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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

Chapter 65: The Marshal and the King


EDORAS

The city bell’s silver sound rang over the plains and filled the hearts of the approaching Riders with joy. The men pulled their horns from their belts and put them to their lips to send a many-voiced greeting back to their waiting kinsmen, and although their horses – with the exception of the great Shadowfax - were at the end of their strength, they, too, suddenly felt a new surge of energy which transformed their tired trot of the last leagues into a heavy-handed gallop. As the gates opened, Aragorn cast Éomer an encouraging glance.

“It would appear to me that your worst fears will not be confirmed. These are your kinsmen behind these walls, not the enemy, and they seem to be in good spirits, too, which might hint at even better tidings.”

“Aye…” Neither did Éomer sound convinced, nor did his rigid bearing change. While his Riders cheered and blew their horns to celebrate their homecoming, their Marshal hid his increasingly contradicting emotions behind an unmoved mask, and only those who looked into his eyes would see the fear in them. As much as the younger man’s silent anguish saddened Aragorn, he understood that there was nothing to be done for the Rohír’s peace of mind until Éomer found his fears either confirmed or groundless. So he only nodded and then reined in his mount to fall behind the son of Eomund, to let him – befitting his status as the Mark’s highest commander – enter the city first.

The din greeting them was unbelievable, a solid wall of sound. The wide square was packed with people, and from every possible corner, still more citizens were rushing toward the open space to celebrate their army’s return, shouting the names of the returning warriors whenever another one of them was recognised. The horses, used to such crowds and too exhausted to waste energy they no longer possessed, neither shied nor gave any other signs that the noise and surrounding people annoyed them; instinctively they made for the ascending path that would lead them to the stables. Following common practice, only the warriors of higher rank accompanied Éomer into the city’s confines, as even the capital of Rohan would have been too small to accommodate over one thousand riders and their steeds. Yet as Éomer looked back, determination rose in him to personally see to it that each of his men who had to stay back for now would get a hot meal and a roof above his head tonight. It was the least service he could offer to these most loyal of his Riders after what they had done for him and their country.

“Théodred! Théodred!” the people now shouted joyfully upon seeing him, fooled by his cousin’s armour, and Éomer’s lips became a bloodless line as he directed Firefoot through the crowd. The grey waded through the people like a heron, unperturbed by the noise, but his rider’s unexplainable tension kept the stallion on his guard. With pricked ears, Firefoot’s scanned their surroundings with his large dark eyes, and his widened nostrils tasted the scents the wind carried toward him for signs of danger; his obvious alert keeping the people around them at bay.

“The Prince returns!”

“He is not dead! The Prince is not dead!”

As he observed his kinsmen’s reactions from the anonymity his cousin’s armour, Éomer could not help being overcome by a great bitterness. Would these people celebrate as much if they knew that it was their banished Marshal who had returned and not their beloved Prince? Had they not all turned their backs on him not even a fortnight ago, when it had been he for a change, who had had needed their loyalty and protection? ‘These are simple people,’ Éomer tried to remind himself, but the feeling would not wane. ‘They are no warriors. What should they have done against the Worm’s men… and Uncle’s orders?’ Perhaps that was right, perhaps his scorn was unjust, and yet he could not help wondering whether Gríma Wormtongue’s plan of dispatching his worst adversary would have succeeded had all the city’s occupants withstood him together. Or had they actually believed the accusations? Soundlessly sighing, Éomer shook his head to himself. If Théoden was truly dead… how was he supposed to be the ruler of a people who doubted him?

Suddenly eager to leave the crowd behind as quickly as possible, Éomer kicked his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, and the great Grey summoned the last of his strength to accelerate to a tired trot. Irritated by his action, the people scattered from the stallion’s path, and bemused silence spread among the crowd. No longer cheering, they watched as their Captains and a host of strangers in grey passed through their midst, only to huddle together and exchange bewildered murmurs once the warriors had passed.

