Chapter 36: Interlude

EDORAS

Elfhelm had no way of knowing how late it was. Since they had been thrown into the eternal darkness of the mountain, his sense of time had suffered a quick death, and the only indication of the time he had spent chained up against the wall were his growing thirst and hunger. He assumed that the night had passed, but that it would still take a few more long hours until the Worm and his henchmen would return to resume their torment of them. Elfhelm felt angered by the discovery that deep down inside, he was waiting for them to come back with water and food, even if he knew that he would not get any of it if Éowyn heeded his words. He wished her to, and on the other hand, especially the thirst was getting increasingly harder to ignore. His throat hurt, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and the pounding headache had even worsened in the course of the long hours he had spent without nourishment. Dying of thirst was an ugly death and he did not look forward to it, but still it would be better to triumph in death than see Éomer’s sister humiliated because of him.

Involuntarily, Elfhelm straightened from the slumped position he had hung in for the better part of the night, momentarily succeeding in taking the strain off his hurting shoulders. The iron bands around his wrists had cut into the flesh, and his arms – outstretched in a most unnatural position above his head– had gone from excruciating pain to numbness hours ago. It was a state he preferred to the previous, but the sensation ended at his shoulders which throbbed under the enormous strain of having to hold his entire body weight, as his legs had likewise given out. From time to time, Elfhelm tried to force some feeling back into his feet, but his efforts had been to no avail. Again, the moment of relief was short-lived when his strength deserted the warrior, and he dropped back into his former agonising position, groaning as he did so. ‘And this is only the beginning!’ he thought. ‘Stop wailing like an old woman!’ It would get much worse than he felt now, and he prayed that he would be able to hide the true extent of his suffering from the King’s niece for as long as possible:

Éowyn... that she should have to witness the horrors of the dungeon was without question the most terrible aspect of the Worm’s plan. Narrowing his eyes as he lifted his head to squint past the flickering light of the torch into the darkness of the opposite cell, Elfhelm cursed at their adversary’s deviousness. While Wormtongue had decided to let Gamling and Céorl suffer in the dark, he had been adamant to keep the torches in their corridor lit at all times, and it was easy to see the purpose behind his order: He wanted Éowyn to witness all stages of her protector’s deteriorating state in order to break her more easily. So, if he wanted to avoid causing yet more anguish to Éomer’s sister than she already felt in the wake of the last evil events, Elfhelm knew that he could not afford to relinquish control even for a single moment for as long as the White Lady was awake. The effort was draining, and though possessed of a fierce will, the warrior feared that his strength would not suffice to stay in control for much longer. And yet he would sooner kill himself than be the reason for Éowyn’s surrender.

With a low moan, Elfhelm’s head sank onto his chest again. Who did he think he was fooling? Certainly not Marshal Éomund’s smart daughter. As his weary gaze found back to the lithe figure on the bare wooden cot, his insides clenched into a tight knot at the sight of her restless shifting. However tight her control on her emotions was while Éowyn was awake, in sleep there was no escape from the demons that hunted her, and her choked, anguished sobs and the trail of glistening tears on her face made Elfhelm feel his absolute powerlessness more distinctly than ever before. What hope was there left for them? Or for their entire people, for that matter? If the army Wormtongue had announced was really as vast as he had led them to believe, it would crush their weakened and reduced kinsmen underneath their feet, and without warning… what could they do? The defence of the city was by now left in Éothain’s hands, and while the son of Céorl was an able leader of the Armed Forces, Elfhelm feared that not even Éomer’s unlikely return would result in victory.

Éomer… Not wanting to imagine what evil fate had befallen the wilful young man he had taken underneath his wing and helped on the path of becoming one of the Mark’s most valiant warriors ever, Elfhelm shut his eyes. It would be foolish to deny any longer that everything was falling to pieces around them. Perhaps it was time to spend the last hours of his life thinking of something positive for a change; of someone kind and beautiful, someone giving and warm. Someone who would be waiting once again in vain for her Loved One to return. The sudden realisation of what his death would mean to Freela destroyed the comforting feeling her image had evoked in Elfhelm, and instead of the loving expression he had envisioned upon her freckled, delicately cut face, he now saw the pain in her eyes once she understood that she had lost the second man she had loved, too.

"Oh Freela…" he whispered as desperation finally overwhelmed him. "I am so sorry…" But only the rats heard him.

