I'm alive! ALIVE!

'sup all. Been a while, eh? I could make a long and convoluted greeting here, but I'd rather just put out a chapter after a "minor" break. As always, thanks for the lovely reviews; they've been read, appreciated, and cherished, and I hope some of you lovely people are still around!

Enjoy!

Little Sparrow

Chapter XXX - Choices

The light was dull – nothing more than a gloomy drab, for the great hearths were but dying smolders in the King's hall, and only a thin streak of midday sunlight followed his shadow inside. Éomer stood, touched by a flicker of disquietude; apprehension of what awaited him within. His booted steps rang hollow as he began his walk. Once, twice. The large doors closed behind him, a jarring, thudding sound that stole escape from his grasp. Thrice. An animal caught in a trap, or so he felt. He could feel naught but hostility in Meduseld.

He did not look back.

He refused to do so.

Instead, Éomer steeled his gaze and fixed it squarely upon the dais ahead. Beneath the carven roof, with banners of white horses and golden threads, a throne stood empty. It seemed, despite messengers of his arrival, his welcome would be with little warmth or familiarity. His hand swept across his shoulders, brushing aside his green cloak; chainmail and sword gleaming red in the sconce-light. He was not without weapons.

The very air seemed suspended; brown, and black, and grey, and entirely steeped in shadows. A great gloom and stillness, yet he sensed the flicker of movement, of shapes. Somewhere, on both his left and right, watching and waiting. With a sinking heart, Éomer made his way to his king's rightful place. From the gloom came a man – another man, for he was nothing akin to his uncle. Vehement fury curdled in Éomer's mind. "From your charge in the Eastfold you have ridden." The words echoed between the pillars, a voice carried above the silence. Dripping with venom. "Have you so forsaken your duty?" Spoken in a serpent's tongue; with such haughty condescension it took all of Éomer's will not to answer without thought.

Not before he stood by the steps leading up to the dais, and the spindly, pale-faced man loomed within arm's reach, did Éomer halt. His fingers itched to grab the king's counselor by the scruff of his fur-lined cloak, to drag him from a hall he was utterly unworthy of residing in. The sound he would make, thrown from the stone steps ... His fingers clenched – and just as soon, unclenched – for Gríma's dark eyes found the movement at once. An eerie, thrilled glint was in the man's gaze.

"Is it I, or you, Wormtongue, that carries the mantle of Marshal?" Éomer replied.

A scoff carved ashen skin to a grimace. "It is of little matter, when your absence leaves our eastern borders wholly unprotected–"

Éomer waited to hear no more, but spoke instead again; voice sharp with command. He made certain each and every hidden shape, lurking within the shadows, heard him as clear as daylight. No crevice of the hall would go deaf to his warning. "You have your words, and the ear of some, but I stand before a counselor of the court, not the King. And I stand here as Marshal of the Riddermark." The withered man scowled, and long fingers curled around the black cloak. Drawing it close. "While my uncle may be absent from his own house, Meduseld is not without its honour and courtesy. Or do you dare stand here before me, you of lower rank, to cast shame upon the Golden Hall?"

When and how his hand found the familiar weight of steel, Éomer could not tell; Gúthwinë rattled in his belt, and he shifted the sword into clearer view. The threat was made clear. Hushed, murmured voices wove beneath the quiet, reaching his ears from the grey gloom that surrounded the throne. His gaze remained on the man before him, steady and clear. His loyalty to his King would never sway, never break to the words of a lesser man.

Éomer knew he played a dangerous game.

Outnumbered, standing alone – a solitary rock against the sweeping tides, fighting against drowning – but for this he was willing to lay down even his own life. "Remove yourself from my sight, worm, and pray to the great Béma I will not make good of this slight. Find the King, if you so insist, and speak your poison, but I shall only ever answer to my lord." He turned on his heel, in a flutter of dancing green, and spoke his final words. "And know this! It will never be you."

He could hear the faint hiss; the sharp inhale through clenched teeth, of words swallowed. It was soon followed by the scurrying of feet and rustling clothes. It appeared Gríma fled the hall, in all likelihood to whisper words of untruth in his uncle's mind. It was a bitter victory, bleeding painfully so in Éomer's heart – only sowing malice and growing animosity against him, marking him in the eyes of those seeking power within court. He was a threat.

Enemies had already come close, when arrows had found their mark. Too close. His shoulder ached at the thought, a sudden and sharp pain that found him once more; it would not be the last attempt at his life. Éomer felt a soft breeze as the doors opened, and a clear view of the lands spread before him. From deep shadows into light.

