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A Rohan Ghost Story  by Katzilla

CHAPTER 4

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“That is wonderful. Simply wonderful.” Wormtongue’s expression told the orcs and Dunlendings around him that it was anything but. And how could the sight of a dead-end be after they had followed that trace at a frantic pace for the entire rest of the night and morning since their valuable captive had escaped? They had run over a distance of many leagues, only to be staring at sheer granite rock walls now? Curse those peasants! They had outsmarted him... for now. But their triumph would not last for long.

The only man among the nightmare host turned around to face his Uruk-hai scout, and deadly malice glowed in the pale blue eyes.

“So this is where the intelligence of your species ends. I should have known better than to trust your kind with this most important of tasks!”

The creature stared back at him from its towering seven-foot frame, uncomprehending.

“They were here!”

“Yes, Gârlâk, they were. I can see that.” Others would have been intimated by looking into the amber-glowing ferocious eyes, but Wormtongue was determined to stare the half-orc into submission himself. “But where are they now?”

He waited a moment longer to let his opposite know how unsatisfactory he found his performance, and then turned on his heel to face the rest of his army, his glance coming to rest on the warg and its rider. They stood a little apart from the rest, since the great wolf was clearly agitated by the pain of three arrows sticking in its side and tore apart whatever came too close to its mighty jaws, caring little whether it was friend or foe. It’s rider was clearly having a difficult time keeping his mount in check... but now Gríma needed his service. It were the warg’s special senses he had to put to good use now. He raised his voice as he addressed his army.

“Listen, my fighting Uruk-hai: The enemy is running from us. They are afraid. They chose to ridicule us with this little trick because they did not dare to face us openly. They dared not to confront us in earnest last night, and even now they want to rather play ‘Hide and Seek’ with us than wage open battle. They are nothing but filthy cowards. But will it ultimately save them? Can running and playing tricks save anyone from the wrath of the mighty Uruk-hai?”

“No!” A chorus of deep, throaty growls shook the narrow gorge they were standing in.

“I know you have been running since yesterday. But the enemy has been running the same distance, and they can’t be far ahead. In fact, they must be very close if they had to resort to using such a desperate trick. We must be almost upon them, and I know that you possess the greater stamina, not to mention the greater strength.”

“We are the fighting Uruk-hai!” the chorus roared in unison. “No one is stronger than us!”

“That is right! And promise you now, where I stand: Once we have the king back, I shall grant you the right to kill each and every man and woman who crosses our path! We were trying to be merciful to the people of Rohan, but they want our wrath. Now they shall encounter it!”

His gaze went over to the warg-rider. The orc understood what was expected of him and turned his steed around, growling a harsh command into the furry ears while he knew all to well that if he made one mistake, he could just as easily end up in the beast’s stomach himself. The wolf raised its ugly head into the wind. The scent was faint, but it was there... the scent of horses... men... and blood. It was that last scent which spurred the great predator into motion...

***

            Hot. And cold. And hot. And cold again. A bone-chilling cold, one not even the fur-laced blanket they had wrapped around him could hold off. His teeth clattered, no matter how hard he clenched his jaw, and his shoulder was killing him. The shaft was gone, or at least the part of it that had protruded from his body, but it felt as if the main part was still embedded in his flesh. Presumably, Elfhelm had tried to draw it while he had been unconscious, and the movement had inflamed the wound anew. When would his ordeal ever end?

            The answer was simple: when he died. For the first time ever, the king cursed his sturdy constitution. Presumably, others would have already surrendered to the hardships which he had endured over the past two days. They would have broken their bones in the two falls he had taken; given in to the harsh autumn conditions and to Wormtongue’s potions and mind-corrupting approaches… or to the poison flowing through his veins from the wound. The stench told him that it had begun to rot, and usually, once that stage was reached, it did not take long for most men to perish… yet he was still here, seemingly condemned to empty the bitter cup which had been handed to him all the way to the ground. The Valar could be cruel indeed … If destiny presented him with a chance to shorten his ordeal after all, Éomer was determined to seize it without thinking twice, no matter whether Elfhelm’s men would view his decision as yet another act of cowardice.

            The wind shifted and blew snow into his face. It was falling plentiful now, and while it did not pose a problem for their advancing yet, it was clear that they would leave a broad trace for the enemy to follow – if he was close enough to see it before the snow had covered it up again. It would make the narrow mountain paths they would have to cross shortly before the village they were headed for slippery and dangerous, and if it continued to fall for long, would ultimately render them impassable. Éomer did not fear for himself, but if yet more men were to die because of him… He swallowed and grimaced at the pain in his dry throat. Was he, on top of everything else, also coming down with a sickness now? Over the course of the last hours, he had developed a cough which frequently rattled his battered body, but had thought nothing of it. And why, really? Maybe it would speed up his passing, so it was something he rather welcomed.

            Something moved on the slope to his left. Looking up from under his eyebrows, head still hanging, Éomer caught a glimpse of something whiter than even the snow dancing on the hill. Sleipnir was back! Even though the ghost horse had headed straight for the battle when the king had seen it the last time, there was not a single stain on its radiant hide, neither blood nor dirt. It looked impossibly beautiful. Such must have been the sight of Nahar, the horse of the Valar and sire of the Méara-race. A dancing, powerful, yet weightless seeming shape of impossible grace which almost scorched his eyes. When, oh when would the stallion come for him at last?

            Éomer watched for a while longer, but when it became clear that Sleipnir had no intentions to approach him yet, he shifted his attention to his own horse. His beloved Firefoot had not become Gríma Wormtongue’s marching provision after all. While he was feeling immensely relieved in that regard, it also dawned on the king that his foe had lied to him.

What else had he lied about?

Too weary to follow the discomforting thought down, Éomer turned his thoughts once again to his horse. As it seemed, the animal was the only friend left to him, but of course the responsibility for his unlucky situation lay entirely within his own hands. The grey had followed him all the way from the Méara-valley to the Westfold, and while the strong bond between a Rohirrim and his horse was commonly known among the people of the Mark, Firefoot’s demonstration of just how strong that bond could be warmed Éomer’s heart. He would have liked to touch the stallion’s neck, but they had tied his hands to the pommel of his saddle.

            ‘Just like Gríma,’ he thought, embittered. Another voice in his head insisted they had simply done it to prevent him from falling, but he did not listen to it as he stared at the blurred shape of his former friend who was riding in front of him. ‘You would not follow my orders when I asked to be left behind, and instead put me through the indignity of first lifting me onto the saddle and then tying me to it. What else are you planning to humiliate me, Elfhelm? Are you enjoying yourself, old friend?’

            “Éomer? My lord?” The voice came from the right. They had noticed he was awake. Bad. He did not long for their attention… nor for their pity. Pity was the last thing he ever wanted. Pity and shame were two things closely connected to each other. One had to work to earn the jealousy of others, but pity came free and usually originated from the fact that one had failed to look after oneself. Pity was the result of ineptitude. He wanted none of it. So he ignored the scout and his question whether he wanted something to drink. Better to ignore them all, all the more since their display of compassion was nothing more than a blatant lie. If Elfhelm let them, that expression would disappear from their faces faster than Shadowfax could run. There was no doubt in his heart that the men he had once believed to be loyal to him would sooner spit in his face than help him if it weren’t for the fact that he was still their king.

            A cold gust, its force increased by the narrow gorge they were travelling through, nearly unseated Éomer. His strength was waning, the effect of Wormtongue`s potion almost gone. Thanks to Elfhelm, he could not fall… but when they reached the pass and looked down onto the rocky terrain below in the slowly fading daylight with their destination barely visible on the horizon, Éomer’s vision caved in once again and he sank onto his steed’s neck…

***

            “Éomer? Éomer, can you hear me?” A pause. The notion of hands seizing him from both sides. He grunted, unwillingly. Why couldn’t they just let him sleep? “Careful, Findárras. Thor, cut the ties.”

            “Aye.”

            They had stopped. There were voices all around him now – men, women, children even, shouting and whispering. Dogs barking. He heard his name several times, yet could not follow what they were saying about him. Although… he cared not to know.

            “Slowly now. We must not let him fall.”

            “What has happened to him?”

            “Later. We must first get him safely into the hut. Have you found the healer yet?”

            “She is already in there, tending to the men that were wounded in the attack. They arrived shortly before us.”

            “Good. – Thor, now let go… slowly!”

            They were pulling him off the saddle. So they had indeed reached their destination, wherever it was that Elfhelm had wanted to go. Following a sudden impulse, Éomer opened his eyes – to twilight. But something was sparkling in the grey light, and while he was gliding towards it, it became clear to him that it was the elaborately worked hilt of the marshal’s dagger. A dagger! A sudden surge of adrenaline flooded his veins. A moment later, his feet touched the ground and he doubled over, held by Elfhelm’s strong arms – and went for the steel blade, had it drawn from its sheath and turned on himself before his former friend could react.

“Éomer!”

Shouts and shrieks from all around him as he pushed the dagger against his stomach with violent force. Rough, hard hands closed around his and turned the blade upwards at the last moment, and the steel cut through his tunic without breaking the skin.

