Chapter 69: A Perilous Path

MEDUSELD

For the continuation of the council, Éomer sat on the bench next to Fíndarras and listened to the reports of Éothain and Gamling in silent, helpless rage, his gaze fixated on his hands he had balled into fists lest he’d forget himself. It was the fault of these men that his sister had been forced to endure not only emotional pain beyond belief, but physical pain as well. None of them had said anything when the Worm had first incarcerated Éowyn inside her chambers and then even thrown her into the dungeon. Into the dungeon! His sister!

Only when it had been too late had the Royal Guard rebelled at last, and the late attempt to make up for something they should have done years earlier had resulted in their annihilation. The death of Hámá left a bitter taste in Éomer’s mouth. From the moment when Théoden had made Meduseld their second home, the even-tempered doorward and Captain of the Royal Guard had been their ally and confidante… and yet the son of Hárlond, too, had done nothing to get rid of the filth by his king’s side. It was a tragedy, but at the same time, Hámá had been one of the men mostly to blame for the steady increase of the Worm’s power; his demise in the end his own responsibility.

Silently Éomer shook his head to himself, unable to bring order to his mixed emotions. It would have made things so much easier to simply hate everyone, but he could not bring himself to feel that way. These were no evil men like Gríma; they had tried to do their best, their hesitation born from their conflicting duties. They had sworn fealty to Lord and Land... and yet the situation had called for a decision between the two, a decision they had been unable to make. They had meant well, but in the end, their hesitation had played into the hands of their enemy.

‘Hesitation... or cowardice?’ the voice in the back of his head sneered, and he could not silence it. Éomer’s gaze rested on the two men who were still delivering their report to their King and the members of the council, but his thoughts raced. While he heard Éothain’s and Gamling’s words and took notice of the incidents they described, his mind concerned himself with the question of why, of all the Rohírrim with power, only Céorl and Elfhelm had taken action. Their attempt had been made too late and only after the enemy had gathered his full power, but still these two captains had at least tried to remedy the dangerous neglect without considerations for their own safety. Éomer felt relieved that fate had decided to leave his friend Elfhelm alive, the man who had formed him into the respected warrior he was today, but Céorl’s death cast a dark shadow upon an already grim day, and he could only too well imagine how Éothain had to feel.

With a deep breath, the son of Eomund woke from his musings, and his attention re-focused on his long-time best friend. Although Éothain sounded composed as he recounted with Gamling’s help the gruesome incidents that had occurred within Edoras and the Golden Hall in his absence, Éomer sensed the deep desperation behind the calm facade... and could not help feeling for his brother-in-arms.

Although there was still the matter of Éothain’s betrayal between them – ‘could one really call it ‘betrayal?’ - the realisation of his friend’s loss was like a bucket of ice-water into the fire of Éomer’s anger, and while he silently sat and observed, the need for reconciliation grew ever stronger in his breast. Perhaps by forgiving Éothain... his own estrangement would be cured? Perhaps the sensation of having returned home only to find it replaced with something that looked alike yet felt bereft of its warmth would vanish if he allowed his friend back into his heart? So many questions, and no answers.

With a soundless sigh, Éomer tore his gaze away from his Éothain’s back. It was about bloody time this council ended. He felt Findárras’ eyes upon himself, but chose to ignore the unvoiced question and concentrated instead on what sounded like the conclusion of Éothain’s report.

"We found the guard at the exit of the tunnel with his throat slit, but unfortunately, there was no trace of Gríma Wormtongue to be found on the slope. Still I have not yet given up hope that we might catch him before he can leave the Mark, for I sent out Riders in all directions yesterday morning to alert all settlements of his escape. No matter where he goes, people will be looking for him." A hesitant glance found Éomer. "I also told the messenger I sent to Aldburg to bring Elfhelm’s consort with him when he returns. I am certain that it will help the Captain’s recovery to have her by his side." He received a thankful nod and turned back to his King, but it was Gandalf who spoke next.

"That veil Wormtongue used to hide the tunnel…was it his own, or where did it come from? Is it known?"

"It was one of Saruman’s gifts for my coronation, a long time ago," Théoden muttered disdainfully. "I even remember his words when he gave it to me, for I did not know what it was at first. He said that I might ‘find it a useful thing sometime in the future.’ Useful indeed, but not to us. It seems that the traitor prepared his assault on us even then!"

"I would not be surprised, for my old friend always planned rather meticulously and far ahead." The wizard sighed, and, after a questioning glance at the other council members, remarked: "I suppose that now all of us are truly in possession of the details we’ll need to decide upon our course of action tomorrow… or is there anything else we should know?"

