As previously "warned", my updates are slow but ... happening. So here's chapter 20! Woo! (I hope slow updates are better than no updates, at least?)

Once more, thank you to all of you who reviewed the previous chapter and puts up with this snail-paced story. We'll eventually get there, and I hope you will all stick around to the end. Although that is not in the foreseeable future, because oh boy, there's a lot more to come. I have plans! And I will get there eventually. So thank you to: Hyuuga Senpai, JT 409th, LadyTheodoraME, kyulkyul, Diarona, 94Spring, shari1, saddlesore, Doria Nell, and the guest reviewers.

Thank you, and enjoy!

Little Sparrow

Quiet Days

While the group of Dúnedain Rangers stayed in Aldburg, following the Marshal's recovery, another pair had made their way with the Rohirrim's own scouts. They had been away at once after the ambush, tracking down the last, fleeing assailants across the Eastemnet. And so it was, four days after waking from his injuries, that Éomer received word of their return; it was early still, and clear sky was growing in the distance once more. Ragged and wet, the air held a tinge of rain fallen throughout the night, but the grey clouds had passed beyond the lofty mountains. The weather held.

The large doors to the keep stood open, and Éomer awaited the riders at the bottom of the steps as they milled into the square. Large horses breathed heavily in exertion, muddied and grim from long days and longer nights without rest. The Ranger captain stood by his side, for they had spoken much that morning and of many things. All weighed heavy in Éomer's already burdened heart.

Both had kept secrets and revealed little, yet Éomer still learned a great deal about these strange protectors of the Northern lands. Wanderers in the wild, hidden in shadow and shunned in the light; always were they fighting, and Éomer saw much of himself – his task and his plight – in the ragged stragglers, though their births had been so different. From worlds apart they fought the same enemy. His mind was caught deep in thought, darkened by worries of war; thoughts that grew not only in his own land but in all parts once fair.

Together they had paced the ramparts under a growing sun, watching night turn to day.

It had been from there that Éomer had seen the trail of dust, and then the approach of horses, welling up between shadowy air and swathes of mist.

He turned his mind from troubled thoughts, from what had come and gone, and things that would be, then allowing clear eyes to see his men as they dismounted. Nothing was hidden from his sight in the clear light of morning. Haggard, exhausted, the trackers appeared, and without any captives following in their wake. Chagrin was in their faces. All were they touched by dejection.

The hunt had been fruitless, or so it seemed. He stepped forward to greet them, and they bowed upon his approach. "I am glad for your return," Éomer said. Then, looking from one to another for many a long moment, he spoke again. "Are there any injured?" While they could show minor cuts, it was exhaustion that left their shoulders slumped and faces pale.

Éomer held an arm out towards the keep.

"Come, food has been prepared, and I hope to hear much of what you have learned. Fast we shall be in our talk, for rest you need – and have deserved!"

The men followed an attendant inside, while Éomer's keen gaze watched them. His thoughtful eyes found the pair of grey-cloaked Rangers who, without pause or question, had joined the hunt. They appeared to remain behind with some hesitation, torn between following the company inside or reporting to their own captain. Éomer recognized one to be the young man from Helm's Deep, seemingly reunited with his kin after his last departure many moons ago.

Halbarad gave a brief nod of reassurance and spoke in the language of Elves. With that the two Rangers swiftly followed the rest, wearily smiling, looking happy at the prospect of food and warmth; their swords hung by their belts, though they had left long bows fastened to the saddles of lithe horses.

Their quivers were empty.

Unlike his own riders, it seemed as though there was but little fatigue clinging to their faces, and their grey eyes remained sharp. "My men are not accustomed to a house of Lords, and worried their manners would be deemed discourteous," Halbarad said as explanation. The man stepped up to Éomer's side; regarded the retreating backs until they disappeared into shadow, and a flutter caught his cloak. For a moment, brief and quiet, the pair stood under a pale sun; green and grey pulling, tugged by the wind that was cold and harsh. Éomer could feel the draw of injury in his shoulder.

He clenched his fingers, willing the dull-throbbing pain to dissipate as his mind cleared.

"I hope it is not so, but I shall apologise on their behalf," the Ranger said.

"You and your kin have done much for the Rohirrim." Éomer's voice was low, yet sharp with certainty. "I do not believe I could find any actions done with insolence. And even if they were, know for certain they shall be immediately pardoned." Then, angling his head only slightly, he turned and climbed the few stone steps up to the keep. His shadow fell long before him.

