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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

Chapter 17: The End of the Path


EDORAS

The dark silhouette of Meduseld loomed forbiddingly against the pale grey sky, and for the first time ever, the sight evoked a feeling of dread in Céorl as he approached the mighty wooden fence that surrounded the city. Voices called out from the guard tower and knowing that he had been recognised, he reined in his horse as he waited for the gates to open. Finally, they were home again… only it did not feel like home. Instead of a place of safety, the experienced warrior felt as if he was treading on a frozen lake, the ice underneath his feet creaking and treacherously thin. Looking to see whether his fellow Riders shared his impression, the Captain turned his head and found his own discomfort mirrored in their grim faces and the rigidity of their bearing. While all the Riders were looking forward to be reunited with their families, none of them found solace in the thought of entering a city that reeked of mistrust and fear. What would they find once they proceeded inside? What had happened in the streets of Edoras since their departure, and when would they be called to answer to the Counsellor’s questions?

Setting his jaw at the thought of having to suppress his disdain while speaking with the Worm, Céorl urged his steed through the gap, and at once the leaden atmosphere of the city weighed him down, threatening to suffocate him as he beheld the guarded and fearful expressions of his kinsmen. Quickly they hurried by in their various errands, barely pausing long enough to regard him and his men with a vague sense of relief before they averted their eyes again.

"Captain Céorl!" One of the guards descended the ladder from the watchtower, and at least his face showed honest joy over his commander’s return. "It is good to have you back. With all the fell things going on out there, one can never know whether one will see those who leave the city again. How are things in Aldburg?"

"Not much different from here, it would seem," Céorl grumbled meaningfully, angered by the sight of his fearful kinsmen, and his urge to throttle the man who had turned their proud, courageous people into these sad shadows of themselves resurfaced with sudden vehemence. With a deep intake of breath, he looked down upon the older guard, struggling to rein in his bucking temperament. Poor Aldor most certainly did not deserve to be snapped at. "Tell me, Aldor, has anything of import happened in Edoras in my absence? Anything that I should know about?"

"Alas, the blacksmith’s son has gone missing, and his horse returned with a wound in its side, so apparently they were attacked. No one knows yet what fate has befallen him, and no body was found."

Céorl’s expression darkened at the insight that apparently, he could not even be gone from the city for four days without evil assaulting the people under his care.

"Have they looked for him? And why did he leave the city? Where did he want to go in this weather?"

"Your son led the riders out in search for Élric, but they returned empty-handed. I fear that there is not much hope left for the poor man. Bergfinn said that his son intended to bring a few instruments to his brother in the Folde which he had finished that day."

"For how long has he been missing?"

"This is the fourth day, Captain. He left the same day as you." There was no need to say more. Céorl understood, and with a silent curse, shook his head and exhaled.

"Do you know where Éothain is? Is he well?"

"Your son was well when I saw him this morning, my lord, but I fear that he is not in the city. He and part of his éored left this morning to investigate a report of orcs north of here."

An instinctive fear befell Céorl as his eyes went over the guard’s shoulder in the direction the man had indicated, aware of the fact that he never used to worry overmuch about his son’s fate. Éothain was a capable warrior, skilled both with bow and sword and not lightly overcome. For years, battling orcs had been hardly more than a chore for their riders, but lately, the numbers of the foul brood had increased to the point where their hordes posed a serious threat even to a full éored, and since the discovery of the Uruk-Hai, a more fell and powerful breed of these accursed creatures, farmers and soldiers alike had begun to fear them.

"Well, if Éothain returns from his errand soon, tell him to meet me at the stables, Aldor. Otherwise I will meet him at home later on. I need to talk with him." Directing Lancer toward the ascending path, the warrior’s glance went up the slope to the stark silhouette of the Golden Hall. He did not look forward to delivering his report to a man with whom he would sooner exchange sword strikes than words. ‘It will not be for much longer,’ he thought, urging his steed on with a grim expression. ‘The Worm’s time is running out. Tonight, we will plan his end.’

---------------------------------

MEDUSELD

High above the city, Éowyn sat once again by the window, her eyes unfocussed, staring into the thickly falling snow while she contemplated her options. No matter how her visit the night before had ended, it had filled her heart with hope to see that inside the apathetic shell of her uncle, the man Théoden had once been was still alive. She had feared that man was lost, but now that she had found out that he still existed, she was determined to find a way of bringing him back; with Gamling’s and Háma’s help or on her own if necessary. Looking at the closed door of her chambers in thought, Éowyn remembered her discussion with the Chief of the Royal Guard, and warmth spread through her at the comforting thought that she still had an ally within these halls. If it came to the worst, perhaps they could still force fate to bend their way.

Good old Gamling… She hoped that she had not caused her uncle’s most trusted friend additional trouble because of her request, but then again, it had never been said that she was not allowed to visit the King. It was infuriating that the Worm apparently held enough control over the court to confine her to her rooms, but to keep her isolated from her only remaining family member when it was well-known that the King’s condition always improved with her visits, however briefly, would be an uncalled-for punishment. Surely the ranks of the Royal Guard still held enough loyal followers of Théoden to keep her adversary and his henchmen in check.

