Hello!
I have returned! I would have said life threw trials at me, but I've just ... not been in a writing mood. But this story lives forever in a corner of my head, and it finally found its way back into the light. While my updates are slow, I have the goal to complete it; no matter how long that may take me. We will reach the finish line!
I was asked in a review to possibly clarify where we are currently in the storyline; in case there is any confusion, especially since we are moving between perspectives and time-skips, we are currently in the Summer of T.A. 3017! And let's just say – to not spoil the story! – that the Ringwraiths are tasked with retrieving something from this Baggins guy in T.A. 3018. I hope that gives a bit of an understand to where we are, but not so much that I'll tell you my plans. (I shall hide my evil grin.)
This chapter takes place before Rell's watch of Bree, but Éomer needed a moment in the light, too!
As always, thank you for reading this story. And thank you to the lovely people leaving reviews! I'm glad so many of you found this story again, after the site's minor issues with the email messaging. For the reviews over the last many months, thank you to: Diarona, Doria Nell, BlueRevolution, MiaEther, Brit, , and Hyuuga Senpai. As always; MVPs the lot of you!
This chapter is not as long as some of the previous ones, and I guess I shall blame it on my brain getting back into the rhythm of writing. But at least I'm back! Woo!
Little Sparrow
Chapter XXIX - A Determined Heart
July, The Third Age, 3017
Under warm winds and clear skies, Éomer had spent his time in open fields of tall, green grass; he had partaken in the foaling – as he did each year that came and went – alongside herdsmen and riders, alike. Many of the Rohirrim's own great steeds had sired foals. Under the strict directions of the Master of Horses; each with a purpose, to carry on the legacy of strength and speed. Even his very own, Firefoot, would soon have a couple of colts and fillies in the stables donning mirrors of his pearl coat.
He watched gentle spirits born with the blooming of springtime blossoms; subtle chestnut dapple, inky black, or snow-peaked grey. Clever eyes and gangly limbs. The first hit the ground in early May, many more following soon after. It was not long before they ran through valley groves and shadowed meadows by their mothers' flanks. In early mornings they were ghostly shapes, dim and formless in the haze, accompanied by the rolling thunder of hooves; by night mere shadows weaving through the deepening dark.
They were as free as the land.
With the twinkling stars their company, the Rohirrim found each night sleep beneath the canopy of sky and cloud; accompanied by rich smells of roasted mutton, baked vegetables and potatoes, and fresh bread; warmed by high-piled fires. The tall peaks of the White Mountains peering down over them as silent guardians and watchers, sheer cliffs and tumbling greens falling into the open lands of Rohan. It was in those moments, when all seemed as if touched by tranquility and peace, that darker thoughts always seemed to return to him. When sleep invaded his insistent mind, and the sun vanished beyond the rim of the world. Warning him of darker days to come.
As light dwindled on such a Summer's day, in turn, Éomer's worries grew. Captured by memories that were once fond. He would recall a time – when life was still without sorrow, touched only by the wild dreams of a young boy – under the very same starry sky. Side by side with his father, Éomer had followed the herds across the plains; ridden so fast, so recklessly, that the wind was mere howls in his ears rivaling peals of laughter. Seeing a world of bright colours, of wonders and marvels. He had felt invincible. He had been as free as the horses they had followed.
But he was a child no longer.
Now, when youthful days soon passed to remembrance, and a life had become entwined with duty, Éomer found himself but an unwitting part of a greater plan. A pawn in the hands of both good and evil. Soon – far too soon – the young foals would be tamed, brought to obey the commands of riders; fitted for war. As the thought passed his inner eye, he could hear the stamping beyond the gloom of night; skittish and playful all the same. Many would die in the months and years to come, horses and riders alike.
Their lives would be short.