All heads turned to the King, and yet while Théoden had already risen from his throne and inhaled to dismiss the warriors, no sound came over his lips. At first the men wondered and creased their brows in concern, but then they, too, felt the low rumble beneath their feet. For a moment, the warriors stared in incomprehension at each other, but suddenly their eyes widened, and for once joy lit up their expressions.

"That must be Erkenbrand!" Findárras beamed, and involuntarily turned toward the open door, barely able to restrain himself to not jump to his feet and see for himself when the weak din of the city bell reached their ears from below.

"Your éohere returns from battle, Théoden-King!" said Éomer and inclined his head to avoid eye-contact with the older man.

"And they return victoriously, Sire!" Aragorn added, noticing how every single door of the great hall opened to reveal the questioning faces of members of the royal household, and it seemed to the Ranger that a ray of light had unexpectedly found its way into the men’s and women’s hearts. A moment later, a cry from the open doors could be heard, and a guard stormed into the hall.

"Théoden-King, a great army approaches Edoras from the West! They are yet too far away to determine whether they are indeed our Riders, but the noise would lead me to believe that they are."

"Then let us greet them as befits the proud victors!" the King of the Mark said exuberantly, and for once, the burden upon his shoulders seemed lessened as he looked at the members of the council with renewed hope in his eyes. "Léod, see to it that the men are welcomed the way they should be! Send an escort out to meet them, and let the people know that there will be a celebration on the square tonight in honour of our victorious Riders!" He descended the dais and could not remember when he had last felt such excitement. "Now come with me to the terrace if you will, Gentlemen, and let us watch the arrival of our éohere! After the night through which we all waded, it should be a sight to behold!"

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Éomer did not immediately follow the other men to the door, feeling no rush to see the army he had left only two days earlier although he felt relieved that nothing unexpected kept Erkenbrand in the Westfold. It was a good sign. And if there were enough of their Riders left to make the lonely mountain shake like this, perhaps not too many of them had perished in the battle after all. Perhaps things had looked worse in the wake of the flood than they had really been, and perhaps, it was time for him to look to the future with a little more optimism.

And yet how to do that when only a few doors away, Èowyn’s empty shell lay on the bed, dying a slow death? What worth was everything he had achieved if the prize was the life of the person dearest to his heart? No, the very notion of joy would remain beyond his reach for as long as his sister’s plight had not been cured.

A shadow fell upon him and interrupted Éomer’s train of thought, and as he looked up, the son of Eomund was surprised to see Aragorn standing before him with an expression on his face that was both curious and understanding.

"You do not want to greet the rest of your army?"

"I will do that, but they will need some time yet before they’re here." With a silent sigh, the Rohír picked himself up – and grimaced, and in an unconscious gesture, his right hand went to his thigh.

Aragorn nodded slowly, his keen eyes missing nothing. At last, he pointed his chin toward the younger man’s leg. "Have you seen a healer yet?" Apparently, it was not something Éomer wanted to discuss; his curt reply told the older man so.

"You took good care of me. This is barely more than an inconvenience now, and I am certain that I will have forgotten about it in a fortnight." The Rohír began to turn away.

"Only if you don’t deny it further treatment." Sensing Éomer’s impatience, Aragorn laid a hand upon the younger man’s shoulder and looked him sternly in the eye. "Your thigh was pierced, Éomer; it is still a serious wound that can give you much trouble if you ignore it. As commander of the Rohírrim, you can ill afford to neglect your own health. Your Riders will look to you when they ride against Mordor, and they will need their Marshal to be strong."

In a flash, the impatient expression in the dark eyes changed to annoyance, a sudden reminder of the heated temperament slumbering beneath the rationality forced upon Éomer by his position.

"So you stayed behind to remind me of my duties? Then, my friend, let me assure you that I am well aware of them! If the days since we first meet should have told you something about me--"

"I did not doubt that, Éomer, and certainly not after all we have been through together... but I also know the tendency of warriors to care for all others, first, and forget about themselves," the Dúnadan interrupted before the younger man before him became seriously enraged. When they had rejoined the council, the tension between Théoden and his nephew had told Aragorn more than words could ever have, and he understood that in his despair, Éomer was ready to see an enemy in everyone now, even in the man who had saved him. " It is not only so in Rohan. But there are times when we must take the time for ourselves, too, lest we jeopardise the aims we set ourselves. Wouldn’t you agree?"

For the longest moment, Éomer stared at the man who had so quickly become a trusted friend although he had always been slow to trust. Then he snorted, and at last, a crooked grin spread slowly over his face as his rigidity melted away.

