CHAPTER 6

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"Kill them! Kill them all!"

Behind his escort of four of the strongest Uruk-hai, Wormtongue stood on the last step of the stairs as everything in front of him went up in flames. What were they doing to his wonderful creatures? Aghast, the counsellor stared at the stumbling dark shapes in the sea of fire, and more than one head turned to look at him. The main body of his army was still outside the water, but their losses from the first attack were still considerable.

Frantically searching for new instructions for his hesitant soldiers, Gríma’s mouth opened and closed not unlike that of a trout. Nothing would come. Nothing but –

"They’re coming from the tunnels! Make for the tunnels and evade the water! Go!" This was unlike anything the Rohirrim had ever done in battle! This was not their style! They were a brave, but simple people, and finer strategy was not their game! And there was this accursed issue of their ‘honour’, which had always seemed ridiculous to Wormtongue, even when he had still been in King Théoden’s service. It went against everything the Rohirrim believed in to hide in the darkness and slaughter their enemies through some foul trick instead of engaging into noble one-on-one battle. So why were they doing so now? And why had he not anticipated this? What did a cornered animal do when there was no space left to retreat ? It attacked! Was this their last charge, the last desperate protest against their inescapable fate? If so, he would squash it underneath his foot!

Moving into the cave behind his escort, Wormtongue watched as his army charged into the tunnels like a great, two-headed black snake, killing everything in its path.

***

"They are coming! Fall back! Fall back!" Thor’s bow sung, and his arrow left the string to become part of the deadly horizontal rain his men were greeting their attackers with. The first line of Uruks fell, but the others came at them so fast, there was no time to ready their bows again. Letting the weapon fall where he stood, the scout – in the same motion – drew his sword and spun into the wave of black flesh, dealing out a mighty strike with his blade. The two hostile forces crashed into each other like waves against unyielding rock.

***

They had made it back into the tunnel, but now the narrow path was filled with hacking, slashing, fighting enemies, and there was no evading the long jagged blades that were scything their way.

"Fall back!" Elfhelm yelled, spinning on his heels and, as the last of his men, charging down the tunnel deeper into the mountain to the next corner, where they had stored a great number of spears. The smoke had invaded the tunnel and made it increasingly harder for them to breathe, let alone see their enemies.

"Marshal! Down!" Arnhelm was turning as were the others, their arms drawn back. As Elfhelm dove to the ground, rolling and landing on his feet, a dozen spears simultaneously passed over his head and felled the orcs on his heels. A moment later, he had his sword in his hands again and swung it against the first creature that cleared the fallen. Sparks flew as it hit metal. The impact almost knocked the weapon from his hand and numbed his fingers. His arm was seized and almost squashed with brute force, and a foul stench invaded his senses as gaping jaws wide enough to swallow his head whole opened before him. His reaction was pure instinct, not time to think. The left hand to the hilt of his dagger, a vicious upwards-cut. The unarmoured orc was laid open, its innards falling in a steaming pile to the ground. It sank to its knees, and the battle branded over it like a tidal wave.

***

"Thor! Behind you!"

The scout rolled, not even taking the time to look over his shoulder, and a blade scythed through the space he had occupied just a heartbeat before. Yellow eyes sparkled with infernal bloodlust as the creature charged after him – and was stopped by a spear through its throat. A dark gush of blood spurted from its mouth as it fell backwards and disappeared in the smoke.

Another dark shape in front of him. Thor’s arm with the razor-sharp blade cut upwards, gutting the orc, and as its sword fell to the ground and the creature clasped at the wide gash in its middle, he dealt it a mighty blow that severed its ugly head.

A moment to breathe, but as soon as the hot air reached his lungs, he broke into a violent coughing fit. The smoke was so dense now, it was threatening to suffocate him, making his eyes burn and water, blurring his vision. He was not even sure anymore in which direction he was headed, back towards the main cave or deeper under the mountain.

Another silhouette was moving his way. Friend or foe? He held the sword raised, but dared not to strike. Orc or friend? Squeezing his eyes shut to clear his vision, Thor tread backwards, hoping for the smoke to clear before he’d have to decide.

The silhouette solidified into the figure of an advancing Uruk, and he readied himself for the strike, even though his shoulder muscles were slowly starting to burn with fatigue. There were just too many of these accursed things! They were killing them by the dozens, but still more kept on coming, and every man they lost hurt them more grievously than the Uruk-hai losing ten. With a battle cry, Thor met his foe’s blade – and was pushed backwards by the raw strength of the enemy, their swords caught between them. There was no withstanding the Uruk’s power, he had to rely on his greater agility. Suddenly jumping backwards, he freed himself of the orc’s hold and corrected the position of his sword by a mere fraction – enough for the creature to skewer itself through its own forward momentum.

Breathing heavily and again coughing from the smoke, the scout withdrew his blade, frantically scanning the way before him for danger. The strike from behind came unexpected.

***

Almost his entire host was fighting in the tunnels now, a place Gríma did not intend to enter until the last of their foes had been slain. They were still putting up grim resistance, he had to admit grudgingly, more than he would have given those stubborn peasants credit for, and his fingers tensed around the hilt of his dagger. Cursing at himself for not taking along a better weapon with more reach, he scanned his surroundings and found that there were no Rohirrim soldiers left in the main cave. They were either dead, floating lifelessly in the shallow pools of water, or had retreated into the tunnels from where distinct battle noises could still be heard. There was no danger left here, and so he sent his escort ahead to help their brethren.

