We do not own Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, or any work of J.R.R. Tolkien's. Nor do we own the film trilogy distributed by New Line Cinema. This is fanfiction, created solely for purposes of enjoyment. We're not making money off this story. (We doubt anyone would pay for it, anyway. We would not.) The characters Éohild, Céolwin, Leófe, Bertana, Eafa, and other characters who do not appear in Tolkien's work are created by us, but based on the world of Tolkien.

Welcome, one and all, to another obligatory 10th Walker Legomance!

But really, thanks for clicking the story and giving it a chance. It means a lot to Senna, who out of the two of us owning this account is the writer for this one. (The other one is Elis, who stays out of it.) This story and concept was started by Senna long ago, in our high school years. (As if. It's only been a few years.)

WARNING: As a courtesy to those accustomed to the archive, like Elis (Senna does not read for fear of accusations), yes, we'll get ahead of you and say this is probably a Mary-Sue. Obviously. It's a self-insert 10th walker Legomance.

Yes, we know Tolkien really meant to have 9 goodies against Sauron's 9 baddies.

Yes, we still want to publish it into the archive anyway.

And yes, she is an imaginary sister to Éomer and lovely Éowyn, so AU?

She will become friends with those of the Company, and she will be closer in friendship with some members than others, because that's how big groups of people work. The circumstances of her induction into the Fellowship may or may not be acceptable to you, and we accept that. It's the best we could come up with given her background. Doesn't mean you can't complain about it, of course.

However, we like to think that Éohild is in no way perfect, and is possibly even relatable. At the start of every chapter, we will explain her insecurities in case it is difficult for you to read her emotions from her actions and thoughts. (Not to be condescending. Elis is not the best at it either, so we decided to add some thoughts as well as actions, but we will still explain for those too shy to ask. Try not to be, though. We'll answer questions happily unless meant to ridicule instead of help.)

We would ask you to read on and get to know her yourself to either prove us wrong or right. Hopefully, she isn't that annoying, either. At least not when she's grown up. And don't worry, Witch King slaying belongs to Éowyn and Merry, always and forever, no matter what anyone says. Tell us what you think!

This prologue reveals a bit of Éohild's younger years. The Province of Men follows mostly the movies, by the way, with some events taken from the book. (Mostly on how Boromir came to Rivendell.) For those impatient for the movie to start, we will tell you now that it starts at Chapter 3. Apologies for some typos that might occur, just tell us if you see any and we'll change them immediately.

One last thing! Théodred looks as he does in the film - young - and his age was adjusted to fit this. That way he is about 31 years old during the attack at Isen, 4 years older than Éomer. [Thanks to twibe for pointing this out! It was Théodred all along, not Théoden, to whom we referred!]

Enjoy!

The Province of Men

Prologue

The girl bolted round the corner, lunging past the yelping maidens and ignoring the oncoming reprimands from the older women of the hall. Plates clanged and curses rang out, but she stopped only when she reached the main hall, eyes briefly darting to the dais where the King's throne stood gloriously. When no Uncle of hers sat upon it, she gave a painful yelp and bounded for the great doors. The guards smiled almost expectantly and pulled forward, allowing the pale morning light to flood the hall in a silvery-blue glow.

"No!" cried the girl, arms outstretched and doing nothing to correct the sweaty, sleep-mussed hair all over her face, and then dropped her hands on her knees in dismay, panting for breath. Led by Théoden King, the thunderous galloping of horses slipped from the gates of Edoras and turned westward until they were but a wave of brown, black and white sweeping across the green plains of the Riddermark.

"Éohild," said a young man not older than twenty summers. He was tall and golden-haired, traits for which their people were well-known, though unlike most men of the Eorlingas was less broadly built than lithe. Prince Théodred of the Mark did not conceal the mirth in his tone. "Had you not slept past midnight, you might have seen Éomer go."

Éohild was the youngest daughter of Eomund, husband to the king's beloved sister. She had only seen five winters when Orcs slew her father and grief, her mother, and so kept little memory of them, depending instead on the tales recounted by Éomer and Éowyn, her elder brother and sister. Their uncle Théoden King raised them as his own son and daughters, so it was he she loved like a father, and Théodred a brother Éomer could depend on whenever she and Éowyn were too busy tearing at each other's hair.

