Éomer had returned staggering, drawn down by holding another man up. Éowyn saw them as she passed by the throne room. Her brother's companion was barely recognizable as Boromir, son of Denethor. His shirt had been stripped, and his shoulder was bound with linens that had been turned brown and red with blood. His noble face held the pale of Death as though he beheld it, even as Éowyn observed him from the shadows from which she dare not emerge.

"Hail, Théoden, king!" her brother began. "I bring tidings from our borders to the west!" With this, he deposited Boromir carefully on the floor before the throne. Éowyn had rarely spoken with the son of the Steward before, though he seemed a valiant man. Yet, with pity did she gaze upon his weakened form and with regret that such strength as she had seen before should have vanished. Rightly she guessed that more than a shoulder wound had Boromir of Gondor suffered.

"More than tidings it seems you have brought, son of Éomund," Grima Wormtongue spoke before the king, as was his wont. "What business have you in bringing a son of Gondor to the very heart of Rohan?"

Éomer glared at Wormtongue with a hatred not easily matched. "This man has been wounded! Do you not see, my king Théoden? Boromir of Gondor has long been a friend of Rohan and of our house, and now he is in need of our aid. Summon our healers; he will not have much life left should you tarry!"

Then Théoden drew a long and labored breath, and said, "How came you by this man?"

Glancing downward, Éomer long remained silent, but at length replied, "Heal him, and I will tell all."

Wormtongue screwed his face in distaste. "You would deny your king his inquiry? Answer!"

"He has said he will answer!" Éowyn declared, at last stepping from the shadows in which she had long dwelt. "Only heal this man, my king, and all you wish to know shall be known."

"Our healers will be much occupied by the return of your brother's éored, my lady," Wormtongue declared.

Her gaze snapped onto her most hated foe, and with as cool a voice she could summon said, "I speak not to you, Grima Wormtongue-aptly named. Though should Edoras find that no healer can be spared from my brother's victorious éored, I will heal Boromir of Gondor myself."

"Indeed," Théoden said, and laughed a cold laugh. "Let it be done! Take him now and let your brother remain."

Éomer cast his countenance upon Éowyn, and she could not decipher the meaning of his look. Yet, she would not revoke her word nor disobey the order of the king. Summoning her strength, she took Boromir under his arms and drew him near her. The son of Gondor cried out in pain; this was the one sound he uttered in the throne room of Edoras. Éowyn stepped backwards and nearly faltered-for Boromir was a man of great strength, and great strength it required to move him. His feet which lay limp on the floor were taken up by a page, and together the Lady and Page of Rohan moved Boromir son of Denethor from before the throne of Théoden.

The House of Healing was neither full of the injured and ill Rohirrim nor was it short of healers, as was evident upon entry. The page that had assisted Éowyn released Boromir and ran to find the Mistress of the house, leaving Éowyn alone to comfort the son of the Steward. She sat on the cold, stone floor with his head resting on her lap, and she spoke soothing words and laid her hand on his fevered brow.

"Lady Éowyn," Boromir whispered. It was the first that he had recognized whom it was that had saved him from the cruelty of Wormtongue.

"Hush, my lord," she instructed. "You must save what strength remains in you."

Boromir clutched her arm and did not let go. "I must find my company," he declared firmly through his teeth. "They were taken of my fault, and by me they must be found again."

Éowyn looked up, desperate for the Mistress's arrival, then returned her gaze to Boromir. "That cannot be done. You are among friends here, and we will not release you til the power to wield a sword is yours again."

Ere Boromir could protest, the Mistress of the house rushed forward with the page lingering just behind her and knelt by Boromir's side. Her old, withered hand felt his head, his neck, and his wrist and her drawn face did not lighten for an instant.

"Dernhelm," the woman called to the page. "Help me bring this man to a good room."

Boromir did not struggle as he was carried, nor did he resist as he was hoisted on to his bed. Yet, he looked on Éowyn with such sorrow that had he screamed and cried out, her heart would have been less moved.

"My lady," the Mistress said, resting her hand on Éowyn's shoulder. "You should leave now. I fear this healing will not be for the faint of heart."

"This man has been given to my charge," replied Éowyn. "I will not forsake him." And those that saw her then knew that she would not be moved should the Golden Hall crumble and Edoras fall, for she was honorable and steadfast in her vows. So, the Mistress relented and bade Éowyn make herself useful and obey what other instruction she received.

The dressing of Boromir's shoulder was cut away, and under it there lay a deep wound encompassed by green and sickly flesh. "Here is an affliction I hoped never to see again!" the Mistress cried when she saw it. "Alas! that a noble man should suffer such a fate!"

Then Dernhelm, who had long been silent, begged to question, "What fate has befallen him, Mother?"

"His wound is poisoned," declared the Mistress. "Its sickness spreads slowly, but with great pain. I know this poison, for I have not been permitted to store its antidote."

