Chapter 35: Aftermath

WHITE MOUNTAINS

For a moment, Éomer saw over the raised crossbow the promise of his own death in the eyes of the beast, and his lungs expanded with the last breath he knew he would ever take, the air bittersweet with the taste of farewell… and then he flinched at the sharp sound of the bolt being released. His eyes closed, he waited for the punch to his chest or head, but it was the Uruk who fell as he looked up again, the fire in its eyes extinguished. With surreal clarity, Éomer saw it grasp for the arrow-shaft that suddenly protruded from the pit of its throat, dropping its own weapon. The impact of the crossbow on the ground loosed the bolt, which dug itself into the ground, then the creature’s knees buckled and it collapsed with a gargling sound, dead before it hit the snow. Unable to comprehend what had happened, Éomer turned his head to see an innumerable number of riders race toward them. Before him, the remaining Uruk-hai paused.

“Riders! Watch out!”

The thunder of the charging éored drowned out the dismayed shouts, and from one moment to the next, the Uruk-hai realised that the tables had abruptly turned.

“Run! Run! Flee as fast as you can! Up the hills!”

Relentless attack abruptly shifted into a panicked rout as the great orcs stormed toward the ice-covered slopes in hope to make it to safety, but the Rohirrim bore down upon them with the crushing force of a rockslide. More than half of the Uruk-hai perished in the hail of spears and arrows of the first attack, and their anguished roars echoed from the mountains. The wounded were ridden down without mercy, and as the riders turned like a flock of birds in a big half circle to return and finish their work, it was clear to all that that the nightly assault on the farm had failed. Once more, the thunder of the Rohirrim came upon the orcs, and then all noise died down when the last foe had been slain.

Still on the ground, Éomer watched as the riders’ leader directed his horse over to him, and he tensed despite better knowledge. The Armed Forces were under orders to kill him if they found him still within the Mark. What would they do now, and who was leading those men? Was it Elfhelm? Somehow, even though he felt that it would make no difference, Éomer was determined to throw in his full authority as an ex-marshal of the Mark, and as such, it would not do to encounter those riders in a diminished position. With the last reserve of his will and strength, he made it to his feet, although he could hardly put any weight upon his injured leg. A brief gaze confirmed that Firefoot was likewise on his legs again, even if he was heavily favouring his left foreleg, and behind the barricade which had been hacked to bits, he saw the fair head of Legolas, and behind him, Aragorn. The others Éomer could not see, but now there was no more time left to see how Osred, Halad and the dwarf were faring, because the leading rider had reached him and reined in his horse not even three steps away.

Éomer recognised the sleek, black stallion immediately, but the tension still refused to leave him as he looked up at the Half-Dunlending in the saddle, involuntarily squaring his shoulders.

“I am relieved to see you, Thor. You came just in time, as always. The battle was just about to turn ill for us.”

“We would have been here hours ago had we not been delayed by an avalanche,” the young man said, his expression guarded. “We were already hard on the orcs’ tracks, so I suppose that the snow slide was their doing.” His gaze travelled over the still bodies oozing blackness into the snow, and a disdainful expression crept into his features. “It did not help them. But I still wish we could have spared you entirely from their attack.” He eyed Éomer closer, and his brow creased with concern before he slid from the saddle. “It is a great relief for us to have found you alive, Lord Éomer. We had been searching for you for the last two days, and were beginning to fear the worst.” He nodded. “Tolgor will tend your wounds. How serious are they?”

“Not too serious. They were already tended by someone who knows his craft,” Éomer replied, his eyes briefly wandering over where he had last seen Aragorn. “I may not be able to walk too well, but I will live.” And at last, his knees surrendered under the combined attack of relief and fatigue as all tension left him, and he landed unceremoniously on his behind in the snow. So his riders were still with him. Finally he had confirmation of what Théodred had been so confident about. But then again, Théodred has only been in his head. “But I don’t know about my friends.” He lifted his chin to look past the kneeling Halfblood before him. “Halad? Osred? Where are you? Gimli?”

“They are here!” Aragorn’s voice rang out from behind their improvised ice-wall. “Halad and Gimli are well, but Osred is wounded.” His words sent a bolt of alarm through Éomer.