Smoke bit into his eyes and he had to hold his sleeve in front of his mouth to breathe in the stinking, hot air as he passed through the fallen in search for a more suitable weapon and finding it in a short, but well-balanced sword of a fallen Rohirrim close by. He was just weighing it in his hand when movement at the entrance of the closest tunnel claimed his attention. His first instinct was to run, but then he saw the towering shape of one of his Uruks driving the dark-haired warrior backwards into the cave, and he realised the opportunity. He knew this man. He was part Dunlending. With the skills he possessed, he could have been a great help to his subdued brethren, so what business did he have fighting for the other side? He had to be punished!

Silently, stealthily, Wormtongue approached the still fighting combatants, just in time to reach them when the filthy traitor had brought the orc to his knees. The sword felt good in his hands as he lashed out with all the strength he could muster. He had never learnt more than just the basics of the art of swordplay, but there was no skill necessary for what he was doing. His blade went through the leathern armour into the soldier’s back where it met resistance. Still, it was enough to down the traitor, and Gríma was about to delivery the death-strike – when a new sound reached his ears. Shouting. Steps of many men. Men! It came from the stairs! He spun around, his wounded foe forgotten as all blood drained from his face.

It was not possible! It could not be! For once, all he had been dreaming of was in the middle of becoming reality – and now, through a trick, he would be denied his triumph at the last moment? This was not fair! But the sounds from the stairs left no doubt – coming down to aid their brethren were Rohirrim reinforcements!

Drawing the collar of his cloak tight around his pallid face, Wormtongue hastily scurried through the carnage of the battle, but it was neither of the tunnels that he sought. There was another way, one these accursed strawheads would not know of and which would lead him safely into the mountains. He would then return to the safety of his lair in the Misty Mountains and think of a better, fool-proof plan to execute his wrath on the people of Riddermark and their king. And this time, he would come at them with an army mighty enough to lay all their lands to waste... The hidden pathway was not far. If he moved quickly, no one would ever know that he had been down here at all. There it was already, nothing more than a narrow, black hole in the rock, hardly wide enough to accommodate him as he went down on his hands and knees to climb in. Shadow swallowed him as the noise from the new arrivals filled the cave...

***

Elfhelm was a hardened warrior, but he was not used to fighting with a broadsword, and he began to seriously ask himself whether he hadn’t committed a serious error of judgement by choosing that weapon over his usual shorter one. While whatever he hit with his vicious thrusts would stay down, the massive weight was beginning to take its toll on him, and it became increasingly harder to fend of the attacks that just kept coming at him from all directions. Twice the orc-blades had already found him when he had not been able to spin around fast enough, and while his armour had deflected most of their force, they had penetrated. So far there were only scrapes, but it was only a matter of time until a strike would cut through enough to maim him.

Their time was running out, Elfhelm thought as he saw another man fall under a Uruk-attack from the corners of his eyes. There was not much to see anymore, no overview of how many of his brave soldiers were still left, because all was obstructed by the dense, dark smoke that choked them and also was putting out the fires. It made the battle even more difficult, because it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe until the dark silhouette was already very close. Another shadow lunged at him and Elfhelm – with burning muscles - raised the sword and swung it in a half-circle through the air – and slipped in a puddle of blood. The velocity of his movement flung him forcefully on his side, and the sword clattered away.

The Uruk came to slithering halt and pointed his crossbow down – when a white-feathered shaft punched into its meaty chest. Roaring in pain, it dropped the weapon and glowered into the twilight of the tunnel where the arrow had come from. Frantically rolling away from the towering orc, Elfhelm scrambled to his feet and dove for the sword, just when his enemy remembered him. Gaping jaws opened to let out an enraged bellow – just when another arrow pierced its thick neck, burying itself in the creature all the way to the feathered end. Gurgling, it took a staggering step forward – and walked right into Elfhelm’s mighty swing. The huge body tumbled to the ground, bleeding blackness.

Breathing heavily, Elfhelm leaned on his sword and turned his head to see who had come to his aid. He caught a fleeting glimpse of fire reflecting on flaxen hair, a body too slender to belong to any of his men – but then there was movement beyond the curtain of smoke again, and he swivelled...

... but it was no orc. It was a man, clad in full mail, his armour skilfully crafted and betraying his high rank. A man not part of his éored! What-

"Garulf?" He blinked, hardly able to believe his watering eyes as he let his sword sink to his side to stare at Marshal Erkenbrand’s second-in-command. "Garulf! At last!"

"Marshal Elfhelm, Lord of the Eastfold! What are you doing so far off your own territory, laying our precious fortress to ruin?" The warrior, a broadly-built, sturdy man about his age, walked up to him with an astonished expression on his face as he scanned the surroundings. Behind him, the steps of more men could be heard. Had they really made it? Was the nightmare over once and for all? "We came as fast as we could. Your messengers reached us yesterday evening, and we set out immediately, but that accursed storm slowed us down. I was already afraid we’d come too late and find nothing but Uruk-hai waiting for us here, but... it looks to me as if you did just fine by yourself, Marshal! How many of you are there?"

