Chapter 64: Homecoming

For Maddy! Thanks for giving me inspiration and great advise on everything I've ever wanted to know about Middle Earth... and healing... and tons of other stuff, too. ;->

CENTRAL ROHAN

When the pale sun rose over the morning mists, the land it illuminated seemed empty and bereft of life. Nothing moved on the endless plains of dead grass which had not yet begun to regrow after the long months of winter, and barely a bird could be seen in the sky. And yet the keen observer would nonetheless have detected traces of movement, of pebbles and little stones being pushed aside or pressed into the muddy ground by an unseen weight. The keen observer would have noticed the ripples in the puddles along the path, caused by reverberations of something invisible to the human eye… and then, perhaps, if his eye had strayed upwards, he would have spotted the strange shimmer in the air, like a reflection of sunlight on the morning dew, but well above the ground.

Yet to Gríma Wormtongue’s luck, there was no such keen observer, neither beast, man or elf in the vicinity as he hastened to put as many leagues between him and the City of Kings as possible. There was no question in his mind that, once the Rohírrim had recovered from the shock of having had their kingly hall barricaded against them and their ruler taken hostage, they would initiate a hunt of the likes the Mark had never seen for their enemy. In their quest for vengeance, they would turn every stone along the way until they had caught him, and for as long as he was on their territory, Gríma was certain they would find him eventually. Although usually straightforward in all their actions, he considered the Horselords cunning enough to employ dogs on their hunt, now that they knew of his magical cloak. That possibility posed a great danger to him. Dogs did not rely on what they perceived with their eyes. They hunted mainly by scent, and if they caught his’, his fate would be sealed, no doubt. A shudder raced down Wormtongue’s spine at the thought of what his end in that case would look like; he did not harbour any doubts that the simple-minded Rohírrim would undertake an extraordinary effort to come up with the cruellest way of bringing him to death. They would not simply put him to the sword and behead him, or hang him, oh no, it would be something much more creative and long-lasting, like tying him behind a horse and dragging him once through the entire Mark and back, until there was not even left enough of their enemy to feed the crows. At least that was what he would do in their position. The gruesome thought once again quickened his steps, even though he was by now close to exhaustion after hours of walking, in fact almost running, from the scene of his crime.

At first, Wormtongue had contemplated making for one of the nearest farms to steal a horse. And yet although riding would have meant to significantly shorten the time he’d have to spend in hostile territory, it would have unmade the effect of his cloak and heightened the danger of discovery. For hours he had weighed the pros and cons of this measure, torn between the urge to leave the Mark as quickly as possible and the knowledge of what would happen if he were captured, until at last, Wormtongue had reluctantly concluded that it might be saver to continue travelling in his current manner. On foot, he would need at least ten days, if not longer, to reach the Isen, instead of only two to three days on horseback. And yet while he did not look forward to having to spend such a long time in constant danger, Gríma felt that it was the right choice, for a fully bridled horse racing west without an apparent rider on its back would surely be investigated by the watchful Rohírrim in these times of war. Sighing as he wrapped himself tighter into his cloak, Gríma had at last resigned himself to the thought and settled into the stupor of the long walk.

The terrain had been treacherous all day, apparently only waiting to trip him and make him sprain or break his ankles, and more than once the thought surfaced that the very land itself was his enemy, trying to delay him long enough for its inhabitants to find him. Such contemplations were foolish of course, and yet Gríma found himself unable to suppress them. Cursing as he stumbled once again, Gríma laboured to make his way over the uneven, half-frozen ground, the patches of ice and mushy snow, through mud and over rocks and holes, his jaw clenched in stubborn resistance. If he hurt himself here, Gríma knew, he was as good as dead. As much as possible he stayed near the foothills of the mountains where the ground was a little harder and he would not leave as many footprints, and yet it also meant staying close to the road. That was unfortunate, yet so far, Wormtongue had not encountered a single rider on it all day, and his initial anxiety had vanished hours ago. Even his luck changed, in this rocky terrain, a horse’s hoof beats travelled over a long distance and alert him long before its Rider ever got the chance of spotting him. Provided he sat unmovingly beside the road protected by his cloak, they would pass right by without ever knowing how close their enemy had been.

It was long past midday when Gríma’s aching feet and general exhaustion finally demanded that he took his first rest. Cold and miserable at the thought that he had not even been able to organize some however sparse supplies for the long way, Wormtongue took a few steps off the road to sit down in the shadow of a rock which provided shelter from the icy wind. His pale eyes scanning the horizon underneath a cantankerously wrinkled brow, he wrapped himself tighter into his cloak and blew warm breath into his numb hands, stubbornly trying to ignore his growling stomach and throbbing feet.

