storm. He had listened with only one ear, and now the storm bore down upon them.

He sat upon the high seat for a long while, silent, his head bowed.

But for this choice he could recall no counsel. Saruman was a wizard, reckoned to be great and powerful. A clever snake. Never before had he troubled his neighbours, but rather given council, polite and always eager to listen to the plight of others. There was but a small hope that the Dunlendings had passed, unseen, in the darkest of hours beneath the shadow of Orthanc. Slipped by, unnoticed even by a wizard in his own territory. But Éomer did not believe it.

This was not a matter he alone could handle.

And so, he decided to continue as he had first planned. On the morrow and with the light of dawn, Éomer would ride with his Éored to seek out his cousin; together they would know what to do. Standing alone against sorcery was nought but a bitter end. He fell to deep thoughts, brow furrowed and looking ahead into the dim nothing, and there he sat until the first light of morning came outside. He found no sleep, for he wished it not, even when the villagers of Aldburg woke. Éothain came shortly after, but stood quietly by his lord's side; wordlessly. Waiting for command.

At last Éomer rose from the seat. "It is long since there was peace in these lands," he said, stepping down from the dais and, with the other man at his side, walked towards the doors. His gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. "And I fear many years will pass before we have peace again." The cold dawn greeted them, and the air was clear; the Marshal saw the great green plains, the rolling hills stretching league upon league ahead, before he looked at his village. His home.

The thatched roofs glowed golden, and the houses huddled close together. Children ran about with wooden swords in play. Men and women were about; carrying baskets of firewood or washings. The sun shone from a sky the deep blue of waning Autumn. All stopped to bow or curtsy as he passed, calling out greetings in clear voices with kindness to their lord.

Éomer had often made it a part of his duty to stop and exchange a few words, to treat his people with mutual respect, but his departure called for haste above all else. Already Firefoot stood waiting. He mounted, held up his hand in farewell to his watching people, then he rode out. The awaiting riders fell into place behind the Marshal, and they followed the road due west. Not long after Aldburg vanished between the cresting hills.

Many swift-running brooks crossed their path, water from the mountain-side on its way to swell the Entwash, splashing beneath their horses. His face was steeled, angered determination barely contained below the surface. Both anger and despair pushed him onward.

Through the Folde, and mile by mile the long road wound away.

With great oakwoods, climbing on the skirts of the hills under the shade of the mountains; through willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into the Entwash. Deep clefts carved in the rock by streams, or by narrow ravines where rough paths descended like steep stairs into the plain. In the light of midday, Éomer could see the Golden Hall of Meduseld, its light shining far over the land. Clear enough for them to see through the blue-green of Autumn's haze.

Briefly his heart ached for his sister; to see her fair and kind face, though often burdened with heavy thoughts in these darkened days, now plagued just as his own. Never would he tell her of his grim and joyless thoughts, for her mind was of no need for such in times of trouble. Éomer drew his gaze away from the great hall of Men. Éowyn would be safe still. He carried on, back straight and gaze steeled. And for as long as he drew breath, safe she would remain.

Mostly they passed, a blur through the green, with great haste.

Only once did they rest each day, and only when dusk fell into utter darkness and riding turned hazardous.

The nights grew ever colder. Éomer slept fitfully at best, and often he walked to and fro in camp or stood silently on the hilltop. Here he would watch the dawn grow slowly in the sky, bare and cloudless, until at last the sunrise came. He ate little, and spoke even less. Time and again he found the road ahead an unhappy path to follow, leading him to his an unknown fate, and he could see little but death ahead.

The concerned looks rested upon him throughout the days, but Éothain remained quiet, only ever allowing a sigh of exasperation to escape his pursed lips.

Their lord was lost to deep and dark ponderings.