"We were twenty-five. I cannot say yet how many of them have survived." Elfhelm wiped his brow, but the sweat kept on burning in his eyes.

"Twenty-five!" The Westmark-soldier shook his head in disbelief as he performed a slow circle on his heels to scan the carnage of the battle. "We had to literally wade through dead orcs in the main cave. You did all that damage with only twenty-five men?" He smirked as he let his eyes wander once again over the dead orc to the marshal’s feet and Elfhelm’s grimy, smut-and sweat-smeared face and again shook his head. "You are an animal, Elfhelm! A beast! In the future, orcs will run when they merely hear your name!" His hand landed heavily on the warrior’s shoulder.

"I would hope so," Elfhelm rebuked, still trying to catch his breath from the effort that lay behind him. "If we never see the filth again, it will still be too early." An appreciative nod. "You are a sight for sore eyes, Garulf, if I may say so! I was just about to give up." A quick glance over his opposite’s shoulders revealed more men than he could count in a rush. "You look disgracefully clean! Did you have to give battle at all?"

"Oh, we slew a couple of these foul things ourselves, brother, we just managed to take better care of our armour. Not everybody revels in taking a bath in the enemy’s blood like you and your men. We did not come all the way just to bear witness to your glory." The hand slid down on Elfhelm’s mail-shirt to stop at one of the cuts. Garulf narrowed his eyes. "You are hurt."

Elfhelm shrugged it off.

"Scrapes. It is nothing." He re-sheathed his sword and motioned for the few remaining men of his éored to follow him. "Let us find the others. There may be men who’ll need help urgently. Árdwyne?"

"A moment, my lord Marshal!" A moment later, the young healer was at his side, her bow exchanged for a stuffy pouch she had filled with everything she had found in the healing room of the fortress earlier. She was far more eager to tend now to wounds than to inflict them. Nevertheless, Elfhelm gave her an appreciate nod.

"You handled yourself well, girl. You saved my life. Thank you."

She cast her eyes to the ground.

"Everyone could have done it. It was a coincidence that I was standing there. The creature was hard to miss."

"Don’t belittle your deed. I felt bad enough about having to drag you into this battle, and this is how you repay me, woman!" He laughed as he turned to the waiting Garulf. "A woman slaughtered the Witchking of Angmar, and now another woman saves the Lord of the Eastmark! It deems me we should recruit more women to our éoreds in the future. They are made of stern stuff!" Laying an arm around Árdwyn’s slender shoulders, he led her through the cordon of warriors along the tunnel back into the main cave. "I’m afraid I’ll have to ask one more deed of you, although you must be as weary as we all..."

"You don’t have to ask, Marshal," she gave back. "I’ll be glad to be of help to your men. They fought for us all, not just for you... or the king."

"The king!" Garulf exclaimed as he followed them, bumping his foot into the carcass of an orc on the way to see whether he was truly dead. "How is the king faring? Could you free him?"

"Aye, we freed him. He is wounded, but save. We brought him to the secret room. No orc made it past us, I’m sure of that. He slept through the whole battle. I’m certain that will be something to tease him with in the future. He will hate it!" His words were light, even if Elfhelm did not feel like jesting when he came to a halt at the mouth of the tunnel, forcing himself to look at the corpses in the shallow water and on the wet rocks. The flames were dying down, and the light in the cavern was sparse enough to hide the most gruesome details of the carnage. How many of his men had survived? "Thor? Arnhelm?" There was movement further back, but through the smoke he could not make it out. "All who can still walk, move over here, so that I’ll see you’re still alive!" As the healer passed him to look where her help would be needed, he wiped his brow again with a grimy glove and then turned back to their rescuers, heavily leaning on his sword. Now that the danger was over, he found that every single bone in his body was aching. "How many men did you bring?"

"Fifty." Garulf raised an appreciative eyebrow at his opposite. " There were hardly enough orcs left to keep them satisfied when we got here. My respect, Marshal Elfhelm! I think you defeated them long before we came to finish them off."

He silenced as silhouettes materialised through the smoke, and with great relief, the Lord of the Eastmark recognised several of his trusted riders among them.

"Marshal Elfhelm? Please, come quickly!" It was the healer’s voice, and it sounded distressed as she burst from the other tunnel, her face grimy with sweat and caked with ash. It cut through his initial feeling of relief like a knife. "It is your friend..."

Elfhelm’s heart missed a beat. No. No, it could not be! Not Thor!

"My – Thor?" Garulf was forgotten as he fastened his steps to follow Árdwyne to the mouth of the narrow path. In the flickering light of a burnt-down torch, he saw a shape lying strewn across the way, the healer kneeling beside him. "Eru, no! Thor?"

Pain-filled black eyes looked at him as he kneeled down next to his fallen kinsman, the healer on the other side. An image that reminded him of how he had found Éomer and which still burnt in his mind. How bad was the scout’s wound? He could not see it yet.

"Coward got me in the back," his comrade managed to say through clenched teeth. "It’s not too bad, but still...!"

"Hold still, I need to look at it. Marshal, help me to get the armour off him." Together, they managed to open the clasps and ties, and Elfhelm hissed as he saw the deep gash on his scout’s back. The healer sighed as she probed the wound and then looked up, tired, but relieved. "It looks worse than it is. The bone apparently stopped the blade. Let’s bring him into the healing room where I can tend to the wound appropriately." She turned to the fallen man. "Can you walk ?"

