A Starling in Rohan

A Second Meeting

"Long has it been since I tasted air as sweet as this," Éowyn said, throwing her hands out wide, taking deep breaths. Her horse's reins fell forward, and it took a few tentative trotting steps, before slowing to a gentle walk.

Éomer caught up to her finally, drawing his own great war horse - Firefoot - to a slow walk beside her. "For a long time, I thought this could never get away from it all," he admitted. "Your recovery was long and slow, and I walked through Aragorn's coronation and wedding as if through a dream. Then taking it all on - some nights this past year I did not even sleep, so overwhelmed I was with work and the duties of a king. Now, you will soon be married - my baby sister. I begin to see the light at the end of a very, very long tunnel."

Éowyn smiled, her heart soaring to hear her brother speak such positive words. She began to speak of wedding plans - it was only a week away.

It was easier to believe in the light in a time such as this. The woods around Emyn Arnen were younger than those in the Westfold of Rohan, spindly little trees that grew together in thickets, yet let the sunlight meander through and dapple the never-ending sea of bluebells with a golden radiance. The long, wide path was clear of logs or fallen branches, was firm beneath the hoof, made even in the year post-war by the King of Gondor's relief efforts. The conditions were perfect for a morning canter. Three of Éomer's men rode behind, ever vigilant with crossbows and longswords - there was still a possibility of danger, in whatever form it might take, thought the war seemed like a distant past when riding through woods so beautiful.

Éomer knew what awaited him when they returned to the village of Ithilien.

The wedding was only a week away. Preparations were well underway - garlands of flowers strung between the village houses, barrels of Gondorian ale, Rohirric mead, and casks of vintage wine stacked in towers, great hammering in the town square where a floor was being built for dancing. Éowyn would be whisked off for a final fitting of her gown, then constantly surrounded by numerous people as she organised a million and one things for the people that would be in attendance. Faramir was in Minas Tirith still, hampered by the many duties of the Steward, but would return that night with the High King and Queen - as well as all their household and other hundreds of guests from the city - who needed food and lodging and entertainment for the weeks of celebration to come.

Whereas he, the King of Rohan, would leave for the study that had been prepared for him, and listen to his marshals' and captains' reports on the increasingly unstable situation of Rohan.

To survive the winter, his people had had to practically survive on the wood of the bottom of the barrel that had already been scraped dry several times over - Rohan was on he brink of a dreadful famine, as well as the lessened but ever-constant threat of any rogue bands of wargs or orcs that had survived the fall of Sauron by cunning alone, and killed anything that stood in their way. Aragorn had helped, in whatever way possible - but Gondor had struggled to rebuild in its own way, and Rohan could not live on charity indefinitely.

If his people turned on each other for lack of resources, or died in their thousands as a result of his inadequacy, it would mean the end of Rohan. His people deserved better than that.

But - Éomer shook his head, and clicked softly for Firefoot to catch up with Éowyn, as she had gone on slighty ahead without him, as he stayed deep in thought - it was a beautiful morning, and a year ago he believed that Éowyn would never be able to ride out with him in the mornings, and chatter about meaningless things like decorations and Gondorian wedding traditions. He would take this moment, and be glad for it.

"Éomer, wait." Éowyn had stopped, and was listening. "Is there another rider coming our direction?"

Éomer listened - yes, the distant thunder of hooves against a dry forest path was all too recognisable. He gestured for Aldred and Théoling behind him, to be quiet and be ready, just in case anything happened. Their party slowed as the rider neared the bend up ahead, and Éomer's hand drifted towards his sword-hilt...