You're a bandit like me
Eyes full of stars
Hustling for the good life
Never thought I'd meet you here
It could be love
(cowboy like me – Taylor Swift)
Rohan, July 3019
The road was quiet. It had been quiet for days, since Éomer had ridden out with the Rohirrim to fetch King Théoden's body from Minas Tirith. The procession would arrive on the fourth day and rest, and then they would begin the journey back, accompanied by Aragorn. Théoden's body would return to Rohan for the last time, to be buried next to his son and father. There would be a period of mourning, then Éomer would be crowned King of Rohan, and life would go on. Befitting such a solemn event, the Riders had been sombre, and the road was quiet.
Too quiet.
On the second day, Éomer was reminded why he should always trust his instincts.
"A party of Orcs!" said the scout, breathing hard. "They are moving fast, my king! We think they are tracking something – I left Éofor to follow them, but we need more numbers to attack."
"Assemble the Riders," said Éomer, already standing up. Two squires ran to collect his armour and Éothain, the new head of the King's Guard, followed him out of the tent. "This is the first party we have seen in many weeks."
"Aye," said Éothain grimly. "No doubt they are chasing something, my king. We should take medical supplies; more and more people are travelling across our lands these days, and the Orcs make quick work of the weak and the old."
"See to it," nodded Éomer, and Éothain departed. Lightfoot was already saddled when he arrived at the edge of the camp, and a squire offered him armour. Éomer recognised it instantly, and shook his head. The squire, too used to this argument to try again, put it down and picked up his old armour, which Éomer accepted.
Once atop his horse, he rode ahead to meet the other Riders, and Éothain rode up to his side. "My lord, you are the King of Rohan," he said quietly. "To dress as one would not be a shameful thing. Your uncle's armour is rightfully yours."
"My uncle is barely dead, my sister gravely injured," said Éomer, repeating the words he felt he had said a thousand times now. "We bury my uncle. We see my sister live. After the coronation, we can call me a king."
Éothain frowned, but did not argue. They donned their helmets, and the scouts led the way out of the camp. It did not take them long to find what they were seeking; they had scarcely ridden for an hour when they came upon the first dead body, pierced through the heart with an arrow that could only have come from an Orc's bow. The man had worn a uniform, with a swan emblazoned across the chest in blue and silver. Éomer indicated two Riders to stop and bury him while the others continued ahead. They encountered three more dead, and Éothain rode up to match pace with Éomer after they paused by the last one.
"The same colours," he said, as two more Riders dismounted to bury the fallen soldier. "Who are they?"
"Soldiers, from Dol Amroth," said Éomer. "And they are far from home."
Éothain frowned. "Do you think they are going to Minas Tirith as well? I though Prince Imrahil's army was already stationed there."
"If we find any others, we will ask them," said Éomer. Jerking at Lightfoot's reins, he urged his horse to go faster. Memories, unbidden, raced across his mind of the last time he had seen those colours on a man; the final battle, where his sister had fallen and his uncle had died. He shook his head, harder than necessary, attempting to forcefully expel the images of the battlefield from his mind. This was not the time to dwell on the recent past. Prince Imrahil and his sons had fought alongside him, and had been noble warriors. More importantly, Imrahil was the reason his sister was still alive. He owed it to them to see if there was a way to help their people.
Lightfoot sensed the presence of the enemy before Éomer did; unbidden, his horse slowed to a trot, and screams reached the Rohirrim a second later. Wordlessly, Éomer indicated for half the men to ride on, while the others spread out. Unsheathing his own sword, he dismounted from Lightfoot and tossed the reins to Éothain, who looked displeased, but followed suit.
"Make for the trees," said Éomer quietly, just loud enough for the soldiers nearby to hear him. "Once they see us, they will run. If they take prisoners inside the forest, we may lose them."
Éothain nodded and turned to make sure the remaining soldiers understood his instructions. Without waiting for them, Éomer gripped his sword and ran ahead, straight into the clearing.
And into a group of at least thirty Orcs.
The soldiers were barely ten paces behind him, but Éomer made quick work of the first three Orcs before they caught up. However, his men did not immediately come to his aid, and he soon realised why; further ahead, there were two more uniformed soldiers fighting off the remaining Orcs, guarding what appeared a group of peasants, a carriage and two carts full of people. The screams he had heard were coming from there; he distinctly heard the voices of women, and more than one child. He was about to join the rest of the Riders when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a group of Orcs break away and run into the trees, away from the carriages. Reflexively, he followed them.
"My king! Wait!" came Éothain's voice behind him, but Éomer ignored him. The forest was dark, but silent; it was easy enough to following the grunting footsteps of the Orcs. What he did not expect, however, was to hear another scream soon after he began his chase. These Orcs, he realised, were chasing a woman.
He should have waited for his men, Éomer knew that. He also knew what Orcs did to women, and seemingly unarmed women at that. This was not a party from Rohan, where men and women learned to fight side by side. He knew little of Gondor's customs, but he knew enough to realise whoever they were chasing would be helpless. That was why he tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head, which sounded alarmingly like Éothain's, warning him to be careful. You are the king now, the voice said, and suddenly it sounded like his uncle. You must be careful. You must keep yourself from harm. If you die –
Barely ten paces in, the sound of footsteps paused. And then, Éomer heard it. A laugh that made his skin crawl and his blood boil. "I smell meat," said a voice, deep and guttural.
"I smell woman," said another, and Éomer's stiffened. "There!"
His men could follow, he decided. Pushing through the bushes, he slashed one of the Orcs from behind and parried swords with the other before they even realised he was there. For a few seconds, Éomer had the advantage of surprise, and he attacked viciously. It was only when he was done and there were two dead Orcs at his feet that he remembered he had seen three run into the forest, and now he was alone.
