This chapter was an absolute pain to write ...

But we give Rell a bit of a breather, for certainly she has deserved a moment of rest (and I'm also very glad they get to escape the marshes, certainly one can only write about muck and grime for so long ...!). Her suffering is far from over though. I have so much more in store for her. Insert evil laughter here.

For now, though, we turn our attention back onto Éomer. Someone else has to suffer once in a while! I am struggling a bit with the next couple of chapters, because they are tying together some rather crucial parts of this story and I just can't get the timing right. Therefore, I can imagine my updates will be even less frequent than they have been lately. But I will update, and I am writing!

My thanks goes out to the wonderful people who continuously read and review my little (long) story. To each and every one of you; thank you! So as always, to Guest, aliyana, Diarona, Doria Nell, spring94, Julie010588, and Jane; you guys are the real MVPs! While I may be terrible bad at replying directly to your reviews, do know they have been read, and re-read (far too many times if that is even possible), and they make my day and even my week. Reading them is my motivation.

Enjoy!

Little Sparrow

Chapter XVII: The Fall of Arrows

It was not easy, nor would it ever be, to part from his sister. To leave her on her own to fend off the wolves of Meduseld, even though she appeared brave both in spirit and in stature. Unfaltering. But so it was, and they had come to a time of farewell. For almost a month he, and his men, had stayed at Edoras; he had made good use of the hospitality of the King, despite Wormtongue's less than subtle disdain. Éomer had kept a close eye on the vile counselor and never strayed far from his dearest sister, both his weapon and his mind sharp and ready for even the slightest hint of foul thoughts. But it was to be no more.

Twenty-seven days after his departure from Helm's Deep, Éomer stood by the gate of Edoras and looked far out over the plains. No longer could he postpone his duties in the East. The sky of noon was a light blue, edges still touched golden, and the air came cool and fragrant to them on the hill. On the battlements the white horse danced against the green backdrop, fluttering in the breeze that swept down from the tall peaks further south. Always was it running; always it was free.

But where the wintry world seemed fair, pure, entirely untouched by the ongoings and constant strife of mortals, his mind was grim in thought. He saw not the beauty around him, heeded it not through what he saw. In his mind he had turned from the green of his homeland, then looking instead to where all was barren and cold beyond their vision. His shoulders were weighed down, not from the plated armour that adorned him, but rather a heaviness that clutched his heart like a metal vice.

At length he turned from the sight. The hateful thoughts passed slowly and reluctantly. The ground beneath him crunched, for a layer of snow had fallen during the night; now melting under the sun, the first sign of Winter would soon disappear only to return with a vengeance in the approaching days of falling darkness. The next months would be long, dark, and cold. By his side, silent and waiting, Éowyn stood. Unmoving, unbending, as proud as a great tree that clung to the earth; too stubborn to release its hold despite the gale storms bearing down upon it. Her eyes held sorrow.

"Do what you can, as much as you are able – care for our King, even if your deeds may be regarded with abhorrence by those who are blind." His voice was low, only a whisper for ever did he feel eyes on them. No word could truly be passed in secret. "Allow not your loyalty to falter, though they may paint your choices as wrong. Believe and listen to your own heart."

Éomer came to find her hand in his; it bore the innocence of a young girl, soft and delicate, yet with the strength of a woman that would not yield. Of one that would not, nor could, ever surrender. "Fear not for me," she said quietly. Her words came as a whisper, meant only for him to hear. "People are allowed to have their own thoughts, be they right or wrong, and I am allowed to be unmoved by them! I will handle things here, do not worry about me." Her smile seemed almost rueful, but she quickly pressed his fingers tight with reassurance, and then released her hold. Suddenly changed; hiding her feelings behind a mask of courageous stoicism, she took a step back towards the gate. "It is you, brother, that must be careful."

At first, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing.

Inclining his head, both in silent acceptance and farewell, he soon came to sit in the saddle while she disappeared behind the tall, wooden fence. How long, he wondered, would it be before he would see her again? In waiting, Éothain handed him his helmet and spear, and with one last, long look at the gate he turned Firefoot down the path. They followed the walled hill and further, as the way ran under the shadow of many mounds. When he came to the open plains, he was met with his awaiting riders; only twenty strong of his Éored remained, for the rest he had sent ahead days before under the banner of one of his captains.

The rest sat ready, and Éomer did not linger a moment longer.