Really?’ a voice in the back of her head asked warily. ‘How can you believe this after what happened to Éomer? Do you think Gríma would spare you if he caught you plotting against him? Do you think that he would hesitate to throw you into the dungeon if he knew that you plan to rid the Mark of him only because he wants you for himself?’ Oh yes, that thought. Long had she succeeded in ignoring it, but now it reared its ugly head again. Did the snake honestly believe that after all that had happened, she would still eventually surrender to him, that he would have her sooner or later, whether by force or by her own free will? No matter how much she despised the dark man, he could not truly think that she would ever consent to sharing her bed and her life with him; she would rather fall on her sword.

An inquisitive rap on the door woke her from her contemplations, and she raised her brows, tensing in sudden anxiety.

"Enter!"

It was the Snake, of course. She had expected him to see her about the happenings of the night before, and still his talent of showing up whenever her thoughts were occupied with him was most uncanny, as if he were somehow able to look inside her head and heard her thoughts to make his entry when he would most unsettle her. His face an unmoved mask, the subject of her pondering shuffled into the room with his usual slight limp and closed the door behind himself. The look of the pale eyes resembled the thin crust of ice on a very deep lake. Just one wrong step, and she would plunge into the water and drown in its dark depths.

"Alas, it would appear to me that you do not take my threat seriously, my lady," he said, and a dangerous gleam danced in his pale eyes. "Do you not care for your brother, or how am I to interpret your little unexpected visit to the King last night?"

Éowyn lifted her chin, but remained seated with no intentions to rise.

"Would you mind telling me in what way you believe me to have offended your commands, Counsellor? It was never said that I could not see my uncle, and I did not make a secret out of seeing him. On the contrary, I specifically asked the Chief of the Royal Guard to accompany me to his chambers, so that the visit would not be regarded as an act of disobedience. If you did not want for me to do so, you should have been clearer in your wording."

"You were ordered to remain in your rooms for five days. Today is only the fourth day, and your uncle’s chambers are not your chambers. I do not believe that we must discuss this fact."

"By your own words, you admitted that the arrest was only out of fear of me trying to help my brother in some way that would force you to incarcerate me. Now, thanks to your intervention--" at this she glared at him – "Éomer was unable to leave Rohan in the time you officially granted him. It was you who did not play by the rules, and I don’t believe that we must discuss this fact, either. It was also against the rules to let your henchmen stalk and injure him, so why should you tell me anything about rules, Counsellor?"

Gríma lifted his chin.

"The rules are made by the stronger one, Lady Éowyn. The weaker one either obeys, or feels the punishment for his disobedience. The choice is his."

Infuriated, Éowyn came to her feet, too angry now to remain seated.

"All I wished yesterday was to see my Uncle! I do not know whether you have noticed, but he is ill and frail! He is my family, and although you turned him into a hollow shell, I still care for him. He needs me in these hard times. You cannot forbid me to see my kin!"

"Do not try my patience," Gríma sneered. "I would be much more generous with my approval if it were not for the distinct feeling that you were in the process of disparaging me to the King when I entered, Lady Éowyn, and don’t even try to deny it. It was written all over your face!" Gríma held her gaze, and again it was as if he looked right into her head. "Do not take me for a fool, I know exactly the purpose of your little visit, and it was not solely to establish that your uncle was still alive. You wanted to find out whether he was clear enough to understand your accusations against me, is it not so?"

"Does it even matter what I say?" Éowyn rebuked. "You are so convinced of your version of the tale that you will not listen to me anyway!"

"You planned to tell the King of your brother’s fate. You planned to urge your Uncle to send me away, and that leaves me with only one possible conclusion: you do not believe that my threat is a real one. Tell me, what shall I do to convince you of my sincerity? Shall I bring you your brother’s hand to make you understand that he is indeed at my mercy... or will you continue to not believe me until I bring you his head?" Wormtongue advanced another step, and his gaze burned her. It took all of Éowyn’s restraint not to jump at the evil man and bury the dagger she now carried always with her in his chest. "I will do it, my lady. If you insist, I can have your brother’s head here for you to see by tomorrow. You will believe me then, but you will have to live with the knowledge that your rebellion killed him. Tell me, is this indeed what you want me to do? Your wish shall be my command."

She could not answer. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, Éowyn stood shivering with rage. Gríma, however, showed no mercy.

"I asked you a question, my lady. Should I send for your brother’s head?" He stared her down, and at last, she closed her eyes, no longer able to look at her tormentor.

"No." It was but a breath, and although Gríma had well heard it, the sound of it did not satisfy him.

"Say it loud and clearly, or I must assume that you still do not mean what you say!"

Éowyn’s eyes opened, and if looks could have killed, the Counsellor would have dropped dead right then.

"No, I do not want you to kill Éomer. Will that mean that you’re condemning me to stay here in my rooms while my uncle is dying a slow death at your hands?"

