Chapter 44: The Heirloom of a Great Man

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OUTSIDE EDORAS 

It was late when the fifty heavily armed men left the sleeping city and made for the back of the hill upon which the Hall of Kings loomed; now the fastness of the enemy in the very heart of their kingdom. They carried no torches as they carefully made their way to the entrance of the tunnel, not taking the chance that they might be seen from above even when the uneven path was hard to walk in  the dark.

Éothain felt both excited and tense as they approached the hole in the rock. After days of forced apathy and the aggravating feeling of utter helplessness, he was finally allowed to act, and if the Gods were at last willing to look at them with a benevolent eye for a change, they would perhaps succeed in freeing the prisoners before the break of dawn. Would he be in time to save his father? Was Cèorl even still alive? With great effort, Éothain suppressed his rising anxiety as they reached their destination. Scanning the ground to find out whether the enemy had left his hideout since the afternoon and perhaps found their tracks, Éothain saw with satisfaction that the snow had thawed completely in the course of the last hours and left nothing but dry bushes and bare rock behind. The blanket which the lads had carefully put back in place over the hole looked still untouched and shielding the secret passage from unwelcome eyes. Unceremoniously, Éothain squatted and picked it up to the surprised gasps from those men who had not accompanied him during his first foray  thus already witnessed the wonder of the magical blanket. He turned around to face them, aware of Aedwulf’s dark expression as he spoke in a low but insistent voice. It was obvious that the other man was not content with his plan, but to Éothain, it was the only option they had left to help the hostages.

“Wait here until I return. Under no circumstances will you follow me, even if I take longer to return than you may expect. We cannot risk that you are seen or heard, for our advantage of surprise would be ruined and the captives greatly endangered; you know how well noise travels in caves. I have no doubt that the Worm would hide behind his hostages as soon as he found himself under attack, and we must under all circumstances prevent that he reaches them before us. He will have no problems killing them when he finds himself cornered. If he can't win, then he will be content with causing even more suffering before he dies. Thus, we must first find out where he keeps his prisoners and, if we cannot secretly free them, then at least dispose of those who pose a threat to them. Once we decide to act, everything must go very quickly, and there will be no time for doubt. I will first go alone under cover of the magic blanket and find out more about the tunnel and how things are in Meduseld.”

“But what if you are killed in there?” Aedwulf voiced his doubts. “What if they sense your presence and capture you, too? We cannot afford that they take you from us; we need our leader! You must allow us to come to your aid if we hear a disturbance in that tunnel!”

“But then the Worm will kill the prisoners, Aedwulf, don’t you understand? He will use them to force us into a retreat… or worse, into surrendering ourselves, too.” A vision of Wormtongue holding a knife to Éowyn’s throat and shouting at him to lay down his weapons suddenly assaulted Éothain, and a chill raced down his spine.

“If they capture you, Gríma will know that his secret passage has been compromised and close it against us, so if we ever want to have a chance of freeing the hostages, we must attack tonight. Éothain, you know that it is so!” In a silent battle of wills, the older man bent his keen eyes upon his Captain, and at last Éothain nodded, however reluctantly.

“Very well. If I am seized; then do your best to free the prisoners and kill as many enemies as you can. But I will be careful, and it will not become necessary.” And with these words, Éothain laid a hand upon Aedwulf’s shoulder and his encouraging glance travelled over the doubtful faces of his men before he turned on his heels and lowered himself into the hole.

Blackness swallowed him like a great beast, so thick that he could not see the hand before his eyes as he sensed his way over to the left wall. In such complete blackness, he would not even need the blanket, but it would make moving silently on the uneven ground difficult, Éothain figured quickly while recounting what he knew about the Hillfolk who aided the usurper. They were well-adjusted to life in mountains and caves and great builders of tunnels themselves, but as far as he knew, they were still ordinary men with ordinary senses. They would not be able to see him in the total absence of light, and neither would they feel his presence through any other extraordinary sense for as long as he avoided all noise. They were men, not trolls. And still, would it hurt to wear the blanket? Throwing the feather-light garment over his head, Éothain looked back.

A narrow beam of starlight filtered into the narrows from the entrance, comforting him in this oppressive darkness. Éothain took a deep breath and silently proceeded further into the heart of the hill.

 

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WESTFOLD

“May I make the suggestion to postpone the rest of our discussion to tomorrow? There is nothing we can do until the éoreds have arrived, and it is getting late. The way I see it, we can make no detailed plans until we know how many riders we will have at our disposal anyway.” Erkenbrand narrowed his eyes as his gaze travelled over the faces of the others to finally come to a rest on Éomer’s drawn features. “You look unwell, Éomer. Would you wish for someone to look after you? After all, it was only four days ago that those orcs found you. I could send for our healer.”