When he emerged the doorwarden stepped up, helmet at his side, and with a quiet, unreadable look to his face. He bowed to Éomer. "My lord."

"Háma," he said, acknowledging the soldier with a brief nod. He could sense hesitation, a firmness set in the lines of warden's face, and so delayed his descent down the long-winding steps of the hill. He could hear the chuckling stream, making its way downward through the rocky crevices; it came sluggish and chattering. The pair stood alone on the ledge, high above the town. "Éothain told me of your wife giving birth last winter – to a son. My well wishes follow you and your family. I hope they are both good at health?"

"Yes, thank you, my lord. It is our first, and certainly I feel like a fish out of water. But my wife is both an admirable woman and an excellent mother." The man had a faint smile on his lips, thoughts likely flickering to his family; and so, also, away from whichever topic had brought him before the marshal. "She leaves no room for worry!"

Éomer clasped his hands behind his back, listening, as his eyes were looking for nothing over the thatched roofs of Edoras. Many soft lights glowed in many windows, and from open doors poured firelight. But there was no laughter, no sounds of music or song. Somewhere, beyond the rim of the world, the sun was setting to the rough barking of a hound. The first touch of night came to the East, and soon shadows would cast even his own home in deep dusk.

The air was still heavy and warm; hills painted red in the sunset's glow, shadows skirting the distant cliff-lands beyond treeless plains. It seemed a quiet, peaceful evening was ahead of them. It was a silent horizon. "I am glad. Perhaps, if there is a moment of peace to find, I may pay your family a visit. If your wife will have me as guest?"

Háma spluttered and bowed, again. "We would be honoured, my lord!" But then his eyes flickered.

"Speak your mind, Háma, and dread not my reply," Éomer said lightly. He glanced to the man. "I know your heart, and your loyalty, and I fear not your words – though you hesitate to speak them."

There came a moment of surprise, of startlement, and the Ward cleared his throat in a cough. The waning sun gave light and offered each a careful inspection of the other's face. Háma's furrowed, then slackened, as he revealed his words tentatively. "Perhaps I speak out of turn and without permission, and if so, I ask for my lord's forgiveness. But your audience with the court was entirely brief." Éomer scoffed at the thought; Gríma Wormtongue could hardly pass for a court.

A serpent's nest, perhaps.

He quickly motioned for the man to continue, a brisk wave of his hand as he, himself, remained quiet. "I fear the truth has been withheld from you, my lord." An uneasy look came to the soldier. "The King's throne has stood empty long before your arrival – for nigh three weeks, he has not left his chambers for any matter." A terrible coldness, dreadful and harsh with dawning truth, overtook Éomer. His uncle ... The King. He had imagined much and many things; poisoned lies, deceitful words, creating strife and distrust in kin. Masking the drums of war and the march of enemies as naught but falsehoods; mere attempts at the crown.

He would not have been surprised if Wormtongue had turned the King against him; perhaps he had even anticipated it, hence his message to his cousin at Helm's Deep. While his own words could fall on deaf ears, no force in Meduseld could withstand the prince of Rohan if he so wished to speak. Deceit would not trounce a father's love for his own child. But this ...

"He has been bedridden with an unknown ailment. Little more is shared or known between the watch, and even less is it spoken of."

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing and brow furrowed. Far too many thoughts and speculations intertwined, too loud; his rampant feelings smothering logic. Everything seemed entirely bleak. Impossible to make sense of, until the jumbled mess became overpowering. An uncontrollable rage swept aside all else, and in that very moment Éomer was ready to draw his sword clean from its sheath – not one would stand between him and his king. The worm would lose its noxious head to the edge of Gúthwinë.

A hand clasped his arm.

Éomer recoiled as if burned. Háma withdrew, quick to speak. "Though it is known, that the Lady Éowyn has not strayed from the King's side throughout it all. Albeit, I do not believe word of your arrival has yet reached her." Turning his gaze to the beyond, aware of every whispered sound carried on the breeze; creaking shutters and hammer-fall, soft thuds of booted steps skirting the keep; Éomer saw deep shadows that mantled the eastern hills and treetops. A mist was in the air. So clear his vision was, yet so utterly steeped in despair he felt in his mind.

It was if he had been taken by blindness, and – likewise, or so it seemed – was his sister; kept in the dark of the ongoings of Meduseld.