He did not look back, not even as he felt eyes – hostile and dark – following their departure with rapt attention.

But the day wore on, and when afternoon faded to evening there had been little change about them. They made camp in a nook among great jagged rocks; sheltered from the southern wind. Stunted trees grew between the stones, their branches leaving shadows to twist and dance as his men lit the fires. Éomer spoke very little beside orders, and soon he draped the cloak around his shoulders to find a little rest. Back against a large boulder, he found slumber; it came to him accompanied by unease, often startling to sudden wakefulness.

Through slitted lids he watched the fire, chasing away the worry that kept him from rest and, instead, he thought and plotted. He would need eyes and ears in Meduseld, for the task could not fall to Éowyn alone. And when the last streaks of night vanished into the far west beyond the horizon, they emptied camp and found a swift pace down the dusty path. They would halt no more before reaching Aldburg, but ride the fastest and straight way east. Ahead, Éomer could see the meandering road – a dust-brown string weaving through green – continue, further until it bent straight through growing outcrops of cliffs.

The landscape changed very little at first, and the green fields continued on all sides.

But the slopes turned steep and soon hills stole away their previously unhindered view of their surroundings; cliffs, jagged and razor-edged, protruded from the ground and bathed the bending road in broken shadows beneath the sun. It was the fastest path, rather than to go around the rocky hills that stretched for some miles both ways. The riders grew more attentive, more sharp-eyed as they entered beneath the darkened gloom, for the ravine turned narrow around them until only a handful could ride alongside one another.

Their hands never loosened the grip on their spears. Yet they would find no enemies in the Folde, for while Éomer had taken most men with him, he had not left the region unguarded. The lofty tips of the White Mountains glowed in the distance when he glanced up, coming into view as the rock-lands changed once more; trees dotted the landscape, growing between cracks and crevices, and bird-song filled the clear air.

An arrow whirred inches past his head, failing to claim Éomer's life to instead lodge into the rock.

There was a pause, an utter silence that lasted only the briefest of moments, as realization settled. Éomer looked around, then started barking orders; voice tearing through the shocked quiet. "Ambush! Shields up!" All about him, the riders startled into action; shouts of an attack rolled up between the cliffs, an echo that mingled with the pounding of his own heart. "Bowmen, return the attack!" Pulling tightly on the reins, he whirled Firefoot around and drew up his own shield; it had come from above, and they were now easy prey against their assailants. They were but shadows against the pale sun, flickering and swift-moving, and Éomer saw no more beyond the brief glimpses.

He felt, rather than saw, the second arrow as it drove into his shoulder with a thud.

The third came swiftly after and hit much closer.

Right over the rim of the shield, it pierced and tore through flesh; the impact forced him back, almost out of the saddle as the spear fell from his hand. Coldness, then warmth spread down his chest. Vision turning hazy, Éomer toppled forward with a groan – yet still, despite his foggy mind, he fumbled to find the arrow-shafts with his trembling hand. To gauge the injury. Éothain was at once by his side; his voice seemed distant, far away and muffled. The worry was almost palpable, and if not for his pain Éomer would have smiled. "My lord! My lord–! Éomer!"

"It is ..." He croaked. "Get the men out of here. Every breath came with a ripple of pain, another wave of blood that oozed from the wound. Warm and trickling. In his mind he cursed. It was a struggle to remain awake. "Into the ... Open."

"To the Marshal!" Éothain's voice rang clear over the din, despite the shouts and terror-struck horses; through the whir of arrows that fell like rain from a clear sky, and the strange words from their attackers echoing between the cliffs. They sounded familiar to his ears, but he could not determine why through the pull of his injury. "Rohirrim!" An arm came to support him, shifting him back into place in the saddle, and his riders surrounded Firefoot.

They began a hasty retreat through the ravine.

Éomer saw little of their escape, feeling only the rippling movements that came through his steed and the sharp-piercing tugs of the arrows. It took all his strength to not fall unconscious, urging to allow himself to let go; when he tried to straighten, blackness swept across his vision and he was forced to ride out the attack. Until they got to safety. Through it all he could hear Éothain's insistent voice. Calling out to him with increasing dread. Who ... His mind struggled. How much blood ...?

