Chapter 23: The Battle for Meduseld

MEDUSELD

The attack found Wormtongue’s guards unprepared, and before they knew what hit them, they had been rammed to the ground and immobilised with kicks to their stomachs and heads by their captives.

“Free the prisoners!” Háma shouted and raised his sword, and despite the threat of the Dunlendings from behind, the Rohirrim charged in a wave against Gríma’s guards. Not thinking about her own safety when the future of Rohan was at stake, Éowyn joined in their attack although she only carried her dagger, and in the first rush that swept them right into the midst of the enemy, she suddenly found herself standing before Elfhelm.

“Quick, turn around!” With a well-aimed cut, she freed him of his bonds, and he flexed his hands to start the circulation to his fingers again.

“I thank you, my lady, but now you must seek shelter, or your brother will have my head if anything happens to you! Duck!” Pushing her aside even as he spoke, his fist landed in the face of the guard who had thrust his sword at Éowyn; blocking the strike. The man fell like an axed tree, but even before he hit the ground, Elfhelm had wrestled the blade from his grasp and ended his foe’s pain permanently. “Rohirrim, to me! Form a circle!”

In the flickering light of the torches, it was difficult to determine who was friend and who foe; everywhere men were fighting in close proximity, sometimes even back to back, and battle cries and shouts penetrated the din of clattering swords and rushing footsteps. Not wanting to flee when every single blade was needed but understanding her disadvantage caused by her inferior weapon, Éowyn stood frozen in the conflict for a moment too long, and suddenly found the way to her chambers blocked by an advancing Dunlending. His crude sword menacingly raised for the deadly strike, he grinned at her with yellow teeth as he realised that his intended victim had no means of defending herself.

“Do not kill the King’s niece!” Gríma’s voice suddenly rose above the noise of the battle, but it did not penetrate to the Hillman as he lashed out. Her instincts dropping her to the ground in an evading motion, Éowyn suddenly found herself at her assailant’s feet, and with her whole weight behind the thrust, she buried her dagger in the Dunlending’s gut. Malicious eyes widened in unexpected pain, and the man’s sword clattered to the ground as he clutched his horrible wound. Not wasting her time to see him die, Éowyn rolled and grasped the blade she had won. More confident now that she had an adequate weapon, she regained her feet and looked around to get her bearings. Where was Gríma? He would not be in the middle of the melee without a weapon, she knew him better. And just as she had suspected, she caught a brief glimpse of the familiar dark cape behind the mighty statue of his guard Felrod where he supposedly deemed himself safe. Hah, she would show him! If no one was allowed to attack her, she would put that advantage to good use.

Moving through the cluster of fighting men as if she were invisible, Éowyn focused on her enemy. She would end the Mark’s captivity now; with Gríma’s death, their enemies would surely surrender. Her only regret was that she would have to kill the Worm quickly to not risk it that his reign endured if he was just wounded and their attack failed. Still several men were between her and the Counsellor; and carefully she sought her way around them, avoiding any provocation that would cause them to attack against Gríma’s orders. Suddenly a voice cried out:

“Lord Gríma! Watch out! Behind you!”

She did not see the man who had warned Wormtongue, but his words had been heard and now the aim of her attack pivoted Upon seeing her and instinctively understanding her intent, Gríma’s pale eyes widened in disbelief before he tugged at his guard’s shirt.

“Felrod!”

Driving back the Rohir he had fought with a powerful strike, the big man swivelled, and a nasty grin spread on his angular face as he waved his sword at Éowyn in a menacing gesture.

“How nice! I have never fought a woman before. It is one experience in life I always wanted to make: first cut them up, and then—“

“Then enjoy this!” Éowyn shouted, and lashed out while Gríma dived away to seek shelter behind a pillar. Sparks flew as her crude Dunlending sword collided with Felrod’s, and with a horrible clang, half of her blade was hacked clean off while the hilt of the mutilated weapon reverberated in her hands. Instinctively, Éowyn retreated, but Felrod had licked blood now and was determined to claim his prize.

“You think you can defeat me, lassie? I already defeated your brother, so what do you think you can do against me?”

At his words, a red curtain lowered over Éowyn’s vision. That pig had killed Éomer? With a shout of rage, she attacked with the shard of the blade in her hands, succeeding in blocking the big Dunlending’s countering strike and cutting deeply into his hand. The next moment, she suddenly found herself on the floor to his feet, unable to breathe and her stomach a ball of fire. Gasping, she looked up and saw the big hand that had punched her reaching for her. Strong fingers dug into her tunic and hauled her to her feet when suddenly, she was released from the grip. From her left, an angered shout reached her ears, and a Rohir charged against her tormentor. So furious was his onslaught that he drove the Dunlending back several steps before Felrod could block his sword and push against his attacker. It was Háma.