And yet he had to concern himself with the problem, for he could not go for ten days or more without food. Sooner or later, he would have to run the risk and approach one of the settlements or a lonely farm along the way and try to find something there, and slip away again before they ever knew he had been there. Best to be done with it as quickly as possible, Gríma concluded reluctantly, because it would not help his cause if he waited until excruciating hunger weakened him and all of Rohan had been alerted of his escape to the effect that its inhabitants would investigate on every dog’s bark. He dreaded the undertaking, but saw no way to avoid it. His mood suitably darkened by the dangerous prospect, Gríma observed his surroundings from his sheltered refuge… when he heard it.

At first, it was only a lowly rumble, like the thunder announcing a distant storm hours before it unleashed its terrible force against those who had not understood its warning. And yet it could not be thunder, because the noise did not cease. It did not come and go in unsteady intervals, but increased in volume the longer Gríma listened, and as he held his breath and wrecked his brain for an answer to the noise’s origin, Gálmód’s son suddenly felt each hair on his scalp right itself. His heart suddenly in his throat and eyes widening although there was nothing to be seen yet, he jumped to his feet and a hot surge of energy raced through his veins.

Saruman’s army, at last! Only barely did he avoid a fall which could have easily resulted in a broken leg as he scurried down the slope toward the road to greet their forces, no longer caring about treading carefully. A broad grin formed on Gríma’s mutilated lips. Suddenly, the threat of death seemed very distant, because there could be no mistaking that the noise he heard was the marching of his Master’s Uruks! Hah! Those accursed strawheads thought they had won, didn’t they? Well, how surprised would they be when tonight, he would return with his army to watch them raise Edoras to the ground and kill every living thing within the city’s confines. How could he ever have doubted the great White Wizard?

With new energy, Wormtongue stormed toward the growing din, and in his pale eyes glowed a malicious sparkle as he imagined the dismay on Théoden’s face once the King of Rohan beheld the sight of a sea of orcs on his doorstep! With no help from outside, Edoras would be crushed underneath Saruman’s boot, and the Snowbourn would run red with the blood of the Rohìrrim! Ah, such great prospects; he could hardly wait to see them fulfilled! After the horrible night that lay behind him, who would have thought that already the following day would reward him with the opportunity to avenge himself? The Gods seemed to be in a truly strange mood these days, but he would not grudge them their mischievous play as long as he would stand on top of the lonely hill in the end and look down upon his slaughtered foes.

And with his excitement, the noise increased further from a distant rumble to a steady boom until at last, the army’s thunder shook the very earth and sent avalanches of pebbles and rocks raining from the mountain slopes. They were close now, so close in fact that Gríma knew he would see them as soon as he reached the top of the gentle rise before him. His heart sang with the powerful rhythm of their marching, and despite having walked without interruption and sustenance for long hours since the night, he suddenly found himself running up the road. Drunk with the feeling of sweet victory, he inhaled deeply to welcome his army – but the cry died in his throat.

These were no Uruk-hais. Before him and spread out for as far as the eye could see were Riders, more than he could count or even estimate in a rush, and they were almost upon him! For a terrible moment, Gríma could neither move nor breathe. Frozen to the ground, he stood in the middle of the road and stared in incomprehension at the scene before him, and his heart which had beaten with wild triumph only a moment earlier, now hardly seemed to beat at all. He saw everything in great detail, his doom coming at him: the horses, foam-lathered and their veins standing out from effort through their wet hide; their nostrils wide and eyes bulging as if they were close to collapsing; many of them with gashes in their sides and sprinkled with mud up to their rumps; the sight of war-horses who had gone through battle recently. Preceding them was a strong-boned grey stallion which looked awfully familiar to Gríma, although the rider on his back was not the one he had expected to see when he looked up.

Yet in a way though it was even worse, for while it was not Éomer on the grey’s back - which would have prompted Gàlmòd’s son to question his own sanity, because there was no way that the Third Marshal could still be alive after what he had unleashed against the man - it was someone else he had likewise not expected. Someone who had at least be as dead as the White Lady’s brother! And still, there could be no questioning his own eyes, and his eyes showed him a tall figure with a distinctive helmet on its head, from where a black crest of horsehair flowed. And when Wormtongue’s gaze fell on the splendidly crafted cuirass with the embossment of a rearing horse on the chest plate, he felt his sense of reality slip. This could not be. Théodred could not be alive! The tidings of the Prince’s death had come from Saruman himself, and his Master had never lied to him! So stunned did his discovery leave the son of Gálmód that he almost failed to clear the road before the Rider reached him.