“Is it serious?” He tried to push himself up again and was helped to his feet by Thor and another rider.

“Lord Éomer, you are wounded yourself,” the young scout said with a frown as he beheld the blood on Éomer’s face and leg. “Should we not help you into the house and--”

“All that could be done about it has already been done,” Éomer dismissed him and took a first, tentative step, hissing at the silver bolt shooting up his leg. “A little pain won’t kill me. I need to know how the others are faring before I can rest.” He looked at the Halfblood. “But I fear that I’ll need your help.” His former brother-in-arms looked bewildered at his former commander’s almost begging tone. Apparently, Éomer still did not view their loyalty as a given. Did the son of Éomund still doubt them?

“You have it, of course. And please, Marshal, believe me when I say this on behalf of my entire éored, and even more, for all the riders under Captain Elfhelm’s command: you are still our commander and the man we will follow until the end; whether it may be good or bad, and no matter what the orders from Edoras say. We know where they are coming from these days. It is you in whom our people trust, my Lord. The Eastmark stands behind you. I just want you to know that.” Blushing from his own words, the usually shy and quiet young man cast down his gaze as he saw the moved expression in his commander’s eyes. It could not be that the proud, wilful Marshal Éomer of Aldburg was close to tears just because of he had said, could it?

And yet, as Éomer’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and the man gave him a silent, appreciative nod, Thor could see that it was so, and that Éomer’s thanks were given in this silent manner because he did not know how to fit his voice through the lump that had formed in his throat. Embarrassed to have caught his commander in such an emotional state, the Halfblood shifted his attention to his own men instead: “Dismount. Pile the carcasses and burn them, but do it a good distance away from the buildings. We do not need for the poor people to have the remains of that filth on their doorstep.”

“Aye, Captain!” several voices answered him, and the riders immediately busied themselves with tying ropes to the bodies of the slaughtered Uruk-hai and dragging them to a place on the far side of the valley.

No longer paying them attention, Éomer limped over to where Aragorn had disappeared, first stopping where his stallion stood with hanging head, his left foreleg raised. From the hoof, dark drops had already discoloured the snow, and Éomer’s stomach dropped as he reached for the horse’s head, carefully asking his animal ally to turn so that he could see the damage done.

“Ssshh, Big One,” he soothed, gently caressing the horse’s brow as his concerned gaze found the three parallel gashes in Firefoot’s muscular shoulder. “It is all right. It’s over. We made it.” He reached out to touch the bloodied hide next to the wound, and the stallion’s skin twitched underneath his fingers. “It is still bleeding, but hopefully, it is only a flesh wound,” Éomer mumbled to no one particular, rubbing the horse’s cheek. It pained him to see his stallion in such a state, but it could not be helped, Firefoot would have to wait. “I’ll be right back.” He hated to leave the creature which had insured his survival so many times over the last few days, but there was someone even more important now he had to look after. Squeezing himself through the broadened gap in the barricade, Éomer finally discovered Aragorn kneeling next to Osred, who sat against the barn wall and seemed to be deadly pale even in the darkness. The ranger looked up, and the expression of his grey eyes was concerned.

“How bad is it?” Summoning what was left of his strength, Éomer limped over. Please, not Osred. If Freya’s husband died or would be permanently crippled because of his decision to seek shelter here, he would never forgive himself.

“It’s a deep cut on his shoulder and chest,” the Dúnadan said quietly, his hands with which he kept pressure on the wound slick with blood. “I do not think any organs were damaged, but we need to get him into the house at once.”

“He saved me,” a very anxious Gimli added from the other side. “I was in a melee with three orcs, and another one I had not noticed had sneaked up on me from behind. Osred intercepted him and took the strike himself.” The dwarf swallowed and shook his head as he looked down upon the wounded man. “That was a very brave thing to do, Master Osred, and yet I wish you didn’t do it... at least not for me. We were here to help you, not the other way round.”

The farmer’s eyes were squeezed closed against the pain, but now he opened them to look at the son of Gloin.