“Flee, Éowyn! Out of the hall! We cannot hold them for much longer!” The guard was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, and his eyes were wide in dismay as he cast her a brief glance of utmost urgency.

And as she followed his gaze, Éowyn saw that he was right: wherever she looked, their men were fighting one against three or four enemies at a time, and even as she looked on, their numbers dwindled further when two more fell to the ground, hewn by their foes. She turned back and saw Gríma behind his pillar, almost within reach while the front doors of Meduseld lay equally far away on the other side. The exit was unguarded, all men involved in fights. No one would stop her if she fled now. But how could she leave Gamling and the others behind when they needed her? She turned back to Háma, just in time to see the guard block two mighty thrusts, but with the third, Felrod knocked the weapon from his hands.

“No!” She dashed toward him, meaning to help, but it was too late: his attention focused on evading his assailant’s next strike, Háma stepped back – and into the sword of a Dunlending who had sneaked up on him from behind. “Háma!” For a moment, the guard’s eyes looked in utter bewilderment at the bloodied sword protruding from his skewered chest… then his knees buckled and he fell, his weight ripping the sword in his midst from the Dunlending’s hands. Black eyes stared at Éowyn in dismay as the Hillman unexpectedly found himself unarmed, and his triumph over the Captain of the Royal Guard was short-lived as Éomund’s daughter hewed his head clean off his shoulders with an enraged shout.

“You are defeated!” Gríma’s voice could suddenly be heard over the fight. “Drop your weapons and you shall live. Anyone still insisting on resistance dies I mean it!”

Pivoting, Éowyn saw that is was indeed true. There were only few Rohirrim left among the mass of dark-haired Dunlendings and the Worm’s personal guards; too few to speak even of the faintest hope. Among them, she saw Elfhelm and Céorl, both bleeding from several cuts and surrounded by enemies. Gamling she could not see, but her heart sank at the discovery that she herself was encircled by their foes. There was no escape; not for her, nor for anyone. They had lost the battle for Meduseld. All fighting spirit leaving her, she sank to her knees next to Háma, and her broken sword clattered to the ground. “Oh Háma…”

Reaching out to caress the dying man’s cheek in a last gesture of farewell, Éowyn felt a sudden desperate impulse to take up the razor-sharp shard of her blade and turn it against herself. What use was there in living on? What could she expect from her adversary, if not even more grief and horror? She had known Háma of the Royal Guard for most of her life. He had always been kind to her from the moment on when Théoden had brought them with him from Aldburg, and many times had he covered for her, deliberately misdirecting her stern teachers of needlework and court-etiquette who had sought her while she had been secretly at the training grounds, practising her swordplay. He had been her secret confidante, an ally in the strange world of the Rohan court she had been cast into. And now, he had saved her for the last time. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stroked his cheek, horrified by the sight of the thin stream of blood flowing from the corners of his mouth.

“Háma, I am so sorry…”

“I wish…” He coughed, and the pain forced him to shut his eyes. “I wish you had escaped, my lady…” His rough hand grasped her fingers, and she held on. “You… you should have fled.”

“I could not leave you behind,” she cried now, oblivious to the sound of steps which approached her from behind. “But you saved me, Háma. Once again, you saved me. And it will not be in vain; the Worm will not win, I promise you that.”

Háma could no longer speak, but the sadness in his gaze said more than words could ever have expressed. She pressed his hand, and choked on her tears when the guard’s eyes grew distant with death and his strength deserted him.

“My… lady…” It was but a whisper, and with it, Háma of the Royal Guard died. The pain was too great for a scream, and so Éowyn just bent over the fallen man and cried silently while the steps came to a halt behind her.

“He left us no choice,” Wormtongue’s voice reached her ears. “You left us no choice. I did not wish for this bloodbath; it was your own fault. Why do you people not understand when you are defeated? Why can you not see when you are faced with impossible odds? The Rohirrim always pride themselves of their defiance and their stubbornness to accept someone else’s superiority, but I say that it is foolishness. He needn’t have died. It was your misdirected sense of pride and honour that put him into his grave, my Lady.”

A hand dug painfully into her shoulder. It was an impulse, happening so fast she had no means to stop herself: suddenly, the broken sword was back in her hand and she thrust it upward in a vicious move. A pained shriek rewarded her before her wrist was seized and the weapon painfully wrestled from her grasp. Éowyn shouted in pain as she was hurled to her feet by her twisted wrist, and the next moment, her breath was cut off by a thick forearm pressing against her throat.

“Did she hit you, my Lord?” Felrod’s deep voice growled behind her, and as Gríma straightened, his hand cupping his cheek and blooded oozing from between his fingers, Éowyn felt a moment of wild triumph even through her pain and despair. Her adversary’s pale eyes blazed with fury as he regarded her.

