Chapter 70: A Meeting of Old Friends

"No! No! Please, take me! Take me instead!"

"Captain!"

"Don’t! Don’t do it, I’m begging you, please!"

"Captain Elfhelm, wake up! It is a dream, a horrible dream! Wake up!"

A hand gently shook him, and Elfhelm’s eyes snapped open… and he stared into a pale, freckled face. A woman’s face, neither old nor young and framed by tangled ashen locks. ‘Winfreda’, he remembered the name to that face. One of the caretakers in these houses, who, given the lack of patients at the moment, had devoted most of her time to him for the past day. She looked concerned.

"What… why…" His heart still raced like a frenzied beast inside his chest, and the rush of blood in his veins drowned out everything for another moment of profound disorientation. Only a heartbeat ago, he had been in his cell in the dungeon’s grim darkness, but now, the afternoon sun fell through the open window and the early spring breeze warmed him and carried the scent of horses and fragments of the birds’ singing to him. Slowly, the horrible images began to fade from his mind. "The Lady Éowyn… is she… I mean…"

"You had a nightmare, my lord. I thought it better to wake you." Winfreda waited until she saw realisation dawning in her patient’s eyes, and cast the Captain an compassionate smile. She did not want to imagine what the poor man had experienced in the days of his captivity that was giving a war-hardened warrior like him such terrible dreams. Best to distract him quickly and turn his attention toward more positive things. "You also have a visitor. Would you like to see him, or do you not feel ready yet? Should I tell him to come back later?" She looked back.

Elfhelm followed her gaze to the door… and blinked. Another wave of confusion threatened to sweep him away. This could not be… or could it?

"É-Éomer?" It had to be another dream… but then again, the linen under his fingertips felt quite real, and the fresh air upon his face did, too. He was no longer in the darkness of the dungeon, but in the Healing Houses, where they had brought him after Meduseld had been liberated from the enemy’s stranglehold. His memory of the things they had told him when he had first woken returned slowly, but still these did not explain how Éomer could be standing here before him, with that hesitant look upon his gaunt face as if he did not dare to enter without permission. Had Gríma not boasted about how Eomund’s son had stepped right into his meticulously planned trap? Had Éowyn not told him that the filth had triumphantly shown her her brother’s bloodied and torn cloak? "Is that really…but how can it be--"

"It is indeed me, old friend, and I will tell you everything you want to know in a moment, if you let me in." There was a strange expression on Éomer’s face, one Elfhelm did not immediately know how to read. All kinds of different emotions seemed to mix there, from dismay over relief, to simultaneous exhaustion and exuberance... but most of all it was defeat he saw there. Deep within Elfhelm’s mind, an alarm bell began to sound as he regarded his one-time apprentice with the disquieting feeling of looking at a man who no longer knew which road to travel. The son of Eomund looked lost.

The smile Elfhelm forced upon his face as he propped himself up into a sitting position felt false, and he was certain that Éomer saw right through it. "Of course, son! Come in, come! You must tell me everything! Béma, what a joy it is to see you!"

A little smile briefly lit up Éomer’s features as the younger man stepped into the room... and yet although he had barely woken, Elfhelm noticed that the young man’s eyes were not touched by it. They remained sad and dispirited as Éomer came closer, and alarmingly devoid of the passion Elfhelm had always known to live in those dark brown pools. He swallowed, for he had seen such expressions before: he was looking at the eyes of a man who had seen too much. For a moment, the Captain of Aldburg wondered what had happened to the man he had helped to grow into one of the Mark’s most formidable warriors... but then joy over their unexpected reunion won the battle for the reign over his emotions for the time being.

With a quick, both pleading and apologetic glance he found Winfreda, and to her credit, the caretaker understood his unasked request and nodded good-naturedly as she moved toward the door. She was glad to see her patient’s spirits revived the Marshal’s arrival, for it was well known among her kind that recovery was just as much a matter of a person’s will as of the healer’s craft.

"I will leave you to your business now, my lords, as it seems to me that you have much catching up to do. You will find me in the work room should you need anything, assisting your friend, Marshal." She looked at Éomer, who acknowledged her discretion with an appreciative nod.

Aragorn had not told him in all detail what exactly he had in mind with all the herbs and powders and potions he had taken from Yálanda while Éomer had followed his advice to let himself be treated, except that he needed a kitchen now to "build an anchor". While Éomer had not pretended to understand, he had taken the Dúnadan with him to the Healing Houses, where a well-equipped facility would be at Aragorn’s disposal while he himself would use that opportunity to visit a close friend... perhaps the only one he had still left.

"Thank you, Winfreda."