The host tore a way through the gully at a breakneck speed, and the sudden light came sharp to his eyes. Its brightness blinding him, and Éomer was forced to rely solely on his ears; the trampling of hooves and the shouts, in the strangely familiar language, that followed after them. Jumping from one cliff to another and keeping up with them, for while the horses of the Riddermark were fast and agile, they were then slowed by the inhospitable land of rocks. Arrows sang through the air. "Éothain." Speaking came as a challenge, but he forced out the words. "The men–"

"–Are behind you, my lord," his squire cut him off, breath heavy and voice clipped with worry. "They are holding them off admirably." The grip across his shoulders tightened, clasping onto him like a vice, and everything shook as Firefoot carved a way forward without a hand to guide it. Surely, the great steed could smell its rider's blood and knew what had to be done. At last they broke through the final crevice ahead and came to open fields – and while Éothain rode further, most of his men veered off and turned to then face the rock-lands.

Here, they would hold their ground.

It was to the thundering of horses, and with a bitterness, that Éomer was bound to leave his riders behind. Duty; the word rang in his head, painfully repeated again and again to absolve his responsibility as their commander. In their loyalty, they would gladly forfeit their own lives. As he would have done for them. Though, as it was, in those moments he could do nothing; he was no longer the master of his own Fate. A duty to survive made the wounds so much worse.

Éothain continued the straight way west, leaving as much distance as possible between them and the ambush; with a furious pace, and only a handful riders in their swathe, the noises soon blurred to a faint clamor. With a struggle, Éomer forced himself up into the saddle with a groan. The pain hit him hard, a throbbing both deep and warm; unsteady, there was little to see as his hand found the second wound. Blood was soaking through the chainmail, dark but clear in the light it drippled, and their aim had been true.

He brought his vision into focus, as the voices of the riders startled to alarm. They drew their steeds to a sudden halt, fumbling with shields and spears, for something approached from ahead with swiftness. Éomer felt no fear, only coldness, while Firefoot was turned by the hand of another; there was so little he could do. Away from the ones approaching, as to lessen the angle of the attack from the first blow, he saw what approached.

Grey cloaks spread like dragon-wings behind the riders.

Their scabbards gleamed silvery and pale, but their swords were not drawn.

When they were but a few breaths away, the forerunner lowered a dark shield, fastened to his arm, almost as if waving to ask them to move from his path. In the next moment, swift like the arrow from the bow, six figures spread around and swept past them; gone before Éomer saw much beyond grey cloaks and lithe horses. An involuntary gasp of relief rushed from his chest.

They were not enemies.

It felt impossible to move again, as if all his remaining strength had then suddenly drained – the hard-pounding struggles of his heart, the breathing, the blood became too much for his body. "I must down," he said through gritted teeth, and another wave of pain drove through him as he moved in the saddle. "It must be treated." With a scramble, Éothain immediately came to stand by Firefoot's flank, and Éomer was eased down onto the ground.

It proved an excruciating task to bare the wounds.

Éomer sat his teeth and endured it at best, although the steady but unrelenting ooze of blood left him despairing. Worse of all, he understood well what end such an injury could lead to. One had gone through his shoulder, arrowhead broken through the small rings of his mail only to lodge into the chains on his back; and they were swift to begin the ugly task of removing it. While they worked, he took a moment of welcome clarity to see the other wound. The second arrow was in a far worse, and grave, position.

As they pushed the first arrow clean through, what was before a constant throbbing pain became instantly sharp; digging deep into him, and at long last he could no longer fight off the fatigue. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to focus beyond the pain. Feeling every gentle, prodding touch around the edges of the wounds; the cooling wind that more than anything smelled of his own blood. In the distance, he could hear shouts and steel meeting steel.

"My lord, the second arrow ..."

When he opened his eyes again, Éomer was met with Éothain's worried gaze through a greying, flickering haze. It was a losing battle against unconsciousness; one he could not win.

Swallowing, finding his mouth dry and words hard, Éomer gave a short nod of silent approval.

When he came to once more, Éomer awoke to find that he was lying on a soft bed; exhaustion clung to him still, and movement was difficult as he attempted to rise. He came to sit, his vision swimming, and it took several long, drawn-out moments before his sight adjusted. His left arm felt useless by his side. Stiff and leaden. Upon drawing the covers aside, he found his chest and shoulder bandaged in fresh linens, and through the opened window he could see the thatched, familiar roofs of Aldburg. Beech trees glimmered in the chill light, their branches filtering the worst bite of the sharp sun; they sparkled with frost.