“Éomer, no! Are you mad? Let go!” the older man roared into his ear, fingers still closed around his hands in a desperate attempt to wrestle the dagger from him. “What are you doing?”

The king fought with fierce determination, but had no strength left, and now even more hands seized him and held his arms.

“Take your hands off me, all of you! That is an order!” There was not even enough breath left in him to shout. He pushed again, but was no match for Elfhelm’s brute strength, all the more as he was basically fighting one-handed. As his knees started to buckle from exhaustion, Éomer had to admit that there was nothing left in him to win this fight.

“I told you before that I do not accept orders from a man who is not in possession of his right mind,” the older man said matter-of-factly. “Now let go, my friend!”

The dagger was unceremoniously wrenched from his fingers with one final tug. Éomer felt like crying out in despair. This had been his one chance at ending it… and he had failed. As it looked, Elfhelm was determined to make him suffer all the way to the end. Curse him!

“Stop calling me that,” the king somehow managed to mutter through his tightening, hurting throat. “If you still were, you would let me end it. Although I cannot blame you for feeling this way.” He sagged and felt the support of strong hands under his shoulders. They half-carried, half-dragged him into the healer’s hut, a large, sparsely decorated wooden structure with a nauseating mixed smell of blood, sweat, smoke and herbs deeply set in the wood.

“I am afraid I do not understand a word you’re saying,” the marshal responded, sounding thoroughly bewildered. “Why wouldn’t we be friends anymore?” They came to a stop in front of a bed. “Careful now! Just let yourself fall, we will hold you. That is good.” Éomer’s legs were lifted, and someone pulled off his boots before they turned him around on the mattress and carefully laid him down. The short way from his horse to the bed had left him utterly spent and on the brink of unconsciousness again, and for a moment, he was unable to speak.

Elfhelm granted himself a few deep breaths before he addressed his second-in-command, his eyes still on the wounded king. This whole business was getting stranger by the second, Éomer’s behaviour nothing short of a complete mystery to him. Just what had happened to his long-time friend that he had tried to kill himself? He would have to find out.

“Findárras, go and seek the settlement’s captain. He shall send us a smith to rid him of these accursed ties on his neck and wrists. Then tell him to organise the evacuation of the village. Assist him in any way that you can. I want every man, every woman and every child to leave the village within the next hour. Tell them to take only what provisions they can carry and head north, as far towards Fangorn as they can. We will draw Wormtongue away from them, but it will still be better if they are not within his reach. Also tell them to set loose their stock. I don’t know what Gríma plans, but let’s not provide easy targets for his Uruks. If they are in a haste to follow us, they will not have the time to go hunting for the animals. Maybe they will spare them this way. Arnhelm, see that our horses are tended to. They shall have whatever break we can grant them, even if it won’t be for long. Let the men feed them, rub them dry and take their saddles down. It will be more work to saddle them anew, but we owe them this much.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“What about the settlement’s éored?” Findárras inquired. “We could use the reinforcements, even if they can only provide twenty men.”

“Ten of them shall accompany us then. The others will be needed to ensure the people’s safety. We cannot let them run through half of the Westfold without protection.” Another pause.

“Aye. Anything else?”

There was so much to think of and so little time!

“Who will be watching the fires?”

Thor raised his hand.

“I will, my lord.” He cast an uncertain glance at Éomer. “Unless you want me for some other errand...”

“No. I will be calmer if I know that you are out there. After the first fire is lit, I estimate that we have about two hours to disappear. But we have to make sure that we see it as soon as it’s lit.”

“Trust in me, Marshal. You shall know at once.”

“Thank you, Thor.” The scout gave him a small nod and went about his way. Elfhelm turned to the other man who was still waiting for his dismissal. “Findárras, I will be staying at the king’s side, so you know where to find me if anything needs my attention. I have a feeling that my presence here will be needed before long... and I still have to find out what that snake Wormtongue has done to him. I fear that Éomer’s strange behaviour has been caused by some foul trick of his. Maybe I can be of help.” A grim nod. His second-in-command returned it curtly and left.

With a deep breath and briefly wondering whether he had forgotten something, something important that could prove vital later, the marshal turned around to look down on the young king, expecting him to have passed out from the efforts the day had held for him. But he hadn’t. In fact, Éomund’s son was looking at him with a brooding, gloomy expression he had so far only seen directed at others than him.

“Why are you doing this to me, Elfhelm? Why are you putting me through this?”

It sounded as if Éomund’s son had barely strength left to utter these words, for he was hardly whispering loud enough for his voice to reach the marshal’s ears. Together with the drawn expression and deep lines on his face that told of his pain, it was enough to wrench the seasoned warrior’s gut.

“Eru knows I deserve it, but…I already am dishonoured. I am filth, and I admit it. What else do you want? Vengeance? Is this not enough vengeance for you? Is it your intention to humiliate me further by making me confess my crime out loud?”

The king was undoubtedly delirious, yes, yet his speech took the older warrior aback. Before the marshal could even think of a reply though, a slightly bowed, thin woman stepped up to them. She was walking with a barely noticeable limp and was wearing brown, woollen rags that had several fresh-looking blood-stains on them. Her weathered face looked wrinkled and aged and bore an uncanny resemblance to old leather. Elfhelm estimated that she had seen at least 60 summers, but it could just as easily have been 70. The healer? He had only visited this particular settlement once before, and the incident lay years back. He could not remember anymore. But if his second-in-command said that this woman had a good reputation, he knew he could trust the information. A scrutinising glance from deep blue eyes found him, and a bony hand was extended to him in greeting. He seized it, even if he was unaccustomed to this particular form of courtesy.

“Marshal Elfhelm! What can I do for you? Unfortunately, your visit comes quite unexpectedly for us, you must forgive me for the delay in tending to your men. I wished we would have had a warning.” She looked more closely at Éomer. “You brought another one?”

“Are you the woman they call Sarabande?” She nodded, but was already bowing over the king to tug at the torn tunic around his shoulder. Elfhelm grasped her arm and turned her around to face him. His voice was dripping intensity. “Then listen well, Sarabande: You never had a more important patient than this man!”

Elfhelm, no!”

The marshal cut Éomer’s injection short with an impatient gesture. He would have his say, king or not!

“This is King Éomer of Rohan.” The woman’s eyes widened slightly and once again trailed off to the man on the bed, a reaction Elfhelm found satisfactory. He had her undivided attention now. “He was gravely wounded in a fight two days ago, and there is still a large piece of an orc-arrow lodged in his shoulder. We need to get it out at once, and he will need to be moved again by moonrise at the latest, for our enemies are still on our tracks. I expect you to treat this patient with the utmost priority.”

The old woman neither flinched nor seemed overly intimidated by her high guest as she briefly gave her ruler an acknowledging nod and an only hinted at bow and then met the marshal’s intensive stare again. Out here in the Westmark, where assaults of rampant Dunlending forces were a firm ingredient of everyday life, she had grown accustomed to being barked at by high-ranking Rohirrim officers. She knew that the rough tone often employed when they were issuing their orders was nothing but a reflection of the men’s concern, so she had stopped taking offence a long time ago and simply concentrated on her task. Laying a hand onto Éomer’s glowing forehead, she waited a few moments before she finally answered.

“I shall see what I can do, my lord. Although I do not know about moving him so soon after the treatment.” A scrutinising glance later she continued, this time addressing the king directly: “Forgive me for stating the obvious, my lord, but you look very weak to me already, and your condition will not have improved after having that arrow dug out of your shoulder.” She opened the cut Elfhelm had made in Éomer’s tunic to peer at the wound, and the lines on her face deepened in concern. “Your wound appears to be badly infected, and you are also running a high fever. Even if the weather were not worsening as it is, I honestly do not think that what Marshal Elfhelm has in mind would be in your best interest.”

“Have you not heard me, woman? The enemy is still on our track!” Elfhelm interrupted her crisply. The woman did not seem to understand the situation. “There is no other way. I am loath to put him on a saddle in his condition as well, but a wagon would be too slow.”

Sarabande straightened and nodded thoughtfully as she retracted her hand and cut her eyes to the back of the long hut again. She exhaled and let her opposite know that way that she was still harbouring doubts.

“It is your decision, my lord marshal.… but before I can treat him, I will have to look at one of your men they brought in shortly before you came. He might die if we do not give him all the help we are capable of – immediately.”

A shadow fell onto Elfhelm’s face, but before he could answer, he was cut off by Éomer, the first words the king directed at the healer.

“Tend to him first.”

The marshal turned around.