Messengers from Gondor brought tidings of ill. From Khand and beyond the Sea of Rhûn, armies of Easterlings flocked to the calling of Mordor. Foul beasts bred in myriads under the shadow of Mount Doom, and only the strength of the South-Kingdom held them still at bay; in the lands of Ithilien and from the ruins of Osgiliath. But step by step, the bravery of Men faltered. Strange, terrible, it was to wait and yet do nothing. To await the blaring horns of rallying armies and orders of war; words that would never come, for they had to come from a king striken with sickness.
A malady of the mind held claim to the King of Rohan.
Éomer looked above the flames, over the bowed heads of his men. Listless he felt, and he stared long without seeing what lay beyond. For how long, he could not recollect. But then, suddenly, something come to his gaze; silver-pale, a shape hardly visible caught in the flickering light of fire, a solitary figure stood. Dark, black eyes lifted and peered straight back at him. The horse seemed as if floating in the gloom. Unbroken, he watched as if enthralled for many long and breathless moments. It shimmered like moonlight caught in deep pools, ethereal and otherwordly; shadows woven into life.
It was but a glimpse of something.
As sudden as it had arrived, it was gone once more.
He came to sit straight, cloak and pelts rustling, as he rubbed bleakness from his eyes. Is this a dream in waking? Before him was naught but the dullness of night, no matter how hard he gazed into the twilight void; a quiet wind came blowing, rousing the grass in an ominous whisper. Ash danced. Éomer shifted to his feet, fastening his sword-belt and found the heaviness of Gúthwinë. Then, he stepped around the fire and the sleeping, bundled forms that surrounded it. His departure caught the ever-watching eyes of Éothain. The man never slept before his Marshal.
"My lord–"
Éomer motioned for his squire to remain. "I will not be far," he replied, turning to the open field beyond their campsite. "But I ask a moment alone with my thoughts."
Feeling the quiet discontent, and ever-present worry in the gaze of his friend, Éomer drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. The ground beneath his feet was soft with moss. The orange glow of the fire lit his path ahead, but it was not long before only the stars and crescent moon were his company; lonely company it was, perhaps, but his mind was far and elsewhere. Searching through the night for another fleeting glimpse. A flicker of what he thought he had seen. Night-shadows and darkness, hollow and immense; a vastness that seemed without form.
Yet Éomer had seen it. Mayhap the wildest imaginings, equeal parts spun from actual dread and wonderous hope, there was a drumming in his chest. His heart pounding in anticipation – it had been but a shimmer of silver in the night. He put his hand to his chest. This is truly a night of memories, he thought, following the gentle slope uphill. He climbed steadily upwards, led by a chill wind blowing against his back, as his mind came to stories told under endless skies and stars. His father's voice. Words telling tales of great marvels, under the cover of wolf-pelts, until rest came to them.
And there, in the cracks between waking and sleep ...
Flickering flames and dark silhouettes were behind him, when Éomer stepped to the crest of the hill; high and flat-topped, and before him stretched the plains of Rohan. The White Mountains ahead, dipped in gloom, and distant. Lit only by a veiled moon, touching low on the horizon. For a while he stood, silently watching. Scattered trees, the deadly silence of a bird of prey swooping down into the canopy. His mind reeled in disarrayed thoughts.
A twinkling caught his eyes, just below the mound upon which he stood. There, then gone. Appearing as a flicker once more ahead; again, and again, it came and went, but each time further and further from his place on the hill. He understood. Éomer followed, making his way down in the darkness with cautious steps; leaving the encampment and the protection of his guards, yet there was no hesitation in his heart. He was beckoned forward.
It was no choice to him; a hand not his own guided his steps.
He adhered to the path of the dancing silver, always too far to see clearly, though always within the edge of sight. Walking around a handful stunted trees, he found thickets growing dense, bushes of many herbs and hidden stones; lily-flowers asleep, white heads nodding in the deep grass; more trees grew ahead of him, birch and bay, shadowed boles and reaching branches. For a moment he looked back, searching for the hue of flames. There was a glow in the distant sky, skirting the top of a hill.
