My wholehearted thanks goes out to Aliyana, Diarona, Doria Nell, and spring94 for the lovely reviews. It's nice to get some good ideas to get to writing (and I may, or may not, have suddenly written 25k for an entirely different fandom with burning speed. I really wish I could do the same for this story, but I also feel I need to give 100 percent with every word typed here ...).

Rell gets a bit of a breather, though not so much because things are shaping up for the better for her, but rather that we turn our attention elsewhere! It has been a while since we looked to Rohan, and our great Marshal. So whether Aragorn and Rell while be able to find any further traces, beside the footprints in the mud, time will tell. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Any comments are always very welcome and highly appreciated.

Little Sparrow

Chapter XIV: The Golden Hall of Meduseld

For another day and another night, Éomer stayed at Helm's Deep. It was only very little that the inhabitants of the fortress saw of the prince and the marshal, for they found council in one another; discussing the plight of their people, and the long, hard months to come of either peace or war. The work of Saruman was their foremost concern, but also the lands to the North and East were considered with great detail. To them it felt as if they were surrounded by enemies on all sides.

Many a time out-riders came to the keep, bringing with them tidings of the world.

But now the hour of departure was upon them. He had been away long enough from Aldburg, and the Eastemnet could not go long without leadership and protection. It was some comfort that a heightened watch had been set by the Gap of Rohan, so that no hillmen could succeed in another attack. The sight of his people, those he was tasked with protecting, lying dead; hewn down in their own homes; and the dark-spiralling smoke and flames that had blotched out the clear skies, left his heart black with hatred. Men and women. Children. He was eager to ride once more, but loath to part from his cousin.

They had spent the morning together, side by side on the dais, giving instructions to his riders for their departure. Éothain had had much work to do in the early hours of light. One hundred of his men would not return to their awaiting families; they would remain, to strengthen the forces of Théodred, and defend the region if it came to such. When there was nothing more to be said, the prince and Éomer stood. All about them, the room fell quiet. "We shall be ready," Théodred said, so quietly only the two of them could hear his words. "Let no thoughts of despair grip your heart, cousin."

"If only our fears are unfounded. That such dark times were not before us, but rather those of gladness and peace." Éomer sighed deeply and raked a hand through his hair. "However, we are not blessed with such luck." Then they clasped hands, grips firm as their eyes met; both did they know what lay ahead, that war could not be avoided in spite of their best efforts, and it would not be long now. "May our courage and our hearts never falter."

"Be careful."

"So must you," Éomer said. "Remain vigilant."

Together they left the hall and passed through the great entrance, where the bright light of morning slanted through opened doors; stepping out into the open where they were met with Éomer's riders. Taking the steps two at a time with wide strides, the cousins approached the company. Éothain came to meet the marshal, the horse-tailed helmet tucked beneath his arm then offered forward. His horse had already been saddled, white coat glistening and restless tail flickering.

Éomer flung himself up into the saddle, quickly checking the reins until Firefoot calmed and stood perfectly still. The breath of the large animal came as puffs in the chill air.

He looked to his men; grim-faced, touched by the bitterness of hard days, yet with unwavering loyalty in their hearts. Brave they were, and it was clear in their eyes when they returned his gaze. Not one of them would ever falter, nor hesitate to ride out into battle by his command. He placed the helmet upon his head. Firefoot danced across the stones of the courtyard, and with the deep echo of many hooves, they parted. Éomer raised his hand in farewell.

The road from the Hornburg was bathed in a golden light, though the far distance was darkened by grey clouds and the wind was on his face. Behind him, as he peered back one final time, Thrihyrne stood lofty; red the peaks glowed, shimmering both gold and white for ever were they covered in snow. They turned onto the old road, cutting a way through many hills.

Along the riders went. The new morning soon blotted from the sky, and dark fell about them. Heavy grey clouds came swift on the wind, borne far and beyond the eaves of Fangorn and the Misty Mountains. Coldness was in the air. As he rode, Éomer's mind wandered, and he contemplated many things. Both large and small. It did not sit well with him to leave the matter of Saruman to his cousin, though neither could he forsake his duties eastbound. They were now beset from two fronts. A wavering eye sees only little, he thought. A warning to his doubtful heart.

Far and long they rode.

