Chapter 71: A Night to Remember

THE SQUARE

It had been a long time since the proud city of Edoras had last had reason for a celebration, and even longer since Éomer had seen his fellow kinsmen in such exuberant mood. The last harvesting season had not provided the people of the Mark with much reason for joy, and four months earlier, the Midsummer festivities had been overshadowed by a battle that had cost the lives of many men. No one had been in the mood to celebrate, and yet out of a sense of duty, they had done so nonetheless, because it would have felt too much like surrendering to the darkness.

The sons and daughters of the Mark were a proud and stubborn people; well-known – and feared - for that quality even beyond the borders of their realm. Even in dark times they had celebrated their will to live, their bonfires beacons, and their songs messages for their enemies that their spirit could never be broken, and that, regardless of what their foes would throw at them, they would resist to the very end.

And yet even before his expulsion, there had been moments when Éomer had believed victory no longer within their grasp. To walk through these streets now and to see them lit with hundreds of torches and decorated with colourful ribbons, and to find the citizens laughing and singing and their children chasing each other through the alleys in this mild night that carried the promise of spring… it was unreal, like walking through a dream, and Fíndarras to his left seemed to think the same as they approached the brightly illuminated square together.

“Look at the fire!” the Eastfold warrior said and shook his head in wonder as he gazed at the flaming pile. “I cannot remember having ever seen a higher bonfire! This one must be visible for miles and miles, perhaps even all the way to Aldburg.”

“It’s a good thing there is no wind tonight, or we would be in danger of burning our own city to the ground,” Éomer chuckled, and the fire’s reflections danced in his dark eyes as his gaze swept the crammed space before them. With the arrival of Erkenbrand’s men, it seemed that the streets of Edoras were filled way beyond capacity, the activity positively reminding him of an ant-hive… and yet it was a cheerful ant-hive, where people laughed and greeted each other wherever they met.

Following his visit to the Healing House, Éomer had spent the rest of the afternoon in the solitude of his sister’s chambers, talking to Éowyn and helping her handmaiden – unsuccessfully - to feed her, and pondering the things he had learned from his discussion with Elfhelm. As Aragorn had told him that the preparations for his healing attempt would take a few more hours, they had agreed to join the festivities, first, and then head off together to the Golden Hall after the official part. Part of Éomer could barely stand the thought of having to wait even longer, and yet on the other hand, he dreaded going up. What if they failed tonight? Wouldn’t that be Éowyn’s death verdict?

With a mighty effort, he shoved the horrifying thought aside as he found those he had been looking for on the platform that held their flagpole and was usually used for announcements. He pointed them out to his brother-in-arms. “There they are. Beneath the banner.”

A smile spread over Findarras’ face as the red-haired warrior beheld the round table and benches overlooking the crowds, reserved for the King and his high guests and captains. Usually there was more than enough space on the structure on such occasions, but as most of their high guests had been accommodated there as well, it seemed to the Eastfold warrior quite tricky to move around without falling down. Surely the night would get interesting after the first pints had been downed. He grinned… and yet as they approached the stairs, furrows appeared on his brow.

“I don’t see your friend yet. The ranger.”

“Aragorn?” Findárras was right; Éomer could not detect him either. But he could easily guess where the Heir of Elendil could be found, and that knowledge was the reason for the tension in his stomach, not the prospect of having to face the people who had betrayed him, once Théoden gave his speech. “No. He must still be busy, but I’m sure he will come once he’s ready. He knows I’m waiting for him.”

For a moment, Findarras’ light-hearted expression vanished, and he looked Éomer in the eye. “It is for Éowyn, isn’t it? Will he heal her tonight?”

Éomer nodded.

“I do not know what exactly it is he will do, but whatever is in his power, he will try. We cannot afford to lose more time.” He looked away, glad to evading his comrade’s compassionate gaze when a close-by voice called his name.

“Marshal? Marshal Éomer! How good it is to see you!”

