Chapter 1 - The King's Men

Is seo forðgesceaft digol and dyrne.
The course of the future is hidden and secret.

Maxims II

Charlotte Grey threw open the curtains of the small, quaint Bed-and-Breakfast in which she had spent the night and gazed out for a long moment over the rolling green Cotswold hills. Finding the ancient latch, she struggled with it briefly before pushing the window wide and leaning out. The cool morning air rushed into the room, filling it with the scent of the fresh garden below and the light trill of birdsong.

She smiled to herself, pleased with how bright and clear the day was, before picking up her camera and notebook from the bed and putting both in a shoulder bag. She pulled on her sturdy walking boots and headed downstairs.

The proprietors of the Bed-and-Breakfast were an elderly couple who did not have any other guests currently staying. As such, she joined them for breakfast and they were more than happy to hear about her research and what had brought her to this little corner of Oxfordshire.

She was a Masters student at the University of Oxford, studying history and writing her dissertation on the Neolithic stones that dotted the English countryside. It was Reading Week in the second year of her studies and she had taken the opportunity to drive out of the city for a few days and see some of the local landmarks.

Her destination today was the Rollright Stones, in particular the King's Men stone circle. It was less than an hour's walk through the picturesque Cotswold countryside from her Bed-and-Breakfast. She only saw a few people on her way, a couple of dog walkers and a jogger.

Once more, Charlotte breathed deeply as she walked. It was rare that she got to enjoy the countryside like this. She spent most of her time in the city, many of her friends being based there. She only really ventured to London, where she had grown up, for awkward dinners with her father while her stepmother was out of town.

She reached the Whispering Knight's Stones first, pausing for a long moment to take several pictures and note the direction they faced, before moving onto the stone circle of the King's Men below. She was surprised to find that it was deserted, given that it was a well known tourist spot. She walked through a gap in the stones, likely where some had fallen or been removed in years previously, and stopped in the centre, gazing around her. She found the tallest stone, which her research had told her was the only one to bear a carving, and approached.

Sure enough, she could just make out the carved shield at the top of the stone. She snapped several pictures and then lowered her camera, gazing thoughtfully at the stones as a cool wind started to tug at the hem of her light plaid shirt.

The wind roused her from her musings and she spotted a small bench outside the circle that would be an ideal spot to sit and write up her notes and observations. Making her way towards it, she idly brushed the very tips of her fingers over the dry, ancient surface of one of the stones as she left the circle -

-And suddenly the world shifted.

Bright white light flared around her, and she knew no more.

Gandalf the Grey sat alone on the pinnacle of Orthanc, his back braced against one of the four spires of the tower. He briefly considered a spell for warmth, but dismissed the idea. His staff had been taken and he could only work small magics without it in his current state of exhaustion; the warmth gained through a spell would not be worth the energy it would cost. Instead, he wrapped his sodden grey cloak tighter around him and hunched into it in a vain attempt to keep out the bitter, biting wind as he brooded on the treachery of Saruman.

Far below him, the previously lush and verdant gardens of Isengard swarmed with torches, small pinpricks of light that were clearly visible in the dark of the night. The acrid smell of smoke and snatches of harsh, guttural shouts caught on the cold wind and were carried up to him. Saruman had recruited orcs from the Misty Mountains to do his bidding and now Isengard was being transformed into a machine of war.

The single hatch in the middle of the pinnacle opened and Saruman himself appeared from below, his black staff in hand. He pierced Gandalf with his dark eyes, taking in his shrunken form and the moisture that dripped from his clothing.

"Have you had time to reconsider your position, my old friend?" the White Wizard asked, his voice deep and melodious.

"I had rather hoped that you had reconsidered yours," Gandalf replied, knowing that his efforts were fruitless but feeling that he must try, for the sake of the long friendship he had borne for the fellow Wizard. "If you are deep in the enemies counsel then there is much you could do to aid us."

Saruman looked steadily down on him. "Against the power of Mordor, there can be no victory," he said in a firm, decisive tone. His voice fairly quavered with power and the moon shone as a queer gleam in the black of his eyes as he spoke of how the world would be in a tone that suffered no doubt. "A new power will rise and the old world will burn in its path; it will come to pass."

