Chapter 37: The Farmer and the Warrior

WHITE MOUNTAINS

It took Éomer a hard mental push to open the door to Osred’s and Freya’s room. For the longest time he had stood before it, pondering his options and staring against the irregular pattern of the wood. Uncertain what he was supposed to tell the man who had decided to regard him as his enemy and rival, he felt angered over the injustice of having to defend himself against untrue accusations or to apologise for a crime he had not committed. It had not been his idea to stay behind and defend the farm against the orcs, and neither had he forced Osred to join them, so the farmer could hardly blame him for having been wounded in the fight. That he had even travelled in the direction of the farm had been born out of plight, not of choice, and helping friends in need had – so far – always been an unquestionable duty to any self-respecting inhabitant of the Mark. As much as Éomer regretted his decision for he had unsuspectingly led the enemy to the family’s home, he had not been at freedom to handle things differently, not least of all since he had been unconscious when Aragorn and his friends had found him.

Deciding that the whole unfortunate business would only get more uncomfortable the longer he waited, the rider rapped his knuckles softly against the door with a low sigh and then slowly opened it. The image he was granted was heart-warming enough to put an involuntary smile upon his lips despite his troubled and bothered state of mind: on the chair to the right side of the bed, young Halad sat slumped with closed eyes, which he opened now with great effort to blink tiredly at his visitor like an owl caught in the daylight. On the left side, a quite comatose dwarf hung even more precariously in his seat in danger of falling, and his impressive snore left no question that Gloin’s son was indeed roaming the land of dreams. As was Osred, amazing as it was considering the noise originating from the dwarf. While Éomer still regarded the occupants of the room with silent amusement, he felt the tension drain from him. More than willing to postpone the confrontation with the wounded farmer, he nodded at the lad who struggled to his feet and forced an utterly exhausted smile upon his gaunt face upon the sight of the man he regarded as his older brother.

“Éomer!” Halad whispered and laid his hand onto the other man’s arm. “How do you feel? Could you sleep? You must excuse us for not carrying you over into your room last night, but we thought--”

Soothingly, Éomer raised his hand: “I am well enough, Halad. Don’t worry about me. I must have spent more nights of my life on the floor of a barn than in a real bed, so it was something I am quite accustomed to.” He nodded with his chin at the sleeping Osred. “But how about your brother-in-law? Aragorn says that his wound is not life-threatening, and yet I saw that it was much more than just a scratch.”

Halad followed his gaze with tired eyes.

“Aye. It is a deep cut, and it took your friend a while to staunch the bleeding and sew it shut. But I suppose he is as well as can be expected, because he slept all night. It is probably best this way, because he will not feel the pain… at least I hope so.”

Nodding in agreement, Éomer could not help creasing his brow at the sight of Halad’s haunted expression and the deep shadows underneath the young man’s eyes. Quite obviously Freya’s brother had not been able to follow Osred’s example after the horrors of the past night. Remembering clearly how his first battle had shaken him, Éomer imitated the farmer’s comforting gesture and offered: “I will take over here, Halad. It is time for you to lie down and get some rest yourself now.” His tone indicated that he would not tolerate objection. Halad attempted it nonetheless.

“But--” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the prone shape on the bed. “How can I rest while he is--”

“There is nothing you can do for Osred right now, Halad. What he needs most to heal is sleep, and it would be best for you to do the same, because you look ready to collapse. I will not have Freya angry with me because I drove the two most important men in her life to the brink of utter exhaustion. She will soon be here, and if you greet her looking like this, she will have my hide.”

Defeated by the older man’s undeniably correct observation, Halad hung his head, not daring to look his mentor in the eye as he nodded wearily and ran a hand through his matted hair. For a moment, the faintest ghost of a smile travelled over his face at the thought of his sister reprimanding a proud marshal of the Rohirrim, but a heartbeat later, it had faded to non-existence.

“I am tired,” he admitted finally in a low, beat voice that caused Éomer’s heart to ache in compassion for the brave young man. “But I am afraid of going to sleep. They’ll wait there for me in my dreams, and I don’t know...” He fell silent and swallowed, his throat tightening at the thought. He looked up in search for understanding in the experienced warrior’s eyes and found it.

