Chapter 13: The Will to Live

WHITE MOUNTAINS

“Éomer? Éomer, wake up! You must wake!”

The voice was persistent; not loud, but once it had found a way into his conscious, it refused to go away, no matter how fiercely Éomer struggled to ignore it. Unwilling to rise from the bottom of the deep black pool in which he had found shelter from the pain, he refused to follow the sound or even acknowledge its existence, reluctant to realise that the injuries he had sustained likely meant his end even if he had defeated his assailants. Where was the point in struggling and torturing himself only to fail in the end and die on the mountain path, miserable and freezing, when he could remain here in the warm, dark arms of oblivion, peacefully dreaming his way over into the Halls of his fathers?

And yet Éomer found, to his dismay, that those arms had already released him from their embrace, because he was slowly ascending to that bright place, the place of suffering he had so desperately longed to avoid. Briefly he struggled against the pull, but had to realise quickly that he was no match against the unseen force.

“I know you hear me, Éomer,” the voice penetrated his thoughts again, and he sighed at its familiarity. “You know what must be done. There is hardly enough time left to take care of it now… and your fire is going out. Soon, it will be freezing cold in this cave.”

“Go away, Théodred,” Éomer groaned, still refusing to open his eyes. Perhaps, there was a way back if he just tried hard enough. “You are dead already, so what valuable advice could you possibly give me? Why don’t you go and leave me alone?”

“Because you will die if I do,” his cousin said matter-of-factly. “I may be dead, but I still care for you. We are of one blood. I do look forward to seeing you again, but not so soon. Our land and our people need you, Éomer, and there are many duties waiting to be seen to before I will welcome you here with a glad heart. You are too young to die, and your existence in this realm serves a purpose.”

“If that is meant to comfort me, Cousin, I must tell you that it fails.” Béma, he was dying, and still there were only words of duty and purpose. He would have thought better of Théodred.

“Stop scowling, Éomer,” Théodred suddenly berated him, impatience colouring his tone. “You know how I mean it. Obviously I do not want you to die because I love you, but that will not get you to do what must be done: you must tend your wounds, or they will get infected. You know what orcs do with their arrows; it has to come out of your leg as quickly as possible. You cannot afford to let more time pass. Come!”

“And what difference will it make?” Éomer pressed through his bruised throat, every breath he took a conscious decision, a fight. It did not help that - in addition to the swelling - there seemed to lay a heavy weight on his chest hindering the flow of air into his lungs, and even the little amounts he managed to get down did unbelievable things to his right side when they extended against his damaged ribs. “Helpless like this, what could I possibly do? I can barely move, much less ride like this, and even if I somehow managed to get on Firefoot’s back, the first person I met could kill me at his leisure, be it Rohír or orc. No, thank you, I’ll stay here.”

“I understand.” Théodred said, and his at first compassionate tone froze. “Instead of fighting your way back, you want to take the easy road and leave Éowyn and our people to their fate.”

“Are you mad?” Enraged, Éomer sat up and glared his cousin, fists balled in barely controlled anger. Had he heard that right? “Tis not a question of what I wish for, Théodred! Did you wish to die at the Fords? Did you finally have enough of the useless fighting and just decided to end it there?”

“Of course not!” The older man was kneeling by his side, and the expression in his eyes mirrored the coldness of his voice... ignited by a spark of anger. “You know that; I was assaulted. I stood no chance against my enemies. They were many, and they killed me quickly...but you defeated yours! You are not dead yet, and whether you survive will be as much a matter of your will as of incidents you cannot influence. Things may go your way or not, help may arrive or not, I cannot tell, but if you give up now, you throw away whatever chances you may still have.”

Éomer snorted, angered that he should have to lead this argument with his cousin when Théodred was supposed to be the one to understand him best. “Tell me what chances are you speaking of, Théodred: the chance to meet more orcs? A pack of wargs or wolves? Or a group of Rohirrim? All will kill me on sight. I am alone. No one is looking for me to bring me help.” His embittered words caused the older man to lower his voice, and Théodred’s expression softened at his cousin’s obvious despair. Perhaps he had been too harsh.