He quickened his steps. The last Orc had caught up with his potential victim, and was standing over her, sword in hand. As Éomer rushed forward, however, the Orc let out a painful groan and keeled over, right on top of the woman, who screamed again. As he closed the distance between himself and the woman, he realised he needn't have hurried. The Orc was dead, pierced through the heart with a blade. The woman, however, was completely still.
"It's alright," said Éomer. Kneeling, he pushed the Orc off her, and offered his hand. The woman had stopped screaming, but continued to breathe heavily, and the hand that held the sword which had killed the Orc was shaking badly. Attempting to be comforting, Éomer dropped his own sword and held up his hands in surrender, showing he was unarmed. "It's alright," he repeated, softening his voice. "You are safe now, my lady."
There was blood on her face, as well as on her hands. It had seeped into her sleeves and stained the handle of her sword, even as she clutched at it with trembling hands and attempted to point it at Éomer. Green eyes, uncommon to both Dol Amroth and Rohan, darted between his outstretched hand and the insignia on his chest, pull of panic and fear. However, the golden horse embossed on his armour made her hesitate. When her gaze flicked up to meet his, he saw the same terror and suspicion he had seen in the eyes of hundreds of soldiers staring up at him, and it made him pity her. Wordlessly, he left his own sword on the ground and stood up slowly, keeping his empty hands in her line of sight. Once standing, he offered her his hand silently. After what felt like hours, she let out a shaky sigh, and accepted it.
"Your companions are safe," said Éomer, keeping his voice calm and even. "My soldiers have medicine for your wounds. We will help you return home, my lady."
The girl – or was she a woman? – did not answer, and dropped his hand as soon as she was upright. When he took a step away from her, back in the direction he had come from, however, she followed. The only sound echoing through the forest as they walked was the dragging of the sword in the ground behind her. The screams in the clearing had also stopped, and all he heard were the quiet murmur of voices and the neighing of horses. Finally, Éomer allowed himself to breathe: clearly, the worst was over. When they finally came within sight of the rest of his companions, however, all hell broke loose.
"Hold her!" Éothain's voice rang out as soon as they stepped out of the forest, and two men ran up to grab each of the girl's arms, causing her to immediately begin to struggle. The look she threw Éomer was one full of venom and betrayal, and he turned to Éothain, demanding an explanation. "No one will answer our questions without her," said Éothain, throwing the girl a look full of mistrust. "Who are you? Speak!"
The girl spat on the ground at Éothain's feet in response. The liquid that stained the grass was bloody.
"Enough," said Éomer. Ignoring Éothain's look, he jerked his head at the Riders holding the girl's arms. "Leave her."
They dropped her arms, but in a trice the girl had picked her bloody sword off the ground and was pointing it at Éomer, her eyes glinting savagely. Despite her anger, she was no threat; she had clearly never held a sword in her life, and her grip was shaky. Nevertheless, Éomer held his hands up in surrender, inwardly groaning at her actions. Immediately, the mounted Riders formed a close-knit circle around them, and every spear was pointed directly at her head.
Ordinarily, he would have been irritated by his men's inability to realise the girl was a terrified victim, not dangerous. At the present moment, however, he could only feel exasperation. "Éothain –" he began, but he was interrupted by the yells of his men.
"Careful, she has a blade!" warned Éothain.
"I saw her kill two Orcs!" shouted another.
"She is a mere woman!" hissed Éofor, the only voice of reason in the group. The head scout pushed his way to the front and stood by Éomer, glaring at the weapons. "Put your spears down!"
"Was not the Witch-King killed by a woman?" snapped the girl. There was blood across her cheek; her hand was dripping with it, whether with her own or the Orcs', Éomer could not tell, but it was a worrying amount. "And I am no assassin, horse-lord."
"Who are you, then?" demanded Éothain. "Friend or foe?"
"Neither, to you," said the girl. "I am a handmaiden to the royal family of Dol Amroth. We are bound for Minas Tirith, to the Houses of Healing."
"I have heard enough," said Éomer. Taking a step forward, he put himself between the spears and the girl, and immediately every weapon went down. Carefully, he pushed the tip of her sword away with the palm of his hand. "Your Prince is known to us," he said calmly. "Put away the sword. No one here will hurt you."
"You said that before," she muttered.
Something about her indignant tone made Éomer's lips twitch. "My men will not hurt you. You have my word this time."
"And what of his?" she threw Éothain, who was still pointing his weapon at her, a look of disgust. "You would raise your sword to a woman? Have you no honour?"
"A woman can stab just as well as any man," shot back Éothain. "Can't have any honour if you're dead."
"Éothain, if you speak again I will have you gagged," snapped Éomer. He did not turn around to see his friend's face, but kept his eyes fixed on the woman. "Put your sword down," he repeated. "My men will not help you if you continue to threaten us."
Éomer could not tell if she believed him, but perhaps she realised she was outnumbered. Keeping her green eyes fixed on his, she lowered the weapon slowly.
He nodded in approval. "What is your name? And who are your people? We received no word of your party."
"My name is Idis. I have injured women, and children with me. And the Princess of Dol Amroth," said the woman called Idis, and her voice finally softened. "Our city was under siege. Many died. The masters gave up on the Princess, but when the city was freed we heard the King has returned to Gondor. He has the hands of a healer. We thought he could help her, and the others."
"How do we know you are who you say you are?" demanded Éothain. His guard was right, Éomer knew that, but nevertheless he was irked by the way he continued to address the girl, as if she were a criminal. "Uniforms can be fabricated, and we do not even know the Princess's name."
In response, Idis used her uninjured hand to tug at the neckline of her dress, fumbling for a second before removing a necklace that had been hidden under her clothes. Practically ripping it off her neck, she threw it on the ground at Éomer's feet. "Here."
Éomer picked it up, running a thumb over the single pendant hanging from a thick piece of black string. He recognised it immediately.