Ten years old and hardly afraid of her cousin, young and famed Rider though he was, Éohild huffed and crossed her arms. "It is unfair."

Beside her, an older female nodded sullenly in agreement. Prepubescent, lanky, and nearly awkward, Éowyn was her sister, two years ahead of her and four years behind their brother. This morning was his very first ride out with their uncle, and she had hoped against hope that Théoden would change his mind and allow her to join them—to no avail. When Éohild would not wake at her prodding, she had gone out of Meduseld on her own. "It is."

"I do not think you speak of the same injustice," Théodred laughed. "But they are gone, and there is little to be done about father's decision."

"But cousin," Éowyn whirled at him, gray eyes steeling. "One word from you and Uncle would change his mind. He loves you dearly."

"And he is dear to me, in turn. But if only to keep you both safe, I would not speak with him again."

Éohild sighed. "Why should we learn to fight if we never partake in battle, cousin?"

"For a time I pray will never arrive," was his answer. And then, patting her rumpled hair, he ushered the sisters inside their home. "Come, now. Éohild, I believe breakfast is in order."

"Oh!" Éohild jumped, latching onto the prince's hand. "I am hungry."

"Éohild!" Éowyn exclaimed, rushing in after them. "You are too easily persuaded."

"But I am hungry," she answered, as though it was reason enough.

Éowyn shook her head and took to their cousin's side. "You might deter Éohild, but I know there is no reason for trapping me here!" she said to him in a furious whisper.

Théodred continued to steer Éohild to the dining hall, smiling when she glanced at him. He patiently replied to Éowyn, "Neither does a reason exist that tells me why you should join an éored. I guide and train you with the sword; Éohild knives for her little arms—"

"My arms are not so little!"

He pet her head but did not turn his gaze from Éowyn. "Is that not enough? It has become the standard that a Rider should possess the ability to slay an Orc. Could you? This is not simply a means for gaining honor, cousin."

In the hardened gaze reflected in his royal blue eyes, Éowyn could almost see Théodred's father in their younger days, whenever she and Éohild used to shove each other in the mud. Unable to match it, she turned away. Still she muttered, "…yes."

The heated mood dissipated when Théodred laughed and said in a singsong voice, "We shall see, Éowyn." And then they arrived at the dining hall, where the prince asked the serving women to prepare their breakfast.

They did not see; at least, not until two years passed. The younger of the King's sister-daughters had jumped from the top of Éowyn's chest to above her, so that she reached only Éohild's eyebrows. She took her sister's place not as appearing nearly awkward but completely, though she was not clumsy as one might expect. Meanwhile, Éowyn at fourteen was already in bloom, no longer gangly but slender and beautiful, and all the girls her age and older sighed dreamily at the thought of Éomer, who had grown into their father's lean but broad-shouldered build. Yet Théodred remained the most handsome lad in the Riddermark, and his skill earned him the station of Second Marshal of the Mark.

Théodred was away at the Hornburg, as was often of late. After he took the position he passed the guidance of his beloved cousins to Gamling, a lieutenant of his father's, for Éomer believed that his sisters were capable enough of defending themselves and should not be so encouraged to learn the art of war any longer.

By this time, the yearning to join the Riders was a desire Éohild now shared with her older sister. Within Éowyn, it intensified till it ached and burned, though she had learned to hide her bitterness with a collected façade for the sake of being a proper Lady to show respect for her Uncle. To her chagrin, Éohild seemed to have taken her constantly-slighted demeanor as well, knowing of but refusing to apply the secret to feigning an air of responsibility leaning towards precociousness at their age, which the maidens preferred to Éohild's surly attitude.

The sisters stood together on the highest hill in Edoras, atop the stairs before the doors of Meduseld. It had become a ritual: meeting there with Éomer and granting him good-luck kisses before allowing him to ride off without them. Below, a soft breeze weaved through the thatched roofs of their people. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sunlight with a hand, Éohild watched the dust cloud of the King's Riders disappear past the horizon, where dark clouds gathered together.

"This is unforgivable," she declared.

"It is," agreed Éowyn, looking quite displeased but without her sister's decidedly sour expression.

Éohild frowned at her sister's apparent lack of ardor. "Your tone betrays your indignation."