How far he had walked.
Then, Éomer turned his mind back to the path ahead of him, and so stepped into the thicket. Mild moonbeams found flittering ways through the cover, silver light that did little to aid his searching feet. Darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. And so he used his hands, holding on to rough boughs and cool boles, always gazing searchingly ahead. A little way further, and suddenly he was met with a chill splash; encircled by dark-leaved poplars and a deep bed of fern, a mirror-still lake spread before him. He recoiled, for he had plunged straight into its waters.
Yet not a ripple broke the surface.
Learning forward, Éomer gazed into the waters and saw only a deep nothingness; no moon nor stars reflected, no hues of blue night-skies, only a yawning empty. And himself. It was as if some sorcery bid him forward, to reach out his hands – and he did. Breaking through the stillness of the lake, he felt neither coldness nor warmth, as if only touching air. Nothing stirred. What place have I been led to? He marvelled, searching his heart for trepidation. Yet he found only certainty. A clarity he could not understand, yet seemed to linger over him.
A glimmer at first, at the edge of his sight, on the distant bank made him find his height once more. Then, growing to a dazzling shimmer, an ethereal formlessness taking shape; the horse heeded him not. Instead, it drank from the waters; so long, it felt to Éomer an eternity passed. But all he could do – and wished to do – was watch. Under the light of moon, the coat shimmered silver, yet its hooves were shod in gold.
The spirit, for surely it was not a creature of Éomer's world, drank until it was full.
He stood in wonder, waiting for the horse to move as if his fate was bound to it; he knew it – in both name and purpose – yet dared speak it not. No man, woman, nor child of the Rohirrim did not know the steed before him. The wind blew then, suddenly harsh and cold, from someplace beyond the Eastern hills. Violently, it swept through the glade; rousing silver-cloaked poplars in a hissing dance, until even the still lake rippled to life. The mirrored moon flickered, then died within the fretful waves, and the creature's peace was broken.
Its great head rose, black eyes peering up to meet his own; slowly, it blinked, infinitely more clever than any horse of Man, and it seemed as if speaking to him. "Nahar," Éomer whispered, perhaps so softly the words never left his lips. Kindled within some part of his restless heart. "Show me my path. Show me where to tread in this world of evil fates."
The howling wind swelled, now churning, tearing into him; biting to reach his bones. The horse made no answer.
"What says your Master, he of wisdom, of wrath,–" Éomer's cloak billowed, trapping him within, as the pool of dark waters turned brighter with the weakening of night. His call was taken from him, breath stolen by the growing wind; it was a storm from the East that would leave nothing standing. "What must I–?"
The horse blinked once, slowly and carefully, then turned away from the lake.
It left Éomer fighting alone against the winds, untouched, silver coat shifting to clear white; golden hooves making a path through tall grass bound the straight way West. Then it vanished, like a chill mist touched by the morning's light; as if it had never been. He sank to his knees, unable to withstand the force pressing against him – stronger and stronger it was, until he could do nothing more than surrender.
In the far distance, a solitary horn rang out; clearing and louder than even the howling winds.
He woke.
As sudden as he had fallen asleep, wakefulness found him once more; the lands remained grey, skies touched by fretful clouds and tall, snow-capped mountains. The howling bites of the wind were gone – had never been – for Éomer lay wrapped in cloak by the burnt-out fire of the camp. He breathed, deeply and unsettled. Disturbed by the visions of night. How real they had felt; so much so that even now, realising they had been but tricks of his own mind, they were hard to shake.
Éomer slowly came to sit. Around him, the world stirred steadily to life. Tendrils of gold and red broke through the bleak, hoary horizon as the sun rose for another day. A faint trail of mist blurred his vision, yet seemed to steadily lift. Blearily, he blinked, listening then to a wind now only a breeze. It murmured and whispered, dancing a way through grass and field; a peaceful kin of the tormentor in his mind. He struck his knuckles in his eyes; pressing hard, fighting to settle his restless thoughts. To anchor them in reality. Not in dreams ...
