CHAPTER 2: A LESSON IN MERCY

Bursts of warm, moist breath against his palm. Foam-lathered hide beneath his other hand. Trembling. The whole body underneath him trembling as it draws in ragged breaths with pained grunts. Increasing to an agonised moan as the mighty head lifts against his hand. Gently, but insistently, he pushes it back, the tear-choked stream of soothing words never once ceasing, an endless litany in denial of the obvious.

"I know it hurts, Little One. I know. But you must stay down. We will help you. You will be fine. It is bad now, but you will be fine! Please, stay down."

The wind roaring in his ears, driving the rain into his face with whipping force as he chases after the two dark shapes that turn away in the face of his onslaught. His arm with the spear drawn back in anticipation of the deadly thrust. Wild triumph at the sight of his enemies’ fear. Nothing will help them now, they are as good as dead, paying for what they did to that village yesterday. Tensing for the thrust, but then sudden movement at the edge of his vision. More shapes suddenly jumping at him. The stunning realisation that he rode straight into their trap! A hard tuck at the reins in an attempt to throw his steed around and evade the clubs that swing against them, yet he already knows that it is too late.

In a desperate attempt to evade the ambush, Stormwing’s hoofs leave the ground. A heartbeat later, her agonised scream pierces the air, but he can feel the sickening crunching of bones through the massive body as the clubs hit her. No time to steel himself for the landing, it all happens too fast. Years of practise send him into a halfway controlled fall, clearing the mare’s body before it can smash him underneath, but the speed they were travelling at sends him rolling over the rugged surface, and not even his armour can fully protect him as he crashes full-force against a rock.

Struggling to turn and rise, but feeling the betrayal of his own body, he falls back with his vision blurring and hot, sticky wetness running over his face. Despite the wrecking pain in his right side, he draws his sword as he sees the dark shapes close in on him, ready for the last defence. Behind them, the terrible scream of his wounded horse.

Suddenly the ground shakes, and like a force straight out of the old legends, his éored thunders to his help, the captain’s voice calling the attack. The orcs hesitate for a brief moment that costs them their lives. They turn and try to flee, only to be skewered by the riders’ lances a moment later. But it is too late. All of it comes too late… His body still not answering to his commands, he crawls over the ground, his heart beating furiously in his throat as he draws closer to the heaving grey body in front of him. The mare thrusts her head up, and another terrible scream echoes through the rain, a terrible, heart-wrenching sound that pierces his insides. He doesn’t have to see her legs to know the truth, but it can’t be. It can’t be…

"Éomer." The captain’s voice is low, but firm. The pouring rain almost drowns it out, but Éomer doesn’t have to hear his commander to know what he is going to be asked to do. He is aware of the men of his éored standing in a half-circle around them, but doesn’t look up. Nothing is important; nothing but the trembling, heaving body underneath him and the steady stream of warm breath against his palm. A stream that cannot end. It must not end. "Éomer, it is time."

The creaking of leather indicates to the 19-year-old that Elfhelm has just kneeled down next to him, paying no heed to the muddy ground. He still doesn’t look up. He cannot do what the captain is going to ask of him, and his throat is so tight, he cannot possible answer. Again Elfhelm’s calm, but persistent voice. Soothing and urging at the same time.

"You owe it to her, Éomer. There is nothing you can do for her. Take your heart in both hands, son of Éomund, and release her from suffering. It is your duty."

Now he looks up, but rain and tears blur his sight, and he hardly recognises his mentor even though he kneels but a few paces away. The dark shapes of the other men form a silent wall around them, among them his friend Éothain. He cannot make out their expressions, and doesn’t care for them as he turns back to his fallen mare, squeezing his eyes shut in torment, because he cannot bear to look at the horrible shape of her broken forelegs. The captain is speaking the truth, but how can he end the warm flow of air against his hand? How can he kill a creature he loves? A creature he grew up together with, taught himself, and which kept him safe for twelve years and served him with unquestioning trust?

Another tormented groan emits from the mud-splattered body, as the mare tries to get up and falls back again.

"Éomer!" Louder now, more insistent. Elfhelm won’t leave him alone. But he is right. Cursed be the Dark Lord and all of his foul brood, he is right! It is his duty.

