WHITE MOUNTAINS

Aragorn narrowed his eyes; his expression that of a man not believing his ears. His voice, likewise, indicated what he thought about the Rohir’s idea: “You cannot even stay in a saddle long enough to leave the farm’s grounds, much less lead a host of Uruks through the mountains that will shoot you the moment they get within range!”

“I can do whatever I must; it is not the first time for me to ride under less than perfect conditions!” Éomer rebuked against better knowledge, fighting not to raise his voice as he did not want for Freya’s children to hear his words. “And even if you had to bind me to the saddle, I would not stay here and become the reason for Saruman’s brood to slaughter these people!”

“You will not help their cause by getting yourself killed!” Aragorn, too, now added intensity to his voice as he stepped in front of him, his back on the family and thus blocking their view. His hard grey eyes tore into Éomer’s. “Or who else should lead your armies against the enemy if you are dead? Do I have to remind you of the state we found you in just last night? Would it not be self-evident to a warrior who set himself a higher goal that he cannot simply throw away his life over a matter of pride?” The two men stared at each other, both attempting to impose their will unto the other while the rest of the present listened to their argument in dismayed silence. What were they supposed to do if even their leaders could not decide over the right course of action while time was running through their hands?

“So you expect me to sacrifice them, is that it?” Éomer asked, his eyes widening with incredulity. “To save my own hide? If that is the impression you have of me, I must tell you that you are wrong! I have never hidden behind--”

“You have not even heard my suggestion yet,” Aragorn replied calmly. “Will you not hear me out first before shouting at me and feeling insulted over things I haven’t said? I was always under the impression that a Marshal of the Mark had to be open to common sense, and I am perfectly certain that you are capable of that, Son of Éomund. Are you willing to listen to what I have to say?” Silently, he watched Éomer’s expression change from anger over pensiveness to wariness, confident that the younger man would see the logic of his words.

Although many years had passed since then, he had ridden with the Rohirrim long enough to be well-acquainted with their occasional flares of temper and fits of stubbornness. In the end, Aragorn had always found the sons of Eorl open to reason, and he had no doubt that it would be no different with the young warrior in front of him who reminded him so very much of his proud father: possessed of the same powerful build and manners of movement and speech, it was the unyielding will of Éomund of Aldburg directed at him through his son; the determined gaze of which he found himself the focus similar to the late Marshal of Eastfold’s, even if Éomer’s eyes were– for a Rohir of a peculiar - brown instead of his father’s piercing blue-grey. No, the wilful young warrior was very much his father’s son, and it was in him where the Mark’s hope lay. Having risen to one of the highest military positions in the realm of Rohan at a very young age, Éomer had to understand about the value of outside advice, even more as Aragorn had gained the distinct impression that – though they had not known each other for long – the Rohir trusted him unlimited.

And really, although he still seemed disgruntled, Éomer swallowed whatever objections he had on his tongue in an effort to be constructive, and his voice sounded calm enough when he asked: “And what is it that you suggest, Lord Aragorn?”

Eyeing him for a moment longer with approval in his gaze, Aragorn straightened and turned back to the anxiously listening family, his eyes wandering over the row of concerned faces: “The Uruks are on their way, and by now they must already have passed the last intersection that would lead them away from this valley.” Again he looked at Éomer. “So even if you could ride, there is no point. Their path will lead them here, no matter what we do, and here is where we will make our stand.” His gaze found Freya just long enough to see the brief spark of hope in her large, concerned eyes. “Gimli is right, on our journey to Rohan, we were faced with worse odds several times, and we braved them even though our foes had the element of surprise on their side. This time, it will be our advantage. We were very careful when we followed their host today, and I doubt they know yet that they have been detected.”

“But you cannot be entirely certain of that,” Éomer summoned, and Aragorn nodded solemnly. “What about the tracks you made to lead them away?”

“Like I said, they paid them no heed. Of course there are no guarantees, but let me assure you that we were extremely cautious. We would not have reached the Mark if not for our skill of passing unseen underneath the enemy’s eyes.” Satisfied with his confident reassurance, Éomer nodded. “With the rest of the afternoon and probably most of the night to plan and prepare ourselves, it should be possible to develop a strategy for the defence of this farm, perhaps even a trap. Yet first of all, we need to call for aid. If we can alert a nearby éored, there might nott even be the need for battle.” He looked at Osred. “We must build a fire; a big fire which generates a lot of smoke. Do you have enough wood?”

