Chapter 41: Westward

EDORAS

“This is what I wanted to avoid: that he uses me to get to you,” Elfhelm said and closed his eyes as he felt an unruly burning welling in them. The last thing he needed was to burst into tears in front of the woman who was in the middle of sacrificing herself for him, even if there was no measure to the depth of the shame he felt. For a while, deafening silence had filled his ears in the wake of Gríma’s exit, and before he had felt too desperate to speak when Éowyn had cleaned his wounds again and fed him the dry crusts of bread she had been allowed to give him. But with each moment that had passed after the echoing steps of their tormentors had vanished, the urge to speak up had grown more powerful, until at last, Elfhelm had felt that he could no longer remain silent. Did Éowyn know what her consent to sharing her meals with the treacherous Worm would inevitably lead to? She was too bright not to understand; King Théoden’s niece was an intelligent woman and well-acquainted with their captor’s obsession with her. She could not accept defeat and shame just to buy life for her failed protector, Elfhelm thought desperately. Why did she not understand that by consenting to their tormentor’s evil game, she destroyed what will of resistance was left in him? As the warrior looked up into the semi-darkness of the opposite cell, using up what strength was left in his feverish body, he saw that he had the young woman’s attention, even if she seemed to be reluctant to discuss her decision.

“He asks for nothing unbearable,” Éowyn replied in a flat voice that belied the emotion behind it, looking through rather than at him as if she feared that the warrior would see the lie in her eyes. “Of course I would prefer to eat my meals in your presence, or in my chambers even, but for as long as he asks for nothing else, I can well ignore him for the short time it takes to empty my plate and grant him his wish.”

“But it will not remain that way,” Elfhelm stated unhappily. “We both know that. The Worm is cunning and greedy, and he knows that he will get nothing if he makes you uncomfortable around him or even fear him during those first visits. He might behave now, but very soon, he will demand more from you, because he knows by now how desperate you are, and how afraid to end up in these corridors alone. If you ask him to feed me again tomorrow, he will take it further, and even further the day after tomorrow. He will touch you more and more often, perhaps even demand that…” He could not bring himself to say it out loud, but Éowyn’s tense expression told him that she understood. “He feels that he has you in his hand already.”

“And perhaps he has,” she agreed, but a sparkle of defiance suddenly lit up her gaze. “But he is wrong if he thinks that he is the only one playing a game. Trust me, my Lord, I had much time to think about this, and I firmly believe that I can use my power over him – which I undeniably have, or he wouldn’t have put so much effort into his plan – to good use.” She rose to her feet and grabbed the bars of her prison, pressing her tired but proud face against the cool iron as her piercing stare met Elfhelm’s. “I had a dream last night, Captain, and it led me to believe that all is not lost yet. I cannot say what will happen, or where my hope stems from, but we are not yet defeated. What proof do we have of what Gríma said that happened? Why should I believe that my brother is dead if all that I’ve seen was his bloodied cloak? Perhaps he is still out there, and even now routing the people against our oppressor to put an end to him tomorrow? And if it is not Éomer, then someone else will come and free us, and I want to be alive when it happens!” She inhaled deeply, and her voice was ripe with conviction when she added: “And I want you to live as well, Captain. It would be foolish to throw our lives away over a matter of pride. We need to hold on, however hard it may be, for once we are freed, Rohan will still need us. It is our duty to survive.”

Elfhelm regarded her for a long time while her words went through his head. How wonderful it would be to be granted the comfort of hope, or even a faint hint that there would indeed be a new morning following the dark night in which they were trapped, and yet he did not find the conviction in himself. He could not give Éowyn what she was asking for and averted his gaze when he answered: “Duty or not, I do not want to be the reason for that bastard to -- “ ‘…spoil your purity…’ “—put his filthy fingers on you. I once promised your brother to protect you should anything ever happen to him; and most certainly I cannot let you protect me instead!”

“But you will not break your oath by supporting my plan,” Éowyn insisted. “There are many ways of helping me, and your very presence in this dark hole protects my sanity. Éomer could not have asked for more! Trust in me, Elfhelm, I know what I am doing. If I get close enough to the Worm during one of my stays in his chambers, I will kill him! Gríma doesn’t trust me yet with anything I could use for a weapon and makes me eat my meals with a spoon, but sooner or later, he is bound to overlook something. If I convince him that he has broken my resistance, he will get more careless, and I will use the first opportunity I am granted to dispose of him. Do not worry about me, Lord Elfhelm. I can look after myself, and I have a goal. With your support, and be it only with your consent, we will not only endure, but emerge victorious.”

