Chapter 67: Estrangement

EDORAS

When daylight slowly crept over the eastern horizon, it fell for the first time in years upon a freed kingdom of Rohan, and together with the mild southern breeze that announced the arrival of spring, lifted the hearts of the citizens of Edoras after the long time of darkness. The people who took to the streets after the first cockcrow looked different than before; their expressions brightened by relief and renewed hope for the future shining in their eyes. Against all odds, their Riders had triumphed over the enemy in the West and destroyed his army, and the Worm’s stranglehold upon their land had been broken, so what could there be possibly left to fear?

And yet not every heart was all joyful; too many lives had been lost especially over the last dark year, and those whose kin and friends belonged to their armed forces who had ridden against Isengard anxiously awaited the arrival of the rest of their éohere. The returning Riders had spoken of great losses in the enemy’s land; and having to wait until they would know whether their loved ones were among the survivors was nothing short of torture for the citizens of Edoras.

Torn between relief and fear, the people began their day, and many a time their glances would rise from their tasks and wander to the western road in hope to see their returning army first…

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MEDUSELD

Morning’s first light also found its way through the windows of the Golden Hall, where it woke Éomer from a deep, dreamless sleep. With an unconscious groan, the son of Eomund stirred in the chair to find his neck muscles tightly wound from the uncomfortable sleeping position. Stretching his arms quickly led to the discovery that the rest of his body was just as sore as his neck, and yet after all that he had been through, Éomer dismissed it as a mere inconvenience which would be forgotten as soon as he moved around and his body warmed up. Hoping against hope to find a change for the better in his sister’s condition, his first look sought Éowyn, but found her in the same position on her back as on the previous evening, and her gaze just as empty... except for one thing which painted a frown onto Éomer’s face: a thin trail of moisture lead from Éowyn’s eyes to her ears. She had wept. No matter where her mind was, wherever she had sought refuge within herself, obviously it was impossible even there for his poor sister to escape the horrors she had witnessed. Oh, how he would make the Worm bleed for this…

“Éowyn...” Éomer sighed, and raised her hand to his lips to brush a fleeting kiss onto her knuckles, his breath warm against her cool skin. In the back of his mind, despair once again unfolded its nightblack wings to assault him, and yet Éomer refused to give in to it. Perhaps those tears were a good sign as well, a sign that Éowyn was not as far removed from their world as everyone thought? Perhaps she even heard him when he spoke, but did not know how to return to her body to react? Perhaps if he only continued to speak with her, she would find the way back?

Shifting his weight onto the mattress beside his sister’s limp form, the warrior gently traced the path of her tears with his fingertips, then cupped her face with his palm as he urgently whispered: “Come back to me, Little Bird. There is no more need to cry. Follow my voice if you hear me, or give me a sign. Can’t you give me a sign, Èowyn?” His gaze intently on her face, his hand involuntarily pressed hers in hope for a reaction that did not come. For a few more moments he waited, his heart anxiously beating as he continued to focus on her unmoving face, until at last disappointment won. Reluctantly, Éomer shifted his gaze to the window, and with the realisation that the new day was well on the way, remembered his duties. As much as he would have wished to, he could not stay here beside her.

“I must leave you now, Éowyn, but I will not be far away. And I promise you that I will be back as quickly as I can. Do not be afraid to wake, Little One. There are only friends now left in these halls, the way it should be.” For another small eternity, Éomer studied the void in his sister’s large blue eyes although their emptiness chased a shiver down his spine.

Against all odds, he had prevailed in the wilderness and the numerous battles since his banishment, and while Éomer acknowledged that large part of that was due to the unexpected help he had received from his people as well as Aragorn and his friends, he also knew that he would never have made it through his trials without the necessary determination. His will and what he could achieve if he truly set his mind to it was already legendary within the Riders of his own éored; now it was time to focus on the one battle which really counted: no matter what it took, he would help Éowyn to find the way back. He would will her back to life, even if it were the last thing he would ever do.

“I’ll be back,” Éomer whispered and brushed his fingers over her cheek once more before he finally rose to his feet. No, he did not want to leave, even if Maelwyn slept close by and would take over his watch, but there were things to be taken care of before their council would assemble after the morning meal. Such as… remedying broken promises. With a last glance back from the door frame, Éomer made for his own chambers to get started on the many demands this day would bring.