It takes all of his remaining willpower to withdraw his arm from the trembling grey neck as he lifts himself up into a sitting position. Still, the hand against the mare’s flared nostrils wants to remain there, wants to feel the life in her for as long as possible. He draws in another choked breath and looks at his commander, tears streaming over his face together with the rain, even though he fights now to hold them back. He doesn’t want to cry in front of the other warriors, but the flood is unstoppable. He hopes they don’t see it, but of course they know. The captain has already risen from his knees, but his expression is one of understanding and compassion as he eyes him now. It is also expectant. Urging.

It puts Éomer on his feet even though he can’t say how. His body feels numb except for his left hand, which is tingling with the warmth of the last breath the mare blew against it before he took it away. Observing himself from an outside position, he sees himself unsheathe his sword. It is the blade that killed dozens of orcs in the three years he has been riding with these men. How can he take the life of something he loves with it?

Elfhelm’s words move his sword arm to the point at the mare’s neck the Rohirrim use for their mercy killings. It severs the spine, they taught him. Death is instantaneous and painless… if he does it right. Still numb, he observes as the fingers of his other hand also close around Guthwine’s hilt. Another look at the captain. The older man nods.

"Fast and forcefully. Do not prolong her suffering."

He looks at the tip of his sword, hovering over the yet unspoiled grey spot of soft fur. The outside world ceases to exist. A long, ragged intake of air through his tight throat… and then a forceful thrust. He closes his eyes not fast enough to avoid seeing the body shiver, and drops to his knees when all strength flees him. ‘Forgive me,’ he thinks, unable to speak. ‘Forgive me, Little One!’

No stars can be seen on the heavily overcast night-sky. Not even the moonlight can penetrate the thick layer of clouds. The only source of light on the plains within leagues of desolate blackness are a few fires, nestled into the scarce cover of the hills. The men warming themselves next to them talk silently. None of them feels like speaking today. The toll the orcs took of them before they were destroyed dampens the rider’s spirits. While none of their comrades was killed, two of them suffered injuries serious enough to keep them from duty for months to come, and five more walked away from the skirmish with bruises and cuts. Three of their horses were injured… and one killed. No, it is not a night to celebrate.

"Éomer?" The voice sounds tentative and concerned. As Éomer turns his head, waking from an undefined period of staring at nothing while his hands ceaselessly stroke the strand of hair he took from Stormwing, he looks into his friend’s worried expression. It takes him a moment longer to notice that Éothain is holding out something to him, a wooden cup of steaming contents. "I brought you some stew. You should eat something."

"I am not hungry." He realises that his tone is harsh, but can’t prevent it. All he wants is to be left alone, even if he loathes himself for treating his friend like this. After all, it was Éothain who first wordlessly grasped his shovel to help him bury Stormwing, although he too had to feel beat after the gruelling fight. But he had remained at Éomer’s side until the end, together digging the deep hole and, with the help of a few of their comrades, wrestling the heavy body into it to cover it with soil. Following a Rohirric custom, Éomer had left bridle and tack on the dead mare to be buried with her. It was regarded as a bad omen to re-use the saddle of a horse that had been killed. Before giving her over to the earth, Éomer had said his farewell to his trusted steed of twelve years, stroking the wet fur for the last time ever, while his insides twisted at the stiff, cold quality of the once breathing, warm body underneath his fingers. His hardly gained composure had almost flooded away as he had unsheathed his knife to honour another of their customs and cut a length of the mare’s flowing white tail; a token of memory every rider kept from his first steed. Then they had covered her, first with earth, then with rocks to prevent predators from digging her up, with many of their comrades helping. Éomer had been unable to voice his thanks, but a gaze and short nod had told the men that their assistance had been appreciated.

The dreadful, grey afternoon had turned into a dreadful, black night, and again the men had understood the need of their young member for solitude. The fires have been burning for a while now, but none of them has bothered him. So far.

"Éomer…" It is obvious that Éothain is unhappy with his answer, but he decides to let it rest. They have known each other for far too long for him to insist. "I will leave the cup here for later. Perhaps you want to eat some then." Out of the corners of their eyes, both young men suddenly notice a tall figure rising from the sitting riders and approach them. Pressing his lips tight, Éothain nods to himself. "I will be at the fire with Arnhelm and Fastred… if you need something."