“Éomer-“

I said, tend to him, first!” Éomer locked eyes with his former friend in a silent battle of wills. Beads off sweat ran down his face, but he did not shrink from his opposite’s piercing stare. His tone was quiet, yet firm enough to drive his point home and cut the discussion short. “It is my will. Marshal Elfhelm has no authority in my presence.” He did not acknowledge the woman’s presence by a single glance and only saw her shrug from out of the corners of his eyes. Then his attention was briefly diverted from his marshal as a radiantly white shape passed behind the open door, temporarily lighting up the twilight of the fading day. He knew who had come…

“If that is indeed your will, sire, I shall go now.” Sarabande bowed to him and then addressed Elfhelm again. “While I am gone, it would be most helpful if you could already remove his tunic. I will send someone to wash him. He needs to be clean before I can do anything.” With a reassuring nod, she turned to go, briefly touching Elfhelm’s hand. “Be assured that I will not take very long before I return. But we need to prepare him for the procedure, first, which is a task that can be done by someone else that me, and since your other kinsman is in dire need for help, too, I would not have to waste precious moments that could save his life.”

Grinding his teeth but having to admit the healer was right, Elfhelm dismissed her with a curt nod.

“I understand.”

She left, and for a few thoughtful moments, the Lord of the Eastmark watched her retreat into the back of the hut, his pensive gaze sweeping the beds that were temporarily occupied by most of his men who had been wounded in the attack. He sighed and finally turned back to his former apprentice, wearing a deep frown on his broad, bearded face.

“I cannot say that I understand you, Éomer.” Somewhere further back in the long hut, a man was crying out in agony, and Elfhelm’s stomach twisted into a knot as he recognised the voice of the young man who had been riding with him only for a brief time yet. Shaking his head in helpless frustration, he finally forced himself to turn his back on the gruesome proceedings and concentrate on his estranged friend. “Your wound is already rotting. Each moment that it poisons you could be one too much. You know very well how bad it is. Is it your intention to die?”

Dark eyes met his, and while the feverish glint in them was not to be overlooked, there was also rock-hard determination written in them. At least some part of the Éomer he knew was still there. But not enough to make the marshal feel at ease. He braced for his precarious task and inhaled when the king finally spoke.

“It is my intention not to have another man die because of me. There has been too much death already on my account.” Éomer coughed and had to pause to catch his breath, and in doing so, turned his head sideways and took in his surroundings in all their depressing detail. The simple wooden bed next to him was empty, but there was a large, dark, not at all encouraging looking stain on the mattress, and further back the king could see the healer’s helpers tending to Elfhelm’s wounded men, washing off blood with steaming cloths, sewing shut nasty gashes and dressing wounds. Éomer swallowed visibly and felt his voice getting caught up in his throat as he whispered: “So much death... and pain…”

His voice trailed off as Gríma’s voice recounted his crimes in the back of his head, and his gaze came to rest on the leather restraints that were fastened to the head-end of the bed. As an experienced warrior, he had had arrows drawn from his flesh twice before and knew what the ties were used for. There were ties for his ankles, too. They would fasten them before they would begin, and still they would presumably need at least two strong men to hold him down while they were digging into his flesh with their instruments. They would stuff a cloth or a thick piece of leather into his mouth to give him something to bite down on, and then…

With a mighty effort, Éomer pushed the image behind his eyes back into the back of his mind. He would not think about the procedure now. It would become reality soon enough for him, what need was there to torture himself with these thoughts beforehand? But the effort was ill-fated when another cry rang out from the back of the hut. It brought back the memory of the exquisite pain in all clarity, and Éomer already dreaded to imagine what the procedure would feel like this time. To distract himself from his gloomy thoughts, the young king finally decided to cut his eyes back to his mentor who, in the meantime, had sat down on the foot-end of his bed. Where was the point in going through this agony?

‘Do you want to die?’

“You want an answer, Elfhelm? An honest answer?” Dark grey eyes turned to him expectantly. “Aye, I want for it to end. The sooner the better.” He saw the mighty warrior blink in consternation.

“I cannot believe I am hearing these words coming from your mouth.“ Elfhelm felt as if he had been hit in the gut by a battering ram. Éomer, who had always been the ultimate fighter, never ready to give up and surrender...wanting to die? Frantically, he searched for the right words, but nothing would come to him.

“Leave me be, Elfhelm. I do not want your help. I cannot and I will not allow that you to risk your life and the lives of your men for a man you justly despise.”

I despise you? Whoever told you that?” The bewildered expression in Elfhelm’s eyes with the raised brows was almost comical, but Éomer did not care to listen to his injection as he continued. He would only have the strength to go through this once, so he better made it fast.

“Rohan is in dire need of men like you. Men loyal to their kin... men our people can trust in and look up to in times of need... Maybe they will even make you their next king, for I could hardly think of a man who would be better-suited for the task. – As for me… I deserve what destiny has dealt me. I am content now with paying the price for my sins.”

The grey eyes in front of him narrowed in utter confusion.

“And what exactly would your sins be, son?”

“You know that perfectly well, Elfhelm.” Éomer mirrored his expression, only that it was glowering anger that sparkled in the deep brown. “Why are you still asking? Because you want to make this even harder for me?”

“Because I do not know!”

“Aye, you have forgotten, have you?” the king spat, restraint and understanding forgotten, for he did not want to believe what his former friend was putting him through. “You don’t remember that Midsummer Ceremony at Iséndras from two years back... and what happened afterwards!”

“Iséndras?” the Lord of the Eastmark rebuked, incredulous. Just where was Éomer receiving all these delusions from? He shook his head with grim determination. “We have never been to Iséndras for the Midsummer Celebration! We always went to Aldburg that day, as befitting the Third Marshal and his entourage. The Westmark is Erkenbrand’s realm, not ours. It is his responsibility to show himself to the people that look up to him; it was ours to represent Théoden’s power in the eastern part of the Mark. I cannot believe I should have to remind you of that!” No reply. “Théodred was with us that day, too! We stayed at your former home and went to the bonfires when the night came, and I challenged the two of you to a drinking contest and won! I was even laughing at you and saying something in the likes of ‘the youths not being used to Rohirric traditions anymore’ and what disgrace you and the king’s son were to us hard-drinking Rohirrim warriors! And I was laughing even harder when you took offence at that and tried to stand up to fight me – only to fall flat on your face! You were so drunk you didn’t even bother to get up and fell asleep on the spot! Maybe that is why you cannot remember anymore!”

“I remember quite clearly, Elfhelm, that is the problem!” Those grey eyes, silently cursing him for what he was about to do. Cursing him for what he had done the morning after, again wordlessly, but making sure that their message was being understood. “I see your face before me, the way you looked at me when I told you to summon that woman to my tent… You were disgusted, and it was justified!”

“In Aldburg? You were not staying in a tent in Aldburg, and there were no women in your home, either! Valar, you did not even make it home that night, you were too far gone! I had tried to set you up with two women who were battling over your attention the entire night, and you passed out right there at the fireplace! That is what happened at Midsummer two years ago! Even if you don’t recall the occasion, I do, because it was probably the only happy memory I have from that time before war came upon us for real! If you feel that this is something to be ashamed of, so be it, but killing yourself over it and leaving Rohan without a king would clearly be an extreme reaction... and quite irresponsible of you!”

“You think that this is the right time for jesting?” Éomer sneered, seething with red-hot anger. Why was Elfhelm doing this to him? The big man shrugged and just as quickly discarded his attempt to playfully coerce the king into sharing the truth about what was ailing him when he saw the intense rage in the dark, pained eyes.

“I thought the incident was something to be amused by, aye. But I wasn’t jesting. I still don’t understand-“

“Again, I was not talking about what happened in Aldburg.”

“Then tell me what you were talking about, for I still cannot follow your thoughts! Maybe you need to hear it once again: We never went to Iséndras for Midsummer, and certainly not two years ago! I remember that celebration very clearly, son, and I am certain that if you start thinking about it, you will realise that I am speaking the truth.” Elfhelm paused and took a deep, deliberate breath while he waited to detect a sign in the king’s expression that he indeed did. He also lowered his voice again as he was becoming aware of people turning their heads y further back in the hut. “That woman that you said you supposedly ordered me to summon to your tent...”

“Not ‘supposedly’, Elfhelm,” snapped Éomer, growing insecurity making his tone even sharper now. Nothing was adding up. There were pictures in his mind of the incident the marshal had described. He even remembered having been severely hung-over the next day, even though he was anything but untrained when it came to Rohirric drinking rituals. Stubbornly he insisted: “It happened!”

What happened?”

The big question. Was he man enough to say it? To admit it out loud? But Elfhelm knew already, so what was the point in getting swallowed up over his devious deed? Still, Éomer could not bear to look his friend of old into the eye as he finally said the words. They tasted bitter on his lips, and they felt wrong.

So much blood! Her blood! Her wide, blue eyes, glazed with horror and shock, staring at him. Crimson rivulets on porcelain skin. Delicate fingers touching her split lip... Valar, what had he done...!

“I- I forced myself on her.” He swallowed. “And I struck her… I- I hurt her quite badly and I don’t know what-“ To his surprise and, at first, intense anger, Elfhelm would not even let him finish his confession before he interrupted.

“Well, I know what: Gríma Wormtongue is ‘what’.” The marshal snorted in disgust. “I assume he gave you food while you were his prisoner? He did not starve you, did he?”

”I did not eat.”

“But you drank.”