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

EDORAS

The sun had barely begun its ascent into the pale grey sky, and yet already the city was already bursting with activity as all of its inhabitants were eagerly seeing to the various tasks appointed to them. For a fleeting moment, Éothain felt a vague flutter of hope as he stood in the market square to supervise their efforts. After a long conversation with his captains, their strategy had emerged and he had summoned the citizens in the market square to instruct them on the measures he meant to take in the light of the last events. To his surprise and pride, there had been next to no protest even if the course of action they had decided upon seemed daring.

Now one the two groups into which they had divided the citizens was eagerly preparing Edoras for an assault, while the other, smaller one turned every stone and leaf in search for the secret tunnel into Meduseld. While Éothain watched them, he could not shake the feeling that his kinsmen felt actually relieved that the siege of fear and mistrust Gríma Wormtongue had imposed on them had ended and that they were allowed to act against those who tormented them now. Nodding his confirmation to a group of men and women dragging heavy carts with supplies into the upper reaches of the hill where they would not easily become a victim of fires, Éothain felt a surge of pride. Yes, the kinsmen were afraid, and yet they had decided not to run. They trusted him to steer them safely through yet another of fate’s hard tests and supported him as best they could with their very own brand of Rohirric pragmatism. While he watched, weapons were stored at strategic places all along the wooden fence that surrounded the city and yet more were being manufactured, and the gates strengthened and fortified. In another few hours, Edoras would be ready for battle.

And yet doubt remained while Éothain watched as wooden planks and iron plates were hammered into place. Had he made the right decision, or would they pay a high price for staying here and not make for Dunharrow instead? The stronghold in the mountains was almost impregnable and would offer their people better chances at survival in case of an attack, and yet Éothain had dismissed the notion as soon as it had hit him because leaving would mean surrender. It would mean handing over triumph to the Worm without a fight, and it would mean deserting their King and Éowyn and his father. How could he leave while there was no certainty that his father was dead? Sooner would he try to sneak into Meduseld through the secret tunnel if they ever found it, and fight his way through all of the Worm’s guards until he had either freed his father or found him killed by Gríma’s minions. No, running from the enemy was out of the question, and with relief, Éothain had found that their people felt the same. For better or worse, they would make their stand here and either defeat the enemy or perish.

With a deep intake of breath, Éothain turned on his heels and looked up to where the stark silhouette of the Golden Hall loomed threateningly against the grey sky. It was strange to no longer regard it as their inner sanctum, but the stronghold of the enemy. Curse the traitor who had despoiled its sanctity! He would avenge it if he could, yet another reason to cut Wormtongue into very thin stripes if fate presented him with the opportunity. A soundless sigh escaping his slightly parted lips, the son of Céorl shifted his attention back to the frantic activity around him.

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

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Éomer woke to the sound of rustling straw and the smell and noise of shifting animals around him. After years of riding with the Armed Forces, who usually slept in the settlement’s barns when they patrolled the land in the cold season, both sensations were so familiar to him that at first, he did not bother opening his eyes and just lay on his back as he gradually rose to wakefulness. Yet the more he escaped the embrace of sleep, the more realisation seeped into his conscious that the situation was far from normal. He was not on patrol with his riders; he was not even officially a member of them anymore. And they had been assaulted. A brief recapitulation of the nightly events racing through his mind and culminating in the image of the Uruk’s murderously gleaming eyes behind his raised crossbow, Éomer shook off the last remainders of sleep. With the mental images of the weeping and trembling Halad in his arms and of Osred’s hate-filled gaze while his bloodied fingers pressed against his wound, the warrior opened his eyes.

Daylight greeted him as Éomer stared unmoving at the ceiling, feeling disoriented even though he knew at least that he was still at Freya’s farm, if not in his bed in the children’s room where he had intended to go after finishing with the tending of his horse. Furrows forming on his brow, Éomer slightly craned back his neck, and a sleepy smile wandered over his face as he beheld the sight of his grey stallion, who had buried his head in his manger and demonstrated remarkably good appetite despite of the fact that he had been wounded during the night. Clicking his tongue, Éomer watched as Firefoot turned one ear in his direction, and for a moment, the grey head turned and one of the big dark eyes looked at him, but at last, the delicacies in the manger won the competition for the stallion’s attention and the horse resumed emptying it with obvious delight. The wound on his shoulder, as far as Éomer could see, looked good, and Firefoot’s appetite was a good sign. With a relieved sigh, the Rohir turned back and lifted his head to see what else was going on around him when he heard the sound of approaching steps.

