To The King!

Chapter One

How Did It Come to This?

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based on the characters of J.R.R. Tolkien. This fiction is AU.

The warrior paused, resting his forehead against the massive oak doors leading into the imposing domed chamber, repository for remains of the Kings and the Stewards of Gondor. The predawn air was still cold enough to transform each exhalation into misty shadows before his face. His heart beat fiercely in his chest, not from fear, but from emotion, and his calloused hands gripped the door handles tightly. Steeling himself, he thrust open the doors and strode purposefully into the darkened room.

No breath of air stirred inside the darkened hall made even mustier by the lingering odor of the recently burned pyre. Denethor II, 26th Steward of Gondor, rendered insane by the overuse of the Palantír, had committed suicide and attempted the murder of his wounded younger son, Faramir. Only the heroic actions of the wizard Gandalf and Pippin, Hobbit of the Shire and Guard of the Citadel, had saved Faramir’s life. Though already gravely wounded in the suicidal charge to retake Osgiliath and burned by the fire, the young man had recovered, clutched from death by the healing hands of the king. He now served Gondor as its 27th Steward. More importantly, from the warrior’s point of view, he was presently courting the Lady Éowyn, Shield Maiden of Rohan, whom he met in the house of healing while they both healed from their ring war injuries.

Booted footfalls echoed hollowly as he made his way down the rows of carved marble. The coldness in his chest had little to do with the chill of the air and much to do with the numbing knot of grief that even now threatened to overwhelm him. The only illumination came from the faint moonlight cascading peacefully through the open doors in sharp relief to the macabre shadows thrown onto the walls by the flickering torches. He looked neither left nor right, for it was not the marbled tombs of these esteemed men that he sought, but one lone wooden box covered with the green and white banner of Rohan. Inside the box, placed here with great reverence by the warrior himself, lay the remains of Théoden, seventeenth King of Rohan.

Éomer, son of Éomund, knelt beside the box, easily running his hand along the richly colored material. Scorch marks and fire damage still affected parts of the hall, but that did not concern him. His complete attention was on the box in front of him. He had come here, long before the King’s Honor Guard would arrive, to spend some time alone with his king for the last time. “I have come to take you home, uncle, to rest with Théodred and our forefathers.”

In recognition of Rohan’s aid and sacrifices, King Elessar had graciously offered to entomb King Théoden here in all the splendor of these halls, but Éomer knew that his uncle would never rest well here. No, cold marble tombs were not for the men of Rohan, but the soft rolling mounds in view of Edoras, where the scent of Simbelmynë always lingered and the shadow of the mountains fell, was where their spirits longed to rest.

For several months now, the body of Théoden, King of Rohan had reposed here while his successor led the Rohirrim in support of Aragorn, Heir of Isildur. Mordor had been defeated and Aragorn crowned King Elessar in the time that had passed. For these months, Éomer had remained with his men, guarding the city and helping to seek out and destroy the roving bands of Orcs that still plagued parts of the kingdom. Having paid such a dear price in riding to Gondor’s aid, Éomer would not see the job undone by any remaining Orcs, Corsairs, Haradrim, or Dunlendings. Gondor and Rohan both would require years to fully rebuild and re-man their armies, but rebuild they would, for Middle Earth still housed enemies, and these enemies would once again grow bold.

Éomer placed his cheek against the soft material of the banner as tears began to fall onto the richly colored cloth. Embarrassed and surprised, Éomer jerked his head up and quickly stanched them. He had vowed long ago never to allow tears to fall from his eyes again…never to show what he felt was a weakness in himself. The last time he had allowed tears to fall was on the day he saw what the Orcs had done to his father.

He wasn’t supposed to be in here, but Éomer was a very determined little boy. He would spend a few private moments with his father’s body, as befitted a son. When his mother left the room to care for Éowyn, he entered. Squaring his shoulders in an unconscious imitation of Éomund, Éomer gently pulled the blanket from his father’s face and upper chest. What he found shocked him to his very core. He staggered back and sank to his knees, fighting back the bile rising to burn his throat. He choked off the scream threatening to tear from his body by biting hard on his hand until the blood flowed down his arm. After a few minutes, he was able to come once again to his feet. Swallowing hard, he managed to pull the blanket once again to cover his father’s face, hiding the horror. Shaking, he laid his head on his father’s chest and for a moment could pretend that, the truth was not the truth…that his father was only sleeping. But like the restless sea, the truth can not be held back. Doubt such as he had never known in his brief life assailed Éomer. How could his strong father, who always protected him, who was so powerful and brave, and who’s booming laugh filled the entire house, be encased in this same cold and torn body? He believed his father to be invincible; he was the Chief Marshal of the entire Riddermark! Tears of fear, grief, and confusion poured from his very soul as he clung to the shell that had filled his life with love and security. He cried until there were no tears left and even then the small body shook with silent sobs. “I will find them, father,” the boy promised. “I’ll hunt down and kill every orc there is.”

Some time later well-meaning adults found him there and ushered back to his bedroom with the admonition that he must not cry…that he must be brave. He lay for a long time in the darkness thinking about his father and the lessons Éomund had always taught him. Next door he could hear the wails of his little sister, Éowyn, who had finally been told of her father’s death. Sliding off the bed, Éomer quietly went to his sister’s room. Sitting on the bed beside her, he allowed the little one to sit up into his arms and cry on his shoulder. He almost smiled to think of it, for more often than not, they were playfully tormenting each other with him acting extremely irritated that so small a child would want to tag along in his shadow. Wrapping his arms around her he said the only thing he could think of. “Do not cry, Éowyn, I will take care of you.”

And to this vow of his heart he remained true. From that day forward, and especially after the quick death of their mother, Éomer took on the protector role for his sister, even going so far as to teach her riding and sword play for protection. He vowed that she would be able to defend herself should anything ever happen to him like it had his father. He never forgot the promise he made to his father either. He’d spent his entire adult life hunting down Orcs and any enemy of his beloved Mark. Éomer shook his head, bringing himself back to the present; to this place he had hoped not to be for many long years. For these few moments, before the honor guard arrived, he could just be Éomer saying goodbye to his uncle, the man who had raised him and Éowyn after the deaths of their parents…the man who had taught him what it was to be a warrior. He wanted to say something…to thank him for all he had done and been, but words failed him. Éomer was a man of actions, not words.

When he walked out of this room he would have to be Éomer King and once again the strong presence his people expected. But the truth was, he did not feel like a king…did not want to be king. It was his cousin Théodred that should be here, Théodred that was schooled and tempered to inherit the throne, before he had been fatally wounded at the Fords of Isen. Éomer was comfortable in his role as Third Marshal of the Mark. He was a good warrior, a man brave and honorable. What did he know of politics, of crop yields, or of settling disputes? “How did it come to this, uncle?” The words sounded as hollow coming from his throat as they did in the echo of the empty hall. The fatigue of his body, soul, and spirit, drew him once again to the past as the words brought a brief smile to his face. He recalled so often hearing those words from his uncle’s lips, usually in connection to Éomer being brought before him for discipline. He allowed his mind to drift backwards again…to happier days long before the horror of the Pelennor Fields.

The doors to the Golden Hall of the Meduseld crashed open with a vengeance causing Théoden to glance up in irritation from the map table where he had been working. All activity in the great hall ceased and voices fell silent as all eyes turned as one to the entrance. What the King saw as the disturbance caused him to frown even deeper. Erkenbrand, Marshal of the Westfold, marched down the center of the hall in a near rage. Large and imposing even when in good temper, the Marshal seemed to have grown even stronger in his anger. Erkenbrand’s arms were the thickness of tree limbs, and dangling from one hand, his feet barely scraping the floor, was Éomer. Théoden straightened from the table and turned to face the pair as Erkenbrand stormed down the central walkway, skirting the fire pit in the center to halt before his sovereign.

“My King, it has happened again,” boomed the irate Marshal. “You know that I love the boy, but he is not proven; he is too young to ride with my éored.” With that Erkenbrand dropped Éomer who quickly made his feet and stood resolutely before his king. He schooled his young face into a look a determination, but not before Théoden had seen the nervousness he masked.

Théoden sighed and brought his eyes back to the Marshal. “How far did you make it this time, old friend?” He bit the inside of his lip to keep back the smile that threatened to show. He could not, however, keep the twinkle from his eyes. Thankfully, he realized, Éomer was too young to notice the nuances of his uncle’s face like his long time Marshal did, and in that moment all the ire left Erkenbrand.

“Many leagues, my lord,” he sighed. “The rascal managed to wheedle two of my men into allowing him to join at the back of the éored, where I would not be likely to notice him. They even lent him a cloak to wear!”

Erkenbrand’s face colored when the King raised an eyebrow in response. “They are young themselves, my lord, and were swayed by his enthusiasm,” he added quickly before clearing his throat gruffly. “Rest assured that I shall give them the proper motivation so that they will not be taken in again.”

“Éomer, apologize to Marshal Erkenbrand.”

“But uncle...”

“Apologize!”

Éomer started at the tone of his uncle’s voice. If anything he stood even straighter to face Marshal Erkenbrand. “I apologize, Marshal, for the delay I have caused you.” He clamped his teeth together to keep from having to say anymore.

“And,” prompted Théoden when he saw the muscle working in the Éomer’s jaw.

Éomer swallowed hard and expelled his breath in defeat. “And it will not happen again.” Glancing at his uncle, he added softly, “You have my word on it.”

“And mine as well,” confirmed the king.

Erkenbrand signaled his acceptance of the apology with a nod of his head to Éomer and a slight bow to Théoden. Turning back to Éomer, he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and met his eyes. “Éomer, son of Éomund, one day we will ride together as brothers and I will be proud to have you by my side.”

The beam that lit Éomer’s face lightened the mood considerably.

“But,” the Marshal continued quickly, “it is not yet that day.”

“Marshal, you and your men are welcome to the hospitality of the Meduseld tonight if you wish to leave tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my king, but no.” With a slight frown and a glance at Éomer, he continued, “We have lost too much time as it is. The Westfold needs us. We will continue our journey immediately, by your leave.”

“Of course, Marshal. Safe journey.”

Théoden and a suddenly very unsure Éomer watched the man take his leave. Neither spoke for many long moments after the great doors had closed. Glancing around the hall, Théoden’s attention prodded the curious to return to their duties after the brief interruption. No doubt they had all been privy to the scene, for the Marshal had fairly bellowed his initial outrage. Sighing again, the king looked at his nephew. ‘Walk with me Éomer.”

Neither spoke as they left through a side entryway of the golden hall and made their way along the dark passages. The pair passed the buttery and exited through the armory before walking around the building to the very back of the Meduseld. Théoden knew that, outside of the magnificent stables, this was Éomer’s favorite place to be, where the view of the White Mountains spoke of timeless serenity while the inevitable winds pummeled the body with the taunt of violence and the reminder of the frailty of life. Éomer loved the place with all his heart for the vista mirrored his own his own soul’s serenity and torment.

Théoden stopped slightly ahead of Éomer and stood silent for some moments before turning back to face the lad. “How did it come to this, Éomer?”

Instead of the anger that Éomer expected, it was sadness that he heard in his uncle’s voice, and it confused him.

“Éomer, what great value does the Westfold hold to the Mark?”

Éomer mulled over the question. “Since the rising threat from the east,” he began thoughtfully, “our Mearas herds are raised and protected there, my lord.”

Théoden nodded. “And why are they valuable to us.”

“Our horses are the finest in the world,” Éomer answered with pride. “They provide swift vengeance to our foes, steadfast loyalty to our éoreds, and a means by which we trade for the goods that we must have to provide for our people.”

“That they do,” agreed Théoden. “And are there enemies near the Westfold that would harm our horses?”

“Yes, my lord. The Dunlendings are ever jealous, seeking to destroy the grazing lands and burn the villages while Orcs wish to steal our horses,” Éomer spat with all the righteous indignation that he could muster. In a land that revered horses, no one loved them more than Éomer, and the thought that even one could purposefully be harmed or stolen for dark purposes only the Orcs knew was almost more than he could stand.

“You speak well, Éomer,” the King continued calmly, “now just one last question.”

Éomer nodded solemnly, curious as to what his uncle was trying to tell him.

“Who’s responsibility is it to protect the Westfold?”

“Marshal Erkenbrand,” Éomer immediately answered, his eyes widening as realization began to slowly dawn. “And while I delayed him….” The boy could not finish the sentence. Éomer bowed his head, deeply ashamed of his actions. “Forgive, my lord,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “I did not think… I only wanted to hunt Orcs.”

Éomer did not see the small smile that graced Théoden’s lips. “Look at me, Éomer,” he said fondly. Placing his hands on his nephew’s shoulders and gripping them gently, Théoden leaned down to the boy’s eye level. “We learn by the mistakes we make, and if Bema smiles on us, no one else suffers from that learning but us. The day will come soon enough when you will hunt Orcs, but as the Marshal said, ‘today is not that day’.”

Théoden pulled the boy into a bear hug and chuckled to himself as he placed a kiss on the blonde head. “You remind me so much of your father. Come; let us speak no more of this. Our word has been given.”

----------------

A softly cleared throat interrupted Éomer’s thoughts. Standing up, he gave a bow to the box before turning to meet the newcomer. His lieutenant stood discreetly waiting a few steps away. “The Royal Guard has arrived, my lord.”

Éomer was surprised to see the sunshine streaming through the open doors, bringing its welcome warming to the chilled air. He nodded. “Has all been prepared as I asked, Gamling?”

“Yes, my lord, all is ready.”

“Then let us be done with this wretched place.”

TBC

To the King

Chapter Two

The Price of Victory

My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story.

Éomer squinted against the morning brightness as he emerged from the darkened building. Every direction he turned, the light reflected off of the white stone with a glare that he found blinding. He turned to look at the wiry man by his side, a man he had known most all of his life. Gamling had been a young lieutenant in Marshal Erkenbrand’s éored on the day that Éomer had last “stowed away” with the Rohirrim. After several years of faithful service in the Westfold he had been chosen to move to Edoras and entered the Royal Guard, personal éored of the king. Now he served Éomer. More careworn now, Gamling was everything his King could want as an ally, an advisor, and as a friend. It was Gamling that Éomer had sent back to Rohan with most of the surviving riders, and it was Gamling to whom Éomer had entrusted the preparations for King Théoden’s final journey.

Éomer had longed to oversee the preparations himself, but besides the sorties he and his personal éored had been doing over the last few months, Éomer simply would not leave Éowyn until she was completely healed and could accompany them home. It would be many long years before he would completely free himself of the shock he had experienced when he found her on the battlefield, seemingly dead. Finding Théoden dead had been a blow, but an honorable death in battle was something that every Horse-lord accepted and embraced. It was not something that he would ever accept for his sister however, no matter how adept she was with a sword. Bema’s blood, his heart nearly stopped whenever he even thought of it!

Walking over to retrieve his mount, Éomer took in the sights and sounds of the awakening city. Minas Tirith, the crown jewel of Gondor, the city of Kings. Seemingly hewed from the very rock of the mountains, her white battlements rose seven levels from the ground. Each circular level was ringed by a wall and built in such a way that the gate of each faced a different direction from the one beneath it. At the upper most level, facing the East stood the Great Gate. Behind that towered a seven hundred foot cliff upon which sat the Citadel and the White Tower of Ecthelion with its banner fluttering a thousand feet above the plain. The most outstanding feature to the warrior was the precipice of the cliff jutting outward like the keel of a giant ship. Taking it all in, Éomer felt as though he’d been buried in stone.

Minas Tirith was considered the most cosmopolitan city in all middle earth, and Éomer had hated every moment spent here. Even though hosted as graciously and luxuriously as possible by his friend, King Elessar, Éomer detested the noises, the stench, and the crowds, concluding that most of the formal events he’d attended were little more than a cacophony of confusion. Many of the upper crust of Gondor looked at him and his men as though they were something to be scraped off the bottom of their shoes, little better than oafs incapable of conversing about anything other than horses. He took great pleasure in the way the people of Gondor steered clear of his éored. Maidens had been known to scream in terror and seek out their fathers when the Rohirrim scowled at them, a fact that the men recounted gleefully over campfires in the evening. In truth, they were proud of their fierce reputation among the good people of Gondor. If the people of Gondor didn’t want the Rohirrim in their city, the sentiment was certainly shared by the Horse-lords. To a man, they were ready to return home to Rohan and leave the confining city behind. A beautiful sight to most people of Middle Earth, she was no jewel to the Rohirrim. The rolling grasslands of the Riddermark, which stretched like a great green sea, were where they found their beauty and their peace. Éomer reveled in the open sky with the sun and wind on his face. He felt stifled in this city of stone.

Nodding to Gamling, Éomer mounted his gray dappled steed and the two men made their way to the first level, where King Elessar and the official city delegation were awaiting them by the rebuilt great gates. It was here that they would meet the Royal Guard and the caisson that had been specially made for this journey by the loving hands of the finest craftsmen in Rohan. The two Kings would lead the procession to the upper level where Théoden’s body would be secured to the caisson for the journey home.

Wearing the black and silver colors of Gondor, the White Tree emblazoned on his chest, Aragorn, now King Elessar waited patiently for Éomer to join him on the first level. The winged crown graced his head, and Andúril hung by his side. Most dear to him though were Boromir’s vambraces, which he still wore to honor the pledge made to his fallen comrade in arms. A fine black cloak hung on Aragorn’s back and even down the back of Brego, the king’s mount, a Rohirric steed that had once belonged to Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark and son of Théoden. That both had now been lost to the long struggle with Mordor saddened the King greatly.

Aragorn, along with Legolas, Gandalf, Gimli, Pippin, and Merry, had been present at the burial of Théodred on that windy day shortly before the battle of Helm’s Deep. The King of Rohan had only just been freed from Saruman’s evil spell by Gandalf and had had Grima Wormtongue literally thrown from the Golden Hall. Aragorn could still remember the puzzled look on Théoden’s face when he had looked around and questioned, “Where is Théodred? Where is my son?” The utter sadness and grief that had gripped the king and the people of Edoras had been palpable. While Théoden had been under the spell of Saruman, Grima had taken over much of the running of Rohan, if you could call it that. What he had done was to exile as many of the warriors of the Mark as he could, including Éomer, Third Marshal. His intent was to so weaken Rohan that Saruman would be able to easily take it over and aid Sauron in the destruction of Gondor. During these dark days the people had obviously turned their hopes more and more to Théodred, and his death had been a great blow to them. Even with Théoden seemingly himself again, it would take some time to restore hope to this beleaguered people whom had lost so much. It was only after the victory at Helms Deep that the people of Rohan had truly begun to hope again.

King Elessar turned to look at Queen Arwen, mounted by his side. Called the Evenstar of her people, she was considered the most beautiful of all the elves. This day she wore a sapphire blue gown, which was edged with silver, and the vision she made was still enough to steal the King’s breath. Slightly behind the King and Queen, also mounted, were Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, and Lady Éowyn. Lord Faramir was now betrothed to the lady and would accompany the procession home as the official representative of Gondor. It was not prudent for both the King and the Steward to be absent from Gondor for the amount of time it would take to reach Rohan and journey back, so Aragorn had decided to send a contingent of Gondor’s finest guardsmen as an honor guard for Théoden and as an added protection for the Steward on his return journey. Standing behind the king and his party stood the council members and the representatives of the most prominent houses of Gondor. While they cared not to socialize with the rough Rohirrim, most acknowledged, albeit grudgingly, the great sacrifices Rohan had made in riding to their aid and whether they wished to be here or not, King Elessar had insisted on their appearance.

“Open the gates,” called the sentry from above, causing a murmuring to be heard among the gathered people. The assembled throng watched in anticipation as the giant gates swung inward to reveal the first view of the Royal Guard. The regular people of Gondor found the Rohirrim to be fascinating and larger than life, if somewhat intimidating. No one who had witnessed their heroic charge into the hordes from Mordor on the Pelennor Fields would ever forget the sight, and they sincerely wished to show their gratitude to the King of the Riddermark. A gasp went up from the crowd as the Royal Guard entered the city pulling a golden caisson whose splendor would rival anything Gondor could produce.

The wooden cart had been intricately carved and exquisitely fitted with bronze horse symbols by Bergfinn, the best blacksmith in all of the Mark. Aging and near the time when he would pass on his trade to his son, Féalgar, he considered this his greatest privilege and had outdone himself in the design and outfitting. Even the wheels were fitted with bronze and designed to resemble sunbursts. Adorning the sides, matching the cloaks worn by the King’s Éored, was red and gold edged dark green material. Six great white stallions pulled the cart, with members of the Royal Guard riding the three horses on the right side. Behind, riding in pairs, were fifty Royal Guardsmen, all seemingly over six feet tall and resplendent in full golden armor, their spears held on top of their booted right feet. On each spear fluttered the green and gold banner of Eorl. Backs ramrod straight, they looked neither left nor right.

The procession halted only long enough for the two kings to take the lead, followed by Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn. The other dignitaries would wait here. Slowly the group made their way up through the circles of the city to the upper level. A squadron of Citadel Guards stood at attention on either side of the gates to the Hallows. Their mithril helmets were dazzling in the morning light. At the approach of the two kings, they drew their swords as one and placed the pommels across their breastbones in salute. The great white gull feather adornments looked rather ridiculous to the Rohirrim, but they appreciated the pageantry and the salute as fitting tribute to Théoden-King. Six of the Rohirric Royal Guard disappeared inside the Hallows.

Éomer kept his eyes glued to the doorway through which the guard had entered. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes and his neck was stiff from the long night’s vigil. He refused the urge to rub it and maintained his bearing, remaining at attention. Firefoot danced in agitation, as ready as his master to be back on the open plains, but Éomer automatically brought the feisty horse under control and let his mind wander. During the solitary night a door had been opened to his past and he found himself once again reliving a moment that he’d long forgotten.

O-o-O-o-O

The family was celebrating the honor day of Éowyn’s birth. The eight year old was positively quivering with excitement over the family attention. Her smile brought warmth to Éomer’s heart, for he did not see his little sister smile often enough. Too much joy had been robbed from her too short life.

To honor the occasion even more, Théoden had arranged for an intimate family meal to be served in the anteroom off of his own bedchamber. It was seldom that there was not some official meeting or meal that required the use of the great hall or one of the slightly less grand meeting rooms. There was very little privacy at the Meduseld, though the family was used to it and understood well the obligations that required so much of Théoden’s time. Éomer and Éowyn cherished the rare occasions when it could be just the four of them for the evening respite, reminding them of the quiet meals shared at home with their parents.

Candlelight gave a soft glow to the table spread with venison, freshly baked bread, cheese, mushrooms, grapes, and Éowyn’s favorite honey cakes. Her blonde hair had been brushed until it shined, using the tortoise shell brush gifted to her by her uncle Théoden, and then plaited into two long braids. Each braid was now adorned with a beautiful green velvet ribbon edged in gold, a gift from Théodred. Éomer’s gift had been the most wonderful of all to the little girl, though she had tried hard not to show it, a small sword scaled especially for her size.

Éowyn knew that her brother had made the sword himself, working long hours beside Bergfinn, the smithy, who loved having the boy’s companionship. Éowyn too reveled in following Éomer to Bergfinn’s huge barn where all types of fascinating work took place, from the forging of the magnificent Rohirric swords to shoeing of plow horses. Bergfinn, like most everyone else in Edoras, had taken to the two newest additions to Edoras. Éomer, usually shadowed by Éowyn, was curious about everything and everyone in the city. He had a love for horses and begged Bergfinn to teach him the skills needed to forge the shoes and actually shoe the steeds. Théoden had quietly questioned Bergfinn as to whether or not the two were a bother, but Bergfinn had assured his king that the pair were no trouble. On the contrary, he had added, Éomer, were he not a member of the Royal family, had the makings of a fine blacksmith of his own. What was most astounding to the blacksmith was the empathy the boy seemed to share with all horses. He’d seen him calm the most agitated mount.

Throughout the meal Théodred had been assailing the family with humorous stories. Each story featured a different family member as its victim, as Théo took great pleasure in relating numerous embarrassing moments for each of them, much to the delight of the others. Taking a deep breath and pausing after yet another round of laughter, Théodred launched into yet another tale. “Father, do you remember Battleaxe?”

Éomer perked up at the name. Éowyn had no memory of Battleaxe, but knew that had been the name of her father’s legendary stallion.

“Remember him,” Théoden snorted, “I still bear scars from him!”

Éowyn giggled at her uncle’s pained expression and slapped her hand over her mouth to keep the milk from squirting out. “Tell me more, Uncle,” she begged after swallowing the mouthful of milk she’d successfully held in.

Théoden smiled tenderly at his niece. After all, who could resist that angelic face? “All right, it is your day, so I will tell you a story of the biggest, meanest, most contrary horse that ever roamed the Mark.” Pouring himself a mug of ale, he began to relate his favorite Battleaxe tale. “He was also the most beautiful thing I’ve even seen, a magnificent black, but he absolutely did not know his place and would attempt to bite me whenever I got near.”

Théodred sniggered, “It wasn’t just you, Father. As I remember it, he would bite anyone that wasn’t Éomund.”

Éomer propped his elbows on the table and settled his chin on the clasped hands, his face a picture of contentment. He could never hear enough stories of his father, and his memories of Battleaxe were vivid. “Someday I’ll have a horse just like Battleaxe,” he sighed, “and he’ll be the greatest horse ever.”

“Tell me the story,” Éowyn insisted.

“Very well,” nodded Théoden, settling back and continuing. “The queen and I had taken Théodred to visit your home. Éomer was about two and a half, I should think, and your father decided it was time for the honor of his horse seating.” Théoden smiled at the fond remembrance and noticed three pairs of eyes intently watching him. It fascinated him to behold a different emotion on each face. Théodred’s eyes contained mirth, for he had heard the story before. Éowyn’s look was one of happy anticipation mixed with the sleepiness that marked the late hour. Éomer…Éomer’s eyes gave him pause, for in his visage Théoden could see all the pride and longing that came into his countenance whenever his father’s name was mentioned.

“Uncle!”

“I’m sorry, Éowyn, now where was I? Oh yes, your father and I had taken Éomer outside and were preparing to put him on a horse alone for the first time. As you know, little one, it is a great honor the first time one of the Eorlingas is placed on horseback. An honor passed down from father to son. Your father had a brand new saddle made just for the occasion too. Knowing Battleaxe, I stood well back. I’d already received one nip from him that day. I have to admit that I was rather apprehensive to see Battleaxe lower his head to look at your father. He was skittish and not a bit happy to see Éomer in your father’s arms.”

“Did he bite Éomer?” Éowyn asked in awe.

“Good gracious, no,” Théoden was quick to answer. “In fact, he settled right down, almost as though he understood the gravity of the occasion. Well, Éomund had just placed Éomer upon the horse’s back when Théodwyn walked out the front door of the house. It gave her such a fright to see her babe on the back of that black monster, as she called him, that she went to wailing in fright. Her wails so upset Éomer that he went to wailing himself and proceeded to wet himself and Battleaxe.”

Théodred was holding his sides he was laughing so much, and Éowyn shrieked with delight. Éomer turned scarlet with mortification, his eyes wide in horror.

Théoden took pity on the boy and cuffed him good-naturedly. “Don’t fret, Éomer, you’re not the first lad to so anoint a horse on his first sitting, nor will you be the last. At least you didn’t soil poor Battleaxe as Théo did his first mount!”

“Father,” Théodred cried out in mock dismay, “you wound me.”

“Ah,” laughed Théoden, “but not nearly so much as you wounded Archer! The horse was leery of you ever after.”

By now they were all laughing. Éomer was over his earlier embarrassment and Éowyn had to fight to stifle a yawn. She wasn’t fast enough, however, and the king called an end to the evening.

Éowyn face clouded over at the prospect of the end of this most wonderful of nights. “I’m not sleepy, Uncle, I promise.”

Théodred chortled and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Then why are your eyes red, little one? Come, climb on my back and I shall give you a pony ride to bed. That is if you’re not too old now to play with your cousin!”

“Oh Theo, I’ll never be too old to play with you,” Éowyn promised as she hiked up her skirt and climbed onto his back. “Giddy up,” she squealed as he dashed from the room with the bouncing girl on his back.

“She was very pleased with your gift, Éomer,” Théoden said when the two were alone.

“Do you actually mean to teach her swordplay?”

“I already have, Uncle,” Éomer replied. “We have been practicing with wooden swords that I’ve made to fit her. She shows promise,” he added proudly.

“I see,” Théoden mused. “And who has been teaching you?” Théoden’s preferred method of instruction with all three of the young ones was to ask a variety of questions on the subject at hand, allowing them to work their way through whatever lesson he was trying to impart. Besides increasing their self-confidence, it demonstrated to them the consequences of actions and forced them to look at problems from many different angles.

“Well,” Éomer began a bit unsurely, “Théodred usually, but really any of the guards that I can talk into it.” Too late he realized where his uncle might be going with the questions.

“I don’t bother them, Uncle, truly. I watch the guards practice with each other and when there is an odd number they have allowed me to join in.”

“Very well, Éomer,” Théoden replied. “I am just surprised that you do not spend more time with the boys your age.”

Now it was Éomer’s face that clouded.

“Tell me,” the King urged. “What is it that bothers you? Have they been unkind?”

“No, they are just not serious. I… I don’t want to play games, Uncle. I want to learn to fight, to defend the Mark, and to kill Orcs. And I will someday; I’ll kill every Orc I can find.”

“I see,” the King replied after a long pause, “then perhaps it is time I take a more active role in your training.”

“Truly?” Éomer breathed, hardly daring to believe it was possible.

Théoden nodded, “Truly. We shall begin tomorrow.”

A shadowy movement in doorway alerted Éomer to the returning Royal Guard. The men bore the banner-draped box containing their fallen king shoulder high. As it was being secured to the caisson, King Elessar placed his right hand over his heart and lowered his head. Éomer’s eyes never left the caisson.

TBC

To the King!

Chapter Three

Ever Shall I Stand Between You and Your Enemies

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based on the characters of J.R.R. Tolkien. This fiction is AU.

This work could never have been posted without the encouragement and beta reading of DJSparkles. Thank you, my friend, for giving me the courage I need to allow others to see my work.

Many thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Battleaxe and Bergfinn, which will be mentioned throughout the story.

Once all the preparations were complete, the procession began its sorrowful journey. As the body of Théoden King wound its way down through the city levels, led once again by the two Kings, the people of Gondor who had turned out as a show of respect threw flowers onto the path in front of the assembly. The silence was broken only by the sound of the horses hooves echoing on the stone path.

Éowyn had to choke back tears as this heartfelt display, but beside her, Faramir was having quite a different reaction. Feeling the tension emanating from Faramir, she turned to glace at him questioningly and was alarmed by the paleness of his face. A fine sheen of sweat shone on his forehead and the knuckles of his hands were white from the hold he had on the pommel of his saddle. But more than that, he bore such a look of pain that it nearly took away her breath. She immediately reached over and grasped his hand with her own.

“Are you well, love?” she inquired. The look that he turned to her was so haunted that it startled her in its intensity, and she only then realized that he must be reliving the horrific suicide charge ordered by his father.

With supreme effort he forced himself to will down the bile threatening to claw its way into this throat. Shaking the memory away before it could engulf him any further, Faramir smiled faintly at his lady love and took in a ragged breath. “I am well, Éowyn, do not fear.”

Éowyn doubted very much that he was in any way well, but for his sake she managed to stifle a snort and instead nodded acceptance of his statement. She knew in her heart that it would be a long time before her betrothed was any place close to well and silently pledged to do all within her power to see the demons exorcised from his heart. Éowyn smiled at Faramir and squeezed his hand in support. “The bad days are behind us. Let us look only to the future.”