In the distance, the horizon was tinted in streaks of purple and red; soon the calmness of evening would settle over the Folde, and the sight made him wonder. Marveled that, somehow, he had returned – in time for treatment against a wound that, to him, had felt like the mark of certain death. Carefully, he moved his fingers to assess the damage and, strangely, found little trouble in doing so. His brow furrowed. The skin was a sullen grey, but felt warm to the touch as his uninjured hand moved across the arm.

By his side on a table, he saw water set out for him. He drank greedily despite the trembling of his muscles. Éomer found the taste clear and fresh, as if just then brought down from the streams of the White Mountains, yet in it, there was also traces of something else. Lingering on the tip of his tongue; something strangely familiar. He held the wooden cup up and inhaled deeply.

He remembered that smell.

Grey; clear and clever eyes came to his mind, and just as when he last smelled the scent of athelas, now tension dwindled until he could no longer feel the strain. He drank the last water, turning the cup thoughtfully around in his hand as his finger glided across its edge; the scent had borne him back to the day when he had first uncovered the betrayal, and for a moment all else was out of his memory. The Ranger cloaked in grey. Though the moment lasted only briefly, like a mist of soon forgotten memories torn apart by the breeze.

He then recalled the ambush, and Éomer hurried to his feet.

A spell of lightheadedness hit him, forcing him back onto the bed with an inward groan. His wound throbbed. Again, waiting for the clouding of his vision to fade, he glanced about the room; eyes swimming, slowly focused, and his breath fell heavy and jagged from his lips. Think, he called in his own mind. It did not sit well with him, to so idly do nothing – to know nothing of what had transpired. The language had been that of the Wild Men, yet how they knew to attack them there ... how they had gone unnoticed once again through the Wold.

For many long moments Éomer sat silent in thought. His head hung low, gaze turned to the shadowed floor; over the lines in the wood, looking beyond to distant lands. Weathered hands clutched, tightened until they turned white. A wretched feeling of dread churned his stomach, and once more he felt utterly surrounded by enemies. As if they knew his every step, his every move and they would then lay in waiting. Pain, fear, sadness – anger – so intertwined that Éomer could not distinguish a difference.

Yet he focused on one in particular. He smothered the foreboding fear with anger; drowned it until an almost tangible fury boiled in his mind, a shield that naught else could penetrate. At times his temper blinded him, made him act without reason in uncontrollable outbursts, but more often it proved an anchor to sharp clarity. Rage came so much easier. A sharp, digging pain traveled up his arm and dug into his injured shoulder, as he clenched his fingers even further; had the Dunlendings waited for them? How could they have known?

It was with bitterness, that Éomer realised the answer. Truthfully, he had known from the very beginning – someone had betrayed them.

"My Lord, you are awake!" A voice broke through his muddled thoughts, and his head snapped up to the door. Startled. Only slightly ajar, so that the woman could peer inside, he could see torchlight dance against her silhouette in the hallway beyond. Éomer had little chance to reply, for at once she came inside and approached the bed; lines of age apparent on her face, turned to a frown of concern as she nudged at his bandages. He allowed it without a word. Gentle but insistent hands examined him; hazel eyes on his features in a search for any discomfort. "Have you no shame," she mumbled.

Éomer chuckled. Part of his anger drained from his taut muscles, and his hands fell to his side. With a sigh, he replied. "Dearest Gamrun, of what crime am I guilty?"

The housekeeper narrowed her eyes at him, stabbing him once – quickly, sharply, once she deemed his injury sufferable – with a knobbly finger. "I am old and weary, not long from my death bed! My poor heart cannot bear to see such sights." Despite the lightness of her tone and gestures, the smallest tremble raking through her voice did not go unnoticed by him.

He could only imagine the fright Éothain had instilled in her when he had ridden into Aldburg. The woman had been as close to a grandmother for Éowyn and he, as anyone could possibly be after the death of their parents; and she much regarded them as her own two bundles of mischief. Even as they had grown to adulthood. "I do apologize," he replied dutifully.

Tutting, she patted his cheek before turning to the door. "I will bring food and tell that big oaf of yours he can enter. Lumbering after me all day ..."

