So, uh ... Hi there! With one word I shall explain my absence, and no further shall be said about it: Life.

Thank you all so much for the reviews, I think they were the only reason I got myself to sit down and write anything. This is below my own standard, but I couldn't not update. I am working on the next chapter, but while I adore this story I just cannot find the right words. My head is not working as it should! So despite this lower quality, I hope you all enjoy anyways.

Enjoy!

Little Sparrow

Chapter XXI: Reunited

Parchment and scrolls lay scattered on the table before him, servants and attendants milled about to and fro the hall, and the fire roared with life in the hearth. There was a chill in the air, coldness battling the waves of heat; heavy snow piled continuously outside, flakes that covered both roofs and streets in a blanket of deep white. Yet despite the weather, work had to be done while the rest of Aldburg lay holed up against the siege of Winter. His wound ached, a strain that often sent sparks of pain travelling through his shoulder; pain he forcefully ignored. Nothing remained now but a red-tinted and white scar, faded to another emblem of battle and sinew, yet the memory would not leave him.

As he sat in his seat, his hand pressed into the scarred tissue and resolutely drew out a wave of discomfort. It kept his focus sharp. His darkened gaze was on the work before him, though he saw it not. The musings of his mind made his thoughts wander elsewhere, far and wide to what was yet to come. Though, as it would seem, always it brought him back to the same concerns that plagued many a day as of late. Often, night passed without rest.

Twice had he received news from his cousin, from the scouts and watchposts of Helm's Deep. Never were the tidings good. The latest letter, then laid out by his side, told him nothing he did not already know; the great tower of Isengard remained frighteningly silent, an oppressive tooth of dark stone, and no visitors neither came nor went from the fortress that loomed in the shadow of the Misty Mountains. The numberless windows of Orthanc were empty, yet any that walked beneath their gaze would feel the threatening stare. Everything breathed quiet and peace, as if their fears and all their beliefs were unfounded. Éomer held his head in his hands, eyes pressed shut to allow darkness to seep into his vision, and for his mind to calm.

Indeed, he thought, Saruman must think very little of us, to believe us placated.

Everything was amiss.

But despite his resentful thoughts, the day wore on as all the others had, and when morning faded to afternoon he was still scrambling through work; aimlessly, with only the silence of the hall and the crackling logs as company. The servants' steps fell without sound, and the smoke hung dense in the still air. At times the wind sighed, rattling through the rafters. A breath softly hissing through sharp teeth, when the gales came down from tall peaks. All that day Éothain came and went, bringing with him reports or company in Éomer's solitude, albeit words were seldom spared between them.

Often Éomer felt a gaze filled with concern turned to him, and his squire's worry only increased his own burdens. The mantle of rule upon his shoulders was never meant to outwardly appear heavy; and so he schooled his features, working that much harder. Such weakness had no place in his heart, nor in the minds of those that followed his lead. There would be no chink in his armour.

He pulled the nearest parchment closer, features settling into self-imposed concentration.

His free hand crept idly over the table, the tips tracing the curlicue indents in the wood until they settled. Éothain was still watching him, with quiet judgment and without pause. Then, tapping his fingers restlessly against the hard surface, Éomer heaved a sigh; looking up to the one in chair by his side. "It would appear, in my eyes at least, that you feel there is something you must share with me."

He waited for a moment, but the other man kept his lips sealed tight in a straight line. They watched one another.

"Am I mistaken?"

Still, no reply came.

"Have you nothing to say, Éothain – my great and trusted friend?" His voice came soft, laced with indifferent mirth to mask his burdensome charge. When nothing but silence and quiet regard met his inquiry, Éomer returned his attention to the work spread out before him; accompanied by the flip of a paper, as one page was turned to another, just as his companion at last replied.

"Then so I shall confess my plight, not as a subject to his lord ... But as a friend speaking to another." With a flick of his wrist, Éothain sent away the few attendants that remained from the hall. They were at once alone; the storm and the wind their only company, the creaking of the wooden beams and burning fire. At his words, Éomer pushed aside his work and settled his hands flat on the table as he leaned back.

Éomer needed not wait long.

