Chapter 24: Abandon all Hope

MEDUSELD

Shock-numbed and grief-stricken, Éowyn offered no resistance as the guards lead her downstairs into the dark, forbidding heart of the mountain, a place she had only been to once before in her childhood, and although it had just been a visit then, it had been a frightening experience. It was Éomer who had enquired about the dungeon after witnessing a trial in which their Uncle had sentenced a man to a fortnight in the cell because another man had been injured in a fight. A few months had passed since their relocation to Edoras, and while Théoden had deemed the siblings too young to visit such a dreadful place, their cousin had in the end persuaded his father to be allowed to show them the place, his point being that – as possible future rulers – his cousins should be well aware of each aspect of Rohan life. The darkness, the cold and leaden silence and the hollow echo of their footsteps had horrified Éowyn even then, and she had been glad to leave the dungeon shortly afterward to the mockery of her brother. This time, she would not get out so easily, or so soon, and yet the prospects did not frighten her – they didn’t even reach her. She was dead inside.

As they passed the already occupied cells, surprised shouts and gasps could be heard upon the sight of the noble King Théoden’s niece. Éowyn neither heard them, nor did she care; in the wake of the battle, she was left bereft of all fighting spirit. Gríma was now in possession of the one thing he had craved for all these years: absolute power over Meduseld. The only remaining question was whether he would leave her uncle alive yet, counting on his worth as a captive just in case that Éomer wasn’t dead, or that Erkenbrand and Grimbold, now the Mark’s only two Captains and remaining men of power, would ride for Edoras because they felt that something was wrong in their capital. Or was he killing the feeble King even now, convinced that he no longer needed him? And what would he do to her afterward? So many questions and possibilities she denied herself to contemplate. What did it all matter? With Éomer banished and most likely dead, Háma killed and Gamling, Elfhelm and Céorl incarcerated along with her, no one was left to save their people from extinction; it would be too much too expect that deed accomplished by the two remaining Westfold-Captains. Not even the thought of the deep gash she had marked Grima’s face with could bring a smile to her face.

What was that scratch compared to the agony poor Háma had had to endure, impaled on a sword and dying in his own blood on the floor of the Golden Hall? What was it compared to the sight of Céorl hanging between his captors like dead weight, too weak to stand and losing more blood from his multiple wounds with each beating of his heart? And Elfhelm, likewise a man she had known since her earliest childhood as he had been their father’s best friend; and the mentor and often times saviour of her brother… he, too, was wounded and would rather need a healer than the dungeon. Gamling she had not seen as they had pushed her over to the door leading to the stairs ahead of the others, but she suspected that in the horrible fight, he, too, had not been spared from the sharp swords and axes of their enemies.

At a crossroads, they briefly came to a halt in the flickering light of a distant torch; and Wormtongue turned around to his men. The deep cut in his cheek throbbed and hurt, and yet the pain did not spoil his mood. He had won, and determined to savour each and every little aspect of his victory he had worked so hard for all these past years. Pain was a temporary thing; glory was forever, and he would wear this scar proudly. Even better, in the years to come, it would be a constant reminder to the hot-headed niece of Rohan’s soon-to-be-history King of how she had failed. In fact, she had done him a favour with it. Clearing his throat, Gríma pointed in the direction of the crossing corridor and addressed Guthlaf.

“You, Guthlaf, will take Captain Gamling to the northern end of the dungeon; and Céorl to the western end. There will be no torches in their corridors. I want them to be in absolute darkness. As they have demonstrated to us too often by now, the Rohrrim do not learn lessons easily, so we must ensure that they understand their defeat this time. Go!”

“Céorl needs a healer, or he will die,” Elfhelm growled, his voice tense from his own battle against the pain. His head felt as if the top half of it was about to fall off, and from numerous cuts he had not been able to avoid, he felt his hot blood running down his body. “Or is that what you want, to make us die slowly down here, Worm? You will not succeed, no matter what you do. Sooner or later, Éothain will find out what happened here, and he will alert Erkenbrand and Grimbold. Once they are at the Golden Hall’s doorstep, you will wish that you never came to Edoras!” In vain, he tore at his bonds as Céorl and Gamling were led away.