“How can you be so convinced of that, Éomer? Do you honestly think Findárras would draw his sword against you if he found you here? Or Elfhelm? You are in their territory; there is a chance that they will find you, and if they do, they will not kill you. I would bet my life on it were I not already dead. They would be insulted to hear that you would think that of them.” He received no reply, not even the smallest reaction to his sarcastic remark. At length, Éomer laid back again as his strength deserted him, and his gaze went unseeing up to the ceiling.

“They will not look for me here. The path is precarious, and there is nothing around that would make the journey worth their while, nothing to protect. No, Théo, I appreciate your efforts, but that is not the way things will turn out, and I cannot defeat circumstances on my own. You expect too much of me.” He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world, and his cousin with it. He felt so tired... For the longest moment, Theodred’s gaze continued to rest on him, and his expression turned from compassion to disappointment. The notion also crept into his voice, making it even harder for Éomer to listen to his stinging words.

“Too much, you say. I always expected much of you, and you never failed me before. Where is the man I came to know as Éomer of Eastfold now, the young marshal whose name alone would rout the enemy in the midst of battle? The name that brought our people hope? The Éomer I knew, the warrior I saw growing up and regarded with pride as my brother, he was a man who would defy destiny itself. No matter what the odds were, or how badly he was outnumbered, he refused to be defeated, and many a victory he achieved only by the sheer power of his will. I wonder where that man has gone. Perhaps he was just a dream.”

Heat crept into Éomer’s face.

“But what can I do? Firefoot is gone; it might even be that the Uruk killed him while I fought with the orcs. Without him, I am doomed. And even if he was here, what could I possibly do?” He could only whisper the words, choking on his own despair. Why did Théodred have to torment him?

“At least, you can try, Éomer. Instead of giving up, you could fight, the way you have always fought.” Théodred had never sounded more insistent. This was a conversation between brothers, from the experienced older man to the younger one in need of his wisdom. “Gods, I wish I could give you better advice, but I don’t know the answers myself; except for one thing: if you want to survive, you must take it step by step. First, you must take care of your fire, or you will freeze to death. Then you will have to tend your wounds. These are the two most immediate things you will have to concern yourself with to ensure your survival. After you are done with that, we will see what else needs to be done, and what else you have the strength for. Step by step. I know you have the necessary strength and the will. Think of Éowyn. Without you, there will be no one who will stop the Worm from claiming her as his prize. She depends on you, Éomer!”

Éomer flinched. Why did Théodred have to bring up Éowyn? Why did he have to be so cruel? The thought of his sister in Gríma Wormtongue’s hands was more than he could bear. “Do you not think I know that?” It was a mere whisper, followed by a long, ragged breath. “All right. I will try; I will do what I can… but I cannot promise you anything. In fact, I would even be surprised if I made it back to the fireplace.” His words, however dispirited, brought a relieved, encouraging smile to his cousin’s face.

“That sounds like the Éomer I know. I am sorry for being so hard on you, and the Gods know how much I wish I could help with more than just words!” Théodred shook his head in helpless frustration and then extended his right to Éomer while determination returned to his expression. “Come, brother! Show the worm what it means to tangle with the blood of Eorl. He may think he has won, but you will prove him wrong. Now move!”

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From one heartbeat to the next, Éomer found himself spat out into reality and the full ugliness of his situation assaulted him without warning. His body was an agonised mess, a bag of misery, and the intensity of his pain robbed him of the little air he had been able to draw into his lungs. Gasping and putting all his will behind the effort, he lifted his head – and stared at the dark mass on top of him.

The Uruk was dead. Although Éomer’s vision was blurred and his left eye swollen half-shut from the gash next to it, it took him only one glance to understand: only a short end of the splintered arrow protruded from the creature’s eye while the rest of it was lodged in its brain; there was no way for the aberration to be still alive. A thin trail of blood had trickled like black tears down the side of its nose and stained Éomer’s tunic. The stench of it spoiled the air, but Éomer hardly noticed as he concentrated on his dead adversary: there was no rising and falling of the massive chest against his body; no beating of a black heart inside this powerful beast on top of him; a single stab had reduced it to dead meat - a crushing mass of dead meat.