He knew the man who entered his vision now with a pleased expression on his face over finding him awake, and still, as he pushed his stiff body up into a sitting position, Éomer involuntarily tensed. Only a few hours ago Thor had assured him that his riders still saw him as their leader, and yet last night’s events night still had an unreal quality which made Éomer question himself whether the Orc-attack and all that had followed had not been another one of his fevered dreams. Still, the straw underneath his palms felt remarkably real as he watched their healer Tolgor approach.

"Marshal! How very good it is to see you awake! We feared the worst when we heard of the Worm’s verdict against you. Béma be praised, it seemed that we arrived just in time last night." His gaze travelled over Éomer’s frame with all the experience of a seasoned healer. "You look much better than a few hours ago. The rest has done wonders."

"Aye," Éomer confirmed to him, not entirely convinced of it himself since his body felt bruised and stiff as a wooden puppet, even if the bone-deep exhaustion that had felled him the night before had vanished. "You chose the right moment to appear. The battle had turned ill on us, and had you arrived only a little later, there would have been nobody left to save for you." He looked around and registered that except for the two of them, the barn was empty. "Where are the others?"

"Cleaning up," Tolgor said with a twitch of his lips. "We could hardly leave these poor people with four dozen orc-carcasses to dispose of, could we?" His gaze intensified. "What happened to you after you left Edoras? Those must have been some long, lonely days out there in the wilderness... not to mention dangerous. Your friend told us that you encountered a group of orcs and just barely survived?" Éomer nodded. "I assume the orcs didn’t?"

"You assume rightly." Almost in afterthought, Éomer lifted his injured hand and found the swelling even more reduced and the colour back to normal. Cautiously, he flexed his fingers while Tolgor shook his head in amused disbelief and squatted down next to him, a proud expression suddenly lighting up his eyes. "Those beasts should have known that it takes more of them to kill a Marshal of the Mark. They just don’t learn." He noticed Éomer’s gaze, and his smile widened. "I looked after your injuries last night together with your friend after you had fallen asleep." The smile developed into a grin. "Or rather, after you passed out. We moved you around from one side to the other and even disinfected the wounds once again, but you didn’t seem to notice. I wish I could sleep like this for a change!"

"Go and wrestle some orcs all by yourself, and your wish might be granted," Éomer grumbled, still too sleepy to react to Tolgor’s good-natured bantering, and then wondered: "I do not remember falling asleep."

"After you tended Firefoot, you said to Halad that you were too exhausted to walk over to the main house by yourself, and that you would need help, but when he returned with your dark-haired friend, you had already fallen into a sleep so deep, not even a stampede of all the horses ever born in the Mark would have woken you, so they decided to leave you here with us, and only gave you some blankets." The healer’s smile was replaced by a questioning glance. "Halad said that you were half-dead when those strangers brought you here, but you look much better today. Your friend seems to happen to know a thing or two about healing... and he is very skilled with the blade. Who is he, and how did you meet him?"

Éomer inhaled deeply as his mind returned to the little shed he had shared with Aragorn while they had waited for the enemy. He still felt awed by the thought of what he had learned from their conversation. "Have you heard of Thorongil, the stranger who rode with our forces in Thengel’s time and accomplished many deeds worthy of song?"

Tolgor’s glance grew sceptical, as if he did not understand what one thing had to do with the other.

"Of course I have heard of Thorongil. Every child in the Mark grows up with the tales of that warrior. But…" The furrows on his brow deepened. "You mean… that he is Thorongil? But--" His gaze went over to the barn door.

"He appears to be too young to be the ‘Eagle of the Star’?" Éomer finished for him, following his gaze. "Aye, it would appear so. And yet Thorongil was no ordinary man. My father said once that he was rumoured to be of Númenorian descent. That would explain it." He shook his head. "Anyway, I believe him. I met him once before on the plains, and although I did not know him then, I could already tell that there was something special about him. Anyway, he is on our side and has come to aid us, and that is all I need to know." Grimacing, Éomer shifted his weight and his brow creased as he looked at the little window high above them through which sunlight filtered into the barn. "How late is it?"

"It is a little after midday. We decided to let you rest, as you seemed to need it." The healer ignored his commander’s dismayed expression. "And of course, we appreciated the rest, too, since we combed the mountains in search for you from dawn till dusk for days. And when we saw the smoke yesterday, we hurried even more to get here, so the break was indeed not only welcome, but necessary." He studied Éomer’s expression and felt a sudden quiver of nervousness. "Something is troubling you."

Éomer’s frown deepened as he scrambled to his feet, helped by his fellow rider.