“You are the better fighter. Without you, we would have had no chance. I was nowhere near as important.” He hissed and grimaced, and in his eyes, Éomer read the continuation of his thought, even if the farmer did not speak it. ‘Not even my wife cares whether I live or die.’

“You should not speak so,” Éomer said more forcefully than he had intended, simultaneously dismayed and angered by the older man’s self-disdain. “You fought as bravely and as well as the others, or there wouldn’t be so many dead orcs lying around. Even if our éored had not arrived, those orcs were paying a high price for their boldness, and that is your merit just as well as everybody else’s.” Osred’s hate-filled gaze pierced him without warning, and while Éomer never shrank away from such a challenge, the sudden hostility in the farmer’s pained eyes silenced him. What had he done to deserve such reaction? It had not been his idea to remain here; nor had he ordered Osred to stay. Was he being held responsible for the man’s injury now?

Noticing the sudden tension between the two Rohirrim but refraining from commentating on it, Aragorn looked at his elven friend: “He is losing too much blood. Legolas, help you please help me to carry him to the house?”

“I want to help, too!” Gimli stepped forward. “After all, it was my life he saved with his brave foolishness!” And he hurried to help the farmer to his feet. Together, man, elf and dwarf supported Osred on the way to the main house, and with a last questioning glance at the young Rohir, Aragorn turned away. It became very quiet. His head reeling with the memory of the farmer’s hostile gaze, Éomer turned to Thor. He needed to keep a clear head, all the more as he slowly felt his own reserves wane. There were still so many things to think of, so many things to organise before he could even begin to consider getting any rest himself. Somehow, it felt as if this night would never end.

“Is Tolgor riding with you?”

“Aye. Do you want him to assist your friend? But what about you? You look as if you could use his help, too.”

“I can wait. Send him over to the house, they will need him there.” Unwilling to say more, Éomer shifted his attention back to the only other remaining witness of the nightly attack, and his frown deepened even more. “Halad…” His insides twisted into a painful knot as he met eyes with Freya’s little brother, seeing behind the shape of the young man in front of him the face of the little lad who had turned to him in that fateful night of the war-attack. Sitting in the snow before the barn, huddled and hugging himself, Halad’s thin body shook so violently that Éomer felt a sudden strong bout of self-loathing for ever having directed his steps toward the farm. He had brought those poor people nothing but misery, and if things went ill, his selfish search for refuge would leave the woman he cared for widowed, and her brother shocked for life. Once again he turned back to Thor, who still waited patiently behind him.

“Thor, could you please bring Firefoot into the barn? The door is still chained, but Osred should have the key for the lock. And tell someone to boil water; his wounds need to be cleaned.”

“Aye. I’ll do that at once.” It was clear to the young Half-Dunlending that his commander wanted to be left alone with the terrified young man, and so he followed his order without further question. Grateful for the scout’s decency, Éomer stepped forward, feeling awful as he looked into the tear-streaked face of Freya’s brother. “Halad, please… it is over. We made it. All of us.” How to get down with just one good leg? He managed it less than gracefully by unceremoniously dropping into the snow, hissing at the pain and laying an arm round the younger man in a brotherly gesture. Pulling him closer. “Osred will recover; I promise you that.” He asked himself how he could make such a promise if he did not even know about the seriousness of the farmer’s wound, but it was clear that Halad needed something more than comfort now. “Aragorn healed me, and he will heal Osred as well. He will not let him die.” But he knew that this was only part of the problem.

“I know.” Halad nodded, averting his eyes. But what he saw to his right did nothing to calm him down, and he hid his face behind a trembling hand. Following his gaze, Éomer saw the mutilated remains of the family’s wolfhounds, and he shook his head. He knew how much Halad loved all his animals. Silently, he pulled the young man closer against his shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Halad…”

With a pitiful cross between a sob and a laugh, Freya’s brother lifted his head: “No. No, it is I who is sorry. Béma, what a sorry excuse for a warrior I am! All these years when you taught me swordplay, I filled your ears about wanting to fight, and now that I finally had the opportunity, I behave like an old woman!” He laughed unhappily while the tears streamed over his face. Although it pained him, Éomer looked him straight in the eye, indicating to the young man that he meant every word.