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His energy partly restored after hist first restful night since he could not remember when, Éomer slipped into his chambers for the first time after his return, and for a moment, experienced a feeling of profound disorientation as he shut the door behind him. Someone had been in here to prepare the rooms for their owner last night: there was a bathtub full of water, no doubt cold by now, a plate on the table with his likewise cold dinner, and a fire had been lit in the fireplace which had died down to glowing embers. It looked as if he had never even been away. As if the nightmarish fortnight he had gone through had been but a dream from which he woke only now, and the sensation would not diminish when Éomer slowly walked through his chambers, taking in the wall-hangings, the curtains and rugs with the growing urge of having to scream.

A quick glance into his bedchambers confirmed that it was no different there, but the sight which should have comforted him, unsettled him instead. So much had changed since he had left; it did not seem right that these changes were not reflected by his surroundings. Behind that next wall, his sister’s empty shell was struggling to live on, her mind shattered, so how in Eorl’s name could it be that he was made to believe that everything was still the same? ‘But not all changes are ill,’ he tried to cheer himself up. ‘The Worm’s gone, wherever he is. Saruman is dead.’ The thought failed to stir up joy in him.

A deep frown on his face, Éomer quickly walked over to his closet to pick a new set of garments, then washed himself with the help of the cold water and slipped into the new shirt and trousers. For a moment, the feeling of wearing his own clothes again for a change was comforting, although the need to leave these cursed chambers which somehow felt so wrong did not lessen, and impatiently he raked a comb through his wet and tangled hair… and froze when his gaze fell upon the face in the mirror. Just one look into the haunted eyes before him was enough to quickly turn away. He had to get out of here now before the atmosphere of hopelessness would suffocate him!

With a final knot, he was at last done, and Éomer all but fled the oppressive confines of his chambers. The Throne Room still lay in shadows when he rushed through the corridors, and only few torches and the fire in the hearth illuminated the darkness. The quiet was no less oppressive here as the new work day had not yet begun in the Golden Hall, and only his purposeful strides echoed through the empty hall as the warrior directed his steps over to the kitchens. Curtly nodding his acknowledgement to the few guards he saw along the way, Éomer extended his arm to push the door open, when the sudden sound of hushed voices from inside stopped him in his tracks.

“Higher! Higher! I’ve almost got it!”

“I can’t! You’re too heavy!”

“Naw! You’re just too weak!”

A simultaneous, two-voiced shriek, and with a ruckus Éomer was sure had woken the entire hall, half the kitchen’s pans and pots crashed to the ground... or at least it sounded like they had. His eyebrows curiously, the Rohír slowly pushed against the already half-opened door– and found two mortified hobbits sitting on the ground amidst the spilled contents of the shelf they had torn from the wall. A lazy white cloud of meal enveloped them thoroughly and dismayed eyes stared at the warrior from powdered faces.

For a moment, the two Halflings were too shocked to speak, then, after a moment when all they could utter were helpless little gasps, the power of speech returned to both of them simultaneously.

“It was his idea!” They suddenly blurted out in unison, pointing at each other, and against his glum disposition, Éomer felt the almost irresistible urge to explode with laughter. Biting down hard on his tongue, he addressed instead the one who had deemed him as the slightly more sensible one from the brief encounter he had had with the Halflings, his voice deep in mock-sternness.

“May I ask what you are doing in our kitchens at this early hour, Master Merry? Especially since it is officially closed yet?”

“My friend here was hungry.” Merry, the one with the slightly fairer hair, replied with a dark glance at his blushing cousin. Under the Rohír’s curious observation, the two Halflings picked themselves up and brushed the white powder from their garments with what dignity they could muster, every now and then risking a hesitant glance at the towering warrior. By all rights, the Marshal should have been angry at them, even more so as the young man had appeared so grim and fierce on the ride from Isengard… but wasn’t there an amused sparkle they saw those dark, otherwise oh-so-serious eyes? Barely daring to hope that they would be spared the justified scolding, but deciding that a little self-criticism might help to pacify their host, Merry snapped at Pippin. “I told you to wait, Pip, didn’t I? I said ‘Let’s wait until the kitchen is open, and then we’ll go and ask them nicely, but no...”

The object of his chiding somehow managed to look indignant and guilty at the same time.

“It is not a crime to be hungry, is it? If you’re hungry, you’re hungry!” Pippin looked at Éomer as if he sought the warrior’s confirmation. “I mean, there is no point in trying to go back to sleep when your stomach growls at you like a wild animal. Only eating will help.”

“So it would seem,” Éomer did him the favour, and knitted his brows as he gave the mess the hobbits had created another thorough look. Slowly shaking his head in amazement at the destruction, he asked: “What were you trying to reach?”

Pippin followed his gaze and pointed up to where some large earthen pots stood on an even higher shelf, luckily still in place. The one he was pointing at was decorated with a clay bee. He cleared his throat. “That one up there.”