“We have our supplies, but this being a hard winter, I’d rather not use it all up. It is hard to get firewood up here in the mountains.”

“I understand, but wouldn’t it be worth the effort? If an éored is in the vicinity, will they not ride to find the source of the fire to see whether their help is needed?” Aragorn turned back at Éomer and found to his surprise a wry smile on the warrior’s lips.

“If there was enough smoke, certainly, they will investigate.” A brief glance at the window confirmed that the sky outside was still clear. “In these conditions, it will be seen for many miles. I’d say that it is definitely worth a try, but we will have to make haste. There are not too many hours of daylight left.”

“How great are the chances that an éored will see the smoke?” Freya asked, barely daring to hope.

Éomer shrugged.

“With the increased orc-activity lately, many of our patrols are constantly roaming the mountain paths, so I would definitely count on their appearance… It all depends on whether they will be here fast enough, for the orcs will see the smoke as well and know what it means.” He looked at Aragorn, who nodded pensively.

“That is right, but since they are headed for the farm anyway, it does not matter. Stealth will not help us in this case.”

“I would build it,” Halad began reluctantly, his gaze travelling from his sister to his brother-in-law and back. “But shouldn’t we at least get Loégar and Edilda away from here?” He looked at the two scared children, then at his young wife who pressed herself against him, painfully reminding him of her rounded stomach in which life also grew. No, she could not stay here. Searching for understanding, he looked down upon her. “And Fléadwyn, I want you to leave, too. And you, Willa and Wyndra…”

“And you?” His wife looked up, her eyes large and frightened. She could not have heard him right. “Will you accompany us?” ‘Please!’ her eyes pleaded silently while her hold of him intensified, and it hurt Halad having to deny her wish.

“I am needed here, Fléadwyn. All these past years, Éomer told me to fight, and I am well prepared.” He turned his head to the man he had always regarded as his older brother, hoping for the warrior’s consent. And Éomer granted him the little nod he had hoped for, but the expression in his dark eyes spoke of less confidence in his apprentice than Halad would have wished for. “Do not fear for me, Fléadwyn,” he whispered, and pressed her against his chest. “I am sure there will not even be a fight; our riders will see the smoke and be here before the orcs can reach us.”

“Perhaps that will be so, but I will not take that risk. You are riding with them, Freya!” Osred’s expression indicated that he would tolerate no discussion in this regard, and for a moment, his wife was rendered speechless as she stared at her husband, even her free hand which had reassuringly stroked Edilda’s head for the duration of their conversation halted.

With an insulted edge to her voice she finally asked: “You mean that I should leave you and our guests behind and expect you to protect our possessions with your lives while I myself run?” Incredulous, she looked at Éomer, in whose face she read to her dismay the same determination as in her brother’s. Of course she wanted to be with her children and protect and comfort them, but what if the men died because of her objections against leaving their farm unguarded? “Éomer, you taught me to fight yourself! You even gifted me with a sword. You know what I am capable of.”

“Aye, Freya, I know.” The warrior nodded, fully aware that his next words would rose her anger. “And that is why I have to agree with your brother. Leave. Your children need you out there. It will be easier for us to defend the farm knowing that we won’t have to look out for you, too.” He saw the crease building between her eyes and immediately understood its meaning even though he had never seen her like this. “And yes, I know that you never ran from anything, and that you defended your farm against wolves and wargs since your youth, but Uruks are no wargs. They are no animals, and while they may lack the sheer weight of a warg, their ferocity is the same, and it is paired with cunning and intelligence. Those creatures were bred and trained for battle, Freya, whereas wargs only seek to fill their stomachs. They are easily discouraged when they meet resistance, but those things are beyond your capabilities!”

“Listen to him!” Osred entered the discussion, incredulous that he should have to convince his wife of such an obvious thing, and for the first time, Freya paused. Edilda whimpered in her tight clutch, and soothingly, she stroked over the girl’s head.

“Ssh… it is good, little one. No need to be scared.” Suddenly uncertain, she looked at Aragorn, but the ranger’s attention seemed to be solely focussed on the wounded Rohir.

“They are beyond your capabilities, too, Éomer, at least for now.” He steeled himself for the young man’s outburst he knew would come. But Éomer surprised him. With a sly smile, he craned back his neck and met his saviour’s glance openly.