It was three days after their departure from Aldburg, and less than ten miles from his cousin's base in Helm's Deep, when Éomer finally turned to his squire. The long, drawn-out sigh had been carried far on the wind, unmistakable, although Éothain had paid great attention to the detailed stitches on his gloves. Pretending nothing had happened. Much rather than returning the look from the Marshal that was leveled his way. "While I am your lord, you are also an old and dear friend to me," Éomer said. "Let me hear it, then, and be done with it!"

"We need you, my lord. The men – and our people, need you." Éothain began, though not without hesitation clear in his voice. The subject was not a happy one for either part. There was much noise about them; the great host of heavy horses thundered in his ears, and a gale wind howled across the flat lands of the Westemnet. His words could be heard by no other. There were but rocks and grass as far as the eye could see and further still. "We need you fit to lead us."

Éomer turned his face aside, watching the open skies with a brow furrowed in deep thought. It would not be long before the foothills would shimmer into view, dark stone against the white-blue haze of the mountain's sides, reaching to the tall horizon. The sun was clear and high. "And am I not?" The Marshal asked wryly, now returning his squire's look with half a smile. Éomer could well understand the concerns of the other man.

"Those were most certainly not my words," Éothain hastily said. "Though what troubles me is that you do not sleep, nor eat for that matter. An unwell body addles the mind as well as any poison could, and a warrior must be well in both, if he wishes to survive in battle. Do you not believe the same?" The words were true, and Éomer knew well how the last days had passed in a way he did neither wish nor ask for. But the worry that forced sleeplessness upon him was not so easily cast aside.

He drew a deep breath. "I shall rest," Éomer replied, "but only after I meet with my cousin. More people must know what we know, for this is not a matter that can be handled alone. With wise council I believe the weight upon my shoulders will lessen. Until I have shared this burden, then I fear sleep shall continue to evade me."

Éothain pursed his lips beneath the shadow of his helmet, though he gave a solemn nod of understanding. "Some food, then?"

"You sound like my mother!" Éomer laughed at the thought. "Will you scold me as well if I do not eat my greens?"

Both men found a sudden and great amusement in their conversation, one that had previously been so grim, and so it was with mirthful laughter that the deep valley gorge came into view ahead. The shadowed dale was encircled by a trench and rampart, and here banners twisted in the winds of the mountain. The white horse danced across green fields, as guards upon the battlement saw the riders approach in the distance. Éomer and his Éored turned upon the straight road to the gate; his spear glistened in the sun, raised to greet his kin, and joyous shouts came swift in return.

Éomer slowed his horse.

Hooves thundered over the boardwalk and through the earthen wall. Men ran to stand by the path to see the riders pass, bowing their heads in greeting to the Marshal. His eyes swiftly took in the fortification; many barrels filled with arrows stood upon the top of the wall, and spears and swords lined the steps leading upwards. Horses were well-rested in their stables, ready to depart with haste for the Hornburg if news of an attack came to the Dike. Here was the first defense of the Westfold.

They left behind Helm's Dike, and a quarter mile later the large rampart of solid stone blocked the valley; some twenty feet in height, the Deeping Wall fenced in the castle beyond. In the shadow of Thrihyrne, where no enemy had ever set foot inside; in a long file they carried on. Following the long causeway, winding its way up to the great gate of the fortress itself, and soldiers moved aside with haste to make room.

Éomer was then met by a familiar face, as a tall man stepped out to meet him.

He jumped from the saddle and walked to meet the only prince of Rohan. "Théodred," Éomer smiled, albeit with tired weariness in his steps. The cut in his leg ached once more. "I greet you! How good it is to see you."

With arms outstretched, they embraced with much joy – for they had been close both when Éomer had been but a child, and now as adults. "And I greet you! What brings you here, cousin?" Théodred asked, pulling away before placing his hand on Éomer's shoulder. Strong fingers squeezed down. His keen and wise eyes flickered over the Marshal, gaze missing nothing, but then quickly turned to the riders behind them. At the sight his brow furrowed. "Has my father sent you?"

"I bring tidings," Éomer replied as he removed the horse-tailed helmet, allowing Éothain to take it from him. "Though not from the king. And also, I think it best we take this conversation inside. In private. I have much to share with you, cousin."