“Thor!” It was indeed the dark-haired halfblood who had arrived the previous afternoon with Erkenbrand’s half of their éohere, and who approached them now from with a plate in his hands that was loaded with deliciously smelling roasts and vegetables. Looking down, Éomer cocked an appreciative eyebrow. “That looks quite appealing what you have there.”

“And there is more than enough for everyone, Marshal,” the scout laughed. As with everyone else, the extraordinary efforts of the last days still showed on Thor’s face, but his good mood seemed genuine. “Even for your unusual friends, although I must admit that I have never seen anyone eating quantities of food quite like that dwarf… or drinking. For one so short, he seems to have an extraordinarily large stomach, and he can certainly hold his liquor! Although the two other short ones are not far behind him, I suppose. Quite extraordinary. I’m only waiting for someone to challenge them.”

“Féofor, you mean. Aye, that would indeed be a spectacle worthy of the occasion… and I think for the very first time, our dear kinsman would lose.” Éomer smirked as his gaze found Gímli and his friends on the left side of the platform, in the process of downing their pints – and obviously not their first ones, judging from the wet spots on their shirts. “Yet seeing them reminds me of the fact that I did not eat anything apart from breakfast today. I’m starving.” An undignified growl emitted without warning from his middle, and he pressed a hand against his rump to silence it when suddenly, the roar of the fire and excited chatter of the people around them were drowned out by music.

“Well then, let’s see that we fill our plates before it will be entirely impossible to make it to the banquet through all these exuberant people, shall we?” Findarras laughed and began to push his way through the crowd over to the mightily laden tables. After a brief, but eloquent glance at Thor, Éomer followed him.

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MEDUSELD

On top of the hill, Maelwyn stood by the open window and listened to the music and the sound of people’s singing and laughter the breeze carried up to her along with the tantalising smell of roasted meat. For a while, her gaze strayed wistfully to the glow of the great fire they had built in the square, and she asked herself what Torben would be doing without her. He had looked sad when she had told him this afternoon that she had volunteered to stay with her mistress for the night, and for a moment, she had felt bad. They had gone through such hard times, and today when everyone would be celebrating their liberation, she would leave her husband alone? It felt so very wrong, and yet at the same time, Maelwyn remembered Éomer’s gaze when the Marshal had asked her whether she would take care of his sister even on this special night. In his dark eyes, she had read the willingness to plead with her if necessary, and she had not had the heart to disappoint him… or force the poor man to humiliate himself.

Of course Éomer could have simply ordered her to stay, and yet he had refrained from that measure to appeal to her sense of duty instead. It was known to him that Maelwyn had her own family to look after, and that her husband and children would sorely miss her if she could not join them on this greatest day Rohan had seen for a long time… but he had been so desperate. How could she have denied his request?

Maelwyn sighed. The gratitude that had lit up Éomer’s eyes as she consented had been reward enough to compensate for the missed celebration, and after all, he had agreed to let her go home for the afternoon and spend at least the first hours of the festivities with her family, to be back on duty only after fall of darkness. She turned around, resting her back against the wall, and her gaze fell on Éowyn’s prone shape. They would be back later, her lady’s brother had told her; he and the dark-haired stranger who had examined Éowyn earlier, to undertake a most serious attempt to cure the White Lady of Rohan of her condition before she would slip beyond all help.

Part of Maelwyn felt proud that the Marshal had entrusted her with the preparations and wanted her to be present during the treatment, and at the same time, she dreaded the experience…and the possible outcome. What if they, too, failed? Would all hope be lost then, and all left to do for them would be to helplessly watch as Éowyn slowly starved to death? What would it do to Éomer to lose his sister in such a terrible way? She dared not think about it.

As she stood frozen with her back to the wall, a soft rap cut through her dark thoughts. Thankful for the distraction, Maelwyn made for the door and reached it when with another knock, a voice behind it asked: “Mistress Maelwyn? I have a delivery for you.” She opened… and saw the young boy before her whose family lived next to the healer’s house.

“Godhere, isn’t it?” Curiously she glanced at the clay pot in the lad’s hands.

“Aye, Mistress.” Careful as if the thing he carried would break if he so much as looked at it wrongly, Godhere handed his mysterious carriage over to her. “The Lord Aragorn bade me to bring you this. He said you were waiting for it and knew what to do.”