Only at the last possible moment before he was run over, life suddenly returned to Gríma’s legs and he dashed to the side, causing the stallion to rear in protest. Even if the horse had not seem him, it had caught his scent and the rush of air caused by the sudden movement, startled enough to whirl its powerful hooves at the invisible thing before it and missed his back by the breadth of a hair. Hastily Gríma dived into a depression beside the road and hunched down while his heart undertook a serious attempt to burst from his rib cage. Had he been spotted? Would they come and look for him, trying to find out what had upset the grey beast?

The host halted right before him, and involuntarily, Wormtongue held his breath. Then the situation grew even stranger when the Rider in the Prince’s armour spoke with the voice of the Third Marshal.

“Hoh! Hoh, Firefoot!” the warrior soothed, a hand on his mount’s neck as he parried the beast’s sudden outbreak and simultaneously scanned the road for signs of a disturbance. For a heartbeat, piercing dark eyes met Gríma’s, and in shock, the son of Gálmód realised that it was indeed Éomer he was looking at. Neither blinking nor daring to breathe, Gríma stared back, until at last, the warrior shook his head to himself, his brow furrowed with confusion and he gestured his army to move on. Still and silent like a marble statue, Gríma sat beside the road as the Rohírrim passed, and the ground shook from their sheer number until after what felt to him like an eternity, the last rider disappeared behind the next rise.

Only then did it hit him, the realisation of how narrow his escape had been, and his body reacted: his fingers clenching in his coat until his knuckles whitened to stop his sudden violent trembling, Wormtongue sat beside the road, and all kinds of anxious questions flooded his mind. What had happened in the Westfold? How could there still be a Rohirric army left, and how could it be that it was headed by the Third Marshal? How could a plan that had been worked out so meticulously have failed? And, the most important question for now: what was he supposed to do now, which way should he turn? For the sight of the grim-faced Riders had finally driven the understanding home that he had seen the army that had destroyed Saruman’s forces. There was no longer safety to be found for him at Isengard; if he wanted to survive, he would have to turn a different way and disappear from the face of the earth as quickly as possible.

When at last his trembling ceased and it felt as if his legs would carry him again, Wormtongue rose to his feet, and his gaze glided over the empty plains while the riders’ thunder slowly ebbed away in the distance. Perhaps he would find a place to hide among his Dunlending brethren. They knew that – although in the King of Rohan’s service – he had worked against the Strawheads, serving their cause, and they would welcome him with open arms. Somewhere among their tribes in the mountains, he would find shelter, and while Wormtongue did not look forward to sharing their live in poverty, it would have to suffice until he was ready to return to the Mark and exact his revenge upon them all…

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CENTRAL MARK

Something was wrong. Éomer felt it with every fibre of his body, with every single one of Firefoot’s steps bringing them closer to Edoras, and he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle as he had done repeatedly along the way. He was coming home at last; he should feel overjoyed and exuberant at the prospect, not as if someone had loaded sacks of meal upon his chest. From the moment when Gríma Wormtongue had expelled him, he had beaten the odds again and again by surviving first the ambush of his foe’s henchmen, and then the fierce elements and the orc-attacks at the caves and at the farm. Against all odds, he had led their éohere to Isengard and played a vital part in the destruction of their western enemy, many reasons to feel proud and triumphant over his achievements of the last days… and yet it seemed to Éomer as if a cloud hung above his head; a black ugly cloud that followed him every step of the way to cast its dark shadow upon him in unspoken threat. As much as he yearned to return home, at the same time Éomer dreaded to think of what he would find there.

“Your sister will be all right,” Aragorn spoke into his brooding, and Éomer slanted the older man a surprised glance. Had his thoughts been so obvious? How much of the ghoulish images that had haunted him during the endless night were visible in his expression? Exhausted to the bone, Éomer had repeatedly sunken into a strange state between waking and dreaming even while they had led their horses by the reins before daylight had spread over the horizon and they had mounted again, only to find his imagination taken hostage by his arch enemy. In his dreams, he had seen Éowyn dead and dangling from the gallows; hanged for her attempt to bring her brother help. He had seen her sitting in the darkness of the dungeon with her back against the bare rock of her cell, hugging herself and shivering uncontrollably, her face void of emotion as her captor sent his men down to fetch his trophy for another attempt of ravaging her and destroying her spirit.