Théodred gave a brisk nod. "Yes, of course."

The pair began to walk to the gate, leading them inside the Hornburg.

"I will have my aides see to your men – for how long do you plan to stay with us?"

"I do not know. But we have ridden far and without much respite. We parted from Aldburg some days ago, and we have not had time for proper rest since then. Our journey required haste." Éomer rubbed his brow. "My men are well-deserving of a meal and a place to sleep." The prince faltered at the news, eyebrows raised and newfound concern flashed across his features. It had been a long ride.

But with practiced ease the worry was then masked; commands were given out to see to the newly arrived Éored and their horses, and then the cousins stepped through the gate under the eyes of tall watchmen. Inside it seemed dark and warm compared to the Autumn chill outside, and many torches lined the walls of the great and deep chamber.

Éomer pulled the gloves from his hands and tucked them into his belt, feeling heat prickle his skin. Mighty pillars upheld the stone roof, carved from the very mountain many ages ago, and beams of sun fell in glimmering shafts from the eastern windows high upon the wall. Steps led away, winding up and further up to what he knew to be the great tall tower, where the horn of Helm Hammerhand could be found. Others led down to cellars packed to a full with provisions for any long siege. But the prince and the Marshal followed an open corridor leading straight ahead on an even path.

At first they came to a large and well-lit hall. Wood-fire burned upon the hearth in its centre, and green banners hung upon the far wall over the raised dais. Women and men of the keep milled about here, busy at work for the approach of evening, but they paused and bowed as the lords entered and passed. A quiet murmur welled up.

Though Théodred did not walk to the gilded chair upon the dais, the place for the lord of Helm's Deep, and instead Éomer was led through a narrow way off to the side. They went with swift and purposeful strides, and neither spoke despite finding themselves alone in the hallway. It had been clear that the Third Marshal of the Riddermark had not arrived with good news. Fewer fires burned here and the light dimmed about them. The stones were dark and cold.

Éomer's eyes grew accustomed.

Their steps resounded in the quiet.

They then came to a door, bolted and locked, and the prince unfastened a key from his belt.

On great hinges the door swung slowly inwards; stepping inside Théodred's private chambers the tautness in his shoulders waned, and Éomer breathed deeply. He took a seat opposite his cousin, draping his long and travel-worn cloak across his leg and unfastened Gúthwinë; the sword was placed by his side, tip against the dark stones gleaming dully in the firelight. Théodred mirrored his actions, but then leaned forward with eager determination and rested his chin in hand. His keen eyes regarded Éomer sharply.

"I fear that with me come evils worse than ever before," Éomer spoke gravely. "What I have seen in this last week has left my heart heavy with burdens. I have sought no other council but yours – not even the King's – for this matter is of great and grave importance. If it proves to be true. And so I have come to you in haste, hoping that together we shall cast some light on this matter."

Théodred ran his thumb across the stubble on his chin, dark eyes locked on Éomer's. "If swiftness is required, cousin, then I ask that you speak plainly. What has happened?"

And so it was, that Éomer told everything; all he could remember, down to even the smallest of details – even if they to others would have seemed insignificant, to the prince they were not. His missing scouts, and the unease that had hung heavy over him for many days. The village raid. The second and larger host. He told Théodred of the Ranger from the North, and what she thought of the tracks pointing westward. But most important were the garbled words of the captive Dunlending. A large, black tooth in the darkness of night.

Both had they stood in the shadow of Orthanc.

They knew well of what he spoke.

Théodred asked many questions, and as time passed from minutes to hours, his face darkened with concern. With all Éomer had told, he came to much the same conclusion as the Marshal. "This is truly the tale of a horrible betrayal, yet we hold only little proof to your claim." The prince held up a hand, halting Éomer from speaking. "I believe you, for I know the depths of your loyalty, and no such host of hillmen has passed by my watch. We have not slackened our duties."

