Eomer One-shot

Within the land of Rohan.

Thrya had always been in love with the beauty and charm of Rohan; how could she not, for it was a beautiful land, full of flat plains and hills to climb, the sky above would seemingly stretch on forever with varied blue hues of the sky itself balanced out with monotonously drifting clouds. Do not mistake the beauty for calm, when the rough weather hit, Rohan and the little village outposts within the plains would spend days just inside in the warm and safety of their homesteads. When it rained, it lashed it down, never flooding but it wasn't the best.

Thrya had always had a yearning to explore the lands of her home, the river Isen was to the west, and to the east was the Anduin, Thrya had not really ventured further than her home to find these bodies of water, but within the geography of the land she could figure out where everything else was, this included Fangorn forest on the border and the elven forest of Lothlórien to the north.

Her father, Torben, never quashed his daughter's want to explore, and a few times he had taken her with him to Edoras, to the Great Hall of Meduseld; the few times where her father was called into action, Thrya would sometimes be left there, looked after and tended to as if she actually dwelt there. She didn't, her and her father lived in a little homestead just east of Edoras, close enough that if needed, her father could ride and answer the call within the hour, if that.

She had grown up watching her father ride proudly alongside the other riders of the Mark, his powerful steed, Silvermane, simply named by Thrya when she was a child because of his shocking ashen mane in contrast to the black of his velveteen coat. Her father's previous horse had perished in a skirmish, and the young horse he was given as a replacement had grown up alongside Thrya. But how quickly Silverman ran through the green plains of the kingdom, his hooves just seemed to fly over the yellow-green grass, hills seemed to not matter to him, less so to his rider.

In these moments where her father was away, and she was left in the Hall, she had come across other children who were left inside the safety of the spacious rooms too. Éowyn was one of these children, she seemed, even as a young child, concerned about those around her. She would check in with other children, Thrya had been confused watching the blonde flit about while her older brother just seemingly watched her, Éomer was still too young to fight, though granted he had tried his luck a few times to try and join in only to get told no.

Of course, parting ways with the children and being taken home by her father was the best way to end the day. Thrya would get told a simplified version of events, keeping the gory details to a minimum, but it didn't matter, Thrya was enthralled regardless; if there was one thing she'd wish to emulate when she grew up, was that she'd want to be as brave, and loyal to a cause as her father was.

As she grew older, Thrya's father had taught her how to ride and wield a sword, his eyes filled with pride as he watched his daughter become a skilled warrior; sure, it may not be commonplace for a woman to be taught to fight, but Torben could see the encroaching orcs venturing ever closer, even bandits had been spied trying their luck. Being at an age where she no longer sought shelter in a hall with others, Torben knew it would be important for Thrya to fight.

Thrya enjoyed looking after the small homestead she and her father had, her home was nestled amongst others, with a vast view of the plains, but despite her love for her home and the life she led, Thrya couldn't help but feel like her true calling was somewhere else.

"They're looking for aid," Torben had said one evening over dinner, a fire was roaring in the heart coating everything in a warm yellow glow. He watched his daughter stir at a pot hanging near the flames, even he could tell Thrya was being stifled here. He never wanted her to be a shut in, it just didn't suit her.

Thrya looked at him questionably, "Aid?" She repeated with a frown, pouring herself a small bowl of soup, she settled down at the small table opposite her father. Reaching behind herself, she unravelled the tie which was keeping her tawny hair up and out of her face while she cooked. Stirring her spoon in her bowl, she leaned her cheek against her other hand. It wasn't that Thrya meant to sound displeased, or confused, and it also wasn't like she wasn't skilful; she could fight, to a point, perhaps not as brilliantly as those actually trained in the Rohirrim, but she had some basic defensive skills. She could cook, sew, perhaps a little wonkily, but sewing was mundane to her, cleaning also was incredibly boring, but doable. "A maid? A servant?"