King Elessar noticed the exchange between his Steward and Lady Éowyn, but Éomer did not. His eyes had never looked any place but straight ahead. Théoden had died a good death, a warrior’s death, but Éomer could not shake the deep feeling of regret that clung to him now like the dampness of a fog clings to tree and grass covering all in a swirl of mist. Like a fog shrouded plain, Éomer’s mind was veiled and darkened. He had vowed to stand between Théoden and his enemies and he had not.

Firefoot danced nervously as the crowds pressed in and children reached out to brush their hands against the gleaming coat. The great war horse was as anxious as his master to be out of the confines of the city. Éomer felt his steed’s tension as his knees signaled direction to the stallion. He reached down to pat the shining grey neck and further reassure his mount that soon they would both be free from the confining rock. The great dappled grey raised his head and gave it a shake reminding Éomer of the first horse he’d ever owned.

“Now, Éomer, now, let her go!”

Twelve-year-old Éomer stole a quick glance at the owner of the voice, his uncle Théoden. He was learning to ride like a warrior and it was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

“Give her full rein, Éomer, trust her!’ urged Théoden, easily keeping pace with the boy and his mount. “She is a war horse of Rohan; she knows what to do!”

And give her full rein Éomer did. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and willed himself to relax upon the horse’s back allowing her to gallop across the plain. As the powerful hooves thundered, Éomer felt a flush of pride in his beautiful mare, a birthday present from the King. Now he was learning to become one with her, to establish that trust and commitment so essential between Rohirrim and their horses. Relishing the cold bite of the wind whipping past his head, Éomer bellowed a war cry that elicited a laugh from the man galloping along beside him with such love and joy mirrored on his face.

“That’s it,” urged Theoden. “Ride now; Ride for Rohan!” shouted the exuberant King.

For hours the two had ridden and practiced the art of cavalry warfare. Ever patient, Théoden taught his young nephew in the same long practiced ways of his fathers, and the ever-serious child had learned quickly.

That evening, as the two camped alone, Éomer watched his uncle from across the campfire. It had been a long hard day and both of them were now well content to watch the embers drifting into the quiet darkness. Théoden himself had prepared the rabbit stew which they had just finished eating, a fact which had amazed and amused Éomer to no end.

“Did you think I’d always sat in the Meduseld as King?” Théoden had asked with a chuckle as they cleaned and packed away their plates. “I’ll have you know that I became quite adept at fending for myself when I rode the Westfold with my first éored. I was never happier than in those days of freedom when we rode the plains and the thunder of our hooves shook the ground.” Théoden sighed contentedly and leaned forward to place another log on the crackling fire. With a stick he stirred the flames and watched as, caught in the heated draft, more embers danced upward like fireflies. Settling back against his saddle the King stretched out his legs and felt himself relax in the warmth of the fire. In truth he realized he had been too long away from the saddle and the day’s workout was beginning to be felt in the muscles of his back and neck, but it was a good feeling all in all.

Looking up, Théoden enjoyed the vastness of space that was mirrored in the stars. The night was clear and cold and promised a frost before morning. He easily identified the constellations he’d learned from his father as a boy. For some time the pair sat in companionable silence. The fact that Éomer could sit for so long in silence was a trait that Théoden admired in the boy. Not all men, especially young men, were so comfortable with shared silence, but then Éomer had always had a tendency towards being a man of few words. No doubt his silence was as much a product of the wonderful exhaustion of a productive day as anything. Looking across the fire to see whether or not Éomer was still awake Théoden was surprised to see the expression on the child’s face.

“What is it, Éomer?”

Éomer rose, crossed the brief distance and knelt before Théoden. Surprised and a bit concerned, Théoden sat up. Thinking to feel the boy’s head for fever he reached up, but his hand paused as he sensed the emotions in his nephew. He quickly lowered his arm and bade Éomer to speak, masking the confusion he felt with what he hoped was a calm voice.

With all of the passion he possessed, Éomer spoke solemnly. “Uncle, ever have you had my love,” he began. “Today, this moment, I give you my life and my loyalty, my King. You are the Lord of the Mark, and you only do I serve. Ever shall I stand between you and your enemies.”

His eyes never wavered from his uncle’s, but now that he had given this spontaneous declaration he swallowed nervously…suddenly unsure. Had he displeased his uncle…spoken too rashly? Or worse, would his uncle laugh off his statement as that from a child?

Théoden stood and pulled the boy to his feet. Placing his hands on Éomer’s shoulders, Théoden looked at him with what Éomer thought was a bit of sadness.

“You do me a great honor, Éomer son of Éomund,” Théoden declared. “Ever have I loved you as a son, and now I receive your fealty with the love of a King.” With that, he pulled the lad into an embrace and kissed the fair hair, hiding the tears of pride that sprung to his eyes.

Much later, as the boy fought to stay awake memorizing every detail of this most wonderful of days, Éomer thought that this must surely be the happiest day of his life. As sleep wrapped its soft cloak around him he smiled and knew that this day was one he would never forget.

The memory of that day still shone bright in Éomer’s heart. It was a day that would always be dear to him. Turning back to glance at the banner draped coffin, Éomer sent a silent plea to Théoden.

“Forgive me, uncle, I failed you.”

TBC

To The King

Chapter Four

Courage is Found in Unlikely Places (Gildor Inglorion)

Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.--General Omar Bradley

The company halted just outside the tremendous gates that opened from the city on the first level. The original gates that had been ornately carved and centuries old had been battered down by Grond, the battering ram employed by the hordes of Mordor in the attack on Minas Tirith. These gates were strongly made, if not as beautiful as the originals, and would secure the city until such time as permanent ones could be made. For now the craftsmen of the city were feverishly working, with the aid of the dwarves, to rebuild the battered homes and businesses. The King rode to the head of the column and halted facing Éomer. Arwen, Faramir, and Éowyn stopped just outside the gates. Elessar saluted King Éomer with the traditional Elven salute of putting the right hand over the heart and lowering his head.

“Men of Rohan, as King of Gondor I pay tribute to Théoden King and to your fallen comrades, riders of the Mark, who answered our call for aid and helped to turn the tide against the evil forces which attacked us and threatened to cast all of Middle Earth into the darkness of evil. So long as there is a Gondor, the name Théoden shall be synonymous with courage and honor. Wherever men tell tales to their sons and mothers to daughters, this sacrifice shall be repeated and respected, bearing witness to your courage. I bid you, go, men of Rohan, take your King home to rest with his ancestors, but know that you go with the thanks and respect of all Gondor and of her King.”

Aragorn nodded to Faramir who signaled the trumpeters on the top of the wall and a clear, ringing tribute rang forth across the plain followed by the clamor of many voices lifted in cheer. It began on the lowest level of the city and slowly spread upwards until the sound filled the air as a continuous roar. All who heard it felt a chill of awe touch their spines and would never forget this remarkable tribute.

“Henceforth,” Elessar continued once the noise had died down, “the trumpets shall signal the arrival of the King of Rohan to the city of Minas Tirith. It shall ever be known as the Théoden call, and the people of the city shall, from this day forward, turn out to greet and honor the one who enters under this herald.”

Éomer was deeply moved by this great honor bestowed upon him and therefore Rohan, and for the tribute to his uncle, for until this time the heralds had only been used for the ruling houses of Gondor. He nudged Firefoot and rode forward to grasp elbows with Elessar in the timeless tribute of one soldier to another.

Aragorn smiled at Éomer and squeezed his elbow. “I wish that I could accompany you home, my friend, but the need here is still too great.”

“I would not take you from your city at such a time,” responded Éomer, “for there is much yet to be done.” Then he added ruefully, “for both of us”.

“May your journey be safe and uneventful,” Aragorn said in blessing to the group. To Éomer he quietly added with a smile, “and look after my Steward, for I have great need of him.”

Éomer returned the smile and glanced sideways at his sister. “Indeed, and I would be most at risk from Éowyn should I not take watch over him.”

Aragorn chuckled and started to turn Brego to the side, but Éomer’s tightened grip on his elbow halted him. He turned back to his friend and was surprised at the seriousness of his face, which was saying much because Éomer was known for his severe countenance.

“Aragorn, before I take my leave, I would thank you once more for the healing you bestowed upon my sister. Her life was the greatest gift I have ever received. I shall forever be in your debt for that, and it is not a debt I take lightly.”

Aragorn did not know how to respond for a moment. “I have wished joy for Éowyn since I first met her, and seeing the happiness she and Faramir bring each other is a delight to my heart. Through Cirion and Eorl the Young our countries were tied by oath and treaty. Through Faramir and Éowyn our countries are be bound by love and family. That is all the thanks that I require.”

Aragorn rode over to Faramir and repeated the warrior’s gesture with his Steward. “Came back safely to us, Faramir; your country and your king need you.”

Faramir graced his King with such a look of adoration and admiration that no words were necessary. With a silent squeeze to his friend’s elbow he took his leave as the column began its slow journey home.

Aragorn remained watching until the column was small to his sight, and only then did he turn Brego and begin his journey back through the levels of his city. So deep in thought was he that he barely noticed the nods and gestures of salute gifted him by his people.

OoOoOoOoOo

The weather was perfect as Éomer’s column began turning towards home. With each mile they covered, Éomer felt the invisible band of tension that seemed wound around his chest loosen. How stifled he had felt inside the city! As he rode, the warrior’s eyes constantly scanned the horizon seeking any sign of ambush. Even now, after the war, there were still threats that Éomer could not ignore.

They had been riding for approximately three hours when Éomer looked back over his shoulder for his lieutenant. “Gamling,” he called. Turning back to the front, he found himself squinting into the brilliant sunlight as he waited. He had been thinking long and hard about this problem and felt that now was the time to broach the subject with his trusted advisor.

Gamling pulled his chestnut mare from the column and loped forward to fall into formation beside his king. In truth he had been expecting this summons for some time. He had known that something was troubling his King by the set of his shoulders and had been patiently waiting for Éomer to share his thoughts.

Éomer glanced at Gamling as the two rode side by side. “When we reach Edoras, send a detachment to Snowbourne. Have them escort Garoth back to the Meduseld with all haste.”

At Gamling’s questioning look the king continued. “He is not under arrest…yet, but I will know why none of the riders of Snowbourne answered their king’s call to arms.”

Gamling nodded and continued riding beside the king. He had, of course, puzzled over this himself and known that Éomer would be infuriated by the apparent lack of response to Théoden King’s call for the éoreds. The beacons had been lit and Rohan was duty bound to answer. A breach of honor that serious could not and would not be overlooked by Éomer.

“Gamling,” Éomer continued, “you did speak directly with Garoth to deliver the king’s summons, did you not?”

“Yes, my lord, I did,” Gamling affirmed, “but I did not linger to hear any answer as I was in great haste to cover the Riddermark and meet the king at Dunharrow.”

“No answer was required, “ growled Éomer, “only obedience.” His scowl deepened as he continued to think about the possible reasons that Garoth would have withheld his éored. None of it made any sense to him. How could a Marshal of the Mark not answer his king’s call? It was inconceivable to Éomer.

“Of course, my lord,” agreed Gamling, “but perhaps…”

When Gamling hesitated the king turned to look at his friend and lieutenant. “What, Gamling, just say it. We have known each other too long for words to be held between us now.”

Gamling looked down at the pommel of his horse, ashamed of what he was about to suggest. “I was going to say that perhaps they were afraid to come,” he offered weakly.

“Afraid?” snorted Éomer. His outburst was delivered with such vehemence that several of the troop behind him looked up sharply and Firefoot danced sideways in agitation. Éomer soothed the horse and allowed his temper to cool slightly before continuing. For now, this conversation was between he and Gamling and he would not have his éored drawn into the discussion until he had ascertained all the facts.

Gamling wisely kept his silence and just continued to ride beside the king.

When he had controlled himself sufficiently to carry on the conversation in a softer tone, Éomer continued. “Did you not feel some fear? Did I not?” He shook his head disgustedly. “Did my sister feel fear when she stood between the Nazgûl and her King? Do you think that the Halfling Merry did not feel fear? Did it stop him from riding by his king’s side…form defying his king to ride by his side?”

Gamling could only nod his head in agreement as he wisely let his king vent his pent up feelings.

Éomer concentrated on taking deep breaths for a few moments while he flexed his fists. More than anything he wished that his uncle were here to advise him on how to handle this situation. How could it have come to the point that he was king? It should have been Théodred, not him. Théo was groomed to be king; would have been a natural king. For the hundredth time Éomer prayed to his uncle’s shade for guidance. Firefoot was becoming more difficult to handle as he reacted to the tension emanating from Éomer, so the king forced himself to take another deep breath and calm down before his mount became any more difficult. He wasn’t in the mood the have to do battle with his recalcitrant horse on top of everything else. The discussion of fear touched a chord in Éomer’s memory and he followed that thought to a remembrance that he kept treasured in his heart.

It was the night they had ridden so hard practicing cavalry warfare; the night he had declared his oath of loyalty to his uncle and his King.

For some time after his declaration, the two had enjoyed a comfortable peace, each lost in his own thoughts with only the sound of the crackling fire to break the utter silence with its soft song.

“Uncle,” Éomer began slowly, “have you ever been afraid?”

“Afraid?” Théoden questioned. “Afraid,” he mused. “I suppose all of us have been afraid at some time or other. It’s not the being afraid that matters, though, it is what you do with it. Why do you ask?”

“When we were galloping today…at first I was…I felt…”

“Fear?” Théoden supplied.

Éomer hung his head. Shame reddened his cheeks.

“I see,” Théoden nodded. He absentmindedly pulled a stalk from the nearby weeds and chewed on the end as he pondered how best to explain the emotion of fear to his nephew. “Fear can be a good thing and it can be a bad thing.”

Éomer’s head raised only slightly as his eyes sought those of uncle. “What do you mean?” he questioned, frowning as he puzzled over the thought. “How can fear in a warrior be a good thing?” Éomer tried unsuccessfully to imagine any of the warriors he knew being afraid. Could it possibly be that his father had felt fear? Théoden’s voice pulled him from his reverie.

“Fear can make you aware. When you are a leader of men, you must always be aware that your decisions will affect their lives, could cost them their lives. That is never easy. You must always be conscious that those lives are precious and must not be cast away at ease, for you will forever see their faces when you close your eyes at night.” The king sighed deeply, lost in his own memories for a moment. “Each man in your command has family, loved ones who depend on him. It is like a circle, Éomer. The king defends Rohan. The king is supported by his éoreds; the éoreds are made up of men who are supported by families, who are, in the end, the life blood of Rohan. Do you understand?”

“No,” the child answered honestly. “It is confusing.”

Théoden chuckled to himself. “I know. It was confusing to me as well, when my father tried to explain it.”

“So fear is a good thing? “Éomer asked.

“Not always,” responded the king.

“I don’t understand, Uncle,” admitted the frustrated boy.

Théoden was silent for a few moments as he silently sought the Bema’s guidance on how to explain these deep truths to his nephew. “Fear is neither good nor bad, Éomer; it is what men do with it that makes the difference. Fear can be bad when men allow it to paralyze them. Fear can be a prison of our own making when we let it steal away our resolve to do what we know must be done.”

That was something the boy could understand, and he nodded his acceptance.

“Do not despair, Éomer, you will come to understand it all in time. The world changes and all that once was strong now proves unsure. But in the world there are constants.”

Éomer turned serious brown eyes to his uncle. “Like fire?”

“Stronger than fire, Éomer is loyalty…the loyalty of old friends, the loyalty of a man to his wife, his family…”

“And the loyalty of the éoreds to their king,” Éomer interjected softly.

Théoden looked fondly at his nephew. How like his father he was. Théoden hoped that from wherever his spirit resided that Éomund could see the kind of young man his son was becoming.

“No king could ask for more, Éomer.”

Théoden noticed the yawn that Éomer tried to stifle. “Well, my boy, I don’t know about you but these old bones of mine are tired and could use some sleep. What say you that we turn in for the night and get an early start back to Edoras in the morning?”

“I will take the first watch,” offered Éomer.

“No, you get some sleep. I will gather some more wood for the fire and wake you for your watch in four or five hours. No, off you go, not arguments. You’ve had a big day and a growing lad needs his rest.”

Théoden watched as Éomer crawled under his blankets with a most contented look on his face. “Uncle, this has been a good day, has it not?”

Théoden kneeled down beside Éomer and made a show of tucking in the blankets before he ruffled the unruly blonde hair. “Yes,” he agreed, “this has been a good day.”

“My lord?”

Éomer started slightly and turned to Gamling with a slightly puzzled look on his face. “Gamling?”

“I suggested that this would be a good place to pause for the noon meal. There is fresh water here and grazing for the horses.”

Éomer looked around and concurred that this would be an ideal place for the column to rest. “Make it so, Gamling, and see that the caisson is placed in the shade.”

TBC

To The King

Chapter Five

Someone to Love and Teach Them

I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something;
And because I cannot do everything
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

-Edward Everett Hale, Lend a Hand

The company gathered in the clearing that had been chosen for the meal break. A copse of trees ran along the stream providing shade from the noon sun. Piquet lines were established and makeshift tethers loosely circled the horses within the field where the grazing was plentiful and a watering hole was available for the mounts. The supply wagons pulled into an unrestricting ring around the grazing war horses, though it was more a custom than a requirement. The great war horses of Rohan were well trained and would stay near their masters.

The wagons contained the tents and provisions for the long trip home, which would be made at a much slower place than was normal to accommodate the final procession of Théoden King. The group would pause in each village along the way to allow the populace the chance to show their respect to the fallen king. In addition to the normal provisions, there were extra rations sent by King Elessar to sustain Rohan through the long winter months when the chill wind barreled out of the mountains and the land was rendered barren in its icy grip. Most of the crops that had filled the barns of the Horse Lords were lost to the fires of the Dundlendings and the hordes of Mordor. What the mob couldn’t carry away they delighted in burning, for death and destruction were the fuels that fed their frenzies.

With the horses properly fed and watered, the warriors gathered into sitting small groups in the shade of the trees bordering the stream and talked softly amongst themselves while enjoying the provisions of the trail. Éomer walked a small way away from the group and knelt by the running water. Cupping his hands, he dipped them into the cool water and splashed it onto his face and the back of his neck, washing away the dust of the road. Then he filled the water pouch he’d brought from his saddle. A soldier quickly learned not to pass by fresh water for a man could never tell when he might again have the opportunity to refresh his supply. Rising, Éomer walked back over to where Éowyn and Faramir were eating their noon repast of crusty white bread, thick slices of buttery cheese, and fresh apples under the shade of a great elm tree. Gamling sat leaning with his back to the tree, chewing on a crisp apple, his eyes were closed as he savored the tart taste and enjoyed the quiet conversation taking place between the pair, who were debating the relative merits of the Rohirric as opposed to the Gondorian cavalry style.

Éomer snorted as he caught the tail end of the conversation. He leaned over to help himself to some of the bread and cheese and then took a seat beside his lieutenant. “What say you, Gamling? Who would you rather face down?”

Gamling slowly opened his eyes to see that his king as well as the Steward of Gondor and Éowyn were watching him with great expectation. Sensing a diplomatic trap in the making, the wily commander chose his words wisely. “Neither, my Lord.”

Faramir laughed out loud and clapped Gamling on the shoulder. “Well done, my friend! When you have finished your days of riding with the King of Rohan I will have room for you on my diplomatic staff, for that was a tactful answer if ever I heard one.”

Gamling very nearly choked on a piece of apple when he heard those words, and Éomer quirked an eyebrow at his friend. “What? Are you not prepared to bandy words with the fine folk in the White City for the rest of your life?”

“Enough you two!” laughed Éowyn. “You are going to scare poor Gamling to death.”

“The White City is a beautiful place,” defended Faramir.

“Aye, it is,” agreed Gamling quickly, still struggling to prevent a diplomatic incident. It’s just too, uh, too…”

“Rocky?” supplied Éomer drolly.

“Grand, I was going to say,” finished Gamling. “It’s too grand for a simple horseman like me.” Gamling nodded as though quite satisfied with his diplomatic prowess.

Before he could reply, Éomer caught sight of a young boy sitting with his back against one of the wagon wheels while he ate his lunch alone. He seemed awfully young to be a driver and there was something vaguely familiar about him to the king. “Gamling, who is that lad over there?”

Éomer nodded in the direction of the wagons when Gamling looked to see who it was that Éomer was referencing.

Spotting the boy that had caught his king’s attention, he smiled as he looked back at the king. “You don’t remember him, my Lord? That’s Hálith, son of Háma. He practically grew up in the Meduseld.”

“Hálith,” mused Éomer. “I have not seen him for a long time. After his mother died, Háma did not bring him to the Golden Hall as in the past.” Éomer thought back to all the times he’d very nearly tripped over the horde of young ones playing in the halls of his home. The children belonged to the women who worked in the kitchens or as maids in the Meduseld and the children were always welcomed to accompany them, for family was a bedrock of the culture of Rohan. Many of the women who worked in the Great Hall were the wives of the king’s own guard. This arrangement worked well, allowing the families to be close together. Éomer had shared many a meal with in the Great Hall with the king, the guards, and their families. He loved the raucous lunches with the rambunctious children being shushed by their mothers while the fathers laughed and swapped stories with the king. They were very good memories for the young king.

“Hálith,” he repeated thoughtfully. “How old is he? Is he not too young to be driving wagons?”

“He is an orphan, my Lord,” explained Gamling. “I know that he is too young to be a wagon master, but he is also too young to be in the guard. I took him into the service to give him a home.”

Éomer continued to stare at the boy pensively. His eyes were on Hálith, but his mind was far away on another orphan.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer held Éowyn’s hand as the words were spoken over Théodwyn’s grave. The soft cries of the little girl for her mother were nearly drowned out by the downpour of rain that started suddenly, causing the villagers of the Eastfold to scatter for their homes as the wind buffeted them harshly. The only ones who remained unmoving were the two children, their uncle and cousin. Théoden stood behind Éomer and Éowyn with a hand protectively on the shoulder of each of them. Théodred stood beside his father somberly looked down at the grave of his aunt. He couldn’t help but think about how it was for him when he lost his own mother.

Éowyn turned to look back at Théoden and Théodred. Tears warred with the rain drops streaking down her face, each fighting to overwhelm the other. “I want Mommy, Theo,” she cried.

Théodred took his little niece into his arms. “Come on, little love, let Theo take you in by the fire.” Giving his father a nod, Théodred turned and walked away carrying Éowyn.

Théoden still stood behind Éomer, but now with both hands on the boy’s shoulders. He was prepared to stand there in the rain all night, if that is what Éomer needed. The king gently squeezed the boy’s shoulders, signaling his love and support. Théoden could feel the slight shake in the shoulders as Éomer began to shiver in the cold rain. Still they stood, silent sentinels in the gathering dusk.

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Éomer.”

“Are they together now?” Intense brown eyes fixed on the king…eyes that were too old for a lad this young…eyes that had seen too much pain…but eyes that were dry, devoid of tears.

How to answer? The king smiled softly at his young nephew. “They rest together in the earth of the Eastfold, a place they both loved. I believe their spirits are together now as well.”

Éomer seemed to consider his uncle’s words for a moment. With a deep breath, the man-child turned back to look once again at the fresh gravesite. Slowly, and with great deliberation, Éomer held out his hand and dropped the bit of earth that he’d held there. The dirt had turned to mud in the pouring rain but he seemed not to notice. “Goodbye, Mother. Do not fear for Éowyn; I will take care of her.”

The king noted that the boy did not mention himself. Looking down at the wet earth, he said his own goodbyes to his sister. ‘Ah, Wyn, these are dark days in which we live, but I foresee that your son will be a light and a blessing to our people, for brave and strong is his heart. I will do my best to raise him as you would wish. And,’ he thought with a smile, ‘we will both take care of Éowyn, as will Teddy.’ With a sigh, Théoden raised his face to the sky beseeching Bema’s guidance in dealing with the two grief stricken children, especially Éomer, who had not shed a single tear, at least that any one had seen. That fact worried Théoden, for he feared the boy was burying his grief so deeply that it would take a long time to surface, and who knew how much damage it would do in the meantime.

“Come, Éomer, let us go inside with your sister and Théodred. We will get an early start in the morning.”

“We are going to Edoras?” inquired the boy quietly.

“We are going to Edoras,” nodded the king, “your new home.”

O-o-O-o-O

“My Lord?” asked Gamling. “Would you like me to reassign the boy?”

Éomer considered his Lieutenant’s question. “Not just yet, but a soldier’s barracks is not the place for lad. Let me think on it, Gamling.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Éomer laid his bread and cheese down beside him as he continued to watch Hálith. He was troubled that the son of Háma, the king’s valued doorward would be so alone, and yet, he realized, there must be many other orphaned children across the Mark after the losses in the war. Suddenly and clearly he knew exactly what he had to do. This was not to be allowed. He could not have a kingdom where children were raising themselves.

“What are you thinking, brother?” inquired Éowyn. “I know that look.”

Éomer remained silent for a moment before giving his sister a searching look. “Éowyn, how long are you planning to stay in Rohan before your wedding?”

Éowyn was surprised by the query and sent a questioning glance at Faramir. “As long as you need me, brother, you know that. Faramir and I have talked about our situation and he completely understands that my presence might be required until you have the state of the Mark under control. We both know that there are great obstacles facing our country.”

Éomer nodded slowly. “I would not ask you for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, sister. But there is great need at home and I have a mission of utmost importance that I must place upon your shoulders.”

Éowyn’s curiosity was piqued. “What is it?”

“Éowyn is not as physically strong as she was before her fight with the Witch King, Éomer,” interjected Faramir worriedly. He glanced quickly at Éowyn. “Now, my love, before you skewer me know that I speak only from concern for you. You have come a long way, but you are not completely healed.”

“Peace, Faramir,” soothed Éomer. “The mission I have for Éowyn can be handled from Edoras.”

“Will you two stop taking about me!” snapped Éowyn. “What is this mission Éomer?”

“I am going to send riders throughout the Mark to find every orphaned child and bring them to Edoras. Those children who have already been taken in by relatives will be left there, but those who have not will be housed in the Meduseld while we find families for them. Until that time, their King will be a father to them.”

All conversation had stopped at the king’s pronouncement and Éomer now found himself the uncomfortable recipient of everyone’s attention.

Faramir was first to find his voice. “That is a fine and noble undertaking, Éomer.”

Éowyn had tears in her eyes as she got up from her place beside Faramir and moved over to her brother. Falling on her knees beside him, she threw her arms around his neck, completely unconcerned for once about the public display of affection. “I’m so proud of you, brother. I will help you in every way possible.” She leaned back on her heels and placed her palm lovingly against Éomer’s cheek. “We will see that every child in Rohan has someone to love them and teach them, as we had uncle and Theo.”

Éomer smiled into his sister’s tearful eyes. “No child of the Mark will be alone so long as I am king, and we will begin with Háleth.”

TBC

A/N An excellent question was asked about whether or not Théoden was embalmed, since it has been months since his death and because of Éomer’s order to be sure the caisson was placed in the shade. I am going on the assumption that Gondor did use embalming techniques for its rulers based on two things. First of all, the well known and documented embalming used by the Egyptians, which interestingly enough has recently been analyzed to show the use of cedar oil. Secondly, upon a statement made by Denethor in The Return of the King: “No long sleep of death embalmed…” Éomer’s request to have the caisson placed in the shade was merely an emotional and respectful one.

To The King

Chapter Six

The Long Goodbye

"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal." Albert Pike

It was early afternoon and the sun was just past its zenith, shining today with a brilliance that dazzled the eye and made the landscape appear to shimmer in the afternoon rays. Squinting up at the fiery ball, Éomer wiped his brow. It was much warmer than usual for this time of year, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Béma for the good fortune. Not only would the warmer weather facilitate the travel of the citizens of Rohan to Edoras for the funeral, but more importantly, the king realized, each day of good weather bought them more time to prepare provisions for the harsh winter to come. Every additional day of preparation would buy more lives of his people before springtime breathed her fresh breath and once again graced their lands with new life. Éomer meant to see that every life that could possibly be snatched from death’s cold jaws would be saved.

The gloomy company was finally nearing its final destination after the long, sorrowful journey home, and it was none too soon, for Éomer was chaffing at the slow progress. Three days previously, he had sent Éowyn and Faramir riding ahead to Edoras to insure that all the preparations for Théoden’s funeral were in place. The couple, accompanied by the guards from Gondor for protection, could travel the distance much faster than the slower procession, which stopped or slowed in every village. There was much for Éowyn to prepare, and Faramir would be a wonderful aid to her due to his administrative knowledge and experience. Edoras would be crowded with people, and arrangements needed to be made for their accommodations and safety. Those fortunate enough to have relatives in the city would, of course, stay with family, but all the others would be camping outside the gates. Additional guards would need to be posted, for although no attack was expected, wild animals still roamed the grassy plain searching for prey. Éowyn planned to have breakfast porridge prepared for the people, and the Meduseld would also be providing additional pots of stew or soup to supplement the meager provisions that would be the lot of most of those arriving. She hoped to insure that all would have two hot meals per day.

Éomer would have preferred to send part of his Éored with Éowyn, but did not want to risk offending Faramir or the soldiers from Gondor, so he had set aside his better judgment this time and allowed them to ride off without any of the riders of Rohan in attendance. Éowyn, of course, had easily read the look on her brother’s face and assured him that she was not five years old any longer and could take care of herself before galloping off with her future husband and the Gondorian guards hot in pursuit. Éomer had merely shaken his head as Gamling, riding beside the king, chuckled.

“She is going to set Gondor on its ear before all is said and done,” predicted the lieutenant.

“I fear for her, Gamling,” sighed Éomer.

“Sire?’

“I fear for her spirit, old friend,” corrected the king. “Éowyn was not made for a rock city; I believe it will stifle her.”

“Éomer, my king, will you listen to some advice from an old friend?”

Éomer looked at Gamling and nodded his head. “Always,” he promised.

“You carry much responsibility on your shoulders. Do not look for more. Faramir is a good man and will make Éowyn a good husband. He will see to her needs and her spirit.”

The pair rode in silence for a while as Éomer pondered the words of his lieutenant. He recognized the wisdom of the words, but knowing and doing are often worlds apart. For so long he had borne responsibility for those he loved, beginning with Éowyn and continuing on to his people when he had become Third Marshal of the Mark. It almost seemed he had carried that burden for his whole life, but never more than these last few months.

O-o-O-o-O

It was raining as Éomer and his éored approached the Fords of Isen. They had expected to rendezvous with Théodred that morning as the Second Marshal’s troop returned from a patrol of the Gap of Rohan. Reports had come to them of unusual activity in this area and Théodred had entreated permission from Théoden to investigate. Gríma had persuaded the king to deny the request and Théodred had stormed from the Meduseld, frustrated with impotent rage at the advisor and his father’s inability to act without him. Meeting up with Éomer outside, he had confided to his cousin that he was going to patrol through the Gap of Rohan, Gríma be damned. Éomer had nodded his assent and cautioned Theo to be careful, promising to meet him in three days at the border of the Westemnet.

When they failed to appear, Éomer had taken his Éored in this direction expecting to meet up with the missing company. With each mile they crossed, dread grew strong in the young Marshal’s heart, wrapping cold tendrils of doubt around him. Squinting through rain splattered eyes, his heart fell at the sight of vultures circling above the Ford, for where vultures gathered, carrion was close by.

Spurring on his steed, Éomer rushed forward, followed closely by his troop. Rounding the last sharp corner and descending into the Ford, Éomer’s heart sank. There, before him, lay a ghastly sight…Théodred’s Éored. They had obviously put up a tremendous fight, but it seemed obvious that none survived.