Gandalf held his cloak tighter around himself, as if to protect himself from the words of the other Wizard. "No one can see the future clearly," he said, his voice a quiet rasp compared to Saruman's.

"No?" the other Wizard questioned, raising his brows ever so slightly. "Perhaps not … but if you could hear the future spoken, even you would see the wisdom of my path." Saruman smiled knowingly down at him. "I believe you know of what I speak."

Gandalf shook his head, looking up at his old friend. "Such magic is perilous."

"Or perhaps you are merely too weak to seize it," Saruman said derisively, unwilling to hear reason. "With such knowledge at our disposal our victory will be swift."

Turning away in a whirl of white robes, Saruman raised his arms and staff to the sky and started to chant in a deep voice, infused with power. A cold wind rose and swirling white light began to coalesce in the centre of the pinnacle.

"Cease this madness!" Gandalf shouted, surging to his feet, but Saruman continued his chant. A figure began to take form within the white light. Gathering his remaining strength, Gandalf sent out a desperate pulse of magic to disrupt the spell. The wind rose up and the light was borne quickly eastwards, over the horizon and far over the plains of Rohan. The two Wizards watched in silence as the light briefly flared, illuminating the night sky like a flash of lightning, before vanishing completely.

"You fool!" Saruman spat, rounding on Gandalf as he sank down to the stone floor of the pinnacle in exhaustion; the magic it had taken to disrupt the spell without a staff had drained him considerably. "Do you know what you have done?"

"You could have torn a hole in the very fabric of the void itself," Gandalf said, his voice faint and weak as his breath came in great gasps.

"All you have achieved is a minor delay in my plans," Saruman said disdainfully, casting his eyes eastwards again and looking out over the great plains of Rohan. "The knowledge I need is out there … and I will find it."

Charlotte awoke slowly, shivering in the cool night air. She raised her head from where it rested in the grass and looked blearily around her, blinking past the pounding in her head as her eyes adjusted to the unexpected darkness.

The last thing she remembered was being at the King's Men stones, walking in the cool morning sun and brushing her hand against one of the rocks as she headed towards a bench to write up her notes.

Now, however, the stones were nowhere to be seen. Night had fallen and a nearly full moon was casting faint silvery light over what seemed to be plains upon plains of grass.

Slowly, painfully, she got to her feet, every muscle in her body aching fiercely and protesting the movement. She turned carefully in a circle, taking in her surroundings as her heart pounded in her ears and her breath came in short, sharp pants.

Over the course of her research she had come across dozens upon dozens of different folktales and superstitions surrounding the various stone circles across England; a whole chapter of her dissertation was to be dedicated to them. Alongside the theories that stone circles were used to follow the paths of the sun and stars, there were the legends of faeries, portals to hell, mysterious doorways and stargates.

She had always dismissed such things, (people would come up with any explanation for that which they didn't understand, after all, especially the more superstitious and less educated cultures of the past) delving instead into the rich history of the different religious and ceremonial uses of the sites. Now, however, she was forced to accept that the legends may have more than a grain of truth to them. Much as her rational mind rebelled against it, she had felt … power coursing through her when she had brushed her fingers against the stone.

She was no longer in the Cotswolds, that much was obvious, though it begged the question: where was she?

"Hello?" she called hesitantly, her voice coming out faint and raspy. She received no reply, though she hadn't really expected one. She turned in a circle once more, fighting back tears. "Hello?" she called again, louder this time as she peered into the inky darkness.

The only reply was the wind as it rustled the grass. Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing them for warmth, and let out a shaky breath. She was not dressed to be out at night; it had been a warm May day back in Oxfordshire and she had not thought to put a jacket on over the shirt she wore.

There was no sign of her bag, nor her camera or notebook either. She stood still for a very long moment, trying not to panic and wondering what on earth she should do. With no ideas forthcoming, she sat down on the grass with her arms wrapped around her, feeling utterly helpless.

She looked up at the sky and her lips parted in a faint gasp. Much of the Cotswolds was considered to be a Dark Sky Site, ideal for stargazing; the previous night she had stood in the garden of the small Bed-and-Breakfast and marvelled at the stars and crescent moon, but this was unlike anything she had ever seen. It was as if someone had spilt glitter across the sky, the bright pinpricks of light flanking the now full, silvery white moon.