Accompanied by the pitter-patter of footfalls, irregular in her step from a winter's sickness many years ago, the housekeeper disappeared down the hall. The hinges on the door creaked shut. Once more Éomer was left alone with his thoughts. The soft, alluring whispers of fatigue called to him from the back of his mind, but he fought off the pull of sleep. He stood; momentarily gauging his balance, and found this time he was not hit by dizziness. The floor was cool underneath his bare feet. He stretched, as much as he was able, allowing his shoulder to roll cautiously.

There was a sting and an ache, yet he could still feel his strength bubbling underneath; by some miracle, the arm – and his life – had been saved. He came to stand by the window. Over the settlement the sky was painted by the fair weather and a clear sun, yet to him it seemed but a mockery. The winds blew fresh and cold, blowing boldly from the distant mountains. Grey shapes that towered against the skies, dim and formless in the haze and its glowing tips shrouded; the branches of the trees swayed, rattling like old bones, and he could almost smell Winter in the air. The southern faces of the White Mountains were sheer, falling in cliff to the green and tumbled fields of Rohan.

As he had expected, Éomer had little time to admire the view of open plains and stone ridges, for Éothain came quickly after receiving word of his awakening. Out of breath; pearls of sweat trailing beads down his neck, flushed red from the chill, the man entered with a knock. "What news do you have for me?" Éomer asked immediately, giving the other no time to voice concerns nor gladness. He turned fully from the window. Dark specks whirled across his vision.

Éothain straightened. "From what we could tell by their attire, the men we found dead were all hillmen. Some escaped through the hills when the tides of battle turned. We have trackers following them," he paused, running a hand across his brow. There was pain in his eyes, grief and understanding; what came next was terrible in Éomer's ears. "And we lost five men to their arrows."

It felt like all air was punched from his gut, a wretched feeling. Shame and sorrow washed over him; he bowed his head. With a great effort, breathing twice, heavily, he raised his gaze with difficulty to the other man. In his heart he wept, but no tears came to his dry eyes. Bleak the day felt. From the corner of his sight, he found Gúthwinë by the foot of his bed; the long blade sheathed and unused. No blood had been drawn by his hand. Again, he tasted bitterness and swallowed. "Have they been returned to their families?"

"They have," Éothain replied, but then said nothing more. Instead, he stood waiting, torn between words of rest and silence; watching his lord for a command they both knew soon would come. Grim-faced and with hands continuously clenching and unclenching, Éomer found a shirt already laid out for him. He dressed swiftly, disregarding the bite of his wounds and the haunting calls of the dead, to find resolution. Shoulders squared, he strapped his belt and sword to his waist. He motioned for Éothain to follow him out.

"For how long have I been asleep?"

"Nearly two days," Éothain said, and although the words startled Éomer, he did not reply.

The hallway glowed in the warmth of torches, and they soon found their way to the great hall. He saw Éothain linger close by, within easy reach, and he felt like snapping; he could walk on his own. Though, with an effort, he held his tongue and stepped into the large room. It was much lesser in its grandeur compared to the court of Meduseld, and neither was it a match to the stone chambers and vaults of Helm's Deep. But it was something else to him. Home. He did not step to the dais, nor to the grand chair from which he ruled; instead, he went to a long table, carved from ancient oaks and embellished with ebony, that stood in the center of the hall. Often his men sat there, eating and drinking when they returned from the wild; minstrels would play, the fires roaring.

Now Éomer found the table empty.

Narrow channels beneath the roof allowed rays of light to filter down to the floor. Only one of four great fireplaces smoldered still, embers of orange and red that made contorted shadows dance against the tapestries. It was with an effort he slumped into a chair at the end of the table; he felt weak, feeble in his body and spirit broken. At first, Éothain stood at the ready by his side, but Éomer quickly waved him to a seat.

From seemingly out of nowhere, Gamrun appeared with a bowl of broth and a mug of ale. Her gaze was on him but, mirroring the silence of Éothain, she said nothing. The woman quickly retired from the hall once more. He watched her leave, picking up the spoon to twirl through the soup; it was the colour of the autumnal vegetables growing by the northern wall, the deepest green, yet with a hue softened just a bit by the addition of cheese. "The riders in the grey cloaks ..." Éomer paused, then recalling the swift horsemen that had come to their aid. Without faltering and without pause.

Through the openings under the roof, he saw the last shafts of fire as the sun sank behind the rim of the world.

"Who were they?"

