Chapter 32: The Eagle of the Star

EDORAS

“Dearest Lady Éowyn,” Gríma smirked. “I see that you have been waiting for me. Is it just because of your growling stomach, or had perhaps a part further above in your body also a saying in this?” His smile widened in response to the young woman’s irritated expression, and with an exaggerated gesture, he presented to her the tray which Gúthlaf held in his hands, obviously enjoying himself as much as his master: “I am bringing you your meal, my lady. I hope you will find it to your taste.”

“I am not hungry,” Éowyn said, lying straight into her captor’s face since Gríma’s superior attitude angered her too greatly to grant him even this simple satisfaction. Coolly, she looked away as if the walls of her cell were of greater interest than anything the Counsellor could offer, inwardly dismissing her tormentor. Wormtongue however was not surprised by her cool demeanour. He had studied the White Lady’s body language for long years and knew what each little gesture, each blink of her eye meant. Éowyn was still very much listening to his words even if she pretended not to care. Oh, how satisfying it would be to see this cold facade of hers crumble!

“I see,” he oozed, slick as honey, in a tone that feigned understanding. “You are still too proud for your own good, just like your brother.” He noticed how she twitched at the mention of Éomer. “Of course, the King’s niece will never accept the crumbs from the hands of the man she despises, even if it is he who is now in the position of power. Very well, have it your way. But you would do well to remember my last night’s words, Lady Éowyn: I am on a quest to curing you of your haughtiness and unparalleled arrogance. Through me, you will learn about humility and gratitude for the one who alone is in the position to spare you from a fate you do not even want to begin to imagine. Your behaviour will determine the fate of your friend, our valiant Captain Elfhelm of Aldburg. Did you ask him whether he was hungry? Perhaps he does not see things your way. Perhaps, he would rather not starve to death or die of thirst just because the arrogant young thing in the opposite cell insists on keeping her pride intact?”

“You will not succeed in driving a spike between us, Worm!” Elfhelm spat, a hard glint in his narrowed eyes. “Your intrigues and net-weaving fail against the virtues of the Éorlingas. It is the blood of Éorl that will ultimately defeat you!”

“Perhaps it will, even if I do not believe it. But either way, you will not be around to witness it if the golden-haired maiden here insists on playing coy with me for much longer.” Inclining his head in mocking mirth, Gríma looked at his chained adversary and found to his pleasure that Elfhelm looked already weaker than the past morning. Of course, as yet another prime specimen of the stubborn horse-lords, the warrior would sooner swallow his tongue than admit his worsening condition to his adversary, but there could be no mistaking the way he hung, rather than stood, in his chains. Slowly but surely, his wounds, the hopelessness of their situation and the lack of food were getting to him, and this was just the beginning. His brows arched, Wormtongue looked back over his shoulder to the King’s niece.

“I believe that I already told you how it worked, my Lady, did I not? Co-operate and do what I say without protest, and the two of you get rewarded with food and water. You comply, but only after a discussion, and your poor captain will only get the water. You continue to be a nuisance, and he gets nothing. I would urgently advise you to remember those rules, Lady Éowyn, unless you want for your friend to suffer.” Lifting his chin as he waited for a reaction that didn’t come, Gríma continued: “Or perhaps you think that the Captain is not hungry either?” He shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. “What do you say, Captain? Perhaps you should talk with each other; after all, I can imagine that it must be gruelling to hang in these chains for so many hours. I see that your legs have already given out under the constant strain. Who knows, a little food might give you back at least enough of your strength to stand again, but like I said, it is your decision to make.” His expression a cruel parody of compassion, Wormtongue picked up the earthen mug from the tray and then slowly turned his hand, watching as the precious water spilt onto the ground. “You can only keep this up for a very short time. By tomorrow you will beg me for water, and you should pray that I will be in the mood to give it to you.”

Nodding to Gúthlaf who stooped to place the bowl and the other mug on the ground before Éowyn’s cell, Wormtongue did not miss the guilty expression in the shieldmaiden’s eyes as she looked up to him from her cot, although she quickly replaced it with anger.

“It takes more than this to break us, Worm! You cannot touch us!”

Gríma cocked his eyebrows meaningfully.