“Throw her into the dungeon! Take the darkest, loneliest cell you can find. It is about time this wench is taught a lesson she won’t forget!”

“What about the others, my Lord?”

“How many of them are still alive?”

“Three. The two Capains and Gamling. As you said earlier that you wanted to take them alive if possible—“

“Indeed, that is what I said.” Taking his hand from his cheek to regard the redness of his own blood, Gríma cast a last, dark glance at Éowyn before he turned to the men who awaited his orders. “You did well. Throw them into the dungeon as well. Captain Elfhelm will be given the cell opposite the White Lady’s, and he will be shackled in it. The other two will be brought into another wing, out of earshot from each other, and without light. I will teach the stubborn descendants of Éorl the bitter taste of defeat!”

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

It was no longer easy to keep herself awake with the slow approach of dawn, Freya found. With Éomer resting save and soundly on the bed next to her chair, his cheeks slightly flushed from the fever but nowhere near as pale and death-like looking as he had when the three travellers had brought him to her, the surge of energy that had flooded her veins during the treatment had vanished. She was still concerned for him, but it was more like holding the night-watch over her children on those occasions when they had played for too long outside and caught a cold. No longer did she believe that Éomer could still die, not when he looked so much better already.

“You will live,” Freya whispered, her fingers brushing over his heated brow in a gentle caress although he gave no sign of hearing her. “I know it. You are strong.” Letting her hand sink, she settled for taking his hand into hers, hoping that he felt her presence even in the darkness he roamed and thus know that he stood not alone in his fight. With a tired smile, she leaned back into the chair and looked at the twilit world beyond her window. It was too early to lose hope, Aragorn had said. Was Éomer’s survival then to be seen as a good omen, a sign to not despair? Her eyes resting on Éomer’s still features, Freya felt the same, unsettling stirring in her she had always felt in the warrior’s presence. Ever since their first, fateful meeting, she had asked herself whether she had been right in sending him away when, after all these years, their feelings for each other were still as strong as ever. Every time he visited her here, he brought her emotions in an uproar, and she knew that he felt the same way about her; his secretly stolen glances even when his men were around, the little smiles on the face of that man who didn’t smile often and the soft, loving expression in his eyes whenever he looked at her, they all gave him away, and it was an elevating feeling and excruciating at the same time, with neither of them able to live out what their hearts truly wished for.

As if Éomer felt her turmoil in his sleep, he suddenly shifted his position and sighed deeply, but his eyes remained closed. With a loving smile Freya bent over to smooth away a strand of flaxen hair which had fallen into his face… but suddenly, she froze. A well-known chill turned her skin to gooseflesh, and when she looked up, she saw Osred’s face through the narrow gap behind the open door. Quickly retracting her hand as if she had reached into fire – ‘And perhaps that is the very thing I have done!’ – she sat bolt upright and heat flushed her face, even if her own dismay angered her. She had done nothing wrong! Yes, she loved Éomer, and Osred had known it for a long time. They had never talked about it, but the looks he had given her whenever the Marshal had been around had spoken louder than words. But it was not anger she saw now on her husband’s broad, shadowed face with the trimmed flaxen beard. It was defeat, something even worse in Freya’s opinion. It would have been easier for her to bear had Osred shouted at her or flung the door, but this quiet submission in his expression was unbearable. While her mind still raced thinking about what to say, Osred suddenly turned away and left, and she jumped to her feet to follow him.

“Osred! Osred, wait!” As quietly as possible, she shut the door behind her and followed her husband to the end of the corridor where he stood and gazed at Aragorn, who was sleeping on the ground before the fireplace, wrapped into a blanket. When he turned around, his accusatory gaze briefly grazed Freya, and without a word, he passed her by and went into the kitchen at the far side of the corridor. Her heart painfully beating in her chest, Freya followed him inside and closed the door behind her. “Osred, please, it is not as you think…”

“Spare me, Freya,” he mumbled, staring at the window as he felt not able to face her. “I know what is between you and the Marshal. I even understand you, for how could I – a simple farmer – compete with a Lord of the bloodline of Éorl himself? Of course you feel flattered that a noble shows interest in you; every woman would. Who am I to complain?” He shrugged and shook his head. “Perhaps I should rather feel honoured because my wife is deemed worthy to belong to a captain of our riders.”

Sitting down at the opposite site of the table, Freya reached for his hand, but he took it way, denying her touch. She sighed, shame burning her at the sight of her husband’s torment.

“Osred, will you hear me out, please? Please?” Reluctantly, he looked at her. “Osred, you are my husband, and I love you, you must know that!”