Remembering then the silver steed, and now, where all appeared as if in vain, he thanked Béma for His blessing. For the wisdom bestowed upon him in dream. Hope stirred in his heart – for the Vala had led Éomer there in time. The King lives still. Èomer's position was that of peril, alone in the growing night, and so near this vast, intangible menace felt. Then he turned to Háma, a look of approval clear on his face. "Indeed it seems that Meduseld is wisely guarded, by men of honour and loyalty! You are a good man, Háma, captain of the King's Guard. May your heart be steadfast in your post."

Éomer shifted on his feet, shoulders squared. Anger flickered, coiled and writhed uncomfortably in his chest, but he swallowed it. Drowned it in forced clarity. While hope died in him, or seemed to die, his face grew hard, grim; responsibility was on him, a mantle he would not forsake. He brought his eyes back to the stone stairs.

He bid Háma farewell, and begun the descent. Each step more bitter than the one before, yet the hostility he had felt – a constant, smothering veil that lingered over the Hall – lessened. The thought of an unseen, dreadful malice, waiting, brooding in its Tower to the west remained with him. He could feel Saruman's invisible grip tightening. Piercing eyes that saw all, knew all, controlled all.

When he finally came to the foot of the hill, Éomer brushed aside his thoughts, as he was there met by a familiar figure. Éothain. The marshal's face deceived little of his mind, nor of what had just transpired, and the squire instead fell into step by his side. Éomer guessed, or knew, that the man had waited; steadfast and ready if his lord so called for it. For this loyalty, he felt immeasurable gratitude. They spoke no words as they continued their walk, leaving the hill and its keep behind in the last light of day.

The shadow of early night followed them through the town.

The air was thick with the smells of life; smoke and dust, of hearty foods and simmering pots. Overhead, the sky was then a deep blue, with only the slightest smudge of orange left to the west. Rain seemed to be on the wind. But if it would reach them or not was another matter. Fickle gales of Summer were swift to change. The open path led the straight way away from the Golden Hall, to the gates and open plains beyond; the path ran wide, for it was often visited by riders and messengers bringing tidings from distant lands. And, beyond the gates, the small company of riders brought with him from Aldburg, were likely busy at work making camp. There was plenty of room, both beds and stables, to host the men – yet Éomer found safety outside, and not within, the fences of Edoras. The guards were his own, men both loyal and familiar, and he knew the heart of each.

He could feel exhaustion pull at him, heavy in both feet and mind. But Éomer took another, more indirect way and turned from the path.

It would give him a brief moment of space to think, and plot. To observe the ongoings around them. And, more than anything, to make use of one of his most valuable assets. With so few afoot, he looked to Éothain. "Did you come across anything during your wait?" Éomer asked. His squire had a masterful tendency to pick up rumours and strings of news, in a way one would not image a man of his size. He listened, and saw much; with an easy, almost flippant air, he could weasel information out of even the most untrusting guard or street-vendor. A skill that had certainly come into use the last couple of years. His eyes were as sharp as his sword.

His gaze flicked past Éomer's shoulder, accustomed to watch for both big and small marks surrounding them. As of late, it seemed, there were always eyes watching. From the sounds of it, someone followed behind them. Éothain shifted, a strained smile – more scoff than mirth – and nodded. "They were there long before your arrival," he said quietly, gloved hand brushing against his beard; the movement of his lips hidden beneath. The pair made a turn, yet made no attempt to gain even a handful paces. It would matter little. "At first I counted four. But there are six of them, each a pair following the ones before."

"Weapons?" Éomer inquired.

Éothain shook his head. "None, or they are well-concealed. They are but flies on the wall, my lord, pickets on the watch ... Though I do advise acting with caution."

So, it seemed, the men following were merely people trading in whispers on behalf of someone else – someone with coins to trade, for it was a bold move to stalk a Marshal of the Riddermark. Even the smallest threat to him would, by law, be permitted to be met with unsheathed blades. Yet they were without intentions to delve into open conflict. For now; the thought was discouraging and heavy-hearted, but at least showed him some hope. The enemy was not entirely in control.

A rapid chirping broke his ponderings, and he stole a glance to a starling hopping about on the ground beside them. It flittered between the walls of two houses, down a narrow alleyway, and the soft thrills dimmed with it. Another darted through the air out of nowhere, landing in the thatched roof; beady, black eyes looking one way, then another, head tilting. Rustling. It seemed, while the town was doused in soundless wait – a calm before the undeniable storm of war – the birds were touched with little concerns.