She stared up at the sky for a long time, searching for the telltale flashing of aeroplanes or satellites, but saw nothing. She did, however, manage to pick out several familiar constellations; the Plough, the Seven Sisters and Orion's Belt. That was a small measure of comfort.

Suddenly, she caught the sound of a faint but continuous thudding, coming from far in the distance. Charlotte leapt to her feet, looking around her. The thudding grew louder and louder until the ground fairly shook with it, and in the velvet darkness she caught several pinpricks of orange light, like flames.

The lights approached and she quickly realised that the thudding was the hoofbeats of at least a dozen horses. Several of the riders carried flaming torches, getting closer and closer each second, the light seeming to flicker off what appeared to be armour. They were heading right for her.

Charlotte pivoted on the spot as she was quickly surrounded by the horses, her brows drawn together as she took in the armour and weapons they bore. She then made a faint squeaking noise in fear and surprise, suddenly finding herself enclosed within a thicket of spears. She shakily raised her hands in front of her chest in a universal gesture of peace.

One of the riders surged his horse forward and made a harsh demand in an unfamiliar language.

Charlotte took several deep breaths as she stared up into the shadowy face of the man, desperately trying to place the language: it had sounded almost familiar, like the poems she had read and translated while doing an enrichment topic on Old English Literature during her undergraduate degree. Had she somehow fallen through time?

She swallowed hard, finding her tongue. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying," she said shakily, her voice coming out very faint. She kept her hands where they were, fearful of making any sudden moves with this many spears pointed in her direction.

"A woman!" the man said, thankfully in English this time, though he had a faintly lilting accent. He passed his spear to one of the other riders and dismounted with practiced ease. Seizing a torch from one of the men, he approached her and held the flickering flames so that he could see her clearly. The other riders did not lower their spears.

The orange light illuminated the man in turn as she looked up at him. He was tall, very tall, and wearing heavy chain mail that was covered with a breastplate, gardbraces and gauntlets of tooled, dark red leather. His head was covered with a helmet that further spoke of the Saxon's, or possibly the Vikings, and had a white horse's tail flowing from the top. Long blond hair was visible beneath the helm. His face was bearded and she could not make out the colour of his eyes as they travelled briefly down the length of her body, taking in her dark blue jeans and light flannel shirt with obvious suspicion.

"What is your name?" the man demanded, towering over her and holding the flame closer so that he could see her face. "What is your business in these lands and why are you out alone?"

She swallowed once more before answering, acutely aware of the spears still surrounding her. "Charlotte Grey," she replied hesitantly. "Who are you?"

The man was silent for a moment, simply looking at her. "An unusual name," he said eventually, then raised a hand to remove his helm, fully revealing his face and dark blond hair. "I am called Eomer, Eommundson, Third Marshal of the Riddermark."

"... Eomer?" she said, her brows drawn together and her voice coming out as a faint gasp at the familiar name - she had read the books, seen the films, she couldn't help but recognise it.

"I will ask you again, what is your business in the Riddermark?" Eomer asked, frowning a little at her sudden recognition and clearly beginning to grow even more suspicious of her.

She parted her lips, looking around at the riders with new eyes and wondering how what she suddenly suspected could possibly be true. "The Riddermark as in … Rohan?" she asked, wanting to be sure.

"Of course," Eomer said, his frown deepening even further.

Falling through time she could just about accept, but this, falling into a fictional world … that was practically unheard of, certainly it had no part in any of the legends surrounding the stones that she had heard. "Rohan as in … Middle Earth?" she asked, barely audibly, turning in a circle once more to look at the riders behind her and feeling like she was going to faint.

"What is your game, girl?" Eomer -Third Marshal of the Riddermark and future King of Rohan - demanded harshly, taking a step away from her as she looked around. "Are you deliberately playing the fool?"

Charlotte covered her eyes with both trembling hands and shook her head, unable to believe that this was happening. "This is a dream, or a hallucination," she said shakily to herself, her voice muffled by her hands. "Wake up, wake up -"

"Bind her," Eomer's voice said sharply. "We'll take her back to the camp."