Éothain's face was solemn, creased in worry beneath his tousled beard and hair. "I know your concerns and your gaze are ever turned to the Riddermark, and here you see much and many things. We could ask for no better man to lead us. But I fear you may miss something of equal importance, and to me it seem as though your sight is clouded."

"When have I ever been hasty and unwary, my friend? It would seem you think me blind to some plight?" He exclaimed.

"Blind? Truly, no! There can be no doubt; your duty you would never forsake! At least not knowingly." The air was heavy, clouded in smoke, and shadows loomed closer. Ever darker and longer they grew. Outside, the sun would soon go down before them in the West, and evening came behind; another dark and cold night without the visit of rest. By his side Gúthwïne stood against the chair, the long sword sheathed and gleaming with every flicker of the flames. Soon, he thought, the red shall be that of blood ...

War would be upon them. Much had to be prepared, for those that tarried would fall the quickest. And now, so suddenly, his closest aide brought new words to him; revelations that spoke of his own negligence and oversight. Had he not done his duty admirably? "Tell me, then, what is it that I do not see?"

"Your heart is heavy and your mind burdened, and so you fail to care for your own importance. You cannot hide your darkened eyes, or the restlessness that plague your every night. How often have you not walked beneath the moon, the shadow of a ghost on the ramparts? While the future is unknown and filled with unease, you must not forget yourself! All your men hold you in high regard, for all you have done, yet illness can seize even the proudest and noblest heart. There is nothing more we can do but be prepared for the hammer's fall ... Rebuild your strength, so we that follow can be the shield to protect our people."

Éomer remained quiet for a while, long after his friend had said his last words; certainly, Éothain's heart was faithful, and perhaps there was some truth to his concerns. "So it would seem," he said, slowly and very softly, leaning back into his seat as he regarded the other man. Deep and dark was his gaze. Gleaming. Then, he waved his hand dismissively. "Be at ease. I shall heed your plea, as much as I am able."

"I will ask of nothing more, my lord," Éothain said, smiling a weary sigh. "Though know that I will be watching."

"Like a mother."

"Like a very good friend."

At that, they both laughed; a short and mirthful laughter, soon drowned with solemn gravity. Even such levity held little claim against the terrible prospect of war. Éomer nodded in thought. "Then, my dear friend." He pushed a piece of parchment across the table. "Perhaps we should share some of this work?" It was easy to see what Éothain thought of such a notion – wide-eyed with horror, entire body reclining from the table – yet he was not given chance to voice his objection. In that very moment a howling wind swept through the hall.

The great doors had swung open.

They were at once wary, their attention on the doorwarden; snow whirled in a wild dance around the man, cold and harsh and chilling, and his hurried steps fell heavy. "My lord Éomer," he spoke upon his approach. Then, bowing swiftly before standing, he gave a report that grasped Éomer's heart with sudden terror. So long the thought had festered, in a small and forgotten corner of his mind; insignificant against the overwhelming presence of Orthanc and Saruman. Of Mordor and Gondor, and his uncle, the failing health of their King. Yet for months it had been there. "Word has come from the Eastemnet. Herdsmen found a woman bearing many a great injury."

He knew the path had been fraught with danger. She had been alone, unaccompanied, and so young. Yet still he had allowed her passage through their lands; watched her disappear beyond the hills and plains, feigned ignorance to the bite of bitter truth. Only death awaited those that traveled East. The guard held forward a small item wrapped in cloth, and soon he revealed what lay within.

"Through the fever she spoke your name, my lord." Before him, Éomer now saw the same pendant that adorned the Dunedain Rangers resting in Aldburg. Of those that followed after her. It was the star of the North. Gleaming and shimmering in the light of the fires, its glow a deepened red. Stained with dried blood. Éomer had seen it before. "The villagers fear she will not make it, and they did not wish for her to die alone."

The veiled sun had long westened as they rode from Aldburg, and the heaviness in the air increased as their journey drew on. Dark clouds began to overtake them; a sombre grey, where not even the storm's edges were flecked with light. Dark and oppressive were the skies overhead. The cover turned the rolling fields to a vast, ashen haze as snow fell unrelenting. Gnawing and biting, the wind pressed hard against the riders; he had taken only a handful of his own men – they were but guides for the Dúnedain Rangers, and haste was imperative more so than numbers.