In the deep gloom of the hall, he found the riders quickly settled by the great oaken table; each with a mug of ale, foam-topped, set out before them as servants ladled out broth and bread. The fire had been stoked and logs crackled, devoured by flames, as crimson shadows danced. His steps rang hollow against the stones. When Éomer found his seat, he allowed them a moment's rest; to eat and regain some semblance of strength. Long they had ridden, and hard they had worked.

But as the bowls turned up empty, quickly refilled, there was soon room to talk.

They had come across tracks amongst the stones in the gully of jagged rocks. Following them, the scouts made a way North until reaching the shores of the Entwash. Further still, they had continued their search, and it appeared as though the Dunlendings followed the river upstream through Rohan. Strange, it seemed to Éomer, that the riders had not caught up to them across the fields; how they had made it so far against the strength of Rohirrim horses, left his mind muddled with thoughts of confusion. But, as he voiced his astonishment, it soon became clear how.

It was one of the Rangers that explained – dark grey eyes set beneath deep brows, scarred by weather and wounds – the tracks had not been fresh.

Clearly, the ones targeting the Marshal's life were not the same as those they had come across by the riverside; someone else had left marks to follow across the fields and plains. And the marks had been left long before the ambush. "But, in the end, we did find them," Éadulf, the one who had taken command of the scouts through age and skill, spoke; his voice was heavy with care, delayed by uncertainty. Éomer saw the same emotions written clearly in the eyes of his riders. Their findings seemed to trouble them greatly. "Slain. Between reeds and rocks at the outskirts of Fangorn Forest, we found five bodies. Left for the crows to pick."

Éomer drew a hand across his face, leaning forward as he found his own next words. Just behind his eyes there was a thundering beat, a sharp pain that made clarity hard-sought; his shoulders felt heavy, and his heart overwhelmed by the news. There were too many pieces to this puzzle before him. "For how long have they been dead?"

"A week, if not more. But there is something else, my lord." The man drew aside his long cloak, taking from within its folds a bundle of tightly coiled fabric. It was laid upon the table with great care, and here it was unfurled; a long, familiar arrow became revealed to him. The make was that of Rohan. "There were no signs of a fight, no struggle beyond a feeble attempt to flee when it was already too late, and all were pierced by arrows such as this."

The bundle was passed forward, until it came before Éomer; barbed with malice and spiteful to his eyes, yet he forced his hand and picked it up. There were still traces of rusted, flaking blood that became but dust in his hands. Turning the arrow between his fingers, he saw the shine of the metal, recognized the feathers and the weight; its balance so well perfected, and found it all hateful. This – this small, unimportant thing proved something so very dreadful to Éomer – and it was clear in the gazes of his men.

He sat for a while in silent thought.

It was but a vain attempt to make up his mind, to sort through the befuddled and fragmented images that flickered; any sense of coherency just beyond his desperate grasp. Éomer stared into the gloom of the hall, and he could make out very little. Then, further up he turned his head, looking to the gleaming sun peeking out through the high rafters. What road must I take? The weight of uncertain choices lay upon him, and before any surity of victory it was hard enough to see even a glimmer of hope.

He shook his head, more than anything to clear his own mind.

The arrow spoke of betrayal. An ever-spinning wheel of treachery, and Éomer could feel the knife dig deep into his heart. Someone, men of the Riddermark, had met and worked together with the Dunlendings. Put to death when their uses were spent; conspired to kill him in the very realm he protected. There was bitterness, perhaps even sorrow in his heart, yet the feeling was soon darkened by an ever-growing rage; it welled up in him, hard and cold and all-consuming. Men without honour, cowards and oathbreakers, and their deeds would forever tarnish the goodness he saw every day in his people.

He felt pursued by a groping horror that seemed always just about to seize him, kept at bay only by his fury. "I thank you all for your hard work," he said with utmost care, biting back the seething tremble that threatened to break through his throat. Then, coming to his feet, he motioned to those gathered at the table as his cloak unfolded around him. Without thought, his hand found the hilt of his sword and calmness overtook him. "Be at rest. Eat, sleep, do what you must for it is well deserved." His eyes found the Rangers' captain. "I have much to do upon your report, and so I leave you to it."