“The honey?” He could no longer help himself: a crooked grin spread over Éomer’s face as he stepped into the devastated kitchen. “I suppose we can call ourselves glad that you did not push that one down! Our kitchen master would have skinned you alive!” He took another step, leaving big footprints in the meal that seemed to cover the entire kitchen as if a late-winter snowstorm had found its way into the Golden Hall.

“You could not... I mean-“

“Pippin!”

“What? Why should I not--”

“Well, I suppose I could.” And with a wink at the surprised hobbits, Éomer extended his arm and cautiously lifted the heavy pot from the shelf. Putting it on the workplace for them, he scanned the large room for some leftover bread, when another stern voice ripped him out of his thoughts.

“Now what by Béma’s beard is this?” Although he had nothing to do with the destruction, Éomer felt heat creep into his face as he beheld Elfgyth, Meduseld’s resolute Mistress of the kitchens in the door frame, her meaty arms stemmed firmly against her hips as she stared at the supposed culprits. An incredulous look found him. “Marshal? Marshal Éomer?” The wrinkles on the woman’s face deepened with perplexity as she suddenly found herself confronted with a warrior in her domain. “What are you doing in my kitchen…my Lord?” she added hastily before Théoden’s nephew, who was known for his fierce temper, could demonstrate the same to her. But strangely enough, the young man looked more ashamed than angry. How long ago had it been that she had last seen him here in her kitchen, trying to sneak away with a piece of cake or whatever he could find to get on the good side of his horse? Not since his childhood days, she concluded, and her amazement only grew when her gaze wandered over his strange company. Now whose children were those, and what had Éomer to do with them?

“We must apologise, Mistress Elfgyth,” Éomer said after clearing his throat, his face still crimson with embarrassment as he eyed his even more guilty-looking companions. “—but our guests here were very hungry and tried to find something to eat without wanting to disturb your staff at this early hour. I would beg of you that you give them a piece of bread with honey, please, and of course they will be glad to clean up this mess themselves.”

“Aye, very glad!” the hobbits nodded eagerly, yet barely dared to look at the grim-faced, solid woman before them. “If you show us where we find cloths and a broom, we will do so right away. We are very sorry for this.” A thankful glance found their Rohirric co-conspirator.

“I will give you that in a moment,” Elfgyth replied, the wind taken out of her sails before her anger could fully develop, and her eyes focused on Éomer again, who had thought the opportunity favourable to sneak away unnoticed. “May I express how glad we all are to have you back, Marshal? We barely dared to hope for your save return.” And then she remembered. “Oh, and I am so sorry about your sister! We were all devastated when we heard--”

“She will wake from it. She will overcome this. Do not speak of her as if she were already dead!” Éomer’s gaze pinned her, and for a moment, the desperate force of his interruption took her breath away. The Hobbits, too, stared at the man who had just surprised them with his unexpected playful mood upon finding the mischief they had caused, and it appeared to them only now that the forbidding expression the commander of the Rohirrim had worn all that time had been born from desperation.

Her mouth almost hanging open with shock from being shouted at, Elfgyth stammered: “Please, forgive me, my Lord. I did not meant to imply--”

But Éomer was already pushing past her, on his hurried way to flee the attention only stopping briefly when he spied a basket filled with old, wrinkled apples on the kitchen counter. They looked as if they barely contained a drop of juice anymore, but they would be sweet and just like Firefoot loved them. “May I take some of these apples, Mistress Elfgyth?”

“For your horse?” she asked, still tense and fearful to rose the warrior’s anger anew. “Of course. Take as many as you like; we have sacks full of them.”

“Thank you.” His voice was flat again, and Éomer’s expression indicated that he felt ashamed over snapping at the woman when all she had wanted was to express her compassion, and yet no words of excuse would come over his lips. Elfgyth did not have to hear them to know that he was sorry; after all, she had known Marshal Eomund’s son ever since her King had brought him and his sister with him to Meduseld, and the young man’s mood had rarely been a mystery to her. For a moment, the image of the lanky thirteen-year-old from her memory collided with the sight of the powerful warrior before her, and suddenly she felt a burning sensation in her eyes. Even back then Éomer’s behaviour had never left any doubt about what his sister meant to him, and it was all-too-easy for Elfyth to understand that the sight of the White Lady’s condition had done to the man.

The pockets of his tunic bulging with apples, Éomer turned around, and with a nod, both silently apologised for his and excused himself from their company. “I will leave our guests in your care for now; will that be all right? They will not be in your way.” A questioning glance found the two Hobbits.

