Chapter 72: Descent

MEDUSELD

The path up toward Meduseld seemed unusually long and – at the same time - too short for Éomer, as Aragorn and he ascended the slope in complete silence, both of them occupied with their own dark musings. At first, Éomer had contemplated asking his friend about his discussion with Gandalf Greyhame, not only to take his mind off the enervating thought of what they would do if Aragorn failed, but also because it had quickly dawned on him that the Ranger was pondering a question of great import. Yet against his own roused curiosity, he had decided against it, unwilling to distract Aragorn further from the task at hand when the older man was obviously already struggling to keep his head clear. Whether his tense disposition was due to the risk he was about to take by diving into Éowyn’s mind or because of what the Istar had revealed to him in their conversation, Éomer dared not guess, and the uncertainty also increased his own unease.

It was only when the noise from the square below them faded and Meduseld’s larage shadow loomed above them, that Aragorn finally chose to acknowledge his presence again. At the foot of the stairs, the Ranger suddenly came to a halt, and – with a strange expression upon his pensive face – turned to face Éomer. “Your uncle means well, Éomer. You know that.”

Éomer had been prepared for many things, but this was a comment he had not expected in their present situation. At first, no reply would come to him… but then slowly, anger began to stir in his chest, and in a tone that underlined his incredulity, he asked: “And just what makes you say that? And why address it now? For now is hardly the appropriate time to–”

“I realise that there are other things on your mind right now, but since none of us can tell what will happen tonight, I needed to bring it up,” Aragorn interrupted his outbreak before he could talk himself into a rage, and in his eyes flickered something Éomer did not like although he rejected the thought that Elendil’s heir could be afraid of his undertaking. “Even if all goes well, it seems that I will not be here for much longer. Your quarrel with your uncle diminishes your éoreds’ effectiveness in battle, Éomer, and I would deem it important that the two of you resolve that issue before you ride to war.”

Éomer’s gaze grew frosty, and a dangerous sparkle in his dark eyes made clear what he thought of Aragorn’s intrusion into what he deemed highly private matters.

“I thought that I demonstrated in Isengard that I am quite capable of performing my duty to Rohan even when I’m at strife with my king. You were there, Aragorn. You saw me, and yet suddenly, you doubt my ability to focus on the things that matter? I must admit, I do not understand… unless, of course, it was my uncle who asked you to speak with me. I would not deem that measure beyond him.”

“It was not your uncle, and I am not your enemy, Éomer,” Aragorn replied patiently, but then his gaze hardened as he lifted his chin. He had to make himself understood. “I realise that these are difficult days for you, but you won’t improve things by beginning to see foes everywhere. No, I addressed that particular issue because in comparison to our campaign against Mordor, your quarrel with Saruman was only a pale shadow, and if we want to brave this storm, we cannot tolerate to weaken our armies even in the least way. Our forces will only be as strong as the weakest link in the chain, and if the weakest link is the connection between the King of Rohan and his First Marshal… it might prove deadly for the peoples of Middle Earth.”

Éomer’s eyes were narrow slits, and his voice gave away his indignation at what he considered a serious insult.

“I already ensured my King of my allegiance for as long as he needs me, and anyone who knows me should know that I care about my Riders’ wellbeing, and that I would never do anything to weaken them in a field of battle. The only thing I asked of Théoden-King was to leave me alone with personal matters for the time being as I am not in the mind to concern myself with them for now. I do not see why this should pose a problem to our army. I’ve kept to the agreement we reached this morning; he hasn’t. It is Théoden-King with whom you should speak, not me.” He glared at Aragorn, his temper for a moment beyond his control. But suddenly he remembered something else the other man had mentioned: “What exactly did you mean when you announced that you would leave us soon? When? And where will you go from here?”

Now Aragorn’s expression grew strangely guarded, but even in the flickering light of the torches, Éomer thought that he saw a shadow fall upon his friend’s face. Something was afoot, something of great import and risk, and the man he had considered a new-found friend was apparently unwilling to trust him with the information.