"The Prince's seal," he said, and Éothain stiffened behind him. "Only the Prince of Dol Amroth has one of these. Where did you get it?"
"He gave his seal to the Regent, when he left for war," said Idis. "His wife, the Lady Mairen, was our Regent during the siege. When she died, the seal passed to the Princess."
If Éothain wanted to argue, one look from Éomer was enough to silence him. They could not doubt the girl's story, not with the Prince of Dol Amroth's seal in Éomer's hand.
"Even if we believe you, child, Minas Tirith is yet two days away," said Éofor. His best tracker and an older Rider, he fortunately sounded infinitely kinder than Éothain had. "Will your lady make it that far?"
"She must, for there is no hope for her in Dol Amroth. Nor is there any for the rest of them. Please, Marshal," she added, giving Éomer a beseeching look. "The Orcs chased us for a day before they caught us, but we were outnumbered. I swore to her mother that I would not let her die."
Marshal. Éomer still wore his armour from his days as the Third Marshal, so it was not a surprise that she did not know he was the King. What was a surprise was that she, a handmaiden, knew what to call him at all.
Removing his helmet, he turned his back on the woman to face his Riders, and they immediately took a step back. There were spare bandages in Éothain's saddle-bag; ignoring his curious look, Éomer removed them and crossed towards her, holding out his hand for hers. She gave it, a little unwilling, and her skin was soft; too soft for a maid's. Trying not to dwell on it, he checked her cut and, once reassured it was not too deep, bound it tightly.
"Burn the dead," he said as he worked, and two Riders jumped off their horses immediately. "See to their horses. If there is strength in them, we will make for Minas Tirith in the morning and take them to the Houses of Healing. We need only a party of twenty; the rest of you, return to the camp and summon the rest to follow us there. Go see to your charges, and your lady," he added to the maid, who had been watching him give orders curiously. "Tell her I would speak with her."
"She is unconscious," said Idis immediately. "The masters gave her draughts, to help with the pain. She did not even wake during the attack. But I can answer any questions you have, my lord."
"I am sure you can," said Éomer, not attempting to hide his suspicions. "Tell me, then, why did the Prince of Dol Amroth hand over the security of his only daughter to a handmaiden and a few guards?"
"A larger party would have attracted even more enemies, and slowed us down. We could not waste time if we wanted her to live." If she realised how rehearsed her words sounded, she did not give it away.
"And he did not send word to the King of Rohan?" confirmed Éomer, though he knew the answer. Idis shook her head. "Why? You could have had more protection. We have been on the road for days, our paths were bound to cross."
Idis's eyes, greener than the wide plains of Rohan, flashed with anger. "There was no time. We are not Rohirrim; our riders are not as fast as yours. Did you not hear me when I said she is dying?"
"Hold your tongue! Do you know who you are speaking to, girl?" demanded Éothain.
"No," snapped Idis. "And I do not care. Kill me, if I insult you, only remember you must be the ones to answer to the Prince when he asks why his daughter died so close to Minas Tirith."
Éothain stared, his mouth hanging open at the insolence in her voice. Éomer felt the urge to laugh at his friend, struck dumb by this slip of a girl when he had never had any trouble wooing a woman in his life, but decided not to speak. Instead, he side-stepped Idis, who immediately walked out of the circle the Riders had formed around her, straight towards her own people. The guards' injuries were being tended to, and as Éothain dismounted his horse and came to stand by Éomer, they watched Idis pause by the men and speak to them, touch the shoulders of the women who still had tear-tracks on their faces, before opening the door to the largest carriage, where two more guards with swords stood. Without looking back, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
"The Princess's carriage," said Éothain, in answer to Éomer's unspoken query. "I spoke to one of the guards before you returned. They say she was injured in the siege upon the city and the masters gave up on her, that much is true. But they would say nothing else without the one who calls herself Idis. All they would say is that they had been ordered to obey her."
"Obey a maid?" Éomer frowned. "Gondor is not known to favour woman leaders."
"Aye, and yet none of the men would say a word except that they were bid by the Princess to follow her."
"It is true the Princess was still in Dol Amroth during the siege, while her mother was Regent," said Éomer. "I recall her brother saying so, when last I saw him."
"Well, there is no one there now. Imrahil's wife is dead, and Imrahil is still in Minas Tirith, as is the majority of their army. Apparently, Idis waited only a week before setting off with the injured, allegedly on the Princess's orders."
"Allegedly?" Éomer snorted. "She is probably younger than Éowyn, Éothain. I doubt she has seen much of war. She is right, she is no assassin."
"Be that as it may, do not tell her who you really are," said Éothain, and Éomer groaned again. "Trust me, my lord. I will tell the men to hold their tongues as well. Until we reach Minas Tirith and Imrahil himself confirms the identity of these people, it is not safe."
"An unnecessary precaution," said Éomer. The carriage door Idis had disappeared behind opened, and she slipped out, carefully shutting it behind her. "But I will heed your advice, for now. Regardless, it does not matter if she knows who I am; I would still see Imrahil's daughter safe to Minas Tirith."
"Aye," Éothain nodded. "But it does matter who you are to us, Éomer. Without you, Rohan has no king, and no hope. It is your duty to keep yourself safe."
Éomer's jaw clenched at the reminder. "I know, Éothain."
"Thirty Orcs, all dead," said Éothain, tossing the last of their enemies' armour into the pile they had collected. "We will burn them now, my lord."
"I will do it," said Éomer shortly. Taking the torch from Éothain's hand, he indicated the group of people sitting in a small cluster near the carriages, watching them curiously. "Try to talk to them."
"I have tried. They won't say a word without the maid's approval."