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

With growing duration of the ride, Éomer found his downbeat disposition of the days since his banishment wane, and the relentless assault of the sun that melted the snow was doing its share as was the presence of his éored. There were reassuringly smiling faces whenever he caught the riders’ glances, and each of them seem to think it his personal duty to tell their banished marshal what an honour he deemed it to still serve under his command. Their loyalty and friendship lifted Éomer’s spirit and strengthened his determination to lead his brothers-in-arms not to their death, but to victory against the enemy in Isengard. Despite the common knowledge that they were riding into battle, there was much light-hearted banter and laughing among the men and many a heroic song rang out into the clear air of the slowly fading winter. Rising anticipation painted a grim smile onto Éomer’s lips: no matter what awaited them on the other side of the river, the Rohirrim were ready to face it!

Shouts briefly claimed his attention as two of the éored’s scouts who had swarmed out to inspect the surroundings returned from their foray to report that they had found the ashes of more orc-carcasses slaughtered by their yesterday’s advance forces, and Éomer nodded with satisfaction as he turned to Thor.

“Your men were thorough. It should be impossible for Saruman to hear of our coming.” And yet he did not fully believe himself. As a wizard of the highest order, their enemy surely had some tricks up his sleeve yet no one would ever be able to anticipate, and it would be foolish to assume that the summoning of their forces would remain hidden from their watchful enemy’s eye. All it took to take away their advantage of surprise was one orc who evaded their forces, and those cursed things were too cunning for their own good, especially when they knew that they were being hunted. From the expression on Thor’s face, Éomer concluded that the Halfblood knew it, too.

“I wish that it were so…” And yet the way Thor’s dark eyes swept the surrounding mountains told Éomer all he needed to know.

“How many warriors will you be able to summon against him, what do you think?” Aragorn asked as he rode up to him, Gímli and Legolas following closely.

Éomer shrugged.

“We did not inform Edoras and those settlements close to it to not alarm the Worm, and in these dangerous times, no settlement can spare all of their men, so it will not be our full éohere that rides out to meet the traitor. I would be satisfied if eight thousand answered our call.” He cast a wary eye upon the Ranger. “You think that Saruman has many more orcs than eight thousand in his service, don’t you?”

“Alone the group that assaulted us at Amon Hên was over two hundred strong,” Aragorn said. “For a raiding party, it was very big indeed. I do not think that Saruman would have sent so many of them against our small group if he did not have a great number at his disposal.”

“And even if he lost many of his orcs at the Fords of Isen,” Thor added, “he will have replenished their ranks by now. I do not know where he keeps on finding them, but each time we defeat his armies, they are back only a little while later in even greater numbers.”

“He breeds them, just like the Dark Lord.” Aragorn’s features darkened. “The dark magic used to bring these vile things to life is not known to me, but they do not come into the world like other beings. They are manufactured.”

“Well, he can manufacture them as fast as he likes, I will gladly undo them,” Gímli rumbled whole-heartedly from his position behind Legolas and petted his axe affectionately. “Greater numbers did not help them against us the first time, and if your forces prevailed against this stinking filth for so long, they will surely not be defeated now. After all, Master Horse-Lord, you cannot die before we have settled a certain quarrel that we agreed to postpone due to more pressing issues.”

For a moment, Éomer stared at the dwarf in bewilderment, but then suddenly remembered their argument on the plains which had almost resulted in bloodshed. He laughed.

“Aye, I agree, Master Dwarf. We need to answer this very important question before I go to my forefathers. And what a glad duty that will be!”

“You have no idea,” Gímli said with a dreamy look that seemed curiously out-of-place on his rugged face. “That Lady… she is like the morning sun, without which everything would wither. She warms your heart and comforts your very soul. She is as glorious as life itself… only kinder. You must fall in love with her on first sight, or--” He sighed, and did not notice the amused glances his friends exchanged before him.

“—you will get your axe,” Éomer completed the sentence for him. “Aye, I understood you the first time you uttered that threat. We will see about it, but in the meantime, I beg you to remember that I already apologised for my rash words. I did not mean to insult the Lady of the Golden Wood, but merely mentioned what had been murmured about her and her realm for generations. I will be glad to learn better. Our world is surely in need of more good things; for there is more than enough evil roaming it.”

“Well spoken,” the dwarf nodded. “And I will wait with my judgment on you until you have seen her. But to see her, you must first survive this battle, so I will make it my personal duty to ensure that you will.”