For a moment, the two warriors waited in silence, each man lost in thought as they waited for the door to close behind the caretaker to grant them privacy. The little click with which the lock snapped shut seemed unnaturally loud in the thick quietness.

Slowly Éomer made it over to his friend’s bed and lowered himself into the chair beside it. From the open window, excited chatter and the sound of the bustling city filtered into the room, lending the atmosphere an air of normality he knew better than to trust. They had braved only one storm yet; the greater one was still brewing somewhere beyond the horizon, leaving them only this brief break to catch their breath. He inhaled deeply. Where to begin? So much had happened...

"You looked wretched," the Captain of Aldburg finished his scrutiny first, and just like he had read Éomer’s real disposition from the expression in his eyes, the fading traces of the battles his former pupil had gone through likewise had not escaped Elfhelm’s attention. "I do not yet know anything about the trials you faced out there, but that you made it through them to return to us in this manner… that makes me proud, son. Not many of us could have done it, I suppose." He laid a hand on Éomer’s forearm and gave it a firm squeeze. "I also heard rumours of you leading our éohere to victory against Isengard. You must tell me everything, for I know no details yet."

"And I will, but if you think that I look wretched, you should see those orcs who thought that four of them would suffice to attack a Marshal of the Rohírrim!" Éomer said wryly, and for once, honest joy stirred in his chest over seeing his friend alive. "You are the right one to talk about looking ‘wretched’ though! You look like something a Mûmak would find under its sole after a stampede!" He tried to sound light-hearted, but Elfhelm’s condition chased a chill down his spine… and he did not even want to imagine what else Wormtongue and his minions had done to his mentor and friend. Éothain had said that Elfhelm had almost died in the dungeon. That he had been unconscious when they had found him, and in the grasp of a violent fever. Too much of that was still visible upon the older man’s mangled face.

The thick welts and swollen gashes on Elfhelm’s cheeks and brow looked hideous, and a pattern of black and blue bruises marred what skin Éomer could see. There were bandages around his wrists, telling Éomer that his mentor had been chained to the wall, and he recalled Éothain saying that the Captain of Aldburg had been whipped and fiercely beaten numerous times. Shaking his head in helpless fury, Éomer uttered a silent curse. How could it be that they had allowed the Worm to escape after all he had done?

"Interestingly enough, I quite feel like that, too… but it will pass. Do not worry overmuch for me, Éomer; I’ve had worse in my life." Elfhelm shook his head as he saw the deep dismay in the brown eyes before him. "I know he got away, but it is no use thinking about the filth now when there are more pressing issues at hand. There will come a time for vengeance, I am certain of it. Gríma will not escape his destiny forever. The evil he has done will catch up with him, and one day, he will have to pay the price. I am not concerned about that."

With no small amount of jealousy, Éomer saw the conviction in Elfhelm’s expression. His own ability to believe and trust had died when he had found his worst fears confirmed upon his return to Edoras. Their gods – if they even existed – were cruel, and the price for their allegiance high. Béma had given him victory of their enemy, only to rob him of those he loved. What use was it to pray to such gods? Were one not better off relaying upon oneself?

"You honestly believe that, don’t you?"

"Wormtongue only got away because we were distracted. And now he is lucky because we have more urgent matters to consider to than chase after him, but once we have put an end to the threat in the east and concern ourselves with him, aye, I believe that no matter where he runs, we will find him, and if we’ll have to turn every stone in the Mark."

A wry smile curled Éomer’s mouth. Yet it had nothing to do with amusement, or approval; it was an expression of disbelief.

"So you even believe that we will defeat Mordor! It must be the fever."

Elfhelm’s grey eyes pierced him.

"If you do not believe in it yourself, then why are you even here? Why did you fight so hard to survive and even defeat Saruman, if you believe that all will be useless in the end? Why, Éomer?" He was not granted an answer. "It is not only because of your legendary stubbornness; I know you well enough. Aye, you did not want to grant Gríma the satisfaction of the triumph, but deep down inside, you must still have hope for a good outcome, or your will wouldn’t have carried our army to victory. Without hope, there can be no victory, Éomer, no matter what you say."

For the longest time, Éomer stared at him, and at first, Elfhelm thought he saw objection in the young man’s face… but the harsh expression melted away as the son of Éomund shifted his attention to a distance far beyond their room.

"You have always known me well, Elfhelm, sometimes better than I have even known myself." Éomer inhaled deeply, and life returned to his eyes as he thoughtfully regarded his mentor. "I fought for Éowyn. I refused to give up, because I knew what the Worm would do to her if I did not return... and aye, I suspect I was still hoping, then." And in a downbeat voice he added: "But I came too late." Suddenly his throat grew too tight to speak, and he had to avert his eyes as his eyes started to burn. The last thing he wanted was to break down before the man who had shaped him into the respected warrior of the Roírrim he was today, and whose both physical as well as spiritual strength had always been his great inspiration.

