Chapter 68: The Marshal and the King – Part 2

"Hail!"

With an audible rush of air, the warriors rose and lifted their swords in greeting of the new First Marshal of Riddermark. Then silence fell, although it seemed to Éomer that there were only smiling and joyful faces around him. Even the guards further behind looked relieved over seeing their Marshal officially back in service. He did not know how to feel. First Marshal of the Mark… never had he dared to hope that one day, he would rise to the position of the mightiest man of the land after the king. That honour should have gone to Théodred, and Éomer would have been content with serving his cousin until the end of his days. And yet fate had been of a different mind.

The Prince’s death had changed everything, and ironically at the time when Éomer would have most needed what power he had had, the Worm had seen to it that he was robbed of it all… and with his verdict, the man before him had put the last nail into his coffin. Poison or not, the mere memory of Théoden uttering those accursed words – "Be gone, ungrateful curse to my house!" – still chased a shiver down Éomer’s spine. Was it just his Uncle’s bad conscience which led him to offering this position now to him? Did the old man think that he could bribe his way into his nephew’s goodwill? That all the indignities and insults Éomer had endured over the years by his very own kin would be forgiven and forgotten with the help of a title? Not even a fortnight ago, he would not have hesitated for another heartbeat to accept the offer, if only because it would have put him in a position to protect the people of his ward more efficiently.

But events of course had taken a different turn, and now Éomer was no longer even certain whether he wanted to be the leader of those who had accepted to have their protector sent to his death without so much as a single word of protest.

‘But what of Freya?’ he tried to convince himself otherwise, and her concerned face stood before his inner eye so clearly as if Osred’s wife were here with him in the Golden Hall. ‘What about the couple who gave me shelter in that cold first night although their decision could easily have proven deadly for them? And what of the riders who followed me into battle even against the orders of their king? They never doubted me, and they were willing to pay the highest price for their loyalty. Do I not owe it to them to accept?’

"Tell us, Éomer son of Eomund, do you accept the high honour and the responsibility of your new position?" The impatience in Théoden’s voice could not be overheard as the old man waited for his reply, and although Éomer was still uncertain of what to say, he lifted his eyes to meet the King’s gaze. An answer was expected from him, but he could not give it yet.

"Sire, I thank you for considering me for this position," he said stiffly, unable to remember an occasion in his life when he had felt more uncomfortable than right now under the King’s disbelieving – and increasingly angry - gaze. Although he had lost all respect for the man on the throne of Rohan, Théoden was still his ruler and commander, and for the sake of the Mark, he could not very well embarrass their leader before this council. Behind closed doors, when the things said would remain between the two of them – a situation which Éomer was certain would soon await him - he could be as blunt as he wanted to be, but this was neither the time nor the place to demonstrate his bitterness.

As he straightened his back, Éomer’s voice grew firm with conviction when he added: "And yet I would beg to be given a day for consideration, as a position of such responsibility can not be accepted lightly and on the spur of the moment."

‘You wanted that position all your life, and now you reject it only to humiliate me before these men?’

A hard glint suddenly flashed up in Théoden’s eyes, but Éomer did not shrink from the unspoken challenge. For an endless moment, the two men glared at each other like combatants before a fight to the death; neither one willing to back down, until it was again Gandalf who interrupted the tense atmosphere in an attempt to mediate between the two unexpected adversaries.

"Surely this small request can be granted, Théoden-King?" the Istar said soothingly, but found himself for a moment ignored by King and Marshal alike. At last, the Son of Thengel reluctantly turned his head to him, and the wizard continued. "We are still expecting the rest of your éohere; surely you will not send them out again for at least another two days? Even if the need for haste was repeatedly stated, we must take into consideration that your Riders will most likely have to give battle at the end of their journey to Gondor. They should be allowed to rest for at least a few days before they continue on their way east."

The other listeners nodded in affirmation at the Istar’s reasoning, and yet Théoden suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as if he were asking himself whether he had become the victim of yet another conspiracy. Why did everyone think they had to tell him what to do? He was free from the Worm’s influence; he could very well think of his own! And if there was one thing he had truly learned to hate in all the years with Wormtongue by his side, it was this feeling of being pushed.