“Théodred,” breathed Éomer, as much to himself as any other. “Find the king’s son!” he commanded as the rest of his troop gathered at the site. Dismounting from Firefoot, Éomer joined his men in searching through the bodies. Unbelievably, even the magnificent Rohirric steeds had been slaughtered, a loss that was almost as devastating to the Horse lords as that of their riders.

From were he was kneeling by his fallen brother’s side, Bregond looked up at Éomer with hate filled eyes. “Mordor will pay for this.”

“These orcs aren’t from Mordor,” replied Éomer kicking over a dead orc to reveal the white painted handprint. It was as he and Théo had suspected; Saruman was somehow in league with Mordor or breeding orcs for his own foul agenda. As if their situation weren’t dire enough, Rohan now faced a new threat from their western side. A deep frown marred the handsome face. ‘How in Béma’s name was he to fight a war on two fronts as beleaguered as they were and with the king bewitched by Wormtongue?’ wondered the young Marshal. ‘There had to be a way to reach his uncle before it was too late for all of them.’

“My Lord Éomer, over here,” called one of his men, from the water’s edge, interrupting the Marshal’s thoughts.

Éomer raced over to where the man knelt expecting to see Thoédred’s lifeless body, but instead he saw Théo still tenuously clung to life. “He’s alive,” Éomer breathed as hope flared within his soul. Picking up his cousin, Eomer moved as quickly as he could to his stallion, making his way over and around the butchered bodies of his friends. Gently, Éomer handed Théo to Bregond while he mounted and then took his cousin back into his arms. “Bregond,” he called from horseback, “take four men and bury our brothers.”

Éomer paused when he saw the stricken look on Bregand’s face. “It is the best that we can do for now, my friend. I give you my word their sacrifice will not be forgotten and they shall be honored.”

Bregond nodded sadly. Coming to attention, he placed his clenched fist over his heart in salute to his Marshal. “It will be as you say, my Lord.”

Éomer could not return the salute because he held Théodred, but his eyes spoke of his devotion to his men, devotion that none of them ever questioned and returned in full measure. He held the man’s eyes for a moment longer before looking around to his men. “The rest of you follow me!”

They rode hard to reach Edoras. Thankfully the rain stopped and Éomer prayed it was a good omen, for Théodred still lived as they entered the city. As Éomer galloped up the hill, the villagers, alerted by the call of the guards at the gate, came from their doors to see what was happening. A great cry went up as the people beheld the king’s heir in such a state. Éomer could hear the grief of the people and it pained him to be the bearer of more ill tidings.

Despair clung to Edoras in a palpable mantle. Hope seemed far away from this people who had endured bad times for so long and with such courage. Try as they might, the king’s guard could not keep secret the bewitchment of Théoden from the city. News like that could never hope to be kept quiet in a city as compact and family oriented as Edoras. Nearly everyone in town was related to someone who worked in the Golden Hall or the Royal stables in one capacity or the other, and the loss was a grievous one to bear. It was as though the much beloved and gentle man that so often walked the streets of his city inquiring as to the condition and well being of his people had ceased to exist. The people, fearing for their future and the future of Rohan, had placed their faith in Théodred. In another cruel stroke of fate, that faith now seemed dashed.

What little hope was left now fell squarely on Éomer. The people of Edoras had watched the son of Éomund grow into the capable and much admired man that he was, but what hope was there for this young one if both the king and Théodred had been lost to the dark forces? Indeed, what hope was there for Rohan itself?

Éomer took the steps to the Golden Hall two at a time. Both guards came to attention as the Third Marshal approached and were horrified to see who it was he carried. Pausing only briefly, Éomer called to the stricken doorward. “Háma, send for the healer!”

Rather than enter through the great hall, Éomer went around the outside of the building to enter Théodred’s room through the outer door. As gently as he could, he laid his cousin onto his bed and began to remove his armor so that his wounds could be better assessed. “Hold on, Théo,” he crooned as he worked quickly. “I’m going to get these wet things off of you and then warm you up. You’ll be fine, you’ll see.” Éomer kept up a running dialogue as he worked, needing to hear the reassuring words almost as much as his cousin did.

Éomer was no healer, but he had tended plenty of battle wounds, and what was revealed to his eyes when he removed Theo’s cuirass told him all he needed to know. Hope was lost; his beloved Théo was lost. No one could survive with such a wound. Choking back a sob, Éomer covered Théodred with a blanket, tenderly taking Théo’s hand in his own to hold as he prayed silently for his cousin’s spirit to find peace.

The crash of the door interrupted Éomer as Éowyn rushed into the room, having been alerted by the call of the guards. Unknowingly, Éomer began to rock slightly back and forth as he fought with his emotions. Éowyn looked at him questioningly, but he could only nod at the blanket covering Théodred.

Steeling herself, Éowyn pulled back the blanket to see the wound to Theo’s lower abdomen. It was an ugly wound that had punctured his organs…very clearly mortal. The sight stole her breath away. Reflexively she looked back to Éomer as though he could make things better like he always did, but what she saw was a dagger to her heart. The eyes that met hers were as haunted and broken as she had ever seen, and Éowyn realized a truth that she had only imagined before, that her brother, her rock, needed her as much as she needed him. That realization was empowering. As heartbroken as she was, Éowyn found a new purpose and strength. She would be the strength her brother needed now.

The thought was halted by the arrival of the healer and two of his helpers. Éomer and Éowyn excused themselves and stepped into the hallway.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“It was an ambush, by the looks of it, at the Fords of Isen.”

“Isen?” questioned Éowyn. “Dunlendings that far?”

“They weren’t Dunlendings; they were orcs, from Isengard”

Éowyn digested the information. “Do you have proof of this?”

“Oh yes,” Éomer said slowly. “Come with me.”

They walked together down the hall to the outer doorway leading to the terrace running the length of the Meduseld. They continued out and around to the front, where Éomer’s Éored waited for him. Stopping at the top of the stairs, Éomer motioned for Liam, his second in command, to bring the helmet.

Liam jumped down from his horse and ascended the steps. “My Lord,” declared the Horse Lord, handing the hated helmet to Eomer.

“Thank you, Liam,” answered Eomer softly.

“I will see to Firefoot, my Lord,” offered the man.

Eomer looked away briefly to regain his composure, hating himself for this sudden weakness, and then nodded his thanks to Liam.

Taking the proffered helmet, Eomer showed it to Éowyn. “We’ve seen this image before,” he told her. “It is the white hand of Saruman.”

O-o-O-o-O

A soft murmuring behind him pulled Éomer’s attention back to the present and the king turned to look back to the source. He and Gamling were riding at the very front of the procession followed by the Honor Guard and the Caisson bearing Théoden’s body. Behind the Caisson rode Éomer’s personal Éored followed by the supply wains. The exclamation he’d heard had come from Liam, for none of the Honor Guard would have spoken.

“My Lord,” whispered Gamling with a smile, nodding his head forward.

So deep in though had Éomer been that he had not even realized they were less than a league from the city and he now looked in that direction. Lining both sides of the road leading into the city were hundreds of the Rohirrim waiting at attention for their two kings to pass. Each rider wore the green cloaks of Rohan and each spear was adorned with the king’s own banner. The women of Rohan must have worked tirelessly to produce so many, and Éomer was deeply touched by this display of devotion to Théoden.

Unconsciously, every man in the procession sat a bit straighter, proud to be a part of this moment and of this people.

Éomer turned to Gamling. “Retrieve Herugrim from the wagons and place it upon the Caisson. Théoden King will not enter his city without his sword.”

TBC

I want to thank all of you who are reading and especially those of you who are reviewing. Your comments give me the fuel and faith that I need to continue.

To the King

Chapter Seven

Prison of Doubt

It was not only the brightness of Anor shining down upon them in fiery glory that caused Éomer to blink furiously at the moisture threatening to fall from his eyes. The heat, the weariness of the long journey, the weight of worries that had burdened him all fell away from his shoulders, at least for a while, as his gaze took in the hundreds of riders formed in two lines of honor and his heart swelled in pride.

“They honor Théoden,” he breathed softly as he watched the green and white banners fluttering in the ever present winds sweeping from the White Mountains.

“As they honor you, my Lord,” added Gamling rejoining his king after placing Herugrim, Théoden’s sword, upon his banner draped coffin. If he noticed Éomer’s struggle he did not acknowledge it.

“Me?” frowned Éomer, looking at his lieutenant in genuine puzzlement. “I have done naught for which to be honored.”

“Tis not true, my Lord,” asserted Gamling emphatically. “It was you that kept the exiled éoreds together when Gríma had bewitched the King. You turned the tide at Helm’s Deep and led the Rohirrim to the king’s side. Many songs are already being sung about that brave charge. You were by our king as we rode down the enemy on the Pelennor, and you led what was left of us into the very teeth of Sauron’s stronghold.

“It was Aragorn that led us to the Morannon,” corrected Éomer embarrassed to be the object of such accolades.

“No sire,” affirmed the lieutenant. “Aragorn may have been at the head of the army, but no man commands the Horse Lords but the one who has won their loyalty, and that man is you, our King. We were proud to follow you that day, even if it meant riding to our deaths.”

So moved was Éomer by Gamling’s impassioned pronouncement, he could only shake his head in reply. “It is I who am proud to be before you,” he added softly looking back at the lines of warriors, while silently cursing his lack of control. He didn’t know what had happened to him to so threaten his composure these past weeks, but he was most uncomfortable with the rush of emotions he had been experiencing since finding Éowyn seemingly dead on the Pelennor. It was as though a dam had broken and the years of pent up, forbidden feelings had burst forth, finally freed from the prison to which he had banished them.

As the procession began to wind its way through the waiting warriors, each riders would place his right fist across his heart in tribute to the two kings. Occasionally a voice could be heard calling out a quiet affirmation of loyalty to the king.

“My Lord.”

“We are honored, Sire.”

“We follow Éomer!”

As the King, followed by the caisson, entered the gates of Edoras a great cry rang out from the ranks. “Hail Éomer King! Hail Théoden King!”

Standing outside the Meduseld, waiting for the procession to snake its way “home” to the Golden Hall, Éowyn was deeply moved by the tributes echoing across the windy plains. Sensing Éowyn’s battle to contain her emotions, Faramir moved a bit closer, so that their shoulders were touching, and wrapped his hand around hers in a quiet gesture of support. His eyes never left the procession, and neither did those of Éowyn, but he felt her squeeze his hand in appreciation for the encouragement he offered her. Secure in the Faramir’s unconditional love, Éowyn had blossomed like the first fragile flowers of springtime, elusive and delicate, but so sweet of fragrance as to steal the breath of a winter weary soul.

As the son of the Steward of Gondor, Faramir had been raised by the strict code of conduct required of the members of ruling families. It was the most difficult at such times as these, when one could not even grieve in private, but must appear strong and resolute before the people lest they become fearful or worse yet disaffected. His sire, Denethor, had ruled with an iron fist, ever mindful of court protocol and that the welfare of Gondor rested upon the Steward, until the time that a King would return to claim the throne. Faramir knew what it was to have to maintain a “public” face when your heart was breaking, and spared a quick glance at Éowyn. He was so very proud of his brave and beautiful lady, and longed for the day when she would be his wife.

In the three days since they had arrived here, Éowyn had worked almost non-stop to see that all was in readiness for the funeral of the King. In addition, she had already tackled the charge placed on her by Éomer, the daunting task of accounting for every orphaned child in the Mark. After just these few days a half a dozen young children were residing in the Meduseld. Within hours of her arrival these children had been located from within the city of Edoras. Several others from the city had already been taken in and given loving homes by family members. Éowyn had decided to use Théodred’s room for the children, moving in small beds for them. She felt that Théo would be pleased to see his room used as a place of comfort for the hurting innocents.

Faramir, especially, had been drawn to the children and connected with them almost immediately, telling them stories and teaching them games that he and Boromir had played as children. The little girls especially had thrived under his caring attention, unused as they were to being fussed over as a son would be. It wasn’t that Rohan did not cherish its daughters, but sons were what kept the land safe, the ones who raised and protected the magnificent Rohirric herds. Éowyn watched with delight as Faramir had held a little girl on his lap and showed her how to hold a buttercup flower under her chin to see if the magic was there! The little girl had squealed in glee when the other children assured her that the yellow was, indeed, reflected on her chin. The seven children – four boys and three girls – were now standing in a line behind Faramir and Éowyn.

Éomer drew Firefoot to a halt at the foot of the steps of the Golden Hall. He looked up at Éowyn and his heart clenched at the pain reflected in her lovely face.

Following his king’s gaze, Gamling dismounted and took Firefoot’s reins. “Go to your sister, Sire, I shall see to the horses, and the honor guard will see that Théoden King is laid to rest on his bier.”

Éomer dismounted Firefoot and took the steps two at a time. Éowyn went to him immediately and was enfolded in his arms. The king placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head as he spoke softly in her ear, where only she could hear. He knew her feelings for he shared them. This was the last time their beloved uncle would enter the Meduseld with them and their hearts and minds had gone back to the first time he had brought them here to live after the deaths of their parents. He had filled their lives with love and laughter for so many years that they could not even envision a world bereft of both Théodred and Théoden.

Éowyn looked up at Éomer and smiled with such tenderness that it warmed him as though Anor had broken through a storm clouded sky and shined on him with a brightness that brought renewal of hope and a reaffirmation of all good things to a barren land.

No one, save those two, would ever know what words passed between them; what memory evoked buoyed them through the next few days and gave strength of purpose to the two orphans who had been cursed with loss and yet blessed with so much love in their lives.

Éowyn stepped back to stand beside Faramir and motioned for the children to step forward. They had practiced diligently to perfect their greeting for the king, but now that the moment had arrived their little hearts were pounding with dread. Shyly, but with great decorum, the seven moppets stepped before this giant of a man and bowed. Once they had completed their group bow they solemnly pronounced, “Westu Éomer Hal!” Deeply affected, Éomer frowned as he fought to contain his emotions, an effort at which he had already been sorely tested in the past few minutes. The youngest child, a three year old little girl named Thela, mistaking the fierceness of the look for disapproval burst into tears and fled behind Faramir’s legs, where she clung as though the wolves of Isengard were nipping at her heels.

Éomer, devastated that he should so frighten the child the first time she even met him, went to a knee and gently coaxed the girl from her protective perch behind the Steward of Gondor. In a very few minutes he had the children completely charmed and totally at ease around him. Once he was sure that they did not fear him, he stood and bade them to stand beside him as the Honor Guard brought the casket up the steps with great ceremony. Éomer felt a small hand take hold of his finger and glanced down to see Thela glancing up at him with tearful eyes. Without even thinking he swept up the child to hold in his arms, rubbing small circles in her back to soothe her as he remembered his father doing for him. He felt her arms move around his neck as she relaxed, secure in king’s grasp.

Éowyn and Faramir shared an amused look as they watched the children vying for Éomer’s attention, each scrambling to be the closest to him. Gently he showed them how to stand at attention as the Honor Guard approached.

The door warden’s pulled open the great doors and bowed as Théoden’s casket was carried through to the prepared bier, where it would lay for the next two days as the people of Rohan filed past to pay their final respects to Théoden and swear fealty to their new king.

Éomer, the children, Éowyn and Faramir followed the honor guard into the shadowed hall. None others, save Gamling, once he had seen to the stabling of his own mount and Firefoot, would enter the great hall this night. Following Rohirric tradition, this was a night for the family to make their goodbyes and to rejoice at the passing of a good life to the hallowed presence of their forefathers. It was a time of joy as well as mourning as the people of Rohan prepared to farewell a life well lived and heroically given in battle for his people. For a Rohirrim there was no better death than a heroic death.

O-o-O-o-O

Late in the night, when long shadows were cast on the wall by the flickering torches and the earth had fallen into the silence of a night kissed softly by starlight, Éomer and Gamling stood contentedly in the great hall beside the bier bearing Théoden. Mellowed by ale, they were content to relax in each other’s company as they passed the night in contemplation and appreciation for the man they both loved and admired.

Éomer had dismissed the Honor Guard until morning so that he and Gamling could spend this time alone with Théoden. It was certainly within the purview for a family and in no way breeched protocol, for in Rohan, family rights were deeply held and deeply respected.

“I failed him,” said Gamling sadly as the inevitable winds buffeted past the Golden Hell wailing through small breaches around the doors and windows and causing the flaming sconces to flickers furiously.

Surprised, Éomer cut his eyes over to look his friend. Here in the Meduseld he realized that he had not seen the changes in Gamling that seemed so clear to him now. The man was thinner and his clothing hung loose about him. His eyes were haunted with resignation and despair, and an overwhelming feeling of loss seemed to emanate from his being. Shocked as much for what he was seeing as for what he had failed to see in the past weeks, Éomer sought to reassure the man who he had come to rely upon. “No, Gamling, you were ever by his side. I cannot remember a time when you were not beside him, as loyal as any I’ve known.”

Gamling blushed and looked miserably down at the bier. “In body, perhaps, but I did fail him.” He turned to look at his young king, the bravest man he’d ever known, and his own weakness and failure seemed all the more pronounced. “It was at Dunharrow…the night Lord Aragorn rode out to take the Dimholt. My heart failed me because so few men had come. I openly questioned Théoden King and said that there was no hope.” His shoulders slumped in shame. “Worse yet, I declared before the men that we could not defeat Mordor.”

“I don’t remember that,” stammered the King, stunned and shaking his head in confusion.

“You were not there, Sire. You had gone to the smithy.” Gamling smiled wryly at his King. “You likely would have run me through had you heard me speaking of defeat before the men, and on the very eve of battle.”

“What did he do?” questioned Éomer, truly intrigued, for he had never heard of Gamling’s outburst. “How did Théoden react?”

“He was magnificent,” recalled Gamling fondly. “He stood there looking every bit the king he was and calmly told me and every other man there that we would meet Mordor in battle none the less.”

Both men were silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts of the man and the events that would follow.

“I was ashamed and proud all at the same time. It was then I realized that I would gladly follow the King of Rohan for however many days Béma would bless me with life. I pray every day that I may be worthy of the faith you place in me, my lord.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself, my friend,” admonished Éomer. “We all have a moment in time when our hearts fail us and we lose faith. We are blessed if it is only one moment,” he added deliberately

“Surely not you, my lord. . .”

Éomer looked at the bier. “Surely not me,” he repeated softly…

“You see much Éomer son of Éomund, too much. You are banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan,” sneered Gríma.

Éomer fought the men holding him, these miscreants who had come from Isengard with the worm. They were nothing more than hired thugs. “You have no authority here,” Éomer spat.

Victorious, Gríma had held up the damning document. Unbelievably, there it was, Théoden’s signature. “No!” his mind screamed, and he fought even harder until one of the henchmen hit him over the head, stunning him.

He had been dragged from the Golden Hall and thrown upon Firefoot. A few of his men, still close to the Meduseld to await his orders, had tried to intervene, and Gríma had banished them as well. The rest of his éored had followed him of their own volition, refusing to remain in the city when their marshal was banished.

Éomer closed his eyes forcing the memory from his mind. How knew those feelings of shame and pride of which Gamling had spoken. He knew them intimately. He had felt them that day. He had been deeply shamed to be driven from his own city as though a common criminal and also incredibly proud of the brave men who followed him into exile. It was their sacrifice which had heartened him, and it was for them and for Rohan that he had continued to fight the darkness, even while his heart lay broken in pieces as the image of his uncle’s signature upon that paper continued to flash before his eyes, mocking him with its finality.

“Yes, Gamling, I lost heart and worse yet, I blamed my uncle for failing me. Failing me! Can you imagine? He who gave me a home and love, who taught me how to be a warrior and the very meaning of the word honor.”

Seeing the depth of passion the memory had evoked in his young king, Gamling remained still, supporting Éomer with his presence.

Éomer mastered his recalcitrant emotions and smiled at Gamling. “You did not fail him, my friend, and he would have been the first to tell you so. He would caution us both not to look backwards, not to let doubts place us in a prison of our own making. We can honor him best by taking that lesson to heart.

Gamling nodded his head slowly, considering the words spoken by his king. They were good words, wise words, and he silently cheered the future he hoped to see for Rohan with this man as her leader. Hefting his mug he held it out for Éomer to match.

“For the honored dead,” offered Gamling.

“For the honored dead,” echoed Éomer.

TBC

To the King

Chapter Eight

Night of Trial

“When I find myself fading, I close my eyes and realize my friends are my energy.” Anon

My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story.

Éowyn stood in the shadowy hallway outside Théodred’s room leaning against the cool stone wall for support. The hour was late and she had checked to be sure the children were all sleeping soundly before turning in herself when she was overcome by a tremendous, crushing wave of grief. Momentarily staggered she sought to rest against the wall until the moment would pass and she could breathe once more. Éowyn was struggling to stifle a sob when she felt a soft touch on her shoulder and found herself enfolded in loving arms.

“Faramir,” she breathed.

“Shush, love, just let it out. We are alone here; there is no one to see,” Faramir assured, aware of her reticence to display grief before others. He continued to hold her close, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head as she poured out her anguish. Faramir had never seen her cry and had long expected that the grief she struggled so hard to deny would find its way to the surface once she had returned to Rohan. While still in Minas Tirith it was easy for her to pretend that all was as it should be in Rohan, but now, here, she was faced with a truth she could no longer push away.

“I can’t…I shouldn’t,” she stammered whilst sniffing and wiping her eyes on Faramir’s shoulder.

“Tears are not a weakness, my love, particularly when they are offered as tribute for a one so dear.” Faramir realized that Éowyn was confronting many ghosts on this trip, especially with Théoden’s body in the Golden Hall where he had been such a powerful presence. She had been so busy making preparations for the funeral and for the children since they’d arrived that she had not had time to allow for her own heartache. Faramir had watched her bury her feelings in activity each time they threatened to surface and he wanted to be near when they finally did defeat her iron will. He understood that she needed this time, particularly with the more public aspects of the funeral still facing her.

“Tears make me feel weak,” Éowyn choked ashamed and yet so very grateful for Faramir’s tender support. She ducked her head to his shoulder as a door opened down the hall and one of the guards made his hourly check of the hallways surrounding the great hall. The man immediately noticed the pair, nodded to Faramir and tactfully changed his direction, once again leaving the passage secluded.

“Come with me,” Faramir directed, as he turned and led Éowyn to the door leading to the outside terrace. He grabbed a cloak from a peg on the wall as he passed, and wrapped it around her to ward off chill. “You really should be resting, but I am loathe to leave you just yet, and I cannot chance the compromise of your honor should someone see and think the worst of me.”

Éowyn could not help but smile through her tears at his tender regard for her reputation. “Indeed, had any suitor been found in my room with me he would likely have been unmanned on the spot by either Éomer or Théodred.”

Faramir shuddered and Éowyn actually chuckled softly. “You would be safe, my love, for Éomer knows you to be a man of honor.

“If it’s all the same with you, I think I’ll not take that chance.”

Éowyn smiled again as Faramir led her over to a stone bench where they could sit and look out over the starlit night. She sighed as her gaze fell to the many campfires dotting the landscape outside the city walls.

Faramir followed her gaze. “No.”

“No what?” Éowyn inquired, turning to look at her intended.

“No, you are not to even think of what needs to be done for tomorrow. We are going to sit here and talk and you are going to relax and let your mind be at peace for a few hours of the night.”

“So states Faramir of Gondor?” she asked fondly.

“So states Faramir of Gondor,” he affirmed as he kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm around her.

“I really should go to Éomer,” Éowyn worried. “He’s so alone.”

Faramir’s arm held her firm when she made to rise. “He’s not alone, Éowyn. Gamling is staying with him.”

Since it was obvious that Faramir was intent upon her resting there, she settled into his arms and felt herself slowly relaxing, content to bask in his affection and support. “Uncle loved me very much, but he took Éomer under his wing as a teacher and father. Théo was always the one that would make sure I was happy and secure. He would see that I had pretty hair ribbons or a new doll if I seemed sad.” She laid her head onto Faramir’s shoulder as the memories filled her with remembered warmth and she wished that Faramir could have known Théodred like she did. “He would take me riding when he saw that I was upset or angry. We would leave the city at a nice dignified pace, but once we were out of sight Theo would put me in front of him, hold me tightly, and then we would race like the wind.” She turned slightly to look at Faramir. “He was the best rider in the Mark, you know. I can still feel the pounding of the hooves if I close my eyes and think back. I would laugh and shout with delight because I knew that I was safe within Théo’s arms. He would never let me fall.”

“I’m glad he was there for you,” crooned Faramir as he nuzzled her neck, longing to impart all the love and comfort he could.

“He was so gentle,” she continued, lost in her memories. “He would give me horsey rides on his back when it was time for me to go to bed.” Éowyn fell silent for a moment just enjoying the fantasy of having her cousin and uncle back with her. She closed her eyes as reality once again reared its head and her memories evaporated like a fog fleeing before the sunlight. “He would have made a wonderful father, as you will.”

“I met him a few times, when I was a child,” Faramir mused, grateful for the darkness that hid the slight blush that had covered his face at the image of fatherhood her words conjured up. “He was very close to Boromir.”

“Yes, I remember that now. I remember Boromir coming here once or twice. I was afraid of him.”

Faramir actually laughed at that statement. “Afraid? Of Boromir?”

“Yes, afraid,” laughed Éowyn, punching him playfully in the side. “He was so grand, larger than life really.

Faramir closed his eyes as the vision of his brother burst on his mind. “That he was, and more, but why did you fear him?”

“I was afraid that he would steal my Théo away from me,” she admitted softly. “I was just a little girl…”

“Who had already lost so much,” he finished sadly. “I wish I had seen you as a little girl. I’m sure I would have loved you even then, as I love you now,” he added softly, letting his lips find hers, offering her the comfort that words didn’t hold.

Éowyn pulled back to look at his face, breathless from his kisses. “I do not know how I could get through this without you by my side. I’m so grateful to the king for allowing you to accompany me.”

“Aragorn is a good king and an even better friend. I am proud to serve him.” He smiled as Éowyn stifled a yawn. “Come, love, it is time to sleep. Tomorrow will be a difficult day. I’ll see you to your room.

Éowyn stood tiredly before turning suddenly to take his hand in an almost panicked manner. “How do I do it , Faramir? How do I say goodbye to him forever?”

Faramir took her hands and pulled them to his chest. “You will do it the way you and I will face everything else in our lives. You will do it by standing by my side and allowing me to share the burden with you. Together we will face whatever Eru shall ever again ask of us.”

O-o-O-o-O

The massive bier holding Théoden’s casket was located on the throne side of the center fire pit in the great hall. The green and gold bunting that had been created for it was breathtaking, Éomer thought. Bergfinn and his son, Féalgar, who had so lovingly crafted the caisson, had obviously worked magic here as well and their devotion to Théoden was evident in even the smallest details. Bronze sunbursts adorned each corner wrapping around to hold the dark green material neatly against the bier.

Éomer and Gamling were sitting at solid wooden table off to the left side of the hall, a half eaten loaf of crusty bread and a round of sliced buttery cheese between them. A platter of apples and a pitcher of ale had also been set out to sustain the warriors through the long watch of the night. As they ate, Éomer queried Gamling about the arrangements for the morrow.

“Shortly after dawn the door wards will open the Meduseld,” instructed Gamling. “The people will be allowed to file through to pay their respects to Théoden and then to kneel before the throne to pledge fealty to their new king.

“Where is Hálith,” questioned the king suddenly, uncomfortable with the thought of sitting on the throne. “I’m ashamed that I have forgotten to inquire as to his whereabouts.”

“You have had much on your mind, my lord. That is why you have advisors. I have taken the liberty of having your things moved to the King’s apartment. Hálith has been moved from the barracks to your old room until other arrangements can be made.”

Éomer nodded his approval. “He is too old to be quartered with the younger children in Théodred’s room.”

Gamling sighed as he sat back in his chair studying the anxious face of his young king. Éomer seemed deep in thought as he gazed up at one of the tapestries adorning the hall. He frowned deeply and shook his head as his eyes sought the bier once more. Unable to sit, he stood up and began pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of Gamling.

“What is it, sire? What vexes you so?” inquired the man, and he was even more puzzled by the stricken look his king turned upon him.

“I cannot do this, Gamling,” admitted Éomer, shaking his head in defeat and frustration. “I just did not realize…did not have time to fully think this through before.”

“You cannot do what, my lord?” asked the puzzled lieutenant.

“Be King of Rohan,” answered Éomer honestly. “Here, in this Hall, I see it clearly. These tapestries tell us the stories of our Kings, great men all. They were larger than life, Gamling. How can I even think to stand in this hall of all places and compare myself?”

“Sire,” said Gamling calmly, “you are our King. We follow you proudly. Why do you doubt yourself now?”

“Just look around you, my friend,” said Éomer sweeping his arm towards the tapestries. “It is all here, mocking me. Folca drove the orcs from our lands and died slaying the boar of Everholt. The tapestry of Folcwine is here. He recovered the lands that were taken from us by the Dunlendings.” He pivoted, pointing to another wall. “Léon, the father Éorl, was the greatest horse tamer of all the Rohirrim. There is the tapestry of Brego, the king who built this very hall. And there,” he said, pointing to yet another tapestry, “Helm, the Hammerhand, who wielded the strength of three men and led our people through the terrible winter siege.”

Gamling watched calmly as Éomer moved from tapestry to tapestry reciting the history of each, which, taken as a whole, embodied the legendary history of the Mark. He had felt sure this moment would come at some point for his young king and hoped that he would have the necessary words to calm and reassure the man. “My lord, our kings have been men of renown and great deeds, but some of them have been flawed as well. It falls to each man to make the decisions he deems are best for these lands and our people. You have led our warriors boldly and bravely for many months now, proving yourself over and over again. Let the makers of the tapestries worry about who is worthy and who is not.”

Éomer’s shoulders slumped in momentary dejection. “It is not the facing of battle that I fear, my friend; it is the facing of peace. I have spent my life defending the Mark, fighting every enemy the dark one could throw at us. What do I know of peace? What if my lack of knowledge leads to disaster for our people?”

“Théoden King once stood dispirited and doubtful before me.”

Éomer spun to stare at his friend. “Uncle Théoden?” he asked in disbelief.

Gamling could not help but smile at Éomer; he seemed of a sudden like the young man that Gamling had watched grow to manhood, and he had an unexpected memory of the earnest young man who had stowed away in his éored as just a lad. Gamling still remembered the ire of Marshal Erkenbrand when he had discovered Éomer tucked into his éored some hours out from Edoras.

“On more than one occasion,” he assured the astonished king. “I will tell you now what I told him then. “Your people will follow you to whatever end.”

Éomer turned to stare once more at the bier. “There are so many questions I wish I could ask him. I never expected to be king; that was Théodred’s future.”

“Éomer,” soothed Gamling, walking over to take the man by the shoulders and forcing the king to look him in the face, “You will make the decisions as they come, one at a time. You will never be alone. Look around you, my lord. Look at the same tapestries that seemed to mock you earlier. They are your forefathers, and their spirits will be with you, as will Théoden’s. He may walk the hallowed halls with your esteemed ancestors, but he will not leave you in need. This I believe. Do not allow doubt to cloud your mind now.”

As Gamling finished speaking a warm pink light filtered through the high openings of the Hall, bathing the floor with the first enchanted rays of morn. It was as though the kings of old were infusing the room with their spirits and enveloping the young king with their reassurance.

“It is almost time, sire, and you have yet to sit on your throne.” He held up his hand to ward off the inevitable denial from Éomer. “No, my lord, do not doubt it again. It is now your throne, as we are your people.”