He stood, and with hands clasped behind his back Théodred paced across the floor. In their long discussion, many maps had been spread across the table between them, all drawn in great detail; every hillock and creak and forest, the dust-trails only stepped by herdsmen and the great roads between cities. Éomer trailed a hand over the Misty Mountains, pausing at the Gap of Rohan, when he finally spoke. "Yet," he said carefully, quietly, with a scowl as he understood his cousin's concerns. "It is not enough."

"No," Théodred replied and returned to his seat. Though he remained standing, fingers grasping the back of the chair tightly; Éomer saw the knuckles become white. "How easy it would be to turn the Dunlending's words against our claim. To wave it off, discard our words as the Great Enemy's plan to turn allies against one another. Lies to taint the honourable reputation of Saruman!" A hand hammered against the wooden chair, and the noise resounded in the stillness and further into the floor.

Long moments of silence fell over the cousins.

Éomer's mind was but a tangled mess, and he struggled to grab hold of fleeting thoughts to piece together wisdom. Such little power they held against silver tongues and wizardry. "I will leave half my Éored here under your command," he finally said. Resolution seeped into his voice. There was not much else they could do, and so the only choice was to strengthen their first line of defense against a storm they knew would hit; hard, swift, and ruthless. Though, the bigger question was when.

"I cannot take your riders," Théodred said with dejection; he sat down, shoulders slumped in defeat and a sigh escaped him. "You have less men than I would prefer as is in the Folde. I refuse to cripple your forces further, even if they could be useful here. You need them as much as I do."

"With how things are now you need them." Their gazes met. Éomer understood well, for long it had been believed that the danger would come from the East. Gondor could not hold out forever; and then a swarm of evil and filth would be upon Rohan, black blood spilling from the putrid mouth of Mordor. His men would be the first to ride out and meet them, with riders and horns sounding the attack from the gates of Aldburg.

A small force, lessened in their numbers, would be easily crushed. Swallowed in a sea of horrors.

But perhaps now war would be upon them long before the line of Gondor broke, and from a side they had never expected. No, Éomer could spare some men if it meant the protection of the Westfold. Neither decision would be perfect either way they twisted and turned it, or even close to adequate, and it would leave their defenses spread thin over vast expanses. Truly, they were caught between the hammer and the anvil; and the first strike would fall hard.

"I will hold the Folde," Éomer said. Stubborn dertermination clear in his voice, and he raised his head. "If further proof is found of Saruman's deceit, you can request aid from the king. And you can have my men returned to my side – if you do not have use of them by that time." He feared they would be much needed. Théodred sat quietly. Deep in thought, leaving his younger cousin time to think; his remaining men would be pushed to the limit in ever-vigilant patrols.

There were yet no enemies from the North, for the inhospitable lands of Rhovanion stretched far beyond the Anduin, and still orcs never ventured far from the Great River. No beasts came from the Grey Mountains; the old forest of Elves, deep and dark and full of ancient magic, was an impossible wall to climb for any outsider. But still from the Dagorlad to the Undeeps, an army could pass with little resistance into Rohan – they could not turn a blind eye to the Wold. But neither could the eastern way be left unguarded. Éomer drew a hand across his face, gaze once more returning to the maps.

Their best chances would be to convince the king of Saruman's betrayal. They could then call upon the combined forces of the Riddermark; strike before the wizard came to full power. Bring down the tower of Saruman the White. But with no proof their words would fall on deaf ears. There was no denying it – the king was growing old and stubborn in his ways, leaving little room for advice from the outside. Not even from the Marshals tasked with the protection of the lands, and neither from the king's own son. Always advisors whispered words of peace and quiet. All was well. Éomer's brow furrowed.

When has the king last left Edoras?