“I do indeed, thank you very much, Godhere.” The pot felt warm as she cradled it against her chest. “”Is there anything I can get you for your service? Anything from the kitchens, perhaps?” She lifted an eyebrow in suggestion, but Godhere surprised her.

“My only wish would be that you cure the White Lady, Mistress,” the lad said, and the seriousness of his young face almost broke Maelwyn’s heart. “That is all I want.”

“It is what we all want, Godhere,” the handmaiden said and ruffled the boy’s hair with a comforting smile. “And we will do our very best to make it happen; I give you my word. Now go back quickly to the square and enjoy the festivities. Since we have the honour of being graced with the presence of a real wizard, I am quite sure that you will get to see a few things tonight that you don’t see every day. ”

“You think?” The lad’s eyes widened in sudden excitement.

“I am quite sure of it. I was about your age when I saw one of Gandalf Greyhame’s fireworks, and believe me, it is not something you would want to miss.” Maelwyn smiled. “So, off you go, and if you see the Lord Aragorn, please tell him that I received this and will have everything prepared when he comes.”

“I will tell him, Mistress. Good night… and good luck!” For a moment, it seemed that Godhere wanted to say more, but then arrived at the realisation that everything necessary had already been communicated between them. Returning the handmaiden’s smile, he turned away and took off in the direction of the door like a colt released into the wild after a long winter.

Maelwyn observed his path until he disappeared behind the next pillar, before she turned around and shut the door with her back, already curiously lifting the lid of the pot to see what miraculous substance their dark-haired guest had sent her. It looked inconspicuous enough as she took a crumb of the sand-coloured paste between her fingers to examine it… but when its scent hit her nose, a jolt of energy suddenly rushed through her veins, and all exhaustion and tiredness fell from her. Amazed, she stared at her fingers… and then hurried to begin her preparations, and for the first time since she had returned to the Golden Hall to find her mistress in her current condition, something akin to hope stirred in her chest.

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THE SQUARE

The moon had already risen and shed his silvery light upon the land when Théoden of Rohan rose from his seat. The festivities had being going on for quite a while already, and now that people’s stomachs had been filled and their first urge to exchange the talk of the day had been satisfied, he felt that at last the time had arrived for him to address his kinsmen.

Over the bustling crowd, his gaze found the musicians, and the experienced artists, knowing without words the meaning of their king’s attention, brought their song to an end and looked expectantly at the platform. At first, dancers shouted their suggestions for the next song at them, but quickly silence spread across the square as all understood why the musicians had stopped, and the people turned toward their waiting king.

His shoulders squared and his bearing erect, Théoden-King allowed his gaze to travel over the expectant faces before him, and his eyes sparkled with pride. Such life was still in his people even after everything they had been forced to endure in the passed dark years! Such extraordinary strength and will! Once again, they had beaten the odds, and tonight, he felt for the first time a stirring of hope that the Eorl’s descendents would persevere even through the great storm still awaiting them.

“My fellow countrymen,” he began, and all eyes looked up as his strong voice carried over the square. “Sons and daughters of Eorl! We have gathered here tonight to celebrate a very special occasion, perhaps one of the most joyous events in the history of the Mark: tonight... we celebrate the liberation of Rohan from Saruman’s yoke, and the end of our western enemy and those who helped him! Never again will we need to fear the traitor, for he is dead!”

Deafening cheers rose into the night, drowning out Théoden’s voice, but he was glad to wait and listen to his people’s unrestrained joy; for far too many years had passed since he had last seen them in this exuberant mood. A quick glance back confirmed that his captains and their guests had likewise risen and observed the scene with the same content expression. There were still traces of wonder and even scepticism in several pairs of eyes belonging to the leaders of their Armed Forces, as if the men did not yet fully dare to trust what they saw and expected to wake from this wonderful dream at any moment. Théoden could not blame them, for he felt much the same. It was only when his glance found his nephew that the King’s smile suddenly faltered, for even in this triumphant hour, Éomer refused to acknowledge him with even the briefest of glances, and for a moment, a shadow replaced the sunshine in his heart as the son of Thengel turned back to his people.

