Chapter 66: A Battle of a different Kind

MEDUSELD

The last few steps over to where the prone shape of his sister lay took more courage than Éomer had ever needed before in his life. His heart pounding painfully in his chest the closer he came, he felt increasingly like wading through a invisible, thick, cold liquid, not air, until at last he reached the bedside of his unresponsive sister and lowered himself into the chair his uncle had just vacated. He did not hear the door closing behind Théoden or the roaring wind outside the window; nor did he register the growing darkness in the room or the warmth reaching him from the burning logs in the fireplace. Frozen in mind and body at the sight of his sister’s horrible state, Éomer slowly extended his arm to pick up Éowyn’s bony hand from the edge of the mattress. It felt cold to his touch, lifeless, and Éomer shivered at the sensation. His stomach plunged into a bottomless abyss as a great void opened before him. His nightmare had become reality. How he had feared this moment! He swallowed, and his throat tightened dangerously as he whispered:

“Éowyn? Little Bird?”

He saw no reaction to his voice on Éowyn’s face, not even the briefest twitch of the smallest muscle or the slightest sign of recognition. She barely even blinked. The blank expression remained in his sister’s gaze, and her deep blue eyes which had always sparkled with life and barely restrained energy looked flat and dead to the world as she continued to stare at the ceiling. She looked like a puppet, Éomer thought. A carefully crafted but abused and long neglected puppet, not like a human being, and desperation grasped his heart with the cold fist of horror as he gently squeezed Éowyn’s fingers in an attempt to warm her hand with his. He could barely speak anymore, and his words were almost inaudible even to his own ears as he leant forward to hold his face in her line of vision. Trying to force a reaction.

“I am back, Éowyn. I have returned. All is good, and our enemies are defeated. The Mark is free, and the Worm destroyed. The moment we dreamt of for so long has finally come. There is no more need for fear. Please, come back. Follow my voice if you hear me. Please...” Gently he stroked her cheek, his lips a bloodless line in his marred and dirty face as he fought for control. Gods, she looked so frail, as if the merest touch could break her. His eyes began to burn as his gaze travelled over Éowyn’s haggard appearance. Not in his worst nightmares had he ever seen his sister like this, nor could he ever have envisioned her this way. No matter what had happened to Éowyn in his horrible dreams since he had been banished, she had always looked the way he remembered her: strong, defiant and proud, as if nothing, not even the prospect of death itself could ever unsettle or frighten her. The contrast of this strong woman to the broken creature beneath his fingertips, this gaunt, bruised and abused young woman with the sunken eyes and dull grey skin was stunning, turning his blood into ice water and robbing him of his breath. His fingers glided through Eowyn’s tresses which Maelwyn had carefully combed earlier, but like everything else about her, they gave away her condition without mercy; the once golden sheen gone and replaced by an ashen tone. It looked dull and neglected, like a bad imitation of what it used to be, and touching the long, lifeless strands suddenly became too much for Éomer. He withdrew his hand so quickly as if he had burnt himself.

And suddenly there was warmth on his face, which was surprising because otherwise he felt chilled to the core, and when he reached up to find the source of the strange sensation, Éomer felt the wetness of his own tears. The very thing he had feared had happened: the Gods had allowed him to liberate the Mark from the White Wizard’s stranglehold, but they had asked the highest price for their allegiance. His triumph held no comfort for Éomer as he hunched over in the chair and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry… Oh Éowyn, I am so sorry…”

 

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With the tray in her hands, Maelwyn slipped silently through the door and nodded her thanks to the young guard who held it open for her. Carefully she set her burden down on the table in her mistresses’ chamber and righted herself, her gaze already straying to the closed door behind which her poor lady lay, far removed from the world to escape the horrors she had been forced to witness.

The young handmaiden had heard all the good tidings that had spread like wildfire through the city: about their army’s great victory in the west and the finding of new and powerful allies. She had even seen their high guests and at once felt the air of confidence and strength the dark-haired man in their midst had radiated, and she had been relieved to see Gandalf Greyhame return to Rohan as well. And yet her greatest joy was that against all odds, her lady’s brother had returned from exile, too. Considering what they had been through within the past fortnight and the way everything had turned for the better when no one had expected it anymore, Maelwyn realised that her heart should have been singing with happiness… but she felt as tense as a drawn bow.