“Yes, but-“

Finally, it all was becoming clear! Immensely relieved, Elfhelm ran a hand through his tangled hair and let off air. So there was the explanation! He should have been able to guess earlier. When he shook his head this time, it was with great conviction.

“No, my friend, there is no ‘but’. The filth poisoned you. He made you drink one of his vile potions and whispered his venom into your ears, just as he did with King Théoden. Valar, Éomer, we both spent years trying to fight Wormtongue’s influence over your uncle! Do you think he would have believed Gríma’s accusations and banished you if his mind had not been corrupted by that snake’s evil sorcery? You know as well as I do how Gríma had been telling nothing but lies to him! And it is beyond me how – as someone who has witnessed first-hand what happened to your uncle - you should be willing to believe this scum now that you are in the same place! To believe your greatest enemy – rather than an old friend?”

Finally, a first hint of insecurity on the king’s face! Confusion over the logic of his words. He was beginning to get through! But it was not enough yet. Éomer’s mouth worked as he tried to make sense of what Elfhelm had told him. Of the clashing images in his mind. Of the bonfires, of Théodred laughing into his ear over a dirty joke – and the sweet taste of wine from Théandran’s lips before she fought back.

“But – I remember it as if it happened yesterday! I can even smell her!” No more anger in his voice. Nothing but utter confusion was left.

What is your name, woman? – Théandran, my lord...’

Elfhelm’s big hand closed around his good shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The scarred face hovered over him and conveyed nothing but utter sincerity.

“Trust me, my friend, if you had attempted anything like this, I would have stopped you. I would not have brought you that woman and turned away, no matter what the consequence. I would have had some serious words with you to bring you to your senses… if it had been necessary. But you... and raping a woman...” He felt the insane urge to laugh into Éomer’s face, the idea deemed him too bizarre. He suppressed it. “In the past, you beheaded two men yourself for just that crime. Do you remember?” The younger man’s face said he did. “You never showed anyone mercy who was guilty of that act. Violence against those who could not defend themselves was the crime that always brought out the worst in you. And now you believe you would have stained your own honour in that manner? It is madness, Éomer!”

Silence. The expression of self-loathing and shame in his friend’s eyes had melted away and been replaced by a deep thoughtfulness. There was still uncertainty... but also thankfulness... and hope. A faint spark only, but one that Elfhelm was determined to nourish. He cleared his throat.

“Listen, Éomer... even if you do not believe anything else that I’ve said, believe me now when I swear that in all these years that we’ve been riding together, I have never seen you do anything that would have met with my disapproval… and you, of all the men I have been riding with, know best that I am a man of strong principles!”

The battle was won. Elfhelm could tell that – even though there was still a last shadow of doubt in his friend’s heart – he had chased away the demon that had been planted into Éomer’s mind by their old, common foe. The expression on the king’s face spoke more clearly than a thousand words: An exhausted, very weary, but unmistakable smile. Only a shadow, really, but it made Elfhelm’s heart beat faster with joy.

“Aye... that you are, Marshal Elfhelm.” Another coughing fit, but when it abated, the slight smile was still there. “When I was but a boy, your men used to call you their ‘high judge’ because your wrath would be horrible whenever you found a man not performing his duty.”

Yes! More of the ‘real’ Éomer. Elfhelm returned the smile, relishing in the sweet taste of one of the most important victories he had ever achieved. He had saved his friend’s mind, now they had to ensure that his body would endure. A battle he could not assist the young king in, as much as he would have liked to. His only help in this matter of life and death had to be to give moral support – and revive Éomer’s fighting spirit. The great warrior was certain that once his friend truly wanted to live again, he would win this battle. It was common knowledge among the Rohirrim forces that once their former Third Marshal and now king had set his mind on something, he was apt to plough through granite walls to achieve it.

‘I hope we meet again, Gríma! If we do, I shall wring your filthy neck for doing this to Éomund’s son!’ In spite of his usually stiff and always controlled bearing, the marshal patted the wounded man’s hand before he leant back.

“Aye, son, that sounds like a fitting name for me indeed… Believe me, you did none of the things that Wormtongue accused you of. He must have used his potions to plant them into your head.”

Éomer was looking straight through Elfhelm as he recalled the conversations he had had with the evil counsellor on their way to the doomed village. His voice had a faraway, dreamlike quality as he recounted his captor’s accusations.

“He told me that our men would loathe me. That I only made it through the ranks because of my ancestry and kinship with Théoden… “ His eyes focussed again. “And he said that the people of Rohan feared me... That my reputation among them was that of a ruthless and greedy man.” He could not bring himself to tell his old friend Wormtongue’s words about his crimes regarding Éowyn. For all the lies his captor might have told him for two days, the accusations concerning his sister still had a ring to them that sounded true.

The older man was taken aback by his words.

“For Éorl’s sake, Éomer, your people and your men love you! How can you doubt that even for a moment? Forget what that snake said. There is not a living soul in all of Rohan who would not crawl on hands and knees through the plains of Gorgoroth and back for you, even if the Dark Lord’s army were still there and torturing them every step on the way!”

He raised his head as a slender, young woman was coming their way with a bucket full of steaming hot water from where a fresh odour of herbs emitted. Elfhelm held out his hand to turn her around and make her face him as she stopped next to the king’s bed. “What is your name, woman?”

“Árdwyne, my lord.”

“Árdwyne, what is your opinion of our king? I order you to speak openly and freely, as the king demands to hear an honest answer from his people.”

“Elfhelm-“

“Árdwyne?”

“My Lord…” she bit her lip, clearly intimidated by the marshal’s intensive stance and also feeling Éomer’s eyes on her as she turned to him. It was an awkward situation. What to say? A hundred possible beginnings went through her head before she finally chose to keep her reply brief and simple. “I can only speak for those I know, the people of this village and our neighbours, but... I know of nobody who speaks not with the greatest respect of our king. The people of the Westfold love you and there was great joy when we heard the tidings of you becoming King Théoden’s successor. Just like the Lord Erkenbrand and the king’s son, you made us ever feel protected and listened to, even in those times when you were still the Third Marshal. We know that you and your men are constantly putting your lives at risk in order to care for us commoners, and it is something we do not have the words to thank you enough for. ‘tis is the truth, my lord.” She bowed and turned her gaze to the ground, her face turning crimson with abashment. A moment of silence ensued.

“Thank you, Árdwyne. Those were beautiful words.” Elfhelm raised his chin and looked down on Éomer in challenge. “Will this do, son, or shall I go and summon each and every of our kinsmen to this bed to tell you more of the same?” He would not have to, he could read it in the younger man’s softened expression even before he gave the tiniest nod of appreciation to the woman, too moved to speak. Elfhelm took a deep breath. The wave of relief that suddenly washed over him was almost painful. The woman’s wonderful confession had been the last straw. His friend was back. Now he had to endure. Having a goal would help him walk the rocky road that lay still ahead of him. “You will have to promise me that you will fight now, son.”

Another ghost of a smile.

“Don’t worry, old friend.”

“You want to see Gríma brought to justice, won’t you? You want him to bleed for all the evil he has done! Valar, I want to see him bleed for it, too! You owe it to Rohan, Éomer! You owe it to us as our king - you can’t let this filth triumph over you.”

“I won’t.”

Elfhelm liked the sparkle in the dark eyes he was looking into. He knew its meaning, had seen it often enough. Whenever that sparkle was directed at another person, that person was in trouble. Whenever it was lit by a difficult and complicated task, the task could be considered done. Éomer’s will was back. Elfhelm nodded grimly, the hand resting on his friend’s leg giving him a reassuring pat.

“That is the spirit, my friend.”

“Excuse me, my lords...” Árdwyne had been silently waiting at Éomer’s bedside and was now lifting up the bucket she had carried. “I am sorry, but the lady Sarabande will be here shortly, and I have yet to fulfil my task.” She cleared her throat before she addressed the king. “I have come to wash you, my lord.” A side-glance at the marshal. “Please, my Lord Marshal, if you could assist me?” She held up a cloth and looked at Elfhelm in silent question. Elfhelm nodded and drew his dagger.

“I assume you will have new clothes for him once you are done and I don’t have to be careful cutting these disgraceful rags off him?”

“Aye, my lord. The lady will bring them when she returns.” She turned to Éomer while the older man began to cut through the dirt-stained and ripped leather tunic. “I am sorry, Sire, but it would not do you any good if she had to open that wound further and afterwards put those dirty clothes on you again.”

“I understand…” Éomer was not certain whether his attempt of showing her a smile came through, but his attention was suddenly claimed by the sound of ripping leather as Elfhelm tore the last parts of his tunic apart with his bare hands, and he hissed at the sudden movement. A cold draught hit his heated, naked skin and caused his flesh to crawl.

“Sweet Eru…” the marshal’s broad face contorted to a deep frown as he eyed the black and purple bruises that marred the younger man’s upper body from the collarbone all the way down to the lower rips. “What did that snake do to you?” He bent forward to examine a particularly dark, hoof-shaped bruise on the king’s side as the healer’s assistant pulled a chair close to sit on and went to work.

