Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

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The Throne Room is Back!
Well, at least for the month. Eomer is roaming the mark and is available in the Golden Hall for audiences. Eowyn may stop by as well on her visit home! This is the time to bring any grievances, issues or concerns before the king for judgement. Want to just pop in and get a look at Eomer or Eowyn, or pledge your loyalty to the Mark? Coming by to watch the drama unfold and enjoy the show? Go ahead. Just keep things IC and remember, you're in the Throne Room, in the presence of Rohan's rulers.

This should be a loose RPG
An occasion for all Rohirrim, and indeed those of other races, to mix with the King and with their fellows in a more formal setting. But even if it's formal, don't hesitate to bring in a new plot or storyline. Let things happen, use your imagination to make this thread as interesting as possible!

Let the fun commence!!!

NPC Beda, 12 years old

Beda stood at the bottom of the steps, trying to gather courage to enter the Golden Hall. Anyone watching might see her take a step up, then turn around and go back down, only to turn again and pause. After repeating this sequence several times, Beda slapped herself on the forehead and strode in haste up the steps, lest she lose her courage.

At the top, the guards barely acknowledged her request to enter, simply giving an affirmative nod in the direction of the doors. After all, there would be little to fear from a small girl.

Though heavy, the doors swung open easily and Beda stepped inside. The Hall was magnificent and it took her more than a few minutes to make her way to the dais, as she stopped to admire each of the tapestries as she passed. They certainly were lovely, and each told a story, but in truth, she was mainly stalling for time.

At last there were no more diversions and she found herself looking up toward the stern but kind face of Éomer. She quickly dropped to one knee and lowered her head, waiting for the King to give her permission to speak.

NPC Beda

Beda heard a kind voice and realized after a moment that the voice was speaking to her. She had come here to see the king but now that she was here she could hardly believe he was speaking to her.

She rose and looked into the king’s eyes, then shyly lowered her head again. Normally quite a chatterbox, she found words hard to come by in such a grand place.

“M’lord ... sir ... King, sir,” she stammered, not sure how to address Éomer King. “I ... I ... I have done a terrible thing and I have come to tell you and beg your mercy.”

She could say no more at the moment; she wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. She hoped the king would not have her killed for her crime. Who would run the candle shop, and who would be Sheemie’s friend if she were dead?

NPC Beda

If Beda had been in awe at the sight of the King, she was even more so now. The Lady Éowyn! With her arm around her, Beda! She wiped her hand across her eyes again to stem the fresh wave of tears that threatened.

“Oh, no, m’lady!” she cried. “M’lord Éom ... the King, he spoke ever so kindly. He is not the reason for my blubbering. I can only blame myself! I was so naughty ... nay, not naughty ... evil! My mam always told me I would come to no good if I did not watch myself. And now I’ve gone and done it. But I do not want to die!”

Her loquaciousness had returned; it was so much easier to talk with the kind lady’s arm around her shoulder.

NPC Beda

Beda looked up at Eomer King and then back at the Lady Eowyn and back at the King again. She straightened her shoulders and snuffled loudly. Might as well get it over with, she thought. And the King doesn't look so scary after all, and Lady Eowyn seems very kind.

The King had asked, and now he was about to get, a Beda-sized answer.

"My name is Beda, and I live here in Edoras with my mam and younger brothers and sisters. On the edge of Auld Town, in a house that is ever so small for so many of us. And I run the candle shop, my mam makes the candles you see, and I sell them. It's the shop called Leoht Min Fyre, maybe you've been there? No, of course not, you would send someone to buy your candles, would you not? It's the shop that once upon a time was owned by Eléowyn, but now I have no idea where she is. I have not seen her around in ever so long! Not that I really know her, but I know who she is."

Beda paused for a quick breath, then threw herself right back into the story.

"So when I misbehave, mam is always telling me 'Beda, you better watch yourself. When someone does something really bad, the King has them put to death. Or if not put to death, they are banished! So you best behave yourself!' Now, I try, I really do try, to be good, but sometimes I just do bad things without meaning to! Like yell at one of my brothers. Or forget to put the kettle on for mam before I leave for the shop. But these are not really bad things, not the kind I would be sent to you for punishment."

She paused again, fighting back the tears that were now threatening to spill over now that the hard part of her story was about to begin.

"But now ..." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and started again. "But now I have done something really bad, and I knew it was bad when I did it. Yesterday morning, on my way to open the shop in the Riddermarket, I saw something shiny on the ground. I leaned over and saw three silver coins, just lying there! They were so shiny, so I picked them up. I looked all around but I could see no one who might have dropped them. Now my mam always says 'Do not take anything that does not belong to you, only evil people do that,' so I knew better. But I took those coins and I put them in my pocket and I kept them! I knew they did not belong to me, but I kept them! So that makes me evil, just like mam says. So please, sir, if you have to decide between banishing me or killing me, please just kill me. There is nowhere I could go, all alone and so young. I would rather just die quickly!"

It seemed as if she were finished with her story, but there was one thing to add. She reached into her pocket and pulled out three shiny coins. "Here, sir, here are the coins. I was going to buy a small hen so I could have some meat, but I could not do it. They do not belong to me."

NPC Beda

Beda felt a combination of fear and relief. And now hope was also added to the mix of emotions. The Lady Éowyn was being so kind to her, even after hearing how evil Beda had been. Maybe the King would be forgiving and kind as well. Beda waited for his pronouncement with her head bowed.

---

Taethowen had hoped to be one of the first before the King that morning, but it seemed that a child had been hastier than she was that day. So Taeth waited patiently, though she nervously fingered the letters she held in her hand, as well as the insignia of the Second Marshal. Everything had happened so quickly... and there were things that the King needed to know about her sooner rather than later, especially if she was to serve as Marshal again.

When the who arrived before her was finished, Taethowen stepped up to the dais and bowed. When she rose, she took a deep breath, then spoke.

"Éomer King. I am Taethowen Anhyrne of the Eastfold. I am recently returned to the Mark after many years away, and you may already be familiar with my name as I am the newly appointed Second Marshal of the Mark." At this, she held up the insignia. "I also briefly served as the Third Marshal about ten years ago.

"My formal introduction for my appointment is not why I am here today, though. If I may, I would request a private audience with my lord King, though I would be pleased if Lady Éowyn or even Queen Lothiriel would also join us. I have some sensitive matters to discuss."

Hoping that her tone and request was not too impudent, Taeth fell silent and waited for the King's response.

---

OOC @Shivased - don't rush finishing up with @Eléowyn for me! I just wanted to get to the point of Taeth's request so that when you are done you don't have to wait on me again to respond and kick this bit off.

NPC: Malachite Copperstick

Malachite stepped trough the doors of the Golden Hall; his eyes flicked over the wooden walls, tapestries and thatched roof as he marched down the flagged floor. A large fire, set in a brazier, lit the room along with shafts of light from dormers in the roof.

Mal’ eyed the fire with disquiet. Why did these folk persist in placing a roaring blaze at the heart of so much combustible material? It was beyond wit or wisdom to explain!

The tips of the Dwarf’s boots found the edge of the dais, bringing him up short. He turned his thought from a possible fire-storm, eyed the folk assembled below the seats of power of Rohan, and prepared the speech he would deliver to the Lord and Lady of the Mark.

--
@Shivased @Thalionwen Hunigfolm @Eléowyn @Taethowen

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him

He wore his full cavalry regalia that day; freshly laundered with leathers newly waxed and polished, buckles and metal-work buffed until they gleamed. He had trimmed his beard and hair carefully, cleaned every mark of dirt from under his nails, and scrubbed thoroughly in fresh wash-water before dressing with private ceremony. Today was a momentous day, at least for him and one other, and he wanted to give it all the respect and grandeur it deserved. Not because he would be able to meet the royal family after years of cavalry service; as grand an occasion as that might be, it paled in comparison to his real purpose for being there that day. His sword hung from his belt, freshly polished pommel overstating the otherwise simple and functional weapon, but notably within his right hand he carried a long, thin bundle wrapped in rich, dark velvet he had purchased for this very occasion.

As he entered the Throne Room, he was a momentarily dismayed to see that there was already a growing crowd of petitioners engaged with the Royals. He subdued the emotion; he had waited this long for this momentous day, he could wait a little longer; and it would not do to ruin the occasion through haste. He therefore marched a fair distance into the room, halted in the centre of the hallway to salute respectfully towards the dais on which King Éomer and Lady Éowyn were positioned but without actually interrupting them, and then turned sharply to position himself off to one side and take up an at-ease position between two of the pillars. His bundle he tucked under one arm with a flourish in the manner of a riding crop of a dress-commander, and he sighed gently, staring contentedly across the room with a soft smile and the relaxed but alert air of a man who was exceedingly familiar with taking watch duty and was in no rush to be heard and was, for now, willing to wait until he was noticed.

---

Eomer felt his eyes widen and his mouth fall open as he listened to the child, who he knew now was Beda, talk about being bad. He wanted to have a conversation with the child's mother about what met the criteria for death in Rohan and what did not. That one of his subjects would terrify a child with threats that the king would put them to death for normal child behaviour....well, if that was true he wouldn't have lived to see his fifth year, and his sister her third.

He was speechless for a long minute when she had finished speaking and had handed him three silver pieces, unsure of what to say. But, he could feel his sister's stare boring into him and knew he had to say something. He cleared his throat after a minute and an idea came to him. Reaching for the coin purse on his belt he withdrew three gold pieces, winking at Eowyn.

I think your mother tried to scare you into behaving, and did her job a little too wel, Beda, he said finally. You will not be banished or put to death, I promise you that. He reached out and took her hand, pressing the coins into her palm. You found the coins. Someone lost them, and clearly did not miss them enough to go looking for them. That means they belonged to whoever picked them up, which was you. That you came here seeking punishment shows you have a true and honest heart. Take these coins, and go buy yourself as many chickens as you want.

He noted then that a few others had come in and were waiting for an audience, so he raised an eyebrow at his sister and nodded at the child, indicating for her to finish here. I will leave you in my sister's capable hands, and see to the others who have come in. She will make sure you get home safely, and perhaps can give you the recipe for a good chicken stew.

Before Eowyn could reply he hurried away, moving to where Taethowne was. She introduced herself and he nodded, having been briefed on the new marshals. Westu Second Marshal Taethowen hal, he greeted her. He had expected to see the new marshals for an introduction, and was therefore a bit surprised to learn that this was a request for a private audience with his sister or wife. My wife is not present today, and my sister is occupied with the child there, but if you wish we can begin, and have my sister join us as soon as she is done?

He then noted the dwarf who had come in (@Aodh Hammerhelm) and turned to greet him. Westu hal, master dwarf. What brings you to the mark this day?

@Taethowen, @Aodh Hammerhelm and @Allafyrefleorhtlig Eomer or Eowyn will get to everyone, I promise. We might just have to do some timey-wimey stuff and do the private meeting at the same time as we're in the audience hall and just pretend they are happening at the same time. Gotta love Plaza timey-stuff! )

NPC Beda

Beda was starting to get nervous again. Suddenly the Golden Hall was filling up with people who had business with the King. She hoped she would not break down and cry in front of all of them when Éomer King pronounced his judgment.

When at last he spoke, Beda could hardly believe her ears! She had done nothing wrong! It made perfect sense now that the King explained it.

She felt the coins pressed into her palm and as soon as the King withdrew his hand she closed her fingers about them tightly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cried, bowing low. “I shall never forget your kindness! Never!” After looking up into Éowyn’s smiling face, and before the King could address anyone else, Beda called out happily to the others in the Hall, “I don’t have to die!”

It was only then that she looked at the coins in her hand. She had just turned to Éowyn to marvel that her coins had been returned to her. Her eyes grew large as she squeaked out, “These are gold coins!”