“No, we will gladly help you with whatever you give us to do.” Merry emphasised eagerly, and beside him, Pippin nodded with the same fervour.

“We will clean your kitchen so thoroughly that you will barely recognise it afterwards!” he quipped, to doubtful glances of the others. Éomer shrugged, and with a ghost of a smile that did not reach his eyes, looked first at the Kitchen Mistress and then the Halflings.

“Well, they’re yours now. I will see you at breakfast later on.”

He left for the stables, but not before Elfgyth’s astonished “Another breakfast?” reached his ears.

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THE THRONE ROOM

“We were in the middle of the fray when the Tree-Druids of Fangorn suddenly entered into the fight. Many of our Riders lost their lives because our attackers would at first not distinguish between orcs and us, and when they released the waters of the Isen which Saruman had blocked, even more were killed in the flood… although it also drowned our enemy’s army. Gandalf Greyhame then saw to it that the traitor in Isengard came to justice. Never again will grief come to the Mark because of him.” For a moment, the memory of the battle silenced Éomer, and the cries of the dying echoed in his ears as he looked at the solemn faces around him. Their council – consisting of the recovered King of the Mark, Gandalf Greyhame, Aragorn, Fíndárras, Gamling, Éothain and Éomer himself – had at first shared the morning meal and then taken their seats in the Throne Room to exchange tidings and discuss their further course of action.

Not wanting to be a discourteous host, Théoden had seen to it that their other guests who would not participate in the council received a detailed tour of Edoras by members of his guard, before they would later reunite with their comrades and exchange information. So while elves, hobbits, dwarf and the Rangers of the Grey Company enjoyed an interesting excursion into Rohirric culture, their leaders listened to the many developments which had taken place in the Mark and beyond over the last weeks. Since their army had been engaged and triumphed in an enormous battle against the enemy, it had been decided upon that the incidents and developments leading up to this result needed to be heard before the happenings at Edoras would be recounted.

Éomer had reached the end of his narration, and his gaze wandered hesitantly to the old man on the dais. His King. His kin, no matter how he felt toward him. Just before he obediently lowered his eyes, he noticed even in the shadowy hall how pale and haggard Théoden still looked, and how reluctantly his gaze was met. Just as soon as they had made eye-contact, the old man’s focus shifted quickly to the White Wizard, grateful for the opportunity to escape his nephew’s attention.

“So you killed Saruman yourself? You saw him dead with your own eyes?”

The Istar sighed.

“He was not always evil. I wanted to spare my old friend once I had taken his powers away from him, but he said that he would not want such a life and attacked me… deliberately forcing me to kill him. So yes, your foe is indeed dead.”

Satisfied, Théoden nodded, and reluctantly shifted his attention back to his Third Marshal, tensing as he did so.

“And how many riders did we lose altogether in the attack?”

“It is hard to say yet, Sire” Éomer admitted in a toneless voice, resorting to formality to disguise his bitterness over their still ongoing estrangement. “Unfortunately, we had to leave immediately after the battle because we could not be sure about the state of things back here. They were still counting the dead when we left; yet I fear that the final number will be in the hundreds.”

“In the hundreds?”

“I left Erkenbrand of Westfold in charge at Isengard and told him to follow us to Edoras with the rest of our forces as soon as possible, because we are still far from done. There is another foe to be taken care of, and by the look of things, he will be even harder to overcome.” Briefly Éomer sought Aragorn’s gaze for affirmation, and the Ranger nodded as he gave it back, like the others around them looking much fresher after the night’s rest. Éomer inhaled. “I expect them to arrive later today, or tomorrow at the latest, and I would suggest that we do not decide upon anything until the Lord of Westfold has had his say as well. We cannot do without his considerable experience in a council that might decide over the fate of us all.” He could see that the King did not take his forceful advice well, but he could not afford to be considerate now. If Théoden’s appearance was any indication of his true condition, it could not be expected from him to think of everything. If the old man felt insulted over well-meant advice, it was not Éomer’s problem. Too much was at stake here to remain silent for propriety’s sake.

“I agree that we need to hear the Captain before a decision can be made,” Théoden said at length, but still he regarded his nephew with suspicion, as if he waited for more demands in the guise of so-called ‘advice’, and the tension in the hall rose. “And yet I can only hope that what you say is true, and that Erkenbrand will be with us soon. In the light of the new threat you uncovered, we can ill-afford to sit around until the enemy strikes.”

