Chapter 25: Awakenings

WHITE MOUNTAINS

After a long night of worry and concern, the world ready to be born again and eagerly welcomed the first faint touches of daylight on the horizon. Yet they failed to lift Freya’s spirits as they slowly illuminated the world beyond her window. Since her quarrel with Osred, the young farmer’s wife had sat unmoving in her chair and listened to the soothingly regular sound of Éomer’s breathing; her gaze unfocused and distant while her earlier argument still echoed through her head.

‘No matter what I do, I will never be more than second-best to you. It is not fair, Freya.’

No, it wasn’t. Not for her, not for Osred, and not for Éomer. He had never asked to be born a noble and to lead a life where its many privileges were counterbalanced by high expectations and strict rules of conduct. Why should the Third Marshal of the Mark not be free to take for his wife whoever he wanted, instead of what others deemed good or appropriate for their land? And why should she not be deemed worthy, only because she could not write or read, or had no fancy dresses to wear or knew how to behave in the presence of the lords? All these skills were impractical when it came to ensuring the survival of her family in this isolated part of the Mark, but still considered higher of worth than the vast practical knowledge she had accumulated in a life that had forced her to stand on her own two feet at a very young age. Where was the justice in that? Years back when she had just met Éomer, she had sent him away herself for those very reasons, having been raised with these traditions in her mind; but lately, she had begun to wonder.

Although she did not wish for a life at the Court of Edoras, the thought that others might consider her unfit for it stung. What would those fine people do if they were forced to make a life out here in the mountains? Undoubtedly they would starve before even a single month had passed! Not that Éomer fit that description: though born a noble and undoubtedly taught the necessary skills to move securely and without fail at the court, her young rider had declared to her repeatedly how he loved the straight-forward, uncomplicated life underneath the open skies. The dangers on the plains were well known to him and he was prepared to face them; even preferring to test himself against a severe storm or a group of enemies rather than being towed into a game of words with the council members at Edoras. It was the simple life of a rider he was born for, and being part of a group of men loyal to each other to the death meant more to him that the approval of a court tactician ever could. And that feeling was mutual: during each of his visits with his éored, Freya had clearly perceived the respect his riders held for their leader despite his youth. They respected Éomer for his skill and determination as much as his humility; and his noble blood was of no concern to them. It were his deeds which had earned him that respect, not his lineage. The thought that one day, duty might call Éomer permanently back to Edoras and end this nomadic life he loved whole-heartedly was a dark cloud on the horizon of his future, and for his sake, Freya prayed that it would never come to that.

‘I do what I can, Freya, but I see that I cannot compete against him, and it hurts.’

She closed her eyes and fought against the rising tears at the thought of Osred’s despair. Never had she intended to cause her husband pain, or to make him feel not good enough for her, and for all these long years, she had believed to have successfully hidden the true extend of her feelings for Éomer by disguising their mutual affection as ordinary friendship. With his powerful frame, his long golden mane and the contrast of his dark eyes in his well-cut face, the young marshal - in addition to the power which came with his title and his physical prowess - was after all a strikingly handsome man, and Freya was certain that women throughout the Mark regarded him with secret desire in each settlement he passed on his patrols. The sudden quiver of jealousy that thought woke in her came as a surprise, and she creased her brow. What was she doing? It was not her place to feel jealous about a man she could not have! Inwardly tensing, she returned from the foray into her mind to the narrow confines of the room to regard the object of her conflict.

Éomer had not married yet, and in the long years they had known each other, he had never told her of someone being close to his heart except for his family. What did it mean? That he, too, was not ready to love another woman but her, that he instinctively sought her likeness and kept coming up empty? It would have made it easier for Freya to give him up if she could tell herself that he belonged to someone else now, she mused, inwardly asking herself whether she was now blaming Éomer for her own failure. Yet how was she supposed to handle this emotional conflict in the future… provided that a future existed for their people? Would it make things easier for her to ask Éomer to no longer visit her farm? Perhaps it would be the best solution, even if it would break her heart, and possibly Éomer’s, too. And what of her brother Halad? He had been eleven years old and unable to cope with their mother’s death when that fateful winter storm had blown Éomer and his éored into their little valley, and at once there had been a strange connection between the lad and the young rider, one that endured even today. How could she cut that connection?

The warrior’s attention and understanding had brought Halad out of his self-chosen isolation, and Freya knew that up to this very day, he saw in Éomer a surrogate older brother and mentor, even if he had not followed in the riders’s footsteps and become a warrior himself, for which she was thankful. As much as she respected the Rohirrim for their selfless service to the Mark, the thought of sitting at home worrying while her loved ones rode into battle was disquieting. She had lost her mother at an early age, and three years ago another hard winter had claimed her father’s life after a long time of illness. Freya was not certain that she could bear another loss. With Éomer entering her life, she had not been able to avoid that fear altogether, but so far it had been helpful to hear of the battles he had been in only after he had survived. She was not sure how that would be in the future, now that she had seen for the first time that he, too, was not immune against the dangers roaming their lands.