Her head snapped up. "What - hey!" she said, suddenly grabbed from behind by another rider who had dismounted and quickly forced her hands together in front of her. She twisted wildly, trying to get free. "Get off me -"

"Right wild cat we've got here, my lord," the second man said, quelling her thrashes with ease and tying her wrists tightly with rough rope.

Charlotte continued to fight against the bonds, attempting to escape the man now holding her firmly by the shoulders. "Let me go, I said let me go -" she was forced to walk forward, towards Eomer and his horse. "No, please - Help!" she shrieked suddenly, not really expecting anyone to come to her rescue, but screaming nevertheless. "Help, someone -"

"A gag as well, I think," Eomer said mildly as he remounted his horse with the same ease in which he had dismounted.

"No, you - mmph!" her protests were cut off as something, possibly a handkerchief, was shoved into her mouth, tied in place with another piece of rope. She thrashed once more as she was lifted bodily from the ground and then the world tilted as she was tossed face forward over a horse's neck and a man's knees. The ground was frighteningly far away and the the horse shifted beneath her. A heavy hand pressed into her back, holding her in place.

She squirmed, still trying in vain to get free, but then froze as she felt something cold against her neck - a knife.

"I wouldn't struggle if I were you," Eomer's voice came from above her.

Charlotte closed her eyes, trying not to cry and focusing on controlling her stomach as the horses were spurred into a trot, carrying her off into the darkness.

The journey back to the camp was not particularly far, though it took some time in the dark: the moon was bright, but they still kept the horses at a slow trot so as not to injure them in the low light. The girl bounced on Eomer's knees and he thought he'd heard her retch once or twice, possibly even a muffled sob. He wasn't being particularly gentle with her by any means, his suspicions that she may be far more than she appeared having been raised by her queer garb and behaviour.

Not to mention that she appeared to be the only thing for miles around when they had ridden out to discover the source of the strange lights they had seen in the sky.

Reaching their destination, Eomer lightly pushed the girl off his knee. She slid down Firefoot's flank and landed precariously on her feet. She staggered a little, her bound hands clearly throwing her off balance. He quickly dismounted in turn, handing the reins to Halas, one of the younger riders. He seized one of the torches and, taking her by the upper arm, guided the girl over to a fallen log and forced her to sit down.

He held the flame close to her, examining her once again.

She was small, not even having cleared his shoulder when she had been standing in front of him, though her figure, scarcely hidden by the strange blue trousers and unusual patterned shirt she wore, was more curved than most. She didn't appear to have weapons of any kind on her, utterly foolish in these dangerous times. Nor, it seemed, did she have any luggage or provisions with her, despite being deep within the scarcely inhabited plains of the Riddermark.

He had initially thought that the bright red of her hair had been an illusion of the flickering orange flame when he had first seen her out on the plains, appearing as if she had somehow sprung from the grass itself, but looking at her a second time confirmed his original impression of its vivid colour. Her hair was hanging loose, reaching just past her shoulders in large, though rather tousled, red curls.

Her eyes, he noticed, appeared to be light grey and were gazing back at him with a peculiar mixture of fear, defiance and confusion.

Eomer placed the torch to burn on the ground and reached to untie the gag, his hand pausing mid-air for a second when she flinched sharply backwards. She held very still as he untied the rope holding the gag in place and then coughed and spluttered slightly when he pulled the material free.

Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he wordlessly offered her a drink from a water skin. She drank greedily for a moment, then attempted to turn her head away, indicating that she didn't want more.

He released her, balling the material of the gag in one hand and walking slowly around her. "So, Charlotte Grey, I will ask you again," he said in a neutral voice, his tongue rolling over the unusual name she had given. "What is your business in the Riddermark?"

She closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly. "Just a dream, just a dream," he heard her murmur nonsensically to herself, her accent strange and unfamiliar. "Wake up, wake up -"

He grasped her hair roughly in one hand and pulled her head back sharply, forcing her to look up into his face. "Does this feel like a dream to you?" he demanded, his patience with her strange behaviour growing thin.