"I do not remember having decided yet that the Rohírrim will even ride to Gondor!" the King of the mark raised his voice in barely restrained anger. "As far as I remember, old friend, the only decision we made thus far was not to decide about our further course of action until Erkenbrand of Westfold was here; but since we are speaking of it already: I must tell you that I do not feel much inclined to ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours at least once in all these dark years!"

"Did you not hear what Aragorn said?" Éomer pressed through his clenched teeth, and it was his luck that the Ranger intervened at that point and claimed the King’s attention before things could spin out of control.

"My Lord, Gondor itself went through difficult times these past years," Aragorn insisted calmly, but firmly, hoping to make the hostile man see that this was not the time to set off the services of the Mark against those of the old kingdom. "It is Gondor who shares a direct border with the enemy, and over the last years, our foe tested it ceaselessly with ever-increasing forces, binding the Kingdom’s power… whose armies protected not only their own realm, but all lands west of Anduin as they held off the enemy. Be assured that Gondor did its share for the Mark’s safety, my King, even if no tidings of these battles may have reached you! And be also assured that Gondor would have helped you against Saruman as well, had they been in the position to come to your aid, but--"

"And you would be wrong!" Théoden interrupted heatedly. "For I know for a fact that Denethor despises us! Whenever we sent for help, the Steward’s answers – provided we even received one - were short and brusque, as if the Sons of Éorl were not worthy of his attention! No, Lord Aragorn, no matter what you say, Gondor no longer cares for our old alliance, and I fail to see why our Riders should give their blood for them when we barely even know how to do to defend our own home!"

"This is the advice Wormtongue whispered into your ears, isn’t it, Théoden-King?" Gandalf spoke again. "It is only consistent with his other deeds that your Counsellor tried to weaken the old band of friendship between the two realms to first isolate the Mark until it was ready to fall to his Master, so that they could attack Gondor from two sides together with the Dark Lord’s armies!"

"In riding to Gondor, your Riders would be defending their home as well, Sire, and with more efficiency than if they fought alone against Mordor’s armies once Gondor had fallen!" Aragorn insisted. "For the Dark Lord’s might is such that no realm alone will be able to withstand him once he decides to strike. Our armies must unite, or Mordor has already won. There is no room for petty quarrels among us; we either stand together, or we fall alone. It is this simple."

"For you, perhaps, it is! Yet I believe that my men will fight more efficiently on their own grounds, where they know the terrain and the best places to assault our foes." Théoden’s gaze shifted between Gandalf and the Dúnadan, the expression of displeasure on his face deepening with each passing moment. Béma, he had barely been freed of one crooked advisor, and now everyone else thought they could bend him to their will as well? "And since you pride yourself with having served among our forces, Lord Aragorn, I suppose you know what it means to a Rohír to die so far away from home."

"And the Rohírrim would not be the only people who would wish to be buried in the soil of their home land, but sometimes, the protection of that home necessitates sacrifices. And having ridden with your warriors for years, I am in fact certain that they would understand the necessity here and be willing to make that sacrifice for the safety of their people." From the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Éomer shake his head in frustration, but before he could claim the younger man’s attention to hold him back, the son of Eomund literally exploded.

"This is the great Thorongil and not Gríma Wormtongue who stands before you, Théoden-King!" Éomer hissed, and his eyes sparkled with open contempt. "Since you claim to be free of the enemy’s poison, you should be able to tell the difference, my lord!"

His cutting remark sucked the air from the great hall, and suddenly, Éomer found himself the focus of six pairs of widening eyes. For an endless moment, all of the present were too stunned to speak, including the King himself. In disbelief and shock, Théoden stared at the young man before him, and his mind reeled with the painful realisation that somehow in the long years of his illness, his nephew had become a stranger to him – a stranger who no longer seemed to hold anything but disdain for the man who had raised him. Such hostility was in Éomer’s eyes – never had Théoden expected that the young man would forget himself in such a way before a council. Though always a hotspur, time and experience had helped the son of Eomund to use formality as a tool to reign in his temper on such occasions; that this implement he had learned to use with great effort failed him now only demonstrated to Théoden the true depth of the rift between them. It was as if they stood on different sides of a ravine far too broad to ever be bridged and with a wild river running beneath. A ravine that separated two lands which had nothing in common; not even their tongue, and where no matter what the first one said, the other one would misunderstand him.