Éomer neither cared, nor did he hear the hushed conversations rising behind them, for his gaze was now held by the Golden Hall’s towering silhouette. The night fires upon the terrace had already been lit and illuminated the ancient building’s elaborately crafted front, and in its shadows, he beheld the familiar figures of the Royal Guard. All looked as it should, the way it had for all these years before normality had ceased to exist for Éomer. Apparently Aragorn had been right and his kinsmen had already overcome the usurpers themselves… but the question remained: to which extent? Had the hostages been freed? Were they well? And had Gríma Wormtongue at last met his just end? As much as Éomer would rejoice at these tidings, there was also a part of him which would be left disappointed over hearing of his arch enemy’s demise. After all the Worm had done to him personally, Éomer had hoped to be granted the satisfaction of taking the filth to the sword himself.

With a jolt, the son of Éomund woke from his musings. It was useless to speculate; he would know soon enough… and in the end, all was secondary compared to Éowyn’s wellbeing. If his sister had come through the siege of Meduseld unharmed, he would sink to his knees and thank the Gods, and award the man who had had the joy of disposing of Gríma Wormtongue whatever he wished… but he could not see Éowyn yet, and that was certainly strange considering the great din of their arrival. Uneasily, he shifted in the saddle as silent dread tightened its hold around his ribs.

Their group came up on the broad space before the Royal stables just before the steps to the Golden Hall. Firefoot needed no signal from his rider to know that their long journey had at last found its end, and when the stallion stopped, Éomer slid from his back and patted the horse’s shoulder with a few apologetic words.

“Thank you, friend. I will be back later and repay my debt, but for now, I fear that you will have to make do with our stables master. Behave, for it is not the man’s fault.” Once more he clapped the grey hide and then turned around to hand over the reins to the man patiently waiting behind him. “Solgard…” The brief surprised twitch in the old man’s eyes told Éomer that the stable master had only recognised him now because of his misleading armour. Yet the man recovered quickly, and a joyful glow spread over his features. When he accepted the reins, he allowed his hand to linger on Éomer’s for a moment longer than necessary.

“Welcome home, Marshal. This is a great day of joy for Edoras and for the Mark. I trust that you were triumphant in the West?” The look in the warrior’s dark eyes confirmed his assumption, and a warm and truly glad smile formed on Solgard’s weathered features as his gaze wandered to Firefoot. “I already wondered what on earth had happened for the Prince to return on the back of your peculiar demon-horse, but here is the explanation. I should have known.”

The man’s joy was honest, and yet Éomer could not suppress the harsh voice in the back of his mind, asking him why the people of whom Solgard spoke had let it come so far to let their protector be expelled if his destiny had been of such concern to them.

“Thank you, Solgard,” he said instead with a measured nod, not wanting to alienate the man, and yet he had to struggle to keep the bitter thoughts from showing on his expression. Following the stable master’s look, Éomer added: “It is true, Théodred and he never got along, but then again, the Grey hardly suffers anyone else than me to approach him to begin with. Yet I must ask you to take care of him for me for now, as I am awaited in Meduseld... although I doubt that Firefoot has energy left to give you trouble. He did far more than his usual share on this errand, and I would that I could tend him myself, but...”

“No need to explain, Marshal,” Solgard replied eagerly and laid a hand on the stallion’s nose, surprised to reap no protest from the wilful beast. “I will give him my full attention. He is in good hands.”

“I do not doubt that, Solgard. Thank you.” Not waiting to observe as the man led away his horse, Eomer turned around and made for the stairs, vaguely aware that his companions had likewise dismounted and given over their steeds to the waiting stable hands. For a moment he could almost feel his kinsmen’s curiosity at the sight of their strange guests – had he ever seen a dwarf or an elf in Edoras before? And of course Gandalf Greyhame on the back of Shadowfax the Great alone was worthy of a commotion. Yet a moment later, all thoughts of them vanished from his mind at the sight of the lone figure on the foot of the steps.

It was Éothain, of course. Éomer sighed, at last overwhelmed by his conflicted emotions. He was glad to see his best friend alive and well, and yet this was also the man from whom – more than from anyone else – he had expected aid in his plight, if not by challenging the verdict, then by following him into exile. With the aid of his éored, or with just a few of their riders sent along as protection, none of the incidents that had followed would have happened. They would have killed the Worm’s henchmen who had come after him, and the orcs who had almost overcome him in the mountains would never have stood a chance. Yet for some reason Éomer could not begin to guess, Éothain had chosen to stay behind and do nothing, and to see his tall silhouette now in the twilight of the advancing night, an expression on his face which clearly indicated that he knew the meaning of Éomer’s dark glance, turned the warrior’s stomach into a knot. What was he supposed to say now? How was he supposed to behave? Did Éothain expect him to simply ignore the fact that his brother in all but blood had let him down in the time of his greatest need and overplay his feelings of betrayal for friendship’s sake?