Taethowen nodded as Éomer answered her. "We can converse with just the two of us," Taeth replied. "It is merely that what I have to discuss is... of a somewhat personal nature and I wasn't sure if you'd be more comfortable with someone else in the room for the conversation."

The King stepped down from the dais, and motioned for Taethowen to follow him to a separate counsel room. As the door closed behind them, Taeth willed her nerves to calm, somehow, and took a deep breath as she waited for Éomer to begin.

"What is it that has my new Second Marshal here so quickly?" King Éomer asked, and Taeth looked down to pull out the letter she needed first, and held it out with a slight tremble to her hand.

"This is related to my sudden departure as the Third Marshal," Taeth confessed. "During the Southern Storm campaign, I ended up adopting an orphaned boy. Within less than two years, distant kin I'd been unable to track down before contacted me, wishing for his return. When I traveled to Gondor to place him back with his family, I fell ill on the way back. This is a letter* from the head healer at the healing house that cared for me during that time, and it details the circumstances of that illness, as well as the affects I suffered afterwards, including a good portion of time where I possessed none of my memories. By the time I was physically recovered and mentally sound--though still without many of my memories--the healer's house had provided so much care for me that I could not in good conscience leave without reimbursing the cost of my care, so I remained in Gondor for quite some time, working as a seamstress to repay my debt."

When Éomer had finished reading the letter and handed it back to her, Taeth continued, "I bring this up now because I was honest with Marshal Shivased and Marshal Rowena when I first went to the Dragon Room upon my return. I fully intended to be punished for abandoning my post, as I have only a vague memory of sending an official letter of resignation. However, they permitted me perform a task to be re-admitted into the Cavalry instead. At that time, I did request to be placed back in the Third Marshal post as Meduseld was without a Marshal at all. I was denied, though, and I thought perhaps that part of it might be because they'd conferred with you and it had been decided that I was not appropriate material for Marshal. However, when I received news that Second Marshal Rowena had stepped down and I was chosen in her stead... it was a bit of a shock. So I wanted to be certain that you knew of what had conspired.

"However... I am afraid that I have no real reason why my return to Rohan took as long as it did. I spent the better part of the last seven years travelling Middle-earth and, if I'm fully honest, running away from myself. Some of that time, I truly had very few memories of who I was, and I didn't feel that I could return home before I knew that. But as my memories began to return, I didn't know how to face what awaited me back home. I had been away from my husband for all that time, much of it without contact, and when I was finally able to re-initiate contact with him, while he was not unkind, it gradually became clear that the nature of our relationship had... fundamentally changed."

At this point, Taethowen handed over the second letter she'd brought. "Here I've summarized the last year or so of the correspondence I had with my husband, before my return, and the dates of the letters I sent and received. As you can see, it's been about four years since I last received a reply from him. And when I returned to Edoras barely a month ago, I found the house we shared was vacant, and all his belongings removed. There was not even so much as a note left behind to give me some hint to his whereabouts.

"If I may, I would request a letter from m'lord King, dissolving my marriage with Halladan Wlætta. Our unintended separation has now been longer than even the time we knew each other, and I am not certain we would recognize the other, either physically or emotionally, if we stood face to face again."

At this, Taeth fell silent, lips pinching into a thin, nervous line. Her Second Marshal insignia was clutched in her left hand, and she waited to see if she would need to hand it over, while her right hand twisted into the fabric of her skirt. She'd dressed demurely that day, in muted colors and common fabrics, knowing an overly cheery appearance would have been inappropriate with the sort of requests she had to make.

She had one more final thing to share with Éomer, but it was dependent on the dissolution of her marriage, and so she waited, mouth dry and stomach fluttering, for what the King would ask and decree.

---

Minor godmodding of Éomer done with @Shivased's permission, for the sake of speeding this bit along.

OOC Notes:
*I am going to eventually write this letter and post it... somewhere but just haven't gotten there yet LOL. In the meantime, much of what occurred IC is detailed here.

NPC: Malachite Copperstick

The Dwarf waited to be called forward by the Lord of the Mark. He shuffled his feet as he realised how filthy his boots and trousers were, and wished he’d at least combed out his matted beard. Éomer’s gaze fell upon him at last (did he decry a twinkle of amusement in those bright eyes?) and asked his business.

“Malachite Copperstick at your service, Éomer-king,” Mal said, bowing low in the manner of his folk. He held this position for a few seconds, emphasising his respect for the royalty of Rohan, before continuing:

“I have travelled from Erebor with a consignment of jewellery for one of your folk, lord, Goldwhæt Dooley. I come also in search of my sister, Amethyst Copperstick who visited your fair land for its Summer Festival.

Of course the matters of my business are of little interest to you, but I speak them as a courtesy. But I bring also greetings from King Thorin Stonehelm, and from your comrade Gimli, who sends with me a token of his friendship.”

--
@Shivased

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him
(Standing in the shadows, off to one side)

He was standing there a while relatively unnoticed before it finally dawned on him; nobody seemed to recognise him. Despite his formal uniform and cavalry insignia clearly on show, there was not a glimpse of friendly recognition on the faces of those who glanced in his direction; not even the cavalry soldiers on duty that day seemed to realise who he was.

He had never realised that cutting his long hair off and trimming his beard away to a short, neat cut would have such a profound effect on his appearance. It had just been something he felt was right, an external representation of the transformation that he had undergone in the last couple of days.

He had still been reeling from his unexpectedly sudden transfer from Helm’s Deep to the Meduseld Éored when he had taken the evening off to go for a quiet drink. At the time the summer festival had been wrapping up, and he had decided to forego the lively After-Party in favour of the quieter and calmer Horse and Rider Inn. There, he had met Sigrid and finally starting putting some of the demons from his past to rest, and had decided after a life-time of service and sacrifice that maybe it was finally time to start looking for hope and happiness in his own future.

It had been only the very next day, when he had answered the cavalry summons to the Dragon Room, that he had met his new Meduseld comrades and, most notably, his new commander Third Marshal Gwai. Unbidden and unexpected emotions he never thought he’d feel again had bubbled to the surface in her presence, despite the brevity of their interaction. Her sympathetic approach to Dryhtguma Audley’s comments suggestive of potential harassment or bullying, and the gentle but firm approach she had taken towards the trainee who had the night before somehow given her a black eye (he still had yet to hear the full tale of that) had warmed his heart; she was firm but fair, sympathetic but expecting some reparation, commanding but with a sense of humour. It would be an honour to serve beneath her, he had told himself, trying to insist to himself that was all his emotions were trying to convey.

And then there was Éomund. His sword-brother-son, found-family-nephew. The sight of him standing companionably with Walpurga in the Dragon Room and the news the young man’s childhood friend Caddrick was apparently a resident in Edoras had re-assured Grimthain that he was surrounded by friends. The knowledge that his found-nephew has been pranked by a commander and news of him completing his training and making his oath had made him realise his found-son was true cavalry now, and a man in his own rights. The youngster was setting out on his new life, and although Grimthain had vowed long ago to protect and care for Éomund like a father - in honour of a fallen comrade and friend - the truth was that Grimthain was now much more redundant. It was time to step away and let Éomund build his own life, *his* way, and free from the stifling expectations and influence of older has-beens like him.

Éomund was the only child of his best friend Éodred who died all those long years ago under Grimthain’s first command. His sword-brother whose loss had destroyed him long ago, and who he now knew was watching him from the ethereal halls beyond, supporting him on this momentous day. He could almost feel the warm smile of approval and Éodred’s hand resting on his shoulder companionably, though his logical mind told him it was only the beam of sun-light that had shifted across the hall since he took up his sentry and was now falling over his right shoulder.

The spirit of the father would be here this day, he was sure, to witness Éomund’s entry into the cavalry and receiving of his father’s sword from the King himself. Perhaps Éodred had always been bound to the sword, waiting for this day. Grimthain has come to realise he himself certainly had been, and the ceremony of handing over of the sword was in some ways a representation that he had fulfilled his vow, and was liberated at long last to turn instead to fulfilment of his own life.

It was a little terrifying, truth be told, for a man like Grimthain who had until this date led a life made simple by being dictated by routine and duty. He didn’t really know what he would do now. But everything that had happened these last few days had led Grimthain to the conviction that he needed to start his own life afresh.

And so, before he had come to the Throne Room today, he had taken scissors and blade to his long hair and thick beard. It was an act reminiscent of his major depressive episode after the burial of the children from Sigrid’s village, when he had shaved himself clean in a desperate attempt to express his grief and self-loathing in an act that had finally been the breaking point for his then-fiancée, the crux of the tension that had ended their relationship, amicably but heart-breakingly for Grimthain.

However, this time he did not entirely shave away his long hair and beard - grown and maintained throughout his life since that day - as an act of despair, but instead as an act of hope. He hadn’t realised it, but the loss of his long locks and bushy beard (and lengths of scorched hair that had been badly damaged in the recent fires) had a profound effect on the appearance of the man. He suddenly appeared 10 years younger, at least, and closer to his actual age in his early thirties than the ragged 40 or so grizzled veteran he had appeared. Revealing his chiselled, masculine jaw brought a new shape to his face, and his blue eyes seemed to increase their sparkle and hue now they were no longer framed by long, greying-brown hair.

It was a new look for a new man; one reborn from despair into hope thanks to the actions of so many kind and compassionate people here in Meduseld.

Stepping out of the shadows and presenting himself before the Royals to make his petition

As the realisation no-one recognised him finally dawned, his new-found confidence and conviction solidified. He would wait no longer; this re-vitalised and re-formed Grimthain was going to *pursue* what he wanted, and not wait idly by content to be forgotten in the shadows. He stood formally to attention with a stamp that echoed through the hall, and marched forwards in a wheel until he stood immediately before King Éomer’s throne. He trusted in his militant march and clear intent not to stop or be diverted - and Bema help anyone who didn’t shift out of the way for they would swiftly feel the slam of rod-straight arms and stomp of his boots - to clear his path until he came to a smart halt before the royals, the velvet-wrapped sword still leaning against his shoulder.

He saluted crisply, and then said in a loud, confident voice. “Lord Éomer, Lady Éowyn. I am Æthelwigend Grimthain of the Meduseld Eored, formerly of the Westmark where I, until recently, held the rank of Watchmaster at Helm’s Deep dungeons. I come to you this day to request a boon of you.” He shifted the bundled-sword from his shoulder and, kneeling and bowing his head, presented the velvet-wrapped sheathed weapon to them. “I present the sword of Éodred son of Éothain, Dryhtguma of the Westmark, who first joined the cavalry in his late teens and gained renown commanding a corthor of child-warriors - myself among them - in defence of Helm’s Deep against the traitor Saruman’s forces during the War of the Ring. His father fell honourably in that siege, and thereafter Éodred committed his life to serving his country, from aiding in the defence of those who remained when the cavalry muster rode to the Pellenor Fields in answer to Gondor’s call for aid, all through his years until he fell on foreign soil during the Northern Wind campaign. He was my best friend, my sword-brother, and he fell while under my command; my first command given as a field promotion in the midst of the battle. In his honour, I have carried his sword since that battle, and have...” he hesitated for a moment, checking his conscience, before continuing on as honestly as he could with deference to both guilt for his best friend’s death and lack of remorse for his efforts to provide for his remaining family. “I have done my very best to provide for the wife and son he left behind him, in his memory and in repayment for having allowed him to fall beneath the onslaught of the enemy when I was responsible for keeping him safe.”

He lifted his head up to look the King in the eye; a clear look that asked for no forgiveness or mercy, but was instead focussed not solely on recounting ancient history of the past but was also intent on building a strong future for a young man he cared deeply about.

