The Greenwater

Disclaimers: see chapter one. I still don't own anything, but if anyone is wondering where Karl Urban is, I haven't seen him. Honestly. Excuse me...I have some...laundry to take care of...

A/N: Thanks to Caz for the reviews; you were so sweet that I added two chapters this time round!!!

****
“There is a war coming.” Éomer’s words hung in the air between him and Théalyn and for a moment they were silent, each knowing that this was a stolen moment in a bigger world.

Théalyn nodded then, and she became serious, sliding from Éomer’s lap and sinking into the water next to him. Éomer let out a small sound of protest, but he could see from the glint in Théalyn’s eyes that she was concerned with Éomer’s prediction.

“That is why Thealad left,” Théalyn began, leaning forward to hug her knees to her chest. “They’re all leaving, Éomer. Thranduil is preparing to take his to the West before the spring.” She felt tears gather in her eyes as she thought of Mirkwood, empty of voices and those Elves that she had grown up with. “And Rivendell is all but a dream, now.” Her voice grew quiet and the last words were barely a whisper.

“Do you wish you would have gone with your mother instead?” Éomer asked cautiously.

“I’ve been riding too long as a Ranger. I couldn’t turn my back on Middle Earth. If there’s a chance that something may be done, I want to be a part of it.”

“I would not let you fight,” Éomer pointed out as he turned towards her.

“It is not your choice,” Théalyn countered.

Éomer sighed heavily and his hands grappled onto Théalyn’s wrists. He hauled her upright as he stood with her and he pulled her to his body, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he looked down at her. He felt her breasts flatten against his chest and his other hand slid down along her spine to cup her bottom. “Go to Gondor,” he pleaded. It was the last place he wanted to send her to, the home of her father, but he knew that Minas Tirith would not be easily defeated. Edoras was out in the open and there was only the sanctuary of Helm’s Deep. The White City was ideal and Éomer knew that the sons of the Steward would do their best to protect Théalyn.

Théalyn frowned and then her brows knit together in a scowl. “You know that Denethor would rather pretend that I do not exist.” She shook her head then and continued. “No; I would rather fight and die along side you than sit in a cold stone room in a city too far away with a deranged man deciding what should be done with me.”

“Boromir would never let anything happen to you.” Éomer did not like the fact that the eldest son of Denethor was close with Théalyn; he didn’t trust the Gondorian. Still, it was better that she find safety than meet death.

Théalyn had to laugh at Éomer’s request. She knew that there was no love lost between the eldest son of the Steward and the leader of the Rohirrim. She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. “Are you serious? You want me to go to Gondor? To spend time alone with Boromir? And maybe Faramir? Faramir has always been sweet on me…”

“Shut up,” Éomer growled playfully as he leaned in and captured Théalyn’s lips in a smooth kiss. He moved then, walking Théalyn through the waist deep water towards a concealed corner of the pool. The cedar boughs hung low here and he pushed Théalyn to sit. Catching her behind the knees with his hands, Éomer moved between her spread thighs and slid his hand down to hold his hardened shaft at the base. “I don’t want to talk anymore.” He let her other leg go and used his thumb to press against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. She whimpered and then felt the smooth, hard head of Éomer’s erection press against her. She held her breath and waited.

“Promise me you’ll go to Gondor,” Éomer panted as he rubbed his erection up and down the molten folds of Théalyn’s sex. He slid in an inch but when Théalyn didn’t answer him, he pulled back and smirked at her pout. “Promise me,” he repeated, and his voice grew rougher.

Théalyn looked into the bright emerald centers of Éomer’s eyes and she knew that he wasn’t asking her to do this because he thought she couldn’t fight. He knew she could ride and knew that she could wield a sword and bow better than some of his own men. He told her to go because he couldn’t stand to lose another person so close to him. She nodded then. “I’ll go to Gondor,” she finally replied.

“Think of me while you’re there,” Éomer insisted, and he pushed his hips forward, breaching Théalyn’s body and making her back arch. He sank deep into her until his chest was pressed against hers and his arms were wound around her body. “Think of me inside of you,” he whispered as he began to rock against her. He winced and groaned as Théalyn purposely tightened her internal muscles and bucked her hips against him. Éomer panted and buried his face in her hair. “I need you now, before this war has started, and I will need you when it is all over.” His thumb traced a circle around her clit and he moved his mouth to hers. His tongue sought hers out and he thrust harder, making the water that surrounded their bodies slosh over the edge of the pool.