His strength failing him, Éomer sank back and tilted his head toward the cave entrance. The light had not changed from what he could last remember, and disorientation washed over him. For how long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? Half a day? ‘For too long. It is time to act!’

A first, cautious test revealed that while he felt as if every single bone had been crushed, there was none of the stiffness yet that accompanied heavy bruising once the injury had been given the time to fully develop. All the more reason to move while he still could. Running a hand over the left side of his head and feeling the gashes and spikes of his hair hardened by dried blood, Éomer fought to collect what was left of his strength. Crawling out from beneath the carcass and dragging himself all the way back to the fireplace and his saddlebags seemed like a task of epic proportions. ‘Just do it. Don’t think about it.’

‘I believe in you.’ It was Éowyn’s face he saw smiling encouragingly before him now, a vision from past days when he had readied his horse to ride into a great battle, and he followed that vision willingly.

‘Show the worm what it means to trifle with the blood of Eorl!’

Éomer lifted his head, took another deep breath against the searing pain in his side and propped his arms against the rock and pushed himself backward with the leg he could still move – and found himself drenched in sweat before he had moved a single inch. ‘I can do this!’ He gritted his teeth. So, even in death, the Uruk intended to make this hard for him? He would show the filth the meaning of willpower. He. Would. Not. Die. Underneath. This. Carcass!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he doubled his efforts, and a loud groan escaped him as he pushed and dragged himself over the ground, soon swearing as he found it easier to deal with the pain by venting his anger at Wormtongue and his master and basically every person who had ever crossed him in his life. It was an astonishing tirade of groans and moans, interspersed with the foulest Rohirric curses ever heard in the Riddermark, and if anyone who knew him had heard him then, they would have been thoroughly shocked. But soon enough the Uruk’s head, which had weighed heavily on his stomach, had moved down to his hip. Exhausted but not dissatisfied with his progress, Éomer allowed himself a short moment of rest to collect new breath and strength. The swearing had made it easier to bear, but Gods, he hurt all over! How was he supposed to leave this cave even if he made it over to his saddlebags?

‘One step at a time, brother. Do not get ahead of yourself. First, get clear of that Uruk. You are almost there.’

For another couple of heartbeats, Éomer stared at the ceiling, unseeing. Bracing. Just a few more breaths to channel what was left of his strength. He looked up. Théodred was right; he had almost cleared the corpse. He clenched his jaw, then sat up and pulled, and the monster’s head slid down onto his injured thigh, forcing an agonised grunt from him, in addition to the worst curse he had ever uttered. If Béma would punish him later for it so be it, but right now, it felt good. Bright lights began to dance in front of his eyes while the rest of his vision dimmed and a chilling cold flooded his body. Éomer knew what this meant. Yet denying himself the pleasure of unconsciousness, he doubled his efforts, throwing all he had left into a last push - and then collapsed heaving on the ground as his legs cleared the body and he was at last free of the weight. For a precarious moment, his consciousness threatened to flee him after all, but he dug in his fingernails with the ferocity of a warg and held on, no longer susceptible to distractions of whatever kind, a one-track mind on the way to the fulfilment of his task. He was at one end of a long narrow tunnel and had to get to the other side of it, where the fireplace was waiting for him. Nothing else existed, and once he had started this journey, he would continue to the end. The only acceptable outcome was sitting by the rekindled fire with the half-empty flask of Forlorn’s spirits in his hand while the other half cleansed his wounds. Once he had achieved that, he would allow himself to fall unconscious, not sooner.

Steeling himself for the effort ahead of him, Éomer craned his neck to look in the direction of the glowing ashes. It was not very far, perhaps twenty-five steps. Théodred had been right: He could do this.