"My lord," a voice spoke from above.
With a long-drawn breath, Éomer pried his hands away and looked up. Éothain stood, seemingly uncertain, holding a wide, crudely carved bowl; he placed it before the Marshal, who found it filled with fresh water. "Thank you, my friend," he smiled wearily. He laved his fingers first, watched the faint tremble he could not still, then submerged fully beyond his wrists. It was cold. The other man sat down on the soft ground, quietly waiting.
Droplets ran the length of his arms, soaking into the wool of his sleeves, as Éomer withdrew once more. Then, he plunged his head into the chill water, setting his skin ablaze in pinpricks, splashing both his neck and ears. When he emerged not long after, there was clarity in his mind; another day before him. His shoulders squared and the twitching stilled. The strength of his will hardened. While the steed had said nothing, done little, it had shown him the path – untouched and windless it had been.
West.
The hunting-horn of the Vala, Béma; he, who pursued monsters and evil creatures throughout the lands, had called to Éomer in his sleep. Or, at least, so the stories were told – he recalled his father's voice, spinning great tales of myths and legends, and how one should always listen. A horse of silver and gold, a symbol of hope for those lost to the darkness. And truly ... Éomer felt lost, trapped in his own mind of wretched misery and helplessness. He wiped the water from his face, feeling a soft caress of sun trailing slowly, but surely up his spine. It spilled over the rolling hills, across leagues upon leagues of grass; a world vivid with greens and browns and blues, battling away the broad swath of mist until it was but a faint haze.
Éomer rose and paced the length of the stone-encircled fire. He fell to silent brooding. There were perils ahead, where mistrust and lurking doubt were his unshakable companions. "Bring me parchment and ink," he said, turning around to face Éothain. "Have messengers prepared to depart at once, with haste and in secrecy. We shall wait for war no longer."
Éothain bowed fleetly, before turning to follow his Lord's orders.
It was not long thereafter, when Éomer sat hunkered down over three scrolls, laid flat across his thigh; now finishing the second of two that had been written in haste. With swift-scratched marks of the quill, they were to be brought to Helm's Deep – to his true ally, a solitary watch guarding the way into Rohan from the West – and to Meduseld. When the king would call no council, heed no warnings, the duty then fell to his Marshals. This mantle I shall not forsake, he thought, coiling the parchment into a tight roll.
Secured with his seal, Éomer hesitated but for a moment.
He handed the scrolls to his squire with a word of command. "One for Théodred, the other for the King. And the King only – I will not have my words gone through that serpent's fingers." He could read curiousness in the echoed gaze, and spoke again. "We will return to Edoras, with men enough to secure the road; but without delay, for I believe now, and not later, is the time for action. I have asked the Second Marshal to convene with us there. We may have no real proof of Saruman's dealings, but he shall have my silence no longer."
Then, in pensive thought, he watched; eyes veiled and following the messages delived to riders. The fastest of their group, sure-footed and uncatchable. And unquestionably loyal.
His word would be delivered.
But what would then come of them? What fate – for himself and others – had been put into motion with this dream of strange prophecy? A life; a long life or a short life, the road he was now walking was not alone, for many followed in his wake. His words could mean death for many. He would die by the blade; on the battlefield by sword or axe, or with a throat slit in the dark of night; as much was clear to him. There was no doubt to his own end ... It was only a matter of when. Under the cloudless, light-blue sky, an unseen future painted in uncertainty unravelled before him.
Abruptly, Éomer flattened the last parchment and gripped the quill once more. This, the third letter, took longer to write.
His precious sister was wise – molded by hardships and steadfast sensibilities – until her gaze was left sharp, and her wits sharper. His words were penned with care. Éowyn seemed always capable of reading between the lines, to find whichever truth was hidden in his heart; despite his best efforts to shield her from the war-torn world, and the plight of their people. You deserve better, he thought.