“I need you,” he ground out again as his hips moved faster. Théalyn pushed her hips up every time he thrust down and she was soon moaning with him.

“I need you,” he said again, this time louder, and it became a chant as he rode her harder and pulled her legs to wrap around the small of his back. “I need you…I need you…need you…Théalyn…” He hissed sharply as he felt her nails dig into the skin of his back and her teeth tore at his bottom lip. His hands moved to her breasts and he pulled and pinched at her nipples roughly, causing her to cry out sharply and stiffen against him.

He felt her tighten and knew that he couldn’t keep control much longer. It had been too long since he had felt so complete in the arms of a woman and for the past ten years, he had, from time to time, thought about what it would be like if Théalyn should ever find her way into his life again. Now she was here and he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to go. He didn’t know if he could go another ten years without seeing her face, without hearing her voice or smelling her hair or tasting her mouth. His fingers left her breasts and he bent to tongue at the tortured flesh, causing Théalyn to cry out louder. She was almost sobbing as he straightened again and caught her eyes. Her gaze did not waver and her hand reached out to grab his and slide it between their bodies to the place where they were joined.

Éomer’s eyes widened as he felt Théalyn help him touch her in the right places and her eyes closed as she inhaled sharply through the nose and then tightened her muscles on him completely. He cried out then, his voice hoarse with emotion, and he begged her to open her eyes in the last few moments of pleasure. He knew he was close; he felt the white-hot lightening bolting up and down his spine and the tingling sensation in his groin. She opened her eyes, bright blue like ten years ago, and she nodded. He pushed into her again, and then again, and whispered once more, “I need you.” He broke then, his voice turning into a growl and then a groan and his back arched sharply as he came, pounding deep into Théalyn’s body.

Théalyn’s eyes widened at the feel of Éomer spilling deep inside of her and she smiled lazily, feeling warm and satisfied. She watched Éomer’s body slow, his movements becoming lazy as he groaned lowly. Eventually, his rocking ceased and he held Théalyn close to his body, his hands slipping under her arms to curve around her shoulders and create a sort of haven with his upper body. There, in his arms, beneath the green branches and the broad face of the moon, Éomer spoke once more: “I will always need you, Théalyn.”

****
Dinner was more of a moonlit snack of roasted rabbit and Théalyn laid out the small amount of fruit and bread she had in her saddle roll. They drank from the icy main pool of the falls and fell into a contented silence. Sleep found them moments later and they lay beneath Éomer’s cloak, their breath soft in the midnight air.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, when the first notes of the lark could be heard but there was no sign of the sun rising yet, Éomer woke to Théalyn climbing atop of him and taking him inside of her, rocking gently against him and languidly bringing them to a soft finish. He smiled up at her, stroking his fingers through her hair. No words were need now, for everything had been said already. Théalyn would go to Minas Tirith while Éomer stayed in Edoras and prepared for the battle that was coming to Middle Earth. Neither of them knew what awaited them the next day.

****
“Is he any better?” Éomer followed Éowyn through the halls of the Great Hall to where Théodred’s chamber was.

He watched his sister frown and shake her head, and she led him into the room. Théodred laid very much in the same position that Éomer had left him in the night before. His color was pallid and the stench of rotting flesh filled Éomer’s nostrils. He grimaced as he knelt next to his cousin.

“Théodred?” Éowyn tried. Her eyes brightened marginally when her cousin moved his head and let out a sigh, but she watched her brother shake his head and motion to the wound. Éowyn lifted the bandage there and tears formed freely in her eyes as she examined the gaping hole.

“The healers have done all they can. They were with him all night,” Éowyn informed. She turned to Éomer then and her eyes flicked to the braid his hair was in. She raised an eyebrow. “Where were you?”

Éomer made a sound in his throat and pushed up from Théodred’s bedside, his hand immediately going to the thong that held his braid together.

“There is a new horse in the stables; I was told this morning. It is a black stallion, Éomer,” she said accusingly. “Where were you?”

Éomer turned on his heel and scowled down at his young sister. “What does it matter? I couldn’t do anything had I been here.” His hand finished tugging the braid loose and he pulled back the front part of his hair and tied it off of his face, leaving the rest to trail over his shoulders. “Where is Uncle?”