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EDORAS

It had been another long night for Maelwyn; a night with little rest and greater feelings of guilt while she stared at the ceiling, hearing Yálanda’s agonised cry over and over and seeing the pain in Éothain’s gaze. And the icy chill in the counsellor’s almost colourless eyes when he had uttered his threat against her, and the deadly promise behind his calm tone. Each time the vision returned, it sent a cold chill down her spine and choked her again, never losing any of its potency.

At last, it had become too much to bear, and Maelwyn had left the bed although the sun would not be up for another couple of hours, as she did not want to disturb her hard-working husband with her restlessness. Lovingly, she had smoothed away a lock that had fallen into Torben’s face, and breathed a kiss onto his cheek before she sat up, beat after a night of worrying. Mechanically slipping into a simple woollen dress, she had then sat for hours at the table of their living room and listened to the noises of the slowly waking city with the worst possible images passing in front of her inner eye. What was Éowyn doing now that she was alone? Had she fully recovered from the fever? What would the horrible man do to her after he had found out about her attempt to help her brother? Would he dare to throw the White Lady into the dungeon for treason? Horrified by the thought, Maelwyn buried her face in her hands.

More dreadful thoughts came: what horrible misfortune had befallen poor Élric? She had not yet dared walking up the hill for fear that the counsellor’s men would take her away, and instead tried to get tidings from Éothain. Yet the son of Captain Céorl had not been able to tell her anything more than that Élric’s horse had returned riderless and wounded, and then he had given her the incredible news that he, too, was no longer allowed access to the Golden Hall. It seemed that slowly but surely, Meduseld was turned into a fastness against its own people, a thoroughly frightening experience. All saw it and worried, and yet none dared to speak about it in public for fear that their words would reach the wrong ears... and there were many ears to be avoided these days. Maelwyn had no idea where all the strangers who had seeped into the city lately had come from, but their number seemed to increase with each passing day. Before she had been included in the secret proceedings, Maelwyn had certainly noticed a few foreign faces among the citizens, but only yesterday on her daily walk across the market, had she realised with shock how many strangers had been roaming the streets. Were indeed all of them evil men, secretly spying on the people, and whoever dared to say a wrong word would be taken away? It was as if they had only waited for Éomer to leave the city to rear their heads, certain that it was safe for them now to walk the city streets in broad daylight. It could no longer be denied that the counsellor’s men had not only seized complete control over the King’s household, but all of Edoras, too.

Taking a sip from the honey-sweetened tea she had fixed herself to calm her down, Maelwyn leaned back and stared over to the window where dawn had at last arrived. Tired, she ran a hand through her tangled hair and wondered whether the King still knew what was going on inside the confines of his own hall and his city. She had always known Théoden as a just and benign ruler, even though the first signs of his illness had already been visible when she had become a member of the Royal Household. Yet when she thought back, his constitution had quickly deteriorated after the first six month of her service for his niece, and there was in fact no incident Maelwyn could think of within the last two years where the King had seemed lucid to her. Surely spies could not be his idea of keeping his people under control in the time of his illness, could it? But who was left to take action against it with Éomer gone?

Staring at the world behind the window, Maelwyn decided that she would try to speak with Éothain again, preferably somewhere where they would neither be seen nor overheard. And her conscience was screaming at her to go and comfort Bergfinn and Yálanda, if that was possible. That something happened to their son was partly her fault, and she felt miserable about it. While she would not be able to tell them the truth, at least she could demonstrate her compassion. It was something she needed to do. And after all, the smithy was not Meduseld; she would not be at fault to go there. She had known Bergfinn’s family ever since she had come to Edoras, so surely offering her comfort to them would be something expected and not a dubious deed. She could not be arrested for doing so… or at least she hoped not.

Feeling better now that she had finally decided to act, Maelwyn rose to her feet and went into the kitchen. Her husband and the children would be up soon, and the routine of fixing them breakfast would do her nerves good before she left the house herself.