"Béma, are the Dúnedain always so sensible? It is not a trait in which we Rohírrim place great value. If we did, we would have lain down and surrendered a long time ago, for the odds were hardly ever in our favour." Again he shook his head, and looked Aragorn in the eye with resigned acceptance.. "Very well, I can hardly withstand the will of the great Thorongil, can I? As soon I can render it possible, I will get my leg looked after. Does that satisfy you?"

"’As soon as you can render it possible,’…" Aragorn repeated sceptically, his arched eyebrows giving away what he thought of Éomer’s answer. "I cannot say that your promise convinces me entirely, but…" and now a sly grin spread over his rugged face as well, and a glint of amusement flashed up in his eyes, "—I will see to it that you keep it."

"I am known to keep my promises, Lord Aragorn! Do I hear a challenge in your words?" Éomer narrowed his eyes; the friendly banter a welcome distraction from the heavy tidings of which they had just learned.

"Only if you make it one." Aragorn winked. "Yet I also recall that – despite the Rohírrims’ legendary stubbornness - they are also known to be possessed of astounding common sense when it is called for, and usually find the adequate measures for any given situation themselves... they must possess this trait, or your people would have vanished long ago. Not every situation can be solved by sheer force of will."

Again, the two warriors stared at each other – and then burst into laughter simultaneously.

"Damnation! I must admit that you battle with words just as well as with your sword!" Éomer inhaled deeply. "So... you stayed behind to appeal to my ‘astounding common sense’."

"And yet it was only the lesser of my reasons to wait for you." Without warning, the smile vanished from the Ranger’s face. "I learned of your sister’s condition this morning, and after hearing just now what she had to endure from your foes hand, I thought I’d offer you my help." He could see the effect of his words in Éomer eyes: for a brief moment, a flicker of hope flashed up in the dark brown pools... before scepticism quickly claimed them back. The son of Eomund did not yet allow himself to hope.

"Have you done such a thing before?" the Rohír asked cautiously, although his mouth was suddenly dry with excitement. " I do remember well how you brought me back from the brink of death, but… Éowyn’s condition is very different."

"Of course it is, and I will not lie to you: I cannot promise you that I will succeed in bringing her back, but if you’d let me look at her, I would try to do what is in my power to help her out of this state." He inhaled deeply, and - seeing the contemplation in Éomer’s eyes – added: "What have you got to lose?"

"Nothing. You are right." Éomer squared his shoulders as he came to a decision. "Come, quickly. They are all outside anyway; they will not miss us."

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"Our army returns victoriously, my lady. Can you not hear them? Do you not feel their hoof beats as they approach? Very soon, they will be here. You can already see them from your window, my lady." Intently, Maelwyn searched for a sign in the blue eyes before here – the smallest flicker of recognition, the briefest twitch of an eyelid would do – that Éowyn heard her, but as before, the White Lady of Rohan stared into a distance far beyond anything the ordinary eye could ever see, and her fingers did not return the gentle squeeze Maelwyn gave them.

With a sigh, the young handmaiden righted herself, not yet breaking the contact. She had not expected a reaction, but still the pointlessness of her efforts began to tell on her.

"My Lady, if only I could help you ..." Again she sighed, and for a moment of profound helplessness and despair, Maelwyn’s gaze wandered to the window she had opened earlier to let in fresh air and the sound of the approaching army in hope the noise would do what she had been unable to accomplish. And yet it seemed to her more and more that nothing ever would, and that slowly but surely, her mistress would starve to death, her body following Éowyn to where her mind had already preceded.

Letting go of Éowyn’s hand, the handmaiden once again reached for the bowl of porridge she had placed on the nightstand. It was already cold, and although she had enriched it with plenty of honey and cream to make it as nourishing as possible, it seemed to her that with each meal, she managed to get less and less into her lady’s stomach. The young woman was fading away right before her eyes.

With burning eyes, Maelwyn took the spoon and dipped it into the white mush, then gently pressed it against Éowyn’s dry lips, angry with herself. It was too early yet to despair. They had to continue trying. Perhaps when the hunger reflex grew strong enough, Éowyn would take what she was offered.

"This is something good, Lady Éowyn," she whispered insistently, almost pleadingly. "I had it made especially for you. It will make you stronger. Please, will you not at least try it?" But the lips would not part. At last Maelwyn gave up and put the bowl back onto the little table, the bitter taste of defeat in her mouth. What to do? There had to be something...

A soft rap cut through her despairing thoughts, and moment later, the door opened to reveal her lady’s brother... and that charismatic man who had arrived with him the night before. Was he a healer? Was it possible that he—

"Any changes?" Éomer asked in a voice that told Maelwyn that he already knew the answer, and his eyes briefly flitted over his sister’s prone shape to the window to finally come to rest on her face. She shook her head.