"I will help you," Elfhelm offered, already slipping an arm under his friend’s shoulders to pull him up. "Just your luck that the one time you let down your guard, it’s only a weakling of an orc that gets you. Had it still been in possession of its full strength-"

"It was no orc, Elfhelm," Thor hissed, swaying as the marshal put him on his feet, his pained gaze meeting the other man’s. "It was Gríma himself!"

"Gríma!" A moment of stunned silence.

"Gríma Wormtongue?" Garulf’s confused voice came from behind, but Elfhelm barely heard the captain. "But isn’t he dead?"

"We wish..." The marshal’s glance darted frantically across the cavern, over the corpses in the water and on the rock. Nowhere could he see the counsellor’s familiar black clothes and scruffy form. And he had not seen him in the tunnel he and his men had been defending either. His stomach turned to ice. "Where did he turn, Thor? And when?"

"Deeper into the main cave..." the scout hissed, torn between pain and growing concern. "Only moments before our aid arrived. What – nobody stopped him?"

The marshal’s face became deadly white as he motioned Garulf to take his place and broke into a run up the tunnel, suddenly no longer sensing the fatigue.

"Oh no... oh no!"

***

Éomer tensed at the sight of the all too familiar figure in the buckskin tunic as she turned around to face him, his skin clammy from discomfort. They were in his tent again. Everything looked the way it had looked when... when... He dared not recall the image of all the blood smeared over her mouth and chin. Of the stark naked shock in her eyes. But then, a miracle happened: Théandran smiled at him. Slowly, with the grace he had admired from when he had first seen her. The grace that made him choose her. Oh, why had Éowyn done this to him? Helpless, he looked over his shoulder, but his sister was gone. They were alone... again.

Uncertain what the situation would lead to, he watched her approach and held his breath. Words of remorse came to his mind, and of shame. Bracing and searching for the words he wanted to say, he opened his mouth... but it was the woman who spoke first, still with this encouraging expression on her face. She came to halt in front of him and looked up.

"I had to speak with you, my lord. Please, tell your sister my sincerest thanks. I was not certain you would want to see me again."

"She told me not that it was you..." He began, deeply uncomfortable with the situation. Théandran took his hands, causing him even more discomfort. "If I had known, I ... I can’t tell what I would have done. I..." Elfhelm’s voice in the back of his mind: ‘It never happened!’ This was getting more confusing by the moment.

"I don’t even know if you are real." He shook his head, knowing how ridiculous he sounded. But strangely enough, she seemed to understand.

"I am not, my lord. I have never been., and what you believed happened, never did. It was all in your head. Including me. I am nothing but a spirit Wormtongue invoked to torment you. A ghost, if you will." She raised his hands to gently brush her lips over them. "Fear not, Éomer of Rohan - your honour is intact. Your soul has not been tainted. You must forget me now." Her smile deepened at his confusion., his furrowed brow.

"Is this a dream?"

"Yes." She laid a finger on his lips. The touch of her hand sent a little spark through him. "A dream to undo the other dream, the darkness he planted into your head. Light and shadow. We will erase each other, and when you wake up, the memory of both will be gone. I know it is hard to understand." She embraced him now, and he willing let her do so, feeling strangely detached, almost weightless. Great pools of blue went up to meet his gaze: "Before you forget me, it is my greatest desire to apologise to you for what Gríma made me do. I was too weak to defy him at first, but now, his hold over me is broken. Likewise his command over your memories of your sister and uncle. The king asked me to tell you that. He wanted to come, too, but there is no time for that… for your enemy is approaching." Her gaze went over his shoulder, and for a moment, she seemed to have forgotten about him all along. Had become all senses, as if she was listening to something he wasn’t able to pick up yet. And then... he heard it, too. Faint only, in the distance, the echo of stealthy steps, of someone moving who wanted not to be heard. A sudden cold shiver went down Éomer’s spine as Théandran’s attention turned back to him, and the smile had vanished. All softness had left her face; and its sudden harshness made him recoil. "My lord, he has come to kill you. You must wake up now!"

A muffled sound behind him, something heavy hitting the ground. Faint gurgling... and then the steps again. Closer now. He swivelled - and saw nothing. Confused, Éomer turned back to the woman still holding his hands – and twitched. There were only eyes now, great blue irises surrounding the black pupils which reflected the disturbing image of a hate-twisted, pale face framed by stringy black hair.

"Éomer, WAKE UP!"

The eyes disappeared – but the pale grimace remained, hovering above him like a cruel moon. A silver reflection in front of his eyes.

***

His hands and knees were chafed and hurt and he had several times run his head into a protrusion, but most of the way lay behind him now. Picking himself up from the ground as the low tunnel opened into a small, rectangular room, Wormtongue braced for the last part of his dangerous journey through enemy territory. He had made it thus far. Nobody had seen him, nobody had tried to stop him. If he was lucky, they did not even know he had been in the caves at all. The path into the mountains was only two more corners away and... but what was this? There was someone standing in front of him on the other side of the room he was about to enter, blocking his escape way. Gríma cowered behind the rock that shielded the entrance of the tunnel from where he had just entered.