“And the last thing my people need to see is a hesitant king,” finished Éomer. “Thank you, my friend.” Éomer took a deep breath and ascended the dais. He had stood here after the battle of Helm’s Deep; stood in the place that was rightfully Théodred’s as he supported his uncle while the toast for the honored dead was intoned. He had been in this hall the day the beacons of Minis Tirith had been lit and Gondor had called for aid. He’d held his breath awaiting the King’s decision, all the while knowing in his heart of hearts that Théoden would never betray the oath of Eorl. His heart had swelled with pride as the King called them to “muster the Rohirrim,” and he’d sought his sister’s eyes in reassurance, relieved that she, at least, would be spared the bitterness of battle.

He shook himself from his reverie and looked down at the throne where his uncle had led their people for Éomer’s entire life. Taking a deep breath the turned and sat down on the Throne of Rohan.

A door off to the side opened and a quiet gasp signaled the arrival of Éowyn and Faramir. Éomer turned towards Éowyn and held out his hand.

Éowyn was chagrined to have gasped audibly though she had been taken aback to actually see Éomer on the throne. She shouldn’t have been, she silently castigated herself, for she was well aware of the requirements of the day. She moved forward to take Éomer’s hand and kneeled before him, placing her head on his knee.

“Éowyn,” beseeched Éomer trying to raise his sister to her feet.

“Please, Éomer, I want to be the first to swear fealty to my king. I am so proud of you, brother.”

Éomer glanced hesitantly at Faramir, knowing full well that once she became his wife her fealty would be to Aragorn. He was unsure how the Steward of Gondor would react to this action, and yet he was moved with love for his darling little sister and this act of devotion.

Faramir nodded his head in approval of his lady’s action. “It is fitting that my future wife pledge herself to the King of Rohan, for her heart shall always be with him.”

“Thank you, Lord Faramir,” offered Éomer. “Please, I would like you to sit beside me as we greet the people.”

Gamling smiled and nodded his approval to the king.

Éowyn beamed with pride that her brother would so honor her future husband by offering him the chief advisor’s seat, though it would certainly be an expected accord for such a high ranking representative of the court of Gondor. She graced them both with a smile and moved to stand between the two most important men in her life.

“Gamling,” directed Éomer, “notify the ward to open the doors.”

TBC

To The King

Chapter Nine

The Honored Dead

“What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.” Albert Pike

Gamling motioned for the doorward to open the great, carved doors to the Meduseld and allow the people to begin entering to take their part in this ancient ritual of the Riddermark, the passing of one king and the coming of another. It was the virtual continuation of their people. In a land and a people which faced such daily hardship in even the struggle to survive in what many would think a hostile environment, it was a sign of faith that their way of life would continue. The Horse Lords lived the same way they fought, with reckless abandon, never taking anything for granted. Life here was difficult, but it was a good life for this hardy people. Rohan was a land where possessions meant little and honor meant all.

The first ones to enter and pass by the bier were members of the King’s Honor Guard. After standing at attention at the bier they filed by singularly before Éomer, kneeling to give him their oath. One by one they intoned the ancient vow of the Rohirrim. “By the grace that Bema grants me, by the mighty steed that bears me, by the strength of my arm, by the honor of my soul, and by the blood of my body, I pledge my oath to Éomer King, in peace and war, to be his protection, to be his guard, and to stand by his side until death calls.”

Next came the serving women, most of them wives, sisters, or mothers of the King’s own guard. First of these was Hildegard, all of about four foot three inches tall and with the demeanor of a banty rooster. Tanned and still firm for a woman of her years, she kept her long gray hair bound tightly behind her head. Hildegard had served in the kitchens of the Meduseld for many years. She was the undisputed head of the household, and very zealous for its running. For all the long months when Théoden had been under the spell of Grima, it was Hildegard that had been the only one who could talk back to the worm, and talk back she did – quite often. Hildegard was something of an institution around Edoras. Crusty and opinionated, she was the undisputed queen of the kitchen, and she had dearly loved Éomer and Éowyn since the two orphans had been brought to their new home by Théoden.

Following a respectful pause and more than a few tears of goodbye to Théoden, who was the only king most of them had ever known, the women too knelt before Éomer to swear fealty, though with bowed heads instead of spoken oaths as the guards had done.

Once all the household had filed through, the citizens began their journey, led by the Marshals Erkenbrand of the Westfold and Ceorl, the new Marshal of the Eastemnet. These two men bowed before the bier and stood for many minutes in silent contemplation, each making their goodbye in their own way. Then they moved as a pair to kneel before Éomer, Erkenbrand with a twinkle in his eye. “Éomer King, today is that day that I told you would come, and I am proud to serve you as I will be proud to ride beside you.”

Éomer smiled as he remembered the day the Marshal had literally dragged him through the Meduseld in a rage because the boy had stowed away in his éored, causing them to lose almost an entire day by the time he had turned the troop around and brought him back. The two men shared a moment of reflection as they both remembered how Théoden had dealt with the boy.

Eomer rose and exchanged a warrior’s grip with his Marshals. “I would like to meet with both of you tomorrow. There is much to decide.”

The men nodded their assent. “We will be here, my lord,” responded Erkenbrand for them both.

Éowyn excused herself to go to the kitchens to check on how the arrangements were coming for the meal being prepared for the people camping outside the city gates. Hildegard was in full swing with seemingly every pot in the kitchen bubbling away on the vast wood stove. One full wall of the immense kitchen was a countertop that was covered with extra loaves of bread the cooks had turned out to accompany the soup for this night’s meal. Mounds of fresh vegetables had been gathered in preparation for peeling and chopping to go into the venison stew that would be served.

Hildegard spotted Éowyn as she entered the steamy room. “Now, my lamb, don’t you go bothering yourself with the doings in here. You’ve got quite enough on your mind as it is, and I have things well under control in here.”

Éowyn gave her a quick hug. “You have always had this room under control, Hildegard, as long as I’ve ever known you! And you usually managed to have some seed cakes around that I so love.”

Hildegard laughed in delight. “And I have them for you now, not that you’ve taken much notice of food since you got home. You’re too thin by half, my lamb, and don’t think I haven’t noticed you picking at your food and falling into bed exhausted. You’d best be eating more or you're going to be too skinny for that fine young man of yours. It takes meat on your bones to attract a lusty man like that to make babies with.”

“Hildegard!”

“Now don’t you go ‘Hildegarding’ me! I know you’re not married yet, but you will be soon enough and I won’t have Gondor thinking that Rohan can’t feed its own Princess.”

“Oh Hildegard, I do so love you!” smiled Éowyn, giving the woman a big hug. “Is there any chance you would come to Gondor with me?”

“And trust my kitchens to these ninnys?” she shrieked in mock horror. “Who would take care of that great oaf of a brother of yours? Who would make that apple cobbler he used to beg me for? No, I’d best stay right here. My old bones wouldn’t know how to act in a city kitchen. Besides, I’d be awake all the time if I could not hear the winds barreling down from the White Mountains singing me to sleep at night.”

“All right, all right,” laughed Éowyn. “You stay here and take care of Éomer. I’m sure he’ll need you more than I will, and it will give my heart rest to know that he has you.”

“Now don’t you go worrying yourself about the king. I’ll see that he’s taken care of, and those little lambs you’ve brought to live here too.”

“Oh,” gasped Éowyn, “I’d completely forgotten about the children! I should be getting them up and ready for break of fast.”

“You just go back to the hall with that handsome man of yours and support your brother. He likely needs you today. Berga has gone to see to the children. We’ll take care of them for you. Besides, as many children as we all have, what are a few more running in the halls, eh?”

Feminine giggles verified Hildegard’s sentiments. Éowyn was teary-eyed, smiling her thanks to all these wonderful women who had been a part of her life for as long as she remembered. They were like treasured family. She would miss them all so much when she moved to Gondor.

“Go, go,” shoed Hildegard, “get yourself back to the great hall and let us get back to work in here.”

“I’m going,” laughed Éowyn. “You will send for me if you need me, won’t you?”

Hildegard just snorted and turned back to her work, winking at Éowyn as she did so.

O-o-O-o-O

Anor, rising in the east, was peeking through the window around the pelt that covered the opening, and crawling into the eyes of the sleeping boy. Hálith awoke with a start, for a moment not remembering where he was before his brain assured him he truly was awake and not in a dream. The morning light revealed a chamber much larger and grander than any in which he’d ever slept. It was, in fact, almost as large has half of the cottage in which he’d lived with his mother and father.

Whilst his mother was alive and working in the service of the king’s household, he’d spent many happy hours playing in the back halls of the Meduseld. After her death, when he was just nine winters, he had not come as often. His father, the doorward for the king, did not feel that he could fulfill his duties and properly supervise his son. Háma would have been ashamed had his son disturbed the king, so Hálith had found himself alone more and more often.

He snuggled back down under the covers, content to awaken slowly, enjoying the luxury of being able to awaken in a room of his own – especially this room - after spending the past few months in the barracks with the unmarried warriors. He could still barely believe that he was here in this place, at the behest of his king, the man he had idolized since he was just a boy.

He doubted that Éomer even remembered the incident, but it would never leave his memory. He had been only 4 or 5 winters old and playing in a hallway across the Meduseld from the buttery when two older boys had pushed him down and then called him names when he cried. Even at that tender age he had known it would be the worst thing he could do to run to either of his parents, but his skinned knee hurt and he wanted the boys to go away.

Suddenly the king’s nephew had been there. He stood quietly behind the boys long enough to hear their taunts and then had sprung into action, grabbing them both by the ears and positioning them against the wall. Kneeling down to pick up Hálith, he smiled at the tearful boy, standing him by his knee. Turning back to the older pair, Éomer had crossed his – to the young boys – massive arms across his chest and patiently explained that a true warrior would always protect the women folk, the weak, and the smaller ones among them, that it was dishonorable of them to have hurt a little one. Both of the older boys were swallowing hard and blinking back tears by the time the young Horse Lord finished speaking to them, and they immediately apologized to Hálith and promised Lord Éomer that they would not forget what he had told them. Éomer had then invited all three of them to the kitchen to eat some of Hildegard’s seed cake with him, and the boys had been fast friends ever since. At least, Hálith was saddened to remember, until both of his friends had died in the defense of Helm’s Deep.

Thinking of the seedcake elicited a growl from Hálith’s stomach bringing him back to the present, and the boy decided that he would make his way to the barracks to see if there might be some oat cakes left from the soldier’s morning repast. He was not completely sure what his position in the king’s service was to be, only that Gamling had told him to sleep in this chamber instead of the barracks until the king had decided his future.

The boy groaned as he crawled from the warm bed and the chilly morning air hit his bare flesh. At least there were warm pelts on the floor to protect his feet from the icy stone of the floor. He poured water from a pitcher on the wash stand and plunged in his hands, shivering when the cold water hit his face. That chore done, he hastened to dress before he became any colder.

The sound of children chattering in the hallway outside his door piqued Hálith’s curiosity and he cracked open the door to investigate. He saw one of the serving wenches – Berga, he remembered her name being – herding several small children down the hall. She spied the boy and motioned for him to join them.

“Come along, young master, you’ll be needing something to fill that stomach of yours, I’ll wager. We’ve enough porridge to feed an army, and if I’m not mistaken there’s fresh churned butter and honeycomb to go in it as well.”

Hálith’s eyes lit up at the prospect! Hot porridge with honeycomb and butter sounded much better than the oat cakes he was used to in the barracks. He bent down to pick up the smallest child, a little girl with blonde hair the color of corn silk, who was lagging behind, and fell into step with the others. “Hello, my little friend. What is your name?”

The moppet smiled brightly at Hálith. “My name is Thela. Am I really your friend? I saw the king! What’s your name? Are you a Horse Lord? My Da was a Horse Lord. He died fighting the bad ones. Did you fight the bad ones?”

“Whoa, slow down there, Thela,” laughed Hálith. “It’s much too early in the morning for talk of battles. You’ve fair got my head spinning with so many questions.”

“She’s a talker, that one,” chuckled Brega, as she led them all to the kitchens. The children were greeted by a flurry of activity as servants were busily lugging the larger pots of porridge to the wains that would carry them down to the people camped outside the walls.

O-o-O-o-O

Éowyn quietly rejoined Éomer and Faramir. She lightly rested her hand on Faramir’s shoulder and smiled down at her husband-to-be as he glanced up and graced her with a look of such love that it fairly stole her breath away.

“Éowyn,” he said softly, as the people continued swearing fealty to Éomer, “you come sit here for a while. I am in need of a walk before I become stiff from lack of movement.”

The Steward took Éowyn’s hand and kissed it lightly. Once his lady was seated, Faramir gave a bow to Éomer before leaving the Hall through the side doorway. He truly had no idea how much this simple act of respect for their king would win him the hearts of the people of Rohan. It was considered a great tribute that a Lord of Gondor would so honor their King.

The people were proud that their beautiful Éowyn had won the heart of the Steward of Gondor and pleased to see that he respected her people and the traditions of Rohan. What Faramir considered a simple act of courtesy for his brother-to-be would be held up and discussed about campfires throughout the countryside as proof that he was a worthy man and fit to marry their Shield Maiden. To have won the respect and affection of the people of Rohan was no small matter, for this people did not generally trust strangers.

Nomadic and pastoral by nature, the people of Rohan were generous and loving, but somewhat distrustful of new ways or people. Years of strife and war had made them somewhat insular, tending to trust only their own kind and fear the unknown. Those who had contact with Gondor, the warriors and traders who provided horses for goods, were often met with disdain and contempt by the more cosmopolitan of Gondor, especially those of Minis Tirith, a fact which did not fail to make its way back to the people of Rohan.

Faramir had made his way outside through the armory, when the clamor of activity coming from the kitchens drew his attention. He had to dodge two men emerging through the doorway with a tremendous smoking pot of porridge suspended from a pole carried across their shoulders. Peeking into the door from which they’d come he was delighted to see the children all sitting at one of the tables.

“Farmeer!” squealed Thela in delight when she spied the Steward. “Come see me.”

“Hello, Thela,” laughed Faramir. “Hello children,” he nodded to the rest. “What are you eating this fine morning?”

“We’re eating porridge with honey and butter,” announced Bergoff. At eight years old, he was the oldest of the children Éowyn had brought to the Meduseld and the natural leader of the small group.

“That sounds very good, Bergoff. I’m quite fond of honey myself.” Faramir moved around the table speaking to the children, enjoying the break from the formalities taking place in the great hall. “Hello, Hálith, isn’t it?” he asked, bowing slightly to the boy who had Thela sitting on his lap. “I am Faramir. I was on the journey from Gondor with you.”

Hálith quickly sat Thela down onto the bench beside him stood up and to give a proper bow to the Steward. “Yes, my lord. My name is Hálith.” The youngster was momentarily unsure of what to do. Meeting the Steward of Gondor was not something with which he was at ease.

“Please, Hálith, sit, finish your meal,” smiled Faramir. “I simply came in to say hello to the children. I hope that we will get to know each other better while I am here.”

“I should be honored, my lord,” answered Hálith, wide-eyed to actually be carrying on a conversation with so great a man

“Faramir, Faramir” called Márta and Meela, seven and eight year old sisters with ginger colored hair and bright green eyes. They were precious little girls whose mother had died in childbirth, never knowing that her husband had been killed on the same day in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. The infant son had died with his mother. Faramir’s heart had melted the moment he saw them.

Faramir walked around the table and knelt down between the pair, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. “And how are my darlings this morning?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

“Márta says the magic is gone,” pouted Meela, holding up her chin to point to where the yellow flower “magic” had been.

Faramir caressed her cheek and smiled his most winning smile at the little girl. “When you go outside today, look for one of the flowers and we shall check tonight to see if the magic has returned. Is that acceptable?”

“Oh yes,” breathed the excited child. “I shall find flowers for Márta and Thela too.”

“Faramir,” interrupted four year old Gandafin, “will you tell us another story tonight? Will you tell us about the Rangers of Ith, Ith, Ith…”

“Ithilien?” supplied the Steward.

“Yes, that’s it,” smiled the boy. “I want to be one of your Rangers when I grow up.”

“Then you had best eat all of that porridge, for you will need strong arms with which to pull your bow,” instructed Faramir, noticing that the too thin boy was not eating very much.

From across the kitchen Hildegard watched the Steward chatting and laughing with the children. Relaxed and completely at ease with the little ones, he seemed much too young and vulnerable to be in such a position of power. Yes, he would make her Éowyn a fine husband, and would be a good father, but he was a bit too thin himself. Picking up one of the wooden bowls, Hildegard filled it with some of the fresh porridge. She scooped on a generous amount of butter and honey before marching across the room to plop the bowl down in front of Faramir.

“You best sit and eat with them, my lord, or they’ll never get finished. Besides, you’re a mite on the thin side. You’ll be needing stamina to make babies with my Éowyn.”

Faramir’s eyes grew wide and he flushed scarlet, but Hildegard just chuckled and went back to her work smiling. Yes, he would do; he would do.

TBC

A/N: We’ll get back to Éomer in the next chapter!

To The King

Chapter Ten

The Needs of the Many

“t is not enough to be good. You must be good for something. You must contribute good to the world. The world must be a better place for your presence. And the good that is in you must be spread to others. In this world so filled with problems, so constantly threatened by dark and evil challenges, you can and must rise above mediocrity, above indifference. You can become involved and speak with a strong voice for that which is right.” Gordon B. Hinckley

“Farmeer?” asked Thela, looking adoringly at the fair haired man sitting beside her. “Why is your face red?”

Faramir started and looked down at the little girl, flustered and still embarrassed by Hildegard’s comment. Clearly the plain spoken and earthy humor of his intended’s people was something to which the genteel Gondorian would need to become accustomed. “Am I?” he finally managed to stammer, somewhat chagrined to be stuttering like a schoolboy caught out of turn. He hoped the clattering of pans and the chatter of the ladies would cover the conversation.

“Um humm,” nodded the girl, her blonde curls bobbing up and down with the enthusiasm of her reply. “Are you going to make a baby with Éowyn?”

Faramir actually choked on the mouthful of porridge he had just taken. Oh, and it was so good with the melting butter and sweet, rich honey!

“Thela!” chastised Hálith gently, as he pounded the Steward of Gondor on the back, “you must not ask that question of Lord Faramir.” ‘Could this day get any more unbelievable?’ wondered the boy. ‘First he was sleeping in the king’s old room and now he was eating break of fast with the Steward of Gondor!’

“Why not?” demanded the three year old, frowning back and forth between Hálith and her Farmeer, her gaze finally settling on the latter. “Don’t you want one?”

“Well yes,” stammered Faramir, clearing his throat of the last vestiges of the choked upon porridge and wiping the tears from his eyes, “of course I do.” ‘Yes,’ he noticed, ‘there was a definite drop in the level of noise coming from the kitchen behind him.’

“Then you are going to make a baby with Éowyn!” cheered the exited little girl. “Can I watch?”

Feminine giggles from the kitchen staff thankfully covered the strangled gasp from Faramir. ‘Oh, but they were enjoying this too much,’ he realized. He would have to find a way to turn the tables on this lot, he decided, thankful, at least to have provided a bit of levity to their long day. Faramir knew these faithful women had been working in the kitchens since many hours before dawn and if he could help to lighten their load, then he was gratified his embarrassment could have some positive result.

“Farmeer,” insisted the undistracted child, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“Which question was that, Thela,” answered the Steward smoothly, as he wiped his mouth with a soft cloth provided for that purpose. Truthfully, he was still attempting to regain his breath after nearly choking to death on this delicious porridge.

“Why-is-your-face-red?” responded Thela very slowly, as though he was having trouble understanding her language.

“Oh, that question,” answered Faramir with a twinkle in his eye. “My face is red because of this bowl of porridge that was placed in front of me. I don’t believe I’ve ever had anything quite like it.” Faramir winked at Hálith as all sound ceased behind him and he knew he had the complete attention of the ladies of the kitchen.

“Don’t they have porridge in Gondor?” asked Thela.

Even the children at the table had stopped eating and were staring at him. Aware of the sudden tension in the room, Márta and Meela looked close to tears, Thela was confused, and the boys were just wide eyed, especially since they could see Hildegard and other women ladies frowning at Faramir’s back.

“Why yes, Thela, we do,” replied the Steward smoothly. “It’s just not, not…”

“Not what?” demanded Hildegard.

Faramir spun around on the bench to face the wrathful Hildegard and antagonized women, anxious to savor the moment completely. “Why, it’s not nearly as delicious as this!” smiled the Steward as he watched Hildegard’s wrath deflate like one of Gandalf’s malfunctioning fire works.

At his wide-eyed, innocent look the fiery cook shook her wooden spoon at him sending bits of porridge flying in every direction, and finally burst into loud guffaws. “That was good, you rascal, that was good.”

The nervous tension in the room evaporated as the group joined the laughter. Thela beamed, sure that her question had caused everyone to be so happy.

“What is this?’ ask Éowyn entering the room to see everyone laughing happily.

“Éowyn!” exclaimed Thela, “Faramir is going to make..umph..” Thankfully Hálith clapped his hand over her mouth before she could complete the sentence, setting off another round of hilarity in the room.

“Come, love,” Faramir exclaimed as he slid smoothly to his feet and took her elbow. “Goodbye children,” the Steward nodded to the little ones at the table. “Ladies, Hildegard,” he bowed to the women, setting off a round of soft sighs and thudding hearts.

“What was that all about?” laughed Éowyn as he escorted her down the hallway.

“Oh, just my attempt to lighten their hearts,” quipped Faramir. He sobered and stopped Éowyn, looking into her tired eyes. “How fare you?”

Éowyn smiled at his concern. “I am well, Faramir. I knew this day would be difficult, but with you and Éomer at my side, it is bearable. I was concerned when you were gone for so long.”

Faramir kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Éowyn; I did not mean to stay away. I saw the children and went in to say hello to them, and Hildegard gave me porridge with butter and honey. I did not realize how hungry I was until I smelled it.”

Éowyn laughed, “I should have warned you that no one goes into Hildegard’s kitchen without being fed.”

Faramir glanced quickly in both directions to assure their privacy and took Éowyn’s face in his hands, kissing her tempting lips. “Hildegard was right, you know. We’re going to make lots of babies.”

It was Éowyn’s turn to blush.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer had been receiving the vows of fealty from his people for hours and finally the lines were beginning to thin as dusk added a gathering gloom to the vaulted room. A fire had been lit in the fire pit sending shadows dancing across the ornately patterned floor. The king nodded as Gamling stepped up to announce that Erkenbrand and Ceorl were awaiting his pleasure in the ante room off the King’s apartment. “Thank you, Gamling; I will attend them as soon as I have received the last of the people here. Please see that they are made comfortable.”

“Yes, sire”

As Gamling walked away, a commotion beside the bier caught Éomer’s attention. An ancient woman, dressed all in black, had fallen to her knees and was rocking back and forth, keening loudly. Concerned, Éomer went to the woman’s side and dropped to a knee. “Come, Mother, let me help you,” he offered kindly, taking her hand and slipping his arm around her for support.

The old woman turned watery eyes to the king and place her weathered palm against his cheek. “He was a good king, and a good friend to my husband and me. It near broke his heart when he realized what he’d done to you, Éomer.”

The pieces fell into place for Éomer and he recognized the woman he’d known most of his life. He was staggered at the changes that had taken place in the woman in the months since he’d last seen her. She was unkempt and shockingly thin with almost translucent skin. The veins of the hand he held were clearly outlined underneath papery skin. “Come, Elena, let me help you to sit down and rest. You need eat something and recover your strength.”

The woman attempted to rise, but even with Éomer supporting her, she collapsed. One of the guards stepped forward to assist the king, but Éomer waved him off, preferring to carry her himself. He swept the fragile woman into his arms and started towards the guest rooms.

Gamling, who had heard the disturbance and started back towards Éomer, met him half way to the side entrance. “My lord, is she ill?”

“I fear so, Gamling. Is your wife in the Meduseld today?”

“Yes, sire, Berga is helping Hildegard in the kitchens.”

“Please ask her to come to the guest room nearest my apartment and to bring some tea or broth. Also, send someone for her husband.”

“Sire, he was killed at Helm’s Deep.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” Éomer looked down at the stricken woman, remembering that she was childless and therefore now alone in the world. “Thank you Gamling.” Éomer hurried to the guest room and was met in the hallway by Faramir and Éowyn.

“Elena!” exclaimed Éowyn. “Éomer, what happened?”

“I thought at first she was just overcome by grief, but I fear she may be ill.”

Éowyn hurried ahead of Éomer to open the door of the darkened room. The walls were bare stone, but warm fur pelts covered the window and the floor near to the large bed. A wooden table stood at bedside, and there were pegs on the wall to hold cloaks or clothing. Two chairs sat against the wall near the foot of the bed. Éowyn turned down the bed covers so that he could lay the woman down. She pulled off Elena’s slippers and tucked the soft blankets up to her chin, for the woman had begun to shiver. “Oh, you sweet thing,” Éowyn crooned as she sat on the bed holding Elena’s hand and patting it.

Éomer used the tinder box to light the oil lamp and on the table and the soft glow chased the shadows to the corners of the room. He leaned over the stricken woman to smooth back the hair from her forehead letting his hand pause to caress her feverish skin.

“She looks like she’s starving,” observed the ever analytical Faramir.

Éomer jerked up as though he’d been struck and turned stricken eyes to the Steward, shaking his head sadly. “Old people, orphans, babies…how do I feed my people this winter?”

Faramir had not really even meant to speak the words aloud and was now grieved to see that he had so upset the king. He had truly not meant the observation as an indictment. He reached out to grasp the man’s shoulder. “Éomer, Rohan mustered to Gondor’s aid, and as Steward I swear to you that Gondor will not turn from you in your hour of need.”

“Faramir,” sighed the king tiredly, “Rohan does not beg. With the devastation of the war, I know that Gondor’s food coffers will be spare this winter as well.”

“Be that as it may,” Faramir insisted. “What we have to offer, we will offer. None shall starve. And I will hear no more of begging. The hand of a friend holds no shame.”

Berga bustled into the room followed closely by a concerned Gamling. “Here we go, my lord, some fresh broth and tea for the Mother.” The kindly and efficient Berga set the tray down onto the table beside the bed and quickly assessed the situation. “Out with you men, now, Éowyn and I will see to her.”

The men began to back reluctantly towards the door. “Gamling,” Berga, called. “Ask one of the caretakers to fetch some hot water for us. The poor dear is needing a bath and something fresh to wear for sleep.”

“I’ll bring her one of my sleeping gowns,” offered Éowyn, rising to follow the retreating men out the door. “It’s all right now; leave things to those of us who are accustomed to nursing. She will be well.”

When the three still stood there looking somewhat uncomfortable, Éowyn shooed them off with little motions of her hands. “It’s all right; I promise you. Berga and I will take care of her.”

Faramir smiled at the take charge spirit of Éowyn. Gamling would do anything for the Shield Maiden of Rohan, and Éomer stared deep into her eyes before giving a single nod of his head. “Let me know if you need anything, Éowyn. Anything,” he stressed.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she agreed. “Now off with you and let me get the sleep gown.”

“Sire, the Marshals await you,” reminded Gamling.

Faramir tactfully excused himself to go check on the children, allowing Éomer to attend the meeting without seeming to neglect his guest.

“All right,” sighed Éomer, “let’s get this over with.”

As Éomer entered the room the Marshals came to their feet and bowed. Both were curious as to why Éomer had requested this meeting now rather than after the formalities of the funeral when all the Marshals would be gathering to deliver their reports on the state of the Mark.

Éomer started without preamble. “I will come straight to the point. Marshal Erkenbrand, immediately following the king’s funeral, I want you, accompanied by Gamling, to ride to Snowbourne to accompany Garoth back here. Take a number of your éored with you, but leave enough so that the Westfold will be protected. Marshal Ceorl, you will need to oversee both the Westfold and the Eastemnet while Marshal Erkenbrand is away.”

Both Marshals were momentarily dumbfounded. Gamling had heard the king’s feelings regarding the situation on the journey back from Gondor, so he was not surprised. He had thought at the time that the flames of Éomer’s ire might be banked by the time they reached Edoras, but that was obviously not the case.

“My lord,” began Erkenbrand cautiously, “what reason should we give Garoth for this, er, request?”

If anything Éomer’s frown grew fiercer. “Reason? He is coming here to give me a reason why the riders of Snowbourne forsook their king at Dunharrow. I will know why he refused his king’s call and withheld his éored.”

“May I ask, sire,” questioned Ceorl, “what your intentions are towards Garoth?”

Éomer spun to look at the Marshal and fixed him with a glare that caused the man to flinch. “My intentions, Marshal, should I not like his answer, are to sever his head myself. Hear me and hear me well. I will not abide disobedience from the éoreds. We are facing the threat of starvation, the Dunlendings are still on our borders, and the men of the south still exist. Additionally there were hundreds of orcs that escaped the destruction of Mordor and may yet threaten our people or our herds. I cannot, and I will not tolerate a Marshal of the Mark withholding he éored when the call goes forth.”

Marshal Erkenbrand cleared this throat. “Well, that certainly explains our mission. It will be as you say, my Lord.” He dipped his head in salute. “We will leave immediately following King Théoden’s funeral tomorrow.”

Ceorl followed suit. “My Lord, I will distribute the éoreds so that both the Eastemnet and the Westfold are protected. No harm will come to our people while I draw breath.”

Éomer grasped his arm in the warrior’s salute. “Thank you, my friend. I am counting on you for the welfare of the Mark. There are still dark days ahead that may call for harsh measures.”

“You have our complete confidence, my King,” vowed the Marshal. “Forgive me for questioning you earlier.”

“No, Marshal, do not apologize. I need to hear your questions and your doubts. I trust you to give me your thoughts and your suggestions. The more facts that I have the better my decisions can be.”

Ceorl bowed, “Sire, I take my leave now to begin preparations.”

As the Marshals left the room Éomer turned to Gamling. “You think me too harsh?”

TBC

A/N: Éomer addressed Elena as “Mother” as a term of respect for the elderly woman.

In most cases, a healer would only be summoned for injuries or severe illness. All other care giving and nursing was done by the women.

To the King

Chapter Eleven

Bergfinn

“Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story.

For thirty-nine years the people of Rohan, noble Horse-lords of the plains, had not seen the likes of such pomp and splendor as was prepared for this day, for it had been that many years since last a proud King of Rohan had been laid to rest. Fresh still was the mound which held the beloved remains of Théodred, son of Théoden, and now a mirror hillock was hollowed and prepared to receive the body of Théoden, son of Thengel. Thus ended the second line of kings and began the third with the reign of Éomer, son of Éomund.

Bergfinn was one who remembered the death and burial of Thengel, son of Fengel. He had been the smithy at Edoras for over forty five years. Born the same year as Théoden, he had apprenticed to his father, taking over the family business in III 2974, when he was just 26 years old. With a young wife, and now his mother and four younger sisters to support, Bergfinn was kept too busy to spend much time mourning his father.

As a child, Bergfinn had played with Théoden, and the two had become fast friends. As young men, however, they were separated by station and responsibility…Bergfinn to the smithy, and Théoden - as heir to the throne - to an éored. Eight short years after the death of Bergfinn’s own father, Thengel had been felled in battle, cut down by Orcs intent upon stealing a merth stallion kept for breeding horses for the line of Kings, and Théoden had become the Lord of the Mark.

