The sun had fallen into the West, painting the soaring mountain tops rose and red and gold, when the last of the assembled Lords of Rohan rose slowly, haltingly, to speak.

With a sharp nod of thanks to Grimbold for his kindly proffered arm, Erkenbrand straightened up as best he could, pulled back his broad shoulders and scanned the smoke-burnished walls and carven pillars of Meduseld. Hours into their debate the torches had not yet been lit-only the hearthfire's ruddy glow warmed his pale face and cast shadows in the growing dim, but it was enough. The few dozen who sat where once a hundred did were close. They could see a powerful and imposing frame shrunk of flesh; a fabled mane of red shocked white.

Heartsore and aching to a soul, the hall fell quiet for the Lord of the Westfold, last to speak but never least, was but lately risen from his own sickbed.

He had sung his lady Aedre to her rest that very morn.

Two days after burying their sons.

.Erkenbrand drew a breath and roughly cleared his throat. He coughed once, but only once.

"My Lords, in years to come when simbelmynl have long blanketed our woe in white the grandsons of our grandsons shall look back upon these evil, black crow days and know that we have fought a battle. As fierce and desperate as Celebrant. As staunch as the Long Winter in the Hornburg. We grieve. We all grieve. But the time has come to do our solemn duty. To look to the succor of the living and choose a successor to Théoden-King. Not his son. Nor his grandson. And though this is sharp and sorrowful beyond all that Vaire can weave," for a moment his grave blue eyes flickered, bright with unshed tears, to the empty dais where sat three cups forlornly on their golden chairs, "by our actions shall we now be judged.

"Three stand before you in whom the royal blood of Eorl flows strong. Herustor is an honourable man, one in his prime, and worthy of your choice. Walda, too. A scholar, honest and honoured, deep in knowledge. But they are both but lately come to Rohan from Stoningland. Though this is right and true, for their mothers, daughters of Thengel-Thrice renowned, cleaved to the home of their birth, I submit to you that now, in this moment, we need one who has lived all their days in the Riddermark. A shieldmaiden who fought at our side in the Third Marshal's Eored. Chosen by Théoden-Ednew to rule in his stead when he and his son first took ill. Éomund's daughter, and that lineage is also royal for he was descended of Eofor, Brego's son, whose grandsire was Eorl himself. I urge you to vote for her, for though her Uncle could not have foreseen the full scything of this ill, she had his confidence. And mine."

With those low but impassioned words the warrior sat stiffly down again to a room full of muttering but also many nods. The First Marshal of the Mark was loved—for his steady calmness as much as his flashing spear- and his views held weight. At his side, Elfhelm and Grimbold, faces windburned from endless days in saddle bringing what little succor they could even unto the Limlight's weedy banks, clapped strong hands upon his shoulder. He would be hale again, the worst of the ague had passed and while Erkenbrand slumped back in his seat, unabashedly mopping the sweat of such little exertion from his brow, the subject of his support held her breath, trembling like an aspen in an eastern wind.

Éowyn resolutely kept her face toward the high doors, away from empty seats and her two elder cousins at her side. Béma, let me not cry. She had kept her composure for so very long. Through the white flash of Éomer's horsetail receding in the distance, Éothain at his side. Through her Uncle's last exhausted rattling breath. Through Théodred's twisting agony. Some were taken by the pestilence swiftly and silently; others lingered on, tormented by an aching set like a fire in their bones. Praise Este, her beloved cousin had been, by then, insensible, knew nothing of Leoden's fate, and though that was far, far too little comfort, she clung to it, as a welcome branch above a river swollen by Spring's flood.

And so many many tears.

Across the hall, half hidden by the last oak pillar, sat one who must suffer with that knowledge down all the years to come. Annwn. Théodred's princess. Her mist grey eyes were red and swollen, her hands clasped so tight the knuckles were stark white, pierced, again, by mention of her little boy. Éowyn wished nothing more in that moment than to slip across the stones, clasp one of those hands in hers and press there a little warmth, but it could not be so.

All that day had channelled to this point and she durst not distract its course.

Éowyn breathed deep and clenched her fists, felt fingernails bite into her palm. Their sharp sting was welcome: it anchored down the doubts that swirled like buzzards.

Could she do this? When so many she had leaned on were gone?

Théodred. Dunhere and Gamling. Kentric and Ceorl. Erkenbrand's young Broga. Strong Riders but not strong enough to battle a fever that withered young and old alike, that ran fast as a brush fire through the wold's waving sea of grass. Even the mountain air of the Hornburg had not been proof enough: some, as she, felt ill but never needed to seek their beds; a precious few recovered. Many, frightened like the Worm, fled at first, but now trickled back with no more great mounds dug.

They, too, would need food and clean water and bedding not fouled and reeking. So much work to be done and far too few hands.