"I did not mean for information," said Éomer. He glanced at them again, and tried not to wince at the sight of a child, a little girl barely as high as his knee, plucking at the grass by her mother's feet silently. Her mother, whose face looked as though it had practically been burned off, was resting her head against the wheel of a wagon, her one good eye flickering shut. "They are afraid, Éothain."
"These are fearful times," said Éothain dismissively. Giving up, Éomer turned and held the torch close to the pyre at the edge of the pile of armour and bodies. Éothain was his oldest friend, his first guard and a devoted Rohirrim; and yet, even after the war, he suffered from the same prejudices against Gondorians that many of Gondor's citizens suffered from against the people of Rohan. Southerners were proud, aloof, and uninterested in anything beyond their palaces and big cities; meanwhile, the Rohirrim were coarse, uncouth, and denigrated as horse-lords, little more than peasants to Gondorians. Imrahil and Éomer had discussed it often, he recalled, and the Prince was eager to find a way for the two kingdoms of Men to prosper together. Aragorn will know what to do, Éomer told himself. Elessar was King now. He would find a way to fix things. He had to, because Éomerdid not know if he could.
The dry grass crunched under someone's boots behind him, and the tread was too light to be one of his soldiers'. Bracing himself, Éomer set the torch down and turned around slowly, his suspicions confirmed when he found Idis standing behind him.
She had washed her face, and her hands. The sleeves of her dress had also been cleaned and pulled up, and Éomer realised the cut on her hand was longer than he had thought; there was a fresh bandage wrapped from her palm all the way to her forearm, already stained with blood. Her hair, dark as any Gondorian's, was carefully braided out of her face, and the firelight danced in her eyes, making them appear a shade of green that he had never seen before in a woman's face. If it had been another time, and they had been different people, Éomer would have probably found her beautiful. As it was, however, she was markedly thin and pale, a testament to the siege she had survived, and a reminder of the war they had all faced. She was also fidgeting nervously as she stood in front of him, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Is there something you need?" Éomer asked, when she did not immediately speak. "For the children, or for your lady?"
"No, I –" Idis hesitated again, and then spoke through gritted teeth. "I… I came to… apologise." The words seemed painful for her to say, and were clearly insincere. Éomer bit the inside of his cheek to resist the urge to smile again. What was it about this girl that made him want to show amusement in this way? "My lady awoke as I gave her medicine, and she heard the story. She wanted me to thank you… and bade me apologise for my words earlier. You saved us, and you are helping us now, and I was too harsh. Of course, you must be suspicious. We could be anyone trying to trick you. I should not have spoken to you in the way I did. Or spat at your feet." She winced.
"You also pointed your sword at my head after I saved your life," said Éomer mildly. Idis closed her eyes and sighed in frustration, and he allowed himself a small smile, schooling his features before she fixed her gaze upon him again. "However, all is forgiven. These are trying times, and you did not say anything untrue, my lady." She balked at his words, and although she looked away quickly, Éomer saw the flash of guilt in her eyes. "Did you?" he pressed.
Idis shook her head. Stubborn girl. "Nonetheless, I apologise, for all of it. I should have expressed our gratitude better. And I am not a lady, my lord," she added. "A maid, nothing more."
"And I am not a lord," lied Éomer easily. "Tell me, then, do all the maids in Dol Amroth learn to wield a blade with enough skill to kill Orcs?"
Her eyes flashed again. "You saw me hold the sword; you know I do not know how."
"You killed an Orc nonetheless. More than one, if my men are right."
"I was desperate. And when a city is under siege with no hope, women learn many things," said Idis. Instantly, Éomer regretted his words; Idis's eyes turned dark, haunted by memories that were no doubt similar to his own: his uncle dying, his sister laying as a corpse on the battle-field, the screaming of injured horses…
"Marshal?" her voice interrupted his thoughts, and he blinked. She was standing next to him now, and giving him a wary look. "Are you well?"
"Yes," he said shortly. The desire to be alone overtook his curiosity and he turned away, walking around the burning pyre to make sure nothing had escaped, and the fire was not spreading. To his surprise, Idis followed him. He cleared his throat. "Were your people fed?"
"Yes, the Riders were very kind and shared their supper. My lady ate as well, before sleep took her."
"Perhaps she will feel well enough for an audience tomorrow," said Éomer, watching Idis from the corner of his eye. Her expression did not change, as if conscious of his gaze, and she continued to stare at the pile of burning Orcs. "I would very much like to hear how Dol Amroth survived the siege. We fought with the Prince and his sons at the final battle, but did not get the chance to discuss the fate of your home."
"Perhaps when she is well," said Idis. "The siege is not something we enjoy discussing. The Princess lost her mother when the enemy breached our first defences. It was how she got her injuries."
Éomer grimaced; he had forgotten Prince Imrahil's wife was dead. "My condolences."
"Thank you," said Idis. "Her Grace was as much a mother to me as to the Princess. We will miss her."
He felt his curiosity pique again. Damn woman. "You have worked for the family your whole life, then?" he asked, and Idis nodded. "You know the Princess's brothers?"
"Of course," said Idis. Then, as if realising what he was asking, her lips twitched. "But any resident in or near Dol Amroth could tell you their names. If you would like to ensure I am not an imposter, perhaps ask something a bit more difficult."
Despite himself, Éomer smiled. "The war is over, but evil is not so easily defeated. I would not walk my men into a trap simply because a woman asked for help."
"I understand," said Idis. "But I am not a foe. And I was in a city under siege for many months. I could not even tell you your king's name, should you ask it of me."
He should tell her. He knew he should. But he did not.
The next morning, Éomer found his previous generous spirit waning. This woman is going to be the death of me, he thought to himself exasperatedly.
"It would help if she wasn't so damned pretty," muttered Éothain from beside him. "Maybe then they would have refused her request."