"We are losing too much time. The enemy is ready to strike." Standing, he stared at Tolgor, suddenly all marshal again. "Where is Elfhelm? Did he not ride with you?"

"Elfhelm sent us out to search for you. He himself rode to Edoras when he learned of your banishment. I assume that he wanted to make sure that Éowyn was safe. They should both be waiting for us in Aldburg when we return."

Éowyn! He had not thought of her for a long time, but the mention of her name brought back the memory of the terrible night when he had just barely escaped the Worm’s trap. Gríma had known about their secret hiding place, and there was only one source where he could have learned of it. Had Elfhelm been fast enough to save his sister? Grinding his teeth in frustration, Éomer bid his stallion a good morning with a clap on Firefoot’s muscular hindquarters and then turned to leave. How much he wanted to ride back to Edoras or Aldburg to confirm that his sister was still alive and well, and yet he remembered Théodred’s warning, and Aragorn’s words. They had to concern themselves with Saruman, first, even if it meant to possibly sacrifice the only family member left to him. The Gods were cruel:

"We will not return to Aldburg," he muttered darkly, not looking at Tolgor. "At least not yet." ‘And perhaps never again.‘ His gaze grew urgent. "I need to talk to Thor!"

"I will find him for you." The healer opened the barn-door for his limping commander and then slipped out himself, wondering what Éomer had meant. The Marshal’s anxiety troubled him, but he refrained from asking, assuming that they would learn about the source of it soon enough. Who was the enemy he was speaking of? Saruman? And how could he know that Saruman was ready to strike?

Bright sunlight greeted the two warriors, but the scene it shed its golden light on could hardly be less idyllic: the snow had turned to mush under the rising temperatures and last night’s assault, but the great black stains the Uruks had bled onto it were still visible, as were the trails of blackness leading to the dark piles burning in the distance. The powerful stench of the burning flesh assaulted Éomer’s senses before he could steel himself for it, and his stomach gave a disgusted twitch.

"Éomer!" At the sound of Aragorn’s by now well-known voice, the Rohir shifted his attention back at the main house in front him, where the ranger sat on the bench and cleaned his sword only to rise to his feet now and quickly make his way over with a big, honest smile on his face. Hardly noticed by Éomer, Tolgor slipped away in search for his captain when the ranger came to a halt of his Rohirric brother-in-arms. His keen grey eyes briefly travelling over the younger man in a quick but thorough evaluation, the Dúnadan laid a hand upon Éomer’s shoulder. "You look much better."

"I feel much better, too. Thanks to you. Even if you should have woken me. We are losing too much time." Inwardly tensing, Éomer hesitantly asked. "How is Osred faring?" Béma, he had meant to be at the farmer’s side while Aragorn tended his wounds. He had meant to look after him. He had done neither. The man hated him already, and now he had even given him a real reason. Aragorn eyed him observantly and then calmly pointed his chin at the door.

"He is still asleep, but his life is not in danger. Fear not, Éomer. He will survive it, and I do not think that any permanent damage has been done, although he will need some time to heal. Once the pain has passed, he will be proud of what he did… and his family, too." Those perceptive eyes meet with Éomer’s again. "I told him that you had passed out. That you were worried for him and that you had meant to be by his side, but that your own strength had deserted you. He understands, Éomer. After all, it has only been one day since we brought you here."

"It is no excuse," the Rohir muttered, the words meant for himself rather than the ranger, and then shook his head as he fell silent and turned around to look at the members of his former éored, who were still wrestling heavy corpses into the fires. Osred was alive and he would recover. Good. For the moment, this was enough for him, but sooner or later, he would have to talk to the farmer, and he did not look forward to the conversation. When Thor emerged from the distant group of men to make his way over them, Éomer was almost grateful..

"So, what will you do now?" Aragorn spoke into his thoughts, like he following the Halfblood’s approach. "Assemble the éoreds and ride to Isengard?"

"It is what I must do to save the Mark, isn’t it?" Éomer sighed, evading the ranger’s questioning glance. "So I will do it."

"Although you would rather make for Edoras and free your uncle."

"I have no hope left for my uncle. He has become Wormtongue’s chief minion in the undoing of the Mark, nothing less. It is not him I worry about; it is my sister. I do not want to imagine what Wormtongue will do to her if he doesn’t get his way… and she will never bend to his will. She will sooner kill herself then let him touch her." Éomer fell silent. The thought had struck him suddenly, and it felt like the cold, hard truth. If Éowyn saw no other way of escaping Gríma’s clutches, she would seek death… which made it even harder to ride in the other direction, away from her. He closed his eyes, his lips a thin line as he lowered his head. His own kin was in mortal peril, and he did not ride to her aid? He felt like a traitor. To his relief, Aragorn remained silent, common sense telling him that any words of comfort he could utter would be empty of meaning.