“Today his only son, Éomund son of Éodred, completed his cavalry training and was accepted into the cavalry as a fully-fledged Sperewigend. Even now he is likely making his cavalry oath, and I have every conviction that he is set to continue his father’s legacy, and is sure to serve the cavalry and his King with honour and respect. I come here today to ask if you would do me the honour of presenting Éomund son of Éodred with his father’s sword, which he does not know I have been keeping safely in my possession in hopeful anticipate of this momentous occasion. If you would please grant me my request, I will send word to Éomund to present himself formally here without delay, and if you would be so merciful and kind as to agree, it would be a great blessing to me if I could be witness to the moment my sword-brother-son is gifted his father’s sword by none other than the King of Rohan himself, a great man that both his father and I have always held in the the most high regard.”

---

Amethyst Copperpick, being mortified

Before she left Edoras, Amethyst had heard that the King was holding court in the Golden Hall. Well, loving shiny things as she did, she couldn't pass up an opportunity to see inside somewhere labelled Golden. She didn't particularly have anything to say to the King, she just wanted to have a look, to say she'd seen him and maybe even his sister or wife. Surely, as royalty, they would all be paragons of fashionable dress. She had gone for an understated outfit (for her), with a wine-red dress and long boots, but offset with plenty of gold jewellery.

Amethyst paused on the steps, brushed a flake of soot from her shoulder, and strode through the open doors. She stopped, and almost strode straight back out again. A muscle twitched by her left eye, her jaw clenched. Here, of all places?!? Resisting the urge to flee, the dwarf took a couple of hesitant steps until she stood behind one of the massive carven pillars stretching up to the roof. She peered round the side, trying to keep a view on the dias and the dwarf presenting himself to King Éomer. It was him! Mal'! Durin's beard, but she would flay him alive. How dare he turf up in Meduseld in such a state! At least no one would necessarily realise they were related, she thought, but too soon. Malachite had already mentioned her name (although he'd translated her current surname slightly incorrectly) and she couldn't help but groan. She hid her face in her beard and hoped it was all just a nightmare induced by the revelry of the festival after-party.

Private audience with Taethowen

When Taethowen consented to the audience being just with him until his sister was able to join them he motioned for her to follow and, stepping down off the dais, led her to a smaller counsel room off the main throne room. Upon being asked what her reason for the private audience was, the Second Marshal handed him a letter. Taking it, he read it quickly, his face impassive, and listened as she explained what the letter meant. He had to think back a bit, but did remember the incident, and the letter that had been sent to him and the marshals at the time.

I remember the events you describe, and an official resignation being sent. I don't remember the exact wording of the letter, but do recall it explained that there had been a medical emergency of some sort and that you would not be able to return to your duties for some time. he assured her, wanting to make sure she knew that there was no ill-will from her resignation years before. I was not aware you had asked for the position of Third Marshal, though once Marshal Rowena stepped down, I did discuss the replacements with the First Marshal, and between us we agreed you would be the best choice, along with Marshal Gwai, he continued. That decision will not change. The rank is yours by the choice of myself and the First Marshal, knowing fully the events that have transpired in the past. It is yours to keep. His voice was firm, conveying only conviction that the best riders for the marshal roles had been chosen and leaving no room for argument. He briefly frowned when he said he hadn't heard about Taethowen asking for the third marshal position, but the frown passed quickly. Things were often hectic and busy, so it was completely plausible the marshals had not yet brought the request to his attention yet.

Handed more parchment, this time a letter detailing the decline in contact with her husband, he perused them while she explained what they were and what her request was. He didn't answer for a minute, needing time to sort through the information he'd been given. Handing out a marriage dissolution wasn't something any ruler did lightly, and he needed a minute to think. His thoughts went over his own marriage and how Lothiriel would feel if he suddenly stopped communicating with her, or how his sister would feel if Faramir did the same, and shuddered internally.

You took the time you needed to heal and return to yourself before returning to Rohan, and chose to be honourable and pay back the debt you felt you owed the healers there he said finally, handing back the letters to her. There is no reason to be ashamed or embarassed, or to think you did wrong in that.

Going to a small table where quill, parchment and ink were stored, he took up a quill and began writing. As for your husband, you tried to stay in contact and returned to him as soon as you could. It is therefore he who is in the wrong for abandoning you. Marriage should not be taken lightly or a wife discarded simply because there is distance between the pair. He signed the bottom of the parchment, dusted it to dry the ink, and placed his seal at the bottom. Then, rolling it up and tying it with a piece of green ribbon, he held it out to Taethowen. Your request is granted, and your marriage dissolved. I hope you find a better and more caring match in the future. Is that all or do you wish to speak on another matter?

---

Out in the Main Throne Room
(Takes place before or after the private audience.....timey-wimey stuff is happening.)

The dwarf introduced himself as Malachite Copperstick, and stated his reason for visiting. It seemed he was a trader and was here to meet with his sister who had attended the summer festival. Eomer nodded politely and glanced at his sister, hoping she would take over here because he wasn't quite sure what to do or say. Though he enjoyed interacting with people from other kingdoms, he wasn't all that interested in the dwarf being there to meet his sister somewhere. I hope your business is fruitful here and that you and your sister find anything you need.

His eyes lit up though, at the mention of Gimli and he smiled. Send my greetings back to your king Dain Ironfoot, and please, extend to him an invitation to visit Rohan if he chooses. We would be happy to show him the hospitality of the mark. He briefly thought of Gimli and grinned, a memory popping into his head of a rather soused dwarf shouting that the elf Legolas couldn't hold his liquor before falling off his stool, out for the count. And give my best to Master Gimli, it has been too long since he and Master Legolas visited us in the Mark. If he wishes, tell him there are several casks of fine Rohirric ale waiting for him here!

There were more people in the Throne Room now, and glanced at them. I'm sorry, Master dwarf, but there are quite a few here waiting to speak to someone. I must beg your forgiveness and see to the others here. If there is anything else you wish to discuss with me, remain here and I will return in a short while. He noted another dwarf had entered, this one appearing to be female (though it was hard to tell, what with the beards and all) and she didn't look too happy. Though I think your sister wants a word with you, he added, pointing behind the dwarf to the female.

Making his escape then, so as not to be involved in the family drama he suspected might erupt, he moved to the next person, this one he vaguely thought he should know, who had just stepped out of the shadows. When the man introduced himself as Grimthain, Aethelwigend of Meduseld, he at first frowned, then quickly schooled his features into a pleasant look as the man explained why he was there. He frowned again, casting his mind back to the War of the Ring, but couldn't recall the soldier Grimthain was talking about. True, he didn't know or remember every soldier in the Cavalry, then or now. That would be impossible. When it came to the war even more so; sometimes he remembered it in perfect detail, and other times he remembered small snippets, as if it had all been a dream. But as he thought, the memory of a young man leading a corthor of children came to his mind. He had briefly met the man, only a bit older than the children he had led, after the battle, at Helm's Deep. The memory was short and without detail, but he did remember the young man.

He listened to the rest of Grimthain's story and the request that came at the end of it. Regarding the man who was kneeling before him with a sword wrapped in velvet held up for him to take, he shook his head and lifted his hands to indicate he wouldn't take the sword. Then, he realized that Grimthain couldn't see him with his head bowed, so lowered his hands and reached one out to rest on the man's shoulder. Aethelwigend Grimthain, stand. he said gently. When the man had done so he gestured to the sword. I remember the man you speak of, but only vaguely. I met him once, I believe, in Helm's Deep, and remember him by the legacy he left as a brave and strong commander, inspiring and providing a role model for the boys forced into war far too young. He had to pause here as memories of the battle and his uncle being forced to call boys, far too young for battle, to fight for their country.

Because I remember him only vaguely, I think I am the wrong person to present this sword to his son, he told Grimthain. The sword should be presented to Eomund by someone who served under his father in the War of the Ring, beside him for years in the Cavalry, and commanded him during his final battle, and is now taking his son under their wing to help them become the great warrior his father was. He paused before continuing. I can tell you that dwelling on deaths under your command will no you no good. Soldiers die. Good soldiers die. And as the one in charge, we will always question our decisions that day and ask if we could have done something different. But we can't.

He gestured towards the sword. You were Éodred's comrade and brother, and you should present the sword to his son. I would be happy to call for Eomund to come here so you may present it, and I will welcome him to the Cavalry and present his insignia to him if he has chosen an Eored, but the sword should come from you.

NOTE: We're going to jump in time a bit here, and do some wibbly-wobbly stuff with time. So from here, things will be set AFTER the Lost and Found Cavalry RP, in order to get in some Ruler-y stuff and requests people have of Eomer.

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him

The words spoken by the King moved him, and reminded him that his relationship with the Éomund son of Éodred had never solely been one of duty, at least not for many years. In many ways, Éomund was the son Grimthain would likely never have, and Lord Éomer's words recalled the cavalry veteran to this. While Grimthain was no longer beholden to raising and providing for the boy, he was still family. It lifted a weight of emotion from Grimthain's shoulders that he had not realised had been burdening him. Even now, with Éomund making friends and joining the cavalry and starting on a new life, Éomer had reminded him that he was not redundant. His sword-brother-son would still need a father figure, would still want him around. Neither of them would be alone.

More so, the words of wisdom the King gave him eased a burden of guilt that the soldier had carried with him for far too long, and for a moment he could almost hear the voice of his fallen friend and comrade Éodred echoing through the hall, although only he seemed to be able to hear it. "Listen, brōþor, and heed the King; let not my death be a burden to you, but continue to raise my son as your own with my blessing, and you will know I rest in peace safe in the knowledge that he is loved by you, and you by him."

He could find no way to express his gratitude to his King in that moment, so settled for simply stating "Yes, sire" in a voice that sounded momentarily gruff and strained with his emotions even as tears threatened in his light blue eyes. He stood up, saluted once more, and then moved away from the dais to allow other petitioners to see to the king while he sent word for his found-nephew. He decided on this occasion he would let him rank work for him, and approached one of the (NPC) guards at the door to aid him on his mission; the man had overheard his petition and the King's response and was more than eager to help.

"Please go to the Cavalry Courtyard and check within the Dragon Room, and there locate Éomund son of Éodred, who recently completed his cavalry training and is soon to make his cavalry oath and be initiated into an Éored. Tell him to dress in his finest cavalry regalia without delay and report to the Throne Room with haste. If there are any with him, particularly if there is a dark haired, blue-eyed young woman, tell them they are welcome to attend alongside him; I have a feeling Éomund will not be regretful of having his friend's witness this day." he commanded with a grateful smile as the sperewigend immediately leapt away to the task, before returning to his place on sentry in the shadows to await the arrival of his soul-son.

---

It had been a hectic several weeks. Fires, blindfolded and dumped in the wilderness with no supplies, promotions, a badger attack, a kick in the face...Rohan hadn’t changed a bit, and Gwai was glad, albeit surprised she had escaped with only a lingering cough and a hopefully already fading black eye.

The Throne Room in the Golden Hall looked much as it had the last time she had visited. She would like to say she was unchanged, but that was likely untrue. Ten years had passed, and while she was now more experienced, and hopefully wiser (one would hope, considering her new rank), she still felt the same thrill of nerves as when she was a young sperewigend as she walked up the stairs of Meduseld.

She nodded at the wigends guarding the door, who saluted her when they recognized her, although as she was still wearing her insignia as well as sash, it was not difficult. Her boots were shined to a mirror polish, new breeches, cavalry cloak jauntily tossed over her shoulder, sword freshly sharpened, although not visible in it's sheath buckled around her waist. She was still trying to ensure she knew the names of all the Meduseld members, but she knew these by name. “Ælfred, Matilda,” she murmured, returning their salute, as Matilda opened the door. “Marshal Araina Feorsteorra for the King,” she said officially to them, even as she thanked Matilda and moved immediately inside, coughing slightly into her hand.