Bracing himself for the confrontation he neither looked forward to nor had the mind to concern himself with for as long as Éowyn’s condition was still unknown, Éomer motioned for Findárras; but his gaze remained on Éothain, who seemed likewise uncertain of how to meet him.

“Fíndárras?”

“Aye?” The red-haired Eastfold-warrior stepped up to him, already knowing what his Marshal would ask of him as they had decided upon it before entering Edoras. Glad to delay the inevitable moment when he would have to address Éothain, Éomer turned to his kinsman, and for a moment, his gaze strayed to Aragorn and their other guests. Like all men who had gone through battle and then travelled the entire length of the Mark without interruption from Isengard, they looked wretched, but their arrival in the City of Kings had apparently restored enough of their energy to keep them on their feet for now. Their curious glances went up to the Golden Hall and then took in the magnificent view of the many flickering fires which had been lit below, and the stark contrast of the illuminated city to the complete darkness of the plains behind the fence.

“I know you are just as exhausted as everyone else, but--”

“I will show our guests to their rooms and ensure that they lack nothing,” Fíndárras quickly offered, for Éomer’s distress could no longer be overlooked. The son of Éomund chafed to be on his way to his sister… and the fact that Éowyn was not already here to greet him did not bode well. “Go, Éomer. They understand, and I know how to handle this. Our meals and baths and whatevers should be your least concerns now. Find Éowyn, and give her my regards, too, please.”

“Thank you, Fíndarras.” With a grateful glance, Éomer turned to Aragorn and his friends, and when he saw understanding on their faces as well, inclined his head in silent greeting and made for the stairs… and Éothain. Just one more obstacle between him and Éowyn, and while part of Éomer was dismayed to be thinking of his friend as merely a hindrance, he knew at the same time that he did not have the patience now to hear Éothain out.

As he approached, he saw the same knowledge in the other man’s eyes that things between them had changed, that their foe had somehow succeeded in staining the purity of their friendship. And there was something else in Éothain’s stance that gave Éomer pause; something he could not name yet, but it caused his skin to prickle and his stomach to twitch: with his rigid bearing and his hands clenched into fists by his sides, Éothain looked as if he were about to confess a terrible secret… and deadly afraid to do so. Steeling himself for whatever he would learn now, Éomer came to a halt before his friend. For the longest moment, the two warriors regarded each other silently, until at last, it was Éothain who began.

“Éomer…” He inhaled deeply, and such pain and guilt stood in his eyes that for a moment, everything Éomer had meant to say lost its meaning. Éothain shook his head as he hunted for the right words. When his gaze found back to his waiting friend, only honesty and regret shone in his eyes. “We should have accompanied you. Your entire éored wanted to follow you into exile; I wanted to follow you, but…”

“…but in the end, nobody did.” The words had passed Éomer’s lips before he could stop himself, and he could see their devastating effect on Éothain’s face, but there was no satisfaction to be had from his friend’s dismay. He did not want to fight with a man who had been his closest friend for many years, much less when there were far more urgent things on his mind, and yet the dammed disappointment of the last weeks needed release. Although Éomer did not mean to be brusque, he knew that his next words would be received as that. It could not be helped. “We will talk about this later, Éothain. Where is Éowyn?” Still she was not here, falling around his neck and simultaneously laughing and crying with joy over their reunion, and there was only one possible explanation for it: his fears had not been unfounded. He did not want to hear Éothain’s next words… and at the same time, he could not hear them fast enough. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps…

But suddenly Éothain could no longer look him in the eye, and if Éomer had needed any more confirmation, it was this, the last straw. Never before had his friend avoided his gaze. “Éomer… I do not know how to say this…”

No longer knowing what he was doing, Éomer suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders.

“What happened to her, Éothain? Tell me this instant!”