After returning to Edoras with his young son, for his wife Elfhild had died in childbirth, Théoden had renewed his easy friendship with Bergfinn. Oh, not that Bergfinn would receive invitations to dine at the Meduseld, for that would not have been proper, but Théoden had often found reason to make his way down to the old barn where Bergfinn worked. One errand or the other would draw the king down the hill to sit in companionable silence and watch the man work while Théodred played with Bergfinn’s own son, Féalgar. Théoden was a lonely man, but still too grief and guilt stricken over the loss of his beloved wife to even consider marriage again, even to gain the proverbial “spare” to the throne (Théodred being the heir). Théoden was content knowing that his sister Théodwyn had a son and, should the unthinkable happen, the line of Eorl could continue on the throne through Éomer.

Now seventy and one, and ready to hand over his smithy to his son Féalgar, Bergfinn looked upon this day as his last of “active duty” for Théoden King, for he had lovingly crafted not only the caisson and bier which had born his friend and Lord’s body home, but he had worked long hours with the armorer to create the armor in which his King would be laid to rest. Bergfinn sighed as he stood in the doorway of his barn and watched the sun rise over the mountains, entranced as the scarlet fingers warmed the peaks and painted the valley with the inviting hues of a golden morning. He truly loved this place with the smell of leather and hay, of horses and the fire of the forge. It was hard work, but it was rewarding work. Bergfinn sighed, and with one last glance at the dawn, returned to anvil.

Somehow he was not surprised, this morning of all mornings, to see Éomer come walking through his door as he had done so often as a boy. After being brought to Edoras with Éowyn, Éomer had spent many happy hours here learning all there was to learn. His childhood cut short by the deaths of his parents, Éomer had no interest in playing with the other children. His only interest was in learning all that it would take to be a horse lord so that he could kill orcs.

Bergfinn smiled as he remembered the earnest lad working so diligently on the sword he made for Éowyn’s eighth birth day and how his serious young face had been creased by a frown of concentration as he struggled to make it just right. The man always treasured the times that he could bring a smile to that young face, for it was not an easy thing to do. It grieved him that the boy could not run and play in carefree joy like he and Théoden had been able to do, but such were the times in which they lived. He prayed to Béma that Éomer’s children, and his own grandchildren would live in such times. Picking up his heaviest mallet, he began to hammer at the metal piece on which he’d been working, leaning over the anvil as he labored.

“Well come, my King. I pray this day finds you well.”

“Well met and thank you, Bergfinn, though I had hoped I would just be Éomer here, of all places.” Éomer stepped over to the rack of tools, fingering the familiar array. “Vise, rounding hammers, hot fitting tongs, rasp, hoof knives – left and right sided, nail nippers…everything is laid out just as I remember it,” mused the king. He turned back to face his old mentor, leaning casually against the shelving and crossing his ankles as he watched the older man work. To his eyes, and with the exception of a shock of white hair, Bergfinn still looked as he had for all the years Éomer had known him, even down to the sleeves rolled back revealing massively muscular arms and the worn leather apron that protected the man from the fires of the forge and the sparks and gledes flying from the hammered metal.

Bergfinn laughed at the scrutiny as he worked over the metal piece, carefully eyeballing the shape. Laying down the hammer, he stepped away from the anvil and crossed over to the king. Placing a large, meaty hand on the man’s shoulder, he turned serious and met the eyes of the one who now led his people. Bergfinn always had a way of looking into a man’s eye that seemed to pierce right to the soul. Éomer welcomed the inspection unflinchingly, as only the clear of conscience can do. A slow smile graced the weathered face of the blacksmith and he nodded his head approvingly, to which Éomer raised both eyebrows in question.

“Just making sure you were still the man I thought you to be, that’s all,” explained the smithy. “War can change a man, Éomer. I’ve seen it too many times. Sometimes it makes cowards out of the brave and sometimes it warps the kindest soul into the sort of man that takes pleasure in inflicting pain.” He paused, apparently thinking back on the different men he’d known in his lifetime and then shook off the memory, chasing away the gloomy seedling thoughts before they could take root and ruin what looked to be a beautiful day like weeds choking the life from the tender blooms of a spring garden. “I am glad to see that you are not so scarred as to have lost the gentle heart I have known these long years.”

Éomer snorted, “More than a few enemies of mine would argue the gentleness of my heart.”

“Of that I have no doubt, my young friend, but it is not battle of which I speak. I know of your brave deeds, your valor. Those are strengths you wield for the protection of your family, your warriors and your country.” The old man placed his hand over the king’s heart. “Here,” he said softly patting Éomer’s chest to emphasize the word, “here is where your true strength lies, in the loyalty, the love, and the honor of your being. Do not ever lose that, Éomer, and you will be a great king.”

Éomer was momentarily rendered speechless by the sincerity of Bergfinn’s declaration, causing the old man to chuckle fondly, stepping back to his anvil to further inspect the glowing metal before casting it into a bucket of water. Steam sizzled up as the metal cooled.

“You never were much of a talker, so don’t fret about starting now. I’m still just old Bergfinn.”

“You will never be “just old Bergfinn” to me,” objected Éomer. “I spent many happy hours here in this barn watching you work and learning from you.” He paused looking around the familiar room. “I always felt at peace here.”

“Peace?” teased Bergfinn, smiling when he caught the king’s eye. “You worked as hard as any apprentice I’ve ever had, and frankly you were as talented as any. Many’s the eve I’ve watched you trudge home bone weary. I half expected to find Théoden on my doorstep the next morning berating me for child abuse.”

Éomer savored the memory. He had loved working here until ready to drop, for it was easy to stay his grief while laboring with the blacksmith. Too young to ride with the éoreds, here he could exercise muscles while forcing his mind to concentrate on all the new skills he was being taught. Had he not been born of the royal line, Éomer could easily have spent his life doing this very thing.

As though reading his thoughts, Bergfinn walked over and clasped his king around the shoulder. “Come, let us have some tea and enjoy the sunrise as we used to do. Féalgar and Hammok will be here soon and I would like to share this time with you before they arrive.”

“Hammok?” inquired Éomer. “I am not familiar with him. Is he another apprentice?”

Bergfinn busied himself making the tea while Éomer settled on a nearby bale of hay. One of the luxuries of a forge, besides the added warmth during the bitter winters, was the ease and availability of hot water for tea. “Alas I have trained my last apprentice. Féalgar has taken over most all my responsibilities as blacksmith now. Hammok has become the farrier. He is quite good with the horses and with more and more éoreds in Edoras the past few years we’ve had great need for a full time man to work with them.”

Éomer frowned slightly at the news. “It shall seem strange to me not to have a man of your household giving attention to the shoes of my Firefoot. I’m not so sure he or I shall be comfortable with another tending him.”

Bergfinn laughed out loud, pleased and proud to so have his king’s confidence. “Then rest easy, my friend, for Hammok is my sister son, so the blood of my house runs in his veins. Beyond that, he is exceptionally good at what he does. Almost as good a farrier as you would have made.”

Éomer accepted the steaming metal mug from Bergfinn, wrapping his large hands around the cup to welcome the warmth. Coldness hung in the air, a portent of the coming winter and Éomer frowned as he contemplated what that would mean for his country. There was still much to be done if he were to avoid starvation for his people and the herds they depended upon for so much. Once the spring came they could begin mating the mares for next year and tilling the lands. By summer there would be foals from last year’s yield, ranks to be broken and sold, and crops to harvest. But first came the winter.

Bergfinn shivered as he sat down beside Éomer. “Burrrr, I thought the autumn mildness would last longer this year. The chill seems to have crept upon us unawares.” He sat his mug aside and reached up to brush away a cob’s web just over the king’s head.

Éomer glanced up and unconsciously shivered, causing Bergfinn to guffaw and slap his knee. “You can ride the most powerful stallion in the herd at full gallop using no hands and yet you still shiver at the thought of simple cob.”

The king smiled sheepishly at the old man. “I never could abide those creatures. They’re just creepy.”

“Rest easy, mighty king,” grinned Bergfinn, “your secret is safe with me!”

Éomer frowned as he looked back out at the rapid brightening of the sky. “It is an ill wind that blows this day, for I would far rather feel the sweet caress of the summer’s breeze to this harbinger of winter. Many will begin to journey home after the funeral. Is it not enough that their hearts are laden with grief? Must they endure more hardship?”

“Are you asking me or Béma?”

“Neither, I suppose” grumbled Éomer gloomily as he swirled the tea around the mug, idly watching the leaves as they resettled to the bottom.

“Lay the dust of these worries for now then,” counseled Bergfinn. “Your uncle’s funeral is today and that is enough burden for you to carry without the added weight of all Rohan.”

“You and he were the only two people in the world to which I could always talk,” confessed Éomer. “His loss is grievous.”

“Do you remember when you worked here making the sword for Éowyn’s birth day celebration?

“Yes, of course. I was thinking of it earlier in fact.”

“You worked many long hours on that sword.” Bergfinn paused as he pulled an worn pipe from a pocket affixed to the inside of his leather apron. He walked over to the forge and used a smaller set of tongs to retrieve a cinder with which he lit the weed. The man made several quick puffs as he walked back over to sit down beside his ever impatient pupil. He could not help but smile as he thought back on all the times he’d forced Éomer to sit patiently as he waited for Bergfinn to continue a story. The boy never realized that patience was part of the lesson the lore master wished to impart. Settling himself comfortably he continued. “Now where was I? Oh, yes, the sword… It took many days and many steps to forge that sword. You worked longer and harder on that one piece than I ever remember you working on anything else. Why was that?”

Falling easily into the old pattern, Éomer took his time to consider the question before answering. “The sword was to be a very special present. Not only did it need to be beautiful so that it would please Éowyn, but it needed to be sound and well built to withstand the many hours of practice. It was also required to be small enough to fit her young hand and light enough of weight so that her arm might lift it.”

“Took a bit of figuring on your part too, did it not?” prodded the man.

“Yes,” recalled Éomer, “it did.” The king leaned forward placing his elbows on top of his knees and cradling his chin on his grasped fists, something he often did when deep in thought. “I ruined three before I got the heft and strength just right.”

“I remember. You spent one whole week on the first one. Why didn’t you quit once you had failed?”

Éomer sat up and gave Bergfinn an incredulous look. “It was too important. I could not stop until I had Éowyn’s gift. Besides, I learned much from that first sword. I discovered how thin I could hammer the metal and determined just how hot it could be made before it became too malleable.”

Bergfinn keep puffing his pipe for a moment and then smiled at his pupil. “Éomer, it is no different now. We learn by doing. You will make some mistakes, but so long as you keep learning and keep trying, that is all any of us would ask of you.”

Éomer’s eyes widened as he realized what his old friend had accomplished. “You remind me of Uncle. The two of you always taught me by asking questions.”

Bergfinn laughed and puffed at the same time, causing himself to be thrown into a coughing fit.

Éomer slapped the old man on the back as Bergfinn got his breath back and wiped the tears from his face, and the two of them settled down in quiet contemplation of the morning light. Bergfinn wisely kept to himself that the cob was busily spinning herself a new web just above the king’s head. If need be, he’d make sure Éomer didn’t get into it when he rose. After all, the little cob was just doing what nature ordained her to do.

After a bit, Bergfinn yawned and stretched. “It was my father that taught us both to do that, for that is how he schooled us.”

“You both learned the lesson well; I can avow that,” chuckled Éomer. “I can only hope that I’ll be half as wise as the two of you when my own time comes.”

“You will, my king. You are already far wiser than you know.”

With dawn past and morning in full bloom the city was beginning to come to life. Chickens clucked as morning grains were scattered before them by housewives across the city. Cows were milked and horses were savoring their morning hay. From the top of the hill smoke could be seen pouring from the chimney of the Meduseld kitchens, reminding Éomer of his duties. Soon people would begin pouring into the city to find themselves places to observe the funeral, whether it be along the procession route or on the hillside near the burial mounds of the kings.

“Aye, well, the day is here and I must make ready.” Éomer stood up, deftly avoiding the cob’s new web, which he’d caught sight of earlier, and turned an amused glance down to his teacher. “A warrior is trained to take note of his surroundings.”

Bergfinn just chuckled and nodded his head sagely. “That he is, my king; that he is.”

TBC

To the King

Chapter Twelve

The Funeral

I'm not going to die,
I'm going home
Like a shooting star.--Sojourner Truth

To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.--Thomas Campbell

As Éomer was making his way up the hill from Bergfinn’s barn, Éowyn was attempting to cope with her hair. Throwing down her brush in annoyance, she burst into tears. Immediately a tap on the door sounded, embarrassing her that her frustration had been overheard. Composing her face, she rose from her position on the bed, picked up the broken brush and walked over and opened the door.

Berga had been walking down the hallway after taking some freshly laundered clothes to the children’s rooms when she heard the faint crash inside the adjoining chamber. She smiled as Éowyn opened the door, for she wore a stunning royal blue and silver brocade dressing gown.

Éowyn blushed slightly as she saw the reaction of the woman to her gown. “It is rather grand isn’t it?” admitted the embarrassed woman. “It was a gift from Queen Arwen,” she said by way of explanation, not even sure why she was so defensive all of a sudden.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” admitted Berga. Then she remembered why she had knocked in the first place. “Are you all right, mistress?”

“Yes, but I’m not so sure about my brush.” Éowyn grimaced as she held up the broken handle.

“Here now,” offered Berga, “let me help you. I’ve always admired your hair.” She skillfully maneuvered Éowyn over to the edge of the bed, keeping up a running commentary as she went. “It must be nigh on to impossible to weave your hair up in such a difficult braid around the crown all by yourself. Sit here on the side of the bed and let me help.” Berga sat down behind Éowyn and began cording her fingers through the long tresses. When she had them tangle free, she began braiding them in four sections, which she expertly wound through and around the copper and brass crown worn by the princess for formal occasions.

“How do you do that so quickly and easily” exclaimed Éowyn as she felt herself relaxing to the rhythmic magic of Berga’s fingers working though her hair.

“I had three little sisters,” laughed the woman. “Our mother was kept busy tending the cooking and animals, not to mention my four younger brothers, so I always cared for the little ones. I had great fun playing with their hair and creating new braid styles. I had hoped to one day use those same styles on my own little girl, but Béma has not blessed Gamling and me with a child.” She sighed and fell silent for a few moments as she worked on Éowyn’s hair.

Éowyn closed her eyes as she thought about what Berga had said. She had been so pleased when Faramir had made the comment he did about making lots of babies and never even considered that it might not come to pass. She thought about how devastated she would feel if she could not bear children with Faramir.

Berga could feel the sudden tension in Éowyn’s shoulders and realized the cause. “Now don’t you go fretting about me, mistress. Gamling has made me quite happy and our lives are full. Besides, there are little ones aplenty for all of us running around the Meduseld right now aren’t there?”

Éowyn laughed in spite of herself. “Yes, and there may well be more soon. Éomer is going to have the entire Mark searched for orphans. Until good homes can be found for them all, they’ll be staying here.”

Berga smiled at the thought. It had been hectic these last few days, but having the children in the Meduseld had helped to dispel the grief of the war and its losses and spoke of a brighter future for them all. “It’s a good thing your brother is doing. He’s going to make a fine king. There now, all finished. Can I help you with your dress?”

“Yes, please,” said Éowyn, as she stood up and began unfastening the closures of the dressing gown. “It’s the one hanging on the door just inside the wardrobe.”

Berga opened the door and gasped slightly when she saw the dark green velvet gown hanging there, for she had expected Éowyn to wear the same mourning gown she had chosen for Prince Théodred’s funeral, Béma rest his soul. She had been impressed with Éowyn’s dressing gown, but this one took away her breath with its simple beauty. Adorned with a thin golden cord and tiny white seed pearls, this gown was stunningly elegant and yet, somehow perfect for the funeral of Théoden King, for it was made of the colors of his house.

Éowyn had been watching Berga to gauge the woman’s reaction to her choice, acutely aware that it was not exactly standard issue funeral wear. She had made the decision to wear this color eschewing the traditional black for a very specific reason. She smiled when Berga turned to her with tears in her eyes. “Your uncle would be pleased and proud to see you so honor him, Éowyn.”

Sudden tears stung her own eyes at Berga’s words, and she walked over to stand by the woman, her hand reaching out to smooth the soft material of the dress in Berga’s arms. “He did not expect to return from the Pelennor. Before he led the men from Dunharrow, he told me that he wanted me to have ‘no more despair,’ and to smile again.”

The two women were interrupted by the sound of childish laughter followed by the slam of a door. They both grimaced for a moment and then laughed.

“Well, I’d best be rounding them up,” said Berga. “Would you like me to call another to assist you with your gown?”

“No, Berga, but thank you. I will be fine. I could actually use a few minutes alone to ready myself for the ceremony.”

O-o-O-o-O

“Come,” said Éomer in answer to the knock on his door. Struggling to fasten his vambrace one handed, he looked up to see Gamling enter.

“Let me help you with that, Sire.” He took up the vambrace Éomer was holding and began to fastening it onto the warrior’s arm. “I remember doing this for Théoden King before the battle at Helm’s Deep. We thought that all of Middle Earth had forsaken us. So outnumbered were we that the King had instructed the old men and strong lads armed for the defense.”

Éomer, fascinated by what Gamling was telling him, could easily picture the fear and desperation that must have been felt by those who were not trained warriors. “It was an overwhelming army you faced.”

“Aye, we did not know that the elves were even then marching to aid us. I am shamed to say that we had almost lost hope.”

“Even Uncle?” asked Éomer.

“Aye. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the West, behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?’”

Éomer frowned as he imagined his uncle saying those words…imagined the despair that he must have felt facing such an army with so few men, knowing that the women and children would be slaughtered once the men had fallen.

“It was not long after he spoke that we heard the Elven horns blowing, and when we had lost hope, you, sire, were the horse and the rider. You all came.”

Éomer’s mind conjured the scene that had burnt itself into his memory.

Gandalf had reached him near midnight a day past, and informed him of the dire situation facing those at Helm’s Deep. They had ridden hard for almost 36 hours, stopping only to rest the horses and men at need. Each time they had been forced to stop, Éomer had paced the ground, impatient to be off again, fearing for Éowyn, his uncle, and all the people, until Gandalf had forced him to sleep for just a bit. He could still hardly dare hope to believe that his uncle had been well and truly broken from Gríma’s spell, as Gandalf had said. How long had it been since he had seen his uncle clear-headed and strong of limb?

Éomer had tried everything he knew how to do to reach his uncle, but the spell had been too powerful. It seemed that nothing he could say would reach though the gloom of his manacled mind as he grew weaker each day until he could not even feed himself. Even when he had presented the king with evidence that it was the orcs of the white hand that struck down Théodred, his uncle had been unmoved.

Théodred. Even the thought of his cousin’s name brought a lump to his throat. Éomer had known the moment he saw the ugly wound to Theo’s body that it was mortal. He had hoped to be by his cousin’s side bringing what comfort he could to the man who had been like a brother to him, and to ease Theo’s passing from this world to the next, but that had been taken from him when Gríma’s henchmen had dragged him from the Meduseld. He would not forget their faces and vowed to take his revenge on them. He did not even know yet whether or not, by some miracle, his cousin still lived, or whether he had died a slow agonizing death.

And then there was Éowyn… Éomer clenched his fists as he thought about how that worm had leered at his sister. Now she was barricaded within Helms Deep, waiting for the Uruks to break though and hack the women and children to death. He could not bear to think of his beautiful little sister at the mercy of those evil perversions. Oh, he knew that she would fight to the end, protecting the children, but it would only be a matter of time before the brutes would overcome her efforts. He closed his eyes, fighting to banish the image of Éowyn being struck down and slaughtered.

Gríma had stolen so much from him…had much for which to answer!

As the troop of riders neared the rise, Gandalf shot ahead of the éoreds, for he was upon Shadowfax, and no horse could hope to keep up with the Lord of the Mearas. Nearing the summit, Éomer’s blood ran cold as he heard the horn of Helm Hammerhand echoing across the valley. The sound and tumult of many voices in battle also assaulted his ears.

Gandalf turned back to look at him. “Théoden King stands alone.”

Éomer had ridden up beside Gandalf and looked down upon the valley to see his darkest nightmare come to life. Like thousands of writhing snakes, the ground swarmed with the black armored orcs of Saruman. Like a plague of locust they covered every conceivable surface below and their numbers were like nothing Éomer had ever faced. Worse yet, the deeping wall had been breeched and the horde was pouring into the keep. His eyes then fell upon Snowmane. Unbelievably his uncle was riding out proud and strong, leading only a few riders, his beautiful white horse standing out like a beacon upon the dark sea.

“Not alone,” Éomer had said, almost to himself as much as to Gandalf. “Rohirrim!” he had shouted, so loud that the horde below had paused and looked up. “To the King!”

With that shout two thousand enraged riders had ridden down the impossibly steep incline to battle the enemy which threatened their people.

Were he possessed with the immortality of the elves, Éomer knew that he would never forget that moment: the thrill of seeing his uncle broken from the spell and leading in battle, the terror of seeing the wall breached, and the overpowering anger at the Uruk hai attacking his people. Éomer had fought like a mad man, exorcising all the demons of the past weeks of exile. He had been chased from Edoras like a criminal, banished from Rohan upon pain of death, and yet he would gladly trade his life for the chance to fight by the side of his king…his beloved uncle.

“It is time, sire,” said Gamling, breaking Éomer’s train of thought.

“Gamling, wait. You are my most trusted friend and have been by my side since the Pelennor. Today I would like to officially make you Chief Knight of the Royal Guard. Would you serve me thus, friend?” Éomer offered his arm for a warrior’s grasp.

Gamling, surprised by the offer and momentarily choked up, took his king’s proffered arm. “It would be my greatest honor, my lord. I will protect you and your family all the days of my life and with my life.”

Éomer smiled and squeezed Gamling’s elbow. “Let us both hope that it never comes to that, shall we?”

O-o-O-o-O

The Royal Guard, fifty strong, lined each side of the great hall, from the throne to the front door. Outside, the line of guards continued down each side of the steps. Where the Royal Guard stopped, warriors of the éoreds, led by Marshal’s Erkenbrand of the Westfold and Ceorl of the Eastemnet, had taken up position so that the line of warriors stretched all the way down the hill to the burial mounds of the royals. As on the day the funeral procession first entered Edoras, each warrior held a spear adorned with a green or red standard, bordered in gold and bearing the white horse symbol of the royal house of Eorl. The standards snapped and popped in the ever present winds funneling from the surrounding mountains and buffeting Edoras most days of the year.

Behind the warriors stood the crowds of people both local and from all the surrounding lands of the Mark. By the hundreds they had journeyed here to pay their respects to Théoden and to pledge their loyalty to Éomer King.

Inside the hall, Éowyn entered escorted by Faramir. The steward, wearing the same silver armor and royal blue robes he had worn for the coronation of Aragorn, led Éowyn to the side of the throne. Following them were the children. The boys came first, Bergoff, Felor, Tredin and Gandafin, followed by Márta and Meela. Hálith brought up the rear carrying Thela, for the little girl was frightened by the spectacle and the sadness marring the countenance of the people. For once the little chatterbox was completely quiet, with her head buried in Hálith’s hair.

As Éomer entered the room, the guards snapped to attention. Followed by Gamling, Éomer crossed the hall to stand before the throne.

At a nod of his head those of the Royal Guard appointed as the Royal Bearers hoisted the banner draped casket. Herugrim, the king’s sword, had been removed and stored safely away to await its presentation to another of the line of Eorl. Should Éomer die young, his sword, Guthwine would go to his eldest son, but should he live a long life, his son would be presented Herugrim on the day he became a warrior. It was a warrior’s highest honor to be gifted with a sword from his father’s house, and swords were routinely passed down for generations.

A nomadic people, the Rohirrim were, for the most part, unlearned. They had no tradition of writing, and books or scrolls would have been a hindrance in their way of life. Their history and their rich culture were handed down orally through the generations by the tales of valor passed from parent to child.

Their culture revolved around their magnificent horses, and they placed value on each other and their horses rather than on material wealth. They found it vastly confounding that the people of Minas Tirith could be happy trapped and living within walls of stone. The people of Rohan farmed their land and hunted for their food. Theirs was a simple, happy life. Their clothes were hand crafted from animal hides, wool or sometimes harvested flax.

Besides their mearas herds, ore was the second most coveted need for the people of Rohan. They mined none of their own, but instead traded for it with Gondor. Their smithies then turned it into everything from cooking pots to the beautifully crafted swords that protected them. Thus, swords and armor were handed down from father to son. They would be cleaned and, if necessary, patched and then presented to the son or nephew with great ceremony, for the history of the sword, particularly, was tied to the history of each individual family. Upon receiving the sword, the young warrior, who had undoubtedly been raised listening to his family history, would recite the saga of his newly earned prize. It was the unwritten belief then that he was the bearer of a sacred trust to pass on this story to his children with the passing of his sword. Each young, new warrior rode forth into battle secure in the knowledge that he continued the proud tradition of his ancestors and that his actions would be known to them.

Also removed from the casket was the oval Shield of the Kings. It was the one piece of Théoden’s armor which would not be buried with him, but rather would be passed to the new king to carry. It was larger than most of the shields carried by the éoreds, to provide greater protection for the king. Covered in green leather, the shield was decorated in bronze with the image of the sun. Surrounding the sun were scenes of a boar hunt.

The ceremonial head of the honor guard carried the shield to Éomer, who placed his hand upon it signifying his acceptance of the rule. It was then taken by Gamling, as the new Chief of Knights, to be placed “at ready” with Guthwine should the king be required to ride into battle.

Once Gamling had returned to Éomer’s side, he signaled the honor guard to begin carrying the casket bearing the body of the king - who had ruled from this hall for 39 years - from the Meduseld for the last time. Slowly and with precision the guard half stepped through the assembled warriors and citizens. For many of them, Théoden was the only king they had ever known, and even as they mourned Théoden, they wondered what the rule of Éomer would bring.

Immediately after the honor guard walked Éomer, followed by Faramir and Éowyn, Gamling, the children, and the others of the king’s household. Hildegard, who had secretly loved Théoden for many years, did not attend. She had slipped into the hall during the night to say a private good bye to the king. Even now she was working in the kitchen with a few volunteers so that she would be able to provide a hot, nourishing lunch to the Royal family after the service. Hildegard would show her love and devotion to Théoden the same way she always had, by providing for his family and seeing to their needs.

The meal she was supervising for after the funeral consisted of roasted boar, sweet yams baked in their skins, a variety of vegetables from the garden, loaves of fresh dark bread, ale, milk for the children, and apple cobbler as a special treat for the King. Éomer had loved Hildegard’s apple cobbler since he was a young boy, and she loved being able to fix it for him. She was as tough and crusty an old bird as they come, but she had a soft spot for all of the king’s family. They were, in essence, her family as this was her home, and she was pouring all the love she had into this meal - burying her grief in her work and hoping to provide what comfort she could for the ones she loved.

Outside, Théoden’s coffin was being placed into the burial mound beside Théodred’s as the women of Edoras intoned the traditional burial song.

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære
his dryhtne dyrest and mæga deorost.
(An evil death has set forth the noble warrior
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels
in Meduseld that he is no more,
to his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved.)

Éowyn closed her eyes as she felt her hand enclosed by Faramir’s larger one. She needed his strength as the memory of singing these same words for her sweet Theo echoed in her mind. How cruel that they should have to be sung again so soon.

She jumped slightly as she felt Éomer take her elbow and realized that the stone had already been moved to seal the tomb and it was time for the two of them to lay the flowers and light the incense. The flowers symbolized the rebirth of the departed as one who would now walk with his fathers, and the rising smoke from the incense pot was to aid his spirit on his journey to the hallowed halls of his ancestors.

Éomer led Éowyn to the tomb where they placed fresh picked simbelmynë in specially made ceramic pots and lit the wicks on two identical copper incense urns. Éowyn knelt before the closest urn and moved both her hands through the rising smoke, breathing deeply of the incense. Éomer repeated the movements on the urn nearest him. This was the family assertion that they would carry part of the spirit of Théoden with them for the rest of their lives.

From the Meduseld above them the great iron bell began to ring 39 times, one gong for each year that Théoden King reigned. When the last peal of the bell had echoed across the plain, the funeral was officially over, and Éomer led Éowyn up the hill, followed by the rest of the funeral party.

Traditionally the Royal Family would spend the next four days in seclusion, after which a banquet would be served for all the Marshals of the Mark and a city wide celebration would be held in Edoras featuring games, merchandise booths, and much feasting. All of this was to honor the life of Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel, seventeenth King of Rohan.

TBC

To the King

Chapter Thirteen

A Looming Threat

“Let us behold the light while we may, for darkness ever encroaches.” Anon

“Give love, and love to your life will flow,

A strength in your utmost need;

Have faith, and a score of hearts will show

Their faith in your work and deed.”

From Life’s Mirror, by M. Bridges

Garoth hurled his mug of ale across the shadowy hall and barreled to his feet. Masked in fury, his gruff, scarred features were made even fiercer as he glowered at the man before him. “Barech! You dare to state that any from Snowbourne should have attended the funeral of Théoden?”

The elderly man flinched slightly at the malice in his Marshal’s voice, but bravely held his ground. “My lord, he was our king…”

“Silence!” roared the Marshal, interrupting the man before he could even complete his sentence. “I will hear no more of this.” He gestured to two grim faced men beside him. “Lock him up with the others. I will hear no more of this treason.”

As the ruffians seized the man brutally by the arms, an older woman burst from among the spectators and threw herself onto the stone floor, begging at Garoth’s feet. “My lord, please…my husband meant no disrespect to you. We have learned our lesson. Mercy!”

Garoth considered the weeping woman for a moment before responding. “Halt,” he called to the pair dragging the old man from the hall. “Release him, Gilmóod.”

“But uncle,” argued dark man. Dressed all in black and with dark hair and eyes…that is what the people of Snowbourne called him in private. It fit in more ways than just his appearance, for the darkness he’d brought to their lives since his arrival was rivaled only by the darkness of his soul.

“I said release him!” Garoth’s face was beet colored and a vein throbbed across his forehead. For a moment, the man literally looked as though he could wring his nephew’s neck without a second thought. He staggered somewhat over to a table and sank down on the bench, cradling his aching head in his hands.

Gilmóod frowned but complied, nodding at the bully by his side, who shoved the old man roughly to the floor, kicking at him as he attempted to crawl over to his wife. “You were lucky this time, Barech,” hissed the man. “Next time you will not be so fortunate.”

Barech got shakily to his feet and, wrapping an arm around his wife, helped her to her feet. The elderly couple left the hall as quickly as they could. Only the soft sobs of the woman could be heard as all fell deathly quiet within the room.

“Uncle,” cooed Gilmóod silkily, “let me fix you a potion for your head. It grieves me that you should suffer so.”

“Ah, you are too good to me,” replied Garoth tiredly, as he rubbed his temples. “Why do these people continue to vex me so? Do they think I take this action lightly?”

“Of course not,” crooned Gilmóod. “They are soft, Garoth. Too many years they have followed blindly the lead from Edoras. While the king sat in luxury, they have lived in poverty, yet they held to some outmoded notion of loyalty. They kneel to lick the boot of the one who would keep them enslaved! What did Rohan care for them? Nothing! Théoden grew rich off of the people and became corrupted by the ranger from the North. And now a pretender sits on the throne of Rohan”

“Still, I can hardly believe it,” moaned Garoth, as his head pounded even stronger than before, “Grimbold and Dúnhere both dead. Had you and your men not come here to bear witness of it personally I would never have known of his treachery.”

“It is as I have said, Uncle,” vowed Gilmóod, as he kneaded Garoth’s neck muscles with practiced hands. “Snowbourne shall be its own nation, and soon enough the others will clamor to fall into line with us, forsaking Rohan forever.”