So many questions, and after all these hours of pondering, Freya still felt unable to come to a decision. What was she supposed to tell Osred when she saw him later today, provided he would even speak with her? And what should she say to Éomer once he woke? No doubt would he realise the change if she suddenly kept her distance. How had her life suddenly become so complicated? With a soundless sigh, Freya settled back into the chair and though back to the day when she had first met her husband at the Harvesting Celebration in one of the bigger settlements in the Folde.

What had it been that had attracted her to Osred? His powerful frame and white-golden hair, a shade brighter than she had ever seen and which made him stick out of the crowd wherever he went? His broad, honest face with the big blue eyes which seemed incapable of hiding even the smallest thing from her, and which, during those the three days of the celebration, had sparkled with heartfelt joy whenever he had spotted her in the crowd? Or the way he had treated his parents and younger siblings, with so much care and consideration that he had reminded Freya of her own family? Perhaps it was everything, and combined with the considerable skill Osred had demonstrated in the various farming competitions, she had somehow come to a reach the practical decision that he would make a suitable husband. She had liked him at first sight, hoping for love to develop between them; a decision of her head and not her heart. Perhaps she had hoped to forget Éomer over him… and yet after all these years, it was still the son of Éomund who made her heart beat faster and who caused that pleasant flutter in her stomach whenever she thought about him. It was a sensation Osred had never evoked in her, and perhaps it was time to admit to herself that he would probably never do. Had she committed the worst mistake of her life by marrying him?

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Freya’s gaze accidentally fell on Éomer’s face… and with a jolt, she realised that his eyes were open and mustering her intently; his expression a single great, unspoken question.

“So sad…” he breathed upon noticing her attention, his words almost inaudible, and his brow furrowed with concern as if he asked himself what had turned the spirited woman he had known since his youth into the sad creature sitting by his side. While Freya still tried to think of an answer that would not result in a blatant lie, his hand emerged from underneath the blanket and opened to her in an unspoken invitation. With a lump in her throat and an involuntary glance at the still closed door, Freya finally laid her delicate fingers into his palm, her conscience crying out over her delight at Éomer’s touch as he cautiously closed his hand around hers. The smile she forced onto her face felt entirely false, and nervously she asked herself whether he would notice. After a moment of mutual silence, the need to speak at last became too great.

“Not sad.” The lie sounded awkward even to her own ears. “Worried, yes. And tired, too. I feared for you, Éomer, and I thank the Gods that they decided to let you live.” Anxiously she regarded his face, searching for the hint that gave his disbelief away. As to be expected, he looked drowsy and exhausted, and yet Freya imagined seeing that glint of scepticism in his eyes she had feared to find. How could this man be so perceptive when he had only just woken after a night spent on the narrow ledge between life and death? But then again, wasn’t this one of the qualities she had loved him for since the beginning? To this day, Freya had never felt so naked under Éomer’s gaze, never more vulnerable: there was no hiding from these inquisitive, keen eyes, and she felt not surprised when in response to his examination, he released her from his hold.

“I am sorry…” he whispered, a slight frown spreading over his face. “It is not my place to—“

She did not want him to let go of her, and yet at the same time, she hoped that he would not touch her again. How was a woman supposed to endure that kind of conflict? Longer than necessary, she cleared her throat, but the lump that had formed inside would not disappear.

“You do not have to apologise, Éomer, please, don’t be foolish.” Ignoring the warning of her inner voice, she deliberately claimed back his hand. “How do you feel?”

He considered her question. The blistering cold which had mercilessly sucked the energy out of his body was but an unpleasant memory, and the throbbing of his wounds had ebbed to a more endurable level. In the wake of the fever, his body felt slack with weakness but at least pleasantly warm. His side and leg still hurt, but it was nothing unbearable, and as he freed his injured hand from underneath the blankets to look at the bandages, the swelling there seemed reduced, too. Aye, he had been lucky indeed, no matter how mangled he felt. His gaze found back to Freya.

“Alive,” he replied at last, cautiously flexing his fingers. “I did not expect to…” His thoughts flowed apart, and in silent excuse, his lips curved upward in a sleepy, thankful smile. “You saved me,” he whispered, the sincerity in his eyes sending a shudder down Freya’s spine. Béma no… She wished he would stop looking at her like that.