What could he do? How was he supposed to react? Had anyone else committed such a blatant act of subordinate conduct, he would have been thrown into the dungeon immediately, and yet Théoden was aware that he could not very well incarcerate his own nephew, the man who had returned from Isengard as a hero... not again! Although deeply uncertain whether anything at all could be done to cure the breach between them, he decided that an effort needed to be made, and it needed to be made right now, before even more damage ensue.

It took a few moments before the power of speech returned to the King of the Mark, and when it did, his attention focused on the other warriors.

"Gentlemen, I am certain you agree that this might perhaps be the appropriate moment for an interruption of our council to cool our heads and allow all that has been said so far settle in our minds. We will assemble again in one hour; until then, please feel free to do whatever you like. If you are hungry or thirsty, please let Mistress Elfgyth know so, and she will gladly provide you with everything you need." Approving muttering answered him, and at last, Théoden met Éomer’s challenging gaze with a deep breath. The confrontation he had feared so much could no longer be delayed. "Marshal, you will follow me to my study. We must speak."

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The two men’s steps echoed through the oppressive silence of the hall; their rushed urgency alarming enough to stop the members of the royal household they met along the way in their tracks. Feeling Éomer’s aggressive presence behind himself like an arrow that was pointed between his shoulder blades, Théoden-King pushed open the door and motioned the younger man into his study. Without sparing his Uncle a word or even a single glance, Éomer walked past him, his eyes firmly fixed on the wall hanging behind the King’s desk as if he had never seen it before.

With a short glance back at the empty corridor, Théoden shut the door behind himself and turned around, and in doing so, felt his whole body tense in anticipation of the ugly quarrel ahead of him. How was he supposed to begin? What was he supposed to say? For one thing was certain: for all the anger that was visible upon his nephew’s face, Éomer would not be the first one to speak. Rigid like a marble statue the son of Eomund stood in the middle of the room, unwilling to diminish his position by sitting down on the chair before the King’s desk and his gaze stubbornly directed at the wall before him. Very well, Théoden thought, then they would lead this argument standing.

He sighed – and braced himself for the storm.

"What is it that you want from me, Éomer?" he said, his tone, he hoped, reasonable and constructive. He did not want for this to become a shouting match with the young man before him, where sense would quite likely be substituted with mere volume sooner rather than later. Somehow, they had to find a way to cast aside their differences. "What is it that you expect me to do? I cannot do more than apologize from the depth of my heart for all that happened to you and Éowyn. Do you think it is easy for me to see your sister like this? Do you think it is easy for me to know that I was the one who issued what could easily have become your death sentence? I will live to regret my mistakes until the end of my days, but do you honestly believe that the council was the right time to vent your – however justified – fury at me?"

Éomer’s dark gaze turned toward him.

"Personal matters aside, and I don’t say that lightly..." His nephew’s voice was so deep and earnest that it chased a chill down the King’s spine. Never had Théoden heard Éomer speak like this, never. "Only moments ago, you shouted at the very man who saved me and risked his life more than once to help us in the defeat of our enemy in Isengard. You heard our reports; you listened to everything the Heir of Elendil and his companions and I learnt about the enemies’ intentions, and yet you insulted one of the greatest warriors who ever rode with our armies and shut yourself to his reason. When – if not now – should I speak up? Or should I have stood before you and silently nod my head while you committed another mistake that could easily result in our doom? I did so for years when I should have intervened, but I will not commit the same mistake twice."

His words were like well-aimed sword-strikes, like salt rubbed into open wounds, and the King had to avert his eyes from his nephew’s hateful gaze to collect himself before he could answer to the scathing accusation.

"Éomer… try to understand: it is easier for you to judge this man for you have already known him for a while. You fought by his side. I never even heard his name before last evening. I agree that he seems like a noble man--"

"He has the Grey Wanderer’s trust. And even if you did not trust Gandalf Greyhame although he was the one who killed Saruman in the end, you heard what I said! And still that is not enough for you. For many years Wormtongue disparaged me and sowed mistrust in your mind against me, and you would listen to him, for I saw your doubtful glances whenever I came to give my reports. And now it seems to me that despite the Worm’s defeat, he won at least in this regard, for although you are free of his poison, you will still not take my word." Théoden had no reply, and Éomer nodded as he found his assumptions confirmed. "Where is he, by the way?" he suddenly asked in a treacherously light tone. "In the dungeon, or dead? And if he is dead, who killed him?"

