Chapter 57: An Ending and a Beginning

The warg was spent; Éomer felt it with every fibre of his body. As an experienced rider, he knew how the first signs of a steed’s breakdown felt: first the rasping, deepened breathing, quickly followed by muscle tremors, slight at first but worsening with the continuing effort until the inevitable happened… and the beast beneath him grunted and snorted without interruption now. Its already broad chest pumped like a pair of bellows as the orc-wolf stemmed itself against the vicious flood with growing desperation.

Again it was hit in the side by a heavy piece of debris and pushed back; again it lost some of the hard fought-for ground before it could dig its claws in and stop their slide... and again its laboured breathing worsened. The roaring waterfall was still not far behind them, and the river sounded even hungrier to Éomer’s ears although it had already swallowed hundreds of lives. Helping his exhausted steed as best as he could by shoving the obstacle out of their way, Éomer attempt to urge on his mount, but the mountains of muscle beneath him quivered without interruption now. They would not make it. The cold and the current were taking its toll even on the fearsome orc-wolf, and the moment quickly approached when its numbing muscles would simply cease their service and disobey the strong will moving them. The beast was defeated, even if it did not know so yet.

Straightening on the warg’s back, Éomer frantically sought for a solution, and his gaze darted around their surroundings. It was clear that the structure he had first determined as their goal was beyond their reach, but to their right, a pile of debris had formed where several beams lay wedged against each other and divided the flood like a beaver dam. It was closer, but looked unstable and in order to reach they would have to cross another long passage without shelter against the full strength of the current. The Rohír was sceptical whether his steed had enough strength left for the task, but it very much looked like their only hope. With a deep breath, he shifted his weight, and the warg reacted, laying its trust into its rider.

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On the wall the warriors who had escaped the floods were quickly caught up in the rescue of their still struggling comrades. Shooting orcs from the safety of the path and at the same time throwing ropes to exhausted men, the drenched, shivering Rohirrim were one by one pulled from the water and wrapped into thick blankets which had been found within the fortification. Yet nothing could be done about their horses, and many of the rescued warriors stood on the wall’s crest, and their hearts cried out as they were forced to witness helplessly how their trusted steeds were pulled into the pits.

Even as he pulled another exhausted rider from the water, Aragorn’s gaze darted over the flooded battlefield, but there was still no sign of either the dwarf or the young marshal. Beside him, the keen eyes of Legolas and Elrond’s sons searched the rapids as well, to no avail. A fatalistic voice in the back of the Dúndadan’s mind whispered insistently that the two had long been spilled into the enemy’s underground pits, and yet Aragorn refused to give in to despair. The plain was vast, and it was almost impossible to keep an overview of the situation. Perhaps the two had even escaped to the back of Isengard in time to evade the main current. Yet inwardly, he knew better. In the thick of battle, that was where the son of Éomund and the son of Glóin had most likely been when the flood had assaulted them. His expression darkening further, he threw his rope over to the next struggling rider in the water.

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At last, the moment had come: still like a statue, the warg stood in the torrent, the last of its strength concentrated on just holding its position with the mighty claws dug into the ground, the fearsome head lowered in effort. No longer could it move forward, and the manner in which the great body beneath Éomer trembled and shivered told the Rohír that the point of its surrender to the Isen’s onslaught was imminent. He could no longer wait. The pile of rubble was close now, only barely beyond the reach of his arms as he leant to the side to see whether he could already reach a dangling piece of chain. Just as his fingertips brushed against the iron links, the great body beneath him gave a rasping huff and broke away.

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“I see the Marshal!” Legolas shouted, and his words sent a jolt of excitement through Aragorn. “Over there, where the debris divides the water!” He pointed toward a figure which could hardly be made out through the frothing flood. Sitting on the back of a warg – a warg? – the Rohir leant heavily to the side and reached – and plunged into the foaming water as his steed was suddenly carried away.

“No!” Grinding his teeth is helpless frustration, Aragorn’s eyes darted over the surface – to find to his immense relief Éomer’s struggling shape as he pulled himself toward the blockade. Hooking his elbow around a bent pole, the young marshal secured his position, but it was clear that he would not be able to withstand the cold and the current for long. They needed to act now.