****
“Your son is badly wounded, My Lord,” Éowyn said gently as she approached the king. She made a pained face at his aged appearance. She was unsure of what had taken over her uncle’s mind, but it made him decrepit and used up. “My Lord?” She sobbed. “Uncle?” When he said nothing, she looked to Éomer for help.

“He was ambushed. By orcs.” Éomer leaned in and looked into the pale, watery eyes of Théoden. They were unseeing and impassive. Éomer tried again. “If we don’t defend our country, Saruman will take it by force.”

“That is a lie,” a shrewd voice answered. From behind Théoden’s throne appeared Grima Wormtongue in all of his wretched glory. He glanced briefly at Théoden’s form and then back to the pair of siblings at the foot of the dais. “Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally.” His smile was more of a grimace and he turned as he heard Théoden’s feeble voice call for him. He bent to the king’s mouth and listened, all the while his serpent like eyes following Éomer’s movements.

“Orcs are roaming freely across our lands. Unchecked. Unchallenged. Killing at will.” He brought forth the bundle he had carried back with him from the Fords of Isen and held it out to Théoden as he stared Grima down. “Orcs bearing the white hand of Saruman.” He tossed a wide battle helmet to the foot of Théoden’s throne and the crudely designed white hand was bright in the dim Golden Hall.

Grima scowled at Éomer then and straightened, making his way down the dais to stand before the king’s nephew. “Why do you lay these troubles on an already troubled mind?” He sneered then. “Can’t you see that your uncle is wearied by your malcontent?” He watched Éomer’s keen eyes flicker to the king and then back. “By your warmongering?”

Éomer’s eyes widened and he felt anger boil in his veins at Grima’s tone. He took a deep breath. “Warmongering?!” His hand shot out and gripped Grima’s chin roughly, forcing the dark magician to look at him. “How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price, Grima? When all the men are dead, you will take your share of the treasure?” Éomer watched Grima’s eyes look over his shoulder and Éomer turned then to see Éowyn crossing the stone floor of the great hall. She stopped then and made a face of distaste at Grima. Éomer looked back to the feeble man before him and he tightened his hold on his face, pulling him closer and staring him in the eye. “Too long have you watched my sister. Too long have you haunted her steps.”

Suddenly, Éomer felt an arm come about his throat and his hand loosened the grip on Grima’s face. Grima smiled at the appearance of the king’s guards and he watched in triumph as Éomer was pulled back and held prisoner. Grima cocked his head then and looked at Éomer with humor in his eyes. “You see much, Éomer, son of Eomund,” he spat.

A fist drove into Éomer’s gut and he doubled over, his breath knocked from his body, and he lifted his head enough to see Grima approach with a piece of parchment. “You are banished forthwith from the Kingdom of Rohan and all its domains under pain of death.”

Éomer struggled against his captors and protested. “You have no authority here. Your orders mean nothing.”

Éomer groaned as he was struck again and he struggled less as he felt a hand wrap in his hair and yank his head up so that he might meet Grima’s face. Grima’s face was alit with triumph and he unrolled the parchment and held it in front of Éomer’s face. “This order does not come from me. It comes from the king. He signed it this morning.”

Before he could argue, the men that held Éomer dragged him away down a main corridor. Éowyn looked on, but could do nothing. Her eyes found Grima watching her and she sobbed, placing a hand over her mouth and fleeing the Golden Hall.

****
Théalyn paced Éomer’s room as she tried to patiently wait for his return from the Golden Hall. He had asked her to accompany him, but she insisted that he needed to be with his family for the moment. She had only asked for an update on Théodred’s condition when he returned. She turned as she heard footsteps approach but she knew that they were not Éomer’s. They were much too light and quick. Sighing, Théalyn turned to face the door and crossed her arms over her chest, preparing for what would be the onslaught of Éowyn.

Soon enough the heavy oak door of Éomer’s room swung open and Éowyn stood, her hands on her hips and her face flushed with anger. “There you are,” she hissed as she stepped inside. She slammed the door behind her and stalked towards Théalyn, her blue eyes flashing like the sky before a storm. Her hand came back and she swung hard, catching Théalyn’s cheek in an open-palmed slap that rivaled her own mother’s.