She had not met the Third Marshal yet after his return, but she knew that he was behind these doors. And she had seen the King’s face when Théoden had summoned her to tell her of his nephew’s arrival, and bade her to bring Éomer a meal to his sister’s chambers because he did not think that his nephew would leave her bedside anytime soon. The memory of her ruler’s obvious anguish caused Maelwyn’s stomach to clench to a painful knot. Despite his miraculous recovery, Théoden-King had looked broken when he had left his niece’s chambers, and Maelwyn was not sure whether it was because of Éowyn’s horrible condition or of whatever had happened between him and Éomer behind the closed doors.

On thing was certain though, Maelwyn thought unhappily as she sought for the courage inside herself to knock against the door: the man on the other side of these walls would be horrified by the state he had found his sister in; the closeness of the two siblings was no secret, and neither was Éomer’s protectiveness for the only family member left to him. To find Éowyn as a living corpse upon his return was something Maelwyn assumed could well drive the passionate warrior to desperate measures. She shivered at the thought, and out of fear for Éomer, finally stepped forth to rap her knuckles softly against the wood.

With baited breath she waited, but was not bidden to enter. She heard nothing behind the door, no movement, no voice… Yet she was not surprised. It was likely that Éomer hoped to discourage her from entering with his silence because he wanted to be alone with his sister. Her teeth digging into her lower lip, Maelwyn contemplated her options. The King himself had given her the specific order to care for his nephew; wouldn’t it be a violation of them to just leave Éomer to himself? And wasn’t it possible that the Marshal, however wilful and stubborn, was at a place where he needed to talk to someone? She looked back at the tray, where she had wisely placed a bowl of thick soup for Éowyn, too, just for the justification to enter the Lady’s bedchambers even against her brother’s wish. Picking it up now with a deep breath, Maelwyn repeated her knocking, and when again no answer came, she summoned her courage and opened the door to stick her head inside the room.

At the noise of the opening door, the man in the chair jerked around as if he had been hit, and for a moment, she saw the expression of utter despair and the wetness of tears on Éomer’s unguarded features before he stiffened and looked away. His voice sounded harsh when he said: “I did not ask you to enter.”

Maelwyn’s chest tightened at the warrior’s hostility and her heart raced, and yet she could not be angry at Éomer, for she knew that his tone was partly spurred by being ashamed that she had seen him cry. It did not matter that she saw nothing wrong with his tears, that it was in fact all too understandable that a man would despair over seeing a loved one in such horrible condition. The King’s nephew was a proud man, who had not allowed himself to let others see any of his weaknesses his entire life. His obvious torment saddened Maelwyn, but of course pity would be the last thing Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark, wanted. Yet compassion was not pity, was it, and how could compassion be wrong?

“Aye, my Lord, that I know, and I apologise for disturbing you. But it is time for the Lady Éowyn to eat, and also the King himself asked me to bring you a meal as well as he believed you must be hungry after the long journey. I wanted to let you know I left it on the table for you. It is still hot.” She waited for a reaction, but none came. With a deep breath, she continued: “The King also asked me to let you know that he will take care of our guests, and that there will be no council held tonight.”

Éomer stared at her as if he had problems understanding her words, and while she waited silently for his reply, Maelwyn had the time to give her Lady’s brother a more thorough look. She was dismayed at the gauntness of the man she had never known as anything else but one of their most powerful warriors. She did not know what had happened to the King’s nephew in the two weeks since his banishment, but if Éomer’s dishevelled appearance was any indication, the time had been at least as hard for him as it had been for them at Edoras. While her gaze travelled over his dirty, marred face and the dark shadows underneath his usually so intense eyes, the warrior slumped, and all energy suddenly seeped from his powerful frame. And still he avoided her gaze. His voice sounded flat, without pronunciation when he spoke. Hopeless. “I am not hungry.” The sheer sound of his despair cut Maelwyn to the bone, and against better knowledge, she stepped further into the room.