“We must do something.” Unconsciously, Aragorn already coiled his length of rope while he looked around for another one. Unasked, Legolas handed him his own, but shook his head as he looked over to where the Rohir was fighting for his life.

“I would shoot the rope to him, but he is out of range. The rope is too heavy; it would pull down the arrow before it could reach him.”

“Then I will bring it to him.” The Dúnadan’s tone indicated that he would tolerate no objection. Quickly he knotted the ropes together and tied one end around his waist, but whereas the Rohirrim next to him looked up with renewed hope on their faces, his elven brothers creased their brows.

“You cannot do this, Estel!” Elladan exclaimed, his expression and tone incredulous as he grasped Aragorn’s arm. “Your existence serves a higher goal; you cannot risk your life, even for a friend! The free people cannot afford to lose the Heir of Elendil to their fight against the Dark Lord! If you die, everyone dies!”

Although he slanted him only a very quick glance, the sudden fierceness in Aragorn’s grey eyes took the son of Elrond aback.

“I will not stand here idly and watch him drown, Elladan, and I will not discuss it: move aside!” And with a violent twitch, he freed his arm.

“But you might need help,” another voice joined their argument, and as Aragorn looked up, he looked into the face of the dark-haired Captain of the éored who had come to their aid at the farm. Thor, he remembered the man’s name. “I could help you by ensuring that nothing happens to the rope, or that it gets caught somewhere.”

Aragorn nodded in appreciation of the man’s mindfulness. “Aye, Captain, that would indeed be helpful. I would be glad to have your help.” Wordlessly handing the Half-breed the rope, Aragorn once again met his brothers’ challenging gaze. He was not about to back down, even when Elrohir shook his head in a disapproving manner now, too.

“By doing this, you are risking everything the people of Middle Earth have fought for, Aragorn! All paths you travelled in life led you toward your confrontation with the Dark Lord; you cannot endanger yourself even for a friend when the fate of all of Middle Earth stands and falls with you! As hard as it might be, you must stay focussed on the greater good!”

“The Rohirrim are with us in this fight, and many of them died for ‘the greater good’ today. They did not ask whose fight this was; and I refuse to simply sacrifice them.” He turned to Thor, who had in the meantime fastened the rope around his middle. “Are you ready?”

“Aye. We can go.” The Half-Rohír sat down on the wall, ready to lower himself into the water. For a moment, the struggle of wills between Aragorn and his elven brothers continued; then the ranger’s gaze suddenly softened, and he pressed the other end of the rope into Elrohir’s hands.

“I will return, Brother; have faith in me. Here, I give you our lifeline. I suppose there is nobody better suited to guard it than you. Don’t let go.” And with the faint of hint of an encouraging smile, he turned around and lowered himself into the flood.

His brow furrowed as he silently shook his head to himself, the elf stood for a moment longer, until at last he turned around and quickly tied the rope around one of the wall’s battlements, accepting that nothing he said would change his brother’s decision. Aragorn had made his decision, now it was his task to see that nothing happened to his brother.

“May the Valar protect you, Estel,” he said lowly.

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Cold. So cold. It sucked the strength from his body, pressed the air out of his lungs and numbed his muscles, and Éomer knew that he would not be able to hold on for much longer. With each passing moment, it got harder just to lift his head above the water and breathe, and if no miracle happened, he would simply have to let go and succumb to the Isen’s rage like his steed before him… or perhaps he would be crushed by debris once the pile of rubble to which he held on collapsed. Like a living thing it shifted beneath him in the current, constantly moving and groaning as pieces were torn away and swept off by the torrent. Just as he looked up again, another loud blast from inside the tower sent shockwaves through the ground and resulted in a sudden violent shift in the rubble. For a horrible moment, it seemed to Éomer as if the pile was leaning toward him, but then it settled back and a brief cry could be heard from the other side as something massive tumbled down and into the water.

‘No! No, it cannot be! I cannot die her! Who is going to save Éowyn?’