"There is little use for stomping one's feet," Éowyn explained, taking her sister's hand. "Men believe what their eyes see…only by this truth can we prove our worth."

Éohild's eyes widened. She shared the hazel of Éomer's, as it was their father's before them. "Do you mean…?"

For the past month, Éohild had hounded Éowyn with an idea that came to her one morning, when she was trapped in the kitchen with Wynne, the head cook, learning more recipes the woman swore to the King would benefit her future husband and family. To her misfortune, her uncle had agreed that his sister-daughters should spend a little more time learning kitchen duties so that managing the details of their own household someday would not be so difficult. It was not that Éohild disliked cooking, or chores, or Wynne's fondness of lecturing; she simply had not the patience for waiting.

She knew it was a fool's scheme, but it hounded her in thought and dream until her heart accepted it as a sound idea, good enough for a try.

In any case, Éowyn refused and swore her plan would be the end of them, and if not then their uncle would surely disown them – but if there was anything Éowyn had ever wanted to do for the Mark, it was to protect her home from any danger that might threaten it, face-to-face. Not setting the table in preparation for the arrival of the King's Riders, not even issuing the orders to the serving maidens. It would serve no purpose for a land in ruins.

"Yes."

Éohild's surly countenance disappeared as she raised her hands in exaltation. "Glorious day!"

Amused and excited, Éowyn watched her sister's grin stretch to rival the most conniving of tricksters as she explained her plan. She did not recall ever being so passionate with such theatrics. Even so, if this failed to prove a point to their uncle, everything else would. As soon as their slow march reached the center of Meduseld's receiving hall, Éowyn wobbled faintly and fell forward.

Noticing at the last split second, Éohild leapt and caught her sister by the shoulders. Touching Éowyn's forehead, she pulled back her hand as though seared by a boiling pot and gasped. "She's burning. Summon Céolwin!"

In hindsight, as Éomer would later grumble, perhaps Éowyn did not have any business listening to a girl who did not even yet wear a chest sling.

"My lady, your sister needs her rest. Your worries will not heal her," said Céolwin, resident healer of Edoras. She was only a decade beneath Théoden but looked much younger, hair a darker shade blonde than the rest of them. The guards called for her at once after Éowyn was brought to her room. The woman insisted that she had just seen the king's niece the day previous and it was impossible for her to be ill. She could not deny, however, that the heat Éowyn emanated and the fatigued fluttering of her eyelids that occurred whenever she woke from her intensely deep sleep were unsettling. "I shall return within the next hour to have a quick bath prepared."

Éowyn's arm twitched. She gave a pained groan.

"N-No!" Éohild cried, squeezing between Céolwin and the bed. "I shall give her the bath. You…say, after all, that we must learn more healing methods?"

Céolwin narrowed her almond-shaped eyes. "This is not the time for practice. If Lady Éowyn is in grave condition…"

Éohild wore solemnity like the steeliest helms of the Eorlingas. "Allow me a simple fever like this, Céolwin. I should care the most for her – and I will bring her broth."

The healer was none the wiser, her posture relaxing. "Very well, milady. But you will summon me."

"I promise. Thank you, Céolwin."

Céolwin departed with an uneasy smile. Éohild shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. "Sometimes you act too well, Éowyn. It isn't good to have her too worried!"

Éowyn sat upright, throwing the heavy covers off her body. "How was I to know? Your plan entailed deathly ill!"

"Not ill enough to draw Céolwin's attention!"

"I could have only been extremely fatigued from the heat," said Éowyn, lowering her voice and crossing her arms, an indication that the argument was over and she had won.

Éohild disliked the look ever since she grew taller than Éowyn. From above her nose her eyes looked narrowed, but those who were taller than Éowyn, generally men, would see a pout and doe gray eyes that would melt the caps of the Misty Mountains. Éohild rolled her eyes. "I would have been forced to run with boiling water before Céolwin arrived in either story."

"It was a pint, Éohild. And I was made to cover my forehead with it to convince them of your story. Among others."

"All the more precarious."

Éowyn threw her feet off the bed and shed her dress, under which she wore the tunic Théodred had had tailored for them during sword practice. Matching light trousers she took from her wardrobe, and boots she swiped from under the bed. "Are we to argue or to act?"