He squinted. A warrior. He was not looking his way, but Wormtongue froze nevertheless and moved deeper into the shadow, quickly assessing the situation. What was this man doing here, instead of helping his kin fight further down in the caves, where every man was needed? What was he guarding... or whom?

A sudden fit of excitement seized the dark counsellor. But – of course! It could only be one person! And of course this had to be the place they would have brought him to; save behind their lines for as long as there was a single Rohirrim left who was still able to wield a sword in defence of his king... or so they thought! Valar, would he prove them wrong!

Letting his eyes sweep the rectangular room, Wormtongue saw a pair of legs on the left side of his range of view. A litter had been placed there, and it was no question who was lying on it. The Valar appeared to be in a playful mood today: First they threatened him with the unexpected arrival of Rohirrim reinforcements, only to reward him now with this final opportunity for revenge. A quick glance back to the guard. Still not looking his way. It was no or never!

Quietly drawing his dagger – he had left the sword behind as too complicated to move with in the narrow tunnel - he slipped out of the opening, silent as a shadow. Another quick glance at the litter. Yes, it was indeed the king, and he had his eyes closed and was not moving, so was either asleep or unconscious... unable to fend him off. Helpless like a new-born... Oh, the opportunity…! Gríma had to bite down on the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from chuckling in surprised delight. So maybe he had lost the battle, but Rohan would be left kingless after all!

Five quick, silent steps brought him to the entrance. The guard never heard him coming up behind as the thin blade slashed through his neck, and he fell to the ground gargling and twitching, and then lay still in an ever-widening pool of blood. Wormtongue paused, exhilaration pulsing through his veins, and listened into the tunnel. There were distant shouts from the battle, steps of someone running far away, but nothing more. He looked back at the unmoving king.

"Now you die, Éomer of Rohan. Here and now, the line of Éorl ends..."

***

"Fraccas? Fraccas!" Elfhelm’s lungs were about to burst as he ran up the ascending tunnel in full armour, the faces of the men he passed nothing but a blur. No answer. "Éomer!" The relentless drumming of his heart s made the blood churn through his veins and drowned out all other noises. A distinct notion that someone was following him, but he did not turn around. Up ahead, the flickering light of the torch in the secret chamber already illuminated the heavy darkness. He could see it! Could make out the opposite wall of the chamber already – and then someone stumbled backwards into his view, visible only for the blink of an eye. Dressed in a swinging black coat. For a moment, there was the slightest glimpse of a pale face... and then the shape jumped forwards again. "Éomer!"

***

This was too easy. After all the pain he had had to endure to execute his revenge, his adversary was lying unmoving before him, ready to be slaughtered like an offering in a heathen ritual. Gríma looked down in wonder at the king’s sweat-beaded, drawn face, the only thing visible under the heavy blankets they had covered him with. Deeply torn in his desire to taste the full glory of this moment, his personal triumph, and the knowledge that he had to leave.

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he wiped the blade clean of the guard’s blood with his sleeve: He wanted for this to be perfect... pure. Below him on the litter, Éomer muttered something in his fever-dream, drawing his eyebrows together in worry. Lines formed on his forehead. It was as if he sensed the imminent danger, but could not wake, the prisoner of his nightmares. The sight of his adversary’s discomfort brought another gleeful smile to Wormtongue’s face as he raised the dagger, his eyes on the king’s neck. Too bad he had not the time to make the king suffer through his last moments. A quick slash through the throat would have to do, for he had to be on his way. The Rohirrim would not leave their king so poorly guarded for long.

Bending over the unconscious man, a brief moment of regret: Too bad Éomer would never know who killed him. Too bad he was not awake to see his death coming. There would only be a few moments of sharp, breathless agony, the taste and feeling of drowning in his own blood, and then it would be over far too quickly. A pity…

He lashed out – and suddenly found himself looking into alert, dark eyes before the world exploded in a blinding white fireball!

***

No time to think. His bound right arm uselessly twitching against his torso, Éomer left fist shot upwards, blocked the strike and landed with a crunching sound in the pale face above him. The figure yelped and stumbled backwards, a dark gush of blood shooting from his nose through his fingers.

‘Up! Up!’

His body would not obey as he swung his legs over the left side of the litter, dropping into the narrow gap there like a sack of meal, and landing on his knees. An awkward moment when he went for the dagger under the blanket with the hand he was supporting his weight with and almost fell.

"Éomer!"

Elfhelm’s distant voice, but it was drowned out by the animalistic yell of his adversary as the dark counsellor jumped towards him, the bloodied face with the wide eyes a grimace of absolute hate. A blurred notion of white, black and silver. Channelling all reserves into a last cry of defiance, Éomer’s hand with the dagger shot out from under the blanket - just as the impact of Wormtongue’s body threw him into the wall behind! Something scraped over his left ear.

Two huge, pale-blue eyes in front of his face, widening in shock. The mouth working, but instead of words a red flood spilling over the already bloodied chin, raining down on him. His hand, still closed around the hilt of the dagger, slippery and sticky too. He held on to it, his gaze locked on Wormtongue’s as his enemy slowly sank to his knees, onto him. The sensation of smooth metal pressing against his cheek, trembling as Gríma fought to turn his wrist and stab him in the eye with his last remaining strength, the dying body impaling itself further on the blade in its midst.