At this Boromir spoke, though he labored through every word. "It is the poison of Isengard. Saruman's orc struck me with his arrow."

"And owning the cure is not permitted?" Éowyn repeated. "On whose order is a healer denied her means of healing?"

The Mistress cast her eyes down and said in a low voice, "Grima Wormtongue has forbidden it, my lady."

At these words, anger and fear boiled in Éowyn's chest. "What can I do?" she demanded.

"Naught can be done, Lady Éowyn," Dernhelm sighed, and hung his head low. "What Wormtongue has ordered, no man can overthrow. Forgive me, my lady, but surely you see that even the king's reigns are in his grasp."

Long had that truth haunted the Golden Hall. Wormtongue ruled Rohan, answering to none, and all that he desired was his at a word or the reach of his hand.

At length, Éowyn turned from Boromir and from the healer and her son and left the House of Healing to return to the Golden Hall. Weary of the command of Wormtongue though she was, she feared him, and she was justified in her fear. None could know all the evils that had come to pass under Wormtongue's direction, though she herself knew many.

On the steps of the house that was meant to belong to her uncle and king, Éowyn's step slowed. A sudden new fear pierced her, and visions filled her mind. The days would soon be darker, and the throne of Rohan would not hold the once-great King Théoden forever. And what would become of Éowyn? Was she to live the remainder of the dark days in submission to the snake in the grass? Would she allow an honorable man to die as a guest in the care of the Riddermark?

Unsummoned yet unable to be detained, the Lady of Rohan went openly before the throne where the king of Rohan sat and the ruler of the land next to him. "My lord, the son of the Steward of Gondor lies in Death's arms in our house, able to be healed. Will you not show him the pity he deserves?"

Théoden's head rose, and his eyes matched Éowyn's though he saw her not for his gaze was beyond her and beyond Middle Earth.

"Pity," Wormongue spat. "Pity for a friend of foes? Be not fooled, Éowyn of Edoras. The noble reside not in the White City of Minas Tirith, nor does this Captain of the White Tower hold any honor in him. If you cannot heal him, my lady, then let him die! And better it will be that you do not waste yourself on his care."

"Of what foe do you speak? Has there not long been friendship between the White City and the Golden Hall?"

Wormtongue smiled, and at the evil sight, Éowyn grew cold and her foot stepped backwards unbidden. "There is indeed great friendship between Boromir of Gondor and Éomer, your brother."

A long silence passed and still Éowyn did not comprehend his words. Often had her brother spoken of his admiration of Boromir and concealed it from no man. "This is true," Éowyn confirmed at length.

"Is not Éomer, son of Éomund a betrayer of the laws of Rohan? Did he not meet Boromir's company and set them free, disregarding the command of the king? Is he not a violent man and a warmonger? Does he not even now sit in the dungeons of Edoras? Tell me, my lady, what honorable man has a friend such as your brother?"

At this, Éowyn turned to the king, and a wild and desperate look was in her eye. "My lord, I beg of you, tell me that this liar lies still! My brother is loyal to you!"

"Éomer is gone," Théoden sighed. "Gone, gone, gone..."

"Gone," Wormtongue repeated. "Just as Théodred is gone and Gandalf Greyhame as I have just been told. There is no ally of Rohan. None to protect us. Yet, fear not, my lady. In this hour of desperation, our friend Saruman the White will use his mighty hand against the foe. All shall be well."

Éowyn now trembled in fear and anger. "Poison!" she declared. "The poison of Isengard which even now kills Boromir is in the very words of the Wormtongue! May they that still hope never see the ruin of Edoras and the Golden Hall, for ruin you have brought on us! My lord, will you do nothing?" And she cast herself at Théoden's feet, and clung to his robe and did not move till a cold hand placed itself on her bent neck.

"Such despair," Wormtongue's voice crooned. "Such hopelessness you have brought to yourself with your vain words. Trust in me, my lady, as your exalted uncle does, and even Shadow and Darkness shall seem to be the very shores of Valinor."

And Éowyn lifted her face and met the cold eyes that ever followered her where she went, and she saw in them corruption and desire. From times before, she had seen the same, and the warmth of her blood was stolen. "Do not touch me," she hissed, and forced his hand off of her.

She stood again and still saw nothing in the face of Théoden, neither wrath nor compassion. And her heart grew heavy, and her face turned grim, and she turned her back on the Throne and left with the same haste with which she had entered.

Not until she was again at Boromir's bedside did she stay her feet. The Mistress and her son had long removed themselves from him, though awake he remained. "My lady, Éowyn," Boromir began, managing little more than a whisper. "What news from the Mark?"

Then Éowyn took the cloth from the water basin on the table next to him, and wrung it until holes tore in it, and laid it on his brow. "Save your strength, my lord," she commanded. The thought of her brother passed by her, and she knew that no more good remained in the world. "At such a time as this, it is much needed."