“The glory of this triumph belongs to our Riders, who – by following an old Rohirric tradition - once again refused to acknowledge the odds and beat the enemy on his own turf before he could assault us with his already gathered army. Men of all parts of the Mark fought side by side with no regard for their own lives, to protect what they value and love: their kin – you - and our land. Their victory confirms that even against overwhelming numbers, the man who knows what he defends will always have the advantage over his enemies. May they ride for all eternity! Hail to those warriors who returned and are with us tonight, and also to the many men who gave their lives for our safety! Never shall their sacrifice be forgotten!”

“Hail!” the crowd answered as one, and no few among them felt a shudder race down their spines at the powerful moment.

“Also,” Théoden continued, “I would like to express our gratitude to those who so courageously joined our forces although it was not their battle to wage. And yet perhaps it were Gandalf Greyhame and the Lord Aragorn and his brotherhood and friends who tipped the scales in our favour.” His gaze came to rest on Aragorn. “The people of the Mark will always remember their friends, Lord Aragorn, and whenever needs be, we will stand faithfully by the side of those who helped us, and when you call us, we will come.” He lifted his wineglass. “To friendship!”

They drank, and for a moment, a solemn silence hung above the square, and only the fire’s mighty roar could be heard. Then the people cheered, and raised their glasses again to welcome their new friends. Satisfied with their reaction, Théoden could nonetheless not avoid feeling a sudden tension take a hold of him. He knew that Éomer would not welcome the next part.

“There is one more thing to say before I will leave you to enjoy the music and the food and the little surprises we have in store for you later on…” He meet Gandalf’s gaze with a half-hidden smile that quickly vanished from his face. “But as we celebrate our liberation, it should not be forgotten that it was ultimately the will of one man who made it possible.” He felt Éomer’s gaze like an arrow trained on his back and yet calmly turned to meet his nephew’s gaze. There was no way around it, whether Éomer wanted it or not. The people needed to know that their marshal had returned and had been reinstated in his service to the Mark. “It was he who summoned our éohere at great risk for his own life, and it was he who led them to victory. Although in the enemy’s focus and a victim of his schemes, he refused to surrender, and his great love of Rohan drove him to relentlessly pursue his goal until his triumph was complete.” Théoden turned back to the eagerly waiting people, but the chill Éomer’s gaze had set in his stomach would not fade. “That man, of course, is Éomer son of Eomund, and I am proud to call him my nephew… and, from this day on, “Chief Protector and First Marshal of the Mark”!”

The crowd erupted into jubilations, applauding and shouting the name of their new First Marshal, and their relief could not be overheard. Théoden paused. This was as far as he had planned his speech, but suddenly, instinct told him to add something more, as this was most likely the best opportunity he would ever be granted, right here in front of his people. Perhaps that was what Éomer wanted, that his king humiliated himself, as he had humiliated his kin. With renewed confidence, Théoden inhaled and lifted his chin.

“Éomer… sister-son…listen to me now, and let the people of Edoras bear witness of the sincerity of my apology: much harm has been done to you because of the machinations of Gríma Wormtongue; machinations which, alas, used me as a tool to inflict this damage upon you. I failed to distinguish the truth from the Worm’s deviously constructed lies, and thus, I am to be held fully responsible for the hard trials you had to brave.” Stunned silence spread over the square. It was unheard of that a ruler had ever apologised or even only admitted failure in public, and they did not know what to think. Was it weakness? Was it courage? Was it something they wanted to hear from the man from whom, more than from anyone else, they needed a show of strength?

It did not make Théoden’s task any easier that the uneasy wariness he had first read in Éomer’s eyes seemed to shift into barely restrained contempt right before him. Béma, what was it that the lad wanted, that he killed himself? Was not even his uncle’s humiliation enough to extinguish the young man’s anger?