Again Éomer’s fingers clenched around the reins as he fought against the resurfacing images. It could not be. It must not be! With a deep breath, he turned to Aragorn, as the man surely expected a reaction of him.

“She must be. Or…” He did not finish his sentence, not knowing just exactly what he would do if he found his worst fears confirmed upon their return to Edoras. What sense would there be left to his life if he failed the person he had sworn to protect from when they had first laid his newborn sister into his arms? His lips a bloodless line as he stared into the distance beyond Firefoot’s ears, Éomer battled against the flutter of panic which grew more powerful the taller the lonely hill loomed before them. Involuntarily, his gaze went up to the indistinct shape of the Golden Hall. ‘Are you well, Sister? Are you seeing us from the windows of your chambers as we round the last foothills and urge our horses on the last part of the way?’

A bright beam of light from the vast structure above Edoras had beaconed them for the better part of the day, and now, in the last rays of the sinking sun, the distant roof of Meduseld looked indeed as if it were made of pure gold. It was a flameless bonfire to welcome their army home and a sight that usually stirred joy in every Rider’s heart… and yet while no obvious signs of disturbance were to be seen from afar and neither smoke nor other traces of hostile activities to be detected, Éomer’s had long learned not to trust in appearances.

As the City of Edoras grew out of the plains before them, another thought resurfaced in his mind. It was one that had occurred to him only briefly before, but now that their return was imminent, Éomer suddenly found it impossible to ignore: the way things seemed, it was quite possible that in a few hours, he would be the 18th King of Rohan. Surely the Worm had killed Théoden once he had seized control over Meduseld and the old man had become worthless for him. With the son of Thengel gone and his heir slewn at the Fords of Isen, people would expect the blood of Éorl to return to the throne of the Mark. While Éomer could think of other things he would prefer to do with his life rather than being incarcerated in the twilight of the Golden Hall and concern himself with people’s complaints all day long, there was no question that he would step up if that duty was actually laid upon his shoulders. And yet he hoped he would be spared that fate. Had their people, after all, not banished him? Had they not turned their backs on him when the Worm’s henchmen had led him through the city, bound and undignified, tolerating without protest that a man who had repeatedly given his blood for their protection died in the winter storm? But then he thought of the farmer couple who had taken him in on that first cold night. And he thought of Freya and her family. They were not all like the citizens of Edoras, concerned only for their own safety. Those were the people he loved, the people he had vowed to protect, and he would continue to do so with other means if that power was indeed given to him.

With a sigh, Éomer woke from his musings. It felt strange to look upon Meduseld in the golden evening light, sitting there on top of the hill as it had done since Brego built it five hundred years ago as if nothing had happened, when the world had forever changed for him. For more than sixteen years, the great wooden structure had been a home to him and Éowyn, but now that they had finally advanced enough to see the mighty gates in the surrounding fence, the son of Eomund suddenly felt uncertain whether that feeling would ever return, or if Gríma had at least succeeded in despoiling the purity of this emotion for all time.

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MEDUSELD

An inquisitive rap at the door diverted Théoden’s attention from Éowyn’s still shape. He was thankful for the interruption, as the pain and guilt over seeing his niece in this horrible condition were almost unbearable. For hours, he had sat by her side in the heavy armchair his servants had placed next to her bed upon his orders; for hours, he had held her cold hand and murmured soothing words of comfort, but he had not been granted a reaction yet. Oh, what had that accursed Worm done to her?

The healers had examined Éowyn thoroughly while Théoden had dressed in his royal garments and let himself be helped to the throne to listen to his men’s reports in an effort to return to duty. And yet what Éothain and Gamling told him of the happenings he had missed through the machinations of his treacherous counsellor had caused his blood to freeze and his heart to die. While he himself had been the puppet of an evil man, manipulated into making only the worst decisions for his suffering people, Théodred had fallen in the Westfold. His son… was dead, a victim of his father’s failure like so many others: like Céorl, the valiant Captain of the Edoras-based éored, who had been found in the dungeon, horribly battered…. Dead. Or Hámá, the Captain of his guard and trusted friend of many years, who had given his life in defence for his king and the royal family. And while not dead, others had likewise suffered terribly because of him, like Elfhelm of Aldburg or even his dear friend Gamling, whose gaunt, drawn features had given Théoden an idea of the scope of his suffering even if the warrior had tried his best to hide his bad condition from his ruler.

