Chapter 4: First Moves

On the fringes of the mountains, high above the central plains, Éomer sat in the sheltering niche of his favourite hiding place, the gaze of his dark eyes unfocused sweeping the distance while he unconsciously let a handful of sand run through his gloved fingers. Somewhere behind those low clouds and falling snow, there was the lonely hill of Edoras; and it was his home no more. He swallowed, still not acquainted with the thought he knew he’d sooner or later would have to concern himself with. The past morning’s horrible events were still too fresh to have settled with all their considerable implications in his mind. The Mark was no longer his home; he was no longer welcome here. And his own kin considered him a curse.

With a sharp intake of air, Éomer forced the image of his uncle and the sound of his voice back into the vault of painful memories inside his mind. They would escape from there again as soon as he let down his guard, but right now, he had to deny them the pleasure of tormenting him further. There were more important things he had to concern himself with right now than submerging himself in a sea of self-pity. After all, not everything seemed to be against him: to his intense relief he had found his hideout undisturbed and his provisions – some dried meat and fruit he had stored there in early autumn– untouched, and there had been no sign that someone might have discovered this sheltered outlook since he had last used it. Since the narrow switchbacks leading up to the lookout was not accessible for horses, he had left Firefoot in a sheltered vale close by. The steep path lay below him now in full view, enabling him to detect any foe long before he could be seen himself. As the path also ended right where he sat and above him and to his left was nothing but the sheer cliff wall, unwelcome visitors would have to pay a high price for admission. For a warrior skilled in the use of a bow, this place was a fortress.

Not that he had a bow. Unarmed as he was, this otherwise impregnable place could very easily turn into a mousetrap if he was indeed found here in his helpless state. But while there was hardly anything left for Éomer to trust in, he still believed in the secrecy of his sparse sanctuary. This was a place he had always searched out when he had felt the need for solitude; he doubted that even Éowyn knew of its existence. And though the worm knew many things, he, too, would not find him here.

A particularly strong gust of wind howled along the sharp angles of the mountain, and Éomer frowned while he listlessly chewed on a piece of dried, smoked deer-meat. He was not hungry, but had forced himself to eat anyway since he would need his strength in the days to come. Still, the meat’s taste did nothing to brighten his spirits, and in his mind Éomer knew better than to take his frustration out on his cousin, but there was no one else left to talk to. Not that Théodred was actually here, but he could nonetheless hear his familiar deep voice in the back of his mind. A voice which had forever been silenced by treachery in real life. The pain was still too fresh for him to hold back the bottomless, despairing sigh.

"I know it hurts, cousin, but you must never forget that it’s all Gríma’s doing. All that evil comes from him and his master in Isengard. However hard it may be to bear, and however great the injustice done to you, you must focus on the task at hand now, Éomer. If it is still your aim to free Rohan from their siege, you cannot think about yourself now. Put aside your emotions and become a weapon yourself, the spear of the Éorlingas, if you will."

How much Éomer wished that his cousin were truly up here with him, sharing this little draughty cave. If only to vent his frustration aloud, to shout the words into Théodred’s face. Gods, he was so tired of it all.

"Aye… it is my duty, isn’t it? It is about the oath I swore to my land." He spat out the words in sudden disgust as if they were a curse. "Duty. All I ever have ever known for all these past years was duty. Ever did I cross the plains in pursuit of it. I never thought about myself. I sought no personal happiness, I did not seek to found a family because I would always be gone in protection of our people. I served to the point of utter exhaustion for more times than I can count, and yet that same duty took my parents away from me. I gave our people all I ever had and more, and the one time that I need protection myself, they turn their backs on me." Éomer shook his head, uselessly fighting against another surge of despair and rage that threatened to overwhelm him, and balled his fists when a powerful urge to lash out at someone seized him. " Our people have taken all I ever possessed, so what more could they want? What else do I owe them? Tell me, Théodred!"

The addressee of his vented anger sounded understanding and yet firm, and not intimidated by his embittered outburst. And why should he be, Éomer thought bitterly, after all, Théodred was only a faint memory, a ghost. He had nothing to fear from his younger family member.

"Nothing. You owe them nothing, Éomer. You are right, you’ve given them plenty. But what about Éowyn? I know there is no use in trying to speak with you about father yet-"

"And there will never be!"