The letter spoke of reassurances. Of the quiet Summer of the East-mark, the foaling; the new and old since her last stay in Aldburg soon three years ago. His fingers uncurled and curled around the willow quill, its tip perched above his last words. A single blotch of black ink. Éomer sighed. The smell of grass and horse was heavy in the air. He wrote of his return to Edoras. With such easy indifference – a mere gathering of missed kin – he feared it too conspicuous, for, certainly, his visit was anything but.
Éomer gave it no more thought, knowing well little else could be said.
And so it was, as he made preparations for the road, that two riders vanished beyond the sun-touched fields West-bound. One for Edoras, and another for Helm's Deep. With a pensive look he watched them depart, for with them they carried tidings of breaking peace. Despite long hours of sleep, he felt haggard. A soft breeze tugged at his cloak, cool and fresh with dew, and Éomer shook himself from thoughts.
Open-eyed I must walk. He tightened his sword-belt, felt the rattling of metal and steel; a weight heavy in burden. With courage, even if there is but a small hope for ourselves. Duty demanded such of him, to face perils where both conviction and despair were akin. He shifted his cloak into place and turned to Éothain. The man had been swift at work, and behind him were his riders at the ready; twenty strong, astride great horses clad in leather and mail. Helping hands with the new foals, but, more than anything, keen eyes and guards of the Marshal.
Spears shimmered in the morning's light.
"We ride now," he said, finding at first his voice thin; almost lost to the air. Then, clearing his throat, new strength rose in him, and his voice rang out much clearer. "We shall ride to Aldburg, to resupply provisions and armour – but know that the road will lead further. There will be little time with your families, and take solace in what brief moment you may have, for I call upon you now; your duty to your King takes us West. Fears and dangers lurk on this path, where once there was peace, and do not heedlessly believe these lands our own." Each knew better then; it had taken but two arrows to paint Rohan's rolling plains in shades of hostility.
Éomer accepted his helmet.
Vigilance or death, he thought.
The stay in Aldburg was short-lived.
In a flurry of commotion, mostly overseen by the strict watch of Éomer's squire barking orders, they departed once more. From the wooden gates, flanked by green pennants battling the wind, they rode two-and-two in a line unbroken; following the dust road with trampling hooves, and heavy hearts. Flat lands surrounding them, Éomer turned his mind to deeper thoughts; he hoped that, with his cousin's help, together they could reason with the ailing King.
For certainly, Théoden, Lord of Rohan, was not well. While in Edoras, Éomer intended to better keep an eye on the decaying health of his liege, as well as the slithering snake of a counsellor. The bitter truth had come to him during the last stay under Meduseld's golden roof. Wormtongue was an enemy of Rohan – somehow, for reasons unknown to all but the serpent's black heart, the man had betrayed his country. His king. Leaked poison into the veins of a noble lord, leaving him blind and deaf to the plight of his people.
They followed a broad swath of open ground, where long ago thickets of oak and walnut had been cut down; it was the main road for the riders of the Rohirrim, as well as traders and merchants, to pass between Aldburg and Edoras. It was a longer way, bringing them many miles around the swiftest, narrower paths, but it meant traveling in safety. The wildwood could here never creep back, for each sapling was churned by wagon-wheels and hooves at each emergence of Spring-bloom.
Way-stones carved with runes came and went quickly, for the riders took no rest during the day.
The meandering road was sprawled with smaller towns and settlements; farmsteads and holdfasts walled in wood, nested between crested hills and deep valleys. The ground was flat and stretching endlessly. Only shallow streams and narrow rivers broke the dusty path, every so often, and supplied water for both horse and rider at midday, when the sun was at its highest.