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

He had barely reached the fire in time to safe it. When he had finally made it back to his lair in the second cave, drenched in cold sweat and shivering from pain and exhaustion, the embers had darkened to a dull red, and for a moment, he had feared the worst. Throwing a fistful of tinder onto the ashes, Éomer had spent some of his hard fought-for breath to carefully blow into the glow, and the effort alone had almost made him pass out. Finally, the first little flame had hungrily licked into the air, and was soon joined by a second and a third one. Carefully, Éomer had fed them another block of wood from the pile and watched with baited breath to see whether the branch would kill them or be accepted. For a frightening moment, the fire had seemed to expire despite his efforts, but then suddenly jumped at the new food with the savageness of a predator. Expelling a relieved shallow breath, Éomer laid three more thick branches into the flames before he settled back against the wall he had chosen to support his weight, too feeble to sit by his own strength alone.

He hoped that the four blocks would suffice, because seen realistically; it was likely that he would pass out for a longer time once he was done with the task he had to see to now. Cautiously probing the gashes in the left side of his head, Éomer looked down upon his leg, and his stomach turned in anticipation of what he was about to do. The remainders of the arrow had to come out, Théodred had been right in this, but he was still hesitant. He knew the design of orc-arrows well enough; they were mean instruments of torture with a deliberately frail, spiked iron tip made to break off in the wound and cause infection even if the victim had not been killed outright by the hit. There was enough of the splintered shaft protruding from his thigh to grasp, but drawing it was not an option. He’d have to drive it through and hope that the tip would remain intact. It went without saying that he did not look forward to that task. Experienced in helping his brothers-in-arms that way, Éomer had never been in the position to perform the deed on himself, and he doubted whether he would be up to it.

Cautiously, he moved the shaft in an attempt to determine how deeply it had penetrated into the muscle and gritted his teeth when the white-hot bolt of pain exploded in his conscious and his stomach threatened to spill his sparse evening meal in a retching fit. Gasping, he closed his eyes and sank back against the wall. It felt as if the arrow had already gone more than half through; all it would take to make it come out would probably be one or two hard hits…if he could bring up the courage to hit hard enough. Numbly staring at his leg, Éomer realised the pickle he was in. The wound had not bled much so far, as the arrow still blocked it, but this would inevitably change once it came out. As Éomer was fairly certain that the procedure would make him pass out, the danger of bleeding to death if he so much as nicked the artery was very real. He grimaced. Nothing he could do about that. But he definitely had to leave the treatment of this wound for last. While he did not look forward to burning out the other gashes and abrasions with Forlorn’s strong liquor, it would probably be the best course of action to see it done first.

With considerable effort, Éomer gathered the things he needed around him: the flask, his water-skin and provisions from his saddle-bags, the woollen blanket and the small, very sharp knife the couple had given him, and last but not least, the stone with the flat surface he had gathered on his way back. It seemed he was all set, even for the case that he wouldn’t be able to leave his lair for the next days. There was no excuse for further delay.

Clearing his mind of concern over what he could do if his efforts proved vain and he caught an infection anyway, Éomer cut the hem of his tunic into small stripes and laid them by his side as he reached for the flask. Shaking it, his sweat-beaded face darkened further: it seemed precious little fluid to tend all his injuries. Perhaps he could… creasing his bow, he looked at the water-skin. What if he stretched the spirit, only a bit? Would it lessen its effectiveness too greatly? Grimacing, he bent over and pulled it closer. He had to do it. What good was it if the wounds he treated with the spirit did not gather infection, while the ones he could not tend because he had run out of the liquid killed him?

Making up his mind, Éomer unscrewed the lid and filled up the flask to the rim, then carefully closed both vessels again and shook the one with the mix until he was sure that the content had thoroughly mingled. Letting the flask sink, his gaze involuntarily grazed his injured hand and with a frown, he lifted it to inspect the damage. Though throbbing as badly as the rest of his body, the injury did not look serious: two small, deep holes on the inside and back of his hand were connected by a line of smaller holes which apparently had not penetrated quite as far. The worst of the wound seemed to be the bruising. Vaguely relieved, Éomer picked up the first piece of cloth and drenched it in the liquid, grimacing at the biting odour. This wouldn’t be a pleasure… but it had to be done.