Through the day and into the night, until at last they camped on the top-most crest of a wide valley. With the first rays of morning they set out again; their horses were swift-footed and rested, and many miles passed beneath the trampling of hooves. The sloped hills evened out into a long stretch of open lands and fields, with only few rocks protruding like grey teeth in the tall, swaying grass. Scattered patches of trees were but mere dots in the distance. They had left the old road almost an hour earlier, keeping the contoured ridges of the White Mountains as their guiding beacon upon their right.

Throughout the day they had ridden undisturbed, passing only few farmsteads, houses and barns, and fenced pastures. When the sun climbed to its highest point in the sky, they came to a halt beneath a large, lone-standing oak. On all sides about them the view was open. Massive and gnarled roots crawled like fingers over the earth, securing the tree trunk in its place as a last defence against the ever-changing seasons; ridges of bark, dried greyish brown from the deep-cutting winds and orange-brown leaves glowed. Its crown of leaves was an intricate web of branches until barely any light filtered through, and, instead, a cooling shade fell over the Marshal. Dismounting, Éomer sat men to the watch and out-riders were sent ahead, bringing with them words of the Éored's arrival.

A breeze swept across the field, fresh with air from the snow-covered peaks that shimmered white against a cloudless sky.

The morning had again dawned grey and damp, holding a promise of rain, but the clouds soon cleared with the passing hours, until the far horizon now claimed the last flecks of swirling white and grey. As he peered into the distance, shielding his gaze with a flat hand, he noticed a glimmer of water barely a narrow line between the green. They had gradually moved closer to the Snowbourn, slowly leading the horses through the plains, but as they now approached Edoras Éomer required a moment's peace. To think.

Throughout the journey from Helm's Deep, he had decided to turn aside from the road and pass by the court of Meduseld. A gnawing thought had long festered in his mind, whispering words of ill. The king was not well, that was clear. But if it was the crippling of body and mind from old age, or something more malicious, Éomer could not tell. He remembered his uncle, the one who had taken two orphaned children in, as if they were his own; his strength, his honour and bravery, but such memories had long since become muddled. Tarnished by what was now.

Éomer wished to see the state of the court and its king for himself.

Steeling his heart, words of their departure spread and orders were issued, as he climbed into the saddle once more. A solitary horn blew, far but soon faint upon the wind.

Éomer spurred Firefoot, and the great steed sprang forth; tufts of dirt and grass flew from trampling hooves. Before them stood the mountains, streaked with black, and rolling hills passed in a blur of green. They carved a way southeast, until the hills grew tall and many, but always ahead he kept the Snowbourn. The blue hue of the river changed colour as they approached; an almost translucent paleness near the shore, changing to a deep dark as the shallows disappeared into the depth of foaming waters.

A dirt-road – flattened by both feet, hooves and wagon wheels – followed the winding ways of the waters. Swiftly he pulled at the reins and changed his course onto the path straight south. Wings flapped, loudly and with strength, as blue-grey ducks were disturbed between the reeds. Flanked by both great and small stones, and a deep vegetation of bulrushes and willow-trees on one side, and the open grasslands on his other, Éomer could soon see a shimmer in the far distance. Where the valley between two spurs of the mountain opened among the hills, stood a tall peak at the mouth of the valley.

Solitary, the green hill of weathered rock rose above the plain.

Noon was drawing to a close when the Marshal could once more see the golden roof of Meduseld, shining far over the land. The first streaks of dark blue and blackish grey, creeping over the cloudless sky to the East, heralded the slow arrival of evening. Still, night was some time away. They followed the road, weaving along with every bend and curve of the river-shore. From their position he could see the thorny fence encircling the city and green banners fluttering upon the wind from Starkhorn.

A new haste came to their steeds.

The path led them forward, passing by the mounds of ancient kings. High and green they stood. Éomer lowered his head in solemn greeting, for always were the barrows cause for great sorrow and reverence. Simbelmynë grew ever-green on their western sides. From the last hills the road sloped up the green shoulders of the rock, turned and followed the stockade hewn from old cedars the last stretch to the gate. Here, they slowed their horses and approached at a lessened pace. From beyond the fence came many sounds; the enclosing quietude was broken by voices, shouts, and laughter. The constant beat of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil, and the creaking and clanking of carts. A dog was barking, and a child wailed loudly.

Something ahead caught his gaze.