“How dare you take my brother from here while Théodred lies dying down the hall?” Her voice was tight with emotion and Théalyn knew that Éowyn was trying not to cry.

“He couldn’t have done anything here, anyway,” Théalyn said coolly as she rubbed at her cheek. She understood Éowyn’s anger, but she was not keen on being an outlet for it.

“He couldn’t do anything?” Éowyn repeated as she advanced once more. Théalyn held her ground and stared down at Éowyn. She paused then and decided that she had gone far enough and she stood and mirrored Théalyn’s stance. “He could have saved himself from being banished!!”

Confusing spread across Théalyn’s brow and then realization hit her like a herd of Oliphants. “Banished? For what? Théodred’s injuries were not his fault…” she defended Éomer.

“It was Grima.” Éowyn sighed and her body sagged as she felt her initial anger leave her body. She looked up at Théalyn’s face and nodded at the red mark on her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she added curtly.

“Don’t be,” Théalyn groused as she picked up her sword belt from where she had laid it over a chair. She fastened it at her hip and made her way to the door.

“Where are you going?”

Théalyn wrenched open the door and looked back over her shoulder at Éowyn. “It looks like I’m going after your brother,” she announced in a firm tone. She paused then and her face softened. “I’m sorry about Théodred. I love him like you do, you know. You have always been like a family to me. Where I had no brothers or sisters, you and Théodred have been there for me.”

“And Éomer? Has he not been like a brother to you as well?” Éowyn’s tone was mocking, but she didn’t care. Her cousin was almost dead, her uncle had been taken over by some malevolent force, and her brother was now banished.

Théalyn took a deep breath and straightened. At her full height, she loomed over Éowyn and she knew that the girl found her imposing. She watched Éowyn take a small step back. “Do not try to assume you know what transpires between Éomer and me. You know that I would never do anything to hurt him.” She turned to the door again. “Which way does he ride?”

Éowyn was silent.

“Which way does he ride?!” Théalyn said, her voice rising.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Where is Grima now?” Théalyn tried, thinking to go to the source of the problem.

“What do you think you’re going to do? Challenge Wormtongue?” Éowyn was nearing hysterics and Théalyn frowned at the sound of the strained voice.

“Obviously you are not. There is something not right here, Éowyn. Only your uncle could sign an order that would banish Éomer. What would make him do so?” Théalyn shook her head again and slipped from Éomer’s room, leaving his sister there to her own devices.

Théalyn’s tread was light as she slipped from one corridor to the next, into an older part of the Hall of the King. She had an idea where Grima was; if he was indeed a wizard, then he would want to be near a source of water. That led her to the chambers in the western part of the Hall, the ones closest to the well. Here, the stones were damp and smelled of rotting earth and incense. Her hand moved to the handle of a door and she tried it, wincing at the squeal of rusty hinges. A rush of foul, humid air wafted from the room and the door banged against the inside wall. It was dark inside, the windows covered with heavy curtains, and the only light was from the candles burning slowly in the multi-tiered candelabras. The breeze from the door ruffled papers that were strewn across a desk and she watched as rats and the occasional lizard scurried from the intruding light of the hall.

“Come to save your love, then?” A bitter voice asked. A figure moved and Théalyn’s hand immediately reached for the sword at her side. Grima Wormtongue whirled on her and she flinched at his waxy pallor and the purple shadows beneath his eyes.

“Where have you sent Éomer?”

Grima chuckled as he moved through the room, obviously not threatened by the appearance of Théalyn. “I have sent him no where. It was the king that signed the order. I merely delivered it.”

Théalyn shook her head as she watched Grima. “You are warg dung,” she spat.

Grima looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “And you are very brave to be coming here, Eraddnian. Very brave indeed.” He paused then. “Or very stupid.” He straightened from his desk and clasped his hands together. “My lord Saruman will be pleased to have you at his home. He thought all of you kind had sailed away already.”

Théalyn watched the worm of a man slither through his chambers, his hands flitting here and there, touching trinkets and caressing the row of skulls he kept on the mantle. She shivered then and took a step back out of the room.

“Yes,” Grima said. “That’s right. Take leave of here now. Go to Minas Tirith like you promised Éomer.”

Théalyn’s eyes widened. “How did you…”

“You can’t fool a wizard, child,” Grima chuckled. “Go to Minas Tirith and warn them. It will be too late to save Middle Earth, mind you, and your journey will be in vain. But you should do as you promised.”