“I fell under Firefoot. It was not Gríma.” Éomer closed his eyes and relished in the sensation of the warm water running from his brow down to his chin. Somewhere further behind in the hut, the man was crying out again, and he turned his head to look, but there were too many people standing around the bed. Deep lines of concern appeared on his forehead. “Who is that back there? The man they are tending to?”

“Bergon. You don’t know him. He just moved to the éored two months ago.”

“What happened to him?” Silence. Obviously Elfhelm did not want to tell him. Fine. There was someone else he could ask. The young woman was done cleansing his face and was just dabbing carefully at the gash on his brow when he sought her attention. “If you know, tell me, Árdwyne.”

She inhaled deeply. She had not wanted to tell for fear that the bad tidings would further weaken the king’s spirit. But what was she supposed to do when she was asked directly?

“He… he took an arrow to the stomach, my lord. I am afraid it is not looking good. Sarabande is doing what she can, but…” She shrugged. “Some injuries are beyond even our healing skills.” Her throat tightened, and she coughed to clear it while she put the dry cloth down and took the wet one from the still steaming bucket again to start on his neck and shoulders. Éomer fell silent. That man – Bergon – he was dying over there. For him. The knowledge put a bitter taste in his mouth now that he was actually close enough to witness the horrible results of Elfhelm’s attack. As it seemed, his friend had bought his life with the lives of his men… Was the life of a king worth the lives of eight soldiers... and most of the men at that doomed village? Was he worth it? Elfhelm said he was. Could all the images in front of his inner eyes in fact be the creation of the Wormtongue? But how could this be? He had seen the woman at Iséndras, and the villagers’ hate for him. How could all this be nothing but a hallucination?

The hot cloth arrived at the region around his bad shoulder, and he tensed. She noticed, and – if possible – her touch became even lighter, almost weightless.

“I am sorry, my lord... but it has to be done.”

“Aye, I know. Go ahead. Pay me no heed.” He turned his head to look at her. She had a plain, unremarkable face and tangled ashen hair that was bound in a tight braid. She was neither pretty nor ugly. Someone who – given her also quiet nature - would be easy to overlook under different circumstances. But here, from up close, in the middle of fulfilling her task, in the middle of helping people, there was a soft, magical glow to Árdwyne’s face that made her beautiful in a different way. There was comfort in her presence. He was in good hands...

               

***

            The snow was falling in frightening masses from the starless sky. Thor furrowed his brow as he looked back the way they had come earlier, his fingers subconsciously working the collar of his heavy fur-laced cloak to tighten it around his neck. It was cold, and the wind was further picking up. It was no storm yet, but it would soon become one. No weather to make for the narrow mountain path to Helm’s Deep, least of all by night. It was a little-known shortcut that – if they managed to get through on it – would put them almost a day ahead of their enemy as opposed to taking the much longer way on the Great East-West road across the plains. It was treacherous though, and now that the snow was accumulating on the slopes, they would not only have to worry about their enemy coming from behind, but also about avalanches.

            The scout’s keen, watchful eyes cut back to the distant glow on the horizon, back the way they had come. He had sent a messenger to the healer’s hut a short while ago with the news that the first fire had been lit. The enemy was indeed still approaching, even under these horrendous conditions. Wormtongue had to be desperate to come for them in the middle of the night. But of course he was. If his valuable prisoner was lost to him and the secret of Rohan’s uninvited guest spilled across the Mark, the late King Théoden’s false counsellor would be hunted for the rest of his lowly, miserable life wherever the slightest rumour of his appearance would surface. No, his only chance was to follow them and – if possible – kill them all, every single man of Marshal Elfhelm’s éored. Although… a man as cunning as Gálmód’s son also had to know that there would have been messengers deployed already, which had to be halfway on the way to Edoras with the tidings of his survival. Or was he assuming that Elfhelm would keep his men together, hoping that those one or two men additional men would make the difference in battle if he would not send them away? Who knew what went on inside that human demon’s twisted mind? He and his army were marching towards them, that – in Thor’s opinion – was all he needed to know for now.

His preoccupation was broken when he heard the crunching of snow under heavy boots from below and then someone ascending the wooden ladder to his watchtower. A broad, darkly-clad figure entered the platform, breathing heavily as he stepped up to the waiting scout who acknowledged his superior’s presence with a curt nod. There was one big question on his weathered, tanned face as he faced the marshal, scanning the man’s gloomy expression. He did not like it… not at all.

            “How is Éomer?”

            The larger man took the last step that separated them and placed his gloved hands on the wooden rail to gaze broodingly at the distant fire, his thoughts clearly still back in the hut. A thick, sharp scent of herbs emitted from him into the chilly late-autumn air.

            “He is resting now…”Elfhelm inhaled deeply and fought to keep the images he had witnessed over the course of the last hour from consuming his concentration. He could not afford to lose focus now. The situation was still desperate. His kinsman had learned long ago to read his superior’s moods and knew what the older man’s unusual quietness meant. Carefully, he inquired further, his eyes following the marshal’s gaze even if there was nothing new to see, his voice lowered in concern.

            “Where they able to pull it out?”

            “Aye…” Elfhelm bit his lower lip and then turned to Thor with a deep sigh. The tired and worried expression in his dark grey eyes spoke louder than words. “But it was hard for Éomer. The shaft was splintered into several pieces inside his shoulder when it punched through the bone.” His opposite grimaced. “The healer is certain that she found all the pieces, but… he is very weak now. The procedure was very painful, and he lost a lot of blood.” The marshal’s gaze went back to the faint flickering on the horizon as he shook his head helplessly. “I truly do not know what to do, Thor. I am at a loss. I have always been able to improvise even under the worst conditions, but... I cannot for the life in me imagine him on a horse in an hour… if we have an hour left, that is.” A silent question stood in his eyes. The scout pursed his lips pensively and took his time to consider his answer while he watched the snowflakes melt on the older man’s eyebrows. Finally he spoke.

            “The fire was lit a good while ago. We should not wait much longer, especially under these conditions.” He nodded at the thickly falling snow. “The Uruk-hai will have a better grip in this terrain than our horses. I do not know how exhausted they are, but I think it is safe to assume that they are still advancing faster than we want them to... and I am not certain at all whether we should attempt to cross this mountain path…  the rocks will be covered with ice, and there is of course the danger of avalanches to consider. In my opinion, we would stand a better chance at staying ahead of them on the plains... without risking as much.”

            “The storm will be devastating on the plains,” Elfhelm objected firmly. He knew those late autumn bouts all too well. “ And our horses are exhausted. We are exhausted! And I have just told you about Éomer. The healer is not even certain yet that he will survive, and if we expose him to these conditions any longer than we absolutely have to…” He did not end the sentence, but it was not necessary, for his kinsmen understood him quite clearly. The dark eyes widened in dismay.

            “She is not even certain of that?”

            “No.”

Again the distant echo of Éomer’s anguished cries in his ears, muffled by the piece of leather he was biting almost through in agony. The veins on his temples and the neck-muscles standing out from the effort, his whole body rigid to the breaking point from fighting against the pain, face contorted and eyes squeezed shut. Crimson rivulets running down his bare, sweat-beaded chest and ending in a red delta on the blanket he was lying on, soaking it. His desperate attempts to wrench his bad arm from his friend’s hold while the healer buried her instruments in his shoulder. Fighting so hard in fact that they had to call another man to help holding him down in spite of the fastened restraints, astonishing, given Éomer’s weakened condition. And he had fought like that for an eternity, or at least it had deemed Elfhelm like that. So long had the younger man refused to pass out that at one point Elfhelm even considered knocking his friend unconscious to lessen his suffering, and it was only just before he decided to act on his idea that Éomer’s body finally slackened under him, much to the relief of the people tending to him.

The rest had been easier, but still distressful, even though the marshal had seen his share of the carnage of battle over the years. He was not a man who was easily shaken… but the young king was a close, personal friend, one of the closest that he had, if he thought about it. He was the son of his former captain, the great Marshal Éomund’s son, and he had known the passionate, sincere young man from when he had been barely able to walk. Even though Elfhelm had made it a point in his military life to keep his distance from most of his men, he had always felt like an older brother or even parent to Éomer. In one way or another, there was no denying that the king was like family to the lone, seasoned warrior… which had made it all the more difficult to experience what had happened in the hut.

There had been a lot of blood, the bad smell of the infection, and the healer’s muttered remark as she washed the wound that it ‘would be easier to take off that arm and make the king pull through than keeping it attached to his body and do the same’. Elfhelm had looked in horror at her, not wanting to believe how serious the situation still was. How frail his friend had become, and that his life was hanging by a thread. They had rescued him, hadn’t they? How could he still be in danger when he was among friends? He had not wanted to believe what she told him next, either: that even if Éomer survived, his fighting days would be over, for his arm would forever stay weak. Elfhelm had looked down onto the young man’s sweat-drenched face, the jaw still tightly closed around the leather restraint despite the fact that he was unconscious, and was unable to digest the healer’s verdict.