At the sound of his voice, life slowly returned to the young marshal’s eyes as if Éomer were waking from a deep sunkenness, and at last, he averted his gaze from the fire into which he had stared silently for a long time. With a deep breath, he ran a hair through his matted hair and shook his head. Yes, he felt tired. If he looked half as exhausted as he felt, it was no wonder that Erkenbrand had voiced his concern, but there was nothing that he needed except for a night of rest.

“That will not be necessary, Captain, thank you. I am only fatigued after the long ride, and a few hours of sleep will suffice to restore my strength. But I agree that we should end this council now. Or is there anything else that needs to be said which cannot wait until tomorrow?” His gaze travelled over the tired features of his brothers-in-arms, finding nothing but affirmation, and upon an unspoken signal, all rose to their feet. As he forced his weary body out of the chair, Éomer cast a sidelong glance at Aragorn and saw approval in the grey eyes before he turned back to the Lord of Westfold. “I trust it that my men were appointed rooms in your guest house?”

“Aye.” Erkenbrand nodded, a wry grin spreading unexpectatly over his bold face. “What kind of host would I be to let them sleep in the barn? Although I fear that there will not be enough space to give every rider a roof above his head once the éoreds start pouring in tomorrow… or perhaps I should rather hope for it to be so?”

“They will be content with sleeping on the floor, and I don’t think the men will object to sharing their rooms with their brothers-in-arms.” And yet Erkenbrand’s doubt caused a brief flutter of anxiety in Éomer’s stomach. What if the éoreds did not come? What if their captains’ disposition was the same he had found here upon his arrival: that he was indeed presumed guilty and a traitor, and that the word of their King was still the one the greater part of the Rohirrim followed? His lips thinning at the discomforting thought, Éomer turned toward the door. Nothing he could do about it now. He would have to wait and see.

Erkenbrand was already on way to open the door for his guests, when a sudden thought caused him to stop. “Wait, I forgot something.” He turned around, and his gaze found Éomer. “There is something I want you to have, Marshal. I planned to give it to the King on my next visit to Edoras, but now I feel that it is something that ought to belong to you.” For another moment, he mustered the younger man as if he were not completely certain about following his initial impulse, but then Erkenbrand turned toward to a massive wooden chest and opened its heavy lid; ignoring his guests’ inquisitive glances as he reached inside. When he straightened and turned back again, Éomer froze as he beheld the thing in the Captain’s hand, and his mouth went dry.

“Oh…” was the only thing that came over his lips as he accepted his cousin’s sword from Erkenbrand’s hand. Cautiously, his gaze held captive by the sparkle of the bronze decoration of the elaborately worked scabbard, he closed his fingers around the heft and unsheathed the blade, for a moment mesmerized by the cold gleam of steel in the flickering firelight. Except for a few slight dents, the weapon looked unspoiled.

“I know what you want to say,” Erkenbrand admitted lowly. “The weapons of our fallen belong with them. We usually do honour that tradition, but since Théodred was buried so close to enemy territory, it would have been only a question of hours until some stinking orc disturbed his resting place to take his sword away, and I do not think that the Prince would have wanted Rohirric blood spilled with his his weapon.” He cleaned his throat, aware of the storm of emotions that raged through Éomer’s soul while the marshal turned the blade in his hand, too powerful to allow the young man to utter a reply. “I cleansed it of the orc-blood myself, and it is in good condition. Your cousin made the filth pay a high price for their assault, but in the end, there were too many of them to overcome.”

With a questioning glance and a deep breath, he wordlessly asked Éomer whether he was ready to see the other items he had saved, and received a curt nod in response.  When Éomer`s gaze fell upon the dented cuirass Erkenbrand now revealed from the chest, his complexion grew even paler, and his breath escaped him in an anguished burst. Slowly, as if afraid to touch it, he reached out and ran his fingertips over the carefully decorated breast plate in the shape of a rearing horse of red leather interlaced with green and gold. It was a sight so familiar to him that seeing it separated from its rightful owner caused another sharp jolt of hurt to assault him with unexpected ferocity. With a deep sigh, Éomer blinked away the tears. How often had he stood before his cousin as a young rider and felt awe at the sight of the fully-clad First Marshal of Riddermark, the man their warriors would follow until the end of the world? The man who had been like a brother to him? He did not know whether Erkenbrand awaited a reaction from him, but his head was empty and he could not speak just yet.

“I also have his helmet and coat of mail,” the other man spoke into his thoughts, his tone comforting. Éomer had never heard such gentleness from the fierce Lord of Westfold.  “We took them off to reach his wounds, but of course there was nothing we could do for him. The mail is damaged, of course, but I suppose that I could have it repaired for you until we ride… if you wanted to wear it. You will need a set of armour anyway, and I think that your Cousin would be proud to know that you will take it back into battle for him.”