Stepping from the hall and into the chill of morning, he sent away an attendant for Éothain, and another scurried off to prepare the Dunlending captives. Long had they been left alone, rotting away in a cell from where they awaited an unknown fate. So far from their own land, they were the only ones yet still alive to tell him anything; to give him answers he so desperately needed. And, his eyes hardened with the thought and resolution steeled his heart, I will get an answer.

His knuckles whitened on his weapon.

With heavy steps he descended the gently-sloping steps, though he did not make for the small city by its feet. Following a path of hewn stones, winding its way around the hall and hill, Éomer came to a place both narrow and oft unused. Stunted birches grew many here, their gnarled boles flashing and glinting white in the pale sun, rippling almost like ores of silver. In the shade cast by the hill and the trees there stood three small buildings made from wood and stone. Here they were hidden away from the world. As the buildings came into sight, Éomer halted; his grim thoughts were many in his mind, yet always hesitation found even the smallest of openings.

Ahead, only a single guard was posted, in green and gold he sat in the shadow of the trees. He had yet to heed the Marshal's approach.

When at length he had found his resolve once more, sounds came to his ears from behind; the quick footfalls of someone catching up to him on the stone steps, and it was not long before Éothain rounded the corner of the hill. White clouds coiled and drifted above the man, growing swiftly in numbers, and soon the pale sun dwindled over Aldburg just as they came face to face. His squire seemed to have been running, at once by his lord's side when word of command reached him. "What task do you have for me?"

"That much depends on our captives, and how much – or little – they may have to share."

As the slowly descended the winding stairs, all seemed strangely quiet. There was no wind, and the naked trees stood bend and still as if weeping. So hidden they were, by tall fences and hills, that not even the lofty peaks of the White Mountains were seen, nor the hiss of Winter heard. The watchman was at once on his feet; his greeting came swift, and wonder was in his eyes. "My lord Éomer!"

"I have come to see the prisoners."

With another bow and the jangling of keys, a heavy door was swung open; hinges groaning, Éomer looked into the darkness beyond. Only a few torches were lit, their flames dull and dying, and there was no movement within. He walked past the guard, his hand once more finding familiarity against the hilt of his sword. For so long the Dunlendings had been left here, forgotten even in his mind – and he wondered, mirthlessly so, if not even their own kin had much abandoned them to death. When last they had been questioned, there had been little to learn; the crossing of the Isen, the black tower of Orthanc, and words that had planted the first seeds of betrayal in his somber thoughts.

Floorboards creaked beneath him.

A horrible, stark smell of urine and decay permeated the air of the small quarter.

The guard, looking less than guilty, bowed and stepped from the cell to leave Éomer and Éothain. The heavy door rattled shut behind him. The warm touch left by the sun soon faded in the chill darkness; no windows lit up their surroundings, and so they saw only little in the dim torchlight. Contorted shadows danced as he stepped further inside. Perhaps it was for the better to see nothing. The smell burned in his troath, and his breath fell icy from his lips.

Dark, cold, the building stood apart from the houses and homes of Aldburg; hidden behind the large hall of his ancestors and the many stables, always guarded and fenced in. Shadowed by the keep and left to the mercy of Winter. Éomer leaned against the stones and regarded the huddled figure on the ground, as Éothain lit the torches. Naught but bones, pallid skin. Hay had been spread, as one would for a horse, though changed less frequently and cared for even less. What little the Marshal could see of their captive was darkened, covered in grime and his own filth; the hair wild and with a gaze, peering up at him through trembling arms, clouded in fear.

"Where is the other one?" Éomer asked, though knowing well the answer.

Éothain stepped further into the small space, and his large frame, daunting and intimidating, stole away what little light there was; the captive shrank further in on himself, letting out muffled whimpers. "He did not make it," he said. "Buried someplace over the hills in an unmarked grave. We did not think to trouble you with such news." The squire's voice held no compassion for the dead, and he spoke with calm detachment. Then, stepping up to the Dunlending, he nudged the sunken figure with a booted foot. "Doubt this one has long to go."

With a solemn gaze, Éomer regarded the crumbled man.

His hands were tied, riddled with red and festering wounds, and his arms were discoloured from wrists to shoulders.

"Tell me everything you know," Éomer spoke.

His voice rang harshly through the deep silence, grating even to his own ears.