He was still denying the possibility to himself as he fought to surface from his sinister thoughts and deal with the situation at hand. Time was running through his hands. He had to keep a clear head. Turning away from the faint glow on the horizon, the marshal looked down on the few huts this settlements consisted of, his lips a tightly drawn line. As a result of his second-in-command’s orders, the farmers had left their homes a short while ago, headed north towards the great plains on a narrow mountain path the enemy would not be able to follow them on. They had also done as they had been told and freed their stock, but the animals could not be convinced to head out in the chilly night while they had perfectly sheltered stables instead. Every time they had tried to force them out, they had headed back, even when they had closed the doors. The animals were still running around in the village in their search for a sheltered corner in the beginning snowstorm. They would be lost, there was nothing Elfhelm or anyone could do about it.

“Thor?” The younger man’s expression was telling him that his orders were eagerly anticipated.

“Aye, Marshal? What do you want me to do?”

Good man. He probably already knew what Elfhelm was going to ask of him.

“You pointed out that narrow part of the gorge to me shortly before we arrived. You said that it would be an ideal place to stage an ambush on an advancing army. Do you remember?” His opposite narrowed his eyes.

“You want me to go?” He did not question the plan, although it had to be clear to him that he would place his life in extreme danger if he did.

“Not to fight them, and not you, anyway. I will need you on that mountain path, as I have never travelled it myself. Find three good men and tell them to make for that place, and fast. When there, I want them to climb up-“ the scout grimaced at that, and he knew how ridiculous his order sounded, but what could he do? – “and send an avalanche down there, or a rockslide. The slope looked quite unstable to me, it should be possible to send a devastating hail of rocks down easily enough. But we need to block that path. We need more time.”

Thor nodded thoughtfully.

“Then I would suggest they do that just as the enemy is passing. We may be able to diminish their forces considerably.” He did not say that the men would put greatly jeopardising their lives this way. It would be a mission from which they would presumably not return. But of course Elfhelm knew that. The beat expression in his dark eyes spoke volumes as he gazed at his scout, deep in thought.

“Aye… it would help us very much indeed… but I will not give such an order. Let the men decide how they want to proceed. I cannot order them to walk to their deaths. If they block the way and delay Gríma, it will be equally valuable to us… just find them fast.” He forced himself into motion again, headed for the stairs. Time to get moving. “Abandon your post, Thor. We know they are coming. You are more valuable to me on the ground now. Find Findárras and order everybody to ready themselves for departure as fast as possible. I will go and get Éomer, and when we exit that hut, we will leave.”

“Aye, marshal.” The scout looked relieved that the waiting was finally over. “We shall be ready.”

***

            It was the crackling of fire he heard first when he surfaced from the abyss. That, and a tapestry of muffled voices in the distance. He listened to them for a while, but could not understand. Then the pain hit, and listening, or any other activity than lying flat on his back and trying to concentrate on breathing against the searing agony in his right side was out of the question.

            Was his arm still there?

            For a moment, an unspeakable dread filled Éomer and he did not want to open his eyes and find out. What if it was gone? What if… he was crippled now, forever doomed to encounter pitying looks from his kinsmen? Forever doomed to hide in the Golden Hall while his men went into battle like some weak, senile monarch shortly before his end arrived, because he was unable to wield a sword or shoot a bow? Short of having people he loved killed or suffering, that had always been his worst fear. He had never been able to look at kinsmen who had lost a limb without feeling a sharp sting himself and wondering how he would go on living if their fate would ever be his, too. What if he lost a leg and would never ever be able to ride again? What if a grave injury would condemn him to spend the rest of his days in forced apathy, never to leave the Golden Hall again? The answer had been simple – he would sooner die than surrender to such a fate. It would be like cutting the legs off a horse, the wings off a bird. He would accept neither pity nor a cage, no matter what fate had in store for him… and what if he would forever be remembered by the name of ‘Éomer the One-Armed’ by the people of the Mark? Would he be able to live with it? The thought was frightening enough to lend him the energy to open his eyes.

            It was still there.

They had bandaged his shoulder and bound his arm in an immobile position to his torso and then laid him on his side as to not disturb the exit wound on his back. Éomer also noticed that he was dressed in a warm, though slightly scratchy green woollen tunic and new breeches. A thick, fur-laced blanket was wrapped around him. Éomer’s blurred gaze found back to his shoulder. Even the gentlest turn of his neck punched the breath out of his lungs, but he just wanted to look at his arm again and take comfort in the fact that it was still attached to his body. He did not recall too much from the moment on that the healer had begun her work on him, other than the sour taste of leather in his mouth and the white-hot bolt of agony that had ravaged his mind like a ravenous, starved predator, digging into the essence of his being with long, sharp claws, ripping and tearing, shredding his conscious to pieces. Elfhelm’s and the healer’s helpers’ soothing, but fruitless efforts of calming him down. Sarabande shouting orders over his anguished grunts to the men holding him, issued in a cold, relentless voice devoid of compassion he had hated at that time. He did not have the energy to get angry at her then, and now that the procedure lay behind him, Éomer understood that the detached mindset of the woman was nothing but be a necessity for her to keep a calm mind in the midst of her gruesome work. Emotions like compassion would only be a hindrance when one had to dig into wounds of patients who were not even unconscious. She had succeeded in removing the remainders of the arrow from his body, and for that he was thankful, as his eyes went to the nearby table at the head-end of his bed. The splintered wooden pieces lay still there, and Éomer shuddered as he recalled the grinding sensation of wood and metal scrubbing against bone inside his body, and the creaking of his jaw muscles as his teeth ground down on the piece of leather in his mouth. His own muffled grunts and cries over the buzzing in his ears shortly before blackness thankfully claimed him.

            Speaking of which – he was tired. Entirely spent. He wanted nothing more than go to sleep again, but the pain and a premonitory feeling that he would not be allowed to rest for much longer kept him awake and uneasy. Gríma’s army was still tracking them, wasn’t it? He was certain that he had missed most of what had been going on due to his deranged state, but if he knew one thing about his foe, it was that Wormtongue would not give up so easily while he still appeared to have the upper hand. His Uruk-hai were fearsome, and there were a lot of them, certainly more than Elfhelm had with him. If they could not avoid open battle, they would be annihilated. That was a simple and unshakeable truth. Stretching his legs under the blanket, Éomer shifted his position just the tiniest bit to take pressure from his hurting hip.

He had just closed his eyes again and begun to sink back to sleep when the voices in the back of the hut increased in volume. There was a variety of them now, all speaking simultaneously. Something was happening over there, and from their anxious tone, he king concluded that it had to be something bad. He blinked wearily… but there seemed to be something wrong with his eyes, for the entire room was suddenly bathed in an obscure mist. But ‘mist’ was the wrong word, for while his view was not obstructed, it looked to Éomer as if the consistence of the air had changed… liquified, somehow. As if the interior of the hut were filled with water. And then he saw it - a faint pale hue pouring down from the ceiling to the floor of the hut; a thin, white mist that obstructed Éomer’s view as it grew increasingly brighter ... to solidify in the shape of a great, white horse. The neck proudly arched, it threw its head as it descended, and the long mane whipped the air and cascaded down over thick muscle like froth hitting the shore. The sharply-cut head, its silhouette keen and bold, was raised as it drank the air with flared nostrils, and when it turned around to look at him, the sight of large, empty black eyes bereft of life froze Éomer’s innards and knocked the breath out of his lungs as a violent black current seized him.

            Sleipnir had come for him at last. All the time, every single minute of the past one and a half days that lay behind him had the king waited for the messenger of the dead to come and claim him, had pleaded in fact to be taken along, away from his misery, and now that his time had finally come... Éomer suddenly found that he was not ready to go. If Elfhelm was right with everything he had told him to offset Wormtongue’s words... then he was not finished here. His people would not cheer when they heard about his death. His passing would weaken Rohan... and it would mean that, even if he had escaped from his foes clutches, Gríma Wormtongue would ultimately be victorious. He could not let that happen. His pride forbade it.

            The current was moving faster now, churning ever stronger towards the bottomless blackness inside as the great stallion of the Beyond stepped up to him, its massive and yet ethereal frame looking far too big for the confinements of this place. The searing brightness it emitted bathed the inside of the hut in an unreal light as the vapour it had travelled on oozed lazily over the stone floor, transferring the simple wooden structure into a mystic place. Slowly it walked, and silently, with a majestic grace to it that inspired awe and a dreamlike quality, as if it were wading through water rather than air. Its presence was as cold as ice and froze Éomer’s breath as he laid on his side and stared, unable to move, a faint trail of vapour coming from his mouth as all warmth fled his battered body. His dazed mind raced as the ghost horse’s terrible gaze found him again. The black current seized him with black fingers, slowly pulling him into the void. A single short word came to him, instinctively. A word he rather thought than said, felt than heard; a word that was filled with sudden conviction through every fibre of his being...

            ‘No...’