“…to avenge him,” Éomer said slowly, the lump in his throat gradually vanishing. He was still overwhelmed by emotion but already felt a sense of purpose and determination so strong welling up in himself he had not felt its likes before. Théodred’s sword felt right in his hands, as if it, too, were eager to become his ally and spill the blood of those who had violently separated it from its owner. When Éomer looked up at last, a light shone in his dark eyes that caught the other men by surprise. “Aye, Captain, you have known my Cousin well. He would have wanted that indeed.”

“Not to mention that it might seriously trouble Saruman’s brood to see their worst enemy, the man they thought killed, return at the head of the Rohirric army to avenge himself,” Aragorn added from behind. “Your sight alone might provide us with the advantage we need to defeat them.” He liked the determined look on the Rohír’s face, and it seemed to him as if the sight of his cousin’s armour had woken something in Éomer which he had not seen before; a sudden fierceness and unyielding will to succeed and to fight until the last drop of his blood had been spilled. Gone was the weary acceptance of his duty to sacrifice his men in a battle he could barely hope to win. The Éomer standing before him now was determined to emerge victorious despite the odds, and all thoughts of defeat had just ceased to exist for this young warrior.

While Aragorn stood and marvelled over the Rohír’s sudden transformation, Éomer once again ran his fingers over the breastplate’s weathered leather.

‘You saved me, Théodred. Death could not hinder you from coming to my aid when I needed you in that cave, and it could not hinder you from showing me the path I needed to take. I know you are still with me, and if you can feel my presence as much as I can feel yours, then hear me now when I swear to you by my life to avenge your death.’ His heart pounding from sudden excitement, Éomer faced the other warriors who still waited for his decision.

“Aye, I will be glad to take it into battle for him. Thank you, Captain. It means much to me.”

With an approving smile, Erkenbrand laid the cuirass back into the chest, but left the sword to its new owner.

“Then I will have it brought to our weapons master.”

It took all of Éomer’s will to avert his eyes from the folded garment, as he turned to leave at last.

“I would be honoured if you joined me for the morning meal tomorrow.” Erkenbrand looked questioningly at him and Aragorn. “And I would also be glad to make the acquaintance of your friends, Lord Aragorn. Please, tell them that I did not mean to be rude by not inviting them to our talks this time, but--”

“—the safety of Rohan can only be entrusted to those you know,” Aragorn ended the sentence for him. “I understand, and I am sure they as well do not feel insulted by your decision. Had your council-member not confirmed my identity, I am sure I would not have been here, too, and I would also have accepted that. Trust does not come easy in these evil times. Nobody understands that better than I.”

Erkenbrand nodded thankfully.

“I thank you for your understanding. But please, when you see your friends now, tell them that Rohan feels honoured to greet them among our forces.”

“I will. Until tomorrow, I bid you a good night, Captain.”

 

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Grimbold walked with them to their quarters at the far end of the corridor. The door handle in his hand, Aragorn turned to Éomer, whose chamber was on the opposite side.

“It was not easy today,” a quick glance found Grimbold, to fast for the Lord of Grimslade to register. “… but you did very well, Son of Éomund. You managed to convince your brothers-in-arms, and my feeling tells me that many more will follow their example. When you go to sleep now, you should do so with a sense of pride. You achieved something extraordinary today.”

Too weary to think of a response to the high praise, Éomer could only nod.

“I assume I will think of nothing anymore once I lay my head down. I will fall asleep on the spot.”

The ranger laughed and clapped his shoulder.

“Then that will do, too. I see you in the morning.” And he disappeared into his room. For a moment, Éomer’s tired gaze lingered upon the door before he gave himself the mental push to make for his own quarters. With a meaningful twitch of his eyebrows, he shuffled over to the door and extended his hand when the Lord of Grimslade, who had obviously chewed on something to say while he had wordlessly accompanied them, called to him.

“Éomer…” His tone gave the younger man pause, and as he looked up with an expression of shame upon his weathered face, Éomer knew that the words which would follow were not easy to utter for the proud Westfold warrior. At last, the other man’s strikingly blue eyes looked straight at him in absolute openness. “I was wrong about you. I do not know if you can forgive my hard, unjustified words about you and your father, although I would greatly hope for it. My anger led me to say things I did neither mean nor wanted to say. Your father was greatly respected here in the Westfold as well--”

“I know that he was a hotspur, and I had rightly inherited his reputation in my youth,” Éomer interrupted him. “But while it is true that I did not always consider my actions back then, I had believed to have outgrown this weakness. I will not lie that your accusation hurt me greatly although I knew that the source of your anger was your grief for Théodred. I probably would have reacted similarly had our positions been exchanged.” Éomer inhaled and then raised his chin while his eyes quickly found the cut on the warrior’s brow. “You insulted me, and I dented your head for it. I would say that settles things between us.” He extended his hand in an offer for peace.

At first, his action was met with an incredulous look, but quickly, a relieved grin spread over Grimbold’s face, and he clutched the offered hand with an affirming nod.

“Aye, Éomer. I deserved it. Now let’s concern ourselves with punishing the enemy instead of each other, what do you say?”