The Throne Room was more crowded than she expected. She immediately spied two dwarves, one of whom looked familiar from where she stood, as well as several others. She looked about for Taeth, as they were to pledge their swords together to the King, but it looked as if she was a few minutes ahead of the Second Marshal. She was glad, as it gave her time to readjust to the Throne Room.

She immediately spied King Éomer. He was hard to miss even in a crowd, and had changed but little since her days as a young pæthfindian when she had met him. Although she was now older, and a Marshal to boot, she still felt a twinge of excitement as she waited. She stifled a cough, annoyed she could not fully suppress it.

The King was speaking with a man Gwai did not immediately recognize. She could not quite see his face from where she stood, but his confident stance, square set of his shoulders, and well groomed person sent a slight blush of color rise to her face.

Stop it, she told herself firmly, not having reacted this way for years. You’re here for a reason.

The man speaking with the King turned slightly during his conversation, and Gwai tried not to start as she looked at his face. His face was familiar, but his hair and beard were closely trimmed. Her breath involuntarily caught. It was Grimthain!

She hurriedly lowered her eyes so as not to give away her thoughts, although the man likely could not see her. She had already been immeasurably impressed by her interaction with him in the Dragon Room. Experienced, confident, and by reputation had clearly commanded the respect of his men. She had already been taken-in by not only his record, but by her brief interaction with him. However, she wouldn’t lie to herself...it was impressive what a shave and a haircut would do.

It was impossible not to overhear some of what Grimthain and Éomer were discussing, as neither were trying to speak quietly. The Æthelwigend spoke concisely yet eloquently of the Battle for Helm’s Deep in the midst of the War of the Ring, as well his sword-brother’s demise during the Northern Wind campaign.

Gwai blinked, willing away the tears that had risen unbidden to her eyes. This was not the time, nor the place, she told herself. Éomer spoke of remembering the sword-brother Grimthain spoke of, but gave the Æthel leave to present the sword Grimthain had saved for these many years. Gwai swallowed hard, digging her nails into her palm. Not the time, she reminded herself fiercely. She had been but a new recruit during the Southern Storm Campaign, but she remembered distinctly the bonds of family which were forged during the battles. Her respect for Grimthain only increased as she heard his tale, and the King Éomer recommended summoning young Éomund. Gwai suppressed a smile. Éomund was one of her favorite new recruits, particularly as she had recently pranked him in the Dragon Room. She was immensely looking forward to his response, she thought, thinking ruefully of the black eye he had inadvertently given her.

Grimthain stood and saluted the king, and moved immediately toward the doors to have a quiet discussion with the guards. Gwai took a few steps toward one of the pillars and tried to concentrate on the others in the Throne Room. She had a difficult time focusing, forcing herself not to turn to see where Grimthain had gone. His business is his own, and he cares not about yours, she warned herself sternly, trying not to think why she was acting like a star-crossed young girl. Besides, you had a black eye the one time you met him, she told herself firmly, hating that she cared about something so superficial. She had never before cared what anyone had thought of her appearance. It's because I am so newly returned, she tried to fool herself. She instead focused her eyes forward, albeit her left eye halfway swollen shut and in varying degrees of purple, years of training aiding her thoughts refocusing. Her training was not successful, however, in trying to stifle a cough once more, with only limited success.

She soon realized Amethyst was the familiar Dwarf, whom she had met during the Mx Meduseld competition, and had the privilege of sharing a drink at the after party. She offered a smile and a wave, not wanting to disturb the Dwarf (Dwarfette?) as the King addressed her apparent brother, but would be pleased to share a word if time permitted.

Gwai leaned against the pillar toward the back of the Throne Room, trying again not to cough. Her mission not urgent, and she was happy to allow the others to approach the king first, particularly as was waiting for the Second Marshal. She refused to glance behind her toward the doors to follow where Grimthain had gone. He doesn’t even know you, she admonished herself, forcing her attention forward, as she coughed once more, forcing herself not to wince as she braced her hand against her ribs. The smoke had affected her more than she had realized that night, but she refused to let it interfere with her duties. Her stubbornness of course had nothing to do with the vile concoction one of the haelends would likely force her to take..

When Éomund arrived in the Throne Room, he stopped short, uncertain of what he was supposed to do. One of the guards let him in and he slowly entered the magnificent building. He had been inside once before - when he was just a small boy and the king had held a memorial for all the soldiers fallen in battle during the Southern Storm and Northern Wind. But now he was supposed to be entering it as a man, as a member of the Cavalry and his presence had been requested.

As he entered the hall, he saw Grimthain standing alongside one of the walls. His uncle looked a bit different and it took him a moment to realise he had cut his hair! Éomund could hardly remember what he looked like with long hair, though he did recognise the uniform, which had always been a welcome sight. He instinctively headed towards him, knowing that he along, with the king, and requested his presence.

And then he saw Marshal Gwai, who still terrified him to a degree, despite her good-natured attitude and cheerful disposition. Nearing the middle of the room, he stopped short once again, his eyes darting between Grimthain and the King, wondering which direction he should go in. What would his father do? Or what would Grimthain do? Éomund bit his lip as he stopped heading towards Grimthian and instead turned to face the king. Knees almost knocking together, despite the kindly look on the man's face, he slowly approached the king and knelt down, bowing his head. A few stray strands of blonde hair covered his face at the movement. In a barely audible voice he said, "I am Éomund, son of Éodred, milord." Whatever happened next was completely out his hands.

The messenger too approached the Throne Room, insignia in his hand, but noticing Éomund before the throne, did not yet approach Éomer. Instead, he joined Grimthain, who was standing in the shadows.

@Allafyrefleorhtlig and @Shivased (Ok, Éomund is in the Throne Room. Do your bits presenting the sword, insignia, and letter however you wish. I have a rather emotional post with his reactions, especially in regards to the sword and letter almost ready to go.)

(Edited cause I forgot a rather important bit about Grimthian)

NPC : Sheemie Rheus

Sheemie shuffled through the doors to the great hall, he took several uncertain steps along the aisle then halted. He blinked in the gloom and took a deep breath. So many people, he thought. Maybe now was not a good time to start bawling his troubles to the King? But if not now, when?

The bulky lad squared his shoulders, drew another lungful of air and stepped forward. The Hall was more fabulous than he had imagined it, though a little dark after the bright sunlight out doors. But there was more than firelight he saw as his eyes adjusted, bright slants of light from the windows high in the roof lit up big pictures hung from the walls. Sheemie liked these best of all: close by he saw Folca hunting a very large boar, further along King Eorl rode his white horse over a field of green.

Sheemie was halfway down the aisle, halfway to having to speak to the King, when he heard an unmistakable voice:
“I don’t have to die!”

He pulled up sharply and gawped. Die?! People came here to find out if they would live or die? Lawks, why ever had he come here? What was the Beda-sweoster doing in this scary place?

The light from the dormers dimmed as clouds covered the sun momentarily. Sheemie stood open mouthed and trembling.

“These are gold coins!” his sweoster trilled as sunlight spilled into the Hall once more. Sheemie’s face beamed as an image of a bright white sun flared in his head.

“Beda!” he hollered, as he rushed to meet her. “They fixed him, Will and his m’lady-Eléo… They done battle with the Brack Man, and fixed his clock for good!”

--

NPC: Malachite Copperstick

Mal’ bowed again at the King’s gracious reply. Ignoring a sudden uproar at his back (Sheemie Rheus) he stroked his beard and smiled at Éomer:

“I’m sure King Thorin shall visit the Mark at some point, lord, and when that time comes he shall travel with Master Gimli in his entourage. I thank you for your time taken considering my own trivial matters, and present to you…”

Before Mal’ could hand Éomer the casket he’d carried from the Lonely Mountain, the King was off on some matter of state. But not before mentioning the fact that Mal’s sister was IN the Golden Hall.

The Dwarf turned and scanned the wide spaces of the room. A tall blonde lad and the girl who’d left with gold in her tiny hands stood midway up the aisle. He saw no-one else at first, but scanning the rows of pillars that flanked the tiled walkway he espied a splash of red in the shadows.

“Hoy, Amethyst!” he called, hopping several benches and stools as he headed across the Hall. “Is that you skulking behind that pillar? Come out into the light and say hullo to your dearest brother!”

--
@Elarith @Eléowyn @Shivased

Private Audience with Éomer
Timeline: Between the Cavalry promotions and the beginning of Lost & Found

"The rank is yours by choice of myself and the First Marshal, knowing fully the events that have transpired in the past. It is yours to keep." The King's tone was firm and resolute, and the relief that washed through Taeth then nearly had her pressing her hand to her heart to calm its fluttering.

Not yet, she silently reminded herself as she explained the next request. Her relief at the Marshal issue was palpable, but there was still more matters she had to deal with to truly have cause to celebrate.

As Éomer-King looked over the remaining papers, she waited, the fluttering of her heart turning to anxiousness more with each passing moment of silence. Taethowen could see the seriousness of her request weighing on him, and truly... perhaps she shouldn't have bothered. But something was beginning to change inside of her, something that said her own happiness was worth fighting for.

It was still affirming, though, when the King reassured her for making honorable choices, to the best of her ability. He handed the letters back to her.

Taeth watched as Éomer sat a small table and began to write, even as he spoke. "As for your husband, you tried to stay in contact and returned to him as soon as you could. It is therefore he who is in the wrong for abandoning you. Marriage should not be taken lightly or a wife discarded simply because there is distance between the pair."

As he finished writing, Taeth's hands began to tremble. She bit her lip as she watched the King stamped his seal on the parchment, then rolled it up and secured it with a green ribbon, then held it out to her, and as she reached out to take it, for one horrible moment a thought whispered through the back of mind that she was being selfish. That she'd equally abandoned him, and didn't deserve this freedom. Didn't deserve a second chance at happiness. But she quelled those thoughts as her fingers wrapped around the scroll. It's not often you get a second chance, Taethowen Anhyrne. If you've had a second chance at life and a second chance at love, don't you dare waste them.

"Your request is granted, and your marriage dissolved," Éomer spoke, and Taeth breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "I hope that you find a better and more caring match in the future. Is that all or do you wish to speak on another matter?"

Her face flushed then, and she glanced down as she tucked the scroll beside the letters in her hand.

"There is one more matter... and part of why I asked for the marriage dissolution," she said, looking back up. "I have... recently become involved with someone. And I know this would not normally be your concern, but as I was technically a married woman, and then also quickly became a Marshal of the Mark again..." Taeth's voice trailed off for a second as she tried to figure out exactly what she needed to say about him.

"The man I've become involved with is not Rohir, or Gondorian. He is a smuggler from Umbar, and as such may be associated with some... less than savory types. I know the Summer Festival ended up attracting some of those types. The man I am with was publicly seen with some of them, and also publicly seen with me. Rumors of our relationship were already starting to circulate by the end of the Festival, and I wanted you to hear of it from me before you heard of it from gossip.

"I trust him to not endanger me or the things I care about. I am certain he will cause mischief, but he is not loyal to the Shadow and does not seek to further Mordor's cause. He is loyal to himself... and perhaps," her voice fell soft here, tinged with just a small amount of wonder, "to me."

Taeth took a breath then, and refocused her thoughts. "The logical side of me wants to argue that this man could be a valuable source of knowledge for the Riddermark," Taeth continued. "But I will admit that I am acting perhaps a bit selfishly right now, because I want to keep him by my side for as long as I can. However, you have my word as a Rohir that I will not compromise the safety of the Mark, the Cavalry, or you and your family for the sake of this relationship. I am no traitor, and I never will be. But I will answer any questions you have to the best of my ability, and heed your concerns."