Hand reaching for the doorknob, Éohild sighed. "The gate. Ten minutes. Are you certain you can distract the guards?"

"Are you certain you can take armor and helmets for us both?"

Éohild huffed.

"The gate. Ten minutes." Hair swept into a ponytail for obscurity, Éowyn lifted the window and climbed out. The sisters had learned every brick out of place beneath their sill and knew the way without falling by heart to sneak to the stables over the past two years. When she disappeared and the sill latch clicked closed, Éohild exited the room. She locked the door and slipped the key into the chest sling she secretly wore. At her age, after all, Éowyn had already worn one! She was convinced it was only a matter of months before she became a woman.

To humor her, Éomer often showed Éohild the roads Théoden's éored would take whenever shifting paths according to reports of attacks, danger, or simply to maximize areas as they made rounds. So preoccupied was Éohild trying to remember the new one he showed her last night that she almost disregarded the call of her name.

It was Bertana, one of Wynne's aids. She had two daughters, a toddler son, and her husband was one of Théodred's Riders. She was one of the more pleasant members of the castle help, except when there was too much to do in the kitchen such as a banquet, then Wynne's constant orders drove her into the state of a panicked wife about to birth a child and she was delegated the task of sweeping, instead.

Éohild whirled. "Bertana." She put on a smile and then dimmed it. Éowyn was ailing, after all.

"How is the Lady? I heard news from Leófe and Eafa," said the older woman, referring to the twins. Eafa was the male of the two, one of the guards of the King's household , while the girl Leófe was an apprentice to Céolwin. She had accompanied the healer and subsequently disappeared during the process of diagnosis. Nearly two decades old and they still gossiped when the opportunity so came.

"She wishes for you not to see her in her…tired state," answered Éohild. "It is best you don't enter. Or anyone, for that matter. If you must give her something, course it through me. Her door is locked for that reason." That excuse would hold well enough, in case anyone sought out Éowyn.

"The poor Lady," Bertana sighed. "A meal would surely lift her spirits."

"Er—Céolwin said broth would only worsen her condition." Éohild silently berated herself. That did not coincide with what she said to the healer at all. "At least, if given immediately. Perhaps later. Much later." When they were already in the company of her uncle.

"Well…if the healer says so," Bertana nodded her assent after a moment of pondering. "But," she asked with some confusion, "where are you going, milady?"

"My brother's chambers. I left my cloak there when I borrowed a band for my hair," she answered. She had it figured already in her mind – Éomer's room was closest to the barracks to the side of Meduseld. Her brother kept all the essentials in his room in case of an attack: his sword and armor, of course, honing steel, sharpening steel, and the like. One of these was rope, and she would tie it to Éomer's sill latch and climb down with her tunic, trousers and boots which she'd planted while Éowyn played the dying woman. Some esquires left their livery in the barracks at night and more than once she had already worn those she managed to 'borrow.'

Bertana accepted her reason and bade her fare well. Éohild set to the task, unlocking her brother's room with a spare key he had given her and Éowyn in case a thief ever climbed in and he cried out for help. (That was upon Éowyn's insistence, clearly, for Éohild knew Éomer would never think of crying out for help as he would never need it.) Locking it again from within, she pushed open the window. A strong breeze like a warning puffed into her face, blowing back her hair, but Éohild ignored it and inched down the rope, palms sweating and burning at the same time. Her feet touched the ground lightly, and then she tiptoed to the barracks at the base of Meduseld's hill, hiding behind a path of shrubs.

The mixed murmur and footsteps of Riders reached her ears, but it was near dinnertime and they were on their way to the dining hall. Éohild easily slipped past their notice and ducked inside. Collecting the armor they needed, she trudged as quietly as she could to the stables. A young gray horse greeted her with a whinny, to which Éohild replied with an index finger to her lips.

"Hush, Windfola!"

Windfola was Éowyn's horse, but Éohild had practiced with him well enough before and had yet to receive her own. She was beginning to suspect that they would never assign her one.

Slouching under the weight of her helm and squire livery, Éohild packed Éowyn's things into their mount's saddlebag. She was tall enough to be mistaken for a young lad leading his horse around the village for a walk. Twilight was a peculiar time of the day to be wandering, and the women would wonder at the Meduseld help the next day who exactly it was, but by then they should have already caught up with their uncle's éored and slain a few Orcs, proving their worth as warriors. It was the perfect plan. Taking a deep breath, Éohild tugged gently at Windfola's reins and led him out of the stable.