But in the falling dusk, he could see dark trees looming beyond the stretch of open. And here they made camp, a distance to the thinned forest; picking firewoods, lighting orange eyes in the night, as sleep found them soon on a bed of soft grass. Yet no rest came to Éomer. He sat hunkered over, while his thoughts went out far and wide; listening to the scuffling of his men. The dream had stayed long with him, struggling to find reason within the visions; whether it be a gleam of hope or rueful desperation. Éomer drew a deep breath.
He felt too worn out to feel much, beyond a creeping uneasiness not quite turned to fear. Whispering along the ground flowed a cold air. In the upper skies blew drab clouds, trailing away eastward, and it was not long before the chill turned stifling. Rain followed soon after. Yet he did nothing against the sudden downpour, allowing instead the battering droplets to trail numbing lines down his face.
His devotion and affection for his King – unwavering in his allegiance – was an obstacle to the White Wizard. Éomer understood as much. Until his dying day, with sword and shield, he would keep by his troth. Tilting his head backwards, he stared long into the deep gloom of night; sky and cloud meshed into one, and not a star in sight. Deceitful sickness had, perhaps, claimed the mind of his uncle; but Éomer recalled the twinkle of wisdom in his eyes, the strength of his hands. The devotion in Théoden's heart.
There is still hope, he decided. So long as we are willing to fight for it.
They were not yet lost in ruin.
So it was, as if the Valar themselves had listened keenly to his steadfast dedication, and with far-seeing eyes found a way ahead. The dense cloud-cover broke in a wild wind, for the briefest of moments, to leave a solitary light glistening high above. The rainful air was full of a mingled scent; something that carried him back to brighter days. He knew then, that despite the darkness of night, Summer was still in bloom all around them. Encircled in flowers and life, not yet – and perhaps never – smothered by the world's evils.
Dark thoughts found easy paths to the heart in dark days, but by his will they would not fester.
Throughout the night, the rain dwindled, turned south over distant, unseen, mountains, and left a gap of moonlight through shredded clouds. It brought some comfort to the sleeping forms of his men, bundled silhouettes that welcomed any short moment of respite. The fires had been doused, leaving damp ash and smoke; Éomer rekindled the one closest to him, diligent work until flames crackled to life in soggy wood.
There, by the struggling fire, he sat for many long and quiet hours. Waiting for dawn. He watched the change of guard, the shifting winds; the cold and wet turning of the light. It was to distant bird-song that sunrise came over eastern hills, but a crack of red over a shadowed horizon. The time to depart came swift. And the day's journey went well, and two days went quickly by; for they rode at speed only known to Rohan's horses, and they lingered not in fair woodlands or open fields.
At length they came to Edoras; it was then drawing towards evening, and the gloom of the hill lay dark on the road. The golden hall seemed as if lit by fire.
They passed beneath the shadow of the gate and found the town silent. But Éomer rode steadily ahead, following the familiar path between thatched houses; climbing the road until he came to the steep stone-stairs leading to the keep. Grey clouds from the West appeared laden with rain, once more, hurrying by in a darkening sky; yet still, the roof seemed burning in his eyes. His heart sank a little.
He dismounted Firefoot, handing both reins and helmet to an approaching servant, and turned his gaze to the rising steps.
Long before he reached the terrace, the seated guards had risen. One man stepped forward to meet the Marshal. Green-cloaked and clad in mail, yet his sword hung untouched at his side. Éomer smiled a thin smile, though not without warmth. He knew well the Doorward. "I greet you, Éomer, Marshal of the Mark," he spoke, voice loud and clear. "We received your message yesterday, and have been expecting you ever since."
"And I greet you, Háma," he replied.
The guards opened the doors by command of the Ward; on large, creaking hinges, to the dim hall within. From within he could hear mumured voices, jumbled and indistinct. "The court awaits your arrival," Háma said, stepping aside to allow the Marshal passage first. Éomer's eyes flickered briefly to the man, sharp and understanding; their gazes held for a moment. Éomer fixed his cloak and sword. The court.
Éomer entered.
Not the King.