---

Throne Room
Timeline: After the Lost & Found mission

Taeth hoped, desperately, that after this important duty she would be able to breathe for a while. It seemed like absolutely nothing had slowed down since the Summer Festival, especially since she was made Second Marshal right on the heels of the event. Then there'd been the disastrous Cavalry mission, and now she was scrambling to figure out how to get her shop ready for her extended absence, and she needed to make it back to Ærn Anhyrne in the Eastfold once more before she was stationed at the Hornburg for a yet-undetermined amount of time. All she'd really been wanting to do was hide at the inn with Frost for... a while. But she hadn't even been able to manage that yet.

As she strode up the steps leading into Meduseld, Taeth couldn't help but note how different it felt from the last time she was here. But last time, she'd been here on personal matters, and today... today she was here as the Second Marshal, and she'd made sure her appearance was appropriate, with clothes clean and pressed, boots shining, and her insignia and red Westmark sash in place. It still felt strange to don Westmark Red instead of Eastmark Blue, but she imagine it would feel so until she'd acquainted herself with the Hornburg and the troops there.

The two guards at the door snapped to a salute as she strode up, and she returned it with her own salute as she greeted them. "Marshal Taethowen Anhyrne to see the King," she said. "Has the Third Marshal already arrived?"

"Yes, ma'am," one of the wigends answered. "She arrived not too much longer before yourself."

"Thank you," Taeth nodded as she stepped inside.

It was far more crowded inside than she'd expected, and while she caught sight of Gwai off to the side of the room, Taeth was surprised to see one of the newest Cavalry recruits--Éomund--standing near the front next to a very handsome looking gentlemen. Then she caught sight of the Lady Éowyn speaking with Gwai, and while Taeth was very curious what that was about, she waited until the King's sister had moved away before she approached her fellow Marshal.

Gwai was leaning against a pillar, her gaze fixed on the handsome gentleman (Grimthain) who did look a bit familiar as Taeth studied him, when she came up beside the Third Marshal. "Who's caught your attention that you're blushing like that?" Taeth laughed softly.

In Private Audience with Taethowen
He hadn't actually thought there would be another request, and it didn't sound like there was one, but when Taethowen started describing the man she was now with, Eomer couldn't decide if he should be concerned, proud, or amused. Amused because she had just two minutes ago received her marriage dissolution and was now telling him she had already found a new man. Concerned because this man was an Umbaran smuggler and had already, it sounded like, caused the fires and mischief at the Summer Festival he'd heard about. Proud, because well, the Second Marshal was already thinking about how they could use this man to benefit the safety and security of Rohan.

He cleared his throat, and turned to pace the room, unsure of what to say for a few minutes. A smuggler of Umbar. he said finally, stopping to face Taethowen again. One you say has no loyalty to the shadow. Have you any hard proof of that? He wasn't sure what he was getting at here, but the idea of an umbaran smuggler in Rohan intrigued him. The last time he'd met anyone of Umbar had been on the battlefield, and he had to say it hadn't gone well. . It would be interesting however to speak to this man. Even if he has no loyalty to Mordor, he could be useful to us, if he is willing. There was a long pause where another thought occured to him, and he briefly fought with himself over mentioning it.

He realized after a minute that the Second Marshal had also spoken of her own loyalty. I do not doubt your loyalty to me, my family or Rohan, so have no fear on that, he assured her. I also don't believe every person of Umbar is evil, so am willing to trust you on this matter, though I would like to speak with him if you can arrange it. He paused, still grappling with one other request. Finally he added, trying to sound serious despite the request, Do you think he has access to Umbaran Ale? I haven't had it since I was young, before the War of the Ring.

---

In the Throne Room

Eomer watched for a second as Grimthain moved off to send messengers for Éomund and the insignia, and found his attention caught by a shout of the name of the girl from earlier. He looked to see an older man (Sheemie) yelling to the girl about doing battle and something or someone being fixed. He wasn't sure what that was about, but he assumed if there was an issue to bring to him, they would do so. He was just glad the little girl was leaving happier than she had come in. He also noted Second Marshal Taethowen and Third Marshal Gwai lurking at the back of the room, but didn't wave them forward yet. They didn't look ready to approach yet, and he had a more important task first. He then became aware of his sister at his side, he nodded, giving Eowyn a grateful look. If the dwarves have any more business, see to them? Or the child and the man she is with now. I have some Cavalry business to attend to that I'd rather not put off.

The room was getting rather crowded, but not enough so that he didn't notice the young man come in. His eyes took in the lad as he moved into the room and over to stand near Grimthain. This had to be Éomund. A lad in clean, neat clothes, looking for all the world like he was terrified. Eomer could also imagine that he could see the lad's knees knocking. A sudden thought crashed into his mind and he gasped quietly as the names registered in his head. Eomund....Eodred.....the letter!

Hurriedly waving to a page, he pulled them away slightly so nobody would hear. Send for my ceorl. Tell him in the lockbox in my chambers is a letter, old and with the name Eomund written on it. Have him fetch it, then bring it here as quickly as possible. Once the page had done what he asked, he moved forward again. Aethelwigend Grimthain, is Éomund of whom you spoke?

NPC Beda

Beda could hardly believe what was happening. She had come into the Golden Hall fearing for her life, and now she was being treated kindly by the King and the beautiful Lady Eowyn, and now three gold coins to keep! She listened carefully to what the Lady said about how she might use her newfound wealth to great advantage. Beda had no education, but she was a quick and eager learner.

“Thank you, m’lady,” she said, reminding herself to keep her voice low and not to prattle on as she was prone to do. “I could never come up with an idea as clever as yours, and I will take your advice! Well, that is, I will tell my mam about it. I do hope she will let me do it! She has headaches….”

Despite her warning to herself to not chatter, she was about to launch into a description of all of Mam’s troubles. Fortunately for Eowyn, she was spared the details when Sheemie came rushing over.

“Sheemie!” Beda cried. “What are you doing here? Well, never mind, look what I have! Three gold coins! That I can keep! The Lady Eowyn says I should raise chickens. What do you think? Should I raise chickens? It would be extra work, but we would always have eggs and chickens for the pot! Oh, what’s this about the Brack Man and fixing a clock?”

She turned back to say one last thank you to the Lady before Sheemie could start in on his story, but the Lady was gone. Beda turned her attention back to Sheemie.

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him

As the King posed his question, Grimthain stepped out of the shadows so that Éomund could now clearly see him. "Yes, my lord, this is he" he responded to the King while smiling warmly at the younger man, his blue eyes seeming to sparkle with merriment that had for too long been absent from his features. With a look to the King, checking he had leave to continue, he spoke loudly and confidently, his words only breaking with emotion towards the conclusion of his speech.

"Many years ago, when the Riddermark faced assault by the traitor Saruman's forces, a boy on the cusp of adulthood took up arms in service of his King. Despite being too young to then to formally join the cavalry, he placed himself in command of a corthor of child-warriors who valiantly held off repeat assaults on one of Helm's Deep's side gates. It was only thanks to his courage and conviction that the other young boys were not overcome with terror and instead rallied behind him, and his tenacious bravery and unwavering hope that they would win the day against all odds fortified those youngsters against giving in to fear and despair. Although victory was won that day, it came at great cost, for this young man's own father fell in the battle. Even so, he did not give in to melancholy and hopelessness, but instead pledged his sword in loyalty to his King, vowing to do all he could to cleanse our lands and the lands of our allies of the scourge that Sauron had tainted them with."

He lifted the velvet-wrapped bundle in his arms and held it before him, considering it, turning his gaze momentarily away from Éomund as he recalled his fallen friend, so as to shield some of the tears that once against threatened. "This hero of Sceornbeorg honoured that oath to the end of days, when he fell in service to his King far from home and hearth. But everywhere he went, he carried with him hope that those he loved most might be kept safe thanks to his service, their names etched into the metalwork on his sword so that they would always be close by him. He ultimately gave him life for them, because he loved them most dearly above all others."

He pulled away the dark, velvet-covering with a flourish, and it fluttered to the ground beside him. He lifted the weapon so that the gleaming, freshly-polished metalwork on the sheath, cross-hilt and pommel caught the light. Éomund would not have seen this weapon since his father last left his son's household, but it was sure to evoke emotion and memory now. Grimthain had intentionally kept its recovery a secret from even from the widow Leigh, fearful that she would seek to dispose of it in her grief and bitterness, and instead he had safeguarded the weapon so that it could be presented with all proper ceremony on this day. He turned it slowly so that Éomund could appreciate the designs etched into the cross-hilt and could see, deeply engraved there along one side of the hilt the name 'Leigh', and as he turned it, he revealed on the other side the other name; 'Éomund'.

Grimthain's voice was choked with emotion now, tears silently tracking down his face but his expression was one of joy, pride and deep-rooted, fatherly love as he looked once more over at his ward. "Éomund son of Éodred, today you have continued your father's legacy of honour and service by completing your cavalry training and making that same oath he made when he was only a few years younger than you are now. You have proven yourself loyal and committed to your King, and you have already begun the story of your own great deeds in the cavalry ranks on the recent training exercise." He wanted to say more, to tell Éomund how proud he was, how much he loved the boy, to re-assure the young man that he would ever be in his found-son's service, but the words would not form in his mind, so overwhelmed with emotion was he. Instead, he pressed towards the presentation before he broke down completely, finding some measure of control in ceremony. "And so the time has come for me to present you with your father's sword. May it serve you as well as it did he, and just as it has comforted me as a shadow of his presence all these long years, may it now do the same for you, that you will henceforth be certain that he supports and guides you in all your future deeds, and that he is proud of you. Just as I am."

He knelt on one knee then, respectfully, almost deferentially, but unlike he had with the king he did not lower his eyes and instead kept his gaze on Éomund as he held the sword forth for him to take.

---

As Grimthian approached (unbeknownst to Éomund at the moment), Éomer gestured for Éomund to stand up. He did so slowly, still not knowing what was going on. As he brushed the offending bits of hair out of his eyes, Éomer then turned to Grimthain and asked if he was Éomund, to which Grimthain replied in the affirmative. Éomund turned his head and sighed in relief as his uncle, the man who was in father in nearly all but name, approached, with something in his hands. He smiled at him and Éomund was surprised at how young his uncle looked after cutting his hair. It was still more grey than anything else, but his entire face, especially his eyes, simply looked years younger.

As Grimthain began to speak, Éomund felt a wave of emotion pass through him. He was speaking of his father, of the hero that he had been. Éomund had heard bits of this story before, of how his father had been a hero at the Hornburg, but he had never heard it told with such great emotion.

And then Grimthain lifted the bundle and pulled away the velvet covering, revealing his father's sword. Éomund gasped and put a hand to his mouth. As the light caught the gleaming metal the sword almost seemed to glow. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the sword. He had been so young when his father rode away that day, but at seeing the sword, he thought he could recall a long-forgotten memory - of seeing the sword lying on the table, his father polishing the simple metal-work, reaching out to touch it, and his father gently placing the polishing cloth his hand and guided him as he polished the hilt. He had never expected to see it again, and had in fact, completely forgotten that his father even had a sword, though it should have been obvious to him.

Grimthain continued to speak, and was starting to get choked up. Éomund knew that if he tried to speak right now, he wouldn't be able to. Even now he was biting his lip in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. Was he capable of great deeds? Could he live up to his father's legacy? Grimthain concluded his speech by saying, "And so the time has come for me to present you with your father's sword. May it serve you as well as it did he, and just as it has comforted me as a shadow of his presence all these long years, may it now do the same for you, that you will henceforth be certain that he supports and guides you in all your future deeds, and that he is proud of you. Just as I am." The forbidden tears began to leak out of his eyes. Grimthian was proud of him; his father was proud of him!