And he had exiled Éomer. In the middle of winter, he had cast out the lad who had been like a second son to him from the sheltering city without weapons or provisions, sent him out to die in the raging elements. With his own words, he had sentenced his nephew to death. A horrible black maw opened in Théoden’s mind whenever his thoughts returned to this part of the Captain’s report. He had caused so much suffering, not only to his people, but to his very kin. How was he supposed to live on with this guilt? There was not even a place here at Edoras where he could grieve for his dead son, no hope to find closure. Perhaps he would never find it… and perhaps, he did not deserve to find it.

Involuntarily, Théoden’s hand tightened around Éowyn’s fingers, and his gaze returned to her, suddenly blurring. His niece, too, had passed through a nightmare because of him, and although Yálanda had assured him that Éowyn had not been touched in that way, the young woman’s horrible condition hinted at the fact that Gríma Wormtongue had done more to her than simply tie her to his bed. Hoping to improve her condition by changing her surroundings, his men had cautiously carried Éowyn over to her own chambers, but so far, this measure had not shown the hoped results. Tears ran down the King’s face now, but he was not aware of his crying.

At least Éomer had survived. According to Éothain, his nephew had reached the Westfold and the shelter of Erkenbrand’s domain, from where he had summoned their forces for the battle against Isengard. And yet nobody knew what had happened since then. No messengers had reached Edoras yet with word of their forces’ triumph or defeat, and whether it would be an army of orcs or Riders they would soon see upon the western horizon still remained to be determined. From what Théoden had been able to comprehend in a rush, it was still very possible that Meduseld had been freed of Gríma Wormtongue’s hold only to be raised to the ground by Saruman’s forces a few days later if Éomer’s army had been defeated. And yet there was nothing they could do about it but wait. Théoden ground his teeth in frustration, despising his own helplessness. It seemed that the Worm had only allowed him to wake from the poison’s hold to see the effect of his horrible failure on his people.

The knocking was repeated, more insistently now, and upon Maelwyn’s rushed steps in the adjourning room and the sound of the opening door, the King of the Mark at last surfaced from his dark thoughts. He did not recognise the voice, but its urgent tone immediately alarmed him.

“Please, Mistress Maelwyn, I must speak to the King immediately. Is he still here?”

“Aye, he sits with the Lady. If you will wait here, please, I will ask him whether--” Maelwyn began to answer, but was interrupted by Théoden’s voice.

“Lead him in, Maelwyn,” he said, frustrated over being too weak to even rise to his feet to expect the man as befitting. When he saw the warrior, he remembered the young man’s name. “What is it, Léod?”

“A great host of Riders is approaching.”

“Riders?” The unexpected tidings caused a sudden spark of excitement, and for a moment, Théoden felt almost strong enough to stand. Could it be? Could it truly be? “You are certain that they are Riders, not Uruks?”

“Aye, my Lord. These are our forces, and their sheer number would indicate that they were part of our éohere returning from the battle in the Westfold.” A smile of pure, honest joy stood on Lèod’s face, and it was all the answer Théoden needed. For a moment, the three people in the room regarded each other silently, too moved to speak, and for once, it was hope which spread over their faces, not dread. Did the return of their army mean that the dark days were indeed counted? “Shall I send out an escort for them, Sire?”

‘Could you see who heads the army? Was it Éomer?’ Théoden suddenly wanted to know urgently, but at the same time, the thought caused his stomach to twitch. What if Éomer had died in the battle? What if their foes’ schemes had robbed him of both his sons… and his daughter? And what if Eomund’s son was heading their army? His own uncle had banished him, had sent him away from the protection of his people to die. Would Éomer ever would forgive him, Théoden wondered, and the prospect of facing his nephew caused contradicting emotions to well up in him. Éomer had to know that it had been the Worm’s poison talking from his uncle’s mouth, and still… Trying to conceal his sudden anxiety for both the handmaiden as well as the young warrior before him regarded him with a questioning glance upon their faces, Théoden shook his head.

“How close are they?”

“If they continue at their current pace, they will be here by nightfall, Sire. Within the hour.”

“It will take at least half that time to summon the men and bridle their horses,” Théoden spoke to himself, before he looked at Léod. “No. Leave the men inside. But let the bell sound to bring the tidings of our army’s return to the people, and send whoever you can find down to the square. If it is true that they defeated our foe in the west, they should be welcomed accordingly…. and have Éomer sent to me. ‘… if he is indeed among the returning warrior.,’ His relieved smile disappeared as fast from his lips as it had appeared there. What would the next hours bring: Rejoicing… or more torment?

If the young warrior before him sensed his ruler’s dismay, he did not show it. His expression perfectly composed, Léod indicated a bow and turned to go.

“It will be done, Sire.”