Where the road met the gates stood a lone figure clad in white. Éomer rose to attention, and delight and surprise stirred his heart. Behind her – for it was a woman, bright as the sun and white as snow – guards stood at a distance. Tall spears shimmered in the light of day; with green tabards pulled over chainmail, and helmets crowned with horse-tails on their heads. They raised their spears in greeting. A soft breeze plucked at her clothes, blowing loose strands of hair into her face. Her golden belt shimmered.

As Éomer jumped from the saddle, she, likewise, stepped forward to meet him.

For a moment, the sight of his sister turned all unpleasant thoughts aside, and only joy was left. Quickly, he came to stand before her and embraced the slim, graceful shoulders. "How glad I am to see you, Éowyn," he said. Laughter was in his voice. Then Éomer took a step back, looking over the woman before him; there was gladness, and love, in her grey eyes, but her face was cast in tired gloom that could not be overshadowed. The gazes of his riders were upon them, and so he said nothing of it.

"When word of your arrival reached us, I wanted to be here to meet you first," she said, holding out an arm for him to take. Her look became rueful. "How dearly I have missed you, brother. But what brings you on this path? You have not come here from Aldburg, and rather from our dearest cousin to the west?"

He gently patted her hand. "I came about this way."

Their eyes met briefly, and, despite the pursing of her lips, she gave a nod of understanding. His words were enough to still her questions. Éomer wished not to trouble her with matters of the Mark; to burden a heart so greatly troubled already. "Well." She smiled a thin smile and turned to the gates. "Glad I am of it! Come now, the King awaits your arrival."

Side by side they entered, as the dark gates were swung open before them. The guards bowed deep. Behind him the riders followed; Éothain had taken the reins of Firefoot, and a great rolling sound of hooves travelled through the ground paved with hewn stones. The people of Edoras were busy out and at work; swiftly they made way for the Marshal and his men, yet there was no hurry in the steps of Éomer. Concern brewed in his mind once more, and his walk was slow – as if it was but a leisurely stroll, that to him felt like the final walk to the gallows.

Chattering, sparkling in the pale light of early winter, a stream ran down the sloping path; its waters swift and churning as the hill wound further up. The stones turned to short flights of steps, and here he parted with his riders. His gaze turned to the high platform above. The stairs broadened onto the green terrace, and on the very top sat guards. They were seated; green shields flanked their sides, and drawn swords laid upon their knees. The doorwardens moved not, appearing statue-like if not for deep and watchful eyes that met Éomer's gaze.

Behind them was the great hall, Meduseld, home of Rohan's king and court. Its roof glowed golden in the pale light.

When Éomer climbed the long stair, they rose; silently they waited until he came before them. A single guard stepped forward. "Hail, Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. You are expected by the King." A chilling wind blew cold from the lofty peaks of the White Mountains, tall and dark shadows looming against a blue sky.

The doorwarden moved aside, and the doors, groaning on great hinges, were swung open to reveal a dark hall. Long and broad it was, warmed by a clear-burning fire upon the hearth, and smoke was in the heavy air. Whispering voices echoed between pillars richly carved and decorated with woven cloths, and Éomer saw moving shapes in the half lights; shafts of light fell through high windows facing the East, but the hall seemed almost deserted. It put Éomer on edge, for their steps felt deafening in the quiet. He looked up to the dais.

There, upon a great gilded chair, sat a man.

Familiar he was, yet also foreign; so bent with age was his uncle, where there once had been strength; high and proud was the king in his memories. White was his hair now beneath the golden circlet, and slumped he sat so that he seemed small. Éomer's step faltered. There was a tension and urgency in Éowyn's grip on his arm, and he went forward, past the fire until he came to stand before the steps. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel!" He called in a clear voice and bowed deep. "King of the Mark!"

When Éomer looked up, he was met with a gaze burning with a bright light as the king gazed upon him. Unblinking. Life had not been completely snuffed out, smothered by age, and he allowed a quiet sigh of relief. At first there was only silence, and the king did not move in his seat. The old man's breathing could be heard, wheezing rasps that grated on his ears.

Éowyn stepped forward and came to kneel by their uncle's side, white skirts pooled about her, a pale touch lightly placed on his withered sword-hand. Have their hands always been the same in size? "Uncle," she spoke tenderly, voice low. "My brother has arrived." The king's head turned slightly, closer at her words, and the single white diamond on his forehead shone.