Éowyn's hair followed the slight wind. In the evening she might have passed for a lad, but in the dusk she was only lovelier than ever. She stood out too much with those features that contrasted with her tunic. Éohild wasn't surprised to see that she'd opted to speak with the guard as her own pretty self and was motioning to the gate. They were fortunate that news of her illness had not yet spread to the gate despite Eofe's efforts; or perhaps Éowyn was telling the guard of her desire to walk outside despite her fever? Éohild would never understand how her sister managed to evade suspicion so easily in all matters. The gate was starting to open.

Éohild stopped at the edge of the slope, patting Windfola's head in a distracted manner though her gaze remained on Éowyn. The sign was her head lolling backward. When her sister staggered to the side, Éohild swung onto Windfola and went as fast as she could.

"Éowyn!" she called.

Her sister leapt from the soldier's arms and caught Éohild's outstretched hand, climbing Windfola's back. Hearts pounding in their ears, mirth hoarse from their throats, they rode swiftly out of Edoras until the panicked shouting of the guards were no longer in range.

Minutes later, the sisters calmed their excited laughter and Éohild cleared her throat, head turning slightly to the side. "That was a distraction?"

"Could you have thought of one more intelligent?" was Éowyn's retort, adding with measured disgust, "Men do not resist a fainting maiden."

"True," Éohild acquiesced, and then focused on following the king's éored as she remembered Éomer's telling of it. The horse tracks were a great aid, of course, to find a way through the unending rise and fall of hills and trees in their country. But the sky grew darker as the minutes passed, and when the two sisters raised their eyes to the heavens to discover why not a speck of light from the moon guided them, they saw clouds. Multitudes of thick gray clouds, though they couldn't know in such a darkness. Still young and untrained, Windfola pawed uneasily at the ground.

"Shh, Windfola," Éowyn murmured, leaning past her sister and smoothing her hand close to the horse's neck. "It is all right…" When he calmed slightly, trotting forward again – for they had unknowingly slowed as the clouds crept in – she asked her sister, "Where are we going?"

"Well—forward," was Éohild's answer. She kept her voice steady for Windfola's sake. "If I remember correctly, the reports given to Uncle stated that the Orcs were not far from the large hills near the White Mountains, a little southeast of Edoras."

"And we've been going that way," Éowyn sighed. "Why have we not seen Orcs? Where is Éomer? Uncle's éored?"

"They must have gone further out. They did…" Éohild frowned. "…leave early…"

Éowyn huffed. "Pray they left us a few."

Her tone brought back Éohild's conviction. "Yes," she laughed. "An utter waste, should we arrive there with Orcs already smoking in a pyre!"

But as if to punish their sneaking about, the sky brightened for a moment, revealing the row of hills they had been searching for since they left Edoras, only to crackle wickedly—Éohild was certain she recognized the shape of that lightning bolt, that of some long-necked fowl of both grace and power—dim, and send a heavy shower of rain to wash away any tracks they might have felt if they thought to dismount. They had no recourse but to head for the tall hills. To the last of their fortune, one of these was hollow, containing an earthy cavern within. It led into a small tunnel connecting what may have been all the hills they had seen, but they could never know, too preoccupied with seeking shelter from the cold.

Setting out the little blankets they had deep into the hole in the hills, Éohild and Éowyn sat together near a fire. It was small and barely five wisps of a flame, but it was all they could muster with the materials they were willing to spare. Windfola sat close to it, keeping it alive with his proximity, and allowed the girls to lie against him.

When she was finished wringing out her hair, Éowyn grumbled. "This was a terrible idea. I told you."

"But you wanted to do it!" Éohild cried, sitting up. Windfola jerked in annoyance. "If this was against your will, you—"

"All right, all right," said Éowyn, raising her voice to meet her sister's. "Let us not bicker. We shall find our way home in the morning."

Éohild made a face at her. This was another way Éowyn ended arguments these days when she knew she was losing. Still, she agreed and lay back on the gray horse. "Éomer will be furious."