Again he scanned his surroundings for a way out of his predicament, when from the corner of his eye, he beheld a brown shape helplessly struggling in the torrent, being swept his way. Without thinking, Éomer reached out – and his fingers closed around the figure’s battle harness. One great effort, and then the warrior was close enough to hold fast to the pole which also held him, and the next moment, a frozen-looking dwarf regarded him from underneath dripping wet eyebrows. There was gratitude in Gímli’s frightened eyes, but the short warrior had no breath left to thank him, and his face had already taken on an unhealthy blue complexion.

“They’ll come for us,” Éomer somehow brought out, but without belief in his voice. “Hold on.”

“Can… cannot…” the small warrior stammered, his eyes wide with the knowledge that they would die in the flood like the others. “Too cold…”

“See… see if you can pull yourself up… that ledge …” Even as Éomer indicated it to the dwarf, the rubble shifted again, and the block of stone which had protruded from the water and promised at least temporary refuge tumbled away. And they were moving, too, he noticed now, too exhausted for dismay. Slowly at first but quickly gaining speed, the entire construction of wood, stone and iron was being pushed toward the drop-off.

“Éomer--” Gímli gasped as he, too, woke to their predicament. Understanding that this was indeed the end, the two very different and yet also very alike warriors stared at each other – when something landed between them with a wet sound. Dumbfounded, they stared at the length of rope, for a moment unable to react.

“Take it! Éomer! Take the rope!” a familar voice reached them over the thunder of the falling water, and as they turned their heads, a tired smile spread over the dwarf’s bearded face.

“That lad is mad. How could he…”

Before the river could carry it away, Éomer’s fingers closed around the sling just before another concussion shook the ground. An anguished groan rose from the debris as it was pushed against another obstacle in its way toward the abyss, and a tremble ran through the unstable pile.

“Here, quickly.” Breathlessly, he threw the sling over Gímli’s head and then slipped into it himself. A quick glance revealed that there were others in their vicinity, clinging like them to their moving hold and understanding that they were floating toward their end. In a desperate attempt to save at least one of them, Éomer reached out to the closest man. “Give me your hand!” But just as he strained, the rider looked him in the eye with a grateful, exhausted smile – and disappeared in the flood. “No!”

The tremors worsened, and at last, their hold came apart with a thunderous crash. Unable to react, Éomer stared at the sharp-edged rock tumbling toward him, when he was brutally yanked back…

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The rest of his rescue was a blur. Water, coldness; deadly chill. The cries of the dying and the river’s angry voice, and below it all, the dull, irregular vibrations of the wizards’ fight in the tower. Obstacles against which he bumped, spinning him around until he lost all sense of direction. No longer the master of his own fate, Éomer resigned himself to just holding on to the dwarf in a desperate attempt to keep both their heads above the water. It was all for which he had energy left… until at last, the rope tightened once more around his waist with a painful jerk, and they dangled in the air. A moment later he found himself lying on the hard ground, and the only sound in his ears was the clattering of his own teeth.

“Blankets! Bring me blankets, quickly!” Aragorn’s face hovered above him, dripping wet as well and his lips moving in an anxious question that seemed to reach Éomer from the distance of another realm. “Are you all right? Éomer?”

He wanted to answer, wanted to lift his friend’s concern but was let down by his voice. He nodded – and was understood. Relief lit up the ranger’s grey eyes as he closed his fingers around the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “It is over, Éomer. You are safe.” The next moment, something heavy was spread over Éomer, and he was propped up against the wall and wrapped into thick fur by many helping hands.

“Easy, Marshal. You will be warm again in an instant.”

It was embarrassing to be handled like a small child, but at the same time, the slowly spreading warmth felt so good, Éomer did not even try to object to being fondled. Next to him, Gímli, too, was quickly wrapped into thick furs, and as he looked up, Aragorn and Thor likewise slung thick capes around themselves.

“W-w-where…” he began, his teeth still clattering so badly that he quickly gave up the effort of making himself understood.

“We found sheds and common rooms inside this fortification,” Aragorn answered his unspoken question. “Apart from these furs, there were many more things we will need before long. I sent those not able to help with the rescue down to light fires for your men to warm themselves and see whether they can find something to cook some broth with. We cannot have them die of exposure after surviving the flood. You should go there, too, as soon as you can walk.” Suddenly distracted, he turned around.