And then Grimthain knelt down, looked up at Émound, and held out his father's sword. Éomund gingerly stepped forward. The last time he had held a sword it hadn't gone too well. He looked down at his bandaged left hand, still a bit sore from gutting the badger and slicing himself in the process. But he had taken his cavalry oath now, like his father, and his father before him. It was time to pick up a sword and truly become a man of the Cavalry. Éomund bit his lip once again as he slowly reached out and touched the hilt, his fingers tracing his engraved name. For a brief second, he thought he could feel his father's guiding hand on his, but then, he felt the cool metal of the hilt as his fingers grasped the hilt. He gripped it tightly and slowly drew out the sword. Holding it in front of him, it took everything in him to not break down in tears, but even so, the tears continued to streak down his cheeks. "Thank you," he murmured, but he wasn't entirely certain if he was speaking to Grimthain or to the spirit of his father.

NPC : Sheemie Rheus

Gold coins and no more Brack Man, the day was just getting better and better!

Sheemie gawped at the shiny coins in Beda's hand as she prattled on in her normal breathless fashion. Sheemie seldom saw gold (or chickens for that matter!) and the monies made his heart beat real fast. Chickens and money! Both reminded him of two pressing issues: the jewel letter to make for his m'lady customer, and the brêkfis stuff he'd left below the Golden Hall.

"Are you finished here, Beda?" he tooted at his sweoster. " Are you going back to your shop, or going off to buy those chickens? Let's get out in the sun, Sheemie's got news for you, lawksey, yes... But he doesn't want to talk about the Brack Man indoors, outside under the bright sun would be better!"

With that the burly lad bustled off down the aisle. He rushed out onto the paved platform outside the door and waited for Beda to join him.

--
@Eléowyn

Amethyst Copperpick, ratted out

Apparently she hadn't hidden quickly enough. Over the edge of her beard plait, Amethyst clocked King Éomer now talking to Mal, though he seemed to want the conversation ended. But not before the King had pointed a finger in her direction. Curse him and his canny eyesight!

She twitched back around the pillar, catching sight as she did so of Gwai from the pageant competition and after-party events. Oh Mahal, she was going to end up witnessing this if she wasn't careful. Amethyst could hear her brother clattering his way across the hall, hollering away. A herd of kine would be more subtle. She rolled her eyes so much she nearly had an aneurysm. "Mal!" she hissed as he approached, staying to stay as out of sight as she could. "What're you doing here, besides embarrassing me?"

@Aodh Hammerhelm

NPC Beda

Sheemie rushed off in such a hurry that Beda did not even have a chance to reply to his question. “Off to the shop!” she called out to the empty air. She dropped a quick curtesy in the general direction of Éomer King’s throne, though she could not even see above the crowd that had now gathered if he were even there.

Muttering to herself along the way, she hurried off, gold coins firmly grasped in fist, and found Sheemie awaiting her just outside.

“There you are! Now what’s all this talk about clocks and sunshine? Come along, you can tell me all about it on the way to the Riddermarket. Mam is going to pull my ears if she finds out how far gone the morning is, and the shop not even opened yet!”

@Aodh Hammerhelm

NPC: Malachite Copperstick

Mal’ looked long and hard at his wayward sister before answering. She seemed less than pleased to see him, and distracted by something, or someone, in the Hall. He watched her eyes flit back and forth over her plait, and followed her into the shadows as she retreated further behind a carved pillar.

“What am I doing here?” he said at last, showering Amethyst in a cloud of dust as his hands flew up from beneath his filthy cloak. “Apart from making a living and delivering a consignment..? Looking for you, of course!

And as for embarrassment, that’s a little rich coming from you. Who, I wonder, has been subjected to discomfort and humiliation since you flitted off on your little jollification? Your dear brother, of course!

I’d forgive the extra work you left me, but fending off that swine, Dwan Corpulent is a step too far…”

---

NPC : Sheemie Rheus

Sheemie trotted down the stairs, scooped up his brêkfis goods from below the wall, and hurried after Beda. Even though he had important news, his sweoster seemed in an awful hurry. Sheemie supposed he would be too if someone was going to pull his ears.

“Hold up, sweos’!” he hooted. “Youse going too fast even for Sheemie’s long legs…”

--
@Elarith @Eléowyn

Private Audience with Éomer
Timeline: Between the Cavalry promotions and the beginning of Lost & Found

Taeth fell silent as the King began to pace across the room. This all felt a little surreal to her as well, and part of her wished that maybe, if she had truly been meant to cross paths with Frost again, that it had happened outside of Rohan, before she'd made up her mind to return. It certainly would have been easier. Because she'd never dreamed that she'd be having conversations like this even six weeks before.

When Éomer turned to face her again, asking if she had proof that the smuggler had no loyalty to the Shadow, she glanced down with a sigh, shaking her head. "True proof? No. I am not sure such a thing would exist that could be satisfactory," Taeth answered. "But the circumstances where he denied any such allegiances... he would not have had a reason to, other than for it to be the truth. And it was in response to a threat someone made against me. So at this point, I have no reason to doubt what he said."

"...I would like to speak with him if you can arrange it," Éomer requested, then paused, and when he continued, she bit her lip to hold back a laugh. "Do you think he has access to Umbaran Ale? I haven't had it since I was young, before the War of the Ring."

"He was injured in the Campian tournament," Taeth answered honestly, "and had some complications to those injuries because of the fires" --and because he wouldn't put down the Bema-damned alcohol at the After Party despite having a concussion, she fumed silently-- "but I will ask him if he's willing to meet with you, and send you a message when I have the answer. As for the Umbar Ale... I'd be surprised if he couldn't get hold of that for you. But I don't know how long it might take, given the present circumstances."

Taethowen almost excused herself then, but there was just one more niggling thought that was bothering her, and as she shuffled the scroll and letters she held, she began to speak again. "I... will not make any promises on his behalf, though. Our relationship is very new, and even if it wasn't... I don't know that he would ever fully align himself with the Mark. If he does anything for Rohan's benefit, I suspect it will be because he wishes for my own success, rather than anything else."

She sighed again. "I'm sorry to be so troublesome to you so quickly upon my return to the Mark. That is all I have for this discussion for today, though. If you don't have any other questions, I will be on my way."

Private audience with Taethowen

Eomer nodded to Taethowen's explanation of this man's allegiances. He could understand that. Given you are a Marshal shows that I hold your opinion and loyalty in high esteem, he told her. So I will trust your judgement. If you think this man is someone you can trust, then I trust your judgement. He paused, and considered his next words so as to put them in the best way possible. I do ask that you always keep at least part of you on your guard when around him. It has been my experience that agents of the enemy tend to seem fair while worming their way into your trust, and change once they know they have the old on you they were working for. Keep that in mind and do not let yourself be taken in. He was sad to hear that this man probably couldn't be turned to be useful to Rohan, but also trusted his marshal that he wasn't an enemy. Still, there was a small part of him that would always be suspicious after his uncle - truthfully all of them - had been taken in by Wormtongue, until it had been too late to stop the destruction the worm had wrought.

He was also disappointed that he may not be able to get the ale, but that was fine. I hope he consents to come speak to me when his injuries heal, and that they are not too serious, he commented, and waved his hand in a motion of waving away the apologies being given. Do not apologize, you have no need. You did the honourable thing speaking to me about this, and will keep me apprised of any changes in future, especially if he can be persuaded to get that ale for me.

Considering the matter ended then as Taeth said she had no more to speak of, he headed towards the door. I have no other questions, and I'm sure you have plenty of things waiting for your attention, as do I. He squared his shoulders at the door and, once the Second Marshal had preceded him through it, headed back into the Throne Room with a deep breath to face his duty there.

---

It only took a few minutes for the messenger to come back with the letter and by then Grimthain was speaking to Éomund. Standing just behind the Aethelwigend with the letter and insignia in his hand, he watched solemnly, feeling the emotion in the moment unfolding before him. His own mind went back to Helm's Deep and the War of the Ring. Gandalf had brought him and his riders just in time, but still many had been lost. And later, when he had lost his uncle and almost his sister....he knew how the young man had felt losing his father but being forced to continue fighting, unable to stop to grieve or process the loss. They were events he tried not to think on anymore.

Focusing on the scene before him instead of his own morose thoughts he watched Grimthain, full of emotion, unwrap the sword and then present it to the lad on one knee. Éomund took the sword and seemed enthralled by it while a multitude of emotions seemed to flit across his features. Eomer knew those thoughts well - was he good enough? Could he live up to his father's faith in him? Would he conduct himself as bravely as his ancestors? They were all thoughts that had crossed his mind, and he felt sympathy knowing they were probably crossing this lad's too.

He gave it a few minutes for the two in front of him to have the moment together before clearing his throat and stepping forward to stand beside Grimthain. Smiling despite trying to look serious, he gestured for Éomund to stand in front of him. I was given this upon your father's death. I did not know, at the time, where to send it or who to give it to, and have kept it all these years in the hopes of delivering it to the owner. He held out the letter for Éomund to take, sure the young man would know who it was from.

Once the letter was taken he drew himself up straight and held up the insignia still in his hand. Éomund son of Eodred, he began. I am proud to say I fought with your father during the War of the Ring. Though he was one of many, and I did not have the pleasure of knowing him personally, his reputation for a being a capable and brave warrior was known throughout the Cavalry. He faltered, unsure of what else to say. So, rather than ramble and ruin the moment, he pinned the Eastmark blue insignia on Éomund's chest.

It is my great honour as King of the Mark, to present you with your Cavalry insignia and bestow the rank of Dryhtguma of the Mark upon you. He stepped back and, curling his hand into a fist, thumped it on his chest in a Cavalry salute. Westu Éomund hal, Dryhtguma of the Mark! he called, his voice ringing loudly through the Throne Room.

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him

As Éomund spoke quiet words of gratitude, Grimthain sniffed and made a visible attempt to compose himself. The sword and sheath having been lifted from his hands, he stood then and, albeit not exactly cavalry protocol but something he wished to do all the same, saluted the young cavalry warrior with a face that was a picture of love and pride.

Then, he pointedly stepped back, turned towards the Throne where the King and his sister were patiently waiting, and saluted them also. "My Lord Éomer, Lady Éowyn, may I present to you Eomund, son of Eodred.”

Then he stepped away, off to the side again respectfully, ceding the floor to the newly invested warrior and his King. When Éomund glanced after him confused, he subtly tipped his head and flicked his eyes towards the royals in an attempt to recall the lad to his duty, and gave him a small wink and a thumbs up with the hand still close by his side as he stood to the alert. Grimthain did not exactly expect the boy to immediately leap to pledging his sword to the King; such things had to come naturally and from the heart. But he did rather hope the boy... young man (he corrected himself)... might be able to fathom a great greeting to his King now that he knew why his guardian had called him here. Either that, or (and he crossed his fingers to himself as the young man stepped away) he hoped the King would still bless this occasion with some words of his own.

From his position away from the dais he was conscious that a number of people in the room had been watching, and tried not to feel self-conscious about his tear-streaked face and his stupidly-happy grin. In the corner of his eye, however, he thought he recognised Third Marshal Gwai and unexpectedly found himself blushing at the thought that she had seen him so disarmed, and the idea she might have learned the truth of his relationship with Éomund. Despite this, he still found himself secretly hoping it *was* her. It was somehow comforting to think his commanding officer had caught a glimpse of the man he was behind the uniform; that she would now know a little about the heart of a man who otherwise seemed so orientated towards duty and obligation, but who was all-the-same someone with passion and conviction, who cherished those close to him above all other things.

His musings, however, were entirely interrupted by the King’s next words, and his mouth suddenly gaped open at the news that the King held in his possession a letter from Éodred, written before his passing and addressed to his son. His mind clamoured with questions; how had he not known of this letter? How long had the king held it in his possession? When did Éodred write it? What did it say? Only a few seconds later, and the King was pinning the rank of Dryhtguma onto Éomund’s uniform, and pride once bubbled up within him; the boy had been granted the higher rank of Dryhtguma immediately on completing his training, not the lower position of Sperewigend as Grimthain had anticipated. His own feelings threatened to overwhelm him, so he pushed them aside for the sake of his ward and focussed instead on not ruining the moment for the young man. At the King’s final words, he drew out his own sword and thumped it into the air, his voice ringing out to echo the Kings in an enthusiastic salute to the cavalry’s newest warrior. “Hail Éomund, Dryhtguma of the Mark!”

