WHITE MOUNTAINS

In search for solitude, Éomer turned away from the excited shouts and chatter that leaked to him from outside and headed for the main room instead. He did not find himself alone there, either, but the picture of the still shape of Halad who slept on the thick sheep rug in front of the fireplace brought a little, almost parental smile to his lips. So the lad had indeed heeded his words, but had decided to stay close to his brother-in-law just in case. His drawn features gave the impression of utter exhaustion, and Éomer hoped that he would be allowed to stay for a while in the deep realms of sleep where no dream could reach him. He knew from own experience what an event like last night’s did to a young person’s soul.

Running a hand over his face in a vain attempt to chase away the weariness he felt after the intense planning and heated discussion, Éomer stepped closer. He had not been awake for long, and yet felt exhausted enough again to fall asleep on the spot; a reminder of his still greatly weakened condition he knew he should not ignore given his plans for the next days. If he wanted to stay in a saddle for the journey to the Westfold and still reserve his strength to convince the sceptical and independent Erkenbrand of the need to attack their western enemy, only to ride into battle against the greatest army the Rohirrim had faced in their entire history, he needed to listen to the signs his body was giving him.

With another quick look at Halad, Éomer picked up the neatly folded blanket from one of the chairs and spread it over the sleeping shape while behind him, the voices grew louder and the sound of the opening door reached his ears.

“Osred? Halad? Are you--”

Bracing himself, Éomer turned around just in time to see Freya storm into the room, her eyes wide and great anxiety written all over her pale features, and he pressed his finger against his lips as he pointed out the sleeping young man to his sister. Freya followed his gaze, and her drawn look briefly melted into an expression of a relief too great to be put into words. She offered no resistance when Éomer laid an arm around her shoulders and led her out.

“Legolas already said that Halad was not harmed, but I feared for him nonetheless. He is such a gentle soul.” Looking back, she inhaled deeply. “How is he?”

“Your brother is well, Freya. A little shaken, of course, but I am certain that he will soon overcome this. He fought bravely, and the way he carried himself even after the assault earned him not only my respect, but that of the Riders. You can be proud of him. All Halad needs is a little rest now, and he will be as good as new.”

She nodded at that, and now looked at him taxingly, silently asking how he had survived the night when he had barely escaped death’s cold hands a night earlier. Their mark was still visible in the exhausted hollowness of Éomer’s gaze and the blood-encrusted scratches on his brow and the side of his head, and the very sight of his weariness choked Freya. It was her fault that he had been forced to fight in his weakened condition. How easily he could have been killed! And yet when she extended her hand to touch his cheek in an affectionate gesture, Éomer caught her wrist and gently eased down her arm. She stared at him in bewilderment. “And what about you, Éomer? You had barely recovered from what these things did to you, but because of my decision, you had to fight again even though you can still barely stand! Are you well? Nothing happened to you?”

“I am fine, Freya. Don’t blame yourself for what happened,” he said, pretending not to notice. “If it is anyone’s fault, then it is mine for leading them here. You were right when you said that your farm is too important for the feeding of our people; we cannot allow Saruman to simply destroy our means of sustaining ourselves without a fight. If we fled each time we were faced with such a decision, we would have expired long ago… and not to forget: all of you would be left without a home now. There are too many people in the Mark already who suffered this fate.”

She look unconvinced as she remembered the dark glances her brother’s wife had given her on their ride to their neighbours’ farm and back. And even her sisters had been tellingly quiet for the duration of their stay, and the memory of their silent looks hurt even worse. Béma, what had she done? She had never meant to endanger her family. In a hollow voice, Freya said:

“Fléadwyn hates me. She accused me of valuing my possessions more than the lives of my family. But that is not true, Éomer! I never expected you to stay behind and fight my fight while you sent us away. I always defended my home, and I was prepared to do it this time, too.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But this time, you would have lost. It was a small army that attacked your home, not a random pack of hungry wargs. They would have killed you in the wink of an eye. There was no way we could allow that.”

“It was not my right to ask this of you. I-I didn’t think it through. I didn’t understand that you would regard it as your duty to stay and risk your lives, too, if I stayed. And now…” her voice sounded increasingly strangled “… Osred was wounded because of my stubbornness, and my own brother nearly died because he wanted to impress you. Always from when he was little, Halad talked about how he wanted to make you proud of him one day and prove that all the lessons you taught him had been well-learned. He always thought of battle as an adventure.” Swallowing, she looked at the sleeping shape behind them and sadly shook her head. “I hope that last night cured him of this idea.”

“I am certain of that. He is a smart lad. Slaughter, no matter whether of people or those creatures, is never to be regarded as an ‘adventure’. There is no glory in the spilling of blood, whether it may be red or black; no matter what the reason. It can never be more than a necessity. I, too, had to learn this lesson in my youth. I had wanted to avenge my father for as long as I could think, and yet when I killed my first orc, I felt sick to my stomach.” He reached out and touched her arm, lowering his voice to a reassuring tone. “Halad will recover from this, Freya, I am certain of this. Your brother is stronger than you think; he will put this behind him quickly.”