“And I have more to give, don’t think for a moment that I am at my wit’s end yet! You will beg me, oh haughty daughter of the Mark! You will crawl in the dirt before me and kiss my feet and plead with me before long, I promise you this.” He paused, and the weight of his threat seemed to resonate in the flickering semi-darkness. “Yet despite your discourteous manner, know that I am still willing to exercise mercy on you, but only for today. But I will not allow you to threaten me with starving yourself to death. If you are not hungry yet, even if I don’t believe you, then you won’t have to eat now. I will leave your meal here, in front of your cell. It is a very good meal, something the poor citizens outside would be overjoyed to have on their table once a month, and certainly not something the common prisoner could ever expect to receive. The meat is fresh and hot now, almost rare and with a seasoning of herbs on a bed of steamed vegetables. It is a delicacy now; it will be old and spoiled by tomorrow. And when I return tomorrow evening and find that you haven’t touched it, I will let my men force-feed it to you. Think about it, my lady. One way or another, you will eat this; you choose whether it will be a pleasant experience or something to give you yet more nightmares. I will leave you to your contemplation now and bid you a good night.”

Wormtongue did not linger to see Éowyn’s blue eyes glaze over with seething hatred. He knew he had reached Éomer’s sister from the shocked silence behind them when he and his men excited the forbidding darkness of the dungeon. By tomorrow, the White Lady of Rohan would be more than susceptible for his devious games…

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

EDORAS

“I want you to guard this path as you would do in an ambush on the enemy in the mountains; like a cat, ready to pounce. I want none of them able to leave the hall, be it in search for food or to give secret signals to someone in the city or on the plains. If possible, take them alive; if not, kill them. I do not believe that we could exchange them for the Worm’s prisoners anyway, but having hostages to trade won’t hurt.” Éothain’s gaze swept the lines of his riders, who had fully assembled on the open square in the lower regions of the city and listened intently to their Captain’s orders. “I also want every stone turned for the exit of the secret tunnel from Meduseld. I know there is one because the Marshal once mentioned it to me, but he did not tell me where it ends. If we can find it, it will give us a great advantage over the Worm!” He inhaled deeply.

“Those not holding watch or searching will begin to fortify the city and prepare it for battle. I am not certain what Wormtongue meant when he said that we would live at least a few days longer if we did not storm Meduseld, but I did not like his tone. In any case, we should be prepared for an eventual attack. I already sent an errand rider to Aldburg this afternoon to call for aid, so reinforcements will hopefully be on their way soon. We must hold Edoras under all circumstances, and I know that I can count on you, my fellow kinsmen, to give your best for its defence! Let’s show our enemies what the Éorlingas are made of!”

A challenging yell from many voices answered his speech, and the people quickly dispersed to see to their assigned tasks. For a moment, Éothain stood and watched them leave, unable to move himself. All afternoon, even as he had discussed their strategy with the other remaining captains of the city, he had felt numb as if he were walking through a nightmare from which there was no waking, stunned by the sight of his semi-conscious, bleeding father in the hands of their adversary’s henchmen… and the horror in Éowyn’s wide blue eyes while the thug behind her back had almost strangled her. There was no way of knowing what had happened to Gamling and Háma, or to the King, but Éothain held little hope that their adversary had left them alive when he at last seized complete command over the Golden Hall. Likewise, the young captain’s hopes of being able to save his father and the others trapped in it were marginal at best. Éothain held no illusions that if his enemies stormed Meduseld, Wormtongue would sooner order his prisoners to be killed and escape their wrath with the help of one of his devious potions that would stop the beating of his black heart painlessly, rather then surrender. He had to know that he would be burned if they ever caught him alive.

The young warrior cast a long, dark glance to the forbidding silhouette on top of the hill, and his lips formed a bloodless line when he thought of the ordeal his father had to endure this very moment. His heart cried out at the memory of his mother’s reaction to the ill news he had been forced to bring her after the confrontation, and the feeling of overwhelming helplessness and despair threatened to take his rational thinking away whenever Éothain lowered his guard. Deep inside, the young warrior already knew that he would eventually never again see his father alive. Their death toll was rising with each passing day, and yet while Éothain barely dared to hope for his own survival, he would be content to be called to his ancestors if he was granted his revenge on the man responsible for the death of his kin and friends first.