“I will have your head on a spit before this is done,” Théalyn promised. She needed to get away; her skin crawled with the way Grima spoke of her and Éomer’s tryst the night before. Her hand reached for the door and Grima’s voice stopped her again.

“I look forward to it, Théalyn, daughter of Élathyn.”

****
Sleep did not come easily for Théalyn that night. Grima’s words floated in her head and when she did manage to block him from her mind, she felt Éomer’s hands ghosting over her body. The morning came, gray and cold, and she skipped breakfast to find Éowyn. She found the young woman standing on the steps of the Golden Hall, looking out across the prairie that made up Rohan. Théalyn stood silently beside the smaller girl for a moment and was about to leave when Éowyn spoke.

“Théodred died in the night.”

Théalyn’s eyes ground shut and she sucked in a breath, trying to dispel the emptiness in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sorry.” She exhaled and opened her eyes to find Éowyn still staring out on the land.

“Éomer won’t know. He won’t know until word gets to him.”

“I’ll go,” Théalyn offered, moving then to grasp Éowyn’s elbow.

Éowyn sniffed and made no effort to pull from Théalyn’s touch. She was tired now, and Grima’s poisoned words still clung to her skin. She shook her head as an answer to Théalyn’s question. “No; stay here until he is buried. Say goodbye for my brother?” Her eyes found Théalyn’s then and Théalyn nodded.

“Wormtongue cannot be trusted,” Théalyn said, changing the subject somewhat. “Is there no one you can call for aid? Surely Gondor…”

“My uncle has not sought help from Gondor since I can remember. The old alliances have been severed.” Éowyn shook her head. “No, we are alone in this.”

Théalyn was silent then, and she said nothing as she turned from the steps and made her way down to the stables. She slipped inside of the large structure and inhaled the sweet smelling straw and listened to the sounds of horses. She smiled faintly as a black head nosed its way over the gate of the last stall and turned deep brown eyes on the fair-haired woman.

“Hello, Faron,” Théalyn greeted her horse as she moved to the back of the stable. She unhooked the gate and stepped inside of the stall, rubbing her hand down the horse’s face as he nosed her shoulder. Théalyn shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t have any treats.” She paused then and looked across the barn to the opposite stall. It was empty, as were the ones surrounding it. She knew then that Éomer had indeed left, but he hadn’t gone alone. Some of the anxiety that had been clutching at Théalyn’s heart since the night before seemed to dissipate.

She frowned and turned back to Faron. His saddle had been removed and placed over a horizontal beam, and the seat and pommel shone, both having been well oiled. The saddle bag she had tossed aside upon her arrival was hung there as well and Théalyn wondered if Éomer, for his last command as Third Marshal, had ordered her belongings to be looked after. The small square of parchment that was tucked into a side pocket confirmed her suspicions and she plucked the note out and unfolded it, Éomer’s strongly slanted writing coming into focus:

Théalyn,

It is a dangerous time, and there is no doubt a war coming. My suspicions
have been confirmed by that cur of a man my Uncle calls ‘advisor’. The orcs that attacked at the Fords of Isen take their orders from Saruman; I am sure of this as I am sure the sun will rise in the east. Do not dwell here long. Go to Minas Tirith and wait for my arrival there. I will not keep you waiting.

Éomer

Théalyn read and reread the note and then folded it again and slipped it into the small pouch she carried on her sword belt. She looked up at Faron who watched her with concerned eyes and he whickered quietly, waiting for Théalyn’s next move.

Théalyn took her time then and picked up a stiff-bristled brush, preparing to curry the horse’s coat, when voices soon began to carry through the town outside of the stables. Setting the brush down, Théalyn hopped onto a beam beneath the window sill of Faron’s stall and she took note of what was happening. Three horses carrying three men and what looked like a dwarf could be seen making the trip up the side of the steep hill on which Edoras was situated and the gates were opened wide to let them in. A great white stallion, one of the mearas, carried an old man cloaked in white; his long hair flowed behind him and was of the same color. A sure-footed dapple gray stallion followed, carrying what Théalyn could plainly see was an elf and a dwarf. The elf was fair haired and dressed in the colors of Mirkwood and she wondered if this was the son of Thranduil, named Legolas. She had never seen a dwarf before, for they did not live as far north as the Eraddnians, and she smiled at the quaint, compact figure that sat astride the gray stallion with the elf.

