Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Thirty-Five - Tokens

Word Count: 2,654 words. 

Warnings: Bit of a filler.

Arathiel palmed the small leather bundle as the Rohan solider slowed his horse. She followed, noting the moderately sized camp that had been set up. The men remained in their armour, swords on their waist despite it having grown dark. There was no sign of threat, at least none that the she-elf could recognise.

"Commander," the Rider, of who Arathiel realised she had never learned the name of, announced.

Éomer, who the elf recognised from when they had found her on the road with her companions, rushed from the large tent placed in the middle of the others. Dirt remained on his face and orc blood stained his hands, but the man looked ready for battle again. Arathiel, however, could notice the tiredness in his eyes.

"What news?" he asked quickly, surpassing the guest that his Rider had returned with.

She answered before he could. "The King is under the influence of Sauron," Arathiel told him, dismounting her horse. "He will not listen to reason."

"Lady Arathiel," Éomer greeted, nodding his head. "I was not aware you were in Rohan. I had believed you were searching for Hobbits."

She swallowed, but he did not notice. "It seems my path has brought me elsewhere. Is there somewhere we may talk? In private?"

He nodded shortly, patting the unnamed Rider on the shoulder and advising him to get some food and rest. The stranger smiled at Arathiel before hurrying off, taking both horses with him.

"In here," Éomer told her, pulling back the tent and gesturing her inside.

A makeshift war table had been placed in the centre of the grass, and upon it she noted how he had detailed the ground where Orcs had been seen. It almost looked as though they had taken all lands that belonged to the Kingdom. 

"They overrun Rohan, and the King knows nothing of it," he told her.

She looked at the Commander. "The King is dying, and we must act quickly, or he will truly be lost."

"You tell me that Sauron has him," Éomer continued, moving towards her. "What does that mean?"

Arathiel took a deep breath before answering. "Grima is a servant of Saruman, and Saruman a servant of Sauron. He has used darkness to take Théodon's mind."

"And so Rohan is lost," Éomer breathed despairingly and running a hand across his beard.

"It is not lost Éomer," the she-elf assured firmly. "The King remains, I have felt it, but I am not strong enough to return him to his rightful state."

"Then who is capable?" Éomer questioned, placing his hands on either side of the table and bowing his head.

Arathiel rushed to place a hand on his arm. "You must return to Rohan, Éomer," she began but he shook his head and turned away, allowing her hand to drop. "You must take Grima from Théoden's side."

"And that will solve this?" the Commander tried, turning on his heel with his arms crossed. "If I take that greasy rat from my uncle's right hand, will he return to how he was before? A King?"

The she-elf dropped her gaze. "It will not. Sauron must be banished from his mind completely," – Éomer scoffed, dropping a hand to his hip as he looked at the men outside the tent – "but it will give us time."

"To what end?" he asked, spotting how they gathered together around the growing fire. They laughed and ate what little rations they had left. Many men were covered head to toe in blood and dirt, as Éomer himself knew that he was too. They were tired, stretched, and their Commander had no idea what he was doing, but they laughed. They still laughed.