“I know that it is hard at first, but sooner or later, you will have to confront these dreams, Halad; you cannot escape them forever. Yet trust me when I tell you that the sooner you face them, the sooner they will fade away. It is important to remember that you defeated those things. They are dead, and you are alive. Take this thought with you when you lie down, and no dream can harm you. Take it as advice from someone who knows of what he speaks.” Éomer patted the young man on the shoulder, never having felt more brotherly toward the lad, and then watched Halad leave until he closed the door behind him. Sighing to himself, the warrior turned back toward the bed– and tensed. While the dwarf was still very much asleep and gave no sign that he would hear if another band of orcs tore down the house around him, Osred’s eyes were open and regarding him with an unreadable expression that brought ants to Éomer’s stomach before the farmer averted his gaze to stare at the opposite wall.

Unwilling to betray his nervousness to the other man and thus strangling the life out of the unwelcome notion, the Rohir approached the bed with careful steps. Osred looked weary and very pale in addition to still being obviously very much in pain despite Aragorn’s generous administration of most of the family’s supply of poppy seed juice. The older man was covered up to his chin in a thick blanket, which spared Éomer the aggravating view of his heavily bandaged chest, and still the son of Éomund could well imagine his agony, of which only a minor part stemmed from his physical wound. What did he have to say that could possibly make Osred feel better? What the man had heard from his wife had been devastating enough to prompt the farmer into staying behind and face an attack of murderous creatures although he had been the one who had initially voted most fervently for evading the battle. Why had he done it? Éomer mused while he regarded the farmer in the thick silence of the crammed room. To impress his wife? To impress him, and prove that although he was no warrior, he could well hold his own if it was needed? He feared that it was something altogether different, a rather hopeless reason, and with a heavy breath, the rider lowered himself into the empty chair.

His eyes closed in an attempt to deliberately ignore him, Osred said in an unfriendly voice: “What do you want?”

Éomer sighed.

“Believe it or not, Osred, but I want to see how you are faring. I meant to be here last night, but you heard what happened. I am concerned for you and I am sorry that you were wounded and that my decision to come here endangered your family. You were very brave last night, even if I am not sure about your reasons for staying, and you fought well, but I suppose that this is not what you want to hear from me, even if I cannot imagine what I may have done to incur your anger.”

The farmer stared with even greater concentration against the wall, his lips a drawn line and a crease forming between his eyes which bespoke his contempt without words.

“You cannot? That surprises me because while you were still Third Marshal, you were famed for your ability to read people. But then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, for this is only the way the nobles have always taken what they wanted without a care of whom it might belong to.”

“I beg your pardon?” Stunned by the sheer audacity of the farmer’s accusation, Éomer stared at Osred. Had he heard right? At last the older man turned his head, and the intense resentment in his features was a punch to the rider’s gut.

“Oh, as if you wouldn’t know of what I am speaking! Wherever the éoreds appear, order falls apart. The nobles take whatever they want, whoever they want; and we farmers have to accept it. You always say that you give your blood for your people, but your protection comes at a high price; it has always been and will always stay this way. It was just the same in my village: every time the riders came, the womenfolk got excited and fought for their attention, and the men had to stand back and let themselves be humiliated. Aye, such is life, I understand, and we commoners cannot even begin to compete with the blood of the kings. And still, it is not fair! You can have almost every woman in the Mark; you could have chosen a woman without family. Why has it to be my wife?”

Although he felt his own temper stir at the incredible accusation, Éomer forced himself to remain calm. It would not help if he lost control.

“I do not know what you experienced to give you such a lowly opinion of our riders, but it is certainly not I who stands between Freya and you, Osred; you should understand this much if you carefully listened to our conversation like you claimed. Instead of taking a good, hard look at yourself and examine whether there could be some truth to your wife’s words, you choose to blame me for your problems. It is a very easy way of seeing things, and it will not solve them!”

“Why should I even listen to you when you abuse my hospitality in the most loathsome way? Leave me alone!”

