Finduél, the horse to which Nimoë was led, was a full eighteen hands tall, burnished gold in color, and with a spirit that could not quite be restrained to a sedate trot. While she was by no means an experienced rider, she was glad that she had spent some time on horseback. She would not have been able to keep her seat, elsewhise.
        There seemed to be little point now in hiding her gender, so she rode with her hair blowing free, enjoying the feeling of the fresh wind on her face. Eomer rode at her side, standing guard, lest she try to flee back to her companions. “Lady, will you not tell me more of what it is that brought you here to the land of Rohan?”
        “Peace, Eomer. As I have told you each time you ask, it is not my place to tell you. My companions are engaged in a quest most urgent, and most secret. Unless they give me permission, I will not speak of it.”
        Eomer let out his breath in frustration. “You must understand, things are not well in my kingdom. My mother’s-brother, King Theoden, listens only to the craven counsel of his advisor, Grima, whom all save him name Wormtongue. At his behest did King Theoden decree that no person shall travel free in the land of Rohan without first gaining permission from himself. I believe that your companion was indeed Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and that he undertakes a perilous quest, but this will not be enough to placate the King. I must know more, or things could go ill with me!”
        Nimoë was not willing to turn her head too far to the side, as she was afraid she would fall from Finduél’s broad back, but she put as much feeling into her words as she could manage, trying to express herself as clearly as she would have been able to had she been able to use her eyes to convey her meaning. “Lord Eomer, if you have placed yourself in danger by aiding Aragorn, I am sorry. Still, it was the best choice you could have made. If he succeeds, perhaps your land, as well as the rest of Middle- Earth, can be saved from the coming darkness. I sincerely hope that nothing ill will befall you, but I cannot speak more plainly. Only know that you are aiding the most important quest of this age. Surely that must be enough?”
        Eomer muttered something under his breath, which sounded to Nimoë much like “Stubborn women!” and then he spurred his steed forward, to the front of the company. The set of his shoulders was that of a man sorely put upon, and she found that she pitied him, but did not regret her decision.
        Several hours later, they approached the city of Edoras. The gates were barred, but on seeing Eomer, they were quickly flung wide. The company galloped through, then slowed, bringing their steeds into the stables, which were nigh unto the gates of the ancient city. They dismounted and turned the sweating beasts over to other Rohirrim, then most of the men departed for their homes.
        Eomer beckoned to Nimoë and she followed him out of the stables and up the hill towards Meduseld, the great hall of King Theoden of the Mark. All along the path which climbed the hill were soldiers, standing at attention. They nodded to Eomer in greeting, but cast suspicious looks towards Nimoë. A cold feeling began to form at the back of her neck, and she started to wonder what she was getting into.
        Finally they reached the gates of Meduseld. There they were greeted by a man of noble bearing, who spoke warmly to Eomer. “My Lord, it is good that you are returned. I fear that the King is even more troubled than before you left. The death of his son weighs heavily upon him, and still more closely does he follow the advice of Grima Wormtongue.”
        Eomer clasped the man about the shoulders and replied, “Hama, it is good to see you. Still, I am troubled by your tidings. I must see the king immediately. I have with me a woman who I found abroad in our lands, along with three men, one mortal, one Elf and one Dwarf.”
        Hama bowed to Nimoë. “An honor to greet you, my Lady.” Then he turned again to Eomer. “Where then are her companions?”
        “I let them go on their way, and I gave them horses.”
        Hama stared at him incredulously. “Truly? And you are coming to tell this news to the king? I fear that he will not take it well, and Wormtongue sits now beside him.”
        Resignedly, Eomer replied, “Because a thing will not be pleasant is not a good enough reason to put it off, if it needs doing. Please, go to the king and inform him of my coming.”
        “As you wish, my Lord.”
        When Hama was gone, Eomer turned to Nimoë. “It is as I feared. I will try to protect you from the wrath of Wormtongue, but the king is the king. I do not think that he would harm a woman, but he may try to take out some of his wrath for me on you.”
        “I am ready,” she replied.
        Shortly, Hama returned. “You may enter the hall. King Theoden is there, with Grima. Also your sister Eowyn stands in the hall, along with some other Marshals of the Riddermark.” The two were about to pass him, when he reached out to stop Eomer. “I did not tell him about the lady and her companions. It is fit for you to do that. Whatever happens, know that many here will support you. Theoden is still king, but his mind is weakened by fell whisperings. You will not stand alone.”
        “Thank you, Hama.”
        Nimoë gazed around her in wonder at the hall of Meduseld. Tapestries adorned the walls, depicting the glorious history of Rohan. Eorl the Young was often shown, proud in his battle armor. After drawing her eyes from the walls, she looked to the front of the room.
        There sat Theoden, King of Rohan. His hair and beard were the color of drifted snow, and long. He sat bent, as if the weight of the world were too heavy to bear. At his side was a man, unspectacular in any way, bent with his head near to the king’s ear, whispering to him. Behind the throne stood a woman, clad in white, her golden hair falling in full waves to her waist. She gave a tight smile to Eomer, but her eyes bore the look of long suffering, and her muscles were tense with restrained fury.
        Theoden spoke. “Eomer, sister-son, who is this that you bring unannounced into my hall?”
        Eomer repeated what he had told to Hama at the gate. Theoden’s eyes blazed at the telling of the tale. At the end of it, Grima whispered again into the king’s ear.
        Theoden nodded and addressed Nimoë. “What is your name, and where do you come from?”
        She took a step forward, and spoke. “I am Nimoë, daughter of Naldor, of Mirkwood. I am also apprentice to Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood.” She had to pause then, for there was a murmur of shock and surprise throughout the room. The lady behind the throne looked at her then, as if seeing her for the first time.
        Grima leapt up then and cried, “A servant of the witch of the woods! What have you wrought upon us Eomer? She is dangerous. And her companions you have allowed to travel freely through Rohan, with our horses? Without the consent of your King? Much you have taken upon yourself.”
        Nimoë broke in on his ranting. “I tell you truly, master Grima, that my companions are the most honorable and valiant of men. They think only of the good of Middle-Earth. Eomer has chosen well.”
        Grima began to leap up and down. “Bind her mouth! An Elf-witch can make the minds of men stray where she wishes. She shall work her enchantments upon us all. Bind her!”
        Three men advanced upon her, but Eomer stepped in front of her. “I gave this woman my protection. You shall not touch her.”
        Grima spoke again. “You are not King here! My Lord Theoden, you must heed my counsel. Have your men bind the Elf-witch, before she can work her evil upon us.”
        Theoden nodded. “You have the right of it. Obey me! Bind her!”
        Eomer raised his sword. “Grima Wormtongue, if these men lay a hand on her, I will personally sever your scheming head from your pathetic body.”
        “Master?!” Wormtongue groveled back to Theoden.
        “None shall threaten my most trusted advisor, not even you, sister- son.” The King then addressed all the other marshals in the hall. “Take him prisoner! Put him in the dungeons. Bind the Elf-witch and gag her. Put her also in the dungeons. This is the will of your king!”
        Faced with his own friends, set to take him prisoner, Eomer found he had not the heart to strike them. He faced Nimoë with regret in his eyes. “I have failed you. I am sorry. I pray that your companions will come quickly to Edoras. Mayhap they can protect you better than I.” He turned then and surrendered.
        Nimoë was grabbed roughly, her hands tied behind her back, and a gag stuffed into her mouth. Ungentle hand pulled her roughly from the throne room, and through her silent tears, the last thing she saw was Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, watching after her with cold steel in her eyes, although she thought that there was also pity.