She saw now that he held his sister’s hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of Éowyn’s without interruption in an unconscious gesture, and the gentleness of the scene moved her deeply. She summoned the courage to advance another step, and still no protest came from the Marshal. Instead he surprised her by asking: “What did he do to her, Maelwyn? What did the filth do to my sister?” He swallowed and finally lifted his head to pierce her with his anguished gaze, and while the tears had stopped, the hopelessness of his expression suddenly caused Maelwyn’s own voice to shake. The Third Marshal looked and sounded like a man who had returned from battle to find his home raised to the ground and his kin killed.

“I cannot tell, my Lord,” she somehow managed to whisper. She looked at Éowyn. “The Counsellor expelled me from service only one day after you left Edoras; I only returned this morning after Éothain had defeated our foes. I have no knowledge of the things that happened in the Golden Hall in between these days, except for a few vague things I picked up from the other servants.”

He stared at her, incredulous.

“You mean that my sister was alone the whole time? What did you do that he expelled you, and could you not have been more cautious? My sister needed you more than ever! Was that not clear to you?”

His unjust accusation cut her deeply, and yet Maelwyn told herself to remain calm under Éomer’s piercing gaze. The man before her had gone through the fires of Angband himself, only to find his sister a hollow shell upon his unlikely return. Béma alone knew what horrible things had happened to him since his own uncle had banished him from the land he had always served truthfully, and in his despair Éomer lashed out at whoever was available. He did not mean it, she had to remember that. Straightening her shoulders, she summoned her courage.

“I was expelled for something I did for your sister, my Lord,” she said, calmly setting him right but avoiding his gaze. She had not wanted to tell him about Éowyn’s plan, but now that he had asked, she could not very well remain silent. “Your sister tried to send you your weapons to a secret place, but the Counsellor forbade her to leave her room. So she asked me to go and see it done for her.”

Her reply did nothing to calm the angry man before her.

“He forbade Éowyn to leave her room? And neither Hámá nor Gamling nor anyone else objected?”

Maelwyn understood his frustration. In hindsight, it sounded impossible even to her own ears, even she had witnessed it herself. They all had behaved as if under a spell, like mice at the sight of a snake. She shook her head and only hesitantly dared to look up. Gods, the Marshal looked angry, and her voice almost failed her when she asked: “Many things happened here while you were away, my Lord, and not all of them can be explained, at least not by a serving wench such as myself. But I do know that the Captains of the Guard challenged our foes… and paid dearly for the attempt, like most of the Royal Guard. Éothain told me this much.” A shadow fell on her face as she remembered their conversation, and the pain in Éothain’s eyes when he had told her of his father’s fate. She swallowed and lowered her gaze in expectance of further questions, but Éomer remained silent. “Did you receive the weapons your sister sent you, my Lord?”

“No.” Èomer drew his eyebrows together. “Apparently the Worm’s henchmen learnt of her plan, because they used it for a trap. Whom did Éowyn send?”

“It was Élric who rode out to meet you, my Lord.” If possible, Éomer turned an even whiter shade of pale, and Maelwyn braced herself for more of his anger. She would have preferred not to burden the poor man with all the bad tidings at once when he had barely returned, but of course she had to answer his questions truthfully.

“Élric?” The warrior inhaled air in a horrified gasp, not wanting to ask the next question, but asking it anyway because he needed to know. “And… did he return?” In his heart, Éomer already knew the answer, and yet the pain was sharp when the handmaiden shook her head. “Béma…” He ran a hand through his matted hair and over his face as if he could simply wipe away the bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to fell him where he sat. Not yet. Not while he did not know all that had happened here while he had been away. Who else had the Worm killed? All of his friends and people he knew his adversary cared about? To ensure that even if he was defeated in the end, it would be a hollow victory for the Rohirrim and the House of Éorl?

“Only his horse returned,” Maelwyn spoke silently into his dark thoughts, “-- but it had a bloody scrape in its side, and its saddle was gone.” She swallowed, her eyes burning when she remembered the dreadful day. “Éothain said that it looked as if someone had cut it off.”