“I am not your rival, Osred, get it in your head! I have known Freya for much longer than you have, and had we meant to be together, it would have happened years before she met you. But she denied me, and for all the right reasons. Since then, my feelings for your wife have changed from love to friendship and although I care for her deeply, I would not act on it even if she were still alone, for we know both that it could not work. I have my commitment, and I take it seriously; just as you have yours and are no less dedicated to it. The things that make us content are very different, Osred, and alone for this reason, we are not a match. Freya understands this, even if she may be very confused right now. It will pass, but you must talk with each other!”

“Deny it all you like,” Osred pressed, and then hissed against the pain his exaggerated breathing caused in his wounded chest. “I know what I saw, and if you lie to me, you make it even worse!”

“And what exactly is it that you saw? What forbidden thing was it that you caught us at?” Ah, yes, the infuriatingly stubborn sons of Éorl! Éomer could not shake the feeling that he was sitting before one of the most mule-headed examples of them all, but perhaps, that came from Osred being a farmer. The next heartbeat, he berated himself for the mocking thought.

“You two holding hands when I looked into the room, and both of you wearing an expression on your faces exceeding everything that could be explained with the word ‘friendship’! Do you dare to deny it?”

“I do indeed!” Éomer gave back with half a glance on the still slumped shape of Gimli. It was unbelievable, but the dwarf seemed to sleep right through their heated argument. He turned back to his adversary. “What about the word ‘concern’? And what about ‘relief’ and ‘gratitude’ that a friend, or someone one regards almost as kin survived a serious injury? Would such an experience not lead one to show perhaps more affection toward that friend than one would under normal circumstances?”

Osred just glowered at him, obviously still not willing to believe a word. His elbows resting on his knees, Éomer bent forward, and his voice grew even more intense. “I will not argue that your wife is confused right now, Osred, I am not denying that. Despite her practicality and rationality, Freya has always been capable of very strong emotions, and perhaps the intensity of these last days caused her to confuse care with love. I am sure that she has no intentions toward me, and that her outburst was only prompted by that unusual surge of emotions.”

Osred snorted.

“So you would regard it as excusable if your wife poured out her heart to a stranger and scorned her husband in his presence?”

“She does not scorn you, Osred. If you overheard our conversation like you said you did, you would do well to remember all of it, especially the point when she said how much cared about you.” He could see that he was not reaching the other man.

“She cares for me, aye. Like she cares for her animals! To her, I am only another part of the farm, like our plough horse or a tool for the hard work, and that she lies beside me at night is only one of her duties and not something she would wish for.” For a moment, bitterness replaced anger in the farmer’s weathered features. “What meaning has my life now that I have been shown my place in my wife’s heart?”

As angered as his former words had left Éomer, he could not help feeling a twinge of compassion for the man.

“It is not over yet between you, Osred. But you need to set things right. You heard what Freya longs for, and what she misses in your marriage. Think about it, and think whether there is not something more you can gift her with which you haven’t given her so far. Freya has no intentions to leave you, but it takes no mind-reading to see that she is not content. Do you not wish to make her happy? Wouldn’t that be a goal you would be proud to achieve?”

A scorching glance burned him despite his well-meaning advice.

“If you talk about all those strange things and fairy tales she has in her head: do you expect me to indulge in them the way she does? I may have my dreams and hopes, too, but dreaming will not get us over the winter! Life is not all play; I thought she understood that when I married her. I had believed her to be more practical.”

Éomer decided that he could not let this stand.

“Freya grew up in this valley and practically raised her brother and her sisters alone. She worked on this farm since her early childhood days, so I am sure that she understands better than most of us what it takes to survive in this part of the Mark. And while I agree with you to a certain point, I will always say that dreams have their place in life, too, and that they are just as important elements of life as practicality and realism. If you cannot sense the dawn following a sinister night, you might not live to see it at all. Dreams are what replenish your strength after a hard day; they are the very foundation of hope itself. If you cannot dream of better days, what point would there be in fighting for survival? You might as well lie down and die, for it would certainly be easier than all this strife!”