He braced – and then let the hand with the hilt make one last, violent jerk upwards. More hot wetness soaking his tunic. The dagger clattered from Gríma’s fingers and the wide eyes first narrowed as the pale face contorted into a grimace of pain – and then broke.

"Éomer! Éomer!" His friend burst into the room, an expression of absolute horror on his face. More men on his heels. "Valar, no!"

‘It is good!’ he wanted to say. ‘The snake is dead!’ he wanted to say as he saw Elfhelm’s widened eyes. But he was so far away all of a sudden. So far away...

***

EPILOGUE

It was the first of March when Éomer finally stepped out of the Golden Hall for the first time after months of illness had confined him to its rooms. Granting the two door-wardens a short nod and then ignoring their curious looks, he stepped forth to the edge of the dais until he came to a halt in the corner farthest from them, seeking solitude. The first cold gusts that hit him where he stood were almost strong enough to push him back, but the flow of fresh air over his face was still a sensation he relished more than he would ever had thought possible. It carried a weak scent of horses and the first hints of spring, a touch of sweetness, a promise of sun and rain, of flowers and green grass - and of healing.

The sweeping view from where he stood was something he had always taken for granted. Never once since he could think had he ever paused on the dais to admire the backdrop of the golden, thatched huts of Edoras, the towering, still snow-capped mountains behind them and below him, for as far as the eye could see, the broad valley of the central Mark and the river Snowbourn stretched all the way to the horizon. The sky was cloudy, the ground still of a muddy brown and after the retreat of the snow, the last year’s old grass looked faded and dead, but there was a sense of expectation in the air, the knowledge that all it would take to transform the plains of Rohan into a green paradise once again were a few hours of sunshine.

For the first time ever, the view was taking Éomer’s breath away and filled his heart with an overwhelming love for his kingdom and its people. His people, whose love and loyalty had helped him survive the worst situation he had ever found himself in in his still young life. He had survived a harsh youth in the Mark, countless battles against overwhelming odds and treason within the halls he had called his home, but only now had the situation been so hopeless that he had not been able to escape from it by himself. Without the girl of the Meara-tribe, who had alone courageously followed the enemy to finally find and alert Elfhelm, and without his friend’s and his éored’s selfless acts of courage, he would have fallen prey to Gríma’s evil schemes. Finally, there had been the sacrifice of the villagers of Iséndras. Many had died in that selfless act, and while Éomer had instructed Erkenbrand to provide fast and much-needed relief for his fellow kinsmen who had lost everything, he still felt eternally indebted to them. One of these days, when he had sufficiently recovered, he would visit the village again and personally express his gratitude.

Maybe… maybe after his wedding. Yes, most definitely after his wedding. As strong as his urge was, Éomer could not see himself undertaking such a lengthy journey within the next weeks, and with only three months left before the Mark’s future queen and her entourage would arrive from Dol Amroth, there was already much to be taken care of by him, too many preparations for the celebrations he’d have to supervise to make himself unavailable for quite such a long time.

His wedding, yes… it was something that still felt too unreal to him in the wake of the recent incidents to be envisioned, even though the coming Midsummer-festivities would change his life forever. He had not even laid eyes upon his bride yet, nor knew he anything more about her than that she was the youngest daughter of his ally and friend, Prince Imrahil. She was five years younger than him and – so it had been told to him by the counsellors who had initiated the political match– in beauty even comparable to Queen Arwen of Gondor herself; an heirloom of her partly elven ancestry. That was all he knew. The lack of information should have made him nervous, yet the event itself still seemed to lie so far in the future, Éomer could hardly accept it as something that would eventually take place in reality.

Another violent gust blew his hair into his face and forced the King of Riddermark to seek shelter behind one of the wooden columns of the hall to shield himself from the onslaught of the wind. Absent-mindedly, Éomer smoothed the hair out of his eyes and revelled in the normality of the scene unfolding below him: In all of Edoras, his fellow kinsmen were busily going about their business, carrying sacks of various content to wagons, unloading other wagons and horses were led through the streets, the rhythm of their steps a comforting, familiar sound. Their local blacksmith was busy, too, for the sound of a hammer hitting metal carried all the way from the lowest part of the city up to Meduseld. The calm, patient every-day quality of the scene soothed his soul. Normality, yes, even boredom, was something that he welcomed very much these days, as they provided just another little step on the way to becoming the man he had been before his captivity.

A piercing cry rang out from above, and as Éomer craned back his neck to look for its source, he saw the elegant silhouette of a hawk sailing the winds; a perfect picture of freedom that – unbeknownst to him – brought a wistful smile to his gaunt, pale features. How he longed for that freedom to roam his kingdom again, too; for the time when he would sit on Firefoot’s back again and hear the wind roar in his ears and the sound of nature awakening after the long siege of winter.

He had never been ill for such a long time, but apparently, the dark counsellor’s devilry and his exposure to the elements had done more to him than had been visible at first… and of course, the long time the bad weather had confined them to the wrecked fortress in the wake of the battle had not helped his recovery, either. Supplied only with minimal provisions, both of food and healing supplies, they had been forced to stay at Helm’s Deep for three long weeks before the weather had cleared up enough for Elfhelm to load him onto a wagon under half a dozen blankets and make for Marshal Erkenbrand’s domain, where they had stayed for another two weeks. Only then, after Éomer’s condition had sufficiently improved to be transported over a longer distance in the middle of winter, had they proceeded on the long way back to Edoras, where he had then utterly collapsed.