---

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him

He smiled again at the sight of the young man struggling to juggle the letter and sword - especially with one bandaged hand, and companionably sheathed his own weapon once more and stepped up beside Éomund even before the Dryhtguma spoke his request. He lifting Éodred’s... Éomund’s sword (he corrected himself again) away and intentionally held it point down so that it would still remain in sight of the younger man, turning it in his hand so that the son’s name was visible to him. He had no idea what the letter would contain, and he was a little worried that it might not be appropriate for today’s occasion - what if it had been written as a disciplinary? Or a lesson? Or anything that could be seen as negative or containing expectations for his son that Éodred - or worse yet Grimthain - had not lived up to? What if it contained requests that had not been honoured? He was only able to stay calm and focussed for the sake of the son-of-his-soul, readied to help him process and understand whatever words the letter might contain, but he was all the same still notably shaken by the knowledge that such a letter existed.

He watched closely as the Dryhtguma slowly scanned the contents of the letter, and offered a sad but proud smile to him as he glanced up from reading the words of his father. The way Éomund clasped the letter to his chest put many of his fears at ease; he would not ask what the letter had said, or when it was written. It was enough to know that his sword-brother-son had been given this last opportunity to say goodbye. He looked surprised for a moment at the other’s request, then his eyes lit up with warmth and a little awe. “Yes, we can do that, once you and I have both settled properly into our new cavalry duties, we can take some extended leave to travel there together.” He was deeply touched that Éomund had requested such a thing, and wanted to travel with *him* in particular, but there was also a pang of guilt that he had never thought to suggest such a trip to either the lad or Leigh before. He himself had been there at the funeral and it had offered him no comfort or closure at the time. He had only recently laid to rest his own grief and found closure for the loss of his old friend, mostly by coming here today and witnessing his son’s coming of age, by focussing on the future and trying to bury the past. As long as Éomund was happy, he was happy (he concluded to himself) and he would do whatever Éomund asked of him. He straightened again, emotionally exhausted but resolved and ready to face whatever the future might bring.

Or so he thought.

As the letter fluttered to the floor and he caught sight of the name written on its side, Grimthain’s entire demeanour changed. He stumbled back as though he had taken a physical blow, his grip on Éomund’s sword weakening. When the younger man offered the letter to him, he backed away hurriedly and, dropping the sword with a loud clatter, brought up a hand as though trying to fend off an attack, his wide eyes fixated on the piece of folded paper. For possibly the first time in his life, Éomund saw a look of fear on Grimthain’s face. Not fear, downright terror.

Overwhelmed with the emotional day, fresh off the back of the guilt in realising he had never taken widow or son - never even offered to take them - to their loved one’s burial site, and already taken completely off guard with the knowledge that a letter to Éomund from his father even *existed*, this new revelation was clearly more than Grimthain could bear. His earlier fears that Éodred had written wishes and expectations, hopes and instructions for his family in the event of his death, plans that Grimthain was now certain he had failed to honour or live up to, crashed back into his mind but this time intensified a hundred fold. He retreated away until his back slammed against one of the pillars, and then turned half toward it to grip it with white-knuckled hands, staring at the paper in Éomund’s hand as if he were staring as a ghost.

His thought began to feel thick and foggy in a manner that felt far too familiar as old anxieties spiked. He spotted the look of concern on Éomund’s face and tried to breath, to calm himself, to pull himself together, but when the lad went to step towards him, bringing the letter with him; he felt the panic swell again and flinched back, shaking his head sharply as he spluttered out past his clenching chest “No!”

He gripped the pillar with his hands, closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against it, trying to will the cool touch of the carved wood to calm him for a moment. He was overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment that he was losing control of his emotions so suddenly and unexpectedly after years of his anxiety being well managed, but the last few days - and particularly the last hour or so - had been emotionally exhausting, and the black dog in his mind had sunk its teeth into his fears of inadequacy and shame and was tugging and pulling ruthlessly, refusing to let go. The state his mind had suddenly been catapulted into was far too reminiscent of his state after the Childsnatcher incident, when fifteen youngsters had lost their lives because of his failure, when his beloved fiancée had been unable to drag him from the depths of his depression and instead had left him, as so many in his past had. Except back then he had been bolstered by Éodred’s loyal support; the only person who had stood by him through thick and thin. Now his mind was catastrophising how utterly dismantling his shame would be to discover that he had failed this one loyal friend also, and he was spiralling into despair.

He wanted so badly to be able to formulate his thoughts and pull himself together, for Éomund, for his King, for the Marshals and soldiers he suspected were witnessing every moment of his shameful weakness and cowardice. But every time he came close to finding some balance of calm the thought of that letter, of what it might contain, of how utterly terribly he had failed his best friend on the field all those years ago and must surely have failed him every day since then, dragged him back into the mental abyss of panic and self-hatred.

When he spoke again, his words were shuddering as though caught between sobs, but it was not from crying, but from his tense shaking as he positioned himself half hidden behind the pillar. “I’m sorry... but I... can’t! Not here. Not like this. I... please... don’t... I can’t... I’m so sorry.” He gulped back tears as he realised how completely he had ruined this momentous day, how he had neglectful dropped the long cherished weapon with no care for the harm it might take, how all those judgmental eyes must be peering at him and seeing him for the broken failure that he was. More fuel for the fire of his anguish.

He was struggling to keep his feet, but he didn’t know if he were on the brink of collapse or flight. All he knew was that in that moment he desperately wanted the ground to swallow him up, and take him somewhere, *anywhere* that was not right here. He buried his face in the pillar as his body began to shake with long buried emotion. “I’m sorry Éodred, I tried. I tried but... I wasn’t enough... I’m sorry”

---

Private Audience with Éomer, then Departing
Timeline: Between the Cavalry promotions and the beginning of Lost & Found

Taethowen bowed her head briefly. "Thank you for your time today, m'lord," she said. "I will consider your counsel."

Éomer and Taethowen parted ways then, and she quietly exited Meduseld, pausing in the early morning shadows outside the entrance. With a sigh, she leaned back against a pillar. The guards were, thankfully, ignoring her for the most part, though she would need to be on her way soon. She just... needed to catch her thoughts a bit more.

Keep at least part of you on guard when around him, Éomer's parting warning whispered through her mind. Agents of the enemy tend to seem fair while worming their way into your trust... do not let yourself be taken in.

Taeth was relieved their audience had drawn to a close at that point. Because while she knew she should have promised, with ease, to keep her guard up around Frost... she could not. Truth be told, he was the first person in her life that made her want to drop her guard completely, which was something she'd not even been able to do around her family. Even her husband. She'd loved him, but she'd always felt she had to curb herself around him, especially after her promotion to Marshal. But Frost... Frost seemed entranced by that--her willingness to to be a leader when it was needed, and her resilience--about her. She didn't think she could intimidate him even if she tried to.

You are my equal, Taethowen Anhyrne. And my opposite. She recalled Frost's words from just a few nights before, his actions and that brief glimpse of his insecurities. While she could see how Éomer would have felt he needed to caution her, based on what she said of her lover, her instincts said that Frost would not hurt her. Not deliberately. But she would try to keep the King's words in mind, at least.

She would try.

And so, with her marshal insignia still tucked away into her hand, and the stack of letters and the scroll--the so important scroll, giving her back a freedom of self she hadn't realized she'd been missing--clutched to her, Taeth pushed away from the piillar, nodded to the guards, and headed back into Edoras.

To his great relief, Grimthain immediately agreed to travelling to visit his father’s burial place. A small part of him wished he had asked this question years ago, but Éomund also knew that he wouldn’t have wanted to travel so far even just two or three years ago. But after the recent training adventure/mishap that was his introduction to the Cavalry, he was far more confident in his abilities and the thought of the long ride to Gondor no longer scared him as much as it did when he was a child. And he so desperately wanted to see his father’s grave and to tell his father that he was now a member of the esteemed Cavalry.

But all thoughts of the trip were wiped from his mind as he attempted to hand the second letter to Grimthain. While the words of his father had brought great comfort and closure to him, when he held out the parchment to Grimthain, he saw an expression he had never seen before on his uncle’s face: fear, nay, terror. Why would the discovery of a letter invoke such a strange reaction? Fear had been the last thing on Éomund's mind when the King had presented the letter. As Grimthain pushed away the letter, his grip on the sword loosened and it fell to the floor with a loud clang that reverberated through the entire room.

For the briefest of seconds, Éomund’s eyes flitted towards the sword lying on the ground, before turning back to look at Grimthain. But in the space of that second, his uncle had retreated towards one of the pillars and was leaning heavily against it. He was still staring at the letter in Éomund’s hand. He looked at his uncle in concern and began to take a step towards him, but the resounding “No!” stopped him in his tracks.

Éomund glanced down at the piece of parchment in his hand, wondering why it had invoked such a reaction. Resisting the urge to open it, he gently placed it, along with the letter from his father, into his pocket. If his uncle wasn't ready yet, he would keep it safe until the right time. Bending down, he carefully picked up the sword, knowing that Grimthain had not meant to drop it. Not even bothering to inspect the sword, his uncle was far more important right now, he slowly began to walk towards him, eyes full of love and worry. His uncle had always been the strong one: he had been there the first time he fell off a horse, when he had nightmares during his yearly stay at the Hornburg, and most recently, had been there when his mother had practically thrown him out of the house upon his decision to join the Cavalry. Grimthain had wiped away his tears more times than he could count. And now, Éomund found himself in a difficult position. Should he offer his uncle what meagre comfort he was capable of or let him be? He fingered the insignia now strapped to his chest. What was a member of the Cavalry to do?

At last, he made his decision. He walked swiftly towards Grimthain, placed a hand on his shoulder, and didn’t say a word. The sobbed words that he could just make out hurt his heart, not because of their truth, but because of just how untrue they were. Naturally he wished Grimthain had been around more, what child wouldn’t want their favourite person around more? But if the letter to Grimthain was even half as encouraging as his had been, it would give his uncle some degree of comfort. His uncle had been there for him, and had even been there for his mother despite her continual rejection of him. He didn’t even want to think about what his life would have been like without Grimthain’s presence.

Éomund closed his eyes as he tried to piece together this wild day. Was it only yesterday he had impaled a badger? And now, he was standing here in the Throne Room, wearing the insignia of Dryhtguma, holding his father’s sword and letter. But more important than all of these items, was the fact that Grimthain was here; he had been there throughout his life. Always offering comfort or encouragement whenever it was needed. Éomund felt extremely selfish that he had never thought to offer comfort back. A bit of him had known his uncle had struggled with his grief, but he had never thought to talk to his uncle about how *he* felt. It had always been about how *Éomund* was doing.

He could feel the sobs wracking through Grimthain’s body. Had his uncle ever had a chance to cry over the death of his friend? Éomund bit his lip, wondering if he should say something. He stood there, offering the silent comfort of a gentle hand for a time. At last, once it sounded as if Grimthain’s cries were growing softer, he worked up the courage to say what he thought needed to be said. In a whisper, so only his uncle could hear, he said, “You were there when I needed you. I could *always* count on you. You’ve never failed me and you’ve never failed my father.”

He squeezed Grimthain’s shoulder as he spoke. Both of them had lived many, many years with this gaping hole in their hearts. Éomund could feel a wave of emotions stirring up inside him once again. Momentarily removing his hand from Grimthain’s shoulder, he carefully placed the sword on the floor, and pulled his uncle into a hug, letting the older man’s head rest on his shoulder.