She recognized the third figure immediately, although she had never met him. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and known in the Westfold and the North as Strider, rode in on a chestnut stallion, his dark hair hanging around his shoulders and his eyes keen as he took in his surroundings. Théalyn leapt down from her perch then and raced for the doors of the stable in time for them to be pushed open. She skidded to a halt in the straw and came face to face with Gamling, the Second Marshal of the Mark. He led the horses in and was followed by Strider and the elderly man. The elf stayed put with the dwarf and watched closely.

The white-haired man pushed his way around Gamling and took a long look at Théalyn, his eyes taking in her appearance and her riding clothes. He smiled then and gave a small laugh. “Either my eyes play tricks on me or you are the daughter of Élathyn, last of the Eraddnians. Is it not so?”

Théalyn gave him a half-grin but her hand stayed on her sword. “I am Théalyn, daughter of Élathyn. Who are you to know my mother?”

“This is Gandalf the White,” Strider said as he stepped forward and used his body to shield Gandalf. Strider stared at Théalyn a moment and his eyes caught the deep blue cloak and the pale eyes. “You are a Ranger,” he pointed out.

Théalyn snorted. “As are you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

The dark-haired man smiled and gave her a small bow. “We are brother and sister to one another then, are we not?” His smile grew as Théalyn nodded in agreement. “What brings you to Rohan?”

“My business is my own,” Théalyn said shortly and she stuck her chin out in a silent challenge. “What brings you?”

“King Théoden is being corrupted by Saruman the White,” Gandalf said as he leaned on his staff and watched the exchange between Aragorn and Théalyn. “I have come to release him.”

“It’s that snake of a man, Wormtongue, who does the wizard’s bidding. The king’s nephew has been banished from these lands.”

“He is riding north,” Aragorn offered as he watched Théalyn’s eyes soften as she mentioned Éomer. “We came across him and the Riddermark only this morning.”

This information seemed to lift Théalyn’s spirits for she gave a small smile and made her way back to her horse. Aragorn followed her, leading his own mount and Gandalf’s back to the empty stalls. He watched the Eraddnian secure her bedroll and her saddlebags before slipping the harness over the stallion’s head.

“You go to find the king’s nephew?”

Théalyn paused and leaned her forehead against the cool leather of the saddle. She shook her head sadly and spoke. “I made a promise that I will honor.” She looked over her shoulder to Aragorn. “I ride for Minas Tirith. I must inform Boromir of what is happening.”

Aragorn’s blue eyes became saddened and he frowned. “I am sorry, Théalyn. Boromir is dead.”

She flinched, but did not say anything about it. She swallowed and continued in a rough voice. “Then I will inform Faramir.” She swiftly mounted the black stallion and nudged the animal towards the entrance. Only when she was out of the doorway did she turn in her saddle back towards Aragorn. “Saruman will stop at nothing to take these lands. Heal Théoden. Take back Rohan. This war will spread at any rate, but it starts here.” She turned again and rode Faron out of the stables.

Aragorn came and stood with Legolas and Gimli for a moment, watching Théalyn as she wove through the crowds of people towards the gate. He turned to the elf then. “Do you know of her?”

Legolas shrugged. “She is an Eraddnian, that is for certain. I have never seen a better rider that was not an elf, save you, Aragorn. I knew Thealad, King of the Eraddnians, and I would daresay that she is of that royal line. She has his eyes,” Legolas continued.

“And her father’s sense of duty,” Gandalf concluded as he came upon the other three. “Her father was a man of Gondor, a close advisor for the Steward. There is something strange here indeed, if she is heading to the White City.”

The four began the walk to the palace, escorted by a group of Rohirrim and led by Gamling. “Why do you think that?” Aragorn wondered as he looked back again to the retreating form of the Eraddnian.

Gandalf sighed and flexed his hand around the staff he held. “When Théalyn’s father married into the Eraddnians, he left Gondor and all of the time he had spent at Denethor’s side. The Steward felt betrayed and never forgave Ethrimir.” Gandalf straightened then and looked back at the Golden Hall which loomed above them. “There will be time, I think, to learn more about her. We have not seen the last of her. For now, there are more important things at hand.”