Dry lips parted. "Éomer–"

But as the king started to speak, movement caught the marshal's attention as a shadow shifted from the corner of the hall. Forward stepped a wizened man, slow and calculated were his movements, clothed in black; with a face pale and sullen. His heavy-lidded eyes trailed over Éomer, and disdain felt clear upon his features. Like a snake he moved. Éomer straightened and sent a quick, flittering look to his sister; so vulnerable she appeared, as if shutters had come up over her grey eyes to mask her distress. "We greet you," the man said slowly, words weighed with great care.

Éomer barely inclined his head. "Gríma." Another name was said only in his mind and heart. Then he returned his gaze to the dais. "Strange, I find it, that not the King – my uncle – should greet me. I have travelled far."

"The king is not well," Gríma answered slowly. "Speak not ill of the lord of Rohan's courtesy, for I adviced him to leave your visit entirely up to others. Rest is needed, though still you request much and with little regard. What brings you here, lord Éomer, and with only half of your éored?" If he had not kept his feelings forcefully in check, Éomer would have then startled; cold was his face, and his hands clenched. The advisor smiled, honeyed and dangerous, yet it only made his face more haggard. "Many days ago we received word that the Third Marshal was riding west. Yet now you have returned with only one-hundred horses."

Shifting on his feet, shoulders squared, Éomer paused in thought. Anger flickered through his mind, though he kept his eyes turned to his uncle and his hand off his sword; he would not spare another glance on the venomous worm. "Théodred needed more men," he bit out, forcefully. "I provided them."

"Yet that is not in your power to command." The man walked the three steps up onto the dais, where he came to stand by the right side of the king. Éowyn turned rigid, though kept her head high and eyes steeled. Her jaw was taut, and frail was the light that fell upon her. "While questions of battle, brutal – crude, even – is best left in your most capable hands, I would think our forces are best kept at our eastern borders? Mordor is the enemy."

"If you understand it, then be content and say no more," returned Éomer. "If you have no wisdom for war, perhaps it is best not to speak witlessly of it?" He then addressed the king. "My lord, Gondor holds strong still! We should not expect any attacks on the Wold. But enemies have crossed our borders from the west. Dunlendings have raided villages, and surely they are the greater threat to our peace in this moment. I have spoken with your son, with Théodred, and he agreed."

Éomer took swift steps forward, all the while drawing forth his sword, and kneeled before the dais.

The blade was rested against his leg. "I did what I believed was right to protect the people of Rohan, my lord. If it was wrong, then I gladly offer my life as atonement." Dark were the stones beneath his lowered gaze, shimmering as clouds passed high above against a fleeting sun. No words were spoken, for the wickedness of Gríma – Wormtongue – could not rightfully intervene in the marshal's submission to his own king.

A shadow moved, and a weakened, feeble voice broke the silence. "Stand," said Théoden. The beat of a cane against the stones reverberated. "You have done right, sister-son."

When he looked up, he saw the figure of his uncle; bent and frail, like a tree swaying precarious in the wind – as if it could fall over at any time. White knuckles gripped a staff of twisted dark wood. With faltering steps the old man walked down from the dais and came to stand before Éomer. Behind him, Éowyn's face was thoughtful, grave, and Gríma's wretched features were hard to read. Slowly, Éomer rose. "My lord."

For a long-stretching moment, the king regarded his marshal. Slow and deliberate, but soon the clever eyes were clouded by weary age, and he turned to leave. Veiled had his gaze suddenly turned. A burden seemed heavy on his shoulders, and with the soft-repeated clacks of the cane, Éomer was left alone in the great hall with his sister. The advisor followed Théoden out; a second shadow attached to him, following wherever he walked.

Upon their departure, quickly Éomer now spoke. His voice was low and secret, naught but a soft hiss through his teeth, and none save Éowyn could hear him. "So dark it is here." He turned to face her. "Such great harm has come to Meduseld!"

There was sorrow in her grey eyes, but she did not speak. Rather, she came to stand by his side and with gentle hands led him outside. The air was fresh and cold, stark against the dull gloom behind them; a pale sun shone bright and lit the rooftops in gold. They stood by the steps, feeling the watching eyes of the doorwardens. He looked out, over many leagues upon leagues of land, until he came to the end of sight. Far it was, and further still beyond the misty haze of the horizon lay Gondor. Their allies in peace, and their first line of defence in war against a pressing enemy.

