EomerÉomer - Nephew of King Théoden and Marshal of Rohan.


"Without a word or cry, suddenly, the Riders halted.  A thicket of spears were pointed towards the strangers; and some of the horsemen had bows in hand, and their arrows were already fitted to the string.  Then one rode forward, a tall man, taller than all the rest; from his helm as a crest a white horsetail flowed.  He advanced until the point of his spear was within a foot of Aragorn's breast.  Aragorn did not stir.  'Who are you and what are you doing in this land?'  said the Rider, using the Common Speech of the West, in manner and tone like to the speech of Boromir, Man of Gondor.  'I am called Strider,' answered Aragorn.  'I came out of the North.  I am hunting Orcs.'  The Rider leaped from his horse.  Giving his spear to another who rode up and dismounted at his side, he drew his sword and stood face to face with Aragorn, surveying him keenly, and not without wonder.  At length he spoke again.  'At first I thought that you yourselves were Orcs,' he said; but now I see that it is not so.  Indeed you know little of Orcs, if you go hunting them in this fashion.  They were swift and well-armed, and they were many.  You would have changed from hunters to prey, if ever you had overtaken them.  But there is something strange about you, Strider.'  He bent his clear bright eyes again upon the Ranger.  'That is no name for a Man that you give.  And strange too is your raiment.  Have you sprung out of the grass?  How did you escape our sight?  Are you elvish folk?'  'No,' said Aragorn.  'One only of us is an Elf, Legolas of the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood.  But we have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us.'  The Rider looked at them with renewed wonder, but his eyes hardened.  'Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!' he said.  'Few escape her nets, they say.  These are strange days!  But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe.'  He turned a cold glance suddenly upon Legolas and Gimli.  'Why do you not speak, silent ones?' he demanded.  Gimli rose and planted his feet firmly apart: his hand gripped the handle of his axe, and his dark eyes flashed.  'Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine, and more besides,' he said.  'As for that,' said the Rider, staring down at the Dwarf, 'the stranger should declare himself first.  Yet I am Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark.'" ~The Two Towers, Book III, chap. 2 (The Riders of Rohan)