“No, Halad. I am proud of you. You fought bravely. Most would have fled long before those orcs would have arrived.”

“What does it matter?” Halad sniffled, unable to look at the warrior he had always regarded as his brother; as the man he wanted to prove himself to. “Perhaps I did, but look at me now! This is not what a warrior should behave like after the battle. I have never seen a rider weep, or shiver with fright. I am a disgrace.”

“And you would be wrong, for I have seen both, and repeatedly so,” Éomer objected forcefully. “And I do not speak only of young, inexperienced riders. During the fight, we may be brave, and we may be hard against our enemies, but once the slaughter is over, we have to pay the price for our deeds, too. We weep for our fallen friends, and for the horses we lost, and we fear for the injured. We are not beyond compassion or fear, Halad. These are the very emotions which make us human, after all. Without them, we would be like them; mindless beasts. Orcs.” He nodded at the bodies strewn around them and fell silent. The lad was still trembling. “Do you want to know what I did after my first fight?”

His eyes still glistening with wetness, Halad looked at him questioningly, as if he could not believe that the man he had thought of as invincible and unshakeable could be any different than his imagination had always painted him.

“I retched.” A wry grin tugged at Éomer’s mouth as he remembered. Years ago, there had been nothing comical about the situation, at least not to him. But perhaps its recapitulation helped in lightening up the shivering bundle of misery in his arms.

“No. You are just saying this.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Éomer paused, and when Halad remained silent, continued: “Most of the young riders do it upon their first kill. Years back, our éored had planned an ambush on a host of orcs in rocky terrain. Éothain and I were deemed too young to fight, so we were ordered to stay behind to guard the horses. Unfortunately, on the way there we had caught the attention of three orcs ourselves, and when the others left, they came to steal them. They had not seen us among the horses.”

Halad’s eyes widened.

“And the two of you defeated them?”

“Éothain killed one of them from a distance, and then we had to fight the other two at close quarters. I gutted mine.” Éomer grimaced as he remembered the spill of blackness onto his garments, the creature’s shriek and the terrible stench. “Even though I should have been proud over my first kill, trust me when I tell you that it was one of the most horrible experiences of my life. I was green and still spilling my breakfast and all the meals I had had that week when the others returned.” A sarcastic twitch pulled the corner of his mouth upward. “Having the entire éored laugh at me did not make it better, but at least it helped to calm my stomach. I did not want to be their object of ridicule for longer than absolutely necessary, so I stopped. But I did it again after the next fight … and then I had learned to control it. But I never liked the killing. It is but a necessary evil we cannot avoid if we want to prevail.”

Encouragingly, Éomer patted Halad’s shoulder, noticing that his little diversion had been successful. A little colour had returned to the young man’s face. “I do not know how many of them you killed, but you were very, very brave, Halad. Fléadwyn and your sisters will not believe their ears when I tell them how bravely you fought. You have all the makings of a great warrior, but I am glad that you did not choose that path. One pays for it, one way or another.” He did not elaborate even when he felt another questioning glance upon himself, and then sagged against the barn wall when all strength suddenly left him. For a moment, the world turned before his eyes.

“Éomer?” Now it was Halad’s turn to look concerned. With a weak smile, Éomer gestured that there was nothing to be worried.

“I am just tired.” He looked up into the sky and found that the moon had wandered a good distance over the horizon since last he had looked. “It is hardly a wonder. It cannot be long until dawn anymore. I firmly believe that it is time for the two of us to get some rest… but there is something left to do, first.” With a last squeeze, he took his hand from the young man’s shoulder. “Better?” He was rewarded with a tentative nod, and his heart flowed over with love and respect for the courageous lad. “I know I have asked much of you already tonight, but will you do me one more favour, please? Only if you are not too exhausted yourself, but you are the only one who could help me with this, and I would greatly appreciate it.”

“See after Firefoot?” The request brightened Halad’s gaunt features. “Aye, of course. I do not believe he will let anyone else handle him.”

“I will do it myself, but I will need your help. He did more for me these past days than I can ever repay. I owe him that.” Turning his head, Éomer tried to see through the gaps in the ice-wall where Thor had disappeared to. “Now all I need is someone to help me get up…”