"He escaped." The words were like glass shard in the old man’s throat, for he knew that they would make things even worse between them. And he was right, for now his sister-son stared at him with stunned disbelief, until at length, Éomer closed his eyes and averted his gaze, slowly shaking his head to himself and muttering to himself with a bitter smirk: "I should have known…"

"You will hear from Éothain what happened when the Council commences," Théoden said with considerable effort. "He is not to blame for this unfortunate ending of the siege--"

"’Unfortunate ending’? You call it ‘unfortunate’ that our chief foe, the man responsible for the death of your son and creator of unspeakable misery for our people was not only not brought to justice, but was given a chance to find himself new allies and one day return to finish what he began?"

It was no use. The lad would attack every single word he said. In his need to lash out, it seemed to Théoden that Éomer cared little that he was not yet in full possession of the details, or whether his fury was in fact even directed at the right person.

"Éomer... please. Let us postpone this issue until you heard Éothain’s report. There is much information you are missing yet, and while I certainly understand your disappointment, I must ask you to believe me for now when I tell you that it was nobody’s fault... except for our foe’s. It was Gríma’s cunning which saved him, Éomer, and not our inability."

There was no conviction in Éomer’s eyes when he finally nodded, and Théoden understood that his nephew only agreed to his request because there were more pressing questions they needed to discuss than the circumstances of their enemy’s escape. Gríma was gone, and right now, there was nothing to be done to change that fact. There was, however, something to be done against the threat from the east.

"What about Aragorn then? Will you consider what he said, or has your decision already been made, and you will withhold our armies from this most important of battles because your hurt pride tells you to?" Éomer’s voice sounded flat, but Théoden could almost sense the tension with which his nephew awaited his next answer. He sighed from the bottom of his heart.

"I already said that I would consider it, Éomer; I never said that I wouldn’t. I am not yet certain about the path we should take, and while I do understand the urgency for a decision, I will cannot make it until I feel certain that it is indeed the right one. I spent the last years trusting a man who used me as his instrument to pursue our doom. As much as I would want to follow your suggestion: I will first need to learn to trust again. The decision I must make might affect the destiny of our entire people, Éomer."

"And how long should we wait for it, Sire?" That Éomer suddenly resorted to formality did not bode well with Théoden, for it told him that his nephew was in the process of withdrawing even further from him. "Until it is too late? For it seems to me that the way you have to walk is still very long, if only last night, you still mistrusted me enough to think that I would do such a horrendous thing as stealing the armour from the body of your dead son!"

It was another arrow into the King’s already bleeding heart, and although Éomer saw the pain in his Théoden’s eyes, he could not stop himself for his own heart was bleeding as well, and it had been cut to shreds by the very man standing before him.

"I… I never meant to imply that you stole Théodred’s armour. Éomer, you misunderstood me!" Béma, so much bitterness in the lad’s eyes! Where was the young man who had looked so proudly at him from the back of his horse on the day when he had joined the Armed Forces, Théoden wondered with growing despair. Where was the young man who had embraced him so heartily upon his return from his first year in service, laughing with happiness? "Éomer, will you not believe that I was overjoyed to see you alive and well?" It earned him only a snide remark.

"You certainly had a strange way of demonstrating your joy."

"And I know there can be no apology for that, but perhaps you will accept an explanation." Hoping against hope, Théoden sought for a sign of encouragement in his nephew’s face, but Éomer remained silent, and his expression was a wall of stone. "I only learnt of Théodred’s death a few hours before you arrived, Éomer. I was unable to realise anything while I was under Gríma’s spell. I did not know that Théodred had fallen. Only yesterday morning was it reported to me that my son had been assassinated by Saruman’s armies, and while I do not yet know how it came to that, I fear that once again, Wormtongue used me to prepare his slaughter. I am responsible for the death of my own son, Éomer; that wound is still raw and fresh, and it goes deep. When I saw Théodred’s armour on you… the sight caught me unawares. I was not prepared for the pain of loss it stirred up in me. All I had meant to tell you vanished in that painful realisation that Théodred would indeed never return to me. Do you not believe that I would give anything to undo the hurt I caused you?"