The man jerked upright, panicked, but he refused to speak. His lips, bloody and blue, were pulled tight. Black eyes shone clear with terror, and Éomer crouched before him so that their gazes met; cold, hard, demanding – promising darkness if he did not get what he was after. "Tell me," he repeated sternly. The strange feeling of something sharp and cold dug into him, piercing his chest as he saw the man before him. Regret, shame perhaps? But as he was met with another whimper and no words, he nodded to Éothain. The Dunlending was raised off the ground by large hands around his neck, kicking and squirming to no use, and only as his head lolled was he dropped to the ground.

The hollow thud rang clear in the silence.

They stood waiting, watching, as the Dunlending gasped for breath. Bile spilled onto the hay, forced up through struggling gasps until, at length, it was replaced by garbled words. The language was foreign to his ears, roughened and broken, through panting heaves with little rhyme or reason. Arms outstretched in a plea, hands up-turned and eyes desperate. The prayers turned rapid, fast-flowing until they were no longer words.

Éothain yanked him back, and the weakened body hit the wall with a sickening thump. Then, crumbling, the Dunlending remained limp.

If not for the muttered ramblings, Éomer would have thought him dead.

Éomer moved closer, raising his hand to still his squire's protests, and pulled the captive upright. His touch was not entirely ungentle. He knew well the face of a man broken, and in that moment he felt a bout of hate – not for his enemies, nor for those that had harmed him or betrayed his country; for himself. For what he had been forced to become. The wretchedness of his own heart. The pale skin beneath his fingers was touched by the clammy hand of sickness, teetering precariously on the brink between life and death. In the bleak gaze that found his, listless and defeated, who was truly the evil one? "Bring me plenty of water," he ordered Éothain.

"My lord,–"

"Friend or foe, no man deserves such treatment." No word of dissent followed, for the voice of the Marshal allowed it not, and as heavy boots disappeared beyond the stone walls, Éomer murmured in a breathed hush to himself. "Even less by our hand." While he ran his palm across the man's brow, the other did not stir beyond a small twitch at the first touch; Éomer could feel a fever running beneath the cold grip of Winter, and he swiftly shrugged off his cloak. It would bring little heat, and even less comfort, but it would prove some protection against the chill darkness. To think I have let such things happen ... To have been so blind to the on-going of my own home.

He could not hold the cruel treatment against the guards, for the blame was not theirs alone. For months they had guarded an enemy, one they would much rather see dead before them – one who had killed men and women of the Riddermark – and had been tasked with the enemy's care. The hatred ran deep in them all, wounds so gaping they would never heal. And Éomer did not believe either People wanted them to.

But the treatment was unmerciful.

As he waited for water, he soon found himself speaking once more to the Dunlending. "You will not be released. Not for as long as there is war between your people and mine," he spoke slowly, quietly, as he allowed the man to rest once more in the hay; there was no strength left to remain upright, no power in the half-lidded gaze that was neither in the world of the living nor the dead. Clouded and without sight. "But I do promise you this – you will be treated right, until the time for freedom is upon you. What has happened to you will not be repeated."

He received no reply.

The locked door rattled behind him, groaning on heavy hinges, and a pillar of sun cleaved the room in two. Éothain huffed in exertion. A bucket was placed on the floor, water sloshing and spilling over its sides with the sudden force; though Éomer said nothing of it. Instead, he accepted the offered cloth and soaked it thoroughly in the icy water. Then he turned his attention on the grimed face. "I can understand your reasoning, my lord, and certainly it is the honourable choice," Éothain said, finding his words only slowly. "But is it not wasteful to use your time on him? On one who is not long for death?"

"Had this been one of my men ... Someone held captive beyond the Misty Mountains in a foreign and hostile land–" He looked up, pausing the cloth against a fevered brow. Droplets traveled the length of his arm, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but left little more than discomfort. In a sense, he felt he deserved at least that much, if not a punishment far greater. "–I would hope they received such a care."

Éothain's hardened gaze was accompanied by a scowl. "They would not."

"I know," Éomer sighed with bitterness, hearing the faint bell of midday ringing out across Aldburg; a mockery of time passing for those that were held captive in the darkness. Truly, he felt shame – toward someone who had slain unarmed women and children, set their homes ablaze. Beheaded his riders, and left their hewn corpses for the crows. The man flinched as the cloth brushed over an untreated wound. White scarring marred the skin, edges red and swollen, and Éomer rubbed at them with slow, careful, movements. "But someone must be the first to show kindness. Even if it comes all too late."