Grateful for the opportunity to distract himself from his fears for his sister with some strategic planning, Éomer turned to Thor, who had reached them and nodded his acknowledgement at Aragorn, as he turned to his commander.

"It is a relief to see you on your feet again, my lord. I was worried when I saw you last night."

"I was exhausted, nothing more." Éomer was tired of talking about himself. He nodded in the direction of the distant men. "You are almost done with them?"

"The orcs? Aye." Thor followed his gaze and shrugged. "Once the snow has melted, nothing will be left of them."

"Did you send someone back to Aldburg yet?"

"No. I was assuming that you would be riding with us when we returned?" He saw the answer in Éomer’s face and lifted a dark brow. "We will not ride back to Aldburg?"

"No. We must make for Isengard, before the traitor there can attack us. We will not be able to stop him if we come too late, and we will need all our forces to repel him… and not only repel him, but annihilate his armies and kill him, too, this time. Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do." Éomer waited for a question, but the scout seemed too stunned to even think of one as he stared at him. So he continued. "I want you to send an errand rider to Aldburg, and another one further into the Eastmark. All settlements are to deploy their éoreds immediately for the Westfold, except for a few riders for their own protection. When they travel West, they must use the mountain paths and not the road, even if it is more dangerous and probably slower. If they travel past Edoras, the Worm will know that something is up."

"So you do not want for the Edoras’ éored to be alarmed?" Thor asked sceptically. "But what about Éothain? Can we spare him and his men when we attack the White Wizard?"

"We need him indeed, but the risk is too great. If Wormtongue learns of our plans, Saruman will know that we are coming for him. We must attack the wolf while it still sleeps in its den." He cut a glance at Aragorn, who stood silently by his side and nodded. "Also, I want two more riders sent to Erkenbrand’s stronghold and alert him of our coming and that of the éoreds. It would be good if he has already summoned his forces when we arrive, for there will not be much time left until we must ride."

Thor nodded, his dark eyes looking even more concerned than usually as he exchanged a worried glance with the ranger next to his commander:

"I will tell the men immediately, but my lord…."

"Wait," Éomer interrupted him, one hand raised. "We will do it differently: It would be better if you sent half of your éored ahead to Erkenbrand in addition to the two dispatch riders, together with your best scouts. I want them to clear the way for us, and to hunt down and kill each and every single orc they can find along the path. We must make sure that no word of our plan gets to Saruman!"

"There has been a lot of orc-activity in the mountains lately. It will take them a while." Thor hesitated. "I understood that time was of the utmost importance?"

"It is, but it is even more important that we retain the advantage we have in the element of surprise. Send those two riders ahead to alert Erkenbrand, and the others shall follow as fast as they can." The Halfblood nodded.

"Aye, my Lord. May I ask when you plan to leave?" His question was greeted by silence, and from the brief, wordless exchange between the two warriors before him, Thor understood that the marshal’s impatience would rather drive him to leave the farm this very instant, but that he also knew his limits. Limits which the stranger by his side didn’t even have to mention aloud, although his glance was a clear indication of his opinion. Finally, Éomer shifted his attention back at his captain.

"Tell the men to be ready tomorrow by first light. Until then, I want them to rest. The next days will be hard enough." He nodded, having said everything that had been on his mind, and Thor inclined his head and turned, understanding that he had been dismissed. As Aragorn and Éomer watched him leave, the Rohir shook his head, not looking at the man by his side. "And so it begins, the last great offence of the Rohirrim. I wonder whether I am not sending them all to their death."

"If you do not send them, death will come and catch them unprepared." Aragorn waited until he had caught the younger man’s eye. "This is the one chance at survival you might still have. You are doing the right thing, Son of Éomund. Do not the Gods favour the courageous?"

"My people have always been courageous, and yet they are on the brink of extinction," Éomer said darkly. "And many who only sought to protect their kin gave their lives. No one came to save them, or to reward their courage. I do not know who can honestly claim to have the Gods’ favour in these times, but one thing is certain: it is not the sons of Éorl." With dark glance, he turned to the main house and took a deep breath. Here waited another duty for him which he could not postpone. "I must speak with Osred."