“Is that so?” Gríma replied coolly, immensely satisfied with Elfhelm’s obvious distress. He had yet some more information to share which would stun the arrogant Captain of Eastfold into silence, and the haughty daughter of his king along with him. Every word tasted delicious on his tongue as he bent his colourless eyes on his captives to share his full knowledge with them at last: “I really hate having to kill your hope, but I fear that the Lords Erkenbrand and Grimbold will soon be too concerned with trying to save their own part of the Mark to even think in which direction to ride for Edoras…” Oh, how delightful it was to see the warrior’s expression darken with this unnamed dread he had woken!

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” With raised brows, Gríma inclined his head to gaze at Éowyn. The King’s niece had for once not even attempted to resist his guards up to this point, and he had almost believed for her spirit to be broken, but now the distance in her gaze gave way to a wary sparkle. Smiling, the Counsellor shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. “I mean that within the next few days, the men you are setting your hope in will be faced with an army of Uruk-hai so great that even the sky has not enough stars to rival their number. From the Gap of Rohan to the border to Anorien, the grass of the Mark’s plains will disappear beneath the feet of a host greater than anything this land has ever seen; a host so great that the earth will shake from their marching long before you can see them even from this hill!” Thoroughly satisfied with the growing horror in the warrior’s eyes, Gríma bend forward to whisper in mock-confidentiality: “Your Westfold-armies will be crushed underneath their feet like ants, Captain Elfhelm. Whatever aid you are expecting, no one will come. No one will be left alive to come for you, except the great orcs of my master. In about a fortnight, the Kingdom of Rohan will have ceased to exist. Enjoy its last days, even if you spend them in a cell.”

With Elfhelm rendered unable to speak, Wormtongue’s re-focused on Éowyn. Even in the flickering light he could see her turn deadly white. “Perhaps, if you behave, I will let you witness the destruction of Edoras from the terrace, my Lady. It should be a most valuable lesson for you to see the power of Isengard swallow you insignificant realm of farmers and horses. Not even all the stubbornness of your people combined will suffice to let them survive.”

Éowyn’s lips were a bloodless, trembling thin line, but her voice was dangerously low when she replied: “The most devastating defeats are always received when one of the combatants thinks that he has already won. The sons and daughters of Éorl know how make good use of such haughtiness, Worm. Our salvation will come from a direction you won’t anticipate, mark my words.”

Wormtongue smirked.

“Proud and stubborn as ever, our brave daughter of Éomund. Very well, so be it; this is only the first day of your trial yet. Let’s get her into her cage and be gone, for it feels rather draughty down here and I long for my warm fire. Go!” He gave his guards a curt nod and slowly trudged after them while they pushed the King’s niece into the small, barred niche in the rock, shut the door and turned the key in the lock even as she turned around. Then he watched with great interest as Elfhelm was shackled to the wall by his wrists in a standing position in the cell opposite Éowyn’s.

Upon the completion of his orders, Felrod turned around, keeping half an eye on their female captive to take delight in her reaction as he asked:

“My Lord Gríma, do you want us to extinguish the torches in this corridor, too?”

Provokingly slowly, Wormtongue turned around to face Éowyn, and for the longest moment, let her remain in uncertainty while he pretended to contemplate his minion’s question. She was afraid of the dark, oh yes. How much she dreaded to be left in this very real cage and to be choked by its narrowness and the absence of distraction from her hopeless situation! “ No. Not yet, at least. I want them to see each other. And I want her to witness how with each passing day, this man you care for will weaken while he slowly starves, provided his injuries don’t kill him first. How slowly he dies will be your decision, my Lady. Each day, I will come down here once with water and food, and you will be appointed a task. If you solve it to my full satisfaction, he will get both. If I need to force you to do it, he will only get the water. And if you won’t comply at all, he will get nothing.” He paused meaningfully, waiting for the crunching with which Elfhelm’s cell-door closed to make his point before he added: “You now have a whole day to think about my proposition, Lady Éowyn. Use it well.” He granted his guards a curt nod as an indication of his satisfaction with them as well as an order to leave. “Now back to your posts. Our captives need the quiet to contemplate their situation, and I do believe that there is some cleaning up to do in the Hall.”