“I love you Fædera,” he murmured. He had no other words to offer and all he could do was offer his presence, and a shoulder to try on, like Grimthain had done for him many times.

Amethyst Copperpick

As Mal shook his arms in frustration, Amethyst flinched and took an involuntary step back. She was trying to avoid the spray of dirt, but also was quite wounded by his sharp words.

“I left a note! I told you I was going for a break!” she said fiercely. Admittedly the note’s wording would probably lead the reader to conclude that Amethyst had popped out for five minutes, rather than gone on a cross-continent trip. The anger seeped out of her as Mal spoke of the extra work he'd been left. She did feel a teensy bit guilty about that. And she felt the colour drained from her face when he mentioned a name she'd hoped not to hear again. "Corpulent! That miserable dizhat-turg..." She grabbed Mal's arm, trying to resist a shudder at the feel of the dust and grime on his clothing. She looked around, noticing that some people in the Throne Room were throwing them concerned looks at the raised dwarven voices. Turning back to her brother, she spoke quietly. "This is not the place to speak of Corpulent and whatever he's been up to now. If you're finished your business here, let's go." Where to, she wasn't sure. Somewhere with ale might be an idea.

@Aodh Hammerhelm

NPC: Malachite Copperstick

Mal tugged at his own bedraggled beard, and grimaced as Amethyst uttered the most withering of Dwarvish slights. His mentioning of Corpulent had clearly rattled his sister, why else would she speak khuzdûl outside of Erebor? Noticing his sister's pale face, and the inquisitive glances thrown by several Rohir, he decided to hold back on the rest of the news concerning the odious Master Corpulent.

"Aye, I'm finished here," he said, voice softening. "It's very good to see you, nana’, very good in deed. Yes, let's be off, I've merchandise to retrieve, and a powerful hunger and thirst to sate. Let's find somewhere to share a meal and swap tales, I'm intrigued to know what you've been up to in Rohan for so long."

Mal led the way along the left aisle of the Hall. As he walked he wondered if his samples and wares had survived, or if there was an inn or eatery left standing in Edoras after last night's fires.

--
@Elarith (Mal needs to recover his merch cases from a trough outside the Horse and Rider (or what remains of the Inn), I'm guessing the streets of the Riddermarket would be the easiest place to continue... or The Eallniwe Inn?)

Æthelwigend Grimthain, human, he/him

When Éomund approached he tried once again to pull himself together, and managed to at the least stand on his own feet long enough for the young man to envelop him in a hug. He hugged Éomund back, tightly, with an intensity that suggested the older man never wanted to lose him. He wanted so desperately to apologise for his weakness, for his inadequacy, for ruining everything so spectacularly when today was supposed to be all about Éomund and not overshadowed by his unresolved trauma. But every time he tried to formulate words to say it threatened to overwhelm him. It was not logical, and it made little sense; but anxiety and traumatic depression have little respect for logic or sense.

Still, he focussed intently on the comforting of his Nefa and after a short time found enough composure to pull away from the embrace, wipe aggressively at his eyes to push away the tears and step for a moment towards the Throne again, although he still gripped Éomund close beside him for comfort. "My Lord, I'm sorry... permission... be excused... please" he forced the words out between subdued sobs, and as soon as the King made even the slightest indication of consent to him leaving he turned for the door, he squeezed Éomund tightly one more time and said quietly to him. "Stay... supposed to... your day... want to be... alone... please... I'll be fine... just alone..." He desperately hoped his nephew would understand that he had never wished the younger man to ever see him like this, that he did not want his melt-down to ruin an otherwise momentous and celebratory occasion. He kissed Éomund on the brow before moving swiftly away, back behind the pillars in a diagonal line for the exit without looking back or making eye contact with anyone, forcing his steps to move at a reasonable - if quick - pace (he would not run, dammit! Not here, not like this) and hoping that no-one would try and block his path or enquire if he was well.

As he reached the door he glanced over his shoulder; he had to know if it was her, if she had seen his humiliating break-down. On recognising the figure of Gwai waiting off to one side, he turned away in shame, subduing a groan, and stepped hastily out of the Throne Room at an almost run; he needed to get away, he needed to be alone, and thankfully for the first time in his life he had somewhere of his own that he could go to and fall apart where hopefully no-one would disturb him or judge him for it.

---

Amethyst Copperpick

Amethyst removed her hand from her brother's arm, and wiped it as discretely as she could on the edge of her dress (much as it pained her to dirty the fabric). "There's plenty to tell, and it sounds like you have much to tell me in return. Is the casket coming with us or are you giving it to the King?" she asked Mal, prodding the box he had been holding.

It seemed a shame to come to the Throne Room and see the King in his splendour only from behind a pillar at the back. Amethyst stroked her beard for a moment, pondering. It probably wasn't following royal or Rohirric protocol, but sod it, she might not have the chance again. "Just one moment whilst I... do something," she told Mal, then bounded up to the front of the dias. There had just been a bout of cheering, something to do with the Cavalry she gathered. She elbowed her way to the very front to make sure she could be seen, then cupped her hands round her mouth. "Éomer King!" she shouted. "Nice outfit you've got there!" She gave him a thumbs up just in case he hadn't heard, then scurried off to join Mal. Her heart dropped again, fearing what he'd have to discuss with her.

((@Aodh Hammerhelm Lead on, McAodh - wherever suits you and fits in with timelines and whatnot))

NPC: Malachite Copperstick

Mal relaxed as his sister released his arm, she’d swung back into Common Speech, and her face no longer looked hunted.

Gimli’s gift!

“Namin men burk!” It was Mal’s turn to lapse into khuzdûl. He flipped the presentation case open revealing a gold and silver stirrup-cup cast as a replica of Éomer’s helmet. A prancing charger was embossed on the front of the helm, the maker’s runes discretely stamped into its flowing mane. It would be a shame not to present the gift, it was a thing of beauty, a work of art he’d spent hours crafting and refining. And, of course, Gimli would not be best pleased if he returned it to him.

Before Mal could suggest that Amethyst accompany him to the dais she was off on her own. The Dwarf grinned at her antics, and the shocked faces of the supplicants kneeling before the Lord and Lady of Rohan. By the Smith he’d missed her, she was so like their departed mother; a little gauche, but brimming with high spirits and a lust for life.

When Amethyst rejoined him, Mal held out the presentation case.

“Now that you’ve made a spectacle of yourself,” he grinned, “and shamed every Dwarf from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills, could you see your way fit to presenting Gimli’s gift to the Lord Éomer?”

--
@Elarith * @Shivased

Amethyst Copperpick is rather embarrassed

The King had looked slightly puzzled but Amethyst knew that deep down, he was appreciative that his fashion sensibility - not his most remarked upon quality - had finally been noticed. Her footsteps slowed slightly... Maybe he didn't want it noticing, in case it distracted from his king-ing. People would be flocking to him for clothing advice and the kingdom would look fabulous but collapse due to maladministration. Oh dear. Mal was quick to comment on how she'd shamed herself, and she was coming to that conclusion. "The thumbs up was too much, wasn't it? " she said quietly. Mention of Corpulent, and possibly a prior blow to the head, had flustered her more than she'd realised.

Amethyst looked aghast as Mal asked her to give the beautiful stirrup-cup to the King. "After that? No chance. Can we give it to an errand runner? Or maybe sneak back under cover of darkness?" She traced the horse's mane on the design lightly with her finger. Even as she felt the cool shiny metal, she knew they couldn't entrust someone else with the task. She tugged on her beard and sighed. "Fine. I'll be quick."

Using her natural dwarven sprinting abilities, all the more impressive in her heels, Amethyst dashed back to the dias. She tried to fight the rising blush on her cheeks as she coughed softly, and pushed the box on to the platform. "From Master Gimli, with his compliments, lord," she said, trying not to make direct eye contact before heading back to Mal, braids flowing over her shoulders. She peered back to check that the King had got the gift. "So... pub? Or I think there are a few spots in the Riddermarket for food," she said to her brother.

@Aodh Hammerhelm

Frost

While he was not best pleased about being called before the king, he knew it was inevitable at this point. Too much had happened in the past week for him not to have drawn some sort of attention. As he stood outside, disarming and subjecting himself to a search, he chided himself on being so careless this trip to Rohan. He had been here several times and caused all sorts of chaos, but this was the first time he had been called before the king. Granted, he was romantically involved with the woman who was now the Second Marshal and he was, well he was a Umbarian wild card that needed to be quantified. Once Taethowen had told him that she had talked to the king about him. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would make an appearance. The fires, too, would be a point of contention. He had not had any direct involvement in their setting (well the second round of fires at least) but he had been seen very publicly with those that had (though as far as Frost knew none of it had been proven to be them). He had been rather careless on this trip. Normally, he stuck to the shadows or avoided large populations centers like Edoras. He had been too focused on her, on Taethowen, to realize the potential danger that he was putting himself in. She had affected him far more than he had imagined. He had not even expected to find her at all. A brief moment of connection nearly half a decade, that’s all they had shared. Until now. Now it felt like he had been tossed into a whirlwind.

Frost sighed heavily, looking with bored compliance as the doorman scolded him for bringing weapons to the Throne Room. It was the second scolding he had endured in the last few hours. Thali’s hæland instincts had kicked in and she nearly locked him in a closet to keep him in the infirmary; it had only been the king’s official summons that had convinced her to let him go, not without a thorough warning against doing anything foolish or flirty (yes, she felt the need to add that). Of the two, Frost was much more intimidated by Thali. The man before him now just made him think of a dressed up bale of hay and he spent most of the lecture trying not to laugh at the poor man. He surrendered his sword (he really hated how much he had had to give it up recently) and stake and was finally let inside.

The light from outside filtered in around him, casting a very long shadow across the floor of the great hall. With a hand wrapped surreptitiously around his still mending ribs, he strode into the hall. He threw his shoulders back and walked with purpose. Though he kept his eyes forward, to the dais, he noted in his periphery the many, many cavalrymen waiting in the wings. He might have been worried that he was going to be arrested if Taeth had not assured him otherwise. Still, he counted at least a dozen men in arms already, their insignias proudly displayed. He walked on. There would likely be a wait to speak to the king, which increased the Umbarian’s anxiety somewhat. Even in Thali’s infirmary he had caught wind of the “black haired fire starters” rumors (okay they weren’t rumors). But there was nothing he could do until the king called on him. In the meantime, Frost looked around the room. It was not as rustic and simple as he had been lead to believe. It was not quite so grandiose and gawdy as some of the courts he had been to in the south, where gold and jewels had ornamented everything to such a degree that it made him nauseous, where perfumes had been sprayed on him as he entered so that he would “be pleasing to the queen”, where the guard’s weapons were so ornate they were practically useless. He found he preferred this throne room, with it’s lack of ostentatiousness, it’s modest elegance and sincerity. He could see why Taeth had come back here. While he could never stay here, he could not begrudge his karîbâri her choice.

As he waited, he began to wonder what was going to be demanded of him. The king likely knew of his burgeoning relationship with Taethowen, it seemed like the kind of thing she would have divested upon her ascension to the rank of Marshal. Was he going to question where Frost’s loyalties lay? It was a valid question, even if it was an intrusive one. He was not the most noble looking of folk and the king likely knew of his Númenórean heritage and his Umbarian residency. How much he knew beyond that remained to be seen. Would he try to extract some sort of oath from Frost? Could he even do something like that to begin with? Frost sighed and licked his lips impatiently. He was not going to give an oath to the king that would satisfy him. He hadn't given Umbar such an oath, nor any of the other places he had been. He was not loyal to nations. He would, if asked however, give an oath of loyalty to Taethowen and her interests. The king of Rohan would just have to accept that. Perhaps, too, a dozen barrels or so of Umbarian Black Stout would help smooth things over.