“There is something I will have to see to before I can ride to Gondor,” the Dúnadan admitted at length, averting his gaze, and his uncharacteristical elusiveness worried Éomer even further. “I’m afraid we will have to travel there on different paths, as I might have to leave as early as tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” ‘And what becomes of Éowyn if you fail tonight?’ Éomer thought, although he already knew the answer to his own question. If Aragorn failed, there was nothing anyone would be able to do for his sister. She would die. With great effort he pushed the thought aside. It did not help him to keep a clear head, and a clear head was what he needed right now. It was unmistakable that Aragorn – the great Thorongil – was afraid of something, and the question of what could possibly frighten a man who had accompanied him into battle without so much as a second thought was something Éomer was not sure he wanted to know the answer to. And yet he needed to hear it. If there was an unknown danger that the Istar had discovered, surely it also concerned Rohan.

“You are following Gandalf’s bidding, aren’t you? I saw the two of you talking at the square.” Still uncomfortable, Aragorn nodded. “I can see that you do not want to tell me the details, but if we’re supposed to fight together, shouldn’t I at least know of our plan, even if it is someone else who developed it? Shouldn’t I know at least where we are supposed to join forces, and when?”

For another long moment, Aragorn remained silent, and Éomer could the Ranger fighting with himself, before, with a deep breath, the Heir of Elendil confessed: “I will take the Dimholt Road to Gondor. As to where or when we will meet, I’m afraid cannot tell you.”

At first, Éomer could only stare at his friend, bereft of words; his head empty. He was certain that he had heard right, and yet it could not be the truth. An insane desire to laugh rose in him… and disappeared as fast as it had occurred. Aragorn certainly did not look as if he were jesting, even if there was no way on Béma’s green earth that he had meant what he had just said. “You will travel that cursed way underneath the mountain? You will follow the ‘Paths of the Dead’? That is what Gandalf told you to do?”

Aragorn exhaled. “I know how it must sound to your ears. I am familiar with the legend of the Dwimorberg, and it is, in fact, the very reason for my journey. Trust me, Èomer, I am not looking forward to that experience, but I do not have a choice, and I have known Gandalf long enough to know that he will not lead me astray. He would not send me were there another way. Halbarad and the others will accompany me, if that’s any consolation for you. I will not go alone.”

“Word is that you could take an entire army with you into that mountain, and none of them would return,” Éomer said gloomily, his mind still reeling with shock, and his eyes unwittingly travelled to where the Dwimorberg’s threatening shape lay hidden in the darkness; waiting for them like a great, hungry beast. The man whose destiny was to challenge their greatest enemy was about to throw his life away without apparent need. What if the Grey Wanderer was mistaken? What if Gandalf, too, had been affected by the strange thing he had taken from his defeated former friend and had unwittingly become Sauron’s instrument in their destruction, like Saruman had? Hadn’t he admitted himself that it was a dangerous token he had taken from his former friend? And had not that incident on their way to Edoras, when one of the hobbits had apparently misused it, illustrated quite clearly how correct his assumption had been? With a frustrated sigh, Éomer shook his head. Just when he had thought that perhaps there was still reason for hope, destiny seemed determined to snatch it away from him again.

“Aragorn… none who ventured on that road were ever seen again under the sun. That mountain is said to be haunted by unspeakable evil, and even if it weren’t so, the danger of getting lost in the labyrinth underneath it should not be taken lightly. What could you possibly hope to gain by entering it?”

“The allegiance of an army we will need in our battle against Mordor.” Aragorn followed his gaze, his lips a bloodless line. For a moment, both men stood side by side, silently contemplating what had been said, then Éomer shook his head.

“I can only hope you are right, my friend, as for now it would seem to me that Gandalf Greyhame is asking you to throw your life away for nothing… and if the balance in this battle of power is already so fragile that we cannot even afford a quarrel between my uncle and me, then much less can we afford that our leader and greatest hope goes to his death without need.”

“I understand your concerns, Éomer, but it must be done. I lay my trust in Gandalf. In the long years I have known him, his decisions were always sound, and his strategy, for the most part, without fail. Of course a certain risk can never be ruled out where such great things as the destiny of a people, or even peoples, are at stake. We are at a point now where, not matter what action we decide to take in our fight against the Dark Lord, each of our movements has an impact on the outcome. We are in the weaker position, thus we must risk more to secure our chance of victory. Surely this principle cannot be foreign to the Rohírrim.”

Èomer furrowed his brow, unconvinced.

“There’s risk, and there is madness, Aragorn. I am not sure which of the two your plan would fit.”

“I understand your scepticism, but if I am indeed to die underneath that mountain, then I am sure that my death, too, will serve a reason.” The Ranger’s gaze made certain that no matter what reasons Éomer would bring up again his intentions, they would not change his mind, and after a long look into those determined grey eyes, the younger man nodded at last, and accepted his friend’s plan even if he could not understand it.