“Like you said, I am too weak to ride, so I am afraid that I’ll have to stay.” He could see that Aragorn was less than amused by his rebuke. “I can fight, Aragorn. That Uruk in the cave only had a chance against me because I was no appropriately armed.”

“How far is your neighbour’s farm away?” The Dunádan looked at Osred, but it was Halad who answered.

“It is a good afternoon’s ride if they travel fast. They may be able to make it there until nightfall, but they will have to leave immediately.” He looked uncomfortably at Fleadwyn, not wanting to imagine his young wife riding through the mountains without protection. Having seen his worried glance, Legolas stepped forth and met Aragorn’s gaze, finding affirmation there even before he had uttered the first word:

“I will accompany them on the way and then return, there should be time enough. And I can see well enough in the dark to find the way back.” He acknowledged Halad’s silent thanks with a gracious nod and laid a hand upon the young man’s arm in a comforting gesture “They will be safe with me, fear not.”

“I do not doubt that. Thank you, my lord.” With a sudden lump in his throat, Halad nodded at Aragorn and then looked at his sisters and his wife. “I will go and ready the horses. Pack a few things quickly and then meet me at the stable. We must hurry.”

“We have yet to determine who rides with them,” Éomer said with a long gaze at Aragorn. “Freya will; I will not. I assure you that I can handle myself. I agree with you that a long ride through the cold would not be in my powers yet, but if I have a few more hours of rest, and with the proper preparation, I will be able to fight. I can still handle a bow, and with a tight bandage around my leg, I should even be able to walk. I’ve had to fight under worse conditions before. You cannot afford to send me away, Aragorn. You need me.”

The ranger’s expression indicated that he knew this to be true, however reluctantly that realisation came to him.

“But you have no weapons.”

“I will take Freya’s sword.” Éomer saw dread in the young woman’s eyes in reaction to his words. She still felt guilty to leave when it had been her intervention that could result in their death. “It is a very good sword, as is Osred’s and Halad’s. They are sharp enough to even cut a falling piece of paper in half. I saw to that when I ordered them for you. With them, we are well-armed. Any Uruk who comes too close will regret it.” His words were followed by a meaningful silence as each of the present realised the high stakes. At last, it was Freya’s brother who broke it.

“I must go now. Meet me at the stable when you are ready.”

“Let me help you,” Legolas offered, looking around and finding approval in Aragorn’s gaze. “The sooner we can leave, the better.”

“And I will concern myself with the fire, if one of you could be so kind and show me where the necessary things are,” Gimli grumbled, glad to finally have something constructive to do. The dwarf seemed to be extraordinarily pleased at the prospect of battle.

“I can do that,” Wyndra stepped forth, looking at her sister. “Willa, can you please pack something for me, too, while we build the fire?”

“Of course.”

“Then all of us have their task.” Aragorn looked around, until at last, his eyes found Éomer, and the message they conveyed was clear to the Rohir. Their task would be to determine the strategy that would either ensure their survival… or result in their death.

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EDORAS

The day had been almost too busy to look forward to the little educational visit to the dungeon he had planned for the early evening, but as Gríma stood in the kitchen, waiting for the few servants they had kept within the hall to prepare the tray with his prisoners’ meals, he could no longer help feeling excited.

Impatiently tapping his foot, Wormtongue’s thoughts went back to the confrontation with the young Captain Éothain of Edoras, and the role his captives had played in it. As a matter of fact, he was surprised that it had worked so well; that it had not been necessary to shoot a single arrow into the angered mob of Rohirrim. And how much he had welcomed it, because the situation could easily have spun out of control if one of their attackers had so much as been wounded in the quarrel. Now, Éothain and his men had retreated, and though Wormtongue harboured no doubts that the young man had meant the threat he had uttered, it did not bother him. He was well prepared, the throne room and the kitchens of the ancient hall packed with enough food and water to easily last for at least two weeks, and even longer if they rationed the supplies more strictly. Not that he expected for the siege to last for long. The last message he had received from Saruman had indicated that his master was finally ready to deliver the killing blow to the stubborn peasants of the Mark. Any day now, the western horizon would turn black with their marching army of Uruk-hai, and the earth would shake beneath their feet. Until then, he and his followers would sit safely inside the barricaded hall and enjoy their secret knowledge of the city’s near destruction each time they looked out at the thatched roofs below. A satisfied smile wandered over the Counsellor’s face while he silently followed the kitchen maid’s frantic efforts to fulfil his order and be rid of him.