For a moment, Elfhelm could only stare at him in shock. Nobody had told him yet about the fate of Éomer’s sister.

"Éowyn… is dead?"

"She might as well be." Alone uttering those poisonous words aloud hurt worse than any wound inflicted by a sword or arrow. ‘It is too early yet to despair!’ the voice in the back of Èomer’s head insisted, but it was not strong. ‘Aragorn will save her! Do you have so little trust?’ Aye, he could hear the Dúnadan rummage in the kitchen even through the closed door; he could hear his muffled voice through the wood, and yet... Éomer had to shut his eyes, for a moment overwhelmed by a tidal wive of desperation. "She… they found her in the Worm’s chambers after they had defeated his army… beaten and starved and unresponsive. Withdrawn from this world." He took a shaky breath and again felt Elfhelm’s hand upon his arm in an attempt to provide comfort.

"He did not… did he?" Elfhelm barely dared to envision the ghastly thought that welled up in his mind, much less voice his fear, yet Éomer understood him.

"Yálanda says that he didn’t, but it doesn’t matter, for whatever Gríma did, it destroyed her. All that is left of Éowyn is her empty shell, and if no miracle happens, her body will follow her mind in a few days, because we cannot get enough food into her to sustain her." Words failed him, and for a moment, Éomer stared at the hands he had folded upon his thighs, before the power of speech returned to him. He shook his head. "I did not fight for this, Elfhelm. Had I known I would find this upon my return, I would have taken the easy way." Éomer lifted his gaze, and the abysmal despair Elfhelm read in his dark eyes made him shiver. Ever from when he had first known the lad, it had been clear to him that Éomer would tear himself in two to keep his sister from harm. Having survived his trials only to find his sister a living corpse upon his return... it was enough to shatter any man’s beliefs.

For a moment, memory took him back to the dungeon, and Éowyn’s pale but proud face looked at him from the opposite cell. No matter what Éomer said, Elfhelm could not envision Éomund’s daughter as a broken, hollow shell. The woman he had known would never have given up, and her appeal to his strength still rung in his ears.

‘I had a dream last night, Captain, and it led me to believe that all is not lost yet. It would be foolish to throw our lives away over a matter of pride. We need to hold on, however hard it may be, for once we are freed, Rohan will still need us. It is our duty to survive.’

"Your sister is strong, Éomer. And she is brave. I refuse to give up hope yet, and neither should you. Éowyn was not even afraid when the filth took her with him, but accepted it as perhaps the chance to kill him... but of course I do not know what happened in his chambers. The last time I saw Éowyn, Gríma forced her to watch as they whipped me. He was raging mad then, and badly bleeding from his mouth. I assume she bit him when he tried to kiss her." A sad smile briefly wandered over Elfhelm’s face at the memory. "She was not broken then. But when I rose from unconsciousness again, she was gone." He inhaled. "Éomer… if only I could have done something more…"

"It was not your fault." Éomer shook his head. "You did what was in your power, which is more than can be said about everyone else, be they of the Royal Guard or my éored… including Éothain."

Elfhelm’s brow furrowed.

"Son, if I know one thing for certain, it is that Éothain would give his life for you any day. The two of you were friends ever since you joined our éored. No, more: you were brothers. If you doubt that, then--"

"Then why did he not accompany me?" Éomer interrupted him harshly, raw accusation colouring his tone that indicated how close to the bone his friend’s betrayal had cut. "Or at least sent a few of our riders after me for protection? He did neither! Like everyone else, he was too afraid to take that risk... like a rabbit before the snake!"

Elfhelm could not remember having ever seen Éomer so embittered. "Have you spoken to Éothain yet about this?"

"Only briefly. I was on my way to Éowyn then; I had neither the nerve nor the time to concern myself with him." Éomer averted his gaze, obviously not willing to dwell on the painful subject any further. Yet Elfhelm did not do him the favour of dropping it.

"And yet you should grant him that time, Éomer. Give him the opportunity to explain himself. He has been your best friend for many, many years, and you risked your life for each other more than once in the past. One was always there for the other, your loyalty beyond question. I still remember how Éothain helped you bury your horse after that orc-attack shortly after you joined the éored, although he was black and blue from the battle himself. Or how the two of you would lie in ambush together, and each would have the other’s back. Do you not believe that he might have had a good reason for what he did?"