With a huff and a rustle of armour, the other man crouched by Éomer's side.

They never did learn anything from the Dunlending captive.

He had been moved to the house of healing, where those who understood the arts could tend to his wounds and malady. Always in the presence of a guard, and never once were his bindings lessened; his fate was unknown, even to Éomer. But even as the Marshal had returned in the days following, nothing could be told about the crossing on Rohan or the role of Isengard. On his third visit, he came to understand that the captive simply did not know. It were bad tidings in an already grim world, and in the gloom of his mind he found little hope. Perhaps he was simply not meant to ever understand the truth.

An accursed darkness that would cling forever to his mind.

But soon he had little time to dwell on such thoughts.

It was early noon, with a sun only just skimming the top of distant hills. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he stepped between thatched houses and cottages, for cold gales and storms had rattled across the plains throughout the night. But the day had dawned bright, streaked with golden sun and shimmering snow. He stepped, with a fur-lined cloak drawn tight and shoulder aching with a healing injury, over paths touched by ice. A vexing thought made his steps hard, for despite the safety of his own home, Éomer was dressed fully in armour; the ambush and attempt at his life, had turned every flicker of movement to a threat.

Though, throughout his walk around the keep something caught his attention. He could feel astonished and marveling eyes follow him, as children – less subtle than they likely imagined – snuck after him behind buildings and fences; ever since he had started his inspection through the stronghold's many streets and houses. A smile was on his lips, faint and struggling against his concerns that seemed to weigh heavily.

For a moment he halted, turning ever-so-slightly to glance back down the narrow road. Just in time to see small figures hide behind empty barrels. There was not enough room for all of them. He could hear them giggling and shushing one another. Éomer missed nothing, and he held back a laugh; he schooled his features to a solemn mask. Stern and regal. "And who might you be, hiding in shadow and stalking me like one would prey!"

A pair of shoulders, sticking out like a sore thumb, flinched and shifted further in.

Another bout of titters erupted, soon accompanied by shuffling and pushing, until a lanky boy was shoved out – clear into Éomer's view. His face was scarlet, flustered with both dread and awe. Éomer faced him fully, some ten feet apart, and a breeze plucked at his cloak; his persuer glanced nervously to the bared weapon. Gúthwinë held many a role in stories told to the children of Aldburg; of heroic deeds he was uncertain to have ever been part of, spun and woven to create bedtime stories for the young.

"We– I did not mean to follow you, my lord," the boy stammered. The flush reached even his neck and ears.

His gaze was soft, but his voice stern as he replied. "Yet you did." Their steps had not been subtle, and their intentions without malice; but it seemed many were after his life, and so even the innocence of child's play could become unintentional evil. "Now then, you – and your friends, cowering in the dark – accompanied my shadows, and you have my attention. What do you require of a Marshal of the Riddermark?" If he ever had entertained the notion of chastising the children, he took pity on the young boy; he wrung a brown shirt between calloused fingers, wide-eyed glancing to the ones still in hiding.

Éomer heaved a sigh.

"What is your name, boy?"

His eyes snapped back to Éomer, and he bowed hastily, clumsily. "Fastleth, my lord!"

"Fastleth, why do you not invite your friends to join us. I would prefer the company rather than the tag-alongs, and it would seem they have something to tell me?" Upon his words a long silence followed, where the boy whispered and gestured wildly; Éomer rested against the nearby wall, watching and waiting, as he listened to the bustle and life of the town around them. It had been a slow morning, and those that could found shelter in the warmth of their homes. Still, oxes and traders were at foot, making a way to and fro the market; filling the granaries and storehouses, as Éomer had ordered preparations for the inescapable. For war.

But the boy's insistent wheedling proved successful, and shortly after three girls were lured out from hiding behind barrels twice their size. Fastleth looked perturbed, though managed to coax them forward to stand by his side; Éomer said nothing, allowing them the chance to explain. His gaze was softened, gentle as if he was slow-approaching a newborn foal.