The sisters exchanged grimaces before bursting into giggles. They had turned teasing their irritable brother into a sport to spite him for being permitted to join the ranks of the Riders. He disliked Grima, one of their Uncle's bug-eyed but well-meaning advisors, and absolutely hated it when they made jokes about him becoming a member of the man's personal guard.

Éowyn sighed. "A shame neither of us were able to kill an Orc for all this trouble."

"If we were there," Éohild yawned, curling up to her sister, "fighting off the Orcs would be much easier."

Éowyn made a motion of drawing her sword and slicing it sideways. "I would kill it through the chest."

"I always thought I would hack its legs off," Éohild grinned. "When I was little."

"You are still little."

"Not as little as you."

Éowyn rolled her eyes, but was too tired to argue. For a few moments, only the flickering fire made any sound until Éohild spoke again.

"This is what it must mean."

Rest had come so close for Éowyn, and so she didn't bother to look at Éohild. Her throat was hoarse when she asked in what felt like hours later, "…What?"

"Adventure," Éohild answered immediately. Her sister wondered if she was sleep-talking given the languid manner in which she uttered it. "It…It's sleeping on the hard, unforgiving ground with naught but a blanket in the shivering cold."

Éowyn opened her eyes with the slightest smile. "Don't forget a trusty Windfola." She patted his back, but he was lucky enough to have already been fast asleep. Drawing her blanket closer to Éohild, she asked, "Do you regret it?"

"No!" Éohild muttered with what may have been the last of her energy. Her eyes were already closed. Or they could have always been. Éowyn couldn't tell. Éohild's voice grew softer until she could no longer hear it. "Not…for a moment…"

Éohild slept, but she never truly rested. She slumbered in short bursts and at the smallest noises. Once, when she realized the rain had finally subsided and their fire had long fallen to ash, she could no longer return to her dreams of an eternity sitting before the river Snowbourn. The murmuring that reached her ears was not the pitter-patter of rain. A rotten stench filled her senses even before she was aware of it, and she could see a faint orange light near the entrance of the cave. She could tell that it was fire; not the dawn.

"Éowyn," she whispered, shaking her sister roughly. "Éowyn, we're not alone."

Éowyn grumbled. The murmurs grew louder; in fear, Éohild clamped her hand over her own mouth. She rose slowly, legs trembling, cringing when she swallowed. Her hands were freezing when she buckled on her belt sheathe, tiptoeing closer to the intruders, in contrast with the sweat rising on her back. Did they hear it?

Disfigured shadows crept high on the cavern wall against the fire. There were four of them. She could barely make out the words between the grunting, but Éohild was certain she did not mishear filthy Men. One of them hurled his sword at the ground within Éohild's sight at the turn of the tunnel. It was encased in a filthy scabbard; a kind her Uncle had brought back more than once. These were Orcs.

Éohild thought her chest might burst. Her first instinct was to glance where Éowyn remained hidden, to her relief. They could wait until the Orcs left and then they would be safe. If it came to blows, then—then she wished more than anything that their brother would find them.

A shadow came upon Éohild's feet as soon as she turned back. Upon closer inspection, it was hardly a spectre cast by the fire. It wouldn't stink of blood and sweat if it were, for one. Or snicker, hoist her up by the shoulders, and throw her to the ground at the feet of its companions.

Éohild felt the bruises forming on her knees, though her blinding, deafening awareness of the beasts that surrounded her imbued in the girl the presence of mind to rise. It could not be contested that they were ugly. Éomer and Théodred had described them before, and this vision was far worse than she had ever imagined. To her mind the monsters that had slain her father were gurgling, roaring beasts with fanged teeth and blood made of poison. With the little bravery she had, she looked upon one and saw that its teeth were indeed jagged, but they were hardly incoherent.

"What do we have here?"

By their accents she could not tell whence they had come, but that they could speak frightened her all the more. It meant they could think, plan, outmaneuver her. She felt as though they towered over her by at least a head or two, though she could not tell if it was her own gripping fear making them greater in her eyes. Éohild's trembling arms crossed over her body, and the Orcs howled in laughter all the louder.

"A little girl."