"She does seem to know how to get her way," agreed Éomer, choosing not to berate his friend for his comment. In front of him, three men enthusiastically – too enthusiastically – unpacked their saddle-bags and readied their horses. Éomer was not sure how Idis had managed to convince the Riders – young men, new to his company and full of pride and vanity – to swap their infinitely superior horses with the starved-looking ponies that pulled the Princess's carriage. He had ridden ahead at dawn with Éofor to ensure the way was clear. When he had returned, he had seen Éothain watching the proceedings in mild confusion, seemingly unable to stop them.
"If she knew who you were…" Éothain shook his head and gave the woman behind them a suspicious look. "I do not like this, my king. The timing is too convenient. That seal ensures we cannot deny them aid, yet to not even have a letter from the Prince when his daughter is among the company seems too great a risk."
"In any case, we are twenty soldiers, and they barely have three guards left. If she plans to murder us in our beds, she will have a hard time doing it without being caught," said Éomer dryly. "I will not tell the Prince of Dol Amroth I left his people to die on my lands."
"But surely even a maid would know the King of Rohan?"
"How? I have never been to Dol Amroth; she has never left the city, till now," said Éomer. "And they were under siege. It is not suspicious, merely inconvenient."
"Will you tell her?"
"I would tell the Princess, if only to see her pass on my greetings to her father."
"Not the maid?" Éothain gave him a look.
Éomer raised his eyebrows. "You were the one insisting I keep my identity a secret. As my personal guard, you now think I should reveal it?"
"If you did, she may stop acting as though she runs the camp."
"Ah, so it is because she tells you what to do that you would risk my safety."
"I would never risk my king's safety," said Éothain. "I would, however, like to see that girl put in her place."
"She is worried about her charge," said Éomer. "If ordering about young men who think she has pretty eyes makes her feel better, let her do it."
Éothain grunted. "Really? You think she has pretty eyes?"
Éomer groaned. "Leave me alone."
"Éothain!" Idis's voice rang out suddenly, and Éomer was even more amused when Éothain physically flinched. "Would you mind terribly coming and helping me with this?"
Éothain looked at Éomer for help, but Éomer merely held his hands up in surrender. Muttering something about bossy wenches not knowing their place, Éothain squared his shoulders and made his way to where Idis was standing, his posture tense.
Ten minutes later, Éothain was seated by the fire and dutifully stirring a pot while the two Riders who had lost their horses chopped vegetables. Idis had declared no one would leave until they had eaten. Éomer had wisely decided not to disagree.
"You did not eat with the rest of the camp," said a voice behind him. Éomer paused in his actions, the brush he had been running through Lightfoot's mane held up in mid-air. Although dark, the light of the nearby campfire was enough for him to easily make out who was approaching him now. Idis was balancing a bowl with half a loaf of bread – probably stale – on top of it in her hands, slowly walking towards him. The smell wafting from the food was surprisingly pleasant, although unfamiliar; the closer she got, the more he detected the scent of lemons.
"My horse does not like to be groomed by the squires," said Éomer, by way of explanation. Idis paused a few feet away, giving Lightfoot a wary look. Éomer tried not to smile. "He does not bite."
"I had never seen a horse from Rohan before yesterday," she admitted, reluctantly coming closer. "They say you have your own language for them. Is it so?"
"No more than Elves speak Sindarin to their mounts," said Éomer. "But we do not break horses the way they do in Gondor."
"How do you ride them, then?"
"Either a horse will be ridden, or it won't be," said Éomer. "The way to judge that is not to break their spirit."
"A pretty thought," said Idis. She offered him the bowl, and Éomer returned the brush into Lightfoot's saddle-bag in order to take it. Instead of sitting down, Idis took something out of her dress pocket, and offered it to Lightfoot hesitantly. It was half a carrot, probably saved from the dinner Éomer had noticed she had barely eaten, instead giving most of her share to the children in her company. As she reached a hand out towards his horse, Éomer almost stopped her, but before he could Lightfoot had already taken the food from her hands, his lips barely grazing her fingers. She dropped her hand immediately and let out a quick sigh of relief. As if realising he was watching her, she turned to give him a small smile. "My father always said one should befriend the animals in one's company."
"An even prettier thought," said Éomer. He wondered if she knew what a compliment it was, that his horse had not bitten her arm off. He decided against telling her, however, and indicated that she could join him.
She did, and nodded at the food in his hands "Your tracker, Éofor, says we may reach Minas Tirith in two days, at this pace. Our women made supper, to thank you for your help."
"That was kind of them," said Éomer, although privately he was grateful there was a change from the Riders' infamous tomato broth and stale bread. "How is your charge?"
"No worse for the journey," said Idis. She leaned against the tree, the base of which Lightfoot had been grazing upon. "Have you met the new King of Gondor? Elessar, they call him."
"I have," said Éomer. "He is healing m-our king's sister."
"We heard the stories," said Idis, not noticing his slip up. "A brave woman, your lady. Remarkable, the things people will do when confronted with the death of a loved one, is it not?"
Éomer did not answer, but it was clear Idis did not expect him to. Instead, he tore off a piece of the bread and offered it to her. She glanced at it, and then shook her head. "I ate with the rest of the camp, Marshal."
"You are injured," he said, still holding it out. "Take it. Keep up your strength."
"I am hardly injured," she argued, but accepted the bread nonetheless. "It is a scratch."
"It is a gash, and a deep one at that," said Éomer, dipping his own bread into the stew. The taste was unfamiliar, but it was delicious; he tried not to inhale it in one bite. "Has the bleeding stopped?"
"It has. And the pain is irrelevant. Our people need the medicine more than I do."
"That is very noble of you."
Idis chuckled. "Too noble for a servant, is that what you meant?"
"I meant no such thing," lied Éomer.
The smile lingered on her face. "It is alright if you did," she said. "I do not blame you for not trusting me."
"Because you do not trust me either?"
"Was it that obvious?"