The tallest, and most certainly oldest, girl – though no more than ten in age – held the pair by a hand each; sisters, he imagined, for all did they have hair bright and golden as the field's corn, and eyes blue to rival that of Summer skies. Their clothes were simple, and their frames slim; but their faces were full, blushed red to mirror the boy's cheeks. Falsteth cleared his throat, pointedly shooting them a daggered look before his gaze flickered back to the Marshal. "I did as you told me," he muttered to the girls, arms crossing.

While Éomer stood watching the children, something sparked in the back of his mind. The faces were familiar – though he could not place from where. He knew the men of Aldburg, and the wives and children of his riders; the dwellers of town and the visiting traders, on the other hand, were often fleeting glimpses, soon faded from memory. They came and went, and seldom their paths met. Had they been among them, now suddenly sparked to life before his eyes? What was their purpose in seeking him out?

The girl took a precarious step forward, tucking the pair, half-hidden in her wool skirts, with her. Still he remained quiet. Éomer regarded them, searching his mind for the murky memories. "I am Aldryth, daughter of Aldig," she said, voice trembling between reverence and shyness; her eyes were cast to the snow-covered ground, hands clutching the tiny fingers that gripped onto her. The two young ones watched him with wide, blue eyes beneath brown caps. Their faces were flushed crimson in the cold. "These are my sisters, Wídrun and Wídrith. You may not remember us, but … We remember you, my lord."

His brow furrowed. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Aldryth – both yours, and your sisters', but I must admit I do not recall meeting you before today." Gauging their reaction, Éomer pushed off from the wall and stepped closer. His hands were at his sides, shoulders and back relaxed, and he did his utmost to appear harmless. He knew well his size could scare children.

They did not flinch, and so he walked with swift steps forward until he came to stand before them. Small they appeared, shadowed by his frame bearing both armour and weapons; he crouched quickly so they were eye to eye, one knee digging into the cold slush. He smiled. Behind them the sky was darkening, and there was a breathless quiet in the air. A storm would soon hit the plains of the Riddermark, where already clouds were gathering; as silver-faded, soft whites and strongest of greys they swept over the fields in dark, all-consuming shadows.

Éomer turned his gaze back to the girl.

She spoke quietly, voice holding an edge of sadness that made her words quaver. "You brought us from our farm," she swallowed, and her fingers tightened in her sisters' grip. He saw pain, so much pain, in a face so young. There was no reason for the child to say anything more, for Éomer remembered their first encounter all too well. "When our parents ..."

"I know you now," he said, holding up a hand to still her words. Guilt raked through his chest; harsh and deep, like a jagged blade tearing through the calm of his mind. He had forgotten them. The three children orphaned in the Dunlending raid, brought to Aldburg as their old home still smoldered and new-tossed dirt covered the graves of their parents. Not one thought, no moment in his days, had he spent on them thereafter; as their lord and Mashal, it was his duty to protect them – yet he had done nothing. "Too long have I forsaken my duty to you, and for that I ask your forgiveness."

With his head lowered, dark eyes turned to the snow, he strove to find the right words to seek repentance.

A small hand came to rest carefully on his shoulder, and Éomer looked up. Aldryth stood before him, sisters left by the boy's side, and her face held sadness. So young, and so full of grief. In the briefest of moments, he saw Éowyn as she had once been; how her heart had cracked, shattered, at the death of their father and mother, and how incredibly fragile happiness truly was. "We wanted to thank you, my lord," she said. "You and the lady."

Her words startled him. So different from what he had imagined. And, more so, in a way only a young child ever could, he felt a wave of forgiveness as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her body shook with trembles, tears withheld, and Éomer brought his own hand to her shoulders; uncertainty kept him from speaking at first, instead patting the tiny back in comfort. It was difficult for his warrior heart to know how to act in this sudden predicament.

At length, he spoke. "I do not deserve such thanks."

He could feel her shaking her head. Golden curls tumbled down her back as the muffled reply reached his ear. "You came for us."

Finally, the girl pulled back and regained her composure; so strong she appeared, as one who had suddenly been tasked with the burden of adulthood. How well he knew the feeling. So many years ago, that very same mantle had been placed upon his shoulders and the same look had hardened his gaze; when his seven year old sister had looked to him for guidance, in a world where they were alone. All at once, Éomer held the young Aldryth in high regard. "Allow me to ask what I should have asked many months ago. How is your stay in Aldburg, and is there anything you would ask of this Marshal of the Riddermark? Name it, and it shall be done."