And now Éomer felt it, too, the repercussions of heavy steps shaking the earth. It felt different than the irregular vibrations still emanating from the black tower behind them, and thus could only mean one thing: the trees were coming back. Alarm prompting him to sit up with a gasp, Éomer suddenly heard an astonished exclamation: “They are picking them out of the water, look! They’re saving them! Someone must have told them at last that we are not the enemy!”

A mischievous laugh rose over the wondrous shouts.

“They are throwing the orcs back in!”

“Let me look!” With warmth, enough life had returned to Éomer’s body to rise to his feet with the help of a young rider nearby. The sight he was granted when he stood was indeed most peculiar: their previous attackers waded through the slowly sinking floods like gigantic, misshaped herons, and their large hands sifted the water to pick up men and horses and carry them to safety. “What changed their mind?” he mused quietly, inwardly expecting to wake from this strange dream any moment.

“I think I know who did,” Legolas suddenly said into the stunned silence, and a joyous expression brightened his fair features. “Look, Aragorn! It seems that our friends were not content with staying behind in the safety of Fangorn – they had to play a part in war, too. And yet I am glad to see them here, and unharmed, as it seems.”

“Merry and Pippin!” the ranger exclaimed as he beheld the small shapes on the shoulders of the Ent who approached them with long, dignified strides. Looking down at their friends from the comfort of their elevated position, the two hobbits waved merrily, and generally seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits despite what they had just witnessed. Smiling quietly to himself, Aragorn shook his head. “Tell a hobbit to stay out of trouble, and this is what you get!”

“So these are the Halflings you sought to rescue when we met on the plains?” Éomer asked, and his dark eyes looked in wonder at the little people on the tree’s shoulders. Movement to his feet briefly diverted his attention, and he extended a helping hand to Gímli who likewise seemed to be overjoyed at the sight of his long-missed companions.

“The little ones are all right, and saving us all, too! Who would have thought it? Come here, you rascals, and let me give you a big hug!”

“But you are drenched! It is too cold to get wet!” the one on the tree’s right shoulder protested, but a big, cheeky grin nearly divided his rosy face in two halves as he signalled his tall protector to lower him onto the wall. “You already met Treebeard, I believe?”

Not yet entirely trusting the situation, the Rohirrim backed away when the ancient being came to a halt before the wall. Only a short while ago, they had witnessed the fury of these strange creatures, now even if the thing – the tree? – looked docile – they remained tense and wary glances were exchanged between the warriors when the members of the fellowship which had set out from Rivendell seemingly an age ago fell into each other’s arms.

“Aragorn! Aragorn! And Legolas, you are here, too! And looking well!”

“And you as well, Gímli! You would not believe what happened to us! We have so much to tell you!”

“I would believe so, but first, let’s welcome each other like old friends ought to do,” Aragorn grinned and dropped to his knees to pull both hobbits into his embrace.

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Éomer turned away from the strange group to grant them their moment of joy over what seemed to be a most unlikely reunion… and also, because he could not bear to see the joy on the faces of others when his own men had suffered dearly in the attack. His fingers clenched in the fur as his gaze swept the devastated court of Isengard; his knuckles turning white. The flood was beginning to sink now that most of the water had gathered in their enemy’s underground works, and the Isen had resumed to peacefully follow the bed it had carved for itself in uncounted years. And while the water sank, the full extent of the damage done to their éohere was slowly being revealed. It was a dreadful sight.

As he stared at the lakes which had formed in the pits, a shadow fell on Éomer’s face and a lump formed in his throat at the thought of how many of his kinsmen had found death in those dark depths. Had it been a mistake to attack Isengard? But what if the hostile had been allowed to assault the Mark? Would such an attack not have resulted in even higher losses of warriors and civilians alike? He sighed, involuntarily shaking his head. Did every commander feel such uncertainty in the aftermath of a lossy battle, even if victory was theirs in the end?

“Éomer! Éomer!” A tall figure pushed through the crowd on his left, and with relief Éomer recognised the Lord of Westfold, and the Captain of Grimslade right behind him. “Béma be praised, you are alive!”