“You will pay for this,” Éowyn shouted after him, rattling at the steel bars. “Sooner or later, you will be punished, and you will pay like no man has ever paid before!” She received no answer, and when at last the sound of steps faded away, all strength left her and she leaned heavily against the bars, her despairing gaze meeting Elfhelm’s. The warrior lifted his head, and urgency replaced the weakness and pain in his grey eyes.

“My Lady, I do not know what that Snake has planned, but I fear that he will try to use me in order to break you. But no matter what he does to me, you must promise me not to bend to his will. Lady Éowyn? Will you promise me this?”

She stared at him in dread.

“I do not know if it is in my power, Elfhelm. If he tortures you… I may not be able to endure it.”

“But you must.” Elfhelm’s gaze pierced her. Instinctively the seasoned warrior understood what it was their adversary would ask of Éomer’s sister, and he knew that he would not want to live with the knowledge of being the reason for Éowyn’s degradation and the destruction of her spirit. “Promise me that you will not tolerate it that the Worm lays his hands upon you! Not for me, and not for anyone! If you succumb to his will, it would be my ultimate defeat. Pain cannot touch me; I have endured it before, and I will die gladly if I can ensure by it that your honour stays intact. Promise me!”

The moment stretched between them, and for the longest time, only the omnipresent trickling of water could be heard in the semi-darkness while the daughter of Éomund of Aldburg and the Captain of Eastfold stared at each other. At last, Éowyn closed her eyes, and the two words she uttered despite the hard lump in her throat felt to her like the ultimate betrayal.

“I promise.”

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

“I am proud of you, Cousin. This was a dire situation you were in, but you mastered it.”

“So I am still alive?” Éomer looked at the older man sceptically. “But then why am I talking to you?”

Théodred smiled.

“Because you are dreaming. I exist only in your head, don’t you remember? We talked before, and you didn’t ask those questions then. I am, in fact, you. And yes, you are alive.”

Not understanding his cousin’s strange explanation, Éomer creased his brow, but then chose to ignore it. If Théodred said that he was not dead, he would believe him, and wasn’t that all that mattered? Silently, both men let their eyes sweep over their surroundings for a while. Once again, they were at the fords, but this time, the slaughtered men and horses of Théodred’s éored were nowhere to be seen, and the clearing with the backdrop of forest and mountains looked almost idyllic in the misty light of early morning.

“And now you expect me to summon the Rohirrim against Gríma,” Éomer began at last, and his gaze wandered over to where his cousin squatted on a rock that protruded into the river, his hands in the fast-flowing waters. “Even if I am still alive, I will need time to gather our forces… - provided they will indeed follow me.”

“They will,” his brother in all but blood said confidently, looking up. “You underestimate your own esteem, Éomer. There are none among the Armed Forces who would ever believe the Worm’s accusations. The Royal Guard, I cannot say, because they are the King’s own men and closer to him than anyone else. Whatever Father says is their law, no matter what his condition is. But the riders are your weapon, and you must use them now. They are already waiting for you.” The moment stretched between them; a moment when Éomer studied his cousin’s expression intensely to find nothing but honesty.

“I hope it is like you say,” he said at length and shifted his view at the distant mountains, unfocused. “But I fear that there is not much time left to act. It is only a feeling, but the dark clouds are already on the horizon. It cannot take much longer for the storm to break loose. There were too many orcs involved in those skirmishes of these past weeks, and their sheer number suggests that the White Wizard’s army must be ready to strike any day now. ”

“And your intuitions were always accurate,” Théodred admitted. Refreshing himself with the clear cold water, he straightened. “Saruman must be your first concern, as much as you ache to ride for Éowyn’s aid. The threat he poses must be eliminated first, for if you wait too long, his army will invade our land, and even if we succeeded in stopping it later, the danger would be too great that we lose the entire Westfold in that first attack. Erkenbrand and Grimbold are valiant men, but they cannot withstand the assault of the White Wizard’s entire host. They will need your help, Éomer, and soon. Once Saruman is defeated, Wormtongue himself is nothing, and every threat he could still utter would be empty.”

“But what if we lose this battle, Théodred?” It was a thought Éomer was reluctant to concern himself with, but the mental image of the burning city of Edoras was hard to suppress. “What if we are defeated, and no one rides to Éowyn’s aid?”

Théodred rose to his feet, and his gaze hardened.