Perhaps this was the very reason why he still kept the King alive. At first, Gríma had considered simply letting the weakened man die in his chambers now that Théoden was no longer of any use to him; too weak to rise to his feet by himself, he would be forced to soil his bed while he slowly starved to death; probably the most shameful exiting of this world a Rohir could imagine. The thought of it was sweet; but even sweeter was the plan which had formed in the Half-Dunlending’s mind only two days earlier: he would bring the King back from his dazed state; allowing Théoden to wake from the nightmare he had wandered for years, and when Saruman’s army tore into the capital of Rohan, he would lead him out onto the terrace to watch his people’s destruction. Yes, this measure felt appropriate to Gríma as a revenge for all the years since his early youth when he been the object of the strawheads’ spite and cruelty. It would be a pleasure to watch their dying throes from the elevated position of Meduseld with their devastated ruler by his side. Another event to look forward to… but now, another task waited for him he had awaited for a very long time, and he was determined to savour every moment of it.

“Your tray is ready, Master Gríma,” the kitchen maid at last approached him, her gaze lowered submissively, and he granted her a benign smile, prompted by his extraordinarily good mood this evening.

“Thank you, Hilde. I am certain that the Lady Éowyn will appreciate your care in fixing her meal.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the success of his words as the old woman flinched at the thought of her captive mistress, and then turned to Gúthlaf who had silently waited behind him. “Take it and follow me!” For a moment, the guard paused and Gríma could virtually feel the man’s reluctance in carrying the tray after his master like a serving wench, but one brief glance back over his shoulder reminded him quickly of his place, and he followed without protest. In front of the kitchen doors, two more guards awaited them.

Already in a triumphant mood although nothing had been achieved yet, Wormtongue preceded his group of loyal followers to the door leading to the dungeon, opened for him upon a curt nod by the nearby guard who also handed him a lit torch. A ghastly procession of darkly-clad men with grim expressions except for their leader descended the narrow, winding stairs into the darkness, their steps echoing threateningly through the vast corridors. The few prisoners who had spoken with each other in hushed voices fell silent as the guards passed their cells, inwardly glad that it was not them those men were coming for, even if it meant that someone else would suffer instead.

A fat rat with a crippled leg was too slow in evading as the guards turned into her corridor, and Felrod gladly took the opportunity to crunch the animal beneath his heavy boot. Upon reaching the main crossroads, Gríma turned back to his most loyal follower, a knowing smirk upon his face. He had heard the rat’s dying squeak and knew that the big fellow was in the appropriate mood for what he had in mind.

“All except Gúthlaf, wait here. I will first see how our dear Captains Gamling and Céorl are faring before we will concern ourselves with the others.” Leaving them standing, Wormtongue and his minion strode down to the other end of the cells and came to a halt in front of the last one before the corner. As he had ordered, the corridor lay in complete darkness, and the red-haired former Captain of the Royal Guard squinted at him from his bench like an owl caught in the daylight as he lowered his torch.

“Lord Gamling, how very wonderful it is to see you here, alive and behind bars. I hope you find everything meeting with your expectations?” The man’s pale face reddened with anger as he came to his feet and grasped the bars.

“You think you have won, Snake! You haven’t, let me tell you this! Enjoy these moments while they last, for your end is coming.”

“Oh, I am certainly enjoying them, dear Gamling,” Gríma laughed, unfazed. “After all, they are my sweet revenge for uncounted years of ridicule. Do not think that I did not see it in your eyes whenever you looked at me. Lord Háma was only the first to pay the full price of his haughtiness, and if you don’t watch your mouth, you will be next.” Meaningfully, he turned to the guard still holding the tray and picked up a bowl of undistinguishable contents and a mug of water. “This is your meal. The dogs had the same this morning, and they liked it well enough, so it should agree with you.” He set it down upon the ground and straightened, mindful not to get too close to the bars as he lowered his voice confidentially: “I am in a merciful mood today because I understand that the shock of what happened is still fresh. Yet know that if you continue to speak with me in this fashion, I will be forced to withhold your meals from you for as long as you refuse to use courtesy in my presence. You have an entire day to make your decision before I return, and since I have always known you to be a reasonably intelligent man for a Rohir, I trust that you will see the wisdom in my suggested course of action. Enjoy your meal!”

He left the swearing Rohir behind, not listening to the man’s enraged words while he silently counted the cells he passed. At the other end of the long corridor, again the last cell of the row, he found what he had been looking for: a dark shape on the ground, crumbled like a bundle of rags; unmoving.