With a last deep breath, the Captain of Edoras turned his back to the building he had always seen as the heart of the Mark. The heart was still beating but poisoned, and whether there was a cure for the illness that had befallen it would remain to be seen…

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

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Darkness had fallen over the land when the five men left for the defence of the farm had finished with their preparations and frantic activity was replaced by the even more gruelling task of waiting for the inevitable. Éomer had always found it difficult to wait for the enemy even after the heated hatred he had felt for the orcs as an adolescent had been replaced by the greater strategic wisdom of the young man and then the extraordinary battle-skills of the Third Marshal of Riddermark. To sit around with one’s sword readied while nerves and muscles vibrated with tension, waiting for the enemy to appear, was nothing short of torture, and how many times had he wished to just jump upon his horse’s back instead and ride in a reckless charge against his foes.

Instead, Éomer lay on his back on an improvised cot in the little shed used as storage for fodder and gear when the stock was on the higher feeding grounds in spring and summer. It was narrow and uncomfortable between the various sacks and boxes, and the cold in the unheated building he shared with Aragorn was getting to the wounded Rohir even through the thick blankets into which he was wrapped. Éomer was aware that he was only still alive because he had at last mastered the hardest of lesson in becoming an achieved warrior: the value of patience. How many times had Théodred and Elfhelm lectured him about its import; how many times had they admonished him until it had finally stuck? In the end, it had taken a disastrous turn of events to drive the knowledge home, inextinguishable for the rest of his life when he had been forced to witness the annihilation of an entire éored – not their own – because their leader had not followed Elfhelm’s orders to wait for reinforcements. Patience was an essential ingredient of every victory, and yet after all these years, Éomer still found it hard to exercise. Even now as he was supposed to rest and spare his strength for the coming fight while Aragorn held watch, the Rohir found himself too tense to sleep even in his weakened condition. It also did not help that each time he closed his eyes, the images of the advancing host and what they would do with the people he had dragged into this mess if their defence failed assaulted him with increasing force. So instead of sleeping, Éomer lay awake and contemplated the many possible turns this night could take, preferring to stare at the ceiling over seeing Halad’s and Osred’s mutilated bodies if their strategy proved wrong.

It would be a hard blow for him if Osred died. The farmer’s dispirited expression with which he had bidden his wife farewell while his children cried as they were lifted into the saddle had filled Éomer with regret and guilt, even if he knew that he could hardly be blamed for Freya’s confused emotions. He was afraid that Osred’s realisation his wife’s heart belonged to another man would drive the farmer to a foolish attempt to win her heart in a battle against a foe he had never been prepared to handle. And if this thought was not distressful enough, there was also the question of what would happen with Freya younger brother.

Innocent Halad, who even as a lad had instantly recognised an older brother in him and strived to become like the man whose courage and skill he admired. Young Halad, who now felt the obligation to prove himself to his mentor despite his lack of battle experience and the fact that not far away, his wife feared for his life as their child grew within her. Though frightened by the prospect of facing the nightmarish creatures of which the warriors had spoken, Halad had kept his composure while they had worked all afternoon in their preparations for the fight. Éomer was convinced that he had only succeeded at it because the young man could not yet imagine the horror awaiting him. He would learn a hard lesson tonight.

'Oh Freya,’ Éomer thought with the sudden bitter taste of despair in his mouth, the tear-streaked faces of the leaving women and the sound of their suppressed sobbing assaulting his mind with new force from the vault of his memories. ‘You understood too late that your wish to defend your farm might result in the loss of your brother and husband. How will you live with yourself if you return and find them slaughtered and your possessions saved? I know that your farm is important in the feeding of our people, but this price is too high.’ He refused to continue the thought all the way to its consequent end, which was the death of them all, including him and his three saviours.

With a sharp exhale, the Rohir turned on his good side, involuntarily grimacing against the pain caused by the movement. Reluctantly, Éomer had heeded Aragorn’s advice to rest for the remaining hours of daylight which the others used to build barricades of ice and heavy logs as their defence position in front of the barn. While the smoke of their signal fire formed an impressive dark column in an otherwise clear winter sky, the men prepared their weapons for the battle, oppressive silence between them.