“I will live to regret my failure to the end of my days… and yet I have one hope, however small it may be: that perhaps, you might find it in your heart to forgive me. Not tonight, perhaps, and not tomorrow. But perhaps one day. Our foe’s evil plans already robbed me of one son; to lose both Théodred and you…” the power of speech left the King, and he could only shake his head. Still he saw the opposite of what he had hoped to find in Éomer’s eyes.

The crowd remained silent, and there were wet trails on many faces as they gazed up expectantly at their king and his nephew, hoping for reconciliation between the two well-respected men, but Théoden did not see them. With shock he realised that his emotions had just led him to commit an unforgivable mistake, or at least it was the way Éomer saw it, judging from his frozen expression: he had used the public to pressure his nephew into something he was not yet ready to grant.

For a terrible moment, Théoden feared that Eomund’s son would humiliate him in front of his people and deny his request, and he could not have complained. And yet despite his unmistakable, unfathomable disappointment, Éomer was too much of a warrior to do this to him, even if it was only the code of the Armed Forces which held him in line. The code was simple: the man before him was his king and leader. Public disobedience was unthinkable. His expression an unmoved mask as he lowered his head, Éomer bowed stiffly, and his pronunciation was flat when he said: “There is nothing to forgive, Sire. I live to serve my lord and land.”

There was a moment of silence, as if the people wondered how to take their Marshal’s declaration… but then the first cheers rose from the crowd, and all doubt vanished in a storm of enthusiasm. And yet Théoden knew better than to trust in their judgment, and his limbs felt like wooden sticks as he turned to announce the continuation of the festivities. He knew now that he had lost Éomer.

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MEDUSELD

Maelwyn laid two more logs in the fireplace and carefully lifted the lid of the kettle that hung above the flames, satisfied to see the steam rise from the boiling water. It could not be long now before Éomer and the foreign healer returned from the square, and she wanted everything to be ready. As she straightened, the handmaiden’s gaze travelled over the chambers and the many pots and tea warmers she had arranged close to the bed, the paste Godhere had brought her evenly distributed in the vessels to be infused with hot water once the procedure began. She still wondered what the substance’s purpose was besides its obviously invigorating effect.

Slowly Maelwyn wandered over to the chair beside the bed and allowed herself to sink into the cushion, her gaze on her mistress. Éowyn’s eyes were closed for a change, and she was thankful for it, and yet the sight of her prone, pale shape had never been more deathlike. Even the steady rise and fall of her chest seemed diminished to Maelwyn’s eyes, and as she lent forward to take the cloth she had soaked with water saturated with the strange substance, fear again raised its ugly head that her mistress died before Aragorn could even undertake the attempt to heal her.

“Hold out just a little longer, my lady,” Maelwyn whispered as she gently wiped the cloth over Éowyn’s brow. “They are already on the way. Please, stay with us…”

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THE SQUARE

As soon as the first opportunity had presented itself to him, Éomer had fled the platform under the pretence of having to pay the banquet another visit. And yet all appetite had left him after the charade Théoden had forced on him, and he had sought himself a niche which was not reached by the light to escape the people’s attention. As he stood in the shadow, observing the partying crowd with the distinct feeling of suffocation tightening his chest, he waited for Aragorn, whom he could see absorbed in an intense discussion with Gandalf. A chill spread in Éomer’s stomach at the sight of their serious expressions, and he could not shake the feeling that their brief respite was quickly nearing its end. What were the two talking about? Was the wizard for some reason opposed to their untertaking? Did he deem the risk too high for the Heir of Elendil, who played a central role in his plans against the Dark Lord?

Suddenly it was too loud for Éomer; there were too many people, and even if Éowyn had not been waiting in her chambers, he could barely wait to leave. He had meant it when he had said that he wanted no celebration, and since he had said so, his mood had even further deteriorated. As the musicians intoned one of their most popular drinking songs, the urge to leave became almost overwhelming, and not even the sight of the dwarf singing merrily along in a language he very obviously didn’t speak, a jug of ale in his hand, could bring a smile to the Marshal’s lips. What in Béma’s name was keeping Aragorn? What was so important that it could not wait? Again Éomer craned his neck to see whether the wizard and the ranger had already concluded their discussion, when the mention of his own name next to his ear caused him to jump.