"Would you?" Brown eyes pinned him. "So far, you did not even try to apologise for it."

It seemed to Théoden that no matter what he said, there was no getting through. In fact Éomer looked already tired of their conversation, for his gaze strayed not for the first time toward the door as if he hoped to allowed to leave as soon as possible.

"You did not grant me the chance yet. I asked you to come to my chambers last night when you were done in Éowyn’s room, but you did not come."

Now he had the young man’s attention.

"Because I was not done there until this morning! And once this council is over, I will return there, and I will remain by her side until she wakes up!"

"And I do not blame you, but then why will you not accept my apology now? These accursed words which I deeply regret were a reaction to my son’s death which you misinterpreted. I had meant to greet you differently. Will you not believe me?"

The dark eyes before him narrowed in suspicion, then, hesitantly: "And what was it you wanted to tell me instead?"

"That I was glad to see you alive… and that I was proud that you never gave up even when you must have felt that all the world had deserted you. I know that I can never expect to be forgiven for the grief that had come upon you and Éowyn because of me, but I still hope that perhaps someday, you will find it in your heart nonetheless. What do you say, Éomer? Can I hope?"

And for the first time, the chill expression on the young face before him melted away, but it was replaced with something the King found even harder to bear: immeasurable sadness.

"I loved you once," Éomer admitted, his tone husky with emotion. "Not like a father, because I knew my father well and the emptiness he left when he died could never have been filled by another person… but I loved you. You helped us to overcome our grief, and I have only fond memories of the times I spent as a child here in the Golden Hall." He looked around, and yet what he saw seemed to give him no joy, for when his gaze returned to Théoden, the King understood without words that his plea was about to be denied.

"And yet it is for these fond memories that I do not find it in me to give you want you ask. You blame Gríma Wormtongue for the rift between us, when your trust in me faltered long before his poison turned you into his puppet. At first, there were only the words he whispered into your ear, and instead of throwing Gríma out, you listened to them. You grew to believe that I was in fact the snake in your house, and that I sought to steal the throne from your son. Théodred knew that it was nonsense, and he told you so repeatedly, but you believed neither him nor me. You chose to believe the Worm, and that was years before you finally descended into darkness."

A crust of ice suddenly seemed to form on Théoden’s skin.

"No, Éomer, that is not true. I do not know when Gríma began to poison me; abut I can say is that I would never have doubted you had it not been for his devious schemes!" But Éomer’s expression had hardened again, and for a moment, Théoden wanted to shake the bitter young man and force him to see the pain and regret in his soul. Yet his nephew's next words robbed him of his breath.

"It is very convenient to have a Gríma Wormtongue to blame for everything, isn’t it? You think that his evilness frees you of all responsibility. No matter what damage you inflicted with your words, it was the Worm’s fault. It is a cheap way out for you, for he is no longer here to object." For a moment, they stared at each other in silence, and it seemed to Théoden that he literally saw the shutters in his nephew’s gaze close, shutting him out… forever.

"To answer the question you asked me before the council," Éomer continued without mercy, his voice cold: "I will accept the position of First Marshal, if you still want to give it to me – yet only for the campaign against Mordor. I want no celebration, and for this, I have my own reasons. I will give back this title if I return from that battle, and I will leave Edoras and move back permanently to Aldburg, to be a marshal or a captain there for as long as people would want me there. Meduseld has ceased to be a home for me, and when Éowyn wakes, I will take her with me." He inhaled. "That is all."

Numbed by the enormity of what he had just heard, Théoden could only nod, and his voice almost failed him when he silently asked: "And how do you want to be treated from now on? As kin… or soldier?"

"I am but a common soldier to my King and as such, will do what is best for our people." Éomer lowered his head in a stiff bow, and Théoden understood. Despite the horrible feeling that a part of him had just died in this room, he walked toward the door and held it open.

"Come then, Marshal. The others are waiting for us."