Riding before him so that the dwarf could not see his big grin, Aragorn gave his Rohirric brother-in-arms a wink.

“You are a lucky man indeed, Éomer son of Éomund,” he said. “I doubt that any Rohír has ever had a better personal guard!”

Biting the insides of his cheeks to not break into a grin himself when the small warrior seemed to take his commitment very serious, Éomer inclined his head in a courteous nod.

“Then I will be honoured to fight side by side with you, Gímli son of Gloin. With the skill you already demonstrated two nights ago, you are an enemy the orcs will want to avoid, and together, we will make them run.”

“Aye,” the dwarf beamed. “But only until my axe and your sword find them!”

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They rode the entire day without interruption, until the sun disappeared behind the mighty mountains peaks and the twilight thickened in the narrow gorge they travelled through. With the last light, they reached the farm that marked their destination for the first day, and with the consent of the owners who had already expected them thanks to the advance group of the previous day, the éored quickly settled into the barn. They saw to their horses and then indulged in a sparse meal of some thin vegetable broth and bread the farmers gifted them with, and which they enriched with stripes of dried meat from their travelling provisions. After the long day, the men were tired, but not tired enough to not engage in the telling of rousing battle stories to lift their spirits for the grim task awaiting them.

Seated with his back against a sack of dried corn, Éomer thoughtfully chewed on the meat while he listened to the conversations and laughter of his men, taking comfort in the rituals he had known since he had first joined their ranks. How wonderful it felt to be in their midst again, respected and cared-for. They were all one great family, a band of brothers who fought for their common cause with the same determination, looked out for each other and helped the one among them in need. Perhaps, Gríma had committed his greatest mistake by assuming that the warriors would blindly follow their feeble king’s words; perhaps this serious error of judgment would be his downfall.

A content smile playing around the corners of his mouth at the thought, Éomer extended his arm to stroke his horse who stood close by with his head lowered into the well-filled manger, but to his surprise, Firefoot shied away from his touch. As Éomer shifted his weight to lean toward him, the big grey stallion casually lifted his sinewy foreleg and shifted a bit to the left, out of his master’s reach without ever interrupting his meal. His strange reaction caused furrows of puzzlement on Éomer’s brow, and his hand sank as he stared at his ignorant steed, incredulous.

“Firefoot?” One ear twitched vaguely in his direction, but the stallion’s head remained in the manger. “Firefoot!” No reaction rewarded Éomer as he raised his voice in growing anger, except for some of the riders in the back of the barn who cut them a curious glance and then quickly turned back to mumble something intelligible that resulted in gales of laughter. Their merriment did nothing for their Marshal’s mood– in response to the added insult – now also felt his face burn. It could not be that this big mule of his had decided to make him the laughing stock of the éored because his master had chosen another horse for the ride, could it?

“I wanted to spare you because you are hurt, you stubborn grey demon!” Éomer growled when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aragorn approach with curiously cocked eyebrows. The older man’s gaze briefly travelled from the horse to the young Marshal and back before he lowered himself into the straw next to Éomer with a bowl of broth and a piece of bread in his hands.

“I have heard about the special bond the Rohirrim share with their horses, but you are not actually having an argument with your steed, are you, Éomer?”

“I would, if that big mule talked back,” Éomer grumbled with a fierce glance at the grey. “He doesn’t seem to understand that what I did today happened for his own good!”

“He has a lot of character.”

“Well, we could change that.” The Rider raised his voice: “You hear me, Méara-Mule? I could spare myself a lot of trouble if I made you a gelding! Keep behaving like this, and I might just consider it!” This time, both ears flickered into his direction, and a large, dark eye briefly looked him over as if Firefoot sought to find out whether his master was serious. He even stopped chewing for a moment before he turned away at last with an exasperated huff, stomping one hind leg in protest. Aragorn chuckled.

“I suppose one must indeed travel to Rohan to find a horse that is jealous of having to share its master with another steed.” He smiled at Éomer, and at last, the younger man laughed with him.

“Aye. I suppose you are right. It must indeed seem strange to foreigners, the way we talk with our steeds. Their intelligence and consequently, our strong bond comes at a price, but for as long as it is nothing worse than jealousy, I will accept it without complaints.” One last time, he addressed Firefoot: “You hear me, Mule? You are lucky that I am your master! Someone else would have taken a knife and rid himself of this problem with a few well-aimed cuts long ago. You behave worse than a jealous woman!” He settled back against the stall wall, satisfied to have reclaimed authority. His glance swept the cluster of Riders further back, while the heaviness of exhaustion crawled up inside his body. In the wake of the long ride, his whole body ached and if it had not been for a deep-sitting restlessness, he would have fallen asleep on the spot. As Éomer stretched his legs underneath his woollen blanket, he became aware of the knowing glance with which the older man regarded him, and he was not surprised. If he looked half as beat as he felt, Aragorn had to be concerned.