Relieved to see the Rohír’s acceptance, Aragorn turned toward the stairs. “Come, let us go to your sister now.” And with a last glance that did not convey the amount of conviction Éomer would have liked to see from his friend in a matter of such consequence, the Dúnadan turned toward the steps. A moment later, Eomund’s son followed him.

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ÉOWYN'S CHAMBERS

The hours had come and gone without anyone else showing up after Godhere, and had the night not been bright and the moon shed its silvery light into the room, Maelwyn would have lost track of time as she waited in the chair beside her mistress’s bed. When at last the knock she had awaited with both anticipation and dread reached her ears, the young handmaiden jumped to her feet, and her heartbeat accelerated furiously in her chest as she briefly squeezed the lifeless, cold hand in her fingers.

“They are coming, my lady. This must be your brother.” She rushed to the door as quickly as her feet carried her, all fatigue suddenly forgotten when she opened and beheld the Marshal and his dark-haired friend on the threshold. “My lords…! Please come in; everything is prepared.” She stepped aside to let the men enter, and her stomach gave a nervous jerk when she noticed their tense expressions. Was it because of the undertaking they were about to engage in, or was there something else, she wondered briefly. There seemed to be an inexplicable tension between the two warriors, but then again, she could be wrong. After all, she remembered well enough the Lord Aragorn’s words about the risks involved in entering a person’s mind, and it was hardly a wonder that the men were nervous; she was probably mistaking their anxiety for anger.

“Has anything changed since I left?” Hesitantly, as if he were afraid to enter, Éomer looked into the adjacent bedchamber, and he swallowed as his gaze returned to Maelwyn. “Anything… in my sister’s condition?” He almost seemed to plead, but she could not give him what he wanted to her.

“She keeps her eyes closed now, my lord, but apart from that, I fear there has been no change.” Maelwyn shook her head. “I also tried again to feed her, but she will not take anything anymore, not even tea. But we are here to change that, aren’t we?” Heat spread in her face when the two warriors turned around to slant her a curious glance… but then Aragorn’s expression melted into a small, but nonetheless genuine smile, and she felt better.

“Indeed, that is what we are here for, Maelwyn. Come, let’s lose no more time. Is the water ready?”

“Aye, my lord. Should I fill the bowls now?”

“Please. But only half of them, yet. Keep the rest ready just in case that the procedure takes longer. I have never done this before, so I cannot say from experience how long it might take me to find her.”

They stepped into the bedchamber, and after a brief, wordless exchange, Éomer silently closed the door behind them. There was a strange scent in the air; an odour that had replaced the stuffy atmosphere in the room and crept up his nostrils to explode in his brain, making him wide awake, and he wrinkled his brow as he sought for its origin while Aragorn slowly approached the bed. As he slowly lowered himself onto the mattress beside Éowyn, the Ranger’s concerned gaze turned even graver when he picked up her and felt the coldness of her fingers. From outside, the distant noise from the celebration reached their ears, but it seemed to come from another reality that did not concern them.

“Gods, she looks like a wraith,” Éomer muttered as he looked over Aragorn’s shoulder, and his stomach clenched as he beheld his sister’s almost translucent appearance. Béma, she looked so frail… as if the wind could carry her away. “Is she even breathing?” He looked at Maelwyn, who paused on her way to the head end of the bed with sudden dismay in her widening eyes at the possibility that her mistress might have died in the short amount of time it had taken her to admit her rescuers into their chambers. Gently, Aragorn laid his hand against Éowyn’s lips, and for a moment, Éomer could imagine all too well how the Ranger’s voice would sound if he uttered the words he dreaded to hear. It could not be.

“No…” he pleaded, with whomever, his hands clenching into fists by his side. “Please, Éowyn….” He would do whatever their gods asked of him, if only--

“I can feel her breath, but it is time to get going.” Aragorn looked up. Quickly Maelwyn filled the rest of the bowls, and the odour spread in the room, thickened until it became almost unbearable. “Thank you, Maelwyn. Now close the window, please. And no matter what happens, you must see to it that the odour remains strong, for it is the anchor that will link me to this world once I am in Éowyn’s mind. I do not know how far I will need to go in, but it will help me to find the way back. It is my lifeline…” His gaze shifted from the handmaiden to Éomer and back, making sure they understood.