"I am sorry," she mumbled, and quickly cleared the chair for him. "She will not even eat anymore. Including breakfast, I managed to get her to swallow perhaps two spoons full of porridge today, and it gets harder any time I try." She swallowed, and her voice dropped to a frightful whisper. "It is not enough to sustain her, my lord. Something needs to happen, a miracle, perhaps."

"Aye." Éomer’s eyes rested on Aragorn as he allowed the older man with an almost imperceptible nod to approach the bed. "I agree; we need a miracle." He did not want to get up his hopes, only to be shattered if Aragorn, too, failed... but he could not help himself, and he knew that the other man felt the pressure of his expectations as the Dúnadan silently slipped into the vacated chair and took Éowyn’s hand. "If there is anything you need..."

"Not yet. But I will let you know if there is." Aragorn’s gaze remained intently on his patient’s face as he laid his other hand on Éowyn’s brow. He saw it all: the fading bruises on the side of her head, the deadly pallor of her skin and the dark circles underneath her empty eyes... and her far-too-prominent cheekbones. Valar, this young woman looked so frail already, almost delicate, and her hand felt lighter than a feather in his grasp. For how much longer could she prevail, and where was her mind? Irretrievably shattered... or just withdrawn into herself, cut off from the world around her? It was the one question he needed an answer to... and with a deep breath, Aragorn closed his eyes... and reached out into the darkness.

On the other side of the room, Maelwyn stood, watching and hugging herself. She did not know what the stranger was doing to her lady, but a quick glance out of the corner of her eye revealed that Éomer did not seem troubled by it, not even when the man seemed to slip into a trance now by her lady’s beside.

"What is he doing?" she whispered underneath her breath, and fell silent again when Éomer laid a finger against his lips to quieten her.

"Shhh... we must not disturb him."

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‘Darkness. Such complete darkness. There was not the slightest shimmer of light anywhere, no matter where he turned; no indication that this black hole he suddenly found himself in even had an end, or that someone was living inside this blackness.

"Lady Éowyn?" he cried out, and reached out with his mind in an attempt to sense the young woman’s presence. "I am looking for the daughter of Eomund, sister to Éomer, Marshal of the Mark! Give me a sign if you can hear me! Your brother had returned, and your foe has been driven from the hall! There is nothing left to fear! You can come out of hiding now!"

He was not graced with an answer, and yet it seemed to him that something had changed. Had he not just heard the slight rustle of clothes further back, as if someone had shifted his weight?

"My Lady, I beg you: come with me! If not for your own good, then for your brother’s! Éomer is here, in the same room with us, and he is desperate to see you suffering like this. Will you not ease his worries by coming with me?"

Again there was no reply, but there seemed to be a sudden draft, pulling him further into the blackness. For a moment, Aragorn hesitated – and then he dug his heals in. No, it was too dangerous to follow that current without further preparations. He had heard of healers who had irretrievably lost themselves in their patients’ minds, never to find the way back. He could not risk that. He would return later, when he was better prepared.

Again he shut his eyes and concentrated...’

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... and woke to Éomer’s concerned face hovering before him. Great distress stood in the Rohír’s eyes, and with surprise, Aragorn felt the young man’s fingers digging painfully into the muscles of his shoulder.

"-gorn? Do you hear me! Do you... Béma!"

Against his sudden exhaustion, Aragorn forces a smile upon his face.

"Aye, I hear you indeed, Éomer son of Éomund. And please, leave my shoulder in one piece, if you may. I will still need it in the days to come."

Éomer’s hand fell off him, but the worry in the dark eyes would not cease.

"You suddenly collapsed in the chair, and did not react when I addressed you. I- I did not know what to do." Creases suddenly formed on the other man’s brow. "But did you do?"

"To find your sister’s hiding place, I immersed myself into her mind." With each deep breath of fresh air, the darkness vanished from Aragorn’s mind, the cobwebs cleared from his eyes, and he found himself staring into a thoroughly confused Rohirric face. With a weary smile, he shook his head. "It is not relevant now how this technique works, but I think I might have felt something."

"You felt Éowyn’s mind?" Éomer did not know how to make sense of his friend’s words; it certainly went far beyond anything he believed in. But if it was the one straw to save his sister, he would grasp it, even if he did not understand it. "Did you... could you speak... with her?"

"Not yet, but I had a feeling she was there, hiding in the darkness. I did not dare to go in further unprepared, but we will be back, Éomer!" This time, Aragorn’s hand landed with a sharp slap on the other man’s shoulder. "We will be back, but first, I will need to get a few things together. Can you take me to your healer? I will need to see what herbs she has."