“It was a very long day. Will you be able to spend yet more long hours in the saddle tomorrow?”

Éomer sighed, not looking forward to the prospect but knowing that there was no way around it.

“But we have already covered more than half the distance. Tomorrow will be a shorter day, and at its end will not be another night spent in a barn, but a warm bed in Captain Erkenbrand’s halls and a good meal. With that to look forward to, I will be able to endure whatever tomorrow may hold for me.”

“And yet you do not have to sleep in the straw tonight,” Aragorn said. “I suppose you do not want to leave your men, even if a warm bed would help in restoring your health. I am sure they would understand.”

“I am used to sleeping in the straw; it is no discomfort for me. If anything, it is even more familiar to me than sleeping in a bed. You should remember this from your time with our people… or were things different then?”

Aragorn shook his head.

“They certainly weren’t, and like you, I always prefer the open skies above my head and the presence of my friends and brothers to any chamber I was offered.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you were wounded and almost died in the cold only recently, and a warm room inside the main house would do you more good than sleeping here in the hay, even if your men might appreciate the gesture.”

“Thanks to your healing skills, I feel much better already,” Éomer dismissed his concern. “There is no need to worry for me.” He slipped further down, now only resting his head on the sack he had leaned against and waiting for exhaustion to claim him. For a while, the two men sat together in silence and listening to the other riders’ conversations which slowly died down as the men went to sleep. Not able yet to find sleep himself, Éomer spoke at last.

“May I ask you something?

“Certainly.” In the flickering light of the oil lamp behind them, the expression on Aragorn’s face was unreadable in the shadows.

“Why did you leave us?” Éomer was not sure why he brought the subject up, and as he saw lines form on the older man’s brow as if Aragorn did not know what to make of his question, he feared that he had angered the man. “From what my father told me and the tales I grew up with, Thorongil was much beloved by our people, and the main source of their hope in those dark days. The orcs diminished while you rode with our forces, and they feared the Rohirrim like never before. The years you spent here provided the Mark with some much-needed respite, but then you suddenly went away. What happened that made you leave?”

Aragorn’s expression grew solemn, and he sighed.

“It was not that I did not want to stay. Indeed I felt a great kinship with your people, Éomer, and loved them for their straightforwardness and generosity, but the time had come for me to resume the voyages which would further prepare me for my task. It was not my destiny to stay in Rohan.”

“No,” Éomer said to himself, shaking his head as he remembered their conversations at Freya’s farm. “You told me. You were born to oppose the Dark Lord.” He inhaled deeply. “I cannot begin to imagine the burden this destiny must have been; growing up with the knowledge that one day, you would be the one who had to unite the free people against Mordor. It must have been frightening.”

“My fate was only told to me when I was ready for it… or what they considered ready. Of course you are never entirely prepared to face such great responsibility. Not even today do I know whether I am ready to lead our people and face Sauron in that final battle which looms above our heads; I can only say that I will do my best to apply all the knowledge I gathered on my voyages to the good of us all. Whether it will be enough is impossible to tell.”

Éomer nodded.

“It is hard riding into this battle knowing that even if we win, strive will continue. I cannot tell that to my men just now, you must understand. It would shatter their will and perhaps cause them to despair. We will need all our strength and all our skill, not to mention the favour of the Gods to defeat Saruman before we will be able to concern ourselves with the fate of realms other than Rohan. Our relations with Gondor have been difficult for a long time now, and not many of our riders will see the necessity to aid them in their fight if they didn’t aid us in ours. Since Gondor is reigned by Denethor, its’ people’s attitude toward us has changed. They look down upon us and think of us as peasants and simple people who can neither help them nor are worthy of being helped. It seems that the glorious days of Cirion and Éorl have been all but forgotten.”

“And yet our fate is closely tied together. One people cannot survive without the other’s help, and all quarrels among us must be laid aside where the greater good is concerned. It is unfortunate that the strong bond between Rohan and Gondor has withered for so many years, but we must and we will revive it, or all will be vain. To accomplish this, I will need your help, Éomer: convince your people for me, and I will see that Gondor welcomes you the way it should have been for all these years. If we do not stand together, darkness will devour us.”