“And what if you freed her and Edoras, only to be surprised by an army following on your heels that killed everyone in the Westfold and burned the land behind them because there were no sufficient forces to repel them when they crossed the Isen? Wouldn’t she die then, too, and everyone else along with her?” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in before he added, shaking his head: “No, Éomer, it is Saruman who needs your attention now. I am afraid that there is no other way.”

Éomer remained silent. Théodred was right, as much as he hated to admit it to himself. His cousin had not been the Mark’s mightiest man of war for nothing before his death; despite his youth in comparison to seasoned captains like Grimbold and Erkenbrand, Théodred had always been a shrewd strategist and won many skirmishes by superior planning as opposed to greater numbers.

Not waiting for his answer, King Théoden’s son added: “You doubt, and yet the situation may not be as grim as you figure it, Cousin. No longer do you stand alone; and you made some mighty friends along the way. Mighty enough to turn the tide for us, even, with a little help from the Gods.” He smiled faintly at Éomer’s sceptical expression.

“You mean those three wanderers we met on the plains? Aye, I agree that they must be skilled warriors; or they would not have reached the Mark. Their leader had something to him I cannot put into words, and I am honoured to know them on my side, but, how can three additional swords, no matter how well-handled they may be, make a difference when we are faced with an army that multiplies with each passing day and replenishes its ranks from one battle to the next?”

“You will find out,” Théodred said cryptically. “But you are right in one regard: The enemy’s army grows larger the longer you wait. Your only chance of defeating it would be to attack it while it is still not complete. Every day counts now, Cousin. You must strike first and surprise them, or we will be outmatched to an extent that no matter what we do, we cannot emerge victorious. And when you go, you must rip out the plant by its roots, never to grow back. No matter where the traitor has his breeding pits, you must destroy them, so that no one can ever use them again.”

Éomer snorted, understanding what his cousin was driving at. “What you are saying is that I should stop lying around and act.” Blue eyes mustered him thoroughly, and it appeared to Éomund’s son as if the older man looked right into him.

“I realise that you will need at least a few days to recover. But you must find the balance. You will not be able to lead our riders if you can barely hold yourself in the saddle. But aye, I fear that there may not be enough time for you to recover fully before you must be on your way. It is a balance only you can find. For now, the best advice I can probably give you is to heed your saviours’ words: rest while you still can, because the opportunity will soon pass.” And with a long, warning look, Théodred turned his back on him to wade toward the other side of the river. To his dismay, Éomer found that he could not follow him there. All of a sudden, an invisible barrier had formed between them.

“Théodred? Where are you going?”

“I must leave now. The world of the living is not my place. I gave you what help I had to offer, but the rest of the path you must walk alone. You know the direction you must take yourself now; you don’t need my help any longer.”

“I will always need you, Théodred! Please…” Feverishly thinking of arguments, but coming up empty, Éomer helplessly raised his hands.

“You have other help now, potent help, and it is given willingly. Accept it for the good of Rohan and free our people, Cousin! They are setting their hope in you, and they are right to believe in your abilities. You must find that confidence within yourself now, Éomer, there is no more room for doubt.” Having reached the other shore, Théodred turned around, and a choking feeling of finality robbed Éomer of his breath as his cousin raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. “Follow your instincts, Éomer! Become the leader our people need in these evil times. They are waiting for you, and eager to follow the man they respect. Call them, and they will come!”

“When will I see you again?”

“I will await you on the other side in due time, and gladly welcome the saviour of our people in this realm, but not anytime soon. Until then, I bid you farewell, brother!”

“Théodred!”

But already, a blanket of grey mist veiled the opposite riverbank from his eyes, and the river disappeared even as he dashed into the water, swallowed by whiteness. Disoriented and dizzy, Éomer halted. Turning on his heels as he tried to pierce the insubstantial wall around him, he briefly caught a glimpse of something darker to his left, and moved toward it. It was a path formed by trees on both sides of the way, their gnarled, leafless branches touching each other to form a solid roof. Instinctively, Éomer understood that it was the path he was expected to take, and with a deep intake of breath, he straightened and squared his shoulders. Where it would lead him he did not know, but it felt right when he set foot upon it, and he submitted himself to its gentle pull…