When they learned of their missing kin, Éomer saw first-hand the sheer and utmost fear in their eyes. At once they had been given leave, and with a speed rivalling even the best of Rohan's horses, they overtook league upon league of land in a hectic blur. It was growing darker still, yet they heeded not the treacherous ground beneath the hooves of their steeds. The path was only lit by the pale-gleaming snow and dimmed sun, skirting distant hills until it was but a faint line under the rim of clouds. As dim as the world around them, so were his thoughts.

His mind had once doubted his choice; to allow the Ranger passage without company, a lonesome figure disappearing into eastern lands. One, who in the eyes of many, could still be regarded as a child. So sure she had been of her journey and her troth, who was he to deny her passage? The concern and pressing need of her kin, now riding as if the very evil of Sauron bore down upon them, solidified the previous belief in Éomer's heart. He should not have let her go that distant morning so many months ago.

Truly, she was not meant to be alone. And now I have doomed her to such a fate. Ominous and howling, the storm pressed down on them.

Further they rode, and for much longer, until small eyes of orange light blinked to life through the falling snow.

The small town lay quiet and undisturbed, houses hidden by piles of white and streets empty. Its people had long found comfort and shelter for the night, though he found faces watching them from windows as they passed. One came to meet them as the horses milled into the open space between the centred buildings. Light poured from the door, a lone pillar of warmth as it stood ajar. It did little to battle the falling dusk. The night fell creeping over the lands, frowning as reaching tendrils of gloom swallowed all things fair.

Éomer jumped from the saddle, at once striding through heavy snow to meet the one before him. The man was clad in furs and wool; a herdsman of the plains, face gaunt and weathered. Like shadows in the corner of his eye that moved with him, a pair of Rangers were at once by his side. "Is the woman here?" Éomer asked.

The man nodded, tilting his head to the house behind him. "Yes, inside, my lord. She is fighting the fever, but I fear it is a losing battle."

He moved aside, and so did Éomer, allowing her kin to enter first. They were only two, the captain and the young boy from Helm's Deep; the rest remained mounted. Silent, unmoving figures of grey on their horses; unyielding even against the piling snow. The urgency could be felt in their gazes, and he turned his face from them. The bitter guilt made him shameful. For only the briefest of moments he halted, as if he would be encroaching on something that was not for his eyes; then, steeling his heart, he stepped inside after the Rangers.

The room was small, cast in a warm light from the blazing fire.

There was a smell heavy in the air. Stark, pungent. Ill.

Éomer's eyes fell accustomed; then he saw her.

She was lying by the fire that had been piled high and then burning hotly. At once her companions were bend over her; Halbarad combed strands of hair from her brow, revealing skin pallid and clammy with a fever's touch. White as the frost of Winter. The Ranger kneeled by her bed and whispered quietly in the foreign language of Elves, yet she did not stir. His gentle hands examined her injuries. As they became revealed one by one, Éomer felt a sharp tug cut through his chest; the guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders, and in his heart. He could feel the responsibility for her fate.

The Dúnedain asked for water.

Youthful vigour and life were her companions when last he had seen her, but now only the sickly touch of death lingered in the air.

Despite Halbarad's touch, gentle and searching, she did not move nor wake. Her breathing fell uneven, forcefully drawn as every gasp for air was a struggle; the sound rolled jaggedly through the quiet of the room, deafening in his ears until he could hear nothing else. Had he doomed her to this fate? Éomer turned his gaze from the sight, struggling to tear his eyes away; every cut and bruise against her ghostly skin, the lacerations and her mangled arm. "Where did you come across her?" His voice was harsh in his throat as he addressed the shepherd.

"South of the Undeeps, unconscious in the fields. It was by mere chance we came upon her, and whence she came I cannot tell."

Once more, Éomer regarded her frail and almost lifeless form. In the light he saw her clearly. Her face was gripped in pain, muddled by fretful fears brought in the fever's wake. When last he had seen her, the Ranger had made a path the straight way East to Gondor; now, many months later, she was found in an entirely different part of the Wold, a hundred miles from their place of parting. What brought you on this road? Steeling his heart, Éomer then stepped closer to the bed, and from there he watched her quietly.