“Captain Céorl? Here is your meal.” He placed the mug and bowl on the ground within reach for the injured man if he woke from his unconsciousness. Wormtongue doubted that it would be soon. Very well. If Céorl did not eat what he had brought him, why should not the rats enjoy a rare feast? Feeling safe that the warrior would not suddenly jump up and grab him through the bars, Gríma stuck his arm with the torch through them to have a better look at the prone shape to his feet. Was the man still alive?

“The filth is dead, Master,” Gúthlaf grumbled with deep satisfaction. In the battle, the warrior had almost defeated him before the rest of his Dunlending brothers had come to his rescue. Even now the long cut on his arm stung as he stared at his fallen adversary, and not even the knowledge that it had been he who had delivered the hardest blow to the wounded Rohir before Céorl had surrendered had lifted his mood the entire day. It was only now that he saw the man crumbled and bloodied, in all likelihood dying on the floor of his dark, cold cell that Gúthlaf felt appropriately avenged. Yet even as he turned away, he saw out of the corner of his eye the smallest of movements and swore: Céorl had turned his head toward them, and his eyes were open, their expression not the broken expression he had hoped to see, even if the man looked more dead than alive.

“Not yet, Gúthlaf,” Gríma addressed the obvious, half waiting for the Captain to speak even though he could see that the warrior was too weak and barely conscious. “Not yet. But it will not take much longer until the rats down here will have a feast of the likes they have never experienced before. Too bad, I would have loved to let him witness the death of his son first.” He narrowed his eyes as he beheld the strange expression on his prisoner’s face. Was Céorl actually smiling at him? “What?” But instead of an answer, the warrior just turned his back on him.

For a moment, Wormtongue felt angry enough to open the door and teach the prisoner that he had chosen the wrong object for his ridicule, but only a heartbeat later, common sense had the rule over him again, and with a derogatory snort, Gríma turned away from the now again unmoving figure. In another corridor, someone else was waiting for him, and he would take his rage with him now and unleash it against her!

“Come, Gúthlaf!” he barked, already storming ahead so quickly that the guard found it difficult to follow his master. “We have an appointment, and I would really hate to keep her waiting!”

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In the semi-darkness of her cell, Éowyn had sat and listened to the distant interchange even though the words had been low for her to understand the conversation. And yet when it stopped and was replaced by fast steps, she instinctively understood that they were coming for her now. In the eternal darkness of the mountain’s insides, her sense of time had suffered a quick, merciful death, and it was only her empty stomach that insisted it had to be almost evening by now. Gríma had said that he would return for her in the evening, and he was known to keep such dark promises. He would not miss this opportunity to cause her yet more torment.

Torment… her insides twitched at the thought of what they would do to Elfhelm, and what the Worm hoped to achieve by brutalising the man she had cared for deeply since her childhood days. The notion that her ideas were presumably not far off did nothing to comfort her, and when Elfhelm whispered her name from the other side of the corridor, she hesitated at first to face him, afraid to let him see the depth of her fear.

“Èowyn! Please, remember what I told you! Give him nothing, especially not because of me. I can take what he has to give; I am not afraid of him. But if you bend to his will, you will make my resistance worthless. We must be of one mind in this. Éowyn? Promise me this!”

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her throat as she listened to the approaching footsteps. How could Elfhelm still have hope? Why not make it easier for themselves by complying?

‘To the Worm’s will? Where is your pride?’

It was Éomer’s voice in her head, surprising her with its forcefulness, and in the narrow confines of her cell, Éowyn straightened as she listened to her brother.

‘You are the reason for everything that Gríma did, Éowyn! It was because of you that he turned to Saruman, knowing that you would never be his under normal circumstances. He still wants you, and with your submission, you would make his triumph complete. Without it,victory will be a hollow, tasteless thing for Gríma, even if the Mark comes to ruin . In your hands lies the ultimate act of defiance, and if you remain strong, you can destroy all he wanted to achieve. Be strong, Little Bird’

Tears stinging in her eyes even as she shut them, she nodded, and with a choked whisper said: “I promise.” Silence answered her, and at first, she thought that Elfhelm must not have heard her, but when she turned her head to finally face him, she found him looking at her with a strangely touched expression softening his tense features. It was a brief moment of comfort in the darkest night of her life, and it gave her the necessary courage to swallow her tears and await their captor and his minions with dignity.