Staring at the tiles to his feet, Éomer did his best not to let his mounting anger and frustration show on his face. ‘You hope that I am saying the truth? Do you mean I would lie to you?’ Théoden had not said much so far, but every time he had opened his mouth, his words deepened the rift between them, intentionally or not, and the sound of his voice alone chased endless shudders down Éomer’s spine. “Be gone, ungrateful curse to my house!” The echo in his ears was so clear that he had to look up to confirm that the King had not indeed repeated these words he had uttered upon having sentenced his nephew to death. Words which had hurt Éomer more than any sword could ever have. Blinking, he fought to concentrate on the White Wizard who had just seized the opportunity to speak.

“And yet I believe that we should have a plan ready for our further course of action before your captain arrives. One problem may have been solved, yet it was only the lesser one. A first small skirmish compared with the one that is still to come, and we must indeed make haste, for our foe will not wait for much longer. This much I know.”

“And yet it seems to me that we already paid dearly for even this small victory,” Théoden muttered and shook his head. “Perhaps too dearly to have any hope left for another fight. To imagine that we lost hundreds of our riders in the attack… Béma!” His gaze went over the warriors before him to the doors of the Golden Hall, his mind wandering. The doors had been opened to let in the fresh spring air, but in the light of the things he had heard, the King of Riddermark felt as if he could barely breathe. “I assume there was no other way to deal with Saruman …” The words were not intended for other ears, but standing closest to his King, Éomer heard them nonetheless, and his dark eyes narrowed in silent disgust as he continued to stare at the ground.

‘Do you think I would have chosen that path if there had been a better one? Do you think I care so little for my men?’ He remained silent. It did not matter whether it was because of his father’s reputation or still the result of Gríma Wormtongue’s manipulations his Uncle had chosen to utter these words; to Éomer they illustrated all too clearly the depth of the rift between them.

“Your nephew was faced with the hardest of choices, my Lord,” Gandalf’s voice spoke into his brooding, unexpectedly coming to his aid, and he turned to look at the wizard, who rose to his feet to lend his opinion the necessary weight. “Of course the Marshal could have waited for the hostile army at the fords, hoping that the Isen’s floods would help them to keep the enemy at bay.” He came to a stop beside Éomer and cast the young man an encouraging glance. “Yet that would also have meant to wait until Saruman’s army was ready to meet you, and as we heard, the river itself had already been blocked by our foe to the point where it no longer posed a hindrance to his forces. The orcs would have crossed into Rohan over a length impossible to defend by your riders, Théoden-King.” Straightening to his full height, Gandalf approached the dais and focused his attention on the listening King. “Your nephew chose to attack the enemy on his own grounds; a strategy certainly no less risky, but a risk he was well aware of and willing to take to keep battle away from your lands and your people. Faced with only those two less than ideal choices, the Marshal decided to follow the one which seemed to hold the slightly greater chances of survival, and hasn’t his triumph proven that his judgment was indeed good?”

Théoden’s gaze shifted uncomfortably between the wizard and Éomer, whose tense expression gave away his composition clearer than words could ever have. With a sharp sting, the he realised that the young man he had helped to grow to manhood underneath his own roof despised him. Or was it hate, even? Did Éomer truly hate him?

“Aye. Aye, you are right, of course, Gandalf Greyhame. Éomer’s judgment was sound,” he said at length, momentarily distracted by his disconcerting thought. He harboured no hope that his affirmation would soothe the angry young warrior before him, not even what he still had to say would perform that miracle. And perhaps it was only just that Éomer hated him. After all, the lad had very valid reasons for his disappointment, not least of all the sad incident in Éowyn’s bedchamber the previous night. In those few precious moments when they had first seen each other after Éomer’s miraculous return, he had committed a mistake which must have hurt his nephew to the core. Those terrible first words he had uttered upon seeing Éomer in Théodred’s armour… Théoden sighed soundlessly. How much he wished for an opportunity to take them back, for a chance to relive their encounter and greet his nephew in the proper way, the way he had originally planned. Inwardly steeling himself for Éomer’s hard gaze, the old King inhaled.

“You did well, Marshal. It is thanks to you that the Mark was freed of the most insidious foe it ever had to face, and although many lives were lost in that struggle, it may help the families to know that their kin died for a worthy cause.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from his nephew, but when none came, he rose from the throne with a deep breath and lifted his voice: “Under extraordinary circumstances, you proved your extraordinary loyalty to Rohan, Éomer son of Eomund, and such determination should not go unrewarded: not only do I declare the sentence which I spoke under the influence of our enemy’s poison void; I hereby name you First Marshal and Chief Defender of Riddermark… and heir to its Throne. A ceremony will be held in your honour in the square later today to let the people of Edoras know of this joyful event.” He drew his sword and lifted it up; a gesture that was immediately followed by the other present warriors. “Hail Éomer, son of Eomund!”