"It seems, my Lord, that soon we owe much to the Rangers of the North. For they were the riders – and the ones that treated your wound." The revelation came not as a true surprise to Éomer, as he expected as much from their attire and their horses; as well as the familiar scent of athelas in his drink, but still it astonished him. Again they had proved their worth, shown their allegiance to the Free People wherever the road took them. Éothain continued his tale. "They have much to tell, still, and I asked them to remain in Aldburg until you woke; though they sent their two best trackers to assist our men in the hunt, the others remain."

"They are still here?" He inquired, and Éothain nodded. "Very well. Please bring them to me. They shall have my gratitude – and my welcome."

"I shall bring them here, my Lord. I have seen to it that they were given quarters, as well as food for themselves and their horses. Far they had ridden, and hard they fought." His squire stood, unfurling the green cloak as it draped across his weapon. With a brisk bow, Éothain made ready to leave the hall. "Their leader will be glad to meet you."

So it was that amid a gathering gloom, where servants quietly brought life to the fires, that he sat waiting for the Rangers who had rescued him. He ate only little, despite his hunger; for his heart was heavy and brought nausea to his stomach, facing the great doors while his mind worked. The flowing characters on the woven tapestries moved and came alive as the flames started a spirited dance. At length he heard voices approaching, but as they advanced they fell silent until only a footfall of many boots echoed. The heavy wings of the doors swung inwards and a handful grey-cloaked, unarmed men met Éomer.

Dark haired and pale-faced, tall and noble they seemed to him; yet also weathered and concealed, as if to hide themselves better from curious eyes. Éomer came to stand. At best he disregarded the throbbing of his wounds, hands flat against the table for leverage as the chair scraped across the floor. Prideful, he cursed his own weakness. At his full height, he spoke. "I, Éomer son of Éomund, welcome you to my hall."

The four Rangers then stood before him, and each in turn they bowed – gloved hand against their chest and head inclined, so was their greeting. One, older than the others, was the first to speak in return. "We greet you, Marshal of the Riddermark, and glad we are to see you in recovery." The man was clad in grey rags and layers of leather, dull in the low light; his hair was raven black, streaked with lines of age, and grey were his eyes gleaming bright under deep brows. "I am Halbarad, leader of these men. We were given leave to cross your lands."

"And thankful I am for it," Éomer replied, eyes roaming from one man to the next in a search for any injury. They appeared unharmed, and he was grateful for it; if they had lost their lives to save his, he knew not what he would do. What to think and what to say. How dark his thoughts would have then turned. "I hope you shall spare a moment to answer my questions, for I have many in need of answers – both of worry and wonder. Perhaps you can help me in finding such."

When he motioned for the table, they thanked him kindly and soon he found himself seated once more. Éothain was at his side, vigilant but not untrusting; stance relaxed, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword more from habit than alertness. Their captain, Halbarad, sat with a polite distance from him, two chairs over, and his company further down the line. When offered food and drink they accepted easily; and soon Gamrun and her aides were busy at work in setting the table.

The men spoke not at first, until at length the servants left them to it once more.

Quiet it was around them, for only the kindled logs crackled and snapped. A breeze howled beneath the rafters, a low, eerie cry that soon died away.

"Twice before have I met your kin." Éomer broke the silence, eyes on the oldest Ranger who, in kind, returned his gaze evenly. "The first came to save one of our villages from a Dunlending raid; the other seeking her in the glow of nightfall. And now you sit before me again, Rangers of the North; you, who come from lands far from my own. It would seem the fates bring us together," he said slowly and very softly, giving himself time to regard the others around the great table.

While he did not mistrust them, neither could he affort lenience. Too often had he been faced with deceit and betrayal as of late.

"Both my father and my uncle, the King, has told tales of your kin. But all are they from times long passed and when they, themselves, were children or young men. That is now many years ago, and your kind has passed into tales of the old. Seldom you seem to cross our borders. Strange, I find it, that now – not once, nor twice, but thrice – our paths cross in the span of only months."

"Yes, my Lord, so it is. And, begging your pardon," Halbarad said as he shifted in his seat, grey eyes glinting. He, too, had allowed the food to go untouched on the plate before him. Instead, his hands came to the clasp of his cloak. Éomer saw the lines of many old wounds and calluses, white lines in the dull, yellow glow. "May it be fate, or chance, or the will of beings greater than our understanding that guided us here; seldom we travel these roads east of the Misty Mountains. A pretty stroke of fortune none the less as we search for one important to us."