            The horrible black eyes passed him again, and even if the sockets seemed to be empty, Éomer had the distinct sensation that there was something moving beyond them. Sleipnir was rolling his eyes at him. Threatening him. Coming closer, the chill of his presence was enough to freeze the heart of the mightiest king. There was a question he was being asked, Éomer felt, and it would be asked for the last time. He was certain.

            ‘No!’

            The black sockets lingered on his feeble body for another endless moment, during which the pull diminished… and finally abated as the ghost horse turned away from him. Following transfixed as the unreal shape made its way further to the back of the hut – through the beds and tables and through the people - Éomer finally understood. There was someone else to tend to here. He had been given the choice. He could have gone if he had wanted to. Poor Bergon further back was denied that choice. Sleipnir would take him, whether he wanted or not. Nobody noticed the radiant white shape as it approached them, its mane frothing around the thick neck even though there was no wind inside these walls to brush through it, the long tail swishing from one side to the other. The king knew he had by some means unknown to him passed into a half-world in order to see the messenger of the Valar. As he looked on, a bright, at first shapeless sphere, too brilliant to look at, rose from the circle of people standing around the fatally wounded soldier’s bed. It flowed over the ghost horse’s back and when Sleipnir turned around and thrust his ethereal body into the air to ascend to the realm he was king of himself, Éomer caught a glimpse of a man-like shape, the shortest look of a young, relieved face, released from his suffering. Bergon’s spirit was looking his way, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met… and Éomer found that the deep thankfulness he was feeling towards the young kinsman who had given his life to free his king was being understood. Ghostly pale lips formed a warm smile as the man’s mighty steed took a mighty leap into mid-air… and then everything flowed apart, and the king of Rohan was looking at his marshal’s face.

“Éomer? Éomer, what-“ The marshal turned around, alarmed by the younger man’s mesmerised stare, but the space behind him was empty. “What is it? What are you seeing?” He hurried to make the few steps over to the resting king, and an icy chill trickled down his spine. His friend was still looking through him as if he weren’t there. Elfhelm had seen that look before… on the faces of warriors who had died in the aftermath of battle. He was horrified to find it now on the younger man’s face. “Éomer?”

            Éomer blinked. Finally, a first sign of acknowledgement that the king had indeed noticed his presence as his eyes slowly traced back to the marshal’s face as if he were waking from a dream. Elfhelm was relieved, but not much.

            “His name was Bergon, you said?” The trance-like quality of Éomer’s voice would have been enough to freeze Elfhelm’s innards if they had not been frozen already, but his words did even more damage. What did Éomer know?

            “The man they are treating back in the back of the hut? Aye. His name is Bergon.”

            “He is dead.”

            Elfhelm was stunned. For a moment that felt like an eternity, he stared at his friend’s face before he felt bodily able to turn around and follow Éomer’s gaze – and there he saw the young woman who had introduced herself to him as Árdwyne lay a blanket over the deceased warrior. A sharp twinge of pain shot through him.

            “He died for me, Elfhelm…” There was a desperate sadness to Éomer’s husky, whispering words as the marshal kneeled down next to his bed, still looking spooked.

            “He died to protect you, son, and I am sure it was a good death for him, all a soldier could ask for. He died in performance of his duty – and he succeeded in freeing you. If I had died that way, I would have been content with it.” He swallowed. “We will take him with us when we leave. His body shall not become fodder for Wormtongue’s foul army!” Elfhelm noticed that Éomer’s attention returned to him. “You frightened me for a moment. I thought…” But did he really want to share his thoughts? But the king’s scrutinising stare seemed to go right through his defences and see the inside of his mind. Even though he looked exhausted and pained, there was a sudden, unnatural keenness to his already sharp senses.

            “-that I was dying?” Éomer could see that it was so. A ghostly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, one that had nothing to do with humour… only with the fact that he could hardly believe his own words as he spoke them. He, arguably one of the most rational-minded warriors of the Rohirrim was about to ruin his reputation! “I saw the horse, Elfhelm.”

            “The horse? Which horse?”

            “The White Horse… Sleipnir.” The older man stared at him, for once at a loss for words. His face turned ashen as he caught the implications of Éomer’s words. It could not be!

            “Èomer – you are fevered. It was a dream.”

            A hard glint sparkled in the dark eyes, one that had nothing to do with the fever.

            “I saw him, and it was no dream. He took Bergon’s spirit away with him. Bergon was smiling…” He paused. “I heard about that ghost horse so often, Elfhelm, and I never believed in it, either. But I do now.” The smile deepened, but it was mingled with profound melancholy. His words, meant as comfort, instead troubled the older man even more deeply as he laid his hand again on the king’s brow. Lines appeared on his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a sound, Éomer cut him off, angered. “It is the truth, Elfhelm. When have you ever heard me lie?”

“I am not accusing you of lying. But you are not in the condition to-“

“You have heard these words countless times before, I can read it in your eyes! And yet when you hear them from a good friend, you still choose to ignore the truth behind them.”

            “I remember we had more than one discussion about this ‘ghost horse’, my friend. And I remember very well that we both agreed that it belonged into the realm of legend. That is was a part of Rohirric mythology.”

            “Aye… I recall I said that. But I was wrong.” The lines on Elfhelm’s forehead deepened in a frown, and his expression became so troubled that Éomer felt inclined to calm his friend down by grasping the older man’s hand. “Fear not, Elfhelm. Legend says that the ghost horse comes only to the dying… but he let me choose. And I chose life. I will not die… at least not now. I still have a task to fulfil: to rid the Mark of Gríma Wormtongue’s ugly face!” He gave the marshal’s hand a slight squeeze.

            Elfhelm took a deep breath and lastly, forced himself to smile. This was a haunting conversation they were having, one he had not the heart to lead if he had been given the choice, but at least Éomer had ended it on a slightly optimistic note, even though he could not tell whether the displayed determination not simple make-believe. Something his friend had only said to end his worry… and he could not afford to waste any more time on it, as disturbing as the subject was. Sizing up his wounded friend with another thorough look, he finally forced himself to proceed with what he had come to do. Findárras would be here to assist him, soon.

            “Éomer… I know you have been through a lot, but…”

            “We have to move on.”

            “Yes.” Silence. They could both hear the wind roar around the hut. Éomer’s gaze passed the marshal as he stared at the window to see the darkness and swirling snow behind. The dread on his face was unmistakable. Elfhelm could not blame him. “How is your shoulder? Do you believe you can stay in a saddle?”

            “It is not my choice to make…” Éomer swallowed, frightened by the prospects of having to head out into the raging elements. The dark eyes found Elfhelm. Yes, he was frightened. “Is it?”

            The older man shook his head.

            “I left some of our men at the watchtowers along the way. The first fire was lit a good while ago. Wormtongue’s army is coming for us. We must leave.”

            “Where are we going?”

            “Helm’s Deep. It is the only place we could maybe defend against an enemy of greater number… although it has not been repaired yet…” Elfhelm went silent, knowing fully well how it sounded. “We can’t afford to draw that army to another settlement. You know what would happen.”

            Éomer looked him straight into the eye and braced himself for the effort that was lying ahead of him. As his friend offered his hand to help him sit up, he grasped… and hissed at the intense pain as Elfhelm pulled him into a sitting position.

            “Aye, I know…” He grunted and fought against a severe fit of nausea. His whole side seemed to be filled with liquid fire. Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to concentrate, Éomer somehow managed to ask between shallow, hasty breaths: “Will we stand alone at the Hornburg or did you send for reinforcements?”

            “I sent two messengers to Erkenbrand’s residence from Iséndras. They should have reached him by now, but you know how long it will take them to get to Helm’s Deep from there, especially in this storm.” Elfhelm fought to steady his swaying friend as a voice came from behind, stern and admonishing.

            Marshal Elfhelm, may I ask what you are doing?”

            He turned around to face the healer.

            “I believe you know, my lady. It is time for us to leave. The enemy is already very close. I told you when we came that they were still on our track.”

“And who would the enemy be? Why can we not fight against them here?”

“It is a host of Uruk-hai, at least three times as great as my éored. We would not stand a chance.” Elfhelm paused. Saying it out loud made it more believable for himself, too. He was by no means eager to head into the snowstorm himself. “Believe me, Lady Sarabande, I would much prefer to stay here for the night, but if we did, we would die. Our only chance of survival at this time, as unlikely as it seems, lies in running from them until reinforcements arrive.” He heard his second-in-command enter behind him, and for a moment, got a first taste of the icy gusts of wind which had blown the wiry, red-haired Findárras into the hut.

“Marshal Elfhelm, the men are ready to leave. As you commanded, ten men of the settlement’s éored will accompany us. All others have been on the way to the plains since moonrise.” His gaze fell on the two healers and their two helpers, the only people left of the village’s population. “I trust that you are set to leave, too, my ladies?”

The old healer eyed him for a moment longer and then shrugged as the woman who had introduced herself as Árdwyne stepped up to her with a questioning look on her face.