“I can only hope for the best, or I will never be able to forgive myself.” Her eyes travelled hesitantly to the door behind which she knew her husband to be, and with a deep breath, Freya confessed. “I am afraid to face Osred, Éomer. I caused him so much pain, and now he is even wounded because of my stubbornness. Had I not insisted to defend the farm, he would not have stayed. Last night, I could not forget what he said. That he works so hard to please me, and yet that I do not respect him for who he is because I have only eyes for you. He thinks that I don’t love him, and yet he stayed to defend our home because I wanted it.” She took a deep breath and looked at him guiltily. “Èomer…”

He did not correct her, did not mention his own assumption of Osred’s motif which made him fight, because it would have gutted the already devastated woman in front of him. He could not help her with her problem and told her so with a mere glance. She had to come clear about these things with herself, first, before she would be able to make any chances. And yet, when she looked at him, Éomer had an inkling that Freya was beginning to see the path she wanted to travel, and he lifted his chin in expectation of her words.

“Éomer I hope you know that I will always care about you. You will always be in my heart, but…” she looked at the door again and pressed her lips together. When her gaze back to him, she almost pleaded. “… he is my husband. We exchanged our vows, and I want to honour my promise. I meant it when I spoke it, and Osred has done nothing to deserve the way I have been treating him. He is a good man, and from now on, I will do what I can to be a good wife to him. I have much to make up for.” ‘Please, don’t hate me for it!’ her eyes pleaded silently, but to her surprise, Éomer smiled.

“I am glad to hear this, Freya,” he said softly, squeezing her arm affectionately. “And I am convinced that the two of you will come to terms with what happened. You will overcome this and your bond will be much stronger than before.”

“So you are not… angered by my decision? “

“How could I be? He is the father of your children.” He shook his head and inhaled, feeling as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted off his back. “Didn’t we two agree a long time ago to be friends, and nothing else? It is for the best, and I stand by that.” ‘And despite, when I leave you tomorrow, the chances are good that I and every man I take along will never return.” He didn’t say it as he nodded in the direction of the door. “Now go in and tell him this yourself.”

She seemed still hesitant.

“What if he rejects me? He has every right.”

“I do not believe that he will. He really loves you, Freya; his jealousy is an unmistakable sign of it. Now speak with him and tell him that he has nothing to fear from me. Tell him that you regret what happened yesterday, and tell him that you worried for him all night. He should be able to see it in your expression, but let him hear it as well. It is not too late yet for the two of you.” Extending an arm, he opened the door for her, and then suddenly remembered. “Wait for me here. I will be quick.” And without so much as another glance, he turned toward the door and cautiously opened it. Osred seemed to have fallen asleep again in the wake of their heated dispute, and the dwarf in the chair beside him showed no change in his condition, so Éomer entered the room and walked up to him. “Gimli?”

He hesitated to touch the dwarf. As a warrior who was likewise possessed of strong reflexes, he knew firsthand about the danger of waking an armed comrade, especially after a fight. When he had just joined the éoreds, Éomer had been sent to wake their captain and committed the almost deadly mistake of touching Elfhelm’s shoulder. The dagger that had been thrust against his chest would have killed him if the older man had not stopped himself virtually at the last moment, leaving a thoroughly rattled young man to ponder the foolishness of his deed for the rest of the day.

“Gimli?” A little louder, but just as vain as the first attempt. Bracing himself, Éomer balanced on his good leg and carefully tapped against the dwarf’s shin with his foot instead of bending over and bringing his chest within reach of the warrior’s battleaxe. At first, he received no reaction either, but at last his effort was granted success when he repeated it more forcefully. Between the bushy red eyebrows and the mighty red-brown beard, a small slit opened and Gimli’s unwilling glance went up toward his face.

“Hrrmmm?” the dwarf grumbled, still half asleep. Éomer could not help grinning at the dwarf’s deteriorated condition.

“Master Dwarf, I hope you can forgive me for waking you, but you are needed outside.”

“Oh?” With dirty, still blood-encrusted hands Gimli wiped the sockets of his eyes and then, suddenly remembering why he sat in the chair, turned his head to look at the wounded farmer, who had likewise woken from the disturbance but was doing his best to ignore them. “How is he doing?” the son of Gloin whispered urgently, his broad, weathered face – or what could be seen of it through the hair – displaying such concern that Éomer felt touched. A strange creature, that dwarf. On one hand, he was fearsome warrior who seemed to enjoy the bloodshed, and yet at the same time, he seemed to be possessed of an extraordinarily great heart. It would be interesting to find out more about his kind if time for a conversation was granted to them on the way westward.