Éomer waited for a response, but Osred remained silent and stared onto his blanket with a still grim expression. “Let me tell you one thing, Osred, and that is the plain truth, whether you believe me or not: to achieve higher goals in life, you need to envision them first. If you never stand on the tips of your toes to reach for the impossible, you will never get ahead. You will never get a taste of the extraordinary.”

The farmer narrowed his eyes.

“The ‘extraordinary’?” he sneered. “And what would the ‘extraordinary’ be out here in the wilderness? This is not Edoras, where with the snap of your finger, you can have something extraordinary if you are wealthy enough to pay for it. The ‘extraordinary’ is reserved for you nobles only.”

“Who says that it has to be a material thing? Everyone has a different idea about it, and it can be something as simple as a special moment one shares with each other. ” Did the man not understand him, or was he just not willing to see his point?

“If you are one of the mighty lords of the land, then of course you will have no problems in attaining them,” Osred rebuked mockingly. “I have seen the womenfolk beat each other up over the right to spend the night with the brave captains of our éoreds, while we simple men must take what is available. I have been foolish to think that it could be different for me.”

Now Éomer narrowed his eyes as a thought began to form behind his brow.

“May I ask you something, Osred? Something of a very personal nature?”

“What could possibly be more personal than what we are already discussing?” But he did not evade the rider’s probing glance.

“Why did you marry Freya? What was it that you hoped to gain with this union?” The other man looked at him dumbfounded.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“You accuse Freya of having married you only to work on her farm. And yet it is one of the chief considerations when couples meet and get together in these isolated parts of our land. How could it be different? The distances between settlements are too great to travel them often, especially in these dangerous times. Children are either promised to each other, or you meet your future husband or wife only once before marrying. Freya did not know you well when she agreed to become your wife, and neither did you know her. She hoped that with time, you would grow to love each other. What did you hope for?”

“The same of course,” Osred said bitterly, and he sounded honest. “And I thought that we shared that feeling… until I saw her with you when your éored visited us for the first time, and I suddenly understood the difference between duty and love. I am the man she married, so naturally, she lies with me at night. But I am not in her heart; it belongs to a man I cannot compete with.”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that you might not need to compete with me?” Éomer asked. “That it might be something entirely different Freya expects of your union?” The confused gaze in Osred’s grey eyes told Éomer that he had lost the farmer.

“Did you not hear what Freya said? Did you not hear what it is that she found lacking in your marriage? It is not wealth, nor does she long for a fancy life at Edoras, and neither is it the strength and skill of a warrior she seeks in a man. She says that you are a good father, and that your children adore you, so obviously, you are able to act differently when you are with them. Why not extend the same courtesy to your wife? Fight for her! Show her that you care for her concerns and wishes and that you are willing to try. If I can tell you one thing about love, it is that I have rarely seen it happen from one moment to the next. Lust, yes, and affection perhaps, but love requires work. It requires knowing each other, and the willingness to change or improve on certain aspects of oneself to make the other person content. It is an endless battle for balance. If you are not willing to fight for your wife, then perhaps the feeling is not strong enough in you, and it is simply not meant to be. But then I have one last question for you, and I would be very interested to hear your answer: why did you stay here with us? If you have given up on your wife, then why did you stay behind to do her bidding?”

From outside, the sound of excited shouts reached their ears and announced the return of the women. It distracted both men from their argument for a moment, but when they faced each other again, the tension between the farmer and the warrior had not lifted.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because the answer might tell me the way you are headed. If you stayed to prove yourself to Freya or to me, there may be yet some hope left if you are willing to fight for her. Yet if you did it solely to let yourself be killed and burden your wife with guilt as a ‘vengeance’ for her words…” Éomer shook his head “… then I must admit that I do not see how the two of you will be able to continue living together.” He waited while the voices outside came closer, but Osred remained silent. “I understand. You do not want to tell me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“This is alone for me to know,” the farmer said at length, and he closed his eyes as he sank back into his cushion, looking wearied by their argument. It was clear that he considered the discussion over and his rival dismissed, and so Éomer stood up and, slowly nodding to himself, limped over to the door to slip out of the room before Freya would burst in and make the scene even more awkward, not knowing whether he had achieved anything at all except that Osred seemed to hate him even more now. Only time would show.