“It was not I who saved you,” she said at length and looked own upon her hands to avoid his gaze, attempting to give their conversation a new, less personal direction. “It was your friend; I only assisted him. He knows more about healing than I will ever learn. At some part of the procedure, he actually asked us for mould to work it into your wounds!” She laughed an insecure little laugh. “I thought he had lost his mind, but when I look at you now, I must admit that his unusual treatment has to be the reason that you are still alive… and it was he who found you, too.” She could see the confusion spread over Éomer’s features. Too much information at once, too many words. She had been babbling, Freya realised. No wonder, considered how nervous she still felt in his presence. And she had so much looked forward to being by his side when he woke!

“My friend? Elfhelm? Éothain?” But what business would have brought Éothain into the mountains? And since when did he know about healing? Too exhausted to further follow the confusing train of thought, Éomer shut his eyes.

“His name is Aragorn. He said that he met you on the plains, and that you gave them horses to find their friends.”

“Aragorn…” The sound of the unexpected name gave Éomer the strength to look at Freya again, even if his eyelids seemed as heavy as horse-shoes.

‘You made some mighty friends along the way. Mighty enough to turn the tide for us.’ Théodred’s voice echoed in his mind, and through his exhaustion, he felt a sudden surge of excitement strong enough to prop his hands against the mattress in an attempt to sit up… but if his eyelids alone weighed too much to keep them open for longer than for a few brief moments, his body seemed to be made of lead, and he could not lift it at all. Groaning in response to the silver bolt shooting through his injured hand and side, Éomer sank back onto the mattress.

“Careful, Éomer! Your wounds--” Freya’s hands on his chest, their pressure soft but insistent, were more than sufficient to keep him down. Fighting with his deteriorating concentration, Éomer gathered what concentration he had left to ask:

“Is he still here?”

“Aye,” Freya nodded. “He and his two friends spent the night here.” Her mouth curved into a slightly wondrous smile as she remembered the sight of the three unusual strangers. “An elf and a dwarf accompanied him. They were the first beings of their kind I have ever seen, and still, I only had eyes for you, isn’t that funny?” Suddenly, heat crept into her face, and she stopped herself before she could say more than was appropriate given the current situation. It would not help things if she kept on letting Éomer know with each of her words how much she cared for him. “The two slept over at Halad’s house, but Aragorn is in the living room. It is still early and he is probably still asleep, but I am sure that he will look after you as soon as he wakes… he sat with you for most of the night until he felt certain that the danger had passed.”

“His friends… he found them?” Gods, he could barely think. If only he wasn’t so tired! There were so many questions to ask, so many things he needed to know. Like Aragorn’s presence in this isolated vale… what had brought him here, a long way from Fangorn Forest where he had intended to go? And yet even in his feeble state, Éomer remembered clearly having perceived one thing about Aragorn Son of Arathorn in the few moments of their conversation: this man would always have a reason for his journeys and deeds; he was not the kind of traveller who wandered through the world aimlessly.

“I do not know; he did not mention them, but only the three of them are here, if that answers your question.” Freya lowered her gaze to glance upon her restlessly moving fingers. Angered over giving away her emotions so easily, she folded them. “You can ask him later… but now I have a question, if you are not too tired to answer it, but I have worried about it all night.” From his own contemplation, Éomer’s attention shifted back to her. “Aragorn said that you were attacked by orcs, but I wonder, why were you alone? Where is your éored?” A shadow fell upon his face, and Freya swallowed, fearing that she had said something wrong. “Or shouldn’t I ask? But I do care for them, especially for Éothain. Is he well?”

“I don’t know…He was not with me.” Not feeling ready yet to confess what had happened, Éomer closed his eyes again, shame flushing his cheeks. No, it was not something he wanted to talk about; not yet. Not when he was just about to drift off again. But there was other one thing he had to know. ”Firefoot…?”

“He is here, and he is well. Halad looked after him yesterday. He said that he has suffered a few scratches, but Firefoot allowed him to clean them, and they are no reason for concern. Do not worry.”

“He protected me…several times. Without him, I would not be here.”

“And you can visit him once you are better,” Freya offered, readjusting the blankets and stuffing Éomer’s hands back underneath. After last night, he still needed all the warmth he could get. “But for now, you must rest. Aragorn said that none of your wounds are too serious, but you were exposed to the cold for a long time, and the infection weakened you. The best you can do for now is sleep and allow your body to heal. You are safe here, and there is no reason to rush things.”

“There is,” he mumbled, already half asleep again. “I must summon our forces… There’s not much time left…”

“But I am sure that you will agree that you are in no condition to leave the bed yet, let alone ride through the Mark and give battle. They will have to wait.”

“No time…” he repeated, barely audible, and then fell silent as he once again drifted off into darkness. Although his words had been but a whisper, the sense of urgency in them chased a shudder down Freya’s spine, and as she straightened, hugging herself, she could not shake the feeling that the storm which had been brewing on the borders of the Mark for so long was about to be unleashed…