He took a breath, turning another corner in their zig-zagging path through the town; to leave the starlings to their own musings, and allowed their peace to follow.

Daylight had faded almost entirely. It would not be long before night was fully upon them. His ears attentive, picking up each and every little sound; his own footsteps, a slow, repetitive thud over the dusty ground; the soft murmur of winds through the rafters, the rattling clack of shutters. Voices, low and steady somewhere ahead. The easiest way to tell when something was going down on the street, was to watch those who lived there; they never ran or shouted, or made a fuss. Instead, they would just slowly fade and vanish. A survival instinct. And right then, that instinct was hard at work.

They passed many dark doors.

He could feel tension build through his spine, fingers flexing and hovering by his sword.

The path ahead was empty of any normal evening-traffic. No carts or horses, no children running around in play, despite the Summer's heat lingering in the air. Unspoken, Éothain quickened his pace; so subtle the change was, it appeared undetectable, normal. But they both knew better. Éomer saw three men lounging at the corner across the dusty street, still some distance away, taking turns tossing coins against the wall. All of them were looking far too conspicuously – for they looked not even once, as he and Éothain approached.

"They are the ones from before. And two more down the path we just came from," Éothain said, voice low but even. "They slipped into a couple of doorways when I spotted them."

Éomer's footfalls fell a little heavier than needed, chainmail clanking and glistening in the dimming light. A caustic smile formed on his face. "Flattering in a disturbing sort of way, is it not?" Chilling, more like it. The hired eyes were subtle, playing it safe, but obviously there to keep track of his movements in town; they were a silent warning, a sword hovering inches from his neck. It could fall at any moment, a reminded of an ever-present, looming threat shadowing his every move. How they had seeped into the very heart of Rohan, a stone's throw from the King's hall ... A pustulent wound not even a blade could cut out.

Edoras had grown quieter; ahead on the road, the houses were steeped in grey dusk, and the sky had taken hues of formlessness. In the gloom, passing in but a brief moment, Éomer considered the sanest cause of action. It would be of little good to cause a ruckus – even if his hands itched for a fight, to release the coiling anger he felt within. Unseemly, for one of his rank to stir up such trouble. Already he could hear the disdainful derision from Wormtongue. Peace breaker, uncouth, and unworthy to carry the mantle of responsibility. Such words would be whispered in the ear of his king, sowing further seeds of distrust. His loyalty tainted and warped into belligerence.

No. He would endure, bite his tongue and suffer the shameful choice of cowardice.

The fight would come another day.

There was worth in waiting, in biding his time until the hour of wisdom. He would choke down his own selfish pride. Éomer turned from the men and continued, unfaltering, albeit a struggle to keep his pace from quickening. They would not have such triumph. He ignored the prickling unease beneath his skin; reminding himself that while each step was bitter, it was also wise. He grit his teeth.

When at last they were no longer within hearing, he spoke once more. "Let us make for camp. I have learnt enough."

They moved left, through a narrow alley leading the pair back to the main road. It seemed a sky thick with ascending stars came to the lands, beneath the awnings and roofs; a ragged patchwork of shade and firelight, shadows and colours through which they walked. As the way broadened, it, too, seemed as if life had returned to the town. One man came weaving and stumbling like a drunk, while another pair – husband and wife they seemed – passed by, dragging between them a creaking cart of stacked sacks and cabbages.

Their faces were new. The tautness in his body lessened, draining from him with such haste it left him feeling empty. Almost. A grizzled, grey-haired man hobbled by, an old soldier's limp to his steps; Éomer watched him, even acknowledged the nod of greeting, yet still his eyes sought signs of hidden weapons. There would be no bloodshed within the walls of Edoras – it would be enormous vanity or folly, to strike him down then; proof that his words of strife and betrayal were not outragious lies of warmongering. Not even Saruman had such power; not yet, at least.

The wizard still worked from within the shadows. Éomer's face grew harder as a thought settled. And so shall we. "I expect these watchers to be handled, in a manner both soundless and unnoticed. Let them disappear from Edoras little by little." He met Éothain's gaze. His squire understood; their days would be numbered, and each new morning would hold little hope. They would come to regret their choice in masters.

He spoke the order without hesitation, though his heart did falter; a nagging doubt, but the firmness of his mind was unchangeable, and it would not be waylaid by the scruples of his righteousness. They came to the gate, fast closed and flanked by guards. If the sacrifice was his own honour, to ensure the safety of his people? Then so shall it be.