“She is alive. She is in her chambers, but…” Éothain inhaled deeply, but the task did not get easier. “We do not know what the Worm did to her. Apart from a few bruises, Yálanda found no injuries on her, and she is sure that your sister has not been touched… in that way, but… Éowyn will not respond to anyone. She will not eat and barely even drinks, and does not react when being spoken to or touched. It is as if her spirit has left her body.” Éomer’s horrified gaze silenced Éothain, and a moment later, he found himself standing alone and closed his eyes in torment while Éomer stormed up the stairs to the hall. “Béma…,” he whispered.

-------------------------

Éomer did not recognize a single face among the Royal Guards at the door, but his frantic mind did not concern itself with this observation as he limped toward the entrance as fast as his legs carried him. It could not be! How could their Gods have allowed that his innocent sister was punished for whatever he might have done to offend them? The men’s welcoming words passed his ears unregistered as he rushed through the door they opened for him to be greeted by the warmth in the hall, which stemmed from a merrily flickering fire in hearth and the many lit torches. It all looked maddeningly normal down to the tapestries behind the wooden throne, as if he had never been away and the incidents of the last two weeks only a very vivid nightmare, and yet Éomer knew that once he passed through the door before him, the door to Éowyn’s chambers, the reality lurking behind them would be more savage than any foe he had ever faced.

The guard before Éowyn’s chambers tried to address him with a joyous expression spreading on his innocent young face.

“Marshal Éomer, may I just say how glad--” His enthusiastic welcome died in his throat as he looked his commander in the eye. No matter where the Marshal’s mind was, it was not here, but at a dark, dark place; a place the guard hoped he would never have to experience for himself. Hastily he opened the door and all but jumped to the side before Éomer would have walked right through him. “My Lord, the King is inside with--” He was rewarded with neither glance nor reply.

“Èowyn?” She was not here. Of course she was not here, if her condition was as serious as Éothain had explained. “Éowyn?” Éomer’s heart pounded in his chest like a fearsome beast trying to flee its cage as he turned toward the door to the bedchamber. ‘What have you done, Worm? You said you loved my sister, so how could you destroy her?’

Hesitantly he laid his hand on the handle, and for terrible moment, dread overwhelmed him. It stole his breath and froze him to the floor, unable to move. Unable to open the door and see with his own eyes what had happened. What if Éowyn was waiting for him on the other side with madness in her eyes and her mind shattered into uncountable shards by the horrors she had been forced to experience? With her wrists tied to the poles of her bed because her caretakers feared that she would use the first opportunity they granted her to take her own life? Éomer swallowed and closed his eyes, uncertain whether he would be able to stand such a ghastly sight.

Béma, please… I will do whatever you ask of me for the rest of my life, and for my next lives as well, but please… spare my sister! She has done nothing to deserve this fate.’

And with a deep breath, he opened the door… and realised that he had found her at last. It was unmistakably Éowyn’s slender shape beneath the bedspread, although Éomer’s view of his sister’s upper body and face was obstructed by a figure sitting beside the bed in a big armchair. When that figure turned around and washed-out blue eyes met his gaze, his sense of reality deserted Éomer altogether. A long time ago in another life, the man who had lived behind this face had been someone he had loved from the bottom of his heart. Not as a father perhaps, because at the age of eleven years, Éomer had been old enough to distinctly remember his true father when the King had taken them into his household, but once the immediate pain of the loss of their parents had passed, he had felt warmed by his Uncle’s care and love.

No, not in the world had Éomer expected a hale-looking Théoden-King at his sister’s sickbed.

-----------------

The joyous smile which had first spread over Théoden’s features vanished when the old man beheld the strange look upon his nephew’s face. Although this was the first time in years that Éomer saw him freed from the Worm’s hold, it did not appear to the King as if his sister-son was glad to find him here. The realisation that he was unwelcome stung, and when his gaze dropped and he beheld the cuirass with the bronze rearing horse on his nephew’s chest, Théoden’s expression, too, turned to stone. How could this be? Was this a dream? A nightmare? Had Béma decided to let him wake from the darkness only to perpetually torment him for his failure with the discovery of his niece’s pitiful state and painful reminders of his son’s death?