“There are none left for me to tend to here, except for the king…” Her gaze returned to Éomer, who, from the effort of sitting alone, was already drenched in cold sweat. “And he shall need me before long, I am afraid. Although what I should do for him once we are out there in the night, I do not know.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, my lord, but wouldn’t it be wiser to head into the mountains and hide until they have passed through, and then return? There are many suitable places we could reach fairly easily – even some huts. Alone having a roof over our heads would help!”

“It will not do,” Éomer decided to use what had remained of his authority to end the discussion. They had to keep moving. It took a great effort just to raise his head and look into the old woman’s pale blue eyes. “His vision of her was blurred and misty before it finally stumbled into place. “They have a warg with them, and the Uruks’ sense of smell is too good for us to simply hide in a cave and hope they will pass us by without noticing. They would find us. No, we must go.”

She shook her head.

            “Sire, your wound has barely stopped bleeding…. you are in no condition to ride…”

            “No…” Éomer summoned Elfhelm’s second-in-command to his side with a mere look and braced before he let the men pull him to his feet. “But I will have to. Like you. Prepare to leave.”      

***

            “Firefoot…” The way to the stables had been long and hard, and he had only made it with Elfhelm’s and Findárras’ combined strength. The vague relief on the other warriors’ faces as well as their greetings and words of support had helped him as well as he had stumbled through the snow. Gríma’s words were still all too prominent in his head, but when he had finally dared to look his kinsmen in the eye to determine for himself whether his friend’s speech had indeed been founded in truth, Éomer had found nothing but pride and reassurance in their faces... and worry. No disdain. No hate. Despite the fatigue that had claimed his body, he felt better.

He had nodded his thanks and appreciation to them and then concentrated again on staying on his feet against the sudden light-headedness that threatened to overwhelm him just before they reached the stables. His body was folding frighteningly fast, and he was freezing even through the two layers of clothing they had put on him.

Yet still Éomer experienced a brief moment of happiness as he was allowed to greet his beloved grey stallion for the first time since he had been freed from Gríma’s grasp. He had his good hand on the horse’s brow, the fingers hooked into the bridle as he slowly pulled the huge head down to his chest, relishing in the sensation of the warm breath first on his face and then his body as he murmured a traditional Rohirric greeting into the dark grey ears. They twitched, and a slight smirk tugged at Éomer’s mouth as Firefoot gently seized a fold of his tunic and started to chew on it. Elfhelm granted them the moment, even if he felt that time was running through their hands. But the king knew all too well himself how pressing their departure was, and he turned to face his marshal with a last pat on the animal’s cheek. He nodded – and then his eyes widened as he saw a strange wooden construction on Firefoot’s back.

            “What in Eru’s name is that?”

            “Something the people of this village have built for the transportation of their wounded,” Elfhelm answered proudly. “The healer gave it to us. It will help you stay in the saddle, even if you lose consciousness… but we need to tie you to it.” The frown on the king’s face was not to be missed, but the marshal was determined not to accept any words of protest and rejection. It was a testimony to Éomer’s condition that none came. He simply nodded and swallowed the indignity.

            “Help me.”

            With combined efforts, they managed to heave him into the saddle, then slung a fur-laced cloak and two heavy, warm blankets around him and tied him to the apparatus. As a finishing touch, Elfhelm tugged the hood of the cloak over his friend’s face, trying hard to ignore the pained expression in the young features and instead offer some reassurance that they would best this situation as they had done on numerous other occasions.

            “I am sorry we have to dress you like a wraith, but this should at least keep you reasonably comfortable and warm until we get there, son.”

            “Admit it, Elfhelm: You are actually enjoying this!” Éomer blinked, but the accompanying smile would not come through. “Be assured that my wrath will be horrible once I’m in better condition again.”

            Finally, his efforts at lightening his friend’s gloomy mood were rewarded with a very weak smile.

            “I shall look forward to it then.” He eyed his men, saw that they were all present and waiting for his command, and urged Éon out of the sheltered stable. “Let us move!”

***

            The huts lay deserted in front of them. Nothing moved except for a few animals that were fleeing the procession of nightmare-creatures that spilled into the settlement.

            „They’re gone,“ the Uruk-hai captain growled, stating the obvious. His breath rose into the cold air in the form of a white cloud, and the hair around his fanged mouth wore a thick crust of ice. “But the place is still ripe with their smell. Can’t be gone long.”

            Wormtongue nodded thoughtfully, and his eyes narrowed. They were the only thing still visible of his face under the heavy hood and the scarf he had wrapped around his neck and lower part of his head.

            “They turned their animals loose, too. Shall we kill them?”

            “No…no.” The counsellor’s gaze swept the empty settlement. The traces on the ground had already almost been erased by the heavily falling snow, and the conditions afflicted the Uruks’ sense of smell, too. They would have to hurry, or they would lose their prey. “No. We cannot afford to waste time. Just set fire to the huts, and then we must be on our way again. Make haste!” He paused and looked towards the other end of the village, a slight, knowing smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. “They are close, I can feel it. Soon, we shall be upon them… and you shall have a wonderful feast, my friends! There will be more man-flesh than even all of you can eat!”

***

            “Marshal Elfhelm? Look! Our village is burning!” One man from the settlement’s éored pointed behind them in horrified excitement. Visibility was poor in the raging snowstorm, but the ominous orange glow behind the mountain range they had passed could not be misinterpreted. The host of exhausted men and horses came to a crunching halt as all heads turned towards the distant inferno. Eyes widened, and heartfelt curses were muttered.   Elfhelm ground his teeth. Not only were even more of his fellow kinsmen losing their homes and possessions, the enemy was also much closer than he had anticipated. It could not be much longer than one hour since they had left the settlement. What was the meaning of that discovery? That the men Thor had sent to intercept had failed – and been killed? Very likely. Slowly but surely, their number dwindled to the point where Wormtongue’s evil forces became truly frightening. Of their éored of fifty, he had sent two men away to alert Erkenbrand’s forces. Bergon included, eight men had died in the attack, and five more had been wounded and would not be able to fight fully if they would ever have to engage in a head-on battle. Now, if no miracle had happened, they had lost another three men. Eru be praised they had the village’s reinforcements, but all in all, they would not stand a chance if Wormtongue ever caught them. Even if they made it to the Hornburg in this weather… It was something Elfhelm was less sure off by the second.

            Letting out a deep, inaudible sigh, the seasoned marshal turned his head to look at the hunched shape of the king under the layers of clothing and blankets, but the hood had fallen into Éomer’s face and it was impossible to see the younger man’s eyes. His still form indicated that he was unconscious, but there was no way to be certain. A nameless dread gnawed on Elfhelm. Since they had realised their plan and tied the king to the construction that kept him in the saddle, none of them would notice if he died during this horrible night. They had tied Firefoot’s reins to the back of Elfhelm’s saddle again to prevent the stallion from taking a wrong step on this treacherous terrain, as they followed their scout on the narrow path through the mountains, but they were not planning on halting on the way, not even for a short break. They had to get to the Hornburg as fast as humanly possible. Still…

            “Éomer?” The marshal narrowed his eyes in a vain attempt to see anything in the blackness under the hood. “Éomer, are you still with us?” No reaction.

            “What is it?” Thor, who was riding in front of their single-file line, looked back at him in alarm. “How is the king faring?”

            “I cannot say. He won’t answer me.” Elfhelm came to a decision and dismounted quickly to walk over to Firefoot’s side. The path was too narrow for two horses to stand next to each other, and he had to watch his step on the slippery surface. He seized Éomer’s thigh and gave it a slight shake. “Brother? In Eorl’s name, give me a sign if you hear me!” He squeezed again, aware of the questioning gaze of the healer’s helper, whose horse was right behind the king’s. Finally, something that could have been a moan, but the sound was almost completely blown away by the wind. The figure stirred slightly under his touch, and the hood turned his way. Snow reflected in dark eyes, but it was impossible to see Éomer’s expression.

            “Are we there?”

            “Not yet, my friend. Not yet.” Part of Elfhelm was relieved over the younger man’s reaction, but on the other hand, he appeared to be severely disoriented and had lost track of time already. Pushing his worry behind for a moment, he patted Éomer’s leg and forced himself to show his friend an encouraging smile. “But we are on the way. Just hold on a bit longer. Can you do that for me?”

            Éomer mumbled something that sounded like “...could not fall if I wanted to”, but it was too indistinct for Elfhelm to be certain. He repeated his question, eager to proceed. No that he had confirmed that the king was still alive, the urge to continue their flight as fast as possible became overwhelming.

            “Cold…” Éomer’s voice trailed off, and his head sank onto his chest again.

            “I know, son. I know…” Elfhelm exchanged another glance with Árdwyne. “Just stay with us. I promise you that this effort shall not be in vain. We will beat this snake! Don’t let him win, Éomer!” He made his way back to Éon and climbed into the saddle to follow his scout, who was waiting for them a few lengths ahead. Even so, his silhouette was barely visible in the thickly falling, white and black chaos of night and snow. One last glance went back to the distant orange glow. Gríma would pay for this, too! “Rohirrim! Proceed!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





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