"—although you know the truth behind that yourself. But do I really have to remind you of all the people who are undoubtedly still on your side, and willing to fight with you until the end, whatever end it may be?"

Éomer remained silent, and his dark eyes swept the diffuse swirling grey below in a half-hearted attempt to keep watch. He had not seen a rider approach the little patch of forest to his far right yet, but given the conditions, it would be a wonder if he made out anything smaller than a troll in this snowstorm at all. Of course Théodred was right: He knew Elfhelm and Éothain well enough to know that he could still count on them. About Erkenbrand, the valiant captain of the Westfold, he was not entirely certain, but it was no secret that the respected warrior had little love for the counsellor’s craven advice.

And still the path he’d have to enter would be stony: in a society as theirs, a society that had never questioned their king’s word in centuries, there were bound to be people of a different mind, too, and as likely as convinced of their righteousness as he was. His reputation was that of a passionate warrior, and his personal feud with the orcs well-known. Éomer knew that like his father, some of their people considered him rash and impulsive, a man who’s hatred for the Dark Lord’s creatures would occasionally lead him to accept challenges even when the odds were unfavourable. No, he could not fool himself, there were bound to be captains out there in the Riddermark who believed that he was responsible for Théodred’s death. With the armed forces split into two camps, Rohan could easily erupt in a civil war if he forced his position.

"But what of the others? The situation is already grim enough without having Rohirrim killing Rohirrim," he said at length. "I cannot risk an armed conflict within the Mark when we can hardly keep our enemies at bay while we stand united; it would be our undoing."

"Do you honestly belief that our kinsmen would raise their swords against each other?" the voice in his mind asked incredulous.

"I would never have thought so before, but after what happened today, I must tell you that I deem nothing impossible anymore, and certainly will I no longer take even the most natural things for granted. I do not know how successful Gríma’s net-weaving and lies have been outside of Edoras, but these are certainly very strange days we are living in when a proven traitor can act as he pleases in the king’s name and none do anything against it." The expression on Éomer’s face hardened with determination. "I will not risk civil war, and I will not become Wormtongue`s reason to execute Elfhelm or Éothain by drawing them into this."

"And what will you do? Surely you will not obey the verdict and leave the Mark while Éowyn stays behind?"

Long silence followed Théodred’s question. Through the whiteness the sky was still shedding, the dark silhouette of Edoras in the distance seemed to be only faint ghost of a memory. Éomer’s lips formed a tightly drawn line.

"I will start with arming myself tonight. And I will take it from there, step by step."

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EDORAS

"What has happened?"

"Is she ill? Is it serious?"

"What is the matter with her?"

"But she was standing outside on the terrace only two hours ago, and there was no sign that—"

It seemed to Gríma that most members of the Royal Household had gathered in front of the White Lady’s chambers, and the agitated voices of servants, maids and guards alike accumulated to a deafening din of questions, suggestions and rumours. Purposefully, he strode toward them, his strangely torn emotions well hidden behind a perfectly bland mask of indifference, even if he was seething with rage on the inside. How dare the king’s niece defy him by demonstrating that she would sooner die than surrender to his will? And – even more infuriating – why did he care so much? Why not simply let her die and be done with her, another troublemaker erased, and this time making it clear to everyone that their suspicions were unfounded and he, Gríma, was not the source of the evil in this house? That people could indeed die without him having a hand in it!

Éowyn despised him and let no opportunity pass unused to demonstrate her hatred, and although he enjoyed their daily battle of wits and words, Gríma had somehow reached the point where it was no longer possible to deny his true emotions: that his attraction to the wilful maiden was not born from the desire to torment one of the proud nobles of this land who had forever looked down upon him for his mixed ancestry, an act of vengeance, but that it was genuine longing for a companion; a need to love and to be loved in return, something he had almost given up on. Oh yes, certainly he had had his share of women over the years, but he could not pretend that they had shared his bed because of his engaging personality. There was no doubt that he could be charming, certainly, very much so, but he was even better at corrupting, and so what had drawn those women between his sheets had either been fear or greed, a lust to feel the power of a man whose words were commands even to the king of their land. The service they had provided him had been enough to satisfy his bodily needs, and yet it had not stilled the yearning deep within his soul, a yearning the son of Gálmód had long denied to feel at all. There was only one who could quench that thirst; and she could not depart and leave him behind unfulfilled!