Barely able to breathe through the tight ring around his ribs, Théoden stared mesmerized at the bronze horse on the familiar breastplate, and the pain of his loss once again assaulted him with sharp, merciless claws. An endless moment of leaden silence passed until he felt at last ready to meet his nephew’s gaze, and when he did so, the hard look in Éomer’s eyes added yet another hurt to the King’s wounded soul. Quite obviously, the lad who had grown to manhood under his nurture and care hated him now... and from what Théoden remembered from Gamling’s brief summarisation of the events since his descent into darkness, he had every reason.

“This is Théodred’s armour?” Those were not the words he had meant to say in greeting, and yet they escaped his mouth before he could stop himself, and their effect could be clearly seen on Éomer’s face as a hard glint flickered to life in his nephew’s eyes. His stomach seemed to drop into a bottomless hole as Théoden watched helplessly the rift between them suddenly widening like a yawning maw, a deep chasm impossible to bridge.

--------------

The sentence ended like a question, but it was none. Éomer understood, and instinctively squared his shoulders in a gesture of defence he had alas grown accustomed to over the past years. His gaze darkened. So the Worm was gone, but nothing had changed. What a fool had he been to think he would be welcomed here after all that had happened.

Exiled by his Uncle’s own words and sent away to die in the wilderness, he had against all odds survived, and he had returned triumphantly from battle after ridding the Mark of their mighty enemy in the west, and yet these were the first words that came to Théoden’s mind upon seeing him? Éomer swallowed and hid his bitterness behind a mask of stone. Did Théoden deem him to be a grave-robber? Did the King indeed believe that he would rob a man he had loved like a brother of his possessions? The man he had once been, the hot-headed, rash son of Éomund wanted to make himself to be heard, but the older, wiser warrior Éomer had grown into kept the upper hand. This battle was not worth the effort. There was precious little left of his energy after the long journey from Isengard, and what was left of it was Éowyn’s to have… it would be wasted on a man who had spiritually abandoned him long ago. His voice was toneless when he spoke at last, and only his sudden formality gave away his true feelings.

“Erkenbrand saved it from battle to give it to you, Sire, because Théodred was buried at the Fords, and he did not want your son’s resting place disturbed by the enemy to steal it. I was in need of amour for when we rode to Isengard, and I believed that my cousin would have liked the thought of me carrying it back into battle for him.” Éomers gaze went over Théoden’s shoulder, unfocused. He could no longer bear to look his Uncle in the eye. “And now I would like to see my sister.” ‘Alone!’ He did not say it aloud, but his tone was not to be misunderstood.

“Éomer…” Théoden sighed, and once again cursed the moment of surprise which had prompted him to utter these horrible words he had not even meant. And he cursed his weakness which prevented him from rising to his feet and embracing the wilful young man before him, the man who had been like a son to him, for when words failed, gestures bespoke one’s true emotions far more clearly than words ever could. And yet even if he had had the strength – there was something in his nephew’s stance forbidding such an attempt; something that warned him to even approach the son of Eomund.

I banished him! Of course he hates me!’ Théoden thought desperately. And Éomer’s rage would even intensify once he saw the horrible condition of his sister with his own eyes, and of course he would hold his Uncle responsible for that, too. A headache began to form behind the King’s furrowed brow as he struggled to stand, not willing to wait for his guard to help him leave the room when Éomer obviously wanted him out as quickly as possible. Right now, there was no sense in confrontation, in talking, not before the lad had been granted his time alone with Éowyn. Théoden understood.

And yet while he teetered shakily toward the door, his sister-son did nothing to help him. Like a statue Éomer stood in the middle of the room, and his gaze went straight through his surrogate father as he stared at his sister’s still shape with a sinking feeling of despair. He had been right to dread his homecoming.

Just before he passed his nephew, Théoden took a moment to stand and straighten with as much dignity as he could muster, and the expression on his face was honest and sad at the same time when he said: “I am glad you have returned, Éomer. I am glad you are alive, and I am proud to see you as the leader of our men. These were the words I wanted to say when I saw you, and I should have… but I only learned of Théodred’s death last night, and the wound is still fresh.” He inhaled, and it pained him to see that Éomer’s expression would not change. As much as he wanted to embrace the lad, he refrained from it, knowing that his affection would not be welcome. “Come to me later, Éomer, please. There is much to say between us, but I understand that now is not the time for it. I will be waiting for you in my chambers.” He inhaled again and waited for a reply, but when it became clear that none would be given, he nodded at last and left.





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