Éomer prayed his choice had been right. Both hope and fear came to his mind, in equal measures they strove and battled. Then his gaze turned closer; tents were taking shape outside the fence, white and shining cloths in the pale light, where his Éored had set up camp instead of burdening the guesthouses. Men milled about, awaiting orders of departure from the Marshal. Still, Éomer knew not for how long he would stay. Concern filled him.

As they were not alone, their conversation turned to small, unimportant matters; such matters shared between siblings that had gone long without one another. Éowyn pointed to many things in Edoras, telling stories of the daily lives of their people; of the foals in late Spring, and the harvest of the year. Chill the wind blew, yet proud and unfazed her back was as she told him of court; of new and old faces, the passing of seasons and all the work that followed. Her duties were many, though never did a word of complaint escape her.

But when she mentioned shifting powers, a hushed silence quickly fell on them. He put her arm in his, and together they descended the steps into town. "You need not tell me," Éomer said quietly, head turned to look at her. Yet his eyes fell on the great hall. It felt as if a dark, flickering shadow shifted and vanished. "I know." He could tell there was sorrow in her eyes, though only because she was his sister; a calm composure was ever her companion, as it had been for many years. "The horizon will grow light again, I promise you."

They followed the winding stream, slowly, making their way to a place undisturbed.

"Tell me," she said after a while as they walked by wooden houses, half in shadow and half in light. "Is Aldburg much the same?"

He smiled. "The hall still stands – just as it did when you last saw it. I have not yet managed to tear it apart. The wind blows cold, and the steppes are green. Though I am not much there, for my duty lies on the plains, and–," he paused briefly, pondering his next words. They came, ringing of bitterness, yet there was no such feeling in his heart. "It feels not so much like a home, for the people that made it one are not there anymore. They have not been for a very long time."

Éowyn became quiet.

Grey eyes watched his face, searching, and it was not long before he regretted his words. The deaths of their parents had hit them both hard; she had been seven when Orcs slew their father, and they had soon after witnessed their mother succumb to illness. Heartbreak, he thought. Sorrow had claimed her. In silence for a while they walked, now passing through the gates into the openness beyond Edoras. The guards bowed; Éomer looked briefly to the camp below the sloping hill, shadowed by the risen cliff, then he steered right and away.

They followed the descending road, until they reached the flower-dotted mounds of their ancestors. Simbelmynë glowed pale and white. Éowyn's ponderings had been much the same as his, and with a low voice she finally broke the quiet when they passed far enough from the guards. "We have our uncle – and Théodred." A sense of pride and stubbornness was in her gaze, and she drew him to a halt. Love came to her words then. "And you will always have me, Éomer."

A thin smile was on his lips. "I know. Heed not my words; I am weary with concern, and clouded are my thoughts."

They had gone half a mile or so, when the pair came to a lone hill where the view was clear to all sides, and upon its crest they sat down; the grass was wet with dew, wintry blades that brushed against his skin. On one side the escarpment fell away sharply, to the other it rolled away. Éomer took a deep breath. An encroaching dread clutched his heart, but as he leaned back to stare at the empty sky, it passed; like a fleeting cloud torn apart by an unrelenting breeze. Silence was about, and he felt as if a thick veil cut them off from the world around them. Far away he saw a bird, dark against the blue horizon, circle and hover; flying at a great height, round and round, the hawk ducked quickly out of view.

The day drew on. Noon had passed, and it would not be long before night came dark and quiet over the Riddermark. The Winter days were short. Long and thin were their shadows on the grass. The sun hung low to the West, its touch soon naught but a caress over the mountain spurs. By his side, Éowyn ran a hand absently through the tall-swaying greens; twirling grass between her fingers, as the wind caught her hair. Then, suddenly, as if her mind had been made up; she spoke. "Aldburg could be a home again."

"How so?" He asked, stretching as he put his hands behind his head. From the corner of an eye he watched her.

A grin, wry and mischievous, came to her. "A wife."

He let out a clear laugh that travelled far over the plains. When his gaze met hers, the mischievious eyes of his sister were shining and Éomer sighed. Though it was not without some amusement. "Well, I could marry! You do not know, perhaps, how many young maidens covet my attention? I am much desired!" Then he sat up fully. The sun was but an arc of fire, a red glow over the ridge of the world, and a darkness came to the eastern sky. His face was drawn into deep sincerity, but his sister looked little convinced.

"You could," she said. "Yet you do not."