“Umm,” moaned Garoth, “your hands are like magic to my muscles. Grimbold, my old friend, I shall avenge you.” he murmured as his head dropped onto the table.

“I shall always be here to help you, uncle. Now wait here. Have some more ale while I go prepare a potion to ease your head.”

“Thank you, my boy; thank you.”

O-o-O-o-O

Erkenbrand and Gamling set out at dawn on the morning following Théoden’s funeral, not even waiting for the four days of official mourning period to end. The Marshal and the Chief of the King’s Knights were accompanied by six of Erkenbrand’s éored to make the journey to Snowbourne. Though puzzled by the failure of Garoth’s éoreds to appear at Dunharrow, Erkenbrand had no expectation of anything amiss. After all, the call that went out was a hurried one, and though unusual that not one rider from Snowbourne had come, there could be a valid reason. He felt sure that once Éomer King and Garoth were able to speak face to face the matter would be resolved quickly. Still, it was going to be a touchy situation requesting Garoth to accompany them back to Edoras.

“You spoke to Garoth yourself?” questioned Erkenbrand, as the two rode side by side. The troop was allowing the horses to walk at a comfortable pace to start with, so conversation was easy. Man and beast seemed to be waking slowly.

Gamling resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing them on the lengthening shadows cast by Anor kissing the tops of the White Mountains. The morning was cool and dew still clung to the grasses swaying in the morning breeze, making Gamling glad to be wrapped in his heavier green travel cloak. As they rode higher into the mountains its added warmth would definitely be welcome. He sighed audibly, growing a little weary of being asked that question repeatedly. “Yes, I spoke to him myself.”

“Did he say anything?” persisted the Marshal, still trying to grapple with the possible reason for Garoth’s failure to appear.

Gamling fixed Erkenbrand with a look that promised violence in the near future, before he caught himself and shook off the irritation, reminding himself that they were undertaking a difficult mission and that the Marshal was only trying to understand the circumstances. So he sighed again and composed his answer. “I spoke to the Marshal and relayed the king’s summons. As I remember, he did not respond.” Gamling hesitated, forcing his mind back those months to the scene. “But I did not wait for an answer,” he admitted. “My charge was to ride across the Mark to announce the muster. Once I delivered the message, I rode on. It never occurred to me that a Marshal would refuse the call.”

“Why would it,” snorted Erkenbrand. “He should have come,” he concluded finally. “Why did he not come?” he asked no one in particular. The Marshal just shook his head, trying to fathom what piece of information could be eluding him that would solve the puzzle.

Gamling did not answer because he knew one was not required.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir and Éowyn sat on a huge overstuffed chair situated along one wall of in the sitting room of the king’s apartment in the Meduseld. Faramir was leaning back into the corner of the chair, with his bride-to-be reclining against him, her feet tucked up beside her. They were watching the sight before them with pleasure. Surrounded by seven children, Éomer sat in the floor on one of the soft pelts situated in front of the huge fire place. Hálith had joined the group tonight as the king told the children their nightly story. He sat now with his back against the wall, Thela snuggled on his lap. The little girl had all but attached herself to Hálith, preferring his lap to even that of her “Farmeer” when he was in the room. The three-year-old’s eyes drooped as she grew drowsy cuddled by the warmth of the fire.

Éomer sat crossed legged with his back to the fireplace. Márta and Meela were on either side of him, their little elbows resting on the king’s knees as they looked up at him in rapt attention. Bergoff, Felord, Tredin were sprawled in front of him. Gandafin, the youngest boy, who had decided his goal in life was to be an Ithilien Ranger, was leaning back against Faramir’s legs. The flickering wall sconces cast comforting shadows that joined the flames in the fireplace as the only light illuminating the cozy room.

In another stuffed chair sat Elena, who had recovered enough to join the group this evening. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, she sipped some warm tea and smiled at the children arrayed around the king. She had discovered earlier in the day that the little ones loved hearing stories, and she had many that she was looking forward to telling them, but for now she was just enjoying watching Éomer’s face become animated as he regaled the children with his tale.

Sated from their supper, bathed and ready for their beds, the children nodded contentedly as they listened to their king telling them the story. It had become a much anticipated ritual, and the children had grown as familiar with Éomer as they were with Faramir and Éowyn. Tonight the king was telling them of the first time he had gone on a boar hunt with Théoden and Théodred. He had ventured out into the woods on his own and had become separated from the group and attacked by one of the enraged beasts.

Éomer was careful to tone down the actual events so as not to frighten the children, who had all seen enough traumas in their short lives. In truth, he had been gored by the boar, his leg badly mangled. He likely would have been killed had not Théodred found him first and slain the beast before it could finish the job.

Théodred had bound Éomer’s leg to staunch the flow of blood and carried the boy back to the campsite. A messenger was dispatched to notify the other search parties that Éomer had been found while Théodred and Erkenbrand had worked feverishly to repair the damaged leg before Éomer bled to death. Éomer could still remember the pain of having his leg worked on without anything more than a few gulps of ale for deadening. The blood loss was severe and Éomer slipped in and out of consciousness as the more painful procedures were accomplished.

As soon as the messenger had informed him that Éomer had been found injured and brought to camp, Théoden had rushed back. He blanched when he saw the amount of blood despoiling Éomer and the ground around him.

Éomer closed his eyes a moment remembering the look on Théoden’s face as he had returned to camp and seen his nephew’s condition. Up until this point it had been a great day. The air that afternoon was so clear it almost hurt your eyes to look at it, it was so beautiful. Autumn, it was…cool and crisp, and the kind of day you bank away to remember during the long, cold winters. Théoden had smiled at him, but the fear in his eyes was plain enough for Éomer to see.

“Uncle?”

Théoden swallowed his fear and, taking the boy’s outstretched hand, knelt beside Éomer. “I am here, Éomer. What have you managed to do, my boy?” he smiled, squeezing Éomer’s hand in encouragement.

Éomer always took strange comfort in the way his uncle’s eyes seemed to crinkle at the edges when he smiled. It always reminded the boy of his mother, whose eyes did the same thing.

“I let the boar take me by surprise, uncle. He was much faster than I imagined him to be.” Éomer gasped in pain as Théodred and Erkenbrand continued trying to staunch the blood flow. He felt as though his head was beginning to spin.

“Was he now?” soothed Théoden, attempting to distract his nephew from the pain. He stroked the dampened tendrils of blonde hair back from Éomer’s forehead.

“He was actually a she,” said Théodred. “You stumbled onto her litter and set her off.” He kept his voice light, attempting to buoy his cousin’s spirits, but Éomer’s eyes were closed and he seemed to have lost consciousness. Théodred turned troubled eyes to his father and lowered his voice so that Éomer could not hear. “We need to start heating an iron. I cannot stop the bleeding.”

Théoden’s blood ran cold at the thought of what they were going to be required to do. He’d seen grown men scream in agony when cauterization was necessary, but there was no choice. Without it, the boy would bleed to death before they could get him back to Edoras. The hot iron would seal the wound. Théoden nodded his head to Erkenbrand to begin the process while he moved into the Marshal’s spot to take up holding pressure on Éomer’s leg.

Éomer’s eyes opened and blinked rapidly several times as he fought for consciousness. He desperately wanted to be brave before his uncle, Theo and the other men, but he was in horrible pain. He had a flash of a man that he often saw when he would go down to Bergfinn’s smithy. The man, named Felor, had only one leg and hobbled around with the aid of a crutch. He often came to the smithy to sit on the bales of hay and chat with Bergfinn as he worked. The blacksmith told Éomer that the man was once a great rider who, while fighting orcs, had been badly wounded to the point that it was necessary to remove his leg to save his life. Éomer had shuddered, vowing – as the young will - that he would rather die than live a life so restricted. Bergfinn had chuckled and reminded the boy that it was easy to say such things when you were outside the situation and that, Béma willing, he hoped Éomer would never have to make such a decision. A cold sweat of dread broke out on the boy’s forehead as he remembered that conversation.

“Éomer, listen to me,” urged Théoden. “I am going to have to use the iron on your leg.”

Horror filled Éomer’s eyes as he looked from his uncle to the fire where Erkenbrand was heating the iron. “No!” Momentarily panicked, the boy began trying to pull away from Théoden and Théodred.

“No, Éomer,” demanded Théoden in his most commanding tone. “Listen to me. If we do not do this you will never ride again.”

The camp was deathly quiet save for Éomer’s panting as he absorbed that news. “Never ride…”

“It will hurt, Éomer; I will not lie to you, but then it will be past.”

“And I will ride again? Promise me I will ride again!” begged Éomer, tears streaming down his face as he fought down the panic threatening to overtake him.

“You have my word,” Théoden vowed softly, lifting a blood covered hand to grasp the boy’s shoulder and guide him back down onto his back. “Rest now and gather yourself. Teddy and I are right here with you, Éomer; we will not leave your side.

As Erkenbrand walked over to them with the iron, Théoden motioned for Teddy to move behind Éomer’s head. He would make sure that it was he and Teddy holding the boy while Erkenbrand sealed the damaged artery. He waited until the last moment to move his hands away, holding the pressure on the bleeding leg as long as possible.

Théoden fought the urge to gag when the iron met flesh and sizzled sickeningly. Éomer screamed and spasmed in agony, but did not fight back against him. Mercifully, the boy passed out quickly from the shock and pain. Erkenbrand and Théodred quickly spread a salve across the burn and bandaged the leg while Théoden cradled the boy in his arms, rocking slowly back and forth as he whispered encouragement and praise.

As soon as the leg was bandaged, Théoden wrapped him in his own cloak and carried him to the horses. He handed Éomer to Erkenbrand long enough to mount up and then took the boy back into his arms, intent upon carrying his nephew himself. Théoden shot off, closely followed by Théodred, as his guard hustled to mount up and give chase.

Éomer had developed a high fever by the time Théoden got him back to Edoras. For several days he lingered on the brink of the abyss as Théoden remained by his side, beseeching Béma to spare his life. Théodred kept Éowyn occupied by taking her riding and playing dolls with her. Twice he slept on the foot of her bed because the little girl would wake up crying in the night, afraid that she’d lost her brother like she had her parents.

Late one night, Théodred had come into Éomer’s room to relieve Théoden, and asked him a question that he’d been pondering since the day of the accident. “Why did you not tell Éomer that he could die if we did not use the iron on his leg?”

Théoden gently laid a dampened cool cloth across Éomer’s feverish forehead and raised weary eyes to his son. Even in his worried and fatigued state, he could not keep the small smile from lighting his face and crinkling his eyes. “Because, Théodred,” he began slowly, once more dipping the cloth into the cool water and wringing it out before continuing, “Éomer’s fear might have convinced him it would be better to die than to endure the iron. The one thing I knew he could endure anything for was the ability to ride. Riding is his life.” He smiled gently down at the sleeping boy. “I dare say that one day his skill shall rival even yours.”

Éowyn watched the play of emotion on her brother’s face as he glossed over the more painful parts of the story. Even though she had been young, she remembered the nights of terror where she clung crying to Theo, terrified that Éomer was being taken away from her. She also remembered the long often painful months of recuperation that Éomer had been forced to endure…the nights when Théoden would massage oil into the scar on Éomer’s leg while gently stretching the limb to regain mobility...or when Theo would work the leg, strengthening the muscle to its previous state. She smiled as she noticed that even now Éomer was unconsciously rubbing the scarred leg, something he often did without even realizing it. Those long and difficult months had cemented the little family together. Even Éowyn had gotten into the act by making up stories to entertain her brother while he endured the more painful parts of the therapy.

That Éomer had regained his full strength and ability to ride was a testament to the love of a family that refused to give up on him…that fought back the darkness which threatened to overtake him, and never let him give up on his dream to ride again. That was the kind of love he intended to instill in these children. Every child deserved to grow up with a full belly, knowing he or she was loved and protected.

A yawn from Meela drew Éomer’s attention, and he gathered the sleeping child into his arms. “Let us go, little ones. It is time for sleep.”

Faramir and Éowyn rose to accompany Éomer and the rest of the children to Theo’s room where their beds were located. Faramir chuckled and reached down to pick up Gandafin, who had fallen asleep draped across his feet. Thela was asleep in Hálith’s lap so the boy rose awkwardly while still holding the sleeping child. Even Elena was nodding in her chair, only rousing up a bit as the other adults rose to take the children to bed.

“Would you need my help, my lord?” asked the woman hopefully.

“Certainly, Mother,” assured Éomer. “Could you help us tuck these little ones into bed?”

“Oh yes, my lord,” beamed Elena. She’d never had babes of her own and helping with the children made her feel useful again.

After the children were tucked into bed and kissed good-night the adults went back to the sitting room where they would enjoy quiet conversation and, perhaps, a pot or two of tea. Tomorrow would end the formal mourning period and they would be expected to host the banquet for the Marshals.

Foregoing the tea, Éomer sipped a mug of ale and stared into the fire, his mind wandering far from the small talk of the other three. His mind was on the meeting tomorrow with the Marshals, on the reports they would bring regarding the conditions of the herds and on what food stuffs had survived the war. He felt sure as well that there were more orphans like the eight living here with him now. He knew that he could provide for these, but all the children needed parents, someone to love and guide them. Then there were the widows, like Elena, alone and vulnerable, and tonight his memory had reminded him of the disabled, like Felor, who could no longer ride or serve the Mark in the ways they had always done, but who could serve in other ways if given the chance and made to feel their self worth again. Lastly, his mind was with Erkenbrand and Gamling. What would they find in Snowbourne? For what reason would a Marshal of the Mark have forsaken a call from his king? There was a mystery here, and Éomer was determined to get it uncovered. There was a long winter coming which could prove to be as great a threat to his people as the war had been. He needed his mind clear to deal with these problems, yet the mystery remained…like a looming cloud threatening to cover Anor and sink them all into darkness…

TBC

To the King

Chapter Fourteen

The Meeting of the Marshals

“I want people to know my life philosophy, to remember to play after ever storm.” Mattie Stepanik

“How can I celebrate a victory that has cost me so many of my friends?” The Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo

It was afternoon of the fifth day following the funeral for Théoden Ednew, seventeenth King of Rohan. In the capitol city of Edoras, as accorded by custom, a great festival was being held to honor the fallen king and signify the close of formal mourning throughout the Mark.

Walking down the hill from the Meduseld with seven year old Márta upon his shoulders, Faramir looked around before stopping at a stall to get two apples from a young woman, who blushed furiously and batted her eyes at the Lord of Gondor. After thanking the young woman, he handed one up to the child atop his shoulders, before taking a big bite of the fruit, relishing the tartness of the taste. Smiling, he wiped apple juice from his chin with the back of his hand and continued walking. Above his head, he could hear Márta chomping contentedly on her apple and he wondered idly whether or not he’d need to wash apple juice from his hair tonight.

Faramir reflected upon the gaiety going on around him. How very different it was from the more formal atmosphere that would be observed in Gondor. Before coming to Rohan and actually spending so much time here with Éowyn, Éomer, and the people, he would not have understood their ability to grieve hard and then move on about their lives. Life in Rohan was marked by difficulties and often tragedy, yet this remarkable people had learned to make every possible moment of their lives be filled with living and loving, celebrating the times when they could have peace and happiness. Perhaps that is what made them able to not only endure, but triumph over every adversity that fate seemed to throw against them.

It was not that life in Gondor had been without its difficulties, the minions of Sauron had seen that there was enough misery to go around for all the free peoples of Middle Earth, but the people of Gondor, with their more cosmopolitan ways, seemed to wrap layer upon layer of formalities and protocol upon every occasion. He could still remember the long walk down the Rath Dinen, the silent street, following the bier bearing his mother’s body to where it would rest forever in the Hallows. Dressed in identical small uniforms, 5 year old Faramir and 10 year old Boromir had walked solemnly behind their father, their heads held high, unable to shed a tear in public. Boromir had actually broken protocol by holding Faramir’s hand, for even at this young age, Boromir had loved and protected his baby brother.

‘Boro-mir.’ The vision of golden hair, keen green eyes and a ready smile hit the steward like a sucker punch, stealing the breath from him and bringing quick, hot tears to his eyes as he almost staggered to a halt, mindless of the curious glances from those around him. It was always like this. Just when he thought he was beginning to adjust to the loss of his brother, something would happen …some random thought would enter his mind and the reality of his loss would hit him all over again. Boromir, it meant faithful jewel, and he had been that and more to a little boy who lost his mother too early in life and whose father had turned away from him, weighed down by his own grief and the responsibility for governing and protecting Gondor from the growing threat of Mordor. It was the faithful jewel that had become both mother and father to Faramir, loving him, rocking him when the nightmares came at night, and filling his world with as much love as was possible for one sibling to give another. He was the rock upon which Faramir had anchored his life. He was the idol upon which Faramir had gazed, striving always to be worthy of his brother’s respect.

A small, sticky hand reached down to wipe the lone tear from Faramir’s cheek. “Faramir, are you sad? I will give you my apple if it will make you happy again,” offered Márta, and true to her word, the half eaten fruit was waved in front of his face.

“No, Márta, thank you,” breathed Faramir, thankful for the little girl to divert his attention and pull him back to the present. With her ginger hair and sparkling green eyes, he had been drawn to her from the moment he had set eyes upon her, for she could easily have been Boromir’s child, or even his own. With his beautiful Éowyn, she and the other children had come to represent the future to which they had all sacrificed so much. It was for the innocents that so much blood had been spilt and so many lives torn asunder, and it was the innocents which gave meaning to all they did, for they were the future.

Faramir took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly as he became mindful of the concerned looks he was receiving.

“Are you well, my lord?” inquired a one legged man leaning on a crutch. “Why don’t you step into the smithy here and have a seat. I’m sure Bergfinn won’t mind.”

Embarrassed at the prospect of causing any more of a scene, Faramir thanked the man, whose name, he said, was Felor, and followed him into the shadowy barn.

“Here, Bergy,” called Felor, “we’re in need of some water here.” He pointed to a bail of hay. “There, my lord, just have a seat now and I’ll be getting you something to drink.”

“Thank you,” stammered Faramir, chagrined to be such a bother. He sat down gratefully onto the hay, for his legs had suddenly become a bit wobbly, as they often did after one of his more vivid visions from the past. Lifting Márta over his head, he sat the little girl on his lap and soothed her, for she had become frightened by the sudden turn of events.

“Well,” greeted Bergfinn, entering the smithy from a side door which led to his house, “what have we here?”

“The lord became indisposed at the festival. I brought him in here to get ‘em away from the crowd out there.” He jerked his thumb towards the door emphasizing his point. “You know how nosy people can get when they are looking for something to wag their tongues about.”

“Indeed I do,” agreed Bergfinn. “I’ll fetch some water and be right back.” He disappeared through the same door from which he’d just entered and, true to his word, was back within a minute with four mugs of cool, fresh water.

‘Thank you,” murmured Faramir as he took two of the mugs for himself and Márta.

Wise eyes studied him a moment. “Sit, Felor, give that leg a rest. It’s not often that we have the chance to visit with such esteemed guests,” said Bergfinn as he settled himself down as well.

Felor sat back onto a bail of hay and, with a sigh of relief, set the crutch aside as he stretched his leg out in front of him.

“And who is this pretty thing?” asked Bergfinn. “It's been a long time since I had such a beautiful young visitor to my smithy.”

“I’m Márta,” answered the child, calmed now that she was cuddled on Faramir’s lap. “My sister and Thela are taking a nap, but I am big enough to stay up,” announced the proud youngster.

“So you are,” agreed Bergfinn, nodding sagely, “so you are!” He smiled at the little girl as she drank her water and finished her apple.

“I must apologize for the intrusion,” said Faramir. “Your hospitality is most appreciated, however.”

Felor leaned back against a sturdy beam located behind his current seat. He chuckled as he looked from Faramir to Bergfinn. “Most everyone in Edoras ends up here at one time or another, so I guess it’s just your turn. Right, Bergy?”

Bergfinn turned indulgent eyes to his friend. “What Felor is trying to say is that I like people, and I like to talk.”

“But don’t you worry now, Bergy knows how to keep things to himself,” interrupted Felor. “You won’t find ‘em out chatting to the noseys about your business.”

“Enough,” laughed Bergfinn, “Let Lord Faramir get a word in himself, why don’t you.”

“Well someone’s got to talk until the man decides to,” exclaimed the veteran.

“Felor!”

“Gentlemen,” Faramir laughed, “Enough!” He was quite enjoying the easy banter of the friends and not unaware that this was their attempt to put him at ease and make him feel welcomed. “I am most appreciative of the opportunity to sit in your fine establishment, Bergfinn, and grateful for your kind assistance, Felor.”

“Well, well,” smiled Bergfinn, “you must be feeling a bit more yourself now. I am glad to see it. I could never face Éowyn again if I did not show the proper welcome to her intended. Many’s the time she sat right there,” he pointed to the bail of hay Faramir now occupied, “watching me work and talking up a storm the whole while.”

Faramir smiled fondly at the image of Éowyn as a little girl, chattering and carefree as she watched the smithy work.

“Éomer was always the quiet one,” added Felor. “I used to catch him staring at my leg, or rather at where my leg used to be. He would turn all red and pretend he was looking at something else when I caught him, but I did not mind. A boy is curious, that is all.”

“Éowyn and the King used to come here when they were little?” asked Márta, intrigued now that she thought about Éowyn as a little girl.

“Indeed they did,” said Bergfinn, “when they were just about your age, too. Let me tell you about the time Éowyn nearly set the smithy on fire.”

O-o-O-o-O

The Meduseld

While festivities proceeded outside, the Golden Hall was the setting for the meeting of the Marshals. Erkenbrand, of course, was headed for Snowbourne with Gamling, but attending in his stead was his former second, Fingol, who stood warming his hands over the center fire pit and chatting with his cousin, Liam. The other Marshals and their seconds stood talking around a long table, which had been set up for the meeting.

Éomer entered unannounced from the side door. As soon as the men became aware of his approach, Fingol and Liam joined the other marshals as all talking ceased until the King had taken his place at the head of the table.

As the senior marshal present, Marshal Elfhelm offered the blessing for the new king. “Éomer King, may your reign be blessed with the peace of Goldwine’s, and may you be beloved of the people as Brytta Léofa.” He spoke, of course, of former kings of the Mark Brytta, eleventh King of Rohan who reigned for 44 years and was called Brytta Léofa meaning Brytta Beloved, and of Goldwine, the sixth Lord of the Mark whose reign, while only 19 years, was marked by peace and prosperity.

“May it be,” echoed the other marshals.

“Thank you, my friends,” answered Éomer. “Please, be seated.”

As the marshals and seconds were taking their seats, Hildegard led in a bevy of serving girls bearing tankards of ale. She personally served the king and observed as the other marshals were each given a beautifully crafted tankard. The mithril tankards belonged to the king’s service and had been a gift from Steward Cirion to Eorl to mark the first anniversary of his gifting the Calenardhon to the Riders of the Mark in reward and gratitude for their bravery in answering Gondor’s call for help and defending the Southern Kingdom. The king’s own tankard was crafted with the white horse emblem and adorned with emeralds. The tankards had resided with the ruling house ever since and were now only used on state occasions.

Worth a small fortune, Éomer would gladly have sold or traded the tankards – tradition or no – to feed his people, but money was not the issue. The problem was that food was in short supply due to the length and destructive power of the war. The tankards held only sentimental value to the Lords of the Mark, for money and possessions were of little use to the Horse Lords.

When all of the men had been served, the ladies withdrew to the kitchens to continue preparations for the feast to be held later in the evening. To allow the king and the marshals privacy, the golden hall had been cleared of all except those in attendance at the meeting, the doorwards, and, of course, the king’s personal guard.

After a moment, Éomer rose and hefted his tankard. The marshals quickly came to their feet to match the movement.

“Let us begin by honoring those of our group who are absent from us. Théoden King, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Théoden,’ repeated the group); Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark, fallen at the Fords of Isen (‘Théodred’); Grimbold, Marshal of Grimslade, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Grimbold’); Dúnhere, Lord of Harrowdale, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Dúnhere’); Déorwine, Chief of the Knights of Théoden, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Déorwine’); and Guthláf, proud banner bearer of Théoden King, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Guthláf’). May they be welcomed into the halls of their fathers with honor; may their names be forever remembered and cherished in the Mark; and may the Simbelmynë grow abundantly over them until we are joined with them again. Hail the victorious dead!”

“Hail!”

As the marshals took their seats, Éomer sat down his tankard and moved to stand behind his chair. He found it difficult to sit throughout an entire meeting such as this and much favored being able to move around the table and even pace when the conversation warranted it. He decided to begin by formally recognizing the marshals, new and old.

“Marshal Erkenbrand of the West Mark is on an official errand for me. Accompanying him is the Gamling, who I have named to be the Chief of Knights. Marshal Grimborn is replacing his father as the Marshal of Grimslade. Marshal Elfhelm of the East Mark will now be working with Marshal Ceorl of the Eastemnet.”

“You are a most welcome addition, Ceorl,” said Elfhelm, reaching over to grasp the hand of Ceorl. “With so many of our people moving about the vast plains of the Eastemnet, security for them has always been a problem.”

Éomer continued after Ceorl had nodded his acknowledgement to Elfhelm.

“I recognize Marshal Brandhelm of The Wold. Welcome to Edoras, my old friend.”

“Thank you, my lord,” responded Brandhelm.

“Squirming at his seat there,” continued Éomer, “is Marshal Liam, my former lieutenant, whom I have named as the Marshal of the Westemnet, and of course, Marshal Fingol, the new Lord of Harrowdale.

“Where is Marshal Garoth?” asked Grimborn. "Tell me not that my father's old friend was lost as well?"

Éomer met Ceorl’s eyes briefly before answering. “That question is being answered by Erkenbrand and Gamling. I expect them back in a few days. Until then, let us continue with the matters at hand. The war we just fought was long and bloody, and cost us many dear friends. What I want to hear from you now is what it has cost us in terms of our herds and our food production. Winter is upon us and I need to know how dire the situation is before I can know in which direction we need to move.”

The seriousness of the king’s words was matched by the looks on the faces of the marshals.

Marshal Elfhelm cleared his throat and spoke first. “As you know, Sire, Aldburg leads the Mark in food production. Our peoples are less nomadic and more given to the raising of food and livestock than in the other areas.” He paused while mentally calculating the supplies over which he was in charge. “While hit hard by marauding bands, much of our food stock remains safely hidden within the cave network we established in the mountains. With some stretching it might see us through the winter, providing we can move it securely throughout the mark. It should not be a problem here in Edoras or in the established villages, but for our nomadic peoples in the Westemnet, it will be more difficult.”

“I will arrange for food distribution in the Westemnet,” volunteered Liam. “Fingol will help me,” he added, prodding his cousin in the ribs.

“We’ll work out the particulars later,” said Éomer. “Now, what is the situation with our herds? How many of the brood mares and foals have we lost?”

O-o-O-o-O

Snowbourne

Barech shuffled a bit as he removed the food from the table spread before Garoth and his underlings. Long past his prime as a rider, Barech served tables in the Marshal’s house while his wife worked in the kitchens. Once proud to serve his Marshal in any way, the old man now bitterly regretted his service to ahouse long bereft of honor. Now he hated what his life had become, as he hated the men sitting at the table, feasting and laughing while so many of the men of Snowbourne languished in the prison Garoth’s despicable nephew, Gilmóod, had established.

How could all of this have happened, the old man wondered as he made his way around the table, and how could he ever help them? Everything had been fine until Gilmóod and his men had arrived from Edoras in the dead of night. Things had started to fall apart after that, as more and more outcasts and evil doers sought refuge at Snowbourne. Barech moved to resume his stance against the wall until such time as he was required to serve the table again.

The massive front door of the fortress banged open, crashing against the back wall as the messenger rushed through. Everyone in the room jumped at the sound except Garoth who was, as seemed normal lately, snoozing in a stupor, his head upon the table.

“You idiot,” hissed Gilmóod. “I just got my uncle to sleep. Are you trying to wake the dead?”

“Your pardon,” sneered the ruffian in answer, “but I bear news that cannot wait.”

“All right then,” snapped Gilmóod, “deliver your news and be gone, before I gut you for your impudence.”

He would, too, mused Barech. Dark of hair and features, Gilmóod, or dark man as the people thought of him, could easily have been considered comely had not his face borne all the warmth of a stone statue. It was as though there was no humanity in him, his eyes as empty of light and compassion as his black soul. Careful to control his features and reveal nothing of what he was thinking, Barech shuddered inwardly at the mention of Gilmóod “gutting” anyone, for he had seen Gilmóod’s knife work before. The man was not only adept at it, he enjoyed it.

“Riders approach. They bear the standard of the Royal House.”

“How many?” questioned the beefy man to Gilmóod’s left. Scar man is what Barech called him, in private of course, for the man had a hideous scar running the length of his face on the left. The deformity seemed to have warped his features into a permanent sneer and his looks were only accented by the meanness with which he treated everyone, except Gilmóod.

“Under a dozen,” responded the messenger. “They should be here in less than a day.”

“Under a dozen,” repeated Gilmóod. He looked at the men around the table and smiled his cold, statue smile. “I think we should prepare a special welcome for them, don’t you?”

Scar man’s laugh in answer sent chills down Barech’s spine.

TBC

To the King

Chapter Fifteen

New Beginnings

“Rick Blaine: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Casablanca

Hálith took his time walking to the magnificent stables of Edoras, for Anor was kissing the earth with a breath of warmth unusual for the late autumn, and it was as though all the people of Edoras had ventured outside to enjoy its last embrace before the chill winds once more asserted themselves. Excitement showed in his eyes, belying his easy gait, for today he would begin working and training with Hammok the new farrier.

Had this been Gondor, Hálith would never have been able to learn this trade, for the trade guilds of Minis Tirith required money to buy one’s way into the coveted unions, and therefore the skill positions went to the sons of those who could afford to grease a few palms. In a land that lived and died by their horses, the skill was learned by many, though few ever would acquire the honor of working in the king’s own stables, and that is what had Hálith so excited.

His goal, of course, was to ride in an éored, perhaps rising one day to serve in the king’s guard, as his father had. Hálith’s face clouded as he thought of Háma. He had died honorably, protecting the king and the people fleeing to Helm’s Deep, and Hálith missed him terribly…missed the quiet evenings in their little house when Háma would tell him stories as they sat before the fire.

The boy had not been unhappy in the months that he served as a wain driver and lived in the barracks, but he had been lonely. Once Gondor called for aid and the éoreds had mustered, the defense of the city had fallen on the few men and boys who remained in the city…the wain drivers, the farriers, the old, the young. The great gates to the city had been barred, and Hálith took his turn spending long hours on watch duty, wondering how they would ever defend the city should the enemy turn his sights against them. He would return to the barracks at night, exhausted and ready for sleep.

The one saving grace of those days had been Hildegard and coming back to the barracks to enjoy the hot meals she had provided for the defenders. Like a supreme commander, she had marshaled the women who normally served in the Meduseld, the ones whose fathers, husbands, and brothers now rode to war, and she kept them busy. They cooked for the barracks and for those in the city who could not care for themselves. They scoured the Meduseld from top to bottom, and generally did any and every job Hildegard could think of to keep their thoughts from the stark reality that most of the men would not be coming back.

Hammok walked to the door of the stables to empty a bucket of water into the gutter and spied the slender built boy walking down the hill towards him. Éomer King had approached him about taking the boy under his wing to teach him the fine art of the horse shoe, and it was something Hammok was glad to do. After all, Bergfinn had done the same for him, and those days in the cozy smithy down the hill had been some of the happiest of his life.