When water had been brought, the Rangers crumbled leaves of athelas into the bowl, and a living freshness filled the room. They cleaned her injuries; as they worked, they spoke together in a foreign tongue with voices low and whispered. Éomer could feel their concern, yet he kept his silent vigil – his hands could bring no aid to them. For a long while they strove against the fever, until at length Halbarad leaned forward, one hand pressed against her brow, and his lips to her ear. There, he murmured words that were meant only for her to hear.

Pale was her face, surely touched by Death, but as the Ranger spoke long and quietly to her, the mumblings and muttered breaths stilled. With both hope and fear, Éomer watched; and it seemed that the glow was slow returning, a flush of hidden strength lingering beneath the sickness. Though he feared it was but a mockery of hope. But still, her breathing calmed until she became fast asleep; no restlessness of fever clutched her, and she appeared almost peaceful. It was only for a moment.

Suddenly she stirred. Litted eyes fluttered, and a whimper pressed against her clenched teeth.

She spoke a name. Over and over, the same word tumbled from her lips, and tears of great pain and agony shimmered in the glow of the fire. It seemed to him, that the woman fought against a great struggle, and the calls came with increasing insistency. Though each time more faintly to their hearing, as if she walked afar into some dark place. As if she was calling for one that was lost and so incredibly dear to her. The Rangers sprung at once to her side, careful not to cause further injury when she trashed about in her unseen search; their cries and calls were urgent yet to no avail.

The woman neither heard nor saw them.

Éomer turned from them, gripped by the sudden urge to flee from the sight. He could do nothing, and he felt utterly useless; so he slipped from the room. Outside, ash-grey night had crept over the fields, the long darkness fallen, and no more snow came from a bleak sky. It was entirely black. His eyes found the riders, unmoving and ever-watching, but soon he turned his gaze away. All was silent, save for the whispering gales, and the air was clear and frost-tipped.

Stomping, he wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and stood for many long moments – minutes or hours, it was difficult to tell in the gloom of a starless night – deep in thought. The sudden terror had left him with many questions. And so there he stood, and still waited for he knew not what. A great wind rose and blew. There was no movement to be found in the darkness, even as he strained his eyes to peer into the night; keeping his attention firmly away from the building behind him.

His hand worked the pendant, the gift for her that he had pocketed days earlier, between his fingers underneath the cloak. The cold stone anchored his mind; kept him from drowning entirely in bitterness and sorrow. He had believed their paths would never again cross – and so he had given a promise to a child, a promise he could not fulfill. Truly, was this the punishment of the Valar for such a vow?

He gripped the stone.

Only once as he stood waiting, did the youngest Ranger emerge. Pale faced, his shoulders were weighed by an invisible burden, as he stepped to the mounted Rangers. Here they spoke together in low voices, grey cloaks blown about in the chill wind; it was hard to see much, though their worry came clear to Éomer. Far they had ridden, in search for the young woman over league upon league of foreign lands, only to find her all too late. When the boy turned, their gazes met, though neither spoke as a pair of Rangers tore from the group behind him.

There was nothing to be said.

Fast were their horses, and soon the outriders were gone from sight. What purpose lay behind their sudden flight, a disappearance into the night, Éomer could not tell; but with haste they had been called away. It spoke much of the woman's fate for them to leave in such a matter.

So it was, that Éomer spent the waning hours of night silent and watchful. He stood forlorn and chill as the grey light of early day rose in the distant East. No news had come from within the house. The cold touched him little as the glimmer of morning grew far away, though it brought no joy to him. No choice was left to him but to play his part to its end – to her end. He breathed once, jaggedly, and found a deep-buried fragment of courage; there was little hope, but, if anything, he should not turn from the bitterness of truth. Death would come for them all, and all the faster for those that lived by the sword. Her path in life would be no different from the ones that came and went before her.

Or the many others that would follow after.

Sudden heat brushed against him, harsh and sweltering. Nothing had changed; the grief of Nienna remained heavy over the Rangers, and still she had not moved. At least her breathing fell not so ragged, but rather as a slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. The name was no longer on her lips – the unknown she sought even in her fervent dreams. The peace had not yet left her entirely. She was sleeping, or falling, deeper and further into the embrace of death. Éomer did not approach, and chose rather to linger by the doorway.