"No," she replied in a strangled voice, her eyes wide and stark with fear.

He released her hair and came around to squat on the ground in front of her, putting him at the same level of her sat on the log. "How did you come to be in Rohan?" he asked once again, gazing intently into her face. She didn't have a horse with her, she had to have been travelling on foot for several days at least to have been that deep in the plains.

Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips and she shook her head ever so slightly. "I don't know, I - I honestly don't know," she said, leaning forward and staring entreatingly at him, as if begging him to believe her. His frown deepened at her words, trying to place her curious accent: she was no Rohir, that much was certain. It was not Gondorian either, nor did she sound like any of the traders who came down from the North. "Middle Earth doesn't exist, it's just a story."

Eomer raised his brows slightly at that; that certainly had not been an answer he had anticipated - that said, he had no idea what to anticipate from this highly unusual woman in these strange circumstances. "And where are you from, if not Middle Earth?" he wanted to know, humouring her.

He lifted his chin as he continued to scrutinise her carefully, trying to puzzle her out: she had grey eyes similar to the Dunedain he had met as they passed through these lands, though she lacked their dark colouring and stature. His gaze flicked briefly to the ears peeking through her red hair, noting their rounded tip; not an Elf, then.

"Normal earth - Oxford, England," she replied agitatedly, certainly sounding like she believed what she was saying.

He shook his head slowly, still staring at her. "I have never heard of these places," he said, still no closer to knowing what to make of this foreign girl.

"Of course not," she muttered, briefly lowering her gaze.

He watched as she bit her lip, dragging it slowly through her teeth. She looked around the camp, taking in the men eating or tending to the horses, before returning her gaze to him. She swallowed hard and blinked at him, her eyes very bright in the flickering torchlight "You do not believe me," she said quietly, her voice cracking ever so slightly; it was not a question.

"No, I do not believe you," replied simply. There was a long pause, then he decided to change tactic with his questioning, not getting particularly far with her origins and purpose. "Did you cause the lights we saw in the sky?" he asked, watching her carefully for her response

She frowned in genuine confusion and shook her head. "I don't know what you mean," she said desperately. "I was just standing at the stones, the King's Men stones, and then I was here and it was dark," she told him, sounding utterly bewildered. "Please, you have to believe me."

Eomer rose to his feet, scowling deeply down at the girl. The Rohirrim as a people were known for being true-hearted and honest. They were not known to lie, and so could not easily be deceived. Something about the girl's manner rang true, though her words were so outlandish that he could scarce credit them.

"My lord," Winfred, one of his riders, said as he approached, handing him some food; Eomer noticed that he looked suspiciously at the girl before retreating back to the fire. He was not the only one, there were several riders casting curious looks their way.

He looked back down at her, paused for a moment, and then wordlessly offered her the bowl.

She shook her head, looking for all the world like she was about to cry.

Her shoulders were hunched forward over her bound hands, though her chin was raised as she looked up at him. Her grey eyes, bright with unshed tears, peeked through the slightly tangled curtains of her russet hair, reminding him of a frightened animal peering through the bracken. "Please," she said quietly, her voice coming out as a whisper. "Please … What's going to happen to me?"

"One way or another, you are going to tell me the truth of where you come from and your purpose here," he told her plainly, unsatisfied with what she had told him thus far. "If I find that you mean harm to Rohan then I will act accordingly, if you do not mean us harm then you will be escorted to the border, never to cross into the Riddermark again."

A single tear spilled down her cheek. "But I'm telling the truth," she whispered helplessly, her voice cracking once again.

"We will see," Eomer said, hoping that morning would cast greater light on this highly unusual situation. He would take her to Aldburg and question her there; if necessary, he might have to take her to Edoras and let the King decide what was to be done with her. "I advise that you take this night to think on the conversation we will have come tomorrow," he added, and then left her alone to go and sit by the fire with his men, taking the bowl of stew with him. He was not worried that she would try to run, not with her hands bound. Besides the horses would let them know quickly enough, even if the watchers did not.

Many of the riders had already bedded down, wrapping themselves in their cloaks and sleeping on the cold, hard ground, but there were still several men sat around the fire.