"He is not dying from my hands; it is his body failing him. In fact, I am prolonging his life! You should be grateful! But to answer your question: no, I will not forbid you to see your uncle in the future, but the decision whether you can see him or not lies solely with me from now on, and you will only visit him in my presence, because once again, you have proven yourself untrustworthy. And I will not hear any protest, because you know very well that I speak the truth. If you force me to intervene one more time, the restriction you have spoken of yourself will become reality, and you will hurt both your uncle and yourself by it… not to mention your brother." Turning around, Gríma laid a hand on the door handle, but then looked back at Éowyn once more, almost as if in afterthought. "I honestly hope that you understood me this time, Lady Éowyn. I keep my promises, and I mean what I say, always. If you still think that you can play your little games with me, then I must inform you that the times when I tolerated them for amusement’s sake are over. If I catch you scheming just one more time, you will bring suffering to those you love, mark my words." He let the words trail off into the heavy silence between them for dramatic effect, and when no answer came, left the chambers without another glance back.

---------------------------------

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Cold. So cold. The wind a howling, raging beast; tearing at him and sucking warmth and strength from his body no matter how deeply he hunched over Firefoot’s neck or pulled the hood of his cape into his face. A thick crust of ice already covered his beard and brows and eyelashes, thickening with each laboured breath, and he shivered violently from the cold and exhaustion. Yet despite the cramps, Éomer caught himself falling asleep and slipping to the side with increasing frequency during the last part of the ride. Several times he only barely avoided the fall that would settle his fate, because instinctively he knew that once down, he would never be able to climb onto the stallion’s back again. Still he had to face the fact that slowly but surely, his reserves were nearing their end.

When they had first set out, the throbbing pain in his leg and side had been a constant companion, so strong he had not even felt the blistering cold. It had kept him wide awake for a while, but inevitably with the duration of his exposure to the temperatures, the cold had begun to affect him: frost slowly crept up from his feet, inside his legs and further up his body underneath the swaying cape to settle in his sweat-drenched garments, adding shivers to his fever cramps. Now the cramps slowly ceased as the temperature in his body dropped... and numbness replaced them. It was no improvement of his condition, Éomer knew, and still he welcomed the change. Numbness and fatigue he could endure for a while longer, but not the cramps. They had left him hollow in their wake, barely able to hold himself on his horse.

Where were they? Was it a scent Firefoot was following? Did he sense others of his kin close by, which – in Rohan – inevitably also meant the presence of men? Or did he merely proceed deeper and deeper into the mountains because halting would not solve their problem? More hanging than sitting on the grey’s back, his mind in a daze, Éomer stared at the swirling white maelstrom the world had become, threatening to pull him into its cold and deadly embrace. He had lost all sense of direction and time, could not even tell for how long they had been riding. It seemed like forever. North, south, west, east, hours, minutes, all was one in the raging elements, bereft of meaning, and he knew not for how much longer he would be able to endure.

Suddenly, the great body beneath him gave a deep grunt and tensed as if Firefoot had picked up a scent he disliked. His fingers involuntarily clenching in the horse’s thick dark mane, Éomer fought to penetrate the twilight as the stallion turned in an anxious circle, and for a moment, he thought he saw indistinct shapes moving on the path they had just cleared. The next moment they were gone, but Éomer was almost unseated when the stallion suddenly jumped into a gallop without transition. For the duration of ten thundering heartbeats, he hung precariously on the horse’s side, fighting with the last of his strength to regain his seat.

"Hoh! Hoh, Firefoot!"

Ignoring his master’s feeble attempts to slow him down, the grey accelerated, and now Éomer saw for the first time the shapes behind them clearly. The pack had grown from the three wolves which had assaulted him earlier to more than half a dozen beasts, and they moved closer with each long leap, determination on their feral faces. They were hungry, and this time, they would not back down. His attention focused on their pursuers as he felt for his knife, Éomer was caught by surprise as Firefoot abruptly leapt to the left, and the next moment, frost bit the naked skin of his face as he landed on his stomach in the snow.

Stunned by the impact on his injured ribs and the shock of the fall, Éomer’s left hand still clenched the hilt of his knife, and he fought breathlessly to draw up his knees. Putting all the energy left in him into his arms, he pushed himself up into a kneeling position just as the first wolves emerged out of the swirling mist behind him.

Stand up, or you die! Éomer!’

He lashed out with the knife, missing as the wolf evaded him with ease, and the force of the thrust unbalanced him. Again he landed face-first in the snow, and the whiteness on the ground greeted him with cold fingers.

Stay here’, it lured him. ‘Lay down and sleep in my embrace, and you won’t even feel it when they rip you apart.’

"No! Éomer, get up!"

Théodred’s voice called out to him from the other end of a very long tunnel, muffled and almost too low to make out, but where before it had succeeded in lending him the necessary energy to escape the gaping maw of oblivion, Éomer now felt himself falling into it as the ground shifted beneath him and the tunnel turned into a bottomless pit. The last sensation he felt was the solid hilt of his knife in his fingers and then the repercussion of heavy steps approaching him, and then he knew no more…





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