"A good reason to betray his best friend?" Éomer snarled, and disdain sparkled in his eyes. "Can you name one? I tried to imagine it, but for the life of me, I could not think of one. I only know that – had our roles been exchanged- I would have accompanied him. And you would have done the same."

"And yet you should hear him out. Or do you want to give up on your closest friend so easily?" Elfhelm’s gaze rested on his former apprentice. "Do you not think Éothain suffers just like you? That he regrets, perhaps, his decision and would do anything to reconcile with you?" Éomer did not answer, and thick silence spread in the room. "And do you not want to reconcile, Éomer? Am I so wrong when I think I see that wish in your eyes?" Again he wasn’t rewarded with a reaction. "Éomer?"

"What do you want me to do, Elfhelm?" Éomer sighed. "Forget what he did? As much as I would wish to be able to do that, I just cannot find it in me." Unable to meet his mentor’s gaze, he stared at the window. "And it doesn’t matter anyway what I wish for, for I know it won’t be granted." He inhaled deeply and shifted his attention back to Elfhelm. "Do you not think that I would appreciate a friend by my side in these hard times? Someone to trust, no matter what happens? I thought Éothain was the one… and yet he deserted me in the time of my greatest need." Slowly, sadly, Éomer shook his head. "No, Elfhelm, you are that friend. You rode to Edoras without concerns for your own safety when the news of the Worm’s verdict reached you… because you knew that Éowyn was in danger. You risked what no one else was willing to risk… including the man I regarded as my best friend."

He saw the reaction in Elfhelm’s eyes and nodded solemnly. "Aye, Captain, it is not only you who is skilled in the reading of others. It is no secret to me that you came here to take Éowyn with you to Aldburg for me, out of Gríma’s reach. I still remember your promise to protect her if anything ever happened to me. I never doubted you would honour it if the situation ever arouse, and still… these were extraordinary circumstances, and you should know that I do not take your loyalty for granted. There are no words I can think of to express my thankfulness, Elfhelm, but I hope you know..."

"Don’t be foolish, son!" Elfhelm interrupted him gruffly, and felt heat spread over his face. "There is no need to thank me at all, for as far as I am concerned, for I consider the two of you my kin. I have known you from birth, and even if I didn’t promise to your dying father to watch over you, I would still have done so. And had I been here when that snake cast you out, I would have taken you with me to Aldburg as well, and the entire Eastmark would have stood behind you as one. By no means am I the only one who thinks like that. It doesn’t matter whether it is me, or Fíndarras, or Thor; the Eastmark will always be yours, and no matter what the future brings, you should never forget that. Promise me you won’t." He held Éomer’s gaze captive, his intensity almost burning the younger man... and emotion choking him. All Éomund’s son could do was nod his affirmation, but the gesture satisfied Elfhelm.

"Very well. But do me a favour and speak with Éothain, please. I would hate to see your friendship destroyed by the Worm. It is too precious a thing to give up lightly. You worry for your sister, and he grieves for his father. Both of you suffer, and I believe that you can help each other, if only you reach out. Speak with him, please, Éomer."

For the longest time, the two warriors regarded each other... until at last, Éomer nodded, although without conviction.

"All right. I will… but I cannot promise you to do it today."

His words brought a weak smile to Elfhelm’s face.

"There is a lot that requires your attention now that you have returned, of course. I understand. But don’t wait for too long. Don’t give bitterness the chance to settle in your heart, son." Again, Elfhelm pressed Éomer’s hand ... and sunk back into his pillow as a wave of fatigue overwhelmed him without warning. "Gods, I am really in a disgraceful shape these days," he muttered, barely able to keep his eyes open. "You will forget that you ever saw me like this. If word gets out that the Captain of Aldburg can be just as weak as any other man, I will have to face mayhem once I return to my éored. They’ll lose all respect." His eyelids grew too heavy to keep them open, but still Elfhelm thought he heard a chuckle beside him. Good.

"And we can’t have that," Éomer agreed. "Do not worry about me, old friend. If your riders should ever ask me about their Captain’s role in these happenings, I will tell them that you ate Gríma’s henchmen alive."

"Which I would have done had the odds not been rather unfair..." Elfhelm mumbled, barely able to concentrate enough to form the words. Another wave rolled over him, and suddenly, the world seemed very far away.

"I know, Captain; I know." For a moment longer, Éomer continued to sit on his chair and watched as his friend drifted off into the healing hands of sleep... then the sudden laughter of children from beyond the open window woke him from his absorption, and he rose to his feet. It could not be long now until Erkenbrand’s men reached the city gates, and he intended to be there, as befitting his new position as First Marshal of the Mark. And afterwards, he would return to Éowyn’s side to wait for Aragorn... and perhaps, hope for the miracle he did not dare to believe in.