Théodred rose. "Come," he said, "I shall have a room prepared for you. Perhaps with some sleep our minds will be clearer? I shall have my aides gathered tomorrow, and we will hear what they have to say on this matter. But you have ridden far and hard, and you must rest." Yet Éomer made no motion to stand, and rather looked up with a puzzled expression at the sudden turn of events. "Many would say it certainly is best to decide what to do at once, that efforts best idleness, though I much rather believe a quiet time to think is of value now."

The prince gave a smile, thin and weary yet not without mirth.

With a shake of his head, Éomer wondered if not Théored and Éothain had joined forces in their badgering, yet still he followed his cousin out of the chamber with little reluctance. His body ached, and the wound in his leg pulsed; tremors ran through his veins, making his walk slow and careful. It would have to be redressed. Rest would be welcome, he thought with a grim frown, and there was no part of him that did not feel stretched. Tired, exhausted by the all that had happened. Perhaps he would wake in the morning with a clear head?

It was of no surprise for Éomer that sleep claimed him swiftly after. Bidding his cousin a good night, despite the news of vile betrayal the Marshal had brought in with him, he found the bed a warm welcome. Heat surrounded him, muddling his already unclear thoughts, and then all became dark as he drifted off. Weariness and exhaustion made his sleep without dreams, and some clarity came to him with the first light of morning.

He watched from his room as the first orange rays peered over the edge of the rampart and the parting of clouds. Long shadows crawled with haste over dark stones, growing ever thinner with the sun's climb over the mountain spurs; escaping into narrow nooks and crevices. Birds; swallows and dunnocks, took to the clear skies as little swirling brown dots. Éomer sat for a while and watched, eyes looking both near and far. Over the open stretches before the Deepening Wall, and further still to the green plains of Rohan where all was yet quiet.

Only few trees stood scattered across the landscape, lonesome figures cast in the colours of Autumn; orange, yellow, and red beads strewn over greens, and their leaves shone brightly in the sun as if on fire. When finally he was ready, Éomer fastened his weapons and found the familiar weight calming, for once more dark thoughts seeped into his mind. Chilling whispers. There was little reason to wear his heavy armor, for Helm's Deep was safe, and so he left it behind while the door closed shut after him. The corridor was without windows, but many torches lined the walls and illuminated his path through the keep.

Éomer knew the way. Many times before had he visited Helm's Deep, and, even if he had not, then his warrior's mind could easily retrace his steps from the evening before. There was a small decline in the path, soon giving way to steps leading him down to the lower levels. Noise rose up ahead of him, cast against the stone walls; soon he could hear many speaking all at once. He took to following the sounds the rest of the way, until he came to the great hall they had passed through upon his arrival.

The air was warm from the great hearth burning, and many tables were occupied by both women and men; others moved about, serving food and drink for those gathered, or stoked the fire. And upon the dais, surrounded by armed and grey-haired men, sat Théodred in deep deliberation with a dozen counsellors. As he approached, the prince looked up and welcomed Éomer to a seat by his side. With a nod at the gathered, clasping hands with those closest to him, he sat down at the table that had been prepared. Éomer recognized most faces.

"I have said very little still," Théodred spoke quietly in his ear, with eyes trained on the men around them. "They now know of the Dunlendings' raid and the interrogation, and I would like for them to draw their own conclusions. Then, we shall hear if we think alike."

Éomer accepted the offered bowl of stew and a mug of clear, honeyed ale. He sat mostly and listened, speaking only when they asked for details of the attack or the words of his captives; the food warmed his stomach, and a hunger, one he had not noticed earlier, was gratified. His eyes trailed over the hall, watching young boys weave between the legs of their fathers in an attempt at a scuffle; throwing about their fists and scrawny legs flailing. A smile ran across his lips when they were pulled apart in exasperated ease.

The long discussion drew at length to an end around him, just as he came to empty another bowl of vegetables and lamb.