Halbarad looked up, grey eyes heavy with exhaustion, and his words held little strength. "I can do no more for her," he said, running a hand over her brow with gentle strokes. Her dark hair was damp, and a sheen coated her skin. Éomer looked away and then back, giving a solemn nod; it was as he had feared. "We would ask for something, a waggon or a cart ... A way to take her with us. There may still be help, and hope, to find with the Elves. And," he paused, pain clear in his face. "She will be reunited with her family."

"I will have it prepared at once," Éomer said and turned to leave, though halted, frozen by the coldness in his palm that he unbeknownst had turned over, again and again. Bringing forth the small pendant, Éomer placed it by her side on the bed. At the Rangers' bewilderment, he explained. "It was a gift – from a child whose life she saved." Then, looking down on the pale face one last time, he turned from the room.

He had fulfilled his promise.

When day truly broke, it was both bleak and windy. At sunrise a wain had been prepared, pulled by the Dúnedain's great dark-grey horses, and a clamour took the small village for many showed interest in the strangers. Even more so in their own lord, a Marshal of the Riddermark, who had arrived during the night. The four remaining Rangers were ready to depart; gazes hooded and minds heavy, for in the cart lay their wounded kin beneath great pelts and wools. There was little to be seen of her, as she had been covered against the bone-chilling cold of early morning.

The fever had yet to subside, and the young man – Brenion – was by her side, vigilant and watchful, ever so often tending to her. Her pale hand gripped in his. Around her wrist the pendant shone, bound by the thin leather string, and the gift had been well received. By the Ranger's side lay a long bow, and many long-feathered arrows. Grey eyes a whirl of care and concern, and Éomer knew well the man would not leave her side until the bitter end. May you guard her well, Éomer thought, if enemies befall you on the road.

There was nothing more he, or any from the Mark, could do for them then; for the ones who had saved his people, and his own life. Their path brought them to the eaves of the Golden Wood, and it was a place the Marshal could not follow. Would not follow. Though he prayed help could be found with the Elves, and with their Queen of Sorcery. Certainly, there was no mortal's hand that could now battle the deadly malady holding claim to the frail, unmoving form beneath the pelts.

Éomer stood by the company, green cloak a flutter on the swift winds; his mind hard-fixed away from the woman, for ever did the sight bring shame to him. Instead, he looked to Halbarad. The man appeared weary, haggard, as the company was soon ready for departure. There was a bitter chill in the air, and slowly in the West the dark of night faded to a cold grey. Red shafts of light leapt above the black walls of distant mountains, and the dawn came clear and bright to the Riddermark. Birds were even singing in the tall-swaying grass, welcoming the swift approach of another day; the deep piles of snow glistened in a rising sun, fair and untouched by the workings of Men.

They had come to a time of farewell, for the Rangers could delay their departure no longer.

Steeling his heart for this moment of wretchedness, Éomer approached the wain with slow steps and a reluctant mind. Despite his efforts, his gaze fell on the woman. So pale, so still she lay. She could not have long left. "Go with all the hope and good will of my people," he said, eyes not once leaving her face; her skin was flushed red, not with life but with the chill of Winter, and she breathed only raggedly. Every inhale a struggle more laboured than the one before. "Farewell."

Halbarad gave a nod, hand rested against his chest before he mounted his dark horse. "May our paths cross once more in better days."

The sound of hooves and creaking wheels filled the quiet town, as the wain was slowly picking up pace through the sludge. The Rangers' heads were bowed, hooded and grey, their journey taking them the straight way West. Éomer was about to turn. But as he did so, the woman stirred beneath the furs; he stared, rooted as if turned to stone, for two pale, fever-clouded eyes met his own. Grey they were, almost silver in the morning's clear light, and she was awake for only the briefest of moments. Brenion was at once by her side, stooped over her.

Her gaze was then turned from Éomer, a faint and struggling smile on her lips, and he felt as if he had been released by a spell.

He watched, and waited, until long after the company disappeared from sight.