Anger once again overtaking him, Grima pushed his way through the crowd to the door where he was suddenly stopped by Gámling. The red-haired older man seemed uncharacteristically determined to remain an obstacle in his path, and Gríma wondered briefly what had caused the bout of heightened protectiveness in the old warrior. Did the guard truly think that he would try to take advantage of the situation? That he would try to bend Éowyn to his will while she was weak and unable to defend herself? It was a good idea. But no, no matter how minuscule his chances of still gaining the heart of the woman he desired had become, this was not how he intended to make her his’. In his dreams, she came to him willingly, as only that way would lead to the fulfilment he longed for. Yet he was no fool; regarded with the bidden realism, it was more likely that if he wanted to have her at all, he would have to take her with force, and it would be the acknowledgement of his failure if it came to that, not the victory he was still dreaming of. It would be domination, not love.

Waking from this brief inner discourse and its grim prospects, the counsellor met the guard’s stern gaze in a show of righteous anger at the man’s intrusion.

"Will you please step aside, Lord Gamling? I believe I should see first-hand what has befallen the White Lady to report it to the king."

He creased his brow as Gamling showed no intentions to move.

"The Lady wants to see no one, Counsellor. Hildegard is with her and I sent her handmaiden to fetch Yálanda. Apart from them, I believe we would do best to honour Éowyn’s wish for solitude. This day has been very hard on her, and it would be best not to aggravate her further."

Wormtongue stared at the door as if he could see through the wood. The notoriously mistrustful voice in the back of his mind was whispering unintelligible words, and he could not help feeling a vague twinge of unease.

"What is her condition, it is known?"

"As the healer is not here yet, I cannot say much, but apparently she has suddenly developed a violent fever and has trouble breathing. Whether it is a result of the grief she has suffered today or something else, I dare not say. The healer will find out."

"Let us hope so. The King has been very weak the past days. I do not think he could bare to lose another member of his family." Creasing his brow in deep thought, Wormtongue cast a long, pensive look at the doors of Meduseld. He had instructed his men very carefully, now he could only hope that they had heeded his words and paid close attention to what Éowyn’s handmaiden had done out there. The king’s niece was usually of remarkably good health and not lightly cast down by illness, which made this little unexpected bout all the more suspicious. "You sent Maelwyn for Yálanda? When?"

"Only a little while ago. The smithy is not far, she should be back very soon, all the more as she knows of the urgency of her errand."

"Indeed," Gríma muttered to himself and turned away from the man. He needed to know now. Any delay in the conveyance of information could prove fatal to his plans. If his men had failed, not even the Gods would protect them from his wrath! "I will go and await her on the terrace."

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Her heart beating in her throat so loudly she could hardly hear anything else, Maelwyn hastened down the steep path leading from the Golden Hall to the first cottages, one of which was the smithy and the home of their old healer Yálanda, and her husband Bergfinn. She could hardly believe her luck that she was still alone; for even if Éowyn’s plan had sounded proper, the young handmaiden had been sceptical whether she would be allowed to leave Meduseld on her own. To her immense surprise, the guards had allowed her to pass without a word of protest. Apparently, they had forestalled the counsellor with this course of action, but as she ploughed hastily through the snow, Maelwyn still counted on it that a guard would be sent after her, and made hardly five steps without confirming with a glance back over her shoulder that she wasn’t followed. The snow was still falling thickly and visibility poor, but she seemed to be alone yet.

Slightly relieved by this discovery, she clutched the collar of her cape and slung it tighter around her body as she turned toward the noise emitting from the building next to the little hut where the old couple lived and found the blacksmith’s son at his workplace. He looked up as if he sensed her approach; a tall man in his beginning middle-years, strong of build as a result of his hard work and with the blue eyes and flaxen hair that would give his Rohirric ancestry away even in a great crowd of people.

"Élric! Élric! Quick, where do I find your mother?"

"Mistress Maelwyn?" He squinted at her, his expression suddenly overcast with concern and the instrument in his hand temporarily forgotten as he sensed the urgency in her voice. "Is aught wrong? Is it the King?"

"A sudden fever has befallen the Lady Éowyn! We need your mother’s service very urgently."