Éomer nodded. “What do we do if you are not back before we run out of this substance?” he asked, his eyes darting between his lifeless sister, Aragorn, and the steaming bowls on the nightstand and aroundt he bed. “How do we wake you?”

Aragorn shook his head.

“You cannot. I must return before that happens.” He saw the young man’s gaze darkening. “But fear not, Éomer what I made should suffice for a quite while.”The Dúnadan forced an encouraging smile upon his lips despite the weight he felt upon his shoulders. He was very aware of the desperate hope Éomer placed in him, and very aware of how easily his quest could fail. As much as he would have liked, but he could not promise his friend success. Still, there was one thing he could promise: “I will do my best, Éomer. If your sister can be reached at all, I will find her, and together, we will bring her back. That I promise you.”

There was a faint flicker of hope in the Rohír’s eyes, and yet dread still seemed to hold the son of Eomund firmly in its grasp. Éomer wanted to believe that there was a chance, but there was no conviction. Yet he appeared to be thankful for the opportunity to participate in his sister’s rescue.

“What can I do? Tell me!”

“For now, there is nothing, except seeing to the link. Make sure that it will not be broken.”

“It won’t.” Éomer exchanged a quick glance with Maelwyn, who nodded her agreement from her place by the window from where she had chosen to watch the proceedings now that her part had been done.

“I already heated more water, in case we need it.” She looked at the door, suddenly unsure, and inhaled. “Would you like me to wait outside, Lord Éomer, or…”

“I would welcome it if you stayed,” Aragorn said with a quick look at Éomer. “We might need your service at some point, and it might help your lady to see another trusted face once she wakes.” ‘If she wakes’, he corrected himself almost immediately, if only in his thoughts. He laid his free hand on Éowyn’s brow. “If the Marshal has no objections…”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then I suppose it is time…” Aragorn met Éomer’s anguished gaze with a deep breath. “Come, sit here beside us. I do not know what will happen, or whether there might be anything for you to do, but it would be best for you to stay close, just in case.” He waited, watching as Éomer followed his suggestion. For a moment, the two men regarded each other silently, communicating more with that one look than they could ever have with words, until, with a nod, Aragorn turned away and closed his eyes. His breathing became slower, deeper, as he began to concentrate on the scent that would anchor him to the real world. It crept into his nostrils and down his windpipe into his lungs and from there into his bloodstream. Slowly, the crackling of the fire behind him subsided as he slipped into a trance.

Behind him, Éomer and Maelwyn exchanged a long glance full of hope and doubt as heavy silence spread in the room. All that was left for them to do now was wait. Somehow, that was the hardest part…

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WITHIN

As before, Aragorn found himself complete immersed in a blackness so thick, he could not see his hand before his eyes once his conscious left his body and descended into the young woman’s mind. There were no stars and no moon to light his way, nothing to help his orientation as he drifted through the vast emptiness of Éowyn’s memories, except for the slight resistance of his lifeline. If, for whatever reasons, the connection was broken, it would get difficult to find the way back, but Aragorn forbid himself to even consider the possibility. Éomer and the handmaiden knew what was at stake; they would guard the link with everything they had, and for him it was time now to focus on the task at hand.

With nothing around to distract him, the Dúnadan concentrated on the image of the young woman he had come to seek in this realm. Slowly, her likeness appeared before his inner eyes… the delicately cut face, pale as snow, so vulnerable, bespeaking the torment inflicted upon her by the enemy…

‘Éowyn? Can you hear me, daughter of Eomund?’ Only silence answered him. ‘I have come to guide you home; there is no need to fear me. I am your brother’s friend!’

As before, he was not granted a reply… but suddenly sunlight replaced darkness, and Aragorn found himself in the middle of a dusty street… a dusty, deserted street. Slowly he turned around and took in the scenery, at once sensing that there was something strange about it: it was too quiet, and the surrounding houses appeared to be uninhabited, and neither people nor beasts were visible upon the streets. No noise was there to reach his ears, no voices, no shouts, no laughter, and the light, too, had a strange quality: it dulled the colours of the thatched roofs from their normal golden sheen to a sickly yellow, and the wood and earth to a flat, lifeless brown. Even the grass looked dead, like last year’s remnants after the snow had thawed from it, and yet the leaves on the trees he could see indicated that it had to be summer or spring.