“Éomer? Goodness, you startled me!” The woman before him laid a hand upon her chest to emphasise her statement, and then wrinkled her brow. “Are you well, son? You look slightly out-of-place here, if you don’t mind me saying. Not that I could blame you, of course, for I must admit that I feel rather out-of- place myself.”

It took Éomer a few moments to recognise the middle-aged, elegant woman, and suddenly, heat crept into his face.

“Lady Glenwyn! You must excuse me, please. I was…”

“…elsewhere with your thoughts? Yes, I could see that. I came to congratulate you on your victory and your new title, but I suppose that you do not feel much like celebrating after what you found upon your return.” She lowered her voice. “Éothain told me what happened to your sister. Trust me, I understand very well that you do not want to be here. Neither do I, for that matter, and still it is our duty to show ourselves to the public on such an occasion. Today I curse it, though.” She turned away to let her gaze glide over the partying crowd, giving Éomer the chance to have a closer look at her. Although of delicate build, Lady Glenwyn had always radiated an inner strength and regality Éomer had found inspiring, but today for the first time, he could see the damage of the past dark days clearly in her lined face and the dispirited expression of her eyes. A stranger would perhaps not have detected the change, but to him, Céorl’s widow looked bereft of the positive energy that had always surrounded her. Today, for the first time ever since he had known her, Lady Glenwyn looked old. That she was even here to show herself only one day after having been received the tidings of her husband’s death was a sign that not all of her strength had departed her, and yet it pained Éomer to see her in this condition.

He inhaled deeply. “Aye, it is certainly one of those duties I could do without, as well.” Her attention returned to him, a sad, knowing smile playing around the corners of her mouth, and Éomer lowered his gaze. This was certainly not the right place or occasion for a conversation about their deceased or dying loved ones, and yet he could hardly slip away without giving the woman his condolences. “I learned of what happened to your husband only this morning. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathies, Lady Glenwyn. Céorl was a great warrior, and a good and loyal friend, and he will be sorely missed not only by his family.”

She nodded her head in appreciation as she took his hand, and looked him in the eye, and her gaze was both sad and proud when she said: “Aye, Éomer, that he was, and it is comforting for me to think that that is how he will be remembered by the people who knew him. I thank you for your kind words.” For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words, and sadness began to seep through the barricade of her composure. “I know that my husband would be content with the circumstances of his death… but he leaves a void that will be hard to fill. It will take time to get used to the thought that he is no longer there.” A little spasm shook her voice and she interrupted herself; falling silent before the pain escaped her control. Again her gaze strayed to the dancing crowd, those happy people who seemed to exist in an altogether different reality.

“One day you will be reunited,” Éomer replied, following her example. Somehow, it made it easier to say these things if they didn’t have to look each other in the eye and the see the pain there. His gaze found Aragorn and Gandalf, and it seemed to him that the two were at last coming to an end. “But you should not count the days until then. Céorl would want you to go on and find joy in your life again, not spending it grieving for him. He died for your freedom and safety. It is a great gift he gave you, Lady Glenwyn, and he would not want you to cast it aside. None of the men in my éored would expect, much less wish this of their loved ones.”

Through the veil of her unshed tears, a thankful sparkle lit up Lady Glenwyn’s eyes. “I know that, Éomer. Believe me, I do. But it helps to hear it said aloud. I know that he would want me to gone on and live a content life. But like you said, it will take time until I may be able to honour his request.” Suddenly she stiffened beside him, and at first, Éomer could not guess the reason… but then he beheld a familiar face before them, and wide blue eyes which shied away from his gaze as soon as their eyes met. A moment later, Éothain had disappeared in the bustling crowd again.

Slowly shaking her head, Céorl’s wife turned back, and when her eyes found him again, Éomer felt suddenly naked under her intense gaze… like the twelve year old boy he had once been, sitting in her kitchen with his friend Éothain and listening to Lady Glenwyn’s lecture when one of their adventures had ended with a broken arm and an ugly cut for her son.