Éomer closed his eyes. So they had caught Élric and tortured him into revealing their meeting place, for he knew that Bergfinn’s son would never have betrayed him otherwise. Yet another death to avenge in addition to Théodred’s as well those of the many riders they had lost over the years to the Worm’s scheming once he stood before Gríma. The evil that man had done to the Mark was beyond comprehension. And to think of what the filth had done to Éowyn… Éomer ground his teeth in poorly contained rage as his adversary’s pale face rose like a sick moon before his inner eye, and he balled his fists in helpless frustration. He would ensure that the traitor paid for every single one of his fell deeds; he would ensure that Saruman’s minion died the hardest death either man or beast had ever died in the history of the Mark. And he would not allow that the craven counsellor would close his eyes forever until he, Eomund’s son, decided that retribution was complete. If Gríma was not already dead. The sudden thought woke Éomer from his plans for revenge.

“Is Wormtongue dead? Or was he captured alive?”

Maelwyn shook her head regretfully. “I do not know, my Lord. I’m afraid such things are not discussed with a handmaiden, but I suppose that the guards will know, or the King.”

Éomer nodded, clearly torn by his desire to go and find out – and to stay with his sister, and while he battled with himself, Maelwyn got another good look at his dirty and bruised face and the expression of utter exhaustion in his usually so fearsome, intense eyes, and it became evident to her that the man before her was bodily and spiritually at the end of his strength. And she remembered something else. “My Lord, your meal… it will be cold if you don’t eat it soon.”

“I already said that I wasn’t hungry,” he repeated, yet without his usual strength, and nodded at the steaming bowl in her hands. “This is for Éowyn?”

“Aye.” Intuition led Maelwyn to ask: “Would you like to help me feed your sister, my Lord? If anyone can bring the White Lady back from the place where she is now, I suppose it must be you. Talk to her and hold her while I feed her, and perhaps she will find the way back to us.” The smallest spark of hope lit up Éomer’s eyes, and although he looked tired enough to fall asleep on the spot, the warrior nodded eagerly.

“Aye. Aye, that might be a good idea.” He looked at his sister, and the shadow that had lifted from his expression for a brief moment was back. “What should I do? Hold her upright?” His brow furrowed. “I need to shed my armour, first. Leather and metal are no comfortable resting place for her.” He rose to his feet with considerable effort and Maelwyn put the bowl in her hands aside because he clearly expected her to help him. Hesitantly she rose, not sure what to do.

“Just unfasten the clasps and buckles on the back,” Éomer instructed her, already fiddling with the clasps at his sides. “You will not be able to hold the armour; I will do that myself.” 

“Aye, my Lord.” Tensing and intimidated at the thought of being so close to one of the most powerful warriors of the Mark, Maelwyn reached out and to her relief, managed to do as bidden without problems. “I am done, my Lord.” She stepped back, and a moment later Éomer shrugged off the heavy shirt of mail, and it thundered to his feet. He slipped out of the cuirass and stood now before Maelwyn only in his leather tunic and woollen shirt and trousers - all of which told clearly of the effort laying behind him. His brow still furrowed, he looked down at himself, no doubt aware of how filthy he was. A hesitant glance found Maelwyn, and against her timidity, she suddenly found herself smiling.

“I do not believe your sister will mind, Lord Éomer. Perhaps it will even help to reach her.” And what she had never received from the wilful young man so far, she received now: a small, but honest smile that warmed her heart.

“Whatever I can do, I will do.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, and with great gentleness, slipped his arms underneath his sister’s lithe body to lift her up until Éowyn’s head rested comfortably against his shoulder. As Maelwyn shifted her seat to the chair Éomer had just vacated and slid closer, she heard him murmur soothingly: “All is good now, Éowyn. There is no more need to hide. He’s gone.” A lump formed in her throat as she watched those powerful hands which could wield a sword with such deadly efficiency caress Éowyn’s face with a carefulness as if she were made of glass. Not wanting to intrude the intimate moment between brother and sister, Maelwyn concentrated on the bowl in her lap and took the spoon, and only when she felt Éomer’s gaze back on herself did she look up, and together, they tended the White Lady of Rohan.

 

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 “Éowyn? Éowyn! Come in now, the evening meal is ready!”

“I am coming, Mother!” She ruffled the foal’s bushy mane and reluctantly removed her fingers on which it had been suckling from its mouth. “I am sorry, Windfola, but now it is time for me to eat, AS too. You already had your meal, now get some sleep. There will be new lessons to learn tomorrow.” She rose to her feet and gave the little horse a slight shove in the direction of its mother, who stood close by and watched them calmly, a few sticks of hay protruding from her mouth.  “Go!”