“Not as much as him,” Osred said quietly. “You cannot deny it; I have seen you together.”

“And you feel that you have a reason to complain about the way I have been treating you? Do you not feel loved by me?” He remained silent at that. “Because I do love you, Osred, but it is a different kind of love. Éomer… I have known him for so long, he is like a brother to me.”

“No.” Osred shook his head, and now his voice was coloured with anger at last. “No, you do not look at him as if he were your brother; do not take me for a fool, Freya! Perhaps I must endure the thought that you long for another man, but I will not endure being lied to! I do not deserve that after all these years!”

“No, you don’t.” Now she had to avoid his gaze. “You are right.”

“I love you, Freya; I took you for my wife because of who you are. I love our children and the life we lead out here; I love this land and I will do all that I can to ensure that we have a good life. I may not be a great warrior with shining armour and endless courage and honour, and I may not know much of the world beyond these mountains, but I do know what is needed to ensure the survival of my family even in these hard times. I work hard from dawn to dusk each day; I set the fields, I see to the animals and the buildings, and when I am done, I come home and hear how your day was and play with our children. I do what I can, Freya, but I see that I cannot compete against him, and it hurts.”

“You do not need to compete,” she said quietly, her eyes burning. “I married you even though Éomer asked me to become his wife years before we met. Do you not think that this is the answer to all your doubts?”

Obviously, it was not.

“But why did you marry me, Freya? Was it not only because you knew that you could never have him? That, and you needed someone to take care of the farm for you, someone who would not always be away and might not return from his next battle. I was the reasonable choice, but never the one your heart wished for, is it not so? No matter what I do, I will never be more than second-best to you. It is not fair, Freya.”

She swallowed, his words burning her soul because each of them was true. Béma knew how much she had tried to feel the same for Osred as for the son of Marshal Éomund, but her heart would not let itself be fooled, and it knew the difference between reason and love all too well. She had hoped to be able to hide it from her husband, not wanting to hurt him when he didn’t deserve it, but apparently he had known it after all for all these years they had spent together, even though he had said nothing. Feverishly she tried to think of a way to tell Osred that he was mistaken, but her head was empty. Feeling the tears rise, she shut her eyes.

“Have you never wondered what you are for him?” Osred now asked lowly, defeated. “Have you never asked yourself this question? He knows as well as you that there is no future for the two of you together, he must have understood it from the beginning. He is only playing with you—“

“He is not!”

“—to ensure that there will always be a warm bed and a good meal waiting for him on his patrols through the Eastfold. I know of what I speak, Freya! It was that way in the village I was born in. The young women there, they were always keen on making friends with the riders, because those would share their stories of honour and battle with them and take them out into the world even if it was only with their tales. Sometimes, they would even bring them gifts, small tokens they had won in battle and which they brought the woman of their choice to be sure she’d remember them after they had been away for a while. Not because they loved them, but to ensure that they would have a home away from home on their journeys; and perhaps even a woman in addition to the one waiting for them at their home; a body to use when this one urge became too great after weeks of separation…”

“Éomer is not like that!” she shouted, rising to her feet with such force that the chair toppled over behind her. Surely, all in the house were awake by now and listening to their quarrel, but this she would not take! “He never used me, and he never tried to, either! Years ago, when we were both much younger, he even asked me to become his wife, but I sent him away even then because I knew that it could not work. We are friends, Osred, even if I will admit that we feel more for each other than ordinary friends, but we have arranged ourselves with the situation. We cannot be together, not in that way; that is simply the way it is. I never betrayed you!”

“But you married me instead to make me feel every day that I would never be the one your heart beat for.” Osred narrowed his eyes. “You got yourself a fool who would work his fingers to the bone to provide you and your family with food and protection while your love was reserved for someone else. I was blind, Freya, until today I never understood how cruel you were.” He stood up from the table, too embittered to further bear his wife’s presence. He needed to leave. In a desperate attempt to escape the conflict, he rushed to the door.

“Osred—“

“Stay away from me, Freya! Please! Do not touch me!” Lifting both hands in a defence motion against her, Osred shot his wife a warning glare, and the young woman’s insides twisted into a hard knot at the bitter expression on his face. She halted, and her arms dropped to her sides as all strength left her.

“I do love you, Osred. Don’t forget this when you leave me now. I love you in a different way, and that love is just as honest, if not more honest, as the one I have for Éomer. Think about it when you leave me now; think about the life we share, and whether you truly think that for all these years, we were living a lie. Will you do that, Osred?”

He lifted his chin, stubbornly, unsuccessfully trying to hide his inner pain.

“I cannot tell you yet what I will do, Freya. At this moment, I do not know anything.” He did not fling the door, but the silence he left behind was just as deafening.