If not for the fact that both the prince and his aides stood to leave, Éomer could have most likely stayed for another serving. But instead Éomer followed by Théodred's side out of the hall. Again, he was led through dim corridors and winding stairs going further and further up, until they came to another large room; many windows lined the walls, and around him a view opened up to the surrounding lands. He could see far to all sides. It was but a small line of grey, yet the white-tipped peaks of the Misty Mountains were discernable in the haze of early morning to the northeast. Mostly a sea of green stretched unending on all sides part from the dark stones of the Dike.

Éomer remained by the window, hands clasped behind his back, as the others milled inside.

In the middle of the room stood a table, flanked by chairs on all sides; maps had been laid out at an earlier time, for often Théodred held his council here. Now the largest map was pulled out and placed where all could see. The men gathered around it, finding seats as they still mumbled briskly amongst each other with low voices. A thrum of anxious expectancy was heavy in the air; then the prince raised a hand and all immediately quietened about him. "Now is the hour upon which I seek your council," Théodred said, looking around with solemn eyes and with hands pressed down against the table.

His straight back seemed heavy with burden.

He leaned forward, keen eyes watchful as they lingered in turn on the gathered.

"You have heard all, as I have, from my cousin's report. Tell me your verdict."

Many voices shared their agreement and dissent all at once, mumbled to a mass of words and shouts; a heavy sense of disbelief clung to most of the prince's advisors, and only few were fast to believe the betrayal of Saruman. It was preposterous; allegations with no claim in attested proof, for surely the jumbled words of a savage – more beast than Man – rang false. Spoken to save its own hide from death in a land far from home. Éomer's face hardened at their words. A blindness smothered his people, even those tasked to see clearly in their darkest hour, yet still they remained in denial!

Brushing aside a threat both imminent and dreadful.

The words spoken about the Ranger were no less harsh than those meant for the Dunlending. Just as wild and unwelcome. A straggler with no rightful dealings in their lands; grim-faced and secretive thieves in the dark, more likely spies of the Enemy than protectors of the peace. While his first thoughts of the woman had been much the same, Éomer took a step forward at their dishonourable utterings. She had proven herself! She had come to the aid of the village, saved his people when the Rohirrim had come too late, but such deeds were blatantly overlooked. Théodred turned, sending a long and hard look at him, and Éomer bristled.

Yet still he paused. Blind old men, he thought, teeth ground together, mollified by falsehoods and with hope for a peace long-gone.

Was he truly destined to take a stand alone? Were they all complacent in their way of life? No. His gaze fell on the straigthened back of his cousin, proud and unbending, as the prince raised a hand for silence. Still there remained those wise enough to see the truth, and though they were few in numbers Éomer was not alone to meet the challenge. Some had voiced an agreement, albeit laced with gloom, that surely all pointed to the White Wizard.

"Enough." Once the quiet had settled, the prince turned to a scarred and familiar face by his side. "What say you, Grimbold? You have much remained silent."

The rider – valiant captain under the Second Marshal – paused as if to deliberate an answer. His hair had whitened since Éomer had last seen him, streaking the blond tresses, but his gaze remained steeled. Wise beneath deeply set brows. "There have been no sightings of Dunlendings around my encampment, nor has my scouts reported any tracks leading through the region for many months." He moved an open, gloved hand across the map before pausing at the Gap of Rohan. "We have seen none cross the Isen and Adorn," he said carefully, still weaving deftly around a proper response.

Théodred considered his words for a short while. "Neither have I – nor Erkenbrand," he then said, nodding to another, larger, man across the table. "And I do not believe any other at this table has willingly let enemies into our lands!"

A murmur followed, as the assembled roused and rallied at the prince's words. They could not believe the notion of treachery, for all were they proud men of Rohan. Warriors. "I know the skill and loyalty of my men," Grimbold carried on, shifting as he leaned back in his seat to look at the gathered. "They have not passed our defense. Perhaps we should look to our neighbours, for so long held in high regard and trusted, now rather with wariness. It is best we keep our horses rested and our watch vigilant, but remember; the hasty stroke goes oft astray."

The prince drew a hand across his brow. "So we come to it in the end," he said quietly, but then he declared no more.