"You have not once asked my name," said Éomer. Not that I would tell you the truth.
"You would lie," said Idis. "You ought to, anyway. The road is dangerous, as you say, and I could be anyone. You could be anyone. But I simply do not think it matters, if you can get me to where I need to go safely. Does it?"
"No, it doesn't," agreed Éomer. "Remarkable, isn't it, the things we do for those we love?"
Idis laughed again, a soft, bitter laugh that made her sound much older than Éomer suspected she was. Éofor had asked her, he knew that; she had only laughed and said she was young enough to be his daughter. "War is hard on everyone, Marshal," she said, plucking at the blades of grass by her side absently. "You always think doing the right thing and fighting on the right side will make up for those you lose, but it never does, does it?"
"Never," said Éomer. Once again, unbidden, his dead uncle's face flashed before his mind's eye, and he clenched the near-empty bowl in his hands tighter. "But time is a great healer, they say."
Idis snorted. "Do you believe them?"
"I have yet to see it work," said Éomer, and Idis chuckled darkly in response. "But perhaps it might, one day."
"Perhaps," agreed Idis. "But how many of us make it to that point while still sane?"
He had no answer to that, and Idis did not seem to expect one.
On the second night, Éomer had just finished brushing Lightfoot and was studying a map of the terrain when he heard footsteps approaching.
"For someone who claims not to be a lord, you seem to enjoy having your food brought to you," said Idis, by way of greeting. She was carrying two bowls this time.
"For someone who claims to be a maid, you complain more than you should," he answered reflexively. Any other woman would have been offended; Idis laughed. Setting the map down, he took one of the bowls from her. "And how is the Princess today?"
"Alive. Sleeping."
"I see. Did you mention I wanted an audience?"
"I did," said Idis. Éomer waited for her to elaborate, but she merely sat down again, shredding the small piece of bread in her hands into the soup. When he did not join her, she looked up and raised her eyebrows. "I am not mixing your food for you."
Éomer snorted despite himself. Idis hid her smile behind the bowl, but he noticed. So, he was not the only one who enjoyed the other's company. Good. "How you survived as a maid for so long is beyond me."
"I assure you, I am more than a pretty face," she said. In another life, Éomer would have thought she was flirting with him. Perhaps he would have even flirted back, in another life. In this life, and in this world, however, he knew she was not.
And even if she was, he would ignore it.
Taking a seat next to her, he shredded his own bread into the soup. Before he could speak, she asked, "What were you reading?"
"A map," he said, gesturing to it with his free hand. "I was marking the spot where you were attacked. We will increase patrols around that area, in case the Orcs return."
"You must be very good at reading maps," she said. "I have no idea where you found us, and we had four different kinds of maps with us."
Éomer laughed. "I would not be a very good Marshal if I could not read a map. Even a crude one. You should see the ones Éothain makes up when he is trying to tell the scouts where to go."
She smiled slightly. "I am surprised Éofor did not beat cartography into him."
How many maids used the word cartography with such ease? Éomer tried not to dwell on it. "He tried with us all, but we were never the best students."
Idis smiled again, and they continued eating in silence. The soup was good; he had to remember to ask what in the world was in it, but there were more important matters to be discussed, and he sensed that Idis had only brought up maps to avoid his inevitable question. "You did not answer my query about the Princess."
"She won't see you," said Idis, and she sounded faintly apologetic. "I am sorry, Marshal. But she is ill, and tired."
This would not do. Idis was too guarded to give him the kind of information he wanted, and he had hoped a quick meeting with an injured Princess would put Éothain's fears that they were walking into a trap at rest. Quickly, he decided to change tactics. "You said her injuries are extensive?" asked Éomer, and Idis nodded. He shrugged a shoulder, faking a careless tone. "That explains it."
"Does it?"
"Of course she would not see me. Princesses are vain. To be seen as anything other than perfect would ruin the illusion."
Idis blinked in surprise, and then laughed. Loudly. Éomer tried not to smile at the sound. "Have you met many princesses, Marshal?" she asked, once her giggles had subsided.
"No," admitted Éomer. What he would not admit to himself was how much he was exaggerating to make her laugh again. I need information, he told himself firmly. "But they are all the same, are they not? The Lady Éowyn, the King's sister, could be vain. As a child, certainly."
Idis gave him an amused look. "Did you have much occasion to meet with the Lady Éowyn as a child?"
It was worrying how easily the lies came, once Éomer had started. "Many times. I grew up in Aldburg, where the family is from."
"Ah, so you must know the new king as well."
Éomer tried not to flinch. "Very little. He preferred to travel, and he is not very forthcoming."
"Isn't he?" asked Idis curiously. "What is he like, then?"
"Ill-prepared for the crown," answered Éomer. Words a true Rider would never say. But Idis was not from Rohan, and merely raised her eyebrows at his words. "What is your princess like?" he asked, eager to get back on the subject.
"Ill-suited to leadership, as many women are said to be," said Idis. "And, apparently, vain."
Her tone was light, and teasing. He doubted she was serious; only a devoted and loyal woman would brave such a perilous journey to save her mistress, Princess or not. Éomer took another sip of the soup. "I only state the facts," he said, fighting to keep his tone casual. "Has she never commanded you to do something outrageous that could corroborate my assessment?"
A ghost of a smile flickered across Idis' lips. "Once, perhaps. Before the siege. Before the war, even. It was at her eldest brother's wedding, about four years ago."
"And?"
"She made me polish every stone on a diamond-encrusted headpiece six hours before she was to wear it," confessed Idis. "All because a man she admired told her it looked as though she carried the night sky's constellations with her every time she moved."
The line was so ridiculous that Éomer burst into laughter, and after a second's hesitation, Idis joined him.