“He will recover, but he needs rest,” Éomer hinted less than subtly and offered his hand to help the groaning dwarf to his feet. “Come, let us look for something to eat.” It had just dawned on him that he felt hungry, and as he had learned in one of his conversatios with Aragorn, there was no better way of catching a dwarf’s attention than the mention of food. And really, Gimli’s eyes lit up at the thought as he followed him out of the room.

“Aye. That sounds to me like the best plan I have heard in a long time! I am starving, now that you mention it.” From out of nowhere, an impressive grumble resounded from the middle of his body, which he then patted affectionately. “Quiet, He hesitated only a moment to look back. “But who will sit with him?”

“His wife.” Now the hint could no longer be called subtle, and even the drowsy dwarf understood. His eyebrows going up, he nodded. “Ah. Very well then. Let’s go and eat! What a splendid idea! – Well, hello, Mistress Freya. We taught those orcs to make a big detour around your farm in the future.” He inclined his head in greeting, thus answering her little thankful nod, and with a hearty slap on Éomer’s sore back forced a wince from the Rohir as they left the room. Briefly pausing to let the dwarf get ahead, Éomer laid a hand upon Freya’s arm. “Don’t be afraid, Freya. He will listen to you, and he will understand. I know it.”

She nodded and then swallowed when anxiety rose in her again. Large blue eyes silently asked Éomer whether he would be all right all by himself, and he gave her the little reassuring smile she had hoped to see before he turned away and left her to her hard task.

In the wake of all the intense discussions he had led since he had entered this house, the sudden silence felt oppressive to Éomer as he walked toward the kitchen, which made the din of voices from outside seem all the louder, but somehow what was going on there in the snow felt strangely disconnected from his own world. He was a small island onto himself, separated from the riders and the family by his most detailed knowledge of the great peril for his land and his kin. None of them had witnessed his trial, they only heard of the Worm’s power, but to them, it was an abstract thing, and although Gríma’s scheming had been going on for a long time, it seemed that each new act of evilness still surprised them. Staring at the scene outside with unseeing eyes, Éomer arrived at the stunning realisation that outside of Edoras, he was the only one who had fathomed yet the full depth of the black hole that was Gríma Wormtongue’s soul.

With a deep sigh from the very bottom of his heart, Éomer reached for the door when it suddenly opened by itself, almost hitting his head, and the frail shape of Halad’s young wife stood before him, startled by his unexpected presence.

“Fléadwyn!” he greeted her, at once noticing the hollow look in her eyes and the dark shadows underneath which bespoke her anxiety despite Legolas’ reassurance that her husband had not been harmed in the fray. As she stood before him, her head barely reaching up to his chest and a hand protectively cradling her slightly rounded stomach, she looked very young to him, almost like a child.

“Éomer!” Impulsively, she embraced him, and he responded by taking her in his arms. “Béma be praised, you are well. Where is Halad? And Osred? Legolas told me that he was wounded in the fight?”

“Osred is in the bedroom, but since Freya is with him right now, it would be best if you waited before you see him. Halad is sleeping before the fireplace, but I don’t think he would mind if you joined him there.” With a little reassuring smile, he released her and turned back to the outside scene. Freya’s sisters and her children stood in front of the dog hut where Halad had laid their dead hounds until the ground thawed out far enough to bury them. As he looked on, little Loégar knelt down in the wet snow to touch the stiff fur, and although Éomer could only see his back, he knew that the lad was crying. The shadow on his face deepened. The family had endured much, but at least they had each other.

Éowyn, on the other hand, was alone, provided that she was still alive. If Elfhelm had not succeeded in freeing her which Éomer doubted because his sister’s treason had been uncovered even before the Captain of Aldburg had left his domain; she sat now trapped in Edoras at the mercy of the man who had greedily followed her every footstep since her youth. Forced to powerlessly witness Gríma Wormtongue’s ascent to Lordship over the Golden Hall while she believed her brother dead and at the same time, having to watch how their uncle fell deeper and deeper into shadow. How could she endure such torment? And instead of riding to her aid, he sat here in the wilderness and summoned their armies against an enemy of overwhelming power who was likely to crush them with the heel of his boot. He knew that Éowyn would have wanted it that way, that she would have wished for him to save their people instead of endangering everyone to come to her aid instead, and still the bitterness of the decision he had been forced to make would not vanish. So Osred thought he was leading a privileged life? Was it such a privilege to be forced to abandon his kin for the call of duty?

His expression darker than ever before, Éomer forcefully closed the door and turned back toward the kitchen where he could hear the dwarf rummage around in search for something with which to fill his stomach. Even if his contemplations had ruined his appetite, common sense dictated that he did everything in his power to recover his strength. The never-sleeping voice in the back of his mind asked what he would do if he succeeded in saving Rohan only to arrive in Edoras too late to do the same for his sister…