Heavy bars were lifted and the doors swung open around them. Wind was on his face.

At once they stepped through, finding the plains touched by night and the road dark. Bare and bleak. But not far from the ramparts, nestled beneath the steep rock-hill, stood white tents faintly lit by torches and fires. Silence crept after Éomer, when they followed the descending road. For a moment he paused, seeking a final glance behind. His heart stirred as he looked upon the Golden Hall, high on the ridge beyond the fences. Despite the gloaming sun leaving naught but crumbling trails of red, it seemed as if on fire. On the wind came otherworldly whispers, mocking voices of distant foes. Éomer raised his chin, steadfast and resolute.

Then he turned.

The chirping of crickets in the tall grass, not yet finding peace as warmth gave way for colder airs, accompanied their walk down the rutted path. At the foot of the hill Éomer came to the mounds of his ancestors; where here countless white flowers bloomed, mirroring the stars in the high sky. Dead kings of old rested there. Slumbering and at peace ... He felt laden with sadness.

Éomer crouched by one such grave.

Lowering his face, kneeling as the flat of his hands sank into the soft grass, he remained silent for a while. What was once fair, remained now in darkness. He could sense Éothain waiting. "For every hour that passes, I feel hope lessen." His fingers combed through each blade of grass, as soft as the wind that tugged at his cloak. "Tell me, my friend, do you believe my choice to be right? Or should I let those, who wish harm upon me, go freely?"

Boots came to his vision, as Éothain hunched down beside him. "There is an encroaching darkness upon these lands, and all but a few seem blind to it," he said. "I know you fear the choices you make, my lord, but there is no man I would rather follow; when all is entirely hopeless, when the enemies are at our gate, I will stand with you until the very end. Fate has called us to act, and so we must."

Éomer reached out, clasping his squire's shoulder. In the face of those that followed him, he could not falter. His smile was weary, yet smile he did.

"When dawn comes, and it will come again; when light touches the land, and gold spills over the mountains, we shall know our deeds were just. Some things are only real if one believes in them, even if it comes with a cost. I believe there is still hope. Hope in our people, in our King; that one day Rohan is rid of all its enemies, and we have found peace." Éomer rose and pulled with him Éothain. "Come, let us wait for the morrow, and perhaps then thoughts will become all the clearer."

He would let the dead rest, for little would he find for himself before the end; down into the chill, grey mists of chilling dew, a pale ribbon without light that followed the winding road. And they halted no more, not until the white tents were on every side, and men at the watch came to greet them. Swift they had been at work, and there was now only the quiet of sleep upon his men. Dulled flames; soft stamping of hoofs, nickering; snoring. Éomer was led to a tent in the middle of the encampment, where then – after words of command – was bid farewell by the guard.

Éomer entered, and Éothain followed inside.

Tallow candles burned in a clay pot, allowing a little light to guide his steps. There was not many things to be found within; they had ridden fast, and so travelled light. But exhaustion was his companion, and by then he needed little more than sleep. He unbuckled the sword-belt, laid Gúthwinë carefully on the cot, and leaned over so Éothain could pull the hauberk over his head. Straightening once more, a remarkable sense of lightness came to him; the weight of the chainmail had been an accustomed feeling he was suddenly without. "I will manage the rest," he said. "Go take sleep, my friend."

Finding himself alone in the tent, he sat down and pulled off the muddied boots, and he considered lying down at once. Just for a moment. To let darkness sweep him away, an irresistible wave to wipe away every uncertainty, every worry ... In the grey hours before deep night, before the sun rose and duty came to him again; to find peace before the plunge.

Éomer rubbed at his face, as if to scrub fatigue from his mind.

There was a letter of urgency to be written. Words to hasten Théodred's ride to Edoras, to help with the ailing King and the serpent's court. The traitorous men that walked the streets of the city; Isengard and Saruman, scrambled thoughts of armies and loyalty, deceit and despair. Right and wrong. His duty and his heart. His fingers dug harder into his skin, until light danced against his eyelids; breathing heavy and mind reeling. He had not cried since the death of his parents, but he felt like it then. Harsh, stinging, threatening to fall.

Voices sounded from outside. Familiar yet impossible.

Éomer looked up, just in time for the tent flaps to brush aside and close again.

"You are here," the voice sounded breathless, trembling and hopeful. In the dim candlelight, his sister stood before him.

"Éowyn?"