Upon waking, Éomer had found that night had already fallen. No éored had arrived to aid them in their plight, and after a light meal, Aragorn had helped him dress his wounds as tightly as he could bear, the bandages lending support to the severed muscle of his thigh and his injured side. Under the ranger’s sceptical scrutiny, he had then made a few tentative steps and known at once that in a close quarter’s battle, he would stand no chance against the ferocity of a Uruk-hai. In his feverish hunt for a way to be of use in the upcoming fray and not another obligation, it was then when the idea had struck him, the result of which was that instead of the warm main house, he was now sharing the shed with the Dunádan, waiting.

Aragorn’s features had been sceptical when Éomer had first made the suggestion of splitting their already small numbers in favour of a strategy that would allow them to attack the orcs from two sides. While Legolas would reduce their foes with the deadly accuracy of his bow long before they would reach the barricade, Aragorn and he would spring their trap by assaulting the host from behind on horseback with arrows as well, thus hopefully creating enough confusion among the enemy to kill many of them before close quarters’ battle would ensue.

It was a good strategy, the ranger had at last admitted, but one that depended on the wounded Rohir to stay in the saddle for the battle. With more confidence than he had actually felt, Éomere had assured him that he would find it easier to fight this way rather than on the ground, as most of the work would be done by his experienced war-horse. The question of where they would get the additional bow was quickly settled when Halad had produced the weapon he had built under Éomer’s supervision years ago for hunting and defence. While it was not as powerful as those of the ranger or the elf, it would suffice to weaken the enemy, especially since the young farmer had then – with a weak smile – handed his mentor the flask Éomer had gifted the family together with their swords and almost forgotten about. It contained a thick, dark-green syrup; a potent poison which, once it entered the bloodstream through a wound, slowly paralysed the victim until it could conveniently be killed. After the warg-attack on the family he had witnessed in that fell winter of his youth, Éomer had long mused over an efficient and easily used weapon to give them to substitute Freya’s rusty hayfork. He had found it in the form of the poison which would change even simple wooden spears into weapons that would kill with the first wound inflicted with them. With the tips of their arrows prepared this way, each hit would fell one of the beasts. Aye, it was the best strategy under the given conditions, and still, Éomer felt horrified by the prospect of the fight.

Another distant grumble of the likes they had heard several times in the course of the afternoon woke him from his brooding. Osred had explained it to them as the sound of wet snow tumbling down the steep slopes as its weight became too heavy due to the rising temperatures. That fact had been hard to miss the way the snow had turned to mush underneath their boots during their work and the water had dropped onto their heads from the roofs of the buildings, and still Éomer could not help wondering whether the avalanche he was listening to now had caused by the vibrations of marching feet.

“It is another avalanche,” Aragorn’s low voice reached him from the window where the ranger gazed intently through the small gap of the shutters. With a hiss, the Rohir pushed himself into a sitting position. There would be no more sleep for him tonight; too much was racing through his head. With a brief glance at their horses in the back of the shed, which were likewise listening intently to the strange noise, Éomer turned his attention to his brother-in-arms.

“Aye. I figured as much. But I couldn’t help thinking…”

“…that it was them who caused it?” Aragorn raised a brow, and his gaze again swept over their treacherously calm surroundings. “We will know soon enough; it didn’t sound too far away. It would be bad though, because I did not see Legolas return yet.” And with a brief glance at the pale moon, which hung in an otherwise inken sky like an ill omen, he added: “The time would be about right. If they hurried, it could be them… but perhaps, the snow has taken them to their cold, wet grave.”

“I wish I share your optimism,” Éomer gave back with a heavy breath. “But I do not believe that Uruk-hai can be killed by the snow. No, they are still out there, coming for us and hungry for our blood.” Involuntarily, his fingers clenched around the hilt of Freya’s sword. It fit his much larger hand less than perfect, but it would have to suffice as there was no other weapon available. It was a good sword though, Éomer knew, after all he had ordered it together with the blades for the rest of the family and closely supervised the procedure of their forging himself. The weapon was well-balanced and sharp to the point where it could cut a falling leaf in two; in any case, it was infinitely preferable to the little wooden axe with which he had fought the Uruk-hai in the caves.