At first, her young playfellow looked as if it were about to protest, but upon a low huff of its mother the one day old foal stalked at last to the higher hay in the corner of the stall which would be its sleeping place. With a glad smile, Éowyn looked on until the little grey mare dropped into her bed, then she turned around and ran back the path to the house; with her almost seven years by no means less playful than the foal she would ride one day when they had both grown.

It was one of the rare evenings their family was united, and Éowyn enjoyed remaining at the dinner table for as long as she could drag out her meal to make the most of her father’s unexpected presence. Then Éomund brought them to bed, carrying his daughter in his arms and his son walking beside him with a lenient smile upon his face, and he told them the exciting tale of Fram and Scatha before he extinguished the candle and kissed them good-night. The warm sensation of love filling her wholly, Éowyn wrapped herself tightly into her blanket and closed her eyes.

“Good night, Éomer…”

“Good night, Little Bird…” She waited for his usual reply, but he remained silent. With her eyes still closed, she wrinkled her brow. No, it was not right this way. Did Éomer not know that?

“Good night, Éomer!” she repeated therefore, more forcefully. Surely he could not miss the meaning now, could he? Or had he already fallen asleep? But he had still been very much awake when their father had bidden them a good night; nobody could fall asleep from one moment to the next, could he? But still she was not rewarded with an answer, and it bothered her enough to open her eyes. What she saw came as utter surprise to her: she was no longer in the room they had shared in the blissful days of their early youth in Aldburg.

And yet Éowyn recognised her surroundings well enough as her eyes glided over the high ceiling to the opposite window. The world beyond the glass was dark, but in the flickering light of the lowly burning fire she saw enough of the heavy curtains and the wall-hangings to understand that she was in her bedchamber in Meduseld. She did not understand how the change had happened, but barely had she recognised her whereabouts when the implications of that change suddenly froze her to the core. No. No, it could not be that she was back here, in HIS realm! Was HE here, too? Waiting for her to move so that he could continue to ravage her soul? Was it HIS doing that she had been sucked away from her joyful memories?

Holding her breath, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped animal, Éowyn looked at the space beside her out of the corner of her eye. ‘If I move he will see it! Careful! Careful!’ But no one was there, and she relaxed a little. ‘But what if he sits in the chair?’  And so she turned her head just the smallest fraction – and turned to stone. As suspected, she was not alone in the room… or perhaps she was, for it could not be what her eyes showed her.

“Éomer…” It was not even a whisper, and from one moment to the next, her eyes were brimming with tears. Yes, it was her brother, her beloved brother who sat in the chair by her bedside, slumped in an awkward position that indicated how deeply he had sunken into the arms of sleep as he did not even try to correct it. Even in the flickering twilight, he looked gaunt; the cheekbones too prominent in his dirty face, and there were bruised and cuts on his brow and the side of his head, marring his features. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to wander through a sleep so deep that nothing could ever wake him again. And of course he would never wake again, and he could not be here. Realisation hit Éowyn hard. Éomer was dead. Dead - or in the hands of the enemy. At the mercy of a man who knew no mercy. The tears spilled over now, and she shut her eyes in torment and rolled on her back. It was a dream, or another one of Gríma Wormtongue’s cruel tricks.

No matter where she hid from the Worm, he knew where to find her and how to hurt her. Just when she thought she had finally found peace … Commanded by a force she couldn’t resist, Éowyn opened her eyes again. Éomer was still there, sleeping soundly in the chair where Gríma had sat and observed her. What if it was in fact Gríma? The thought hit her unexpectedly and chilled her to the core. ‘No, no, it can’t be!’ But of course it could be; she knew that it was not beyond her foe to torture her in this way. While she had hidden from him in the memories of her early childhood days, he had administered her one of his potions; it sounded like something a black soul like Gríma Wormtongue would enjoy: to sit there and watch her renewed pain over imagining to see her dead brother. But there was something she could do yet to resist her tormentor; he would not win! She had found the way once, and she would find it again, and this time, no trick the snake could ever conceive would bring her back.

And as the first weak light of the dawn turned the darkness before her window to grey, Éowyn turned toward the darkness within herself and let herself fall…

 

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