Steeling himself for the pain, he applied the cloth to his hand. The feeling was not dissimilar to holding it into the fire, and despite his determination to stay composed, Éomer could not suppress a hiss as he forced himself to wipe once again over the wound, really working the liquid in. Lifting his hand, he then looked at it curiously, feeling a bit ashamed. Compared to the injuries his riders sustained every day in their various battles across the Mark, this was hardly worth mentioning; less than a scratch. It had to be the fault of his overall deteriorating condition that he seemed unable to compose himself as usual.

Determined to finish his grizzly task as fast as he could, Éomer soaked the cloth anew, hesitating only for a brief moment before he pressed it against his face. The pain there was exquisite, and while he carefully dabbed at the scratches next to his eye, Éomer couldn’t help wonder whether Forlorn truly drank that stuff. It certainly felt as if it could set a man’s stomach on fire. His jaws clenched, but otherwise slowly getting accustomed to the burning of the spirit, Éomer methodically worked his way over his face to the gashes on the side of his head, and then further to the abrasions on his hands and arms.

At last, the moment arrived when he could no longer delay the inevitable. Glancing darkly at the protruding shaft as though he had hoped for it to have miraculously disappeared in the meantime, Éomer threw two more thick branches into the fire and shifted his weight. His fingers brushed over the stone he had chosen earlier for the task, but as if they had a will of their own, hesitated to pick it up. He allowed himself a few more moments to compose himself, consciously feeling his lungs expand against his hurting ribs with each shallow breath. Dizzy from the lack of air, he forced himself to pick up the remaining cloths and - forming them into a ball – put them into his mouth. Carefully testing the feel, Éomer bit down on them. It was not much, but like everything else these days, it would have to suffice.

“It is a matter of will!”

“Aye, Cousin. Let’s see you do this!”

He would prove to Théodred how strong he could be. He would not falter. After all, had he not been known once as the fearsome Third Marshal of Riddermark, the man who killed orcs by his glare alone? Surely he could rid himself of a ridiculous arrow then and laugh over it, couldn’t he?

He picked up the stone, fitted his fingers around it while his other hand closed around the remainders of the shaft. The rock had the right size for his hand, the perfect tool for what he was about to do. Once again, he shifted his weight, so that if he fell over unconscious, it would be to the left and not on his wounded right side. ‘If I survive this, I will do the same to you, Worm! I will let them riddle you with arrows, none of them mortal, and then have them driven through your flesh beat for beat! I swear it!’ He lifted the stone, tensing while he admonished himself inwardly to hit as hard as he could to not uselessly prolong the dreaded procedure – and struck.

The cry erupted from his throat despite the cloth and gritted teeth, his jaw-muscles creaking with the strain as he bit down hard on the fabric in his mouth. A sickening wave of nausea welled up from his stomach as his vision caved in, and he felt himself hit the ground hard. ‘Not yet. Not yet!’ He could no longer see clearly, but he felt the sharp angle of the tip pressing against his probing fingers from the inside of his thigh. Almost done. All that was left to do now was just a little push, and a splash of the disinfectant into the wound, and then he could sleep all he wanted. ‘What are you: a warrior… or a wench?’ He rolled on his back, fingers closing around the stump of the shaft that had almost disappeared inside his leg now, the thumb on its end. He pressed, and felt the tip break through with a splash of blood; that last pain only a pin-prick compared to the first hit, but it added to the overall inferno ravaging his body. A loud buzz began to build between his ears, and suddenly, it became very, very cold. Spitting out the cloth for fear he would choke on it if he fell unconscious and retched, Éomer fumbled blindly to pull the arrow from his leg, and then poured the remaining contents of the flask into the tear in his flesh. Strangely, there was no more pain, no burning. No throbbing, as well. Only this bone-chilling cold. The bottle fell from his fingers. ‘No, no; I must dress-” The thought died as he plunged into the darkness…