Shorter in stature than was usual for the Horse Lords, Hammok more than made up for it in strength and musculature. He had massive arms and shoulders from wielding hammers and working the forge, and his legs, build like tree trunks, seemed determined to keep pace. If not for his trim waist, he might have been considered boxlike in build. By far his most striking feature, however, was his white gold hair, which he wore close cropped, unlike what was normal for the Rohirrim, for he tired of fighting the sparks which flew with regularity as he worked. Framed as they were by the short hair, his cobalt hued eyes were penetrating.

Hammok emptied the bucket and sat it down. “Welcome Hálith. Are you ready to begin your training?”

“Yes, my lord,” smiled Hálith.

“We’ll have none of that,” admonished Hammok gently. “No man is lord of a Rohirrim but our Marshals and our King, and even they earn the right. It is our way, lad. Call me Hammok. Before we’ve finished your training you may call me by a lot of other names as well,” he finished with a chuckle.

O-o-O-o-O

Given its name, one might have thought the Snowbourne fortress of Marshal Garoth would have been located on one of the broad plains bordering the Snowbourne River, or perhaps in the wooded land into which it ran before meeting and joining with the Entwash, but it did not. The original fortress had been built in the foothills of the White Mountains…built with a commanding view of the valley below, for Snowbourne, as it had come to be known, was built to be a northern line of defense for Aldburg in the days before the capitol city had been moved to Edoras. It was not as great in height as Dunharrow, nor so steep, yet still its narrow access could be defended against vast odds.

When still part of Gondor, this area had been the site of several ore mines, but being as the Horse Lords did not mine, they had fallen into disuse. The men of Rohan had seen the defensive value of Snowbourne as its strength and established a Marshal and éored there during the reign of Eorl. It had been considered a first line of defense ever since.

Erkenbrand gauged the ascending path with a practiced eye. As an experienced Marshal, he first noticed that there was no early sentry placed. He held up his hand to halt the small company.

Gamling, who had been daydreaming in his saddle, immediately roused himself. “What is it? Why have we stopped?

“Something is not right.”

Immediately the six members of the accompanying éored took up positions around their Marshal and the Chief of Knights.

Gamling scanned the hills, still somewhat confused. “I don’t see anything.”

Erkenbrand nodded slightly as he too scanned the hills. “That is the point. No Marshal would allow access to his fold without a challenge, even in time of peace.”

“But we bear the standard of the Royal House! Surely we would not be challenged?”

Erkenbrand fixed his former lieutenant with a fierce but fond look. “You have been too long in Edoras, my friend. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

Gamling opened his mouth to defend himself and then closed it quickly. He had been in Edoras for many years. Perhaps he had allowed his instincts to become dulled by the less rigorous service in the capitol city. He forced himself to think as he had been taught when riding the West Mark in Erkenbrand’s éored. “We bear the King’s standard…which is all the more reason that we should be greeted, if not challenged by an early warning sentinel.”

“Exactly,” concurred Erkenbrand. “We shall proceed with caution.”

Erkenbrand turned to his most experienced rider. “Dageth, scout ahead…and use extreme caution. We will not be far behind should you need our aid.”

Dageth nodded, “Yes, my lord.” He spurred his horse and shot ahead of the group.

Erkenbrand’s sorrel danced in anticipation. She was a war horse born and bred, and she could feel the tension within the group. A shiver of eagerness ran down her flanks as she set herself for battle.

The Marshal felt his mare’s excitement and soothed her with a touch of his hand. “Easy, Lancer, not yet,” he crooned.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer, dressed in his regular riding leathers, walked to the stables with quiet purpose. He had met with Marshal Ceorl again before offering his farewell to the man and his éored as they provided escort and protection on the way home to those who had journeyed to Edoras for the funeral and festivities. It made Edoras look almost empty after the crowds of the previous days.

As he entered the stable he noticed Hammok and Hálith working with one of the horses. One of the stable hands approached the King.

“Would you like your tack, sire?”

Deep in thought, Éomer just shook his head at the man and continued to Firefoot’s stall.

Dismissed, the man turned to resume his duties.

Realizing his rudeness, Éomer stopped to look back at the stable hand. The man was already out the door, so the king sighed and walked down the center aisle towards Firefoot. He opened the door and stepped into the stall to his beloved horse, stroking his side and speaking softly to him. Firefoot bobbed his head and scented Éomer’s pockets, looking for the treat he hoped would be there. Éomer chuckled lightly and pulled a carrot from his pocket to offer for his beauty.

While Firefoot chomped on the carrot, Éomer retrieved a brush from a shelf on the wall and began to brush down his horse in great, long strokes. Firefoot had already been brushed once earlier in the morning, but was not about to complain about being fussed over by his master. He actually leaned into the king as his strokes reached the horse’s favorite spot, causing Éomer to grunt and shift his weight to compensate.

For his part, Éomer reveled in the task almost as much as Firefoot and worked even harder as sweat broke across his forehead. He needed this, needed the routine of what he was used to doing. This was the life he was born for, not holding meetings and settling disputes.

Finished with the brushing, the king retrieved the pick with which to check the hooves. Firefoot obediently hefted his leg and leaned again into Éomer. The great stallion was beginning to anticipate the run he knew was coming.

“All right, boy,” grunted Éomer as he finished up and dropped the last leg. “Let us go.” He placed the pick back onto the shelf beside the brush and a few other supplies and backed out of the stall followed closely by Firefoot. The horse hesitated just out side the stall, but Éomer continued walking. “Come on, Firefoot,” he said, “no saddle today.”

Horse and rider walked to the front of the stables, where Éomer jumped easily onto the back his mount. Together they cantered down the hill and out the front gate.

The guards at the gate looked uncertainly at each other after the king rode out alone.

“Should we call out the royal guard?” asked Falgor, as he followed the king with his eyes.

“It’s not up to you to go telling the king that he can’t ride alone, you knucklehead. If he wanted a guard, he’d take one,” answered his friend and fellow sentinel. “Besides, how many years have we watched Éomer ride from this city?”

“But he weren’t even armed,” argued Falgor, “and he’s not just a kid any more. He’s our king.”

“Are you going to go hiking up that hill with your sore foot?” queried Geston. “And after you get there what are you going to say? The king is practically out of sight now. They’d never catch him. Besides, there’s no better rider in the Mark than the king. No enemy could catch him unaware. Just relax. We’re off duty in an hour and I’m wanting my meal.”

Éomer led his steed to the left of the main road and raced full out, giving a war whoop as he reveled in the freedom of the run. Éomer loved this …needed the release, and Firefoot was giving him a run to remember. The muscles of his legs worked in tandem with the great stallion as they galloped delightedly. Everything became a blur as the wind whipped against his eyes. On and on they ran, as though they might just run until the end of all time.

From the gates of Edoras, a new guard took up the watch as Falgor and Geston headed home for a much desired mug of ale. The king’s presumed whereabouts were duly reported to the new guards, who were left to wonder themselves whether they should stand to or inform the royal guard of the king’s solitary exit. Perhaps these days of peace would mean that the king could be allowed to ride alone…perhaps. At any rate, they reasoned, it was not theirs to decide, so they settled into the routine of watch duty and waited anxiously for their king to return.

TBC

To the King

Chapter Sixteen

Thanksgiving

"It is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor."— George Washington, October 3, 1789

Stepping out onto the terrace of the manor house, the one known as dark man scowled as he looked around. He wouldn’t have considered it a scowl, for that was the look he always had on his face. The peasants who lived in the surrounding huts, the wives of the imprisoned horse lords…they all went about their assigned duties, which pleased him. How he enjoyed watching his own personal slave force.

Gilmóod watched as all was made ready for the “reception” of the contingent from Rohan. He observed the measures being taken to prepare the ambush. His men were experts at what they did. Squinting at the sunlight in his eyes, he pulled up short as an idea flitted into the corner of his mind. Gilmóod was not what one would call intelligent, but he was cunning and sly, both commodities well favored in a henchman. Smiling the smile that had chilled the hearts of many a decent man and woman, he gave a shrill whistle to catch Scaro’s attention.

The scarred man whose face fit his name turned from what he was doing when he heard the signal from Gilmóod. Motioning his men to continue their preparations, he sprinted over to where his leader was standing on the steps of the manor house.

Known to all as the Manor of Snowbourne, the house was constructed of rough hewn logs, some rounded, some cut in half lengthwise. Two stories tall, it was a handsome house, but built to withstand the fierce winters as well as offer protection from enemies. From the upper levels, deep slits were cut into the logs so that archers could rain down death on any approaching. Not as secure nor as strong as the Hornburg, it had proven adequate for the centuries it had served as Snowbourne’s fortress.

“We are almost ready. Fitch has the trail covered. Shall we attack them in the narrow or would it be your pleasure to witness the kill here?”

Gilmóod felt a rush of satisfaction as he considered the suggestion. It had been too long since he’d had the pleasure of a good kill. It was said among his men that he favored a kill to pleasuring a woman, a notion that none of them doubted.

He forced himself to close his eyes against the tingling in his loins and pushed back the red haze that sizzled just behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and gathered his wits back. No, he would delay that pleasure for now. He had a better plan.

“Scaro, call off the men. Allow the Marshals and their escort to approach. I do not want them harassed, is that clear?”

Scaro barely held back the growl that came to his throat. He and his men had been promised the chance to kill these horse riders and he wanted it. “You mean to let them come here? You promised…”

Before he could complete the words Gilmóod was off the steps and had him by the throat. Scaro could feel the cold metal of Gilmóod’s dagger beneath his chin.

“Do you question me,” breathed Gilmóod, his eyes not three inches from those of Scaro. For several seconds only his breathing could be heard. His breath was foul in Scaro’s face. All activity in the yard had ceased as the prospect of entertainment became available.

Scaro scarcely dared move so close was the blade, but he managed to shake his head enough to signal the man who literally held his life in his hands. He could barely breathe, but he managed to choke out an answer. “No, my lord, I do not question your orders.”

Gilmóod squeezed even tighter for a moment.

Scaro began to see stars as his vision blackened and then the pressure was gone and he gasped sweet lungs full of precious air. He had to lean over, his hands on his knees as he tried to still the spasming coughs racking him.

Gilmóod spun around to glare at those who had stopped their work to witness the scene. “What are you looking at? Get back to work or I’ll cut your rations even further.”

Scaro had finally regained his breath and stood facing his commander. “You will receive the horse lords?”

Gilmóod smiled almost indulgently at the man. His fit of anger dissipated, he nodded his head regally. “We shall not only receive them, we shall make them our guests.”

Clearly confused, Scaro narrowed his eyes as he considered his master’s words.

“We wish to be at peace with our neighbors, do we not?” asked Gilmóod pleasantly. “You are too angry, my friend. We will welcome the Horse Lords to Snowbourne and hear their petition.” He put his arm around Scaro’s shoulders conspiratorially. He spoke softly so that only Scaro could hear. “Keep the prisoners quiet and all else acting normally. No one is to get near the horse lords but us. Is that understood? I fear my uncle is indisposed and will need to remain in his quarters.”

Scaro was slow, but he was finally beginning to follow Gilmóod’s train of thought. “Perfectly, my lord. All shall be done as you say.” He bowed his head slightly and then remembered something his scout had reported. “Oh, one thing…Fitch reports that one of the riders is Gamling.”

“Gamling?” Gilmóod’s countenance darkened once more. “Well, well, this should be interesting.” He seemed to consider the situation as he slowly nodded his head, before fixing Scaro with a fierce look. “You will control your temper, Scaro. I am after bigger game than a Royal Guard”. Gilmóod was not even aware that he had begun to rub his hands together in anticipation.

Scaro watched him for a moment before nodding his head again and leaving to deliver the message to his men to stay the ambush they had prepared.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer signaled Firefoot with his legs and the great mount slowed to a trot. Both were well lathered from their romp, pleased, invigorated, and satisfied at the same time. Éomer patted his steed’s neck and the pair turned back towards Edoras.

Both had needed this run, but Éomer especially had felt the desire to throw off the trappings of leadership and freely run the plain without guards, advisors, or responsibility. He never felt more alive than when he was riding.

The bedtime story he told the children had revived many memories for him. Some of them were good memories – the faithfulness of Théoden, Théodred, and Éowyn as they had all nursed him back to health, but most of them were not good. It was bad enough to have been gored by a boar, but that pain was eclipsed by the dread and horror of the iron. Éomer still shuddered when he thought about it. Never before or since had he feared any action such as that. The scarring from the injury was aggravated by the burns which drew as they healed and necessitated the nightly oiling and stretching by his uncle.

Éomer closed his eyes as he thought back to the agony of having those scars stretched and pulled each night, but his uncle had promised him that he would ride again once they were all healed. It was his absolute faith in Théoden that had seen him through the long winter.

The king slowed Firefoot once more and the pair continued at a slow, cooling walk. Éomer allowed his mind to continue its meandering down through the halls of his memory, accepting that Béma would show him what he should take with him.

For the first time in so many years his country faced peace, faced the opportunity to grow and prosper without having to fight for every scrap of victory they could gain. There were still great problems to be over come, possible privation and loss from a hard winter and scant foodstuffs, but Éomer had never been afraid of a challenge. No, what gave him pause was the question of how well he would be able to lead in peacetime.

Peace. The word was almost foreign to him, for he had never known it. So many had been lost through the years…so many sacrifices made for that one word, and yet Éomer was not sure he even knew what it meant.

One thing he did know was how very grateful he was to have his sister here with him, if even for a short time. Éowyn was all the family he had left and embodied all for which he had suffered and bled and fought.

Éomer’s breath still caught as he clearly recalled how all else in the world had stopped at moment he saw his sister seemingly dead on the Pelennor.

The battle all but finished, he and his warriors walked the field searching for their men. The riders would see to the burial of their own, and they never left one of their own behind. Éomer’s mind reeled with what he was seeing. So many lost…Marshal Grimbold, an arrow through his neck, Déorwine, cut down and hacked to pieces by orcs even after he’d died, faithful Guthláf, crushed beyond recognition by the huge feet of the Mûmakil – identifiable only by the King’s Banner still clutched proudly in his hand…so many others, so many.

Éomer saw Gamling and several of his men standing together and started in that direction. As he arrived at their location, his heart clutched as his eyes beheld Uncle. He lay penned beneath his beloved Snowmane. So they had died together. It was fitting, Éomer felt, for they had been devoted to each other in life.

He knelt by his uncle’s body, tenderly placing his hand on his Théoden’s head as he stroked the hair with his thumb. “We have prevailed, Uncle. You may rest easy. Bear my love to Théodred and tell him that his sacrifice was not in vain. Tell my parents…tell them I ever strive to make them proud.”

Gamling put his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “He died as he would have wished, my lord. See to your éored, and let us take care of him. We will see him laid to rest in Minas Tirith until we can take him home.”

Éomer bestowed a kiss to his uncle’s forehead and rose to continue the search for the men of his éored, for that is what the Horse Lords did.

He caught sight of blonde hair, which in and of itself was not unusual, but there was something else that caught his attention. It was the apparent softness of the hair and the familiar armor, but that was not possible… In horror his eyes kept affirming what his mind refused. Éowyn! No!

The raw rage and grief that surged through him came out in horrific cries that had chilled the blood of his warriors as he ran to her and sank to his knees. Éomer had believed that he’d seen too much death to ever cry again, but he was wrong. He cried, he screamed, he raged as he rocked back and forth holding Éowyn’s body.

Freezing at the sound of their commander’s grief, Éomer’s warriors could only stare in utter shock at the sight of Éomer unashamedly crying as he held his sister. If they had not seen it with their own eyes, none would have believed it, and rather than weakening him in their eyes, the gut wrenching cries only cemented their devotion to this man they all adored and served with honor.

Firefoot’s path across the field flushed out a covey of quail and their frantic flight startled Éomer back to the present. He was somewhat surprised to find his cheeks damp and blinked several times to clear his eyes. They were close to the city now and Éomer had a sudden need to be home…to see Éowyn and the children they had brought into their home, to see Faramir, the man who would be his brother, to see Elena, the woman who was now a treasured part of his family. He laughed as he realized that he even wanted to see Hildegard and do some verbal sparring with the feisty old woman.

Spurring Firefoot back into a trot, Éomer decided right then and there that they would have a fine dinner tonight…one in which all living within the Meduseld would be welcome. Hildegard would share their thanksgiving feast with them, the children, Faramir, Elena, Berga – since Gamling was away, and especially Éowyn. His sister would be leaving him soon enough to take up residence in Minas Tirith, but he would not think of that now. This night would be for thanksgiving, for celebrating the peace that would come and for just being together.

O-o-O-o-O

“You’re sure, mother?” asked Berga uncertainly. She had long ago given up hope.

“I am sure, Berga,” smiled Elena, as she patted the hand of the younger woman.

“Oh!” Berga was momentarily speechless. “Oh,” she repeated, her eyes tearing from sheer joy.

“Well is that all you can say?” laughed Elena. “Come we must speak to Hildegard. With your past troubles we must see that your duties are light. I am sure she will understand.”

“Oh,” said Berga, causing Elena to laugh again.

Taking the dreamy eyed Berga by the hand she started leading the woman from her rooms to the kitchen where they would find Hildegard overseeing the preparation for the evening meal.

Earlier in the day Faramir had taken Hálith hunting, and the pair had managed to bag a couple of wild turkeys, which were even now roasting over a spit in the kitchens. Potatoes boiled away in a kettle and Hildegard was experimenting with some new spices which Faramir had brought her. The spices were a fine gift, decided the wily cook, even if they had come from Harad. There was cinnamon, ginger, and something called cloves, and she was thinking that they would be quite tasty in a pie she was making from boiled and mashed pumpkin.

“Hildegard,” called Elena. “Come, my friend, we have wonderful news!”

Hildegard raised her head from her patient measuring of spices. “News, what news?”

Berga and Elena were both smiling and crying at the same time, which in Hildegard’s experience could only mean one thing.

O-o-O-o-O

The entire group was gathered in the great hall. The children were chattering with excitement at the prospect of a celebration dinner in the main hall rather than in the smaller king’s dining room where they normally ate.

Gathered around the table laden with bounty, the group paused before sitting. This night they were showing respect to the traditions of Faramir and Gondor by facing West and observing a moment of silence as Faramir explained the traditional Númenórean ritual. The group then faced Éomer at the head of the table as he touched his hands to his eyes and gave thanks to Béma for the blessings of the mearas, and to Eru Ilúvatar for His gift of all life.

The blessing complete, they took their seats. Éomer could not help but feel a deep contentment as he gazed at each beloved face. Éowyn to his right was literally glowing with happiness as she smiled across the table at Faramir, who was seated on the king’s left. Beside Faramir were the three little girls, with Thela, of course, right beside her Farmeer. Seated beside Éowyn was Elena. The three younger boys were situated between Elena, Hildegard, and Berga. Hálith sat at the far end of the table opposite Éomer. The boy beamed with pride at the honor, and Éomer raised his mug in toast to the boy.

As laughter and conversation filled the room, Éomer noticed that Berga seemed unusually animated and mentioned as much to Éowyn.

“Does Berga seem somewhat excited tonight?”

Éowyn glanced down the table to the woman and noticed the glow on her face. She looked back at Éomer and shrugged her shoulders slightly as she smiled her confusion to him.

“I know,” said Thela self importantly. “It is a secret, but I know.”

“What do you know, Thela,” asked Éowyn, expecting the child to launch into one of her many make believe stories of fairies and such.

“It is a miracle,” breathed Thela. “Someone made a baby with Berga. Was it you, Farmeer? I thought you were going to make a baby with Éowyn?”

That got everyone’s attention as silence fell at the table.

Faramir, of course, flushed scarlet and cleared his throat. “I assure you, Miss Thela, with respects to you ma’am, he nodded to Berga, that I did not make a baby with Mistress Berga. That honor, I am certain, belongs to Gamling,” he finished with a smile.

“So,” laughed the king, “is it true, Berga?”

Berga began to smile and cry at the same time…again…and nodded to the King. “Yes, m’lord, it is true.”

Éomer was overjoyed at the wonderful news for his friends.

“It is fitting that you share these joyous tidings with us tonight. We have all faced loss and pain these past years, yet we are here tonight blessed with bounty and tied by love and loyalty. Let us remember that the miracle of new life speaks of our future and reminds us for what we have sacrificed. It is a good day for miracles.”

He hefted his mug once more, “To life!”

TBC

To the King!

Chapter Seventeen

Vague Unease

To destroy is still the strongest instinct in nature.
- Max Beerbohm

Gilmóod sat back in ornately carved chair situated at the head of the long table in the main hall of the manor house, a self satisfied smile on his handsome and finely chiseled face. To a stranger, the face was fair to behold, but to those who were acquainted with the black heart beating within his chest the face held no beauty…only death. The people who knew Gilmóod for what he was did their best to avoid looking into his eyes, for they matched his heart, and held only darkness.

There was good reason for Gilmóod’s pleasant attitude, for today he would take the first steps towards retribution for himself and for his family. For many centuries his kin had been proud to be part of Rohan, but no more. Now only a fire of hatred burned towards the Horse Lords and all they considered dear.

It had begun with Gilmóod’s father, Gimbol. Though their mother was a Dunlending, Gimbol and his brothers Garoth and Gálmód had been reared on the Westfold. They had, however, inherited the darker features of their mother’s people, a fact which set them apart and for which they hated her. They were cousins to the famed Marshal Grimbold, whose fair features and deeds of renown fairly shouted of all that was heroic and Rohirric. Garoth had ridden with Grimbold and risen to stature and favor as a Marshal himself. He was granted leadership over Snowbourne for his faithfulness in battle with Grimbold.

The other two brothers did not ever share in the accolades or achievements of their illustrious relation. In fact the familial connection was never mentioned and to this day Garoth referred to Grimbold as a dear friend.

Grimbold had cared for Garoth, but the ill favor of Garoth’s brothers had slowly poisoned the relationship as Garoth was fed lies by his kin.

It was not that Grimbold would have rejected the aid and support of his distant kin, but that Gálmód and Gimbol were of questionable repute, known to be slackers who cared more for chasing skirts and downing ale than for bearing arms in the defense of Rohan. It was not their dark features, as they liked to claim, but their laziness and even worse the steak of cruelty running through them, which set them apart. Unfortunately, their sons had followed in their father’s footsteps and were just as reprehensible.

One, however, had shown himself to take more after Garoth. Through hard work, the son of Gálmód had shown promise, rising so far as to serve in the king’s court at Edoras. His standing reflected well on the others, or so they thought. Gilmóod had followed his cousin Gríma to Edoras and become one of his enforcers.

It was there that Gilmóod had stopped considering himself as any part of Rohan. He had learned to hate all the Horse Lords, and Éomer in particular, for he was everything that Gilmóod would never be. He represented all the qualities in which Gilmóod was so lacking: strength, honor, courage, and above all good repute – all the virtues so admired by the Horse Lords.

Gilmóod threw his mug against the fireplace, listening to it clank and clatter across the floor as he thought about Éomer. There were other virtues to be had, he told himself, such as cunning and intelligence, both of which Gilmóod felt he possessed in great quantity. Ah yes, he thought. I shall show you my qualities Éomer, pretender king of Rohan.

It was also while at Edoras that Gilmóod had fallen in love with Éowyn. Like his cousin, his eyes were full of favor when they beheld the golden haired beauty, though he dared not allow Gríma to know as much. Gríma was always jealous of Gilmóod’s good looks and so the man had learned to hold his own council where women and Gríma were concerned.

But Éowyn would have nothing to do with either one of them, and worse yet Éomer had noticed the looks Gilmóod sent in Éowyn’s direction and had explained rather forcefully just exactly what he would do should Gilmóod ever dare to lay a finger on her.

Gilmóod had relished his time of power while he served Gríma, never more so than the day that he had helped to cast Éomer from Rohan. Gilmóod was the one who had driven his fist into the defenseless man’s stomach as he was being held. Oh, that memory brought a flush of pleasure to the man and his desire to inflict more punishment was fueled as he imagined driving his dagger into the soft belly of his nemesis. Then, sweet Éowyn, then he would show her what her denial of him would cost her, for he would make her his own, and then her life would be a daily punishment for all the sins of rejection ever placed on him.

No, Gilmóod corrected himself, first Éomer would watch him take his beloved sister, Éowyn, and then, perhaps, he would kill the king.

O-o-O-o-O

Scaro rode down the trail whistling a merry tune. The nonchalance was a show, of course, meant to put the lead scout at ease. But Dageth had not been Marshal Erkenbrand’s lead scout for ten years for nothing. All too aware that his Marshal and the Chief of Knights trailed him with all too few riders to watch their backs, he was all the more cautious.

Hearing the whistling man’s approach, Dageth pulled up on his horse and waited. Within moment he could see the rider who was casually riding down the sloping trail towards him. Dageth’s eyes scanned the hillside around him. He was upon a narrow path with sides of rock rising sharply on either side of him. It would be a perfect place for an ambush.

“Come forward, friend, and identify yourself,” called Scaro, pretending to have just spotted Dageth.

“Where are the sentinels of Snowbourne and why has no welcome been sent for the Marshal’s bearing the Royal Emblem?” challenged Dageth.

“Sentinels?” questioned Scaro. “We have no need of sentinels; we are at peace! Come, friend, and meet my master. We shall send forth a greeting for your Marshals if you like, but first come with me.”

Dageth, nodded his agreement and moved to follow the scarred man. A vague unease lay deep within the scout’s belly, but as yet he had nothing solid with which to give credence to the disquiet he felt. For now he would attend the scarred one.

Presently the pair reached the Snowbourne Fortress. All seemed to be normal so far as Dageth could see. There was a marked lack of activity around the Manor House, but that might just mean that the inhabitants were all attending their midday meal. Like Scaro, he dismounted, though rather than hand over the reins of his horse to a waiting stable hand, he led his mount over to the side of the front steps. The horse was well trained enough to remain where his master put him and Dageth preferred to be able to leave quickly if the need arose. Something still did not seem altogether normal about this entire situation.

Scaro led the scout up the steep steps and across the terrace to theentry way. He opened the large oak door and stepped back to allow the man to enter before him. He kept the lopsided smile plastered on his face. It actually was more of a sneer because of the scarring, but it was the best he could do. Scaro was not a man who normally would smile much anyway.

Gareth stepped into the great hall of the manor house and paused as Scaro walked past him. A huge fire place dominated one wall and the hall was empty save for an old man standing against the far wall and a younger man seated at the large table towards the back of the room. The old man was probably a server, Gareth surmised, and the younger man was definitely not Marshal Garoth. He watched as the scarred man stepped up to the table and spoke softly to the one seated at its head.

Gilmóod stood from his seat and motioned the scout forward. “Welcome to Snowbourne. Scaro tells me that you are an advance scout for a party bearing the Royal Standard.”

“I am,” Dageth replied. “I am Dageth, scout to Marshal Erkenbrand. He, Chief of Knights Gamling, and a small troop are following. Shall they be welcomed?”

“Chief of Knights Gamling?” asked Gilmóod, feigning ignorance, for his spy in Edoras kept him well informed. “I thought Déorwine was Chief of Knights?”

Dageth stiffened slightly. It had not escaped his notice that his “host” had failed to identify himself. “I regret to inform my lord that Déorwine was lost in the war.”

“Lost in the war, you say?” murmured Gilmóod, who thought it made a nice touch. “How very sad… As you see, we are somewhat out of touch here. Come, sit, I will send a welcome for Erkenbrand and…and….”

“Gamling,” supplied Gareth. “And thank you, my lord, but no. I prefer to ride back to my Marshal and lead him in myself.”

“Very well, very well,” effused Gilmóod. “I shall have food and drink prepared for their arrival.”

He clapped his hands loudly. “Barech, see to it!”

From his post against the wall Barech bowed slightly. “Yes, my lord.” His eyes met those of the young scout and he tried with all his might to convey the seriousness of the situation through that look. He dared not do more.

O-o-O-o-O

Marshals Ceorl and Liam rode at a leisurely pace. For several days they had been canvassing the Eastemnet while they checked on the status of the mares and foals. One of the main breeding stations for the Mark was located in the Eastement and it was to this location that they now journeyed.

The pair traveled with just a dozen of Ceorl’s éored as they rode across the rolling plain at an easy pace. It was just past noonday and the group was eagerly anticipating a hot midday repast in the home of the station’s Master Breeder, whose wife was known far and wide as an excellent cook as well as quite possibly the most comely woman in the Estemnet.

It was Liam, the younger Marshal that first spotted the smoke. “Look there, Ceorl. That’s a lot of smoke for camp fires.”

Ceorl frowned as he followed Liam’s lead. Sure enough, thick black smoke was beginning to billow over a rise in the distance, and Liam was correct, it was far too much for just a camp fire. Unfortunately, he felt that he knew exactly what it was, but he’d thought he’d seen the last of these fires with the end of the war. Ceorl nudged his mount into a gallop. “To me!”

The éored immediately shifted into an attack wedge with their Marshal in the lead. Liam was tucked in just behind and to the side of Ceorl.

Finally topping the last ridge, their worst fears were realized as the scene of devastation was displayed before them.

Ceorl held up his arm, motioning for the troop to slow from its headlong gallop, for it was painfully obvious that they were too late to help any living soul.

The huge stable beside the home of the Master Breeder was now fully engulfed in the flames, and the house was smoldering. Here and there around the yards and paddocks bodies could be seen. Most had been horribly butchered. It was obvious even from this distance.

“Orcs,” said the young rider to Liam’s right, “but how is that possible?”

“Would you look at that,” breathed Liam, unable to fully grasp what he was seeing as they rode closer.

The view had been blocked by the smoke pouring from the barn, but as the éored neared, an unbelievable sight met their eyes. Stacked into a vast mound were the slaughtered horses of the station. All of the studs, mares and foals for half the Eastemnet lay slaughtered and discarded in one horrific pile of blood and prime horse flesh.

“I…I don’t believe it,” stammered Ceorl. It took several deep gulps of breath of calm his stomach and preserve his dignity before his éored. Once he’d composed himself, he nodded to Agar, his lead tracker, who peeled off and began scouting for signs of the retreating marauders.

Ceorl turned back to the remainder of the éored. “Let’s see to the bodies, lads. We’ll burn the horses and bury the people.”

“Burn them?” breathed Liam, not believing what he heard. “Burn the Mearas herd?” The very thought seemed a sacrilege.

“Burn them,” said Ceorl, his voice soft but deadly. “It would take too long to bury them, and I want to find the ones who did this. I will find them. But first we must send a message to the King.”

TBC

To the King!

Chapter Eighteen

Patience and Panic

“We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal.” Tennessee Williams

“Here, Éowyn, place your hands this way,” instructed Elena, “and then move gently down the length feeling for any deformity.”

Her brow knit in concentration, Éowyn’s smooth, young hands followed Elena’s gnarled ones down the length of Meela’s leg, sending the little girl into a fit of giggles.

Bouncing on the bed nearby, Thela watched the entire procedure with great interest. “When is it my turn to play patient?”

“Soon darling,” replied Éowyn distractedly. Once more she followed the ancient hands down Meela’s leg, imagining the bone beneath her touch and allowing her fingers to learn the feel of properly aligned bones.

“Very good, child,” praised Elena. “You will make a wonderful healer!”

Éowyn blushed slightly at the unexpected praise and blessed Elena with one of her beautiful smiles.

“When did you become interested in the art of healing?” questioned the old woman. “All I ever remember you doing was following your brother around with a sword in your hands.”

Éowyn chuckled at the memory these words evoked. “All I ever wanted to do as a girl was to follow Éomer to war and fight orcs.” Her face clouded slightly at the images her memory replayed of the Pelennor.