"My lord?" Eothain asked questioningly as he approached, glancing pointedly at the girl.

Eomer shook his head, indicating that he would not speak of her yet, and set his mind to eating the stew that had been made. Once he had finished he glanced back at the girl; she had slid down the log to sit on the ground with her back braced against the wood, her bound hands hugging her legs and her head lowered to her knees. Ignoring her obvious distress, he went to check on Firefoot, making sure his stallion had been picketed properly.

He spent some time rubbing the horse down with one of the brushes he kept in his saddle bag, losing himself in the familiar, monotonous routine as he thought on the girl. She was more than she appeared, that much was obvious, and she had yet to give any true reason for why she was out alone, miles from any dwellings, in the middle of the night.

She also seemed genuinely fearful and disoriented, though he could not credit her insistence that the very world was not real - perhaps she had been the victim of some trauma that had confused her, yet she seemed unharmed. Her garb and manner were both also strange and, thus far, she was also the only source of the queer, white lights that had lit up the night sky that they had found.

He glanced at her again as he returned to the camp. She had raised her head and was was watching him, still hugging her knees tightly, illuminated by the torch he had left burning steadily on the ground beside her. Her tongue darted out once more to wet her dry lips and he noticed that she was shivering in her bonds. "Excuse me?" she said softly, appearing not to want to wake the sleeping riders around her.

"What?" he asked as he approached, keeping his voice low.

"I need … I need to go to the bathroom," she said quietly, so quietly that he nearly didn't catch it.

He snorted. "There are no bathrooms out on the plains, girl," he pointed out roughly and her lip twisted in exasperation at his response.

"You know damn well what I mean," she retorted, showing the first hint of spark since Eothain had bound and gagged her.

Eomer huffed out a breath and reached out to grasp her by the upper arm to pull her up. She almost stumbled as he guided her firmly over to the edge of the camp, where the latrine had been dug, but kept her footing. Spinning her around so that she was facing him, he took her hands and deftly undid the ropes surrounding her wrists.

"You have two minutes," he said, jerking his chin at the latrine and ignoring the way she seemed to wrinkle her nose at the dug pit. "Do not think to flee, you will be run down."

He left her at the edge of the camp, knowing that the horses would alert them if she tried to leave, and looked around at the sleeping riders. They did not have any spare bedrolls, so he huffed out another breath and grabbed one of the saddle blankets that was not being used, laying it out near the fire.

The girl crept back into the firelight of the camp, rubbing her wrists slightly and gazing warily around her, also taking in the sleeping forms of the men. She caught his eye and Eomer nodded his head at the blanket covering the cold ground. She took the hint and, after looking cautiously at him for a long moment, as if wondering if he was going to rebind her hands, curled up into a tight ball, wrapping the meagre edges of the blanket around herself as much as possible.

Eomer stayed up, sitting by the fire as he thought deeply on the strange events of the night. It wasn't long before he heard the quiet, muffled gasp of someone who was trying very hard not to cry.

He looked over at the girl, who was curled up with her back to him. It was not hard to see the way her slim shoulders jerked with every suppressed sob, not to mention the tremors of cold that occasionally wracked her frame.

He sighed deeply, stood up and pulled off his cloak; it was made of dark green, heavy material and embroidered at the edges with silver and gold thread, marking his rank as a Marshal of the House of Eorl. He had the warmth of the fire and the late summer night did not yet hold the bite of winter in the air despite the rapidly approaching autumn. "Here," he said brusquely, tossing the cloak over her.

She sat up in surprise as the cloak unexpectedly covered her, turning around to look at him as he retreated back to the fire. "... Thank you," she said quietly, her voice slightly husky from her tears.

He glanced back at her, nodded his head once, and then sat down beside the fire once more. She wrapped the cloak around her as tightly as she could, this time lying facing him.

Knowing he would not find rest with such an enigma before him, he passed the long hours of the night smoothing a whetstone over Guthwine's already keen edge as he pondered, occasionally pausing to look down the length of the sword to assess his work.

He tried his hardest to ignore the eyes that were peering at him from beneath his own cloak, the dying flames of the fire reflected eerily in them as she watched him.

Thoughts?