Éomer ran a hand across his brow. "Where should I ever find the time, sister dearest? No, you should rather look to find a match for Théodred – for the country is in need of an heir." He pulled himself to his feet and stepped to the edge of the hill; he drew his cloak about him, watching as the slanting light died. "Certainly and truly, he is not getting any younger, and his duty leaves him exposed to many dangers." Then he looked back to her. "Is there not a woman at court worthy of him?"

"There are plenty of women for the both of you," she chimed in, throwing balls of grass at him.

"I wonder." He circled around her, steps slow and deliberate, and pulled the cloak from his shoulders. As he placed it over her slim frame, he felt a bite of night-cold that touched him little; winter was drawing close, and soon the first snow would fall. He found a place on the ground once more. "I tell you this, no woman should be deserving of such a fate. Seldom I am home. What wife would wish to be alone, to handle the dealings of my hall and all its people, while the husband is away at war? To every day wait for news, be they good or bad."

From the corner of her eye, Éowyn watched him. "You would be surprised," she then said. He murmured a reply, but turned his gaze to the darkening horizon; the light was growing pale, dull and dwindling, a veil of grey covered the world about them. By the bend of the mountains, the last rays of sun cut over black peaks westward, soon unable to pierce the haze. Shadows fell. The grass grew in tussocks and flattened in waves with each gust of wind. Suddenly he felt Éowyn rest her head against his shoulder, white skirts pooling over the green grass and golden hair brushing the nape of his neck.

"I do not even remember when I last spoke with a woman," Éomer confessed thoughtfully, brow furrowed. "If I do not count you – and the housekeeper."

"Old Gamrun?" She laughed out loud, a joyful laughter that could likely be heard from a mile away, and he fought back a smile of his own. "Never in your entire life would she spare you a moment!" He drew his arm around her shoulders, shaking her until she could hardly breathe; then, when her mirth died down and only mischief remained in her eyes, he allowed her a pause.

For a while the siblings sat in silence under the shadow of dusk, waiting for the gloaming night to settle, when a thought struck him. "I have met one," he said.

Éowyn shifted. "Met one?"

Bewilderment was in her tone of voice, surprise in her eyes, yet Éomer was quick to correct himself before his sister's misunderstanding grew. "We came upon a woman in the Eastemnet, a Ranger from the north beyond the Misty Mountains." A face came to him; silver-grey eyes and dark hair, proud but not unrelenting. So young she had seemed, and for a moment he wondered what fate the Dúnedain had met in the wild. Her people that had followed, searching for her. He had guided her forward on a path that could only end in bitterness. "This is the reason I rode for Helm's Deep. Why I had to speak with Théodred."

At his words, she sat up straight and watched him attentively.

For a long time Éomer spoke, telling Éowyn of all that had happened; though he left out parts of his tale, for he could not bear to see concern grow on her face. Pale and tired, worried, she was already – he would not bring further heaviness to her heart. So he allowed her to ask, to lead the conversation with her questions, that mostly fell to the stranger from another land. There was clear interest in the woman, and Éomer was quick to indulge his sister; her weapons and her horse, how many hillmen she had slain; what her purpose had been, travelling alone in the wilderness and further still. To the East.

So, at length it was, that true night came about them, and small flickering stars streaked the sky. In the darkness they sat for a long time, talking as a silence crept over the plains; until Éowyn's head grew heavy against his shoulder. Her breathing became slow and quiet, and she fell fast asleep. The pale silver light of the moon made it hard to see far ahead, yet he could not miss the lines – the crease of her brow – that would not leave her thoughts even in rest. He brushed strands of hair from her face.

"Worry not, Éowyn," he whispered, "You are safe with me."

Displeasure, soon turning to fury, boiled beneath the surface of his mind. If not for his uncle's protection, the worm would have been without his head a long time ago. Always watching, waiting in the shadows; following her every move like a viper ready to strike. It was hard to miss the thinly veiled desire in Gríma's gaze. As if his fair and proud sister was some prey to be stalked. He gritted his teeth. Without proof he could do nothing. The king and the kingdom were weakening, yet all seemed blind to it; poisoned to believe all was well, though their walls were crumbling from within.

His anger became too much, and Éomer rose slowly, careful not to wake his sleeping sister. He pulled her into his arms, lifting her as her head was supported against his chest; thin, frail she appeared. A shimmer of white under the dull moon. He cautiously shifted the weight in his arms around. "If you ever need me, I will be there." Éomer drew the cloak close around her, and then, with twilight about them, he walked back to the road.