Elena, too, saw the change in her demeanor and led the woman over to sit on the bed. “Thela, would you and Meela go and ask Hildegard to send Miss Éowyn some tea? I am sure that she could find some seed cakes for the two of you as well.”

“Seed cakes!” shouted Thela, with a huge smile. “Come on, Meela, let’s go ask for Eowyn’s tea and get some cake! We can find Márta too. She loves seed cake almost as much as I do.”

Meela scooted off the table onto the chair and down to the floor so that she could follow Thela towards the kitchens of the Meduseld.

“There now,” soothed Elena. “Now that we’ve a bit of privacy and quiet, why don’t you tell old Elena what has so darkened that sweet face of yours?”

Elena simply patted the younger woman’s hand as she patiently waited for her to gather her thoughts.

“It wasn’t like I expected it to be…battle that is,” began Éowyn, so softly that Elena had to lean closer to her to catch all the words. “It did things to me…marked me in ways that will never go away.” She stopped talking for a moment as her mind recalled images that she had hoped would never surface. “When I was in the House of Healing in Minas Tirith, I watched the healers as they brought comfort and care to the wounded. I was the recipient of that same skill and compassion, and I decided that I wanted to learn how to do those things…how to save life as well as take it.”

“Healing is a noble art, my lady,” replied Elena. “As a child I lived in the Wold, where there were few healers. My mother was the only healer I ever knew growing up. She taught me and I shall teach you.”

Éowyn smiled at the woman’s words. “Thank you, Elena, but are you sure I can learn?”

“Oh yes,” smiled Elena with shining eyes, “you can learn, for I am a very good teacher.”

O-o-O-o-O

Dageth escorted the small contingent containing his Marshal and the Chief of Knights Gamling to the front of the Snowbourne fortress. Gone were the people who had been seen earlier going about their daily business and the fact registered by the tingling Dageth felt in the small of his back. Red headed with guileless blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the scout looked far younger than his years as he glanced over at his Marshal.

The Rohirric mounts picked up on the man’s anxiety and bristled with tension, their flanks shivering with the anticipation of action. These great war horses were trained to defend their rider and would never leave him should he be dislodged in battle, but instead would protect their warrior to the best of their ability. In truth, the Rohirric horses were almost as deadly a foe as their riders, for their large iron shod hooves could mete out death and destruction with ease.

Erkenbrand dismounted from his sorrel and soothed her with a pat of his hand. “Shush,” he crooned softly as he stroked her muscular sides. “Easy Lancer, we’ve no battle to fight…yet.” His eyes looked across his saddle to meet those clear blue ones of Dageth.

“You feel it too then,” said the young scout.

“Aye,” confirmed the wily Erkenbrand. “For now stay with the horses.”

“What is it?” asked Gamling, glancing from one to the other.

“Probably nothing,” replied Erkenbrand blandly, “just a niggling at the nape of my neck.” Then he chuckled to himself. “I have spent my entire life at war, my friend. Perhaps I simply see shadows where none exist.”

“Let’s get this over with,” sighed Gamling, “and get back to Edoras. In case you have forgotten, the king is not a patient man.”

“No,” agreed Erkenbrand wryly, “I have not forgotten. How many times did he attempt to stow away in my éored? Ten, was it?”

“Eleven, I think,” smiled Gamling fondly at the memory. “It was only your fury that last time, coupled with Théoden’s guidance that dissuaded him from trying again.”

Flanked by their escort, the pair climbed the steep steps to the manor house. The afternoon sun was warming the day nicely, though the wind still held a bite. The shadows of the surrounding mountains were beginning to cast long, deep shadows across the landscape.

Scaro waited on the terrace by the large oak door. He frowned as he noticed Dageth waiting with the horses, but quickly recovered to offer a welcoming nod to the Marshals. He opened the door and motioned for the men to precede him.

Erkenbrand, Gamling and the other five guards entered the vast room, their eyes immediately taking in the surroundings as Dageth’s had earlier. Unlike earlier, twenty or so men stood around the perimeter of the room. That in and of itself did not raise concern, but there was a certain roughness to their demeanor that, at the very least, lent itself as something of which to take note. A huge fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, belying the malevolence which seemed to permeate the room.

At the far end, Gilmóod stood regally from his chair. “Welcome to Snowbourne.” He smiled and beckoned the small group forward. The table before him was spread with an abundant supply of succulent smelling foods and Gamling felt his stomach rumble at the pleasing aromas.

Erkenbrand in the lead, the group walked down the center of the room until they were at the end of the table opposite Gilmóod. Scaro followed them at a discrete distance.

“On the king’s business, we seek Marshal Garoth,” said Erkenbrand formally.

The smile on Gilmóod’s face dimmed fractionally, but he forced his voice to remain neutral, masking the fury he felt at the mention of the king. “My uncle has taken ill…a stroke I believe. He is unable to communicate well or leave his bed.”

Erkenbrand’s eyes narrowed at the news. It was somewhat convenient, given the reason for their presence.

“You!” blurted Gamling as he finally pieced together where he had seen this man before.

“Seize them,” ordered Gilmóod, and the cadre of thugs around the perimeter of the room jumped to do his bidding.

The Rohirric warriors all had their daggers drawn. They would not go down without a fight. The seven men formed a tight circle where each could defend the other’s back.

From outside, Dageth heard his Marshal’s bellow of rage. For a split second his instinct was to charge inside, but his training and better sense took over and he leapt onto the back of his horse.

“Get the one outside,” hissed Scaro as he fought with one of the Rohirric warriors.

Immediately one of the ruffians rushed to the door. From the terrace he took aim with his bow. He loosed the arrow which flew swift and true towards the back of the fleeing man with deadly accuracy.

Dageth felt the arrow pierce his back like the blow of an anvil. The force knocked him forward onto the neck of his steed. Impossibly the young warrior managed to stay mounted. As his consciousness fled his last thought was regret that he had failed to protect his marshal.

TBC

To The King

Chapter Nineteen

Hamm

“Individual commitment to a group effort – that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work.” Vince Lombardi

Chaos ensued. Erkenbrand fought like a wild man. He was furious at himself for falling into a trap, and the anger lent him strength. A powerful man to begin with, the Marshal was nearly unbeatable when fueled by adrenalin. For twenty years he had ridden the Westfold as Marshal and he called upon all the experience he had gained now. He bashed two heads together and turned towards the third man diving at him. To his left he could see that Gamling was down. Whether the man was dead or not, Erkenbrand was unable to ascertain.

As he circled his foe, eyes darted around the room assessing the number of attackers and any possible means of escape. Only three of the original seven were still standing and the odds did not favor them, but Erkenbrand would make these brigands pay dearly so long as there was breath in his body. The man he was facing off against charged and the Marshal grabbed his shoulders while driving his knee into the man’s unprotected groin. He shoved the howling man back against the laden table sending it crashing to the floor, and immediately spun to face the next foe.

Beside him, young Fegorel positioned himself so that the two men were back to back, doubling their defensive capability. The numbers were just too large to overcome however, and the pair was experienced enough to recognize that fact.

Gilmóod growled as the food, flasks, and dishes scattered across the floor. He was enjoying the fight, but hated to see his food destroyed. Gilmóod rather enjoyed his comforts and was not one to deny himself anything now that he’d had a taste of power.

“Barech,” he bellowed over the din of the fight, “more ale!” By all the gods, he was enjoying this! He strutted over to where Gamling lay unconscious on the floor, dodging the fighting men as he went. Gilmóod took his boot and tilted Gamling’s head over so that he could see the man clearly. With a sneer he kicked the downed man in the stomach a couple of times before sauntering over to the side of the room. No need getting his hands dirty when his men could easily take care of this lot.

Erkenbrand and Fegorel witnessed the attack on the unconscious Gamling and growled in frustration. Besieged as they were, neither man could protect the downed man.

Barech rushed into the kitchen. His wife met him inside the door.

“What is it?” cried Margeth as she rushed towards her husband. A look of fear crossed her face as another crash resounded from the main room.

“It is the delegation from Edoras. That filth is taking them prisoner…just like all the others.” Despair filled his ancient eyes as he gazed at his wife.

“No, husband, you must not give up hope. It is all we have left.”

“The king must believe that we turned our backs on Théoden when the call came to gather at Helm’s Deep. What will he now think when his Marshals fail to return? All is lost,” Barech said softly.

His tiny wife raised her chin, forcing a confidence into her voice that she did not believe. “Éomer King will not desert us.”

The pleading that she did not even realize was in her voice reached his heart and Barech gathered his wife into his arms, taking a precious moment to comfort her as more shouts and crashes could be heard. The woman’s shoulders shook slightly. “No, the king will not desert us. It is all right, my love. We will find a way. Help will come.”

He gently bestowed a kiss to her forehead and then rushed to gather more ale for Gilmóod. The dark one did not like to be kept waiting and punishment could easily be doled out for anyone raising his ire.

By the time Barech returned with the ale, the fight was finished.

“How dare you!” hissed Erkenbrand from where he was being held between two huge men. Panting heavily, the thugs were literally supporting the Marshal’s weight between them, so battered was he. Blood flowed from all three of them. Erkenbrand had a deep cut over his eye and swelling of the area was already beginning to obstruct his vision. “The king will have your head for this outrage!”

“The king?” questioned Gilmóod blandly. “The same king who did nothing when I took over this little outpost? Oh, I forget,” he snarled. “He wasn’t king then was he? No, that pathetic, doddering old man was king, and he did nothing either.”

“You traitor!” roared Erkenbrand. “You and your kind are not fit to wipe Théoden’s boots, or Éomer’s! They are sons of Eorl! What are you, scum?”

Gilmóod was furious at the question. Mentally he cursed his father for ever taking a bride from Dunland. Obviously there was no way that his bloodline could compete with the line of Eorl. He forced himself to laugh. He would not give Erkenbrand the pleasure of knowing that he had pricked Gilmóod’s pride. “Take his ring. Cut off his finger if you have to. I want his seal on this message for Edoras.”

Erkenbrand struggled with all his might, and in the end, Scaro took the hilt of his dagger and knocked the Marshal senseless so that he could more easily remove the ring. Each Marshal of the Mark wore a ring specially crafted for him, and Erkenbrand’s would be easily recognizable to any in the king’s household.

O-o-O-o-O

Edoras

Hammock was intent upon his work, but he spared a glance over to where Hálith was rotating the horseshoes in the fires of the forge. The pair was working in a small building behind the stables where Hammock had set up a forge for himself.

“Turn them a bit more often, Hálith. You want to keep the temperature even.” He smiled as the boy jumped to grab the pinchers and turn the horseshoes. They burned red hot, and brilliant sparks leapt up each time he turned one of them over. The boy felt clumsy in the heavy leather gloves, but they were necessary to protect his arms from the embers.

“Why do you not simply use the horse shoes made in Bergfinn’s shop?”

Hammock smiled as he hammered away at the superheated metal. “I did at first,” he acknowledged. Setting the rounding hammer aside, he hefted the curved metal and gauged its evenness with a practiced eye. Stepping over to the barrel, he plunged the heated horse shoe into the cold water sending a spray of steam into the air between him and the boy before continuing his thought.

“I found that I preferred to custom make the shoes for the mounts of the Royal family. Their horses are all of pure Mearas stock and therefore require more exact shoes than the regular horses or the half-breeds. For one thing, their hooves are larger than the others, do you see?”

Hálith nodded his head as he concentrated on turning the heated metal evenly. “Hamm, why do you put the completed shoe into the water when it is still so hot? Does it not stress the metal? Wouldn’t it be safer to let the horse shoes cool on racks?”

Hammock smiled at Hálith, his tanned face showing the effects of many laugh lines around his cobalt eyes, and playfully used his knuckles to make a knocking motion on the boy’s head. “You are using your mind now Hálith. I like that. You ask a good question – one that generations of new farriers and blacksmiths before us asked.”

Hálith unconsciously puffed up his chest at the praise of his mentor. He had resisted learning the trade at first because his dream was still to be a warrior, a member of the king’s own éored, but now he found himself becoming more and more interested in the skills he was being taught by the quiet man with the white-gold hair and the startling eyes.

“The concept of rapidly cooling the metal first came to us from the deserts of Harad,” continued Hammock.

“Harad?” snorted Hálith, before turning to show his disdain by spitting on the ground.

Hammock was greatly amused at the show of bravado from the boy. “They are fine warriors, Hálith. You would do well not to underestimate them.”

“What would you know about warriors?” asked Hálith before he realized what he was saying. He quickly ducked his head and reddened at the implied insult to his mentor. The boy bit his lip and dared to glance up to meet the eyes of Hammock expecting to see censure. What he saw there was humor, and that confused him.

“I’m sorry, Hamm. I shouldn’t have said that,” stammered Hálith.

“I have not always been a farrier, Hálith. But you are young, and the young often judge by what they first see. We were speaking of Harad, I believe.”

Hálith nodded, shame still coloring his smooth cheeks.

“It was the blacksmiths of Harad that first developed the technique of quick cooling the metal to give it strength, though they perfected it for their swords and not their horseshoes.” Hamm frowned and shook his head slightly. “They would thrust the heated swords into the bodies of their slaves or prisoners to cool and strengthen them.”

Hálith gasped at that information. “That’s…sickening.”

“Yes,” agreed Hamm, “thankfully we have found less barbaric ways to cool our metal. Remember, Hálith, just because a man is cruel or barbarous does not mean that he cannot think or be innovative. Never underestimate your enemy,” he cautioned again.

Hálith stared at Hamm in wonder. The farrier nodded to the forge and Halith jumped to turn the horseshoes.

“How come you to know so much about Harad?” asked Hálith as he worked.

When Hamm did not answer, the boy risked a quick glance over his shoulder and found the man staring at the wall. “Hamm, are you unwell?”

The farrier had a far away look on his face. “What?” Hamm shook his head to dispel the memories and smiled once again at his young charge. Well, what did he expect? He had, after all, broached the subject himself. “I spent three years in Harad, Hálith.”

“Oh,” replied the boy, somewhat disappointed at the brevity of the response. He had hoped to hear a great tale of valor and battle.

Hamm sat back on an overturned barrel and fixed his eyes on Hálith. “I supposed you deserve to hear it all,” he said almost to himself. He sat quietly for a few moments before beginning. “My father was a merchant from Gondor. He met and married my mother when he was rather young and because she could not bear to leave the Mark, settled in Rohan. We traveled quite frequently so that he could peddle his wares.”

His visage darkened as he continued the story. “One day we were attacked by warriors from Harad.” He shook his head violently, “No, they were not warriors – not in the sense that we know warriors to be – for they were naught but butchers.”

Hálith’s eyes were wide and his young mouth hung open as he looked at Hamm. Never in his wildest imaginings did he expect to hear what he was hearing. He had to force himself to methodically turn the heating horseshoes with the large pinchers he held.

“My father and the other men traveling with us were burned alive,” Hammock said softly, oblivious to the horrified look on Halith's face. “My mother…” he caught himself before he could repeat the vile fate suffered by his sweet mother. His charge was, after all, still young and innocent. “My mother died too,” he said simply. “I was taken as a slave.”

Hálith gulped and swallowed noisily, as though trying to calm his stomach. “A slave?” he breathed to himself, hardly able to comprehend what that must have been like. “How did you get back?”

Hamm smiled again as he thought back. “It was a stroke of good fortune actually. My master had taken me north with him…to tend to his comforts at night. He was intent upon raiding in Southern Gondor, but he ran into the new, young Captain General of Gondor himself…Lord Boromir. It must have been one of his first excursions, so young was he. Aye, he was a sight to behold, I can tell you that,” mused the farrier.

Hammock ran his hands through his short hair and stretched the muscles in his neck. “I must be boring you with my ancient history.”

“No,” exclaimed Hálith. “I mean, please tell me. How did you ever get home?”

“Prince Théodred,” said Hamm. “He and the Captain General were fast friends. After Lord Boromir destroyed the Harad raiders and rescued me, he took me back to Gondor. He even paid the farrier’s guild the money so that I might begin training there,” he said in wonder. He turned to look at Hálith. “Can you imagine…for me, a simple slave from Harad.” He shook his head as though he could still not comprehend the kindness shown him.

“He must have been a great man,”declared Hálith.

“Aye, he was,” nodded Hammock, “and kind. He had a way about him that put you at ease. He never acted like he was the son of the Steward or expected different treatment. He also had a wicked humor that one did.” Hamm laughed softly to himself, as though remembering some funny incident from those days. "I can still hear his laughter in my head."

“Lord Boromir was Faramir’s brother, wasn’t he?” asked Hálith. “I can believe he was a good man from knowing Faramir,” he added shyly.

“Yes,” sighed Hamm. “They were brothers. I never met the Lord Faramir until he came here though. I lived there for only a few months before the Prince came to visit the Captain General. Once Prince Théodred learned of my presence, he offered to bring me back to Rohan. Even though we traveled so much during my youth, I missed the Mark something fierce. It’s not in my blood to live in the stone city.”

The pair was quiet for while as Hálith tended the horseshoes, passing them over to Hammock to hammer and shape once they were heated properly. While they worked, Hálith mulled over all that he had learned about Hamm.

“Hamm,” he asked haltingly, not wanting to insult his friend, but really needing to know. “Did you ever want to be more…more than a farrier?”

Hamm smiled at the boy, easily reading the earnest emotions written on his face. He placed his palms on either side of Hálith’s face. “Do not fear, young one, you have not offended me. You want to know if I ever wanted to be a warrior…to distinguish myself in battle and come home covered in glory?”

Hálith nodded shyly. “And…did you ever want to go back to Harad…to fight the ones who killed your parents?”

Hammock sat back on the barrel, his massive arms folded across his chest. “Yes, I did. At one time I wanted to go back and kill them all…to fight until the pain went away or until I could not hear my Mama’s screams in my head any more.” His voice trailed off for a moment as a deeply saddened look crossed his face. “But then I met a very wise man….a couple of them actually.”

“Lord Boromir and Prince Théodred?” asked Hálith.

“No,” said Hammock thoughtfully, “though they were certainly wise men. I am speaking of Bergfinn and Felor.”

“The smithy and the cripple?” laughed Hálith disbelievingly.

“Yes,” nodded Hamm, before fixing his charge with a stern look. “You are judging by the outside again, young one.”

Hálith had the good grace to duck his head under the gentle rebuke. “What did they teach you?”

“They taught me that each of us has value and worth…that the warriors could not protect us properly if they did not have the weapons that Bergfinn makes…or if the shoes for their mounts were not properly fitted. Someone must feed the army, lad, and transport the supplies for their encampment. You've driven the wains, Hálith, you know how difficult it can be, yet Felor learned to do it with ought but one leg. We all have an important role to play, and the warriors would be the first to admit it.”

“I never thought of it that way,” admitted Hálith.

“The éoreds receive the accolades of the people, and they richly deserve those accolades for the sacrifices they make for us all, but those of us who support the éoreds receive a richer reward…the appreciation of the warriors themselves. I would rather have the praises of the warriors than of the people.”

Steams rose again as Hamm dipped the last of the horse shoes into the cooler. “We are finished for today, Hálith. I’m sure you’re hungry. Go on back to the Meduseld, I will clean up.”

“No, thank you,” said Hálith. He smiled shyly. “I would like to help you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. In fact, I would like it very much. And when we’re finished we can walk down to Bergfinn’s smithy. I bet you didn’t’ know that his wife makes the best apple tarts in all the Mark, and I’ve been smelling them all afternoon,” he added conspiratorially. “You do like apple tarts, don’t you?”

A huge smile lit Hálith’s face. “I sure do!”

“Then come on. No one tells better stories than Bergfinn.”

TBC

To the King

Chapter Twenty

The Attitude of Honor

“I would prefer even to fail with honor than to win by cheating.”
- Sophocles

As he always did, Faramir marveled as he walked into the royal stables at Edoras. Never had he seen a stable so beautifully wrought and designed. How like the Rohirrim to lavish such care on the abode of their beloved mounts. He paused for a moment to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dimmer light, for the sun outside was extremely bright this afternoon. As his eyes adjusted, Faramir admired the stabled horses, awed at the quality of horseflesh arrayed before him. No horses in Middle Earth were better than these, nor more lovingly tended…each loved almost as much as dear child by their riders.

From the back of the stables Faramir could hear grunting and soft talking so he followed those sounds. He found Hammock using a hoof pick on Firefoot, grunting as the brute leaned against him. Faramir could not help but smile at the one sided berating going on.

“You care a great deal for him, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling in mirth.

Hammock started slightly and met his eyes, embarrassment showing at being caught cursing at the king’s mount. “Forgive me, my lord…”

“No,” Faramir hastened to interrupt, “forgive me for interrupting you. I was simply amused at the relationship you seem to have with Firefoot. I did not mean to disturb your work.”

Hammock finished his task and dropped Firefoot’s hoof. He patted the gray on the flank and stepped out of the stall. “No interruption, my lord. Is there something I can do for you…prepare a mount perhaps?”

“No, no,” said Faramir, staring at the man from under his fox colored lashes…suddenly insecure. “I came because Hálith told me that you knew my brother.”

“Lord Boromir saved my life, my lord. I owe him everything.”

“I never heard this,” marveled Faramir. “Hammock, your name is Hammock is it not?”

“Yes, my lord,” murmured the farrier. Though uncomfortable to be in the company of the Steward of Gondor, Hammock sensed the kindness as well as the unease in the man before him. “Would you like for me to tell you what I remember of him, my lord?”

Faramir’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, Hammock. If you would I would be most appreciative, and please call me Faramir. Forget my title and just talk to me as a man who is hungry to hear a story about his brother. Boromir always said that if a man lived for the past he would lose the present, but I was still young when Boromir assumed command as Captain General and I know little of his early exploits. Hálith said that Boromir freed you?”

“Yes, my lord…I mean, Faramir, he freed me from slavery.” Slowly Hammock began to tell the story. For his part, Faramir listened with rapt attention, longing to hear a story that would help him to once again feel connected to Boromir. For over an hour the man told his story, interrupted often by the Steward with questions about the Captain General. Hammock could see how desperate the young man was to hear this unknown tale of his brother’s kindness.

“He took me under his wing,” finished Hammock, “made me feel human once again. That gift I can never repay, except now perhaps to his brother.”

“That was Boromir,” said Faramir softly, almost dreamily. “He always fought for the oppressed. I was just five when our mother passed beyond the veil, and Boromir took it upon himself, though only ten years old, to see that I was lavished with all the love and care that he could give me.” He sighed, lost in a memory that was his alone.

Presently Hammock cleared his throat. “There isn’t more I can tell you. I wish there was.”

Faramir met his eyes gratefully. “You have told me more than enough, Hammock, and I thank you for it.” He stood and put his hand on the farrier’s shoulder. “I have kept you from your work too long, but I have just one more question.”

“Anything I can tell you I will be happy to do so, Lord Faramir.”

“Hálith has asked me to teach him how to scout. We thought to leave in a day or two for a brief scouting foray. Would you join us?”

Hammock was momentarily rendered speechless. “You would want me to accompany you?”

“I would be honored,” answered Faramir. “Please say that you will come.”

Hammock smiled and nodded his head, wondering at the strange twist of fate that had so allowed the threads of his life’s tapestry to become interwoven with the canvas of both Hurin brothers. “I will be glad to come.”

O-o-O-o-O

He became aware of the pain first. It seemed far away in the beginning, like something that he should perhaps bother with eventually, just not yet. But like a bad tooth that you can’t stop worrying with your tongue, it would not be ignored. Reluctantly, consciousness followed the niggling pain, drawing the warrior from the comforting prison of darkness where he was presently residing. A soft groan escaped his lips as the pounding in his head reached epic proportions.

Immediately Erkenbrand was by the warrior’s side. “Easy, old friend,” he cautioned, holding a small cup of water to the man’s lips. “Sip this,” he urged. The Marshal cursed at the chains hampering his movements.

Before Gamling could even get his eyes to open he was aware of Erkenbrand’s voice and then the wonderfully soothing liquid dribbling down his parched throat.

The two men were manacled to the wall of a tunnel, the movement of their arms and legs severely limited. It was dark and dank where they were being held, and Erkenbrand could hear what sounded like hammering in the distance though he could not see another soul but Gamling at the moment. Blood oozed down the side of Gamling’s pale face from the vicious cut in his scalp. There was also a lump on the man’s head from where he’d been bashed with the hilt of a rather large knife.

“How does your head feel?” Erkenbrand asked.

“Worse than it did the day after you got me drunk for the first time in my life,” mumbled Gamling. “Does that answer your question?”

“I see you have not lost your sense of humor.” Erkenbrand tried to help the man sit up. “Damn these chains! I cannot use both of my arms to help you. Move slowly, Gamling, you have been dead to the world for most of a full day now.”

“A full day?” Gamling marveled. “A night and a day have passed since we arrivied at Snowbourne?”

Erkenbrand nodded grimly.

Gamling used the leverage that Erkenbrand’s massive arm gave him to work his way gingerly up into a sitting position. He was panting from the exertion by the time he finished. “Thank you, my friend. You have more strength in one arm than most men I know in both.”

“My father ran a breeding station. I spent my youth hefting foals. A lot of good that strength did us yesterday,” added Erkenbrand bitterly. “I am sorry, Gamling. I should have listened to my own instincts. What an old fool I have become.”

Gamling shook his head slightly as he eyed his former Marshal. “I would have you by my side any day of the week. Neither of us expected trouble here.”

Erkenbrand snorted. “No? Well the king’s instincts were certainly on the mark. I should not have doubted him.”

“You doubted him?” asked Gamling, somewhat surprised. “You knew that Snowbourne did not answer the muster.”

“Yes, I knew, but I believed that there must be a logical reason. I have known Marshal Garoth for many years; I could not believe that he would commit treason.”

“So you doubted Éomer?” Gamling said quietly.

“Not the man, Gamling, never the man. His honor is beyond question. It was his vehemence that I questioned, I am sorry to say.”

“I have had the privilege of watching Éomer closely for the past few years. His instincts are uncanny. He will make a fine king.”

“Let us hope that his instincts do not fail him now,” replied Erkenbrand darkly as thunder rumbled across sky mirroring the Marshal’s mood.

“Why do you mean by that?” asked Gamling.

“Those brigands took my ring, Gamling. They mean to send a message back to Edoras under my seal. I know not what harm my foolishness has unleashed.”

O-o-O-o-O

As the rains fell, Margeth walked as quickly as she could to her small home located at the edge of the Snowbourne encampment. Her slim shoulders were slumped by fatigue and discouragement, for it had been another trying day. The woman and her husband worked long hours in the manor house and longed for the blessed relief that returning to their small cottage each night afforded. Here she and Barech could relish the peace that home and hearth provided…could feel a breath of freedom in the memories of better days that seemed all the more real when spoken of within these humble walls.

Stepping in the door she hung her dripping shawl on a peg by the door, her mind already on how they would share a simple fare of soup, bread and ale. Margeth moved across the darkened room unerringly. For all the years of her marriage this small house had been her home, the place where she had borne and raised three sons. Margeth’s heart lurched, as it always did, when she though about her boys. The two oldest were lost to her…killed during the years of constant war against the evil ones. The youngest Raolf, please Béma let it be, was still alive and being held with the other warriors forced now to work in the long abandoned mines.

The woman had just gotten the fire in the hearth blazing when a noise startled her. Spinning to look towards the source of the sound, Margeth gave a small gasp as a form materialized from the darkened corner.

“Raolf?” she breathed. But it could not be Raolf, could it?

The shadow continued to move towards her haltingly as she stood frozen, her eyes unable to make sense of what she was seeing. Slowly the boy stumbled towards the light, finally revealing young features marred by pain and grief.

Margeth could see that it the young man was not Raolf, but she did not know him. What was clear to her though was that the young man was in pain. There was blood dripping onto the floor from a wound she could not see. Still she could not force herself to move.

“Who are you?” she finally managed to murmur.

“Please, help me,” breathed the young one. “I could not go further.” He stumbled and fell against the table, catching himself by bending over the wooden structure.

Her fatigue forgotten, Margeth found her legs. She rushed over to the man and guided him to the closest chair. She could now see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. She helped the boy to put his head down on the table when he moaned and appeared to grow faint. “Here lad,” she soothed, “just rest here a moment. Keep your head down until the dizziness recedes.”

“I am grieved to have frightened you, mother. I knew that I could not elude them in the mountains as wounded as I am, yet I must survive to summon help for my Marshal.”

“You poor dear, you are soaked through.” The woman poured some water from the pitcher on the table onto the edge of her apron and began stroking the back of the boy’s neck and washing the mud from his face. “Here, rest easy, this should help to settle your stomach. Just take deep breaths.” She took his hand in her own, a simple move of comfort common to all mothers. “Ach, your hands are like ice.What is your name, son?”

“Dageth, my name is Dageth.”

The woman could not help but smile. “Our names are similar. Do you come from the Westfold perhaps?”

“Yes,” said Dageth softly. “Have you any word of the Marshals or my éored?”

“They live,” replied Margeth bitterly. “Gilmóod always keep them alive to work in the mines, if you can call that living.”

Dageth tried to rise. “I must help them…” His voice ended in a soft groan as he slumped back against the table.

Margeth was by his side immediately. “You’re not going anywhere in this condition or it will be the last journey you ever take. You’ll be no good to them if you’re dead, now will you?”

The young scout could only nod as the kindly woman once again place the damp edge of her apron against the back of his neck.

“My husband will be home soon. He will help me get you to our son’s bed. You will be safe here until we can figure out what to do.” Margeth prayed her words were the truth, for she had no idea what went on in the great hall and whether or not Gilmóod’s men were even now search door to door for the young man.

The door opened admitting a blast of cold rain into the room causing Margeth to jump in fright before she realized that it was Barech entering the house.

Barech paused for a moment when he caught sight of his wife's frightened face. “What …” his voice faltered when he realized his wife leaned over a warrior.

“What is this?” he breathed, hurriedly closing the door behind him with a fearful glance backward. He pulled off his sodden cloak and it placed on the peg besides his wife’s shawl.

“Not what, husband…who,” replied the woman as she bathed Dageth’s neck and face. “Help me get him to Raolf’s bed. Then get him out of these clothes while I put on some water to boil. We must get that arrow out of his back.”

Barech hurried over to the table to help his wife. He recognized Dageth as the scout he had tried to warn with his eyes. “They will kill us if they find out we are hiding him.”

“You are the one who told me not to lose faith.” Margeth grunted slightly as she helped her husband with the man. “Besides, you would no sooner turn your back on a wounded man than I would.”

“No, of course I would not,” admitted Barech. “I was just surprised and concerned for you, my dear.”

Together they helped Dageth to a small bed situated off to the side of the room behind a wood and canvas partition. The couple carefully guided him to sit on the side of the bed so that his leather jerkin could be unlaced. As an advance scout, he had not worn the heavy armor normally worn by the éoreds.

“Bring me a knife, wife, for I must cut away the jerkin from around the arrow. It looks to be lodged in his shoulder, thanks be to Béma. Had it been lower it likely would have been a mortal wound.”

After Barech had gingerly removed the scout’s clothing and had the man settled on his stomach on the small bed, he worked to remove the arrow shaft aided by Margeth. The woman had given the warrior a strip of leather to hold between his teeth as her husband dug at the buried shaft. She did what she could to help Barech while comforting Dageth and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Not much longer now, child," she soothed. "Your mother would be proud of how brave her son is."

It took over an hour for Barech to painstakingly remove the arrow and search for the few shards that had splintered off. By the time he finished Dageth had passed out. Barech carefully wrapped the shoulder and covered the young man. He was ashen from fatigue, exhausted beyond belief as he looked at his wife. "I have done all I can. It is in Bema's hands now."

TBC