And yet it was only now – three months after the incident - that his soul was slowly beginning to come to rest, and at last, his shoulder had begun to heal, too. It was still weak though and he had to carry the arm in a sling, something that – on dark, rainy days, still tended to dampen the king’s spirits and led him to ponder his future. Like Sarabande, the healer in the village they had come through during their flight, their local healer thought that the arm would never recover sufficiently for him to ever take up swordplay, let alone do battle again. Too much of the muscle and tendons had been damaged and would not grow back. Her verdict had darkened Éomer’s mood for weeks, and even now – after two months of making himself accustomed to the thought – a deep despair occasionally sneaked up on him whenever he expected it least.

Maybe he would do what his friend, King Elessar of Gondor, had suggested during his unexpected visit, and seek out the elven Lord Elrond at Rivendell, whose reputation as a healer out-shone even that of his son-in-law. A faraway smile played around Éomer’s mouth as he remembered how surprised – not to mention touched – he had been when he had woken from another of his fever-dreams at the end of December to find his friend sitting in the chair next to the head-end of his bed, silently reading a book with Elvish writing on the cover. Of course, his very first notion had been embarrassment over having been caught in such a helpless state, but it had quickly shifted to gratefulness. Rohan’s winters were stern, and no one who had no urgent business outside would ever travel the icy, snow-covered plains willingly, yet Aragorn – as Éomer still liked to address his friend as, and the king of Gondor still liked to be addressed by his friends, too – had saddled his horse as soon as he had heard of the unlucky incidents his friend and ally had been caught up in. Upon Éomer’s inquiry, his Chief of the Royal Guard, Gamling, had finally confessed that it had been him who had sent the messenger to Minas Tirith and Ithilien with the tidings of the King’s illness, and his efforts had also brought another, long-missed visitor to Meduseld…

"Don’t tell me you were planning on making it down to the marketplace all by yourself, brother!" a familiar – and most welcome – voice reached his ears from behind. Éomer couldn’t help smiling as he turned around to face the former White Lady of Rohan and now Princess of Ithilien. "After all, I promised Gamling to look after you – and keep your ornery mind from random acts of stupidity!" She tightened the leather and fur-laced coat around her throat as she stepped up to her brother, thankful for the playful sparkle in Éomer’s eyes. He had been in a far too gloomy mood these days for her taste.

"Random acts of stupidity!" he exclaimed now, indignant, pushing the thoughts he had been pondering into the back of his mind for later. "And you think that taking a breath of fresh air would qualify for that?"

"No," she smirked by taking his good arm and placing her delicate hand in his. "But a trip down the hill to the stables or the tavern all by yourself certainly would. How would you get up here again without my help?"

"Éowyn-" he started to object, but she only patted his fingers with a sly smile.

"The mighty King of Rohan will need to exercise a bit more patience yet before he can do as he pleases again. As for now, his fate is being destined by his better-knowing counsellors."

"Such as yourself," he laughed, thankful for her efforts at brightening his spirits, which were still mostly melancholic these days. But her presence helped. Having family around him helped, someone to confide things to he would never have told anyone else, not even Gamling or Elfhelm, as much as he trusted them. It still took Éomer a lot to speak of the dreadful days of his captivity, to acknowledge his still lingering weakness and insecurity. Those were things he would never openly admit, except to his sister. The people of the Mark needed a strong king these days in order to overcome the aftermath of the War. He had to be strong – for them.

Many had been the days during the long winter months and the time of his illness where he had wished for Éowyn’s presence. And miraculously, when he woke from his afternoon-sleep three days ago – embarrassing that he still needed it, like a small child! – she had been there at his side, sitting in the same chair Aragorn had occupied when he had first seen him during his surprising visit. At first he had taken her for a dream, but the touch of her hand as she had clasped his in loving affection had chased the doubts away. Yes indeed, his brave little sister, slayer of Sauron’s mightiest weapon, had come all the way from warm, sunny Ithilien to the still cold Riddermark just for him. In the sensitive state he was still in, it had taken all of his composure not to fall into her arms weeping out of joy at her sight… all the more as she had brought him the wonderful news that he would be an uncle, soon! Being due in a little over four months time, she was already showing quite a bit, and the radiant glow surrounding her delicate features had spoken louder than words that his warrior-sister had finally accepted womanhood in all its glorious entirety. The sight of her in this happy, glowing state filled Éomer with joy, and he treasured every moment in her vibrant presence as he allowed her to slowly pull him away from the corner he had sought out for his lonely contemplation.

"Aye, such as myself," she rebuked, gently nudging his side. "I have always been smarter than you."

The hawk far above their heads screamed again and performed a sharp turn that carried him away towards the mountains. Silently, the two siblings followed his way for a while before Éowyn picked up the conversation again.

"There will come a time when you will be able to go as you please again, you know?" She gave his hand a brief tug as she steered her pensive brother towards the stairs. "Your confinement will end soon. I can tell you are as eager to take into the wild as a colt that has been forced to spend the entire winter in the stables." His gaze told her all she needed to know. "Speaking of which – Firefoot has been missing you. The stable-hands told me this morning that they were having a real hard time with your ornery Méara-mule. He actually bit one of them yesterday! Shall we go and tell him that he must not do that?"