With a deep breath, Aragorn began to walk down the deserted path, and his skin prickled with the distinct sensation of something eerily out-of-place. The air in his lungs, too, tasted stale and old, although it carried no scents he recognised, and as his gaze once again glided over the images of the houses with the backdrop of forest and mountains, he suddenly recognised his whereabouts: this was Aldburg, or at least an image of it. But the city looked faded, like a dusty tapestry from a long-passed century.

‘Lady Éowyn? If you can hear me, then please know that your brother sendst me; he worries for you. There is no reason to hide from me, for I do not intend to do you any harm!’’

He paused and waited without much hope for a reply. Whatever this version of Aldburg was, it was bereft of life. No birds soared in the sky, nor did the clouds move on the horizon. This was indeed only a fading image, a memory she had left behind. Éowyn was not here. Aragorn closed his eyes. Sight was of no use to him in these fake surroundings; if he wanted to find the woman to whom these memory belonged, he would have to rely on different senses. Leaving the dead city behind, he reached out … and felt a gentle pull. Not knowing what else to do, he submitted himself to it…

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ÉOWYN'S CHAMBERS

The sight of Aragorn’s limp body increased Éomer’s anxiety to the point where it became unbearable, and he jumped to his feet.

“Gods, this is madness…” he muttered, unaware of Maelwyn’s sceptical glance, and began to pace the length from door to chair, his hands restlessly working by his sides. Aragorn’s weight almost crushed Éowyn, and although Éomer had witnessed his friend’s trance once before, the procedure was still uncommon enough to transform his stomach and spine into ice. Of course he trusted Aragorn and his ability to judge any given situation; he had to believe that Aragorn knew what he was doing, and still the concept that one could leave one’s own body to go searching for someone else’s mind inside that person’s head… the very concept sounded insane.

As a true Rohír, Éomer believed in life after death, and that their souls would rise to the halls of their ancestors once their task in this realm had been completed… but he had never before occupied himself further with this idea, or its meaning. The concept of a soul was something far too abstract to be grasped by a practical-minded warrior, and he had always been satisfied with merely scratching the surface of his believes, content with learning the truth only once Béma called him home. There were, however, Riders in his éored who believed fervently, and who would never have thought to question Aragorn’s actions, and suddenly Éomer found himself desperately wishing for that kind of unbreakable conviction.

“He will find her, my lord,” Maelwyn spoke into his thoughts, and he stopped and looked at her, envying her the genuine hope he read in her expression. “He will find her and bring her back. Don’t doubt him!”

With wonder Éomer regarded her, and it seemed to him as if he saw his sister’s handmaiden truly for the first time. Never had he given the young woman more than a passing glance, and yet Maelwyn had fought this battle in her own way and demonstrated remarkable courage and strength in the face of danger… even by risking her life for him.

“If he does, it will be as much your doing as his’,” he said and slowly shook his head as he beheld the handmaiden’s stunned expression. “Maelwyn…I was not aware of how much you did for us. How much you risked. Even if it comes belatedly, but I want you to know that your loyalty is very much appreciated. You had the courage to do what many accomplished warriors were too afraid to do. While all froze with fear before Gríma Wormtongue, you defied him.”

“My lord, please…” Maelwyn felt heat spreading in her face. It could not be that the First Marshal of Riddermark was implying that he felt indebted to her. “This is absolutely not necessary. You and your sister were always kind to me. What kind of servant would I be if I did not return the friendship you offered me first?”

Despite the anxiety in his chest, Éomer suddenly found himself smiling. “You say that it is not necessary, Maelwyn, and yet it is my wish to express my gratitude. When this is over, come to me, and we will see just what I can do for you; there must be something that your heart desires, some little or even some big thing that would give you pleasure. Grant me the favour of rewarding someone who has proven her loyalty far beyond the call of duty.”

The very passion of his speech left Maelwyn at a loss for words. “My lord, if that is your wish…”

“It is indeed my wish, Maelwyn, and I will not forget it. There are busy days ahead of us, but I will keep this promise. Come to me when you know what you want… and forget about modesty! Your faithfulness is no small thing, and neither will be your reward.”

They regarded each other for a moment longer, and at last, the handmaiden dared to return the Marshal’s smile as she inclined her head and indicated a curtsey.

“Who am I to defy the First Marshal of Riddermark?” she said shyly, but laughing, and for a moment, Éomer laughed with her… until a sudden sound from the bed froze his blood.

“Go! You are not welcome here!”

It was a high, frightened voice, a child’s voice… and it came from Éowyn.