"I shouldn't have told you that," she admitted, when her laughter subsided. Éomer could not resist throwing her an amused look, even as her cheeks turned pink and she returned to her food. She should not have; but she was clearly not a maid, or else she would have shown more restraint. He was curious, but it was almost… better, to not know who she really was. After tomorrow, they would never see each other again.
Yes, it was better this way, but he still needed information.
"All you have done is proven she was vain at some point in her life," said Éomer. "Which, as I said, I already knew."
"She is not all bad," said Idis, but the defence was decidedly half-hearted. "She was barely twenty when that happened. The siege has been hard on all of us. We were all so different before the war."
Silence descended upon them as they finished their meal. The air was thick with the implication of Idis's last words, and Éomer found himself curious for more than just information now. He was curious about the look in her green eyes, a colour rare in the faces of his own people and yet it reminded him, shockingly, of the fields surrounding his home, where life had once grown and thrived. But since the war, those fields had lain desolate and empty. It was fitting, then, that he saw that emptiness reflected in the eyes of the woman opposite him. She had started plucking at the grass by her side at some point, oblivious to his staring. "What happened in Dol Amroth?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
Idis's hands paused, before continuing their actions again. Mechanical; methodical; the mantra of a soldier, Éomer realised. "There was a siege," she said finally. "Many died of starvation. A few more died when the Corsairs breached our first defences. The Lady Mairen rode out with the remaining soldiers, but she sustained injuries and did not survive. Then the ships came, and the city was freed."
"That is not what I meant," said Éomer. He did not know why he did it; later, he would tell himself it was because she sounded like he had, when he had been asked to talk about Pelennor Fields endlessly after the final battle. But as he spoke, he reached for her hand and grasped it, halting her vicious attack on the grass. "Who did you lose?"
Idis still not look up at him. "I told you," she said, her voice soft. "Her Grace was –"
"No, you lost someone else," said Éomer. Idis looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wide. She was not surprised at his words, he realised; she was merely surprised he knew. "Someone closer," he said, still examining her face. "Someone you felt responsible for?"
Idis jerked her hand out of his grasp, and guilt shot through Éomer at her expression of shock. "Forgive me," he said immediately. "I know, better than most, that this is not something one wishes to talk about, least of all with a stranger."
Idis nodded jerkily, her eyes still downcast. Éomer hesitated for a few seconds before standing up, returning to studying his map and giving her a few moments to gather herself. He expected her to walk away, and would not have blamed her for doing so. Instead, she stood up and came to stand next to him, her arms crossed over her chest defensively.
"How did you know?" she asked. She did not sound accusatory; merely sad.
Éomer smiled bitterly and folded up the map, tapping her shoulder lightly with the faded parchment, and then pointed to his chest. "Takes a thief to know a thief."
Idis's lips twitched in response. She did not ask him to elaborate, and Éomer said no more. As he began packing Lightfoot's saddle-bags, she finally murmured a quiet good night and took a few steps back towards camp. And then, she paused.
"It was my mother," she said, her voice only just carrying back to him. "Who did you lose?"
Éomer tied the last saddle-bag shut with more force than necessary. "Everyone."
When the White City finally came into view, the sky was grey and dull; if they did not hurry, it would rain right on them.
"You should get in the carriage," Éomer told Idis, as the horses paused to drink from the nearby stream. "If it rains –"
"– I'll get wet," shrugged Idis. "You'll be rid of my company in a few hours, Marshal, no need to pre-empt it."
Forty-eight hours ago, such a comment from a woman would have made Éomer stumble over himself to apologise at giving offense. Now, however, he merely rolled his eyes. "A few hours too late for my liking."
Idis grinned, and he winked back. Still smiling, she turned her horse around and returned to the back of the group, where she periodically departed to every few hours to check on the people in the carts. Otherwise, she rode ahead, sometimes keeping pace with Éomer and often with Éofor, whom she had seemed to grow inextricably fond of. Éothain, however…
"Finally!" groaned the guard, halting his horse by Éomer's side. "I need a tavern, a bed, and a wench. Not even in that order."
"Behave yourself," grunted Éofor, riding past and smacking Éothain upside the head. "There's ladies about."
"That," said Éothain, pointing to Idis's retreating horse. "Is not a lady. She is a demon."
"Is that because she has made you help cook breakfast and supper for the past two days, or because she won't flirt with you?" asked Éomer.
"Both, and again, not necessarily in that order," said Éothain. "Although, I do not mind the lack of flirting. She isn't to my taste, after all."
"Too pretty?" snorted Éofor.
"Too intelligent?" suggested Éomer.
Éothain gave them both a withering stare. Before he could retort, however, Idis suddenly galloped up to them, a worried expression on her face.
"Can we ride faster?" she asked anxiously. "My lady's sleeping draughts have run out, and her fever is returning. If we do not have a way to keep it down, I fear –"
"Let's go," said Éomer shortly, refusing to let her complete her sentence. She threw him a grateful look and spurred her horse on, rushing past the loitering Riders. Éomer jerked his head at her departing figure, and immediately they began to follow her. He remained behind, waiting for the carts and carriage to outpace him a little before clicking his tongue. Lightfoot began a gentle trot, and suddenly he was reluctant to go faster himself. He should not be so unwilling to enter the city, he knew that. Minas Tirith housed his friends, after all; Imrahil, Amrothos, Aragorn, perhaps even more of the Fellowship would be there. He could easily visit them, spend a few hours in their company, and then make the preparations for Théoden's funeral procession.
But Minas Tirith also housed his sister.
Éowyn, his brave and brilliant sister, his only living relative in the world, who was still fighting for her life in those halls, and yet he could not bring himself to go see her.
He had gone, at first. They had not been able to tear him away from her bedside in the early days of her residency there. He had spent hours sitting by her side, kneeling on the floor, begging and pleading with her to wake up. It had been days before she regained consciousness, weeks before she would speak to anyone, and even now, months later, she was barely walking.