Éomer could not help but smile. She was trying so hard… How much he had missed her!

"For the sake of our stable-hands, I believe we should."

The stairs. He had not walked them in months, and it felt a bit strange to bend his still shaky knees. He felt embarrassed for actually having to clutch his sister’s arm to steady himself as a wave of dizziness washed over him, but she gave no sign that she had noticed his need. Grateful for her discretion, he gave her a slight squeeze… and saw her smile out of the corners of his eyes… and flinch!

"Oh…!" A sudden twitch, and then her fingers clenched his arm for hold as she came to a halt on the last step of the stairs, the dark eyes widening in surprise as her free hand sought her slightly rounded stomach and pressed against it. Éomer turned in concern.

"What is it? Éowyn? Are you well?" She made a face, but nodded, a glow lighting up her delicate features all of a sudden the king had not the words to describe. "Éowyn?" Lines of concern appeared on his brow as he took a hold of his sister’s shoulders to steady her. "Should I send for the healer?"

"No, no!" A dismissive gesture, and then suddenly unexpected, overjoyed laughter. "There is nothing to heal me of, brother. Wait!" She seized his hand and laid it on her belly, the dark eyes she shared with her older sibling firmly fixed on his. "Do you feel it?" At first, there was nothing put puzzlement in his expression, but suddenly, his face lit up and he looked down in wonder. "Do you-"

"Aye, I do!" he beamed, feeling an unruly excitement taking hold of him. "Is this the first time…?"

"Yes." She stared at him breathlessly, radiating a feminine beauty Éomer could not help but feel awed by. Placing her own hand next to his, Éowyn finally broke eye-contact and shook her head. "Oh, how I wish I could tell Faramir! He should have been here to feel his son move!"

"I can send a messenger," he offered, only half-jesting, and still feeling swept off his feet by his sister’s open display of sheer, untainted happiness. This was so unlike the always distant, worried and tortured creature he had known almost all his life… and so much better! There was no question no anymore that the Stewart of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien was exactly what Éowyn had needed to heal, and he made a mental note to thank his brother-in-law as soon as they would meet again… presumably at his wedding. His wedding…

Still laughing, Éowyn shook her head as she lowly took up their walk again.

"No, please, spare the poor man. That would be too much. I will leave in a few days again, and when I am home, it shall be a wonderful surprise gift for my husband." She sighed wistfully as she pulled him along further in the direction of the royal stables. "Faramir was quite concerned about letting me go, but I suppose he understood that he would have had to confine me to the dungeon or fight me to keep me from coming to see you." Her fingers squeezed his arm affectionately. "I was horribly worried when that message came, Éomer, I cannot begin to tell you. I am so glad to see you finally getting better again…"

She interrupted herself as she felt that their conversation was drifting towards the serious again. That had not been her intention, and so she directed their chatter towards a more pleasant topic again. "But tell me, brother, aren’t you beginning to feel nervous about the events that will happen in your own life soon?"

He groaned. Of course she knew.

"I have faced treason, I have faced battle against thousands of orcs and other vile creatures, and there is nothing left anymore on Arda’s beautiful face to put the fear of Eru into me… except for the thought of sharing the rest of my life with a woman I do not know yet. ‘tis what you mean?"

Éowyn laughed.

"You worry for no reason, brother. I have already made your bride’s acquaintance, and I firmly believe that the two of you will be an… interesting match." Her smile widened when she saw Éomer’s all of a sudden urgent gaze.

"You have met her?"

"Aye… She is my husband’s cousin, as you know. We visit each other quite frequently. As someone who is not used to having a family, I was quite curious about getting to know my new relatives and could hardly wait. As it seems, she felt that way, too… and her three brothers just as well. You will get along well with them, I do not doubt that." Fully knowing how bad her brother was aching for more information, she nevertheless held back, just for the sake of teasing him. His quick glance showed her that he knew. They knew each other far too well to hide anything from the other.

"So…" he therefore shrugged, pretending nevertheless that the question’s answer was only of mild interest to him. "What is she like?"

She nudged him in the side.

"Brother, please… you know I cannot tell you."

"You cannot?"

"A lady needs to have her secrets, of course," his sister lectured him, much in the manner of a stern teacher. "It is every husband’s official task to uncover them, and would be most improper of me to tell. Let her surprise you." It was quite obvious that Éomer was not happy with her evasive answer, but she made it equally obvious to him that all further efforts of extracting information from her would be idle by taking the distant neighing from the stables as an opportunity to suddenly turn away from her brother. "Now let us go and educate your impossible horse about the proper treatment of tender stable-hands, shall we?"

Playing the grumpy brother for a moment longer, Éomer let her steal his arm back again. Finally, he winked at her and allowed her to pull him along.

"Let us go. My counsellor has told me that good stable-hands were hard to come by these days…"

In the endless sky, the sun finally burst through the layer of clouds which had obstructed its bright and welcomed face, and bathed the day in a soft, golden light as Éowyn and her brother slowly walked down side by side along the path that led into the city below the Great Hall of Rohan…

THE END