“How do you feel?” Aragorn spoke into his thoughts, one eye upon him. “Will you be strong enough to ride? Did you find enough rest during the afternoon to replenish at least part of your strength?”

“I would worry if I had to fight on foot, but my horse is very skilled at this way of doing battle. It is our most efficient strategy against the Dark Lord’s brood, and I would even go as far as saying that Firefoot must be the best at it in all of Rohan. Those of my éored who have seen him evading the orc’s bows call him Arrowdancer. He sees those skirmishes as a welcome opportunity to prove his skill to everyone looking.” With a proud, loving smile, Éomer’s gaze wandered over to the grey shape in the back of the shed. “You love to show off, don’t you, Grey One?”

The stallion snorted indignantly, and, having come to the conclusion that that the strange noise he had heard outside meant no immediate danger, took the few steps over to his master’s cot to lower his head in expectation of a caress. He was not disappointed.

Feeling the older man’s amused attention upon himself as he affectionately massaged the silken softness of Firefoot’s nose, Éomer looked up, suddenly remembering something the ranger had mentioned earlier that day, and his brow creased in thought.

“This morning, you told me that you were in Rohan before, a long time ago… and that you knew my father. May I ask… may I ask how you met him?”

“I rode with your people for a while,” Aragorn explained, registering Éomer’s surprise and at the same time, sensing the young man’s growing suspicion. “Since my youth, I have been travelling through many countries to learn about the different peoples and their ways. It appears that in these dark times, this kind of knowledge is becoming ever more important in understanding our foes.” He fell silent and his gaze turned distant with memories both fond and fell. “I was not in your father’s éored, but we went to battle together more than once. Although still very young when we met, he was already an extraordinarily skilled warrior and greatly respected by the riders, and I was grieved when I heard of his death.” He smiled as he returned to reality. “I see a lot of him in your appearance and your demeanour: the same pride, the same love for your people and the same determination and unyielding will, and on the plains, I saw the same love and respect for you in the faces of your riders that his men held for him. Marshal Éomund would be proud to see what kind of man his son has become.” He could not be certain in the darkness of the shed, but it seemed to him as if the Rohir’s complexion had darkened in reaction to his words.

It took Éomer a moment to recover from the older man’s high praise, and his voice still sounded strange when he said: “I do what I can. Whatever is in my power to save the Mark from the abyss that is yawning at us, I will do, but whether it will be enough to defeat our enemies I cannot say.”

“If you do not find a way, than nobody will,” Aragorn answered, feeling compassion for the young rider who had been raised under the pressure of having to follow in the footsteps of a great man and who had ultimately risen to the challenge even if he still doubted himself.

“When you rode with our forces,” Éomer then inquired further as something dawned to him from the well of the long distant memories of his early youth, “…did our people know you a under different name perhaps than ‘Aragorn’? I never heard of a stranger with that name riding with our warriors, but often, my father would tell us about the deeds of a Captain of the éoreds not born in the Mark, a man from a far-off land and with dark hair. A man who was unusually skilled at battle and shrewd at reading people although he was much respected for his kindness also.”

“You want to know whether I am Thorongil?” Aragorn asked calmly, his gaze meeting the Rohir’s as he gave him the little nod Éomer had obviously awaited. “Aye. I was known under that name here once.”

Breathless beats of silence passed between the two warriors, the atmosphere suddenly changed. For a moment at a loss for words even if once he had followed his thought, he had unconsciously already guessed the result of his interrogation, Éomer’s smile suddenly broadened, and a new expression of awe and wonder suddenly lit up his features.

“And so at last, the mighty ‘Eagle of the Star’ returns to aid Rohan in its darkest hour. It appears as if Béma has at last heard our prayers. Now there is hope indeed for the Sons of Éorl to brave even this fiercest of storms in the history of the Riddermark.” He stared at the older man, suddenly feeling very young again in the presence of the mighty warrior whose deeds had inspired many of the rousing songs and tales he had grown up with, but before he could continue, the bloodcurdling din of the watchdogs’ alarm rose into the night…