Yours to Command

Prologue: Of Kings and Queens

3019. This year died Théoden, King of the Mark, who was the son of King Thengel and the last of his line. On the Fields of the Pelennor he named his sister-son Éomer his heir and hailed him King of the Eorlingas.

(The Chronicle of the Riddermark)

***

Edoras, August of Third Age 3019.

There were no rats in the dungeons of Meduseld. Indeed there were no proper dungeons in Meduseld at all, just a small guardhouse set a little apart halfway down the hill from the Golden Hall. All it boasted were a couple of rooms where prisoners could be kept and when there were none of those, as now, it just stood empty. Justice in the Mark was swift and whatever malefactors were caught, were not kept up locked for long.

Éomer regarded the bare little room that had served as his cell a mere five months ago. The pale moonlight streaming through the small window high up one wall let him pick out its sparse furnishings. Not that he needed any light anyway, for he knew intimately every last unevenness of the earthen floor, having paced the length of his cell innumerable times. He took a step into the room and reached out a hand to touch the wall. It was rough and cold under his fingers.

His guards had been deeply uneasy at having to keep him prisoner and had apologized profusely for the thin straw pallet on the floor and the meagre rations. Éomer could probably have talked them into letting him escape, but something had told him to stay and bide his time. He had been proven right by events eventually, but those had been dark and desperate times.

When he had been released, he had expected to lay down his life for his king in one of the many battles to come. It was ironic that instead he had survived the war without a scratch and the mantle of kingship had passed to him.

Behind him the door creaked and he spun round, his reflexes honed by years of living with the constant threat of having an assassin's knife planted in his back. He relaxed again almost immediately, though, when he recognized his sister's slender figure. She was holding an oil lamp aloft and peered at him worriedly.

"Éomer?" she asked. "Éothain said you had come this way. What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Just thinking."

Behind her, he could make out Faramir, his black hair blending into the shadows, and he exchanged a curt nod of acknowledgement with the Prince of Ithilien.

"So what were you thinking about?" Éowyn enquired, not one to give up easily.

He spread his hands. "The past and the future."

When Éowyn kept on frowning at him, he elaborated. "Less than half a year ago I was a prisoner here and now I am King of the Mark."

Faramir's eyes widened at this revelation, but apart from surveying the room with renewed interest, he showed no other reaction. Éomer wondered idly if there were rats in the dungeons of Minas Tirith. Then he noticed the worry in his sister's eyes and felt remorse sweep through him. They had buried their uncle today, yet this was also supposed to be a happy day for Éowyn, with her betrothal to Faramir formally announced.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I dwell on the past too much."

Especially when he had no way to change it. Resolutely he turned his back on the room and motioned to the door.

"Let's go somewhere else and talk about the future. Your future," he said, smiling down at Éowyn.

She smiled back gratefully and together they made their way out of the silent guardhouse. Outside he paused for a moment, surveying the houses spread out below them. There was hardly any breeze and he could feel the stones under his thin-soled shoes radiating the heat they had stored during the day. Over the mountains to the south there were a few clouds, but overhead the stars sparkled like a wealth of diamonds scattered across the sky by a careless child.