[Private RL with Eowyn] At the Fords of Isen
When word had been sent to Éomer that Théodred and his men had been attacked at the Fords of Isen, the Third Marshall rushed his éored there with all speed.
But they had arrived too late. Dead men and horses littered the river and banks, along with foul creatures, too large to be Orcs but no doubt of the same make. Feeling rage boil within him, it took Éomer all his restraint to keep from spurring his horse on towards Isengard. The king could not doubt now that evil was spreading across their lands.
The thought of the king brought on another thought and his heart seized as though a fist had grasped it. "Théodred..." he whispered in shock. Addressing his men, he yelled, "Find the king's son!"
Quickly, they collectively dismounted and began searching the bodies of their fellow Rohirrim, looking both for Théodred and for any wounded. Éomer's hand itched to draw his sword, to have his foe standing before him so he could strike him down, but he had to satisfy himself with kicking over the Orc-like creatures, and it was then he took notice of the White Hand of Saruman across armor and helm.
"Mordor will pay for this," one of his men spat out.
"These Orcs are not from Mordor," Éomer replied, but before he could say more, he was addressed urgently with "My Lord Éomer!"
He hurried over, recognizing Théodred's armor even as the man turned him over. The earlier feeling of a hand squeezing his heart returned, until he heard Théodred exhale.
"He's alive!" Éomer whispered in wonderment. Springing to his feet, he ordered two more men over to help carry him. "He shall ride with me!" He addressed the éored, telling them to get any other wounded onto horses. They would return to Edoras with all speed.
Rushing to his horse, Éomer suddenly found his fingers unbuckling a saddlebag and pulling out his parchment and a piece of charcoal. He could hardly be said to be thinking clearly at the moment, and that was why he braced the paper against Firefoot's saddle, scribbling out a message to his sister.
Across the top he wrote "Private to Éowyn," and below, "Théodred hurt. Returning to Edoras." It was all he had time for, as he heard his men bringing his cousin up behind him. The charcoal and parchment were stuffed back into his saddlebag, and Éomer pretended he was checking the saddle instead. No one else knew about the means he had to communicate with Éowyn, and they would think him mad if they did know of it.
Théodred was helped up onto Firefoot, then Éomer got on behind him, reaching around to take the reins. He gave a whistle, and the éored departed that sorry place for Edoras.
But they had arrived too late. Dead men and horses littered the river and banks, along with foul creatures, too large to be Orcs but no doubt of the same make. Feeling rage boil within him, it took Éomer all his restraint to keep from spurring his horse on towards Isengard. The king could not doubt now that evil was spreading across their lands.
The thought of the king brought on another thought and his heart seized as though a fist had grasped it. "Théodred..." he whispered in shock. Addressing his men, he yelled, "Find the king's son!"
Quickly, they collectively dismounted and began searching the bodies of their fellow Rohirrim, looking both for Théodred and for any wounded. Éomer's hand itched to draw his sword, to have his foe standing before him so he could strike him down, but he had to satisfy himself with kicking over the Orc-like creatures, and it was then he took notice of the White Hand of Saruman across armor and helm.
"Mordor will pay for this," one of his men spat out.
"These Orcs are not from Mordor," Éomer replied, but before he could say more, he was addressed urgently with "My Lord Éomer!"
He hurried over, recognizing Théodred's armor even as the man turned him over. The earlier feeling of a hand squeezing his heart returned, until he heard Théodred exhale.
"He's alive!" Éomer whispered in wonderment. Springing to his feet, he ordered two more men over to help carry him. "He shall ride with me!" He addressed the éored, telling them to get any other wounded onto horses. They would return to Edoras with all speed.
Rushing to his horse, Éomer suddenly found his fingers unbuckling a saddlebag and pulling out his parchment and a piece of charcoal. He could hardly be said to be thinking clearly at the moment, and that was why he braced the paper against Firefoot's saddle, scribbling out a message to his sister.
Across the top he wrote "Private to Éowyn," and below, "Théodred hurt. Returning to Edoras." It was all he had time for, as he heard his men bringing his cousin up behind him. The charcoal and parchment were stuffed back into his saddlebag, and Éomer pretended he was checking the saddle instead. No one else knew about the means he had to communicate with Éowyn, and they would think him mad if they did know of it.
Théodred was helped up onto Firefoot, then Éomer got on behind him, reaching around to take the reins. He gave a whistle, and the éored departed that sorry place for Edoras.