On the table, he placed the silver pendant between them. It seemed to burn with an inner fire, tendrils of red and yellow flickering as the flames danced, and the star held Éomer's gaze enthralled. With a brief look to the Ranger, he reached forward and picked it up from the table to hold between his fingers; he knew very little of their history, the story engraved in the sharp edges. Though, to show it seemed a great sign of trust for the Rangers. To them, it explained and answered many questions.

"So it would seem," Éomer said. "However, peculiar it also appears to me; for fate to bring you here when so many leagues lay between our lands."

The Ranger shifted, straightened, whether from unease or mere discomfort from sitting Éomer could not tell, yet still there was a glint in his grey eyes. "You may find the truth difficult to believe, my lord, though give it I shall." With a hand outstretched, the pendant was returned to its owner. "A member of our company travels alone and, admittedly, without leave. It was our task to see her return safely home." Listening quietly, he startled at the man's words. Is the task no longer theirs? "We lost the trail at the High Pass and so went two ways around the mountains, hoping at least one group to be in time."

Éomer gave a nod. "I received tidings from Dunland by Rangers passing that way, were they one of your parties?"

"Yes, and with tidings brought with them they have made a way to the realm of Gondor." Halbarad replied, fingers nimbly working to fasten the star to his cloak. All around them, the shadows and the light had shifted; evening was upon Aldburg, and the sky turned a deeper, blackening blue. He could hear swallows piping above the roof; picturing their pale silhouettes carving through the air, and with night they would vanish in the darkness. Life bustled as it always had outside the walls of the keep, for much had to be done before there was time to rest. "But while they came to Helm's Deep by the long way west, my men and I crossed the Gladden Fields and passed beneath the eaves of Lothlórien. Words came to us then by the Wardens."

"From the Golden Woods?" Éomer's eyes narrowed and for a moment silence stretched between them, as if they all weighed their words with care. By his side Éothain leaned back, muscles tense, though he remained quiet. The Rohirrim did not find the forest of the Elves friendly, let alone traversable, and never did they wander close enough to see those that dwelled within. Never did the Elves, in return, show themselves. It was a place of deep and ancient secrets. And if one wizard had turned to the ways of evil, what, then, could be thought of a sorceress already veiled in stories of wicked spells?

Long had the stories of the Lady of the Woods been dark.

If the sudden distrust unsettled the Rangers, certainly they did not show it. The one in command watched him quietly, while the other three kept their attention on their supper; Éomer knew they were listening, heads turned and eyes gleaming, but it appeared the conversation was not for them to partake in. "Aye," Halbarad then replied, "While we lost the trail, our wayward kin was forever clear in the eyes of the eagles; for they nest on the eastward slopes of the Misty Mountains – and so it was revealed to the Elves. When news came to us, she had long parted far from our reach. Though, with but a small hope, we have still continued west and were met with our second party. So it was that we came to these parts."

"By mere chance you came upon us, just as hillmen sprung their ambush?" Éothain cut in, unable to contain his distrustful astonishment; briefly, he glanced to his lord for permission, yet Éomer said nothing. The words resounded in his mind, as much as had they been his very own. Strange, indeed, were the paths of fate. With a small nod, he allowed his squire to speak. "Certainly, as you say! A stroke of luck if I ever heard one."

The Ranger inclined his head.

"So it was."

At last Éomer rose from his seat to his full height, Éothain beside him, and he looked at the Rangers. "Thankful I am for your aid. You and your men are welcome in Aldburg for as long as you deem needed. Food and shelter shall be given; my men will see to it that you are brought undisturbed to our borders, be your journey continued or returning home, and you will ride under the protection of the Third Marshal." With that, he said his farewells to the company, bidding them to stay and enjoy supper, and left the hall. His shoulder ached, sharp and digging.

Walking behind him, Éothain's steps were slow and cautious.

Only when he was certain that their words could be heard by none, Éomer spoke again in the quiet of the hallway. "Make sure they have an escort once they depart Aldburg. In our time of trouble, I will have no stranger roam these lands unattended – not even those who have proven their worth." If there was a subtle taste of bitterness in his mouth, he heeded it not. What have we come to? Éomer thought. To distrust even the honourable.

"It will be done," Éothain said.