In the dark night he could see torches upon the rampart; glowing eyes and moving shadows. Spearheads flickered orange from the dancing flames, and they had surely been watched upon the hill. The dusty ground crunched beneath his boots; past the mounds enclosed by the eerie silence of the dead, and further as the road sloped upwards. Yet here it was that Éomer turned from the path, now stepping through the tall grass and away from the city. There was no sense of safety to be found within the walls of Edoras.

The night was cold and still. Golden and red in the darkness, watch-fires burned in a ring around the Éored's encampment. Sentries stood to attention at his approach, at first only shadowy shapes that glinted now and again, when the flames reflected across their armour, but soon they came clear to his eyes. Éomer gave a nod of recognition, but was quick to enter the camp where a nighttime quiet had settled; he did not need help in finding his own tent, for it was larger than the rest, standing out above the others – and a banner stood by its entrance, set in the frozen ground.

A horse, ghostly white, danced in the breeze.

As he approached, he saw that by the fire outside the tent Éothain sat waiting. The man had removed his helmet and by his side rested a green shield, yet by his belt his sword still hung; he came to stand and watch, waiting, gaze settling on the sleeping form in Éomer's arms. Neither said anything. The Marshal pushed aside the tent-flap, finding the insides darkened and left to shadows. It was hard to see much. Yet the layout was simple, and it did not take him long before he could carefully place his sister down onto the cot.

For a brief moment he marvelled; once she had been a graceless girl, ever clinging to her sword and her horses, yet now it was no longer so. Strands of hair fell across her face, and he brushed them aside before drawing a thick woolen cover over her sleeping form. They had long parted ways with fond, yet distant, memories, and only the harshness of adulthood remained. Biting like the Winter's chill. He prayed she could one day be free again, and that the joys of her youth could be found once more. "Sleep well, Éowyn."

Then he left once more.

With armour rustling, Éomer found a place by the fire. The ground was hard and cold beneath him, but the fire did much good and he sat for many long moments in silence. Over the flames an iron-wrought pot simmered, and something was bubbling inside; a smell came to him, of lamb and mushrooms, and wild herbs. For a while they sat without words under the light of the moon, too weary for much else, until finally the pair began to speak in the quiet of the camp.

It was Éothain that was first to raise his voice, and his tone was light. Concern masked. "How fares the court of Meduseld?"

Éomer drew a hand across his brow, allowing a sigh to escape him before resting his elbows on his legs.

Through the darkness of the night he could see dim torches, lining the walls of Edoras above the steep cliff, naught but flickering eyes that glowed with paleness. The city was asleep, though guards looked far and stood ever-vigilant on the ramparts. Scouting for enemies beyond their realm. If only they, too, watched within. "It is much the same as when we were last here," he said at first.

Almost a year ago, the king had sent urgent word for his Marshals to gather; news from Gondor had reached Edoras, and with the whispers of brewing war to the east, ever growing, it had been time to rearrange their own forces throughout the Mark. More riders had been dispatched to Aldburg, to be led by Éomer as the first defence of the Riddermark.

Already then, he had sensed a lurking danger within the great hall.

A shadow, flickering and intangible. He could feel its touch on everything; reaching, searching, greedily devouring all it could until nothing was as it used to be. "Or so it would have us think," he muttered, grim-faced as he stared into the fire. His mind wandered. "I can feel it – in my heart and in my mind – that it is much worse now than before. Something wicked is at large here, and its strength is only growing." Éomer found his squire's gaze across the fire. "The king is not well."

"I felt it," Éothain said. "There was a gloom in the air when we arrived. I had some of the men go about asking questions, sifting the reliable from the unreliable, and certainly a foreboding picture is painted." The large frame shifted as the rider hunched forward, removing the lid of the pot and picked two bowls from the ground. "Things are not as they should be." A large ladle, bent out of shape from once meeting an orc's axe as a makeshift weapon, spooned out stew for the both of them; hunger stirred in Éomer, and despite the burn he was quick to eat.

Around them it had truly turned to nighttime, though Éomer could see only little difference. The heavy sky above was perhaps now utterly black, a roof of dark clouds where previously there had been a grey-blurred edge to the horizon. There was no sound, save from the low-blowing breeze that plucked through the grass, and the fire crackling before him. All seemed peaceful and quiet.

There were no stars above.