"Thank you, Éothain." With a growing feeling of anxiety, Éomer watches Elfhelm’s large frame approach, and he hides the strand of hair in his pocket, not wanting to be caught with it. What the captain wants from him is an easy guess, even if he had hoped to be spared the conversation today. At least trying to demonstrate his respect to the leader of his éored, he lets go of the blanket he had huddled into and forces his aching body to rise. Fear and grief for his horse had numbed the pain of his own injuries over the afternoon, but now that he sat unmoving on the cold, wet ground for hours, the bruises and abrasions he attained in the fall turned his body into a stiff and throbbing mess. He hardly notices and doesn’t care as he comes to his feet to greet the captain.

Soothingly, the older man holds out a hand.

"Sit down, lad. No need to stand up for me. Not today."

Casting a wary glance at the captain’s unreadable expression, Éomer obeys his superior’s words and unwillingly grimaces. Sitting down hurts even worse than standing up. Not daring to look away as the captain lowers himself onto a stone opposite him, the young rider blindly grasps for the blanket on the ground and rewraps it around his beaten frame, inwardly tensing for the admonition he believes he is in for. Perhaps, it will not be as bad if he begins himself….

"I know what you are about to tell me, captain, and you are right. I behaved foolishly, both by riding into their trap and then by losing my composure in front of the men. I am ashamed of myself, even if that doesn’t change anything."

If possible, the older man’s expression becomes even stranger. It is almost as if Éomer can see a smile behind the guarded mask he is used to seeing, and it sends a sharp sting of anger through him. What could possibly be amusing about the passed day?

"This is what you would think of me, Éomer? What kind of man would I be to admonish you in the hour of your grief?"

"It was only a horse," Éomer insists stubbornly, against everything he feels. "I should be concerned for my wounded brothers-in-arms, not cry over a beast like a five-year-old. I understand that."

"Éomer…" Now he will say it, the boy thinks. He will tell me that I put the entire éored to shame with my foolishness and lack of composure. "I know that you are quite aware of what I will say to you now, yet you seem to be in need of hearing it again: Our horses are our livelihood. They are our allies in our eternal fight for survival. They are the reason we are still alive even though our foes are much stronger in number. With their strength, endurance and speed, they put us in a position to battle and beat hostile forces we would stand no change against on foot. They hate and fear the orcs, and yet they carry us against them with unquestioning trust." Elfhelm pauses, and his voice drops to a compassionate tone. "Do you think that any of the men could have done what you did today without grieving? There are men in my éored who had to perform this hardest of duties more than once, and every time, it tore them apart. Putting to rest something that we love takes courage, and it pierces every man’s heart. Yet what use would be there in prolonging the suffering? All speak highly of mercy, but few have an understanding of how hard it can be to achieve. So do not berate yourself, young rider, because grieving is no reason for shame. I know that – in addition to your personal loss -- you are concerned for our wounded, and the men know it, too, and they respect you for it." Ignoring the his irritated expression, Elfhelm gives Éomer a curt nod as he briefly changes the subject. "That was a violent fall you took. I know Tolgor already looked at you, but perhaps there is something he could give you to numb the pain?"

"I am well enough. I need nothing." Silence stretches between them, and Éomer desperately wishes that the older man would leave him alone again. Yet the captain is not finished.

"I know how much that mare meant to you. She was a gift from your father, wasn’t she?"

The words causes his eyes to burn anew, and Éomer curses silently. He doesn’t want to cry again in front of the warrior. His voice caught in his throat, he nods, stubbornly staring at the ground.

"I remember seeing you with her when you were but a lad. You were so proud. And your father too. He told me often how much progress you made with each other." Elfhelm pauses as he sees the hurt in the young man’s expression. "She earned your grief, Éomer. Pay her your respect tonight, and tomorrow, it will be a new day and you will carry on. Alas, tragedies like yours happen, and we must cope with them as best we can and learn to emerge even stronger. Take the fury over her death with you, and put it to good use when we meet the enemy again. Do not let yourself be blinded by it, but take it with you and let it guide your hand when the time comes, for there is always a next time. Make them pay in blood for what they did to you. Will you promise me this, Éomer?"

Though his eyes still shimmer tellingly in the flickering light of the fire, the captain’s words are a source of comfort great enough for Éomer to be able to speak again, and he lets his mentor see his gratitude… and determination.

"Aye, my lord. That I promise."

The End