"All is well," she said. "Fastleth's parents are taking good care of us."

The boy turned rigid as Éomer's gaze came to rest on him. He was broad shouldered and sun-touched, as one who had worked in the fields for many years, and his attire seemed in many places far too small for his size; the young girls held on to his hands, watching the Marshal with round eyes beneath their felt caps. They looked well-fed and clothes, lacking in nothing, and the sight stilled his worries. Éomer stood with a broadening smile, gesturing the three children closer. "Have your family the means for three more mouths?" He inquired.

"Yes, my lord. And my mother is very content with girls in the house for once," Fastleth replied without a moment's hesitation. Then, with a half-sheepish grin, he added wryly. "I have four older brothers not yet married. The girls were welcomed company."

Éomer could imagine five growing boys to be a handful – to then also take in the orphaned sisters without a word of complaint? "She certainly sounds like an admirable woman." An idea came to him, and he cast his eyes briefly to the skies; it was still early, not yet midday, and he was not needed in the keep. The sun was still climbing its way across the eastern sky, pale and veiled in thin mists, as the roofs of Aldburg were painted in amber hues. Swallows whistled a shrill tune, carried on the soft-blowing winds of Winter. "Would I impose too much if I were to extend my gratitude to your parents in person?"

"It would be an honour, my lord!"

And so it was, that Éomer was led down narrow alleys. For a while they followed the shadowed path, until he ahead could hear the rise of voices; the way opened ahead, and soon he found himself between traders and merchants. A myriad of wares were displayed from wobbly tables; carts carved a way through the throng of people, the ground churned to slush beneath ox-hoofs, boots and wagon-wheels.

A gaggle of geese squabbled their discontent, snapping and hissing at passing feet. Both men and women were busy at work, and the hectic market was a mesh of sounds and colours; loud voices boomed without pause, with shouts and laughter, yelling and haggles from sellers and buyers alike. Had it been a marketplace in Edoras, Éomer would have found noblewomen in fine silks, strolling leisurely about to spent their coin. Arm in arm they would walk, taking in the goods lined up on display; watching with an air of bored admiration. Traders from distant lands and foreign places would sell items impossible to find elsewhere; glass made with incredible skill, or fabrics woven in intricate patterns and colours. Carvings of wood so dark it rivaled the night sky.

But it was not so in Aldburg, in the place he called home – all was sold from necessity, be it grains and whead, or livestock and salted meats; the people had little need for the trinkets of nobility. And fewer and fewer merchants made their way to the lands of Rohan, for the whispers of war made travel a risk outweighing any profit. Even his people began to hear strange tales; of darker things and uncomfortable rumours, though most still laughed at them. Troubled were the voices of those whose business took them outside their borders, and they spoke in whispers of the Enemy and the land of Mordor.

Ominous and disquieting.

They continued further into the denseness of people, and he found the crowd to part around him as easy as a boat carved through water. Gazes, masked curiosity or outright gawking, carried after him as he followed the young boy; the girls weaved around him like chicks around a hen, in and out with swiftness. They never strayed far from his side and the image brought a smile to Éomer's face. A burly man passed them, leading two equally large pigs that waddled grunting through the melted snow, and beady eyes regarded Éomer momentarily.

He felt the tension in his shoulders build.

But Fastleth led them away from the market, and so they once more found quietude within winding streets, hidden between tall walls of thatched homes. Stepping around a corner, he ducked the branches of a gnarled, thin-limbed willow that dipped out over the fence to a nearby house. Several large crates were precariously stacked, sealed tightly with nails and coils of rope; a few were arranged neatly on an awaiting wagon. The boy stood waiting ahead, on the steps leading to the door as the girls milled up to him. Seemingly, they had reached their destination.

"We are here, my lord," he said. Then, ducking down to quietly whisper to one of the younger girls, he quickly sent her inside before them.

Taking a look at his surroundings, Éomer found a small courtyard flanked by an enclosure of wood-posts – soft bleating of sheep could be heard through the cracks, and there were brief flickers of movement in-between. A stable, with room only for a single horse, stood empty and took up one side before the wall met the front of the house. It was one of the larger homes in Aldburg, that was easy to see, and Éomer assumed the family to be either traders or well-earning farmers with their own hired hands.