His sister was a shell. His uncle was dead. His cousin was dead.
And Éomer was a king.
"Lagging behind?" Again, a familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he realised Idis had ridden back to join him. She slowed her horse down to match Lightfoot's pace, a frown creasing her brow. "Marshal?"
"I am well," he said automatically.
"I never said you weren't," she said. "Other than sick with heartache for the impending loss of my company, of course."
Éomer snorted despite himself, and Idis's grin told him she had said it on purpose. "I look forward to a moment's peace, actually. Perhaps my Riders will spend more time looking for Orcs and less time staring at you."
She laughed, and for only the second time since he had met her, the sound was not harsh and bitter. She sounded young and light and carefree. In another life, Éomer told himself, as he watched her smile from the corner of his eye. In another life, he could imagining doing all he could to hear that sound all the time.
They did not speak for the rest of the journey, too focused on riding hard and fast to get to the Houses of Healing as soon as possible. Éomer told himself he would see the company inside, enquire about his sister, and spend the night with his Riders in town. He did not want to go up to the palace, he realised. Not yet. For a few days more, he wanted to just be himself. Notthe King of Rohan.
His resolve waned as they entered the city, and stable-hands rushed to take the horses from the Rohirrim. Ordinary citizens, probably used to the deluge of refugees and injured people who often showed up at the gates, immediately came forward to help the Dol Amrothians. Idis jumped off her borrowed horse and ran to the carriage, barely looking back at anyone as she instructed one of the guards to go inform the healers that they were coming.
"We are going into town," said Éothain, resting a hand on Éomer's shoulder and drawing his gaze away from the dark-haired woman. "Are you –"
"I will join you," said Éomer, knowing Éothain would understand what he meant. As his friends departed, Éomer hesitated a few seconds, still watching the back of Idis's head as she spoke to someone, and then turned away. Lightfoot was too temperamental to risk being given to an ordinary squire, and even if Éomer did not plan to go to the palace himself, he would not leave his horse in any ordinary stable for the night.
It was over an hour before he had found accommodation for his horse, sent a message to Aragorn that he had arrived, and arranged for lodgings for the Riders who would spend the night in the city. Éothain would stay in the palace with him, and although Éomer missed the days when he could join his men at a tavern and forget the troubles of the road, he knew he had responsibilities now. Taking a deep breath, he made his way back towards the heart of the city, where the Houses of Healing were. He needed to see his sister, and it was time to come clean to Idis.
The Houses were full when he arrived, but Éowyn was sleeping, and the healer told him to return in the evening. His queries about the Princess of Dol Amroth were met with pursed lips, and he was informed that Elessar was with her. That was reassuring, at least; Aragorn would not have gone if there was no hope. Her brothers, he was told, were still in the palace. Her father was not in the city. That made him frown; Imrahil was not the kind of man to leave when his daughter lay dying in Minas Tirith. Where had he gone?
"The Princess came in with a company," said Éomer, as the healer escorted him out the doors. "Where are they?"
"The injured are being tended to. Her attendant is just down the street," the healer pointed out the lane to Éomer, his tone slightly hard. "It was… difficult, asking her to leave."
I am not surprised.
Éomer followed the healer's directions and found Idis sitting on a bench in a small, deserted square, staring at a broken fountain. The remnants of a battle were all around them, from the hoof-marks on the white floors to the chipped marble and stone walls. Idis's head jerked up when he rounded a corner, alerted by his footsteps, but he could tell she was not surprised to see him.
"I was wondering if you would come back," she said. She looked more tired now, as if the adrenaline that had kept her active on the road had finally faded. But she was still in the same clothes, and the bandage on her hand had not been replaced, which made him frown.
"Your Princess is being seen to," Éomer said. He gestured to her hand. "You should get your own injuries checked as well. My Riders are not healers, and your cut will scar."
"It doesn't matter," Idis sighed. "I only wanted to be sure she would live. They told me Elessar was coming to see her, and then sent me to wait outside. Apparently, my pacing was bothering them."
Éomer's lips twitched. "You mean they banished you."
Her green eyes flashed. "Partly. But I was waiting for you." As she spoke, she stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress, a strange move considering she had ridden for two and a half days in the same clothes without once showing that she cared about her appearance.
"I am flattered," said Éomer. "What else can I do for you?"
His mocking tone did not go unnoticed, and Idis rolled her eyes. Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she pulled something out and offered it to him. "Here," she said. Éomer closed the distance between them and automatically bowed his head, and she seemed to hesitate before slipping a chain over it. A pendant, a silver swan surrounded by a circlet of pears, hung from it. It was not a seal he recognised, but he suspected he knew what it stood for.
"What is it?" he asked anyway.
Idis avoided his eye. "It is from the Princess. She wanted you to have it, in gratitude for saving our lives."
"Another unnecessary kindness," said Éomer. "Her handmaiden defended her better than the Riders of the Mark."
Idis smiled, and her green eyes glittered with humour and another emotion Éomer did not want to name. "I will be sure to tell her you said that, Marshal. Perhaps she will knight me, and you may call me my lady next time we meet after all."
"I look forward to that day," said Éomer. It was the perfect opportunity to tell her his name, but the chance was stolen. Behind them, quick footsteps sounded, and a young boy came running into the square, calling for the Princess's attendant and saying that she had woken. Idis gasped, and turned to give him a joyful smile that left him breathless; before he could speak, she had grasped his hand and squeezed it, gratitude pouring from her eyes. It was too late to confess now; Éomer pressed her hand between both of his and let her go, and she waved before following the boy and disappearing in the direction of the Houses of Healing.
Welcome to another edition of me starting a new story when I should be finishing the ones I already have! But this one just wouldn't stay locked up in my head, so here we are. I hope you enjoy it, and are generous about any inconsistencies that may pop up!