“Lord Erkenbrand! Captain Grimbold!” Glad to see each other, the warriors clapped shoulders and measured each other with concerned glances. There was blood on Erkenbrand’s arm and side, and Grimbold’s face was smeared with it from a cut on his skull, but otherwise both men seemed well enough. “Did you others yet?”

Grimbold nodded.

“Findárras is well; he is with the riders beyond the wall, helping the distribution of food and dry garments. I could not find Brand yet, but it is far too early to determine who survived. Our riders are spread over the entire grounds, and it will take some time until a certain kind of order will be re-established.”

“Can you say something about our losses yet? Do you have an overview?” Éomer tensed in expectation of an answer that would pierce his heart, but Erkenbrand spared him.

“Not yet.” Following his gaze over the drenched battlefield, the older man’s expression darkened from the momentary relief over finding the son of Éomund alive. “It seems that because of the chokepoint at the gate, large parts of the éohere had not made it into the encirclement before the water came, so those are well. I already gave orders to share their blankets and help pitching camp and lighting fires. Their healers have already begun to help the wounded, too, but…” he shrugged and shook his head. “There are many to be treated. I told Findárras to send some messengers to the nearest villages for help and supplies and dry clothing, but it will be night again before we can expect someone.” Pressing his lips together as his gaze fell on a horse’s carcass which had been jammed between two rocks below them, he inhaled deeply. “As for how many men we lost in the flood, it is impossible to say yet. We will have to see. Perhaps it is not as bad as we think.”

“One thing is already clear though,” Grimbold grumbled darkly. “We lost many horses. It will be hard to replenish our ranks, even if their riders survived… which likewise remains to be seen.”

“I understand.” Once more Éomer allowed his gaze to sweep their surroundings, and yet his mind was already racing with the things to follow, the next steps he had to take in order to free the kingdom, even if they were not done here yet. Gloomily he stared at the black tower, wishing he could see what was going on inside of it. The blasts of thunder from there had ended, and he wondered what it meant. Was this indeed Saruman’s end? Or had he defeated Gandalf and was still capable of single-handedly wiping out the remains of their éohere, and even now brooding over a spell that would kill them where they stood? His lips a bloodless line, Éomer stared at the intimidating structure of their foe’s fastness. No, nothing had been solved yet. And yet he desperately chafed to be away.

“What do you think?” Erkenbrand asked, reading his thoughts. “Is he dead?”

Éomer shook his head.

“I suppose we will find out soon enough.” For a moment, his gaze came to rest on the group around Aragorn, and the joyful expressions on the faces of the ranger, hobbits, dwarves and elves pierced his heart. It was this kind of joy he hoped to experience, too, once he had freed the City of Kings and would at last be able to take Éowyn in his arms again… but what if she was dead? What if he passed through the city gates to find them all slaughtered; Gríma’s revenge for all the long years of his scorn? What if he came too late?

“Éomer?”

When his attention at last shifted back to the waiting Westfold warriors, a trace of his old determination and strength returned to Éomer’s voice. “I will stay here until we can be certain, but then I must-“

“I know,” Erkenbrand interrupted him, nodding understandingly. Éomer looked guilty, but there was no reason for guilt, because the issue drawing him away was very valid. The young man felt torn between his duty for their riders and his kin, but the task awaiting him in the eastern part of the Mark could not wait. “I know, Marshal. You must leave for Edoras to free our people from the Worm. Of course. You do not need to justify yourself.” He eyed the younger man sceptically. “Éomer, there is no question that I can take over here for you. Go and save the City of Kings from the Worm’s malice… if you are strong enough for the long ride. There are many leagues to cover between Isengard and Edoras, and I remember well that you were only just beginning to recover from your fight with the orcs when you arrived in the Westfold. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look like death warmed over. I cannot deny that I am concerned.”

Éomer’s expression hardened.

“I will do whatever needs to be done, Captain, even if you had me to bind me to the saddle! Spread the word that I will ride in three hours, and that anyone who wants to accompany me by then will be most welcome. As most of our riders lost kin or friends because of the Worm’s scheming, I am certain that like I, they can hardly wait to get even.”