Brother, where are you now? A dozen times a day the thought came unbidden and Éowyn must bat it away, like a midge or a particularly persistent fly. He would be well. Éothain had his back and it was a waste to borrow yet another ill against the many the crowded close. Done was done. Regardless that he had promised to be there, sworn on Béma and Móði and even the Lord of Air: the sword with its drop of blood could not be sheathed again and she must pick up the pieces smashed upon the floor. Find a way no matter how very hard. No matter that to be alone, again, hurt more than almost any other single thing. Almost.

"My lords, all rise and cast your vote."

Cedric, their ancient Thyle, raised his wrinkled palms and the Men followed on. One by one they filed before the low, fur-draped chair and dropped one pebble into a leather bag. Brown for Herustor. Red for Walda. White for Éowyn. Clack after stony clack sounded into a hush marred by nothing but shuffling feet. No one spoke. Mardan, the lord of Mering that looked to Aldburg, sneezed once and the entire throng started hard, called for blessed Este to dissipate the ill.

Éowyn stood and felt a very common, not sickened, sweat stain the white wool of her gown. If her cousins were plagued by nerves it did not show. Walda, slight and slightly hunched from decades copying rare tomes in Minas Tirith's endless archives, had the calm placidness of one who has never met a situation he could not puzzle through. Herustor had his mother's fair colouring but also his father's Gondorian nose, looked down from his height of confidence and favoured them all with a small tight smile. Béma. The waiting was interminable. Walda pulled once at the neck of his dark wool robe. Herustor smoothed his fair mustache for a second time. Perhaps they were anxious after all? None of them could be certain. Were she to guess she would have said that Herustor had the edge. Eldest son of her eldest aunt, he was a man full grown, with heirs, and experience, and a (new found) reverence for this land. His beard was braided, his knife carried the running horse, but his hands were soft. Those of a wealthy Gondor trader not a Rider.

Erkenbrand's words would count for some, but most?

Éowyn watched heart in mouth as Cedric began to count the tally. Each stone was lifted out one by one, set in small piles upon a cloth of velvet green and white. Two brown. One Red. Two more brown for Herustor, and then, thank Béma, one white for her. She risked a glance toward the tables. Elfhelm's expression as ever was quite shuttered, but Grimbold's was relieved. He and Théodred had always been her supporters; made the time for a bewildered little girl that her Uncle, however much he would, could not.

Three votes she could count on. And the thanes about Aldburg. And perhaps the settlements nearest Edoras. At first the mantle of leadership had been expedient: good folk were sickening rapidly all about, it was someone's duty to organize a swift response and they knew her, trusted her judgement and believed in her ability. Then, as harried days became a sennight and a horrific sennight became three desperate months, Éowyn found that she was comfortable, even thrived helping her people. She could lead them out of this waking nightmare and into a better place. If they would honour her with the task.

The candle notches burned. They dripped steadily, almost certainly as they always did but they felt strung out, as if time suspended in the hush and minutes passed before the servant girls piled more logs upon the fading fire, refilled horns run dry.

Three more white. One red.

Her stomach bound in knots. Éowyn lifted up her chin to where Ithil's silver glow streamed through the eastern windows high up beneath the deep gold eaves. It was a comfort. Just like the familiar faces of Folcwine and Fréa, Brytta and Thengel, kings now gone but crowding close on the covered walls. Her gaze, as ever, lingered on the bright gold of Eorl's tapestry. Horn raised, his hair a banner in the wind, the ancient Limlight's foaming water tumbled green and white about his knees. So skilled were the weavers then, that she could almost hear its roar and rush, fancied it was almost at her fingertips, and then, out of all imagining, the rush and roar was real.

A golden cup was pressed into her palms, a cape of silver wolf was draped about her slender frame and words never uttered in Edoras before, nor Rohan, nor Calendardon before that, were spoke:

"Ferðu Theoden son of Thengel. Hail, Éowyn, Queen of the Mark!"

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Well, we are finally on our way! This story will update every month to 6 weeks, in and around other wips that are wrapping up.

A note on names and characters. I have chosen Móði for the Rohirric name for the Vala Tulkas-he is the brave warrior son of Thor in Norse mythology and so I think it fits. You will have noticed some familiar character names and some new. Chapter 1 to come will have a full character list for the whole story next time round. For now, Annwn is Theodred's widow; Leoden their young son who has just died, and Kentric, Ceorl and Broga are Riders of Elfhelm and Erkenbrand's eoreds, Cedric is Edoras' Thyle, a ceremonial position in Anglo Saxon society focused on preserving knowledge.

As I note in the summary this is an AU-The most obvious difference is Boromir lives! And some parts of the Fellowship will wind in, but this is predominantly centered on Two Halls if you will instead of Two Towers: Meduseld and Merethrond. There will be a lot of things different from LOTR, but hopefully in an exciting way :)

Lest anyone accuse me of being G.R.R. Martin-like: most of the dying has already happened! Most.

Annafan and Wheelrider has been here for me through the genesis of this and have been amazing beta-readers and supporters. Without them I couldn't have begun. And Carawyn also is wonderfully eagle-eyed on my tenses and comma-problem.