Éohild tried to remember what it was Théodred and Gamling had taught them for so many years. The basic stances and the more complicated maneuvers faded as quickly as they came to mind, however, as all she wanted to do was break into tears. If she were to die, was all it could repeat over and over again, then at least Éowyn would live to see tomorrow. Once the Orcs left the cavern she could return to Edoras and Éomer would avenge her death.

"Fresh meat."

If Théodred were in her position, he would fight his way out completely unscathed, hair tossing gloriously behind him. Éomer would have thought to tell someone where he was going, at least, in case his plan went awry. And Uncle Théoden would never have gotten himself into this to begin with.

"Just what I was hankerin' for!"

"No!" Éohild cried. If she was going to die, then the honorable thing to do was to go down in battle. They would sing that she slew at least one Orc before her untimely death and be remembered as…

One of them drew its sword. "Which tastes better – the leg or the gut?" it asked, licking its black lips.

Éohild let out a yell, drawing two long daggers from her belt sheathe. By the time the Orcs realized she had actual weapons, however, one of them had already fallen by the longsword of the young woman they had forgotten to take into account.

"Do not dare touch my sister, Orc," spat Éowyn, raising her blade at those facing her.

When they snarled and then laughed at Éowyn's similarly shaking arm, Éohild shouted again. Running towards the Orc in closest range, she sliced her twin blades across its knees. Their skin was thicker than she had imagined. The Orc only grunted and moved to kick her, and Éohild threw herself sideways to dodge a moment too late. It kicked her on her back and looked around for its sword. Struggling to her knees and coughing while it found its weapon, she plunged a dagger between its legs.

"Come here, brat!" roared the Orc who caught her. It lifted her by the neck this time, and Éohild wondered if it felt any remorse at all for its companions. The Orcs hardly reacted at the death of one of their own.

"Release her, beast!" demanded Éowyn, dodging the others lunging at her to attack it. Her sword managed to puncture its shoulder before it pulled away and maneuvered its own weapon so that hers flew out of her grasp.

"Stay down," it hissed, slapping her across the face hard enough to knock her into the cavern wall. Éowyn fell unconscious to the ground.

"Éowyn!" Éohild choked out. Strength overpowered the fear that had gripped her and begged to come out of her fingers and heels. Eyes on her sister, she swung her feet at the Orc's chest and knocked the wind out of it.

The Orc swore and released her, allowing her to crouch and retake her dagger from a dead one's pelvic bone right as another swung his sword over her head. Still on all fours, she scurried over and stabbed its foot. Bellowing, it hacked at her neck, but she dropped to her left, rolling on her back. It nearly chopped her hair off. In its furious haste to lunge at her exposed gut, the Orc tripped over Éohild's outlying leg. That was certain now to bruise.

Éohild scampered to her feet and leapt at the Orc while it recovered, knifing it in the back and thrusting her other dagger into its neck for good measure.

"You're dead," said the last one. She'd forgotten about him in her panic. Éohild would always remember the face of the first Orc she laid eyes on, advancing towards her, lifting his sword—

A loud whinny echoed throughout the cave. Both Éohild and the Orc paused until the eyes of the former widened. The Orc followed her gaze and shrieked as a gray horse of the Mark came upon him and trampled him to death.

It seemed a long while after she vomited at the side of the cave when Éohild simply fell to one spot, staring at Windfola's bloody hooves and her own weapons, bathed in thick black fluid that once coursed life into a monster. When the only sounds left were her ragged breathing and Windfola stomping on the dead Orcs for good measure, the horse sniffing disdainfully, Éohild dropped her knives and struggled to stand. All the energy she possessed during the fight had somehow escaped her as soon as they were safe. When she could not rise, she crawled to her sister, wiping her own mouth. Any slower and Éowyn's heartbeat would proclaim her dead.

"Éowyn!" screamed Éohild with all her might. This was not the adventure they had planned. The result would have left them both alive. Perhaps not unscathed, but alive in excitement at their first kills. "Éowyn!"

Éohild felt her eyes sting and her throat catch with tears, but contained herself and kept to the task of waking Éowyn, slapping her, yelling and threatening her if she did not budge. When she finally ceased, Éohild resorted to cradling Éowyn in her arms and singing weakly an old lullaby, Windfola lying innocently at her side, until the battering of hooves startled the ground near the earthy caverns and she heard their names echoing in the distance.