"Éowyn!" The blue eyes widened in dismay, and Maelwyn remembered that her mistress and her brother had been well-acquainted with Bergfinn’s family for a long time. "My mother is in the house. I will get her immediately!," He turned toward the main building he and his wife and their parents shared. "Come with me!" Another look over her shoulder confirmed to Maelwyn that they were still alone, but still she could not help feeling as if all eyes in Edoras were directed at her every move. "Do you reckon it is something serious?"

"The fever seems to be very high and struck her without warning. Apart from that, I’m afraid I cannot say." She had to tell him now, the opportunity would never be better. Taking her heart in both hands as Élric shoved the door open and called for his mother, Maelwyn laid a hand on his arm. "And Élric, there is something else."

"Something else? What do you mean, Maelwyn? " He drew his eyebrows together in confusion and then looked down the corridor again as he heard no answer to his call. "Mother? Where are you?"

"My Lady asks for your help in an urgent matter. She made herself deliberately ill by taking a special potion so that they would send me for your mother and allow me to leave the hall. By telling you this, I lay both mine and my Lady’s life into your hands, Élric! Please, help us!" She stared into bewildered blue eyes and fell silent when the sound of steps approached them from the kitchen. A moment later, the old healer rounded the corner, and the woman’s wrinkled face turned to her in alarm.

"I am here, Élric. No need to be so impatient. Is that Maelwyn I see there? What is the matter, child? Who has fallen ill?"

"Alas, it is the Lady Éowyn," the young handmaiden reported dutifully. "She has a violent fever and trouble breathing. They sent me to fetch you."

Snorting angrily, Yálanda turned to take her old fur-cape from the hook.

"I knew it was too much for that poor girl! All this grief she had to endure over the last few days had to lead to something like this sooner or later. I hope Counsellor Gríma is proud of himself now." She bent to look for her leathern healer’s bag, then laid a hand on her brow as she suddenly remembered where she had left it. "Béma, what a forgetful old woman I have become! Wait here, child, I will be right back!" She disappeared in one of the rooms at the far end of the corridor. Still confused, Élric turned back to his unexpected visitor and whispered:

"Are you saying Éowyn took poison? Was she trying to kill herself because of what happened to Éomer?"

"No," Maelwyn whispered back with the same intensity. If only she had been granted more time for her task! "She wanted to ask you herself to help Éomer, but the counsellor wouldn’t allow her to leave Meduseld, so she sent me instead. The counsellor must not know about this!"

Incredulity was written all over the blacksmith’s broad features as he stared at her.

"The counsellor forbade Éowyn to leave Meduseld? But he has no such—"

"Things are getting worse within the Golden Hall with each passing day, Élric, but that is not why I am here. My Lady asks you whether you could ride out and deposit weapons for Éomer at their old hiding place, underneath a certain rock. She said you knew of what place I am speaking."

"I do indeed."

"When they banished the marshal, they took all his weapons. He is out there all by himself and unarmed, and Éowyn fears some foul play by the counsellor." From the far room, they heard Yálanda rummage through her things and talk to herself.

"Ah, here it is. I wonder why I left it here instead of where it belongs."

Her eyes one great plea, Maelwyn shifted her attention back to Élric. Was that a shadow she saw on the other side of the path?

"Please, I cannot say more, and there is no more time! Will you help? Can I tell my lady that she needs no longer worry?"

"Does the counsellor know you are here?"

"He knows I am here to fetch your mother, and I must return with her, ere I wake their mistrust. Please, tell me, Èlric, what should I tell my mistress?" The shadow was gone, or perhaps it had never been there. Its absence calmed her not.

Following her gaze into the grey-white swirling snowstorm with pensive features, Élric mused: "It would raise suspicion if I rode out in this weather without a good reason." Deep in thought, he scratched his beard, his thoughts leagues away. The sound of his approaching mother brought him back, and finally, to Maelwyn’s utmost relief, he gave her the little nod she had been hoping for. "I will think of something. Tell Éowyn that I will see it done."

"Today?"

He looked at her strangely.

"Of course today. Éomer will need his weapons, won’t he?"

Relief lighting up her eyes, Maelwyn was already in the midst of throwing her arms around Élric’s neck when the sight of the healer behind him stopped her. Yálanda’s lined face wore an expression of mild bewilderment as she regarded her son and her visitor, whose demeanour seemed to have abruptly changed from gloomy to exultant, but then she shrugged it off and squeezed through the little opening in the door frame her son left.

"Come, child. Let us help the White Lady ere it is too late."