“Lucky are those whose good friends are around to help them to stand up when life tripped them, and I count myself among them… and yet I fear that Éothain has no such help. He lost his father, and he lost his best friend, and he blames himself for that and suffers the pain alone.” Her stare seemed to burn Éomer.

What to say? Slowly, he shook his head. “My Lady… this is no easy matter to resolve. I feel for him because I know how it feels to lose one’s father, and yet…”

“You cannot simply forgive him,” she nodded. “And he wouldn’t expect you to. But perhaps you should know that his decision was made not easily on that horrible day. In fact, Éothain had already packed his belongings and was on his way to the stables to accompany you into exile…” She inhaled. “But my husband intercepted him. He told me that he all but ordered Éothain to stay in Edoras, for he himself was already on his way to ride to Aldburg to alert Elfhelm, and he knew what would happen if he left the city without the protection of a man he could trust. He was afraid that the Worm would take advantage of that situation to bring the entire city under his control. He could not allow for that to happen, Éomer. Éothain had to stay, although you must believe me when I tell you that he rebelled against his orders.”

Éomer swallowed. Behind Glenwyn he saw Aragorn move through the crowd toward him, and yet suddenly his mind was reeling with the news he had just learned. How was a man supposed to think straight under such circumstances? What was he supposed to do now? He shook his head.

“But then why did he not order a few of our riders to follow me? If not to accompany me, then at least to provide me with some weapons and food! But no one came.”

“The Worm was only waiting for it to happen, Éomer. His men controlled the stables and would not allow any of the Riders to leave that day, under pain of death. My husband only made it out because he had returned from patrol that morning with his men, and they had not brought their horses up to the stables then. Someone told him what was going on and he immediately went to search for Éothain, because he could easily guess that our son would want to leave with you. He managed to slip through their net, but there was no chance for anyone else to leave. Most of your riders have families, Éomer, and any attempt to ride to your aid would have been their own death sentence. Wormtongue had planned all this very carefully. I do understand that you feel betrayed, but there was no way for your men to leave Edoras.”

Dumbfounded, he stared at her.

“I did not know that.”

“No, of course not, and how could you? Yet Éothain knows all this, and he won’t accept it that there was nothing he could have done for you. He blames himself for everything that happened since they sent you away. He blames himself for his father’s death, and he blames himself for what happened to your sister, for he had sworn to protect her in your stead. He is utterly miserable and desperate, Éomer; I don’t think I’ve seen him sleep for more than just a few hours since you left. He is at the end of his strength, and he has no one to help him. I do not know whether what I said may change your heart, but I would beg you to consider. The two of you have been friends for a very long time. Surely even in all your bitterness, there must also still be the willingness to listen to what a good friend might have to say?” Once again she took his hand and gave it an insistent squeeze; her gaze never once leaving his. “You are a good man, Éomer, and so is my boy. It would be a shame to see the two of you sundered because of the Worm’s lies.”

Aragorn had almost reached them now, and slowed his steps as he beheld the intense quality of their conversation, courteously waiting where he would not intrude.

Too loud, it was too loud! He could not think properly anymore.

“Éomer?”

He nodded, and with a deep breath, said: “Tell Éothain to meet me in the Golden Hall tomorrow at noon. I cannot promise you anything yet, Lady Glenwyn, but… I will listen to what he has to say.” Gratitude lit up the blue eyes before him, and a thankful smile replaced the woman’s worried expression.

“He will be there, Éomer. He will be there. Now go and see to whatever it is that has been occupying your mind.” A side-glance found Aragorn. “I will not keep you any longer. Be well, Éomer, and be assured that the people of Edoras are glad to have you back. My lord…” And with a measured nod at the ranger, Lady Glenwyn disappeared in the crowd.

For a moment, Éomer stared into the void she had left, as if in a trance, before he woke at last to the Dúnadan’s questioning gaze.

“Are you good to leave? Éomer?”

A deep breath at last brought clarity back to his mind, and he nodded.

“Aye. Aye, let’s go. Éowyn is waiting for us.”