His thoughts were interrupted as a plump woman appeared in the doorway, struggling to regain her breath and with the small child pressed against her leg. Her fingers worked quickly over her apron, gaze intently fixed on Éomer before she curtsied. It was awkward and nervous, and so very homely. "My lord Éomer, I– I am Maerrun. Welcome to our home!" Uncertain of herself, she raised her head only a little before speaking again. "How can I be of assistance?"

"Please," Éomer gestured for her to stand. "I am here to show appreciation where it is duly deserved."

Her look turned perplexed. Heat crawled up her neck and cheeks, fingers wringing the fabric of her dress to wrinkles, and strands of grey-touched hair escaped her braid. The words came with a sputter, heavy with confusion. "I do not believe we have done any such thing, for you to honour our home with your presence, my lord?"

"I would say your actions of kindness most certainly justify merit." His gaze turned briefly to the children, and a flicker of understanding passed her face. At this, Éomer smiled. "It takes a noble and selfless heart to take in those without a home – three of them more so, for it is many new mouths to feed. Madam, if it is of no inconvenience to you, may I enter for a while?"

"Never could I deny you, lord Éomer!"

He smiled. "You are the mistress of this house, and ever do you hold the power to turn away unannounced visitors. No matter their rank in life or their station, beneath this roof it is you who rule. I am but a guest." From her saucer-round eyes and fumbling fingers, Éomer knew well his words were much disregarded – but despite the reverence that followed him, he ducked beneath the doorway and stepped inside. The lady of the house came quickly after, all three girls milling about in her wake, and, trailing hesitantly behind, the young boy.

The ceiling hung low, and there was little space to move about; not entirely surprising, for the home housed a great many people. It took a while for his eyes to grow accustomed to the light. Floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he was shown further inside, through the hall and into a larger room; in the middle stood a long table, surrounded by chairs and many opened boxes of fabric and thread. Through the windows fell shafts of pale sun, and a fireplace turned the air almost sweltering and sudden against the cold Winter outside. To the side he found small alcoves, hidden by thick curtains and carpets. The family likely slept there, for it was closest to the heat of the fire.

But Éomer was led to the table, and soon after all the small tools of a seamstress were packed away neatly to make room for their visitor. Only a single button-eyed doll watched him from another chair, though it was soon claimed by the youngest girl who took its place. The child was the only one to find a seat, and the others remained standing; lingering hesitantly around him. He smiled, hand moving to the space around him. "Please do not stand for me," he said.

They moved slowly, but soon, one by one, they found a place around the table until only Maerrun remained rooted to the floor. Again, her fingers brushed and fumbled against her apron, as if she had nowhere else to place them. "Is there anything I can offer you, my lord? I fear we have very little suitable for such honourable company, but I am certain I can prepare something ..."

"There is no need, but I thank you for the offer. I would much rather prefer your company here at the table," he said.

When they were all finally seated, Éomer watched them for a moment in silence. He felt as if they expected something from him, though he could not tell what; the three girls were watching him with large, blue eyes, while the mother and son fidgeted restlessly. As he was about to speak, the oldest sister – Aldryth – moved suddenly. "We have prepared something for you, my lord. A gift we hope you will accept."

He watched as she ducked from the room, accompanied by the soft pitter-patter of feet. Shuffling. A hollow thud. The rest remained waiting in silence, somewhat uncomfortable but too polite to speak; Éomer, at last, found words, only to have Aldryth return. In her hands she carried a small, wooden box.

As it was placed on the table before him, Éomer could feel the expectant gazes of the girls; he smiled quickly, thanking them for their kindness, and pried open the dusty lid. Inside, he found a humble string made from leather, fastening a small pendant – it was but a pebble of shiny grey, appearing almost silver if caught in the light. A stone smoothened as if by a water's current, and he imagined they had gone through great effort to find it. To him, it was a kingly gift.

At once, he placed it around his neck. "I thank you," Éomer said. Then, looking down into the box, he found another of similar make.

The girl spoke with a quiet voice. "It is for the lady, my lord. We hoped you could pass it to her on our behalf."

Éomer watched the stone between his fingers. It was cool to touch. "I shall do my utmost to see it delieved." With a smile to the children, he thanked them once more as his hand came to rest on the pendant; he did not reveal the task to be impossible, and certainly he would do his best to safeguard their gift – but in his heart he knew the truth well enough. He would not meet the Ranger again.