Chapter 74: Farewell to New Friends

THE ROYAL STABLES

Early morning’s light filtered through the high windows and bathed the Royal Stables into warm twilight, but the men inside had no eye for its beauty as they readied their horses for the long ride and stored provisions and gear into their saddle backs. Already finished with Firefoot’s tack, Éomer paused and absent-mindedly rubbed the stallion’s brow as his gaze wandered through the ancient room. He had decided to take along Éothain and his Riders and accompany the Dúnedain to the crossroads and then head back to give Firefoot some much-needed exercise, so except for saddling his horse, there was nothing further to think of for him.

Involuntarily, he straightened, and the weight of his own armour felt comfortingly familiar. Although would only be a small gesture, Éomer felt the need to see his newly-found friend off in the right manner; a sign to Aragorn and his brethren as well as to their own people that - no matter what awaited them in the future - Gondor and Rohan would face it side by side. And what was more, the way back to the city would provide Éothain and him with the much needed time and privacy for their conversation... something he would have to try to focus on even if ever since he had shaken off sleep, his thoughts tended to return to Éowyn and her miraculous rescue.

For a long time, he had just held her in his arms after Aragorn and Maelwyn had discretely left the room, thankful just to feel her breath and the wetness of her tears upon his skin, to see the joy in her eyes over seeing him alive, and the sensation of the firmness of her grasp around his hand. She had been too weak to stay awake for long, but had – upon his insistence – at least made an effort to drink some of the honey-sweetened tea Maelwyn had quickly provided, and even eaten a few spoons of porridge, before her strength had given out. Then he had just sat by her side, content with being allowed to guard her rest, and when the sound of the fireworks outside had woken her once more, he had wrapped her into her blanket and carried her over to the window to watch.

A faint smile lit up his features at the memory how the golden and red sparkling had reflected in Éowyn’s widened eyes, until at last, Éomer returned - somewhat reluctantly - to the present. He wrinkled his brow. Too crowded; it was too crowded! Although the Royal Stables of Edoras were the largest in the western lands, even they had been unable to provide space enough for all the horses of Aragorn’s company, especially as the horses of the Edoras-based éored were also housed here. Thus most of the Dúnedain’s mounts had spent the last days together with their Rohirric kin in the large corrals at the lowest part of the city, but still there were so many men, lads and horses hurrying around, that the usually dignified place reminded Éomer of a beehive.

Among the Rangers whose horses had found accommodation here, he suddenly discovered Halbarad, apparently well recovered from his head wound. Even as Éomer’s experienced gaze travelled over the Ranger’s unusual but doubtlessly hardy animal, admiring its strong limbs, the Dúnadan – sensing his attention - looked up. The two warriors exchanged a smile and an acknowledging nod, then Halbarad continued with his preparations.

In the next stall, Aragorn packed Roheryn’s saddle bags for the ride, and once more Èomer paused to observe his friend. A deep, soundless sigh escaped him as he shook his head. This could have been such a splendid morning after the miracle they had achieved last night: Éowyn was alive and would recover; their enemies were defeated. Spring was on the way and the sun already ascending in a clear blue sky. There was so much cause for joy... and yet all that Éomer felt was dread, because the great warrior before him, the man who had become his trusted friend and who had rescued the one dearest to him in the whole wide world, was about to descend into a darkness deeper than a starless night. ‘I know you said this needed to be done,’ Éomer thought desperately, and a shadow wandered over his features as he tried to imagine what evil was lurking for Aragorn on the doomed path beneath the mountain, ‘and yet I wish there were another way.’

Would they see each other again and draw swords together against their common enemy? Aragorn’s expression betrayed nothing of his disposition, and whether it was because the Heir of Elendil felt confident that he would emerge victorious from the trials that awaited him, or whether he was just adept at hiding his thoughts, Éomer dared not say. Either way, he would not start the discussion again; if Gandalf felt the need to send Aragorn to that accursed mountain, he was sure to have his reasons; reasons which the marshal of a people, who had never had any dealings with the world beyond the one one could see and touch, could hardly hope to understand. Even more sceptical-minded than the average Rohír, Éomer did not even fully believe in the ghost horse that was part of their mythology; the white stallion who was said to carry the souls of their fallen to the halls of their ancestors. Following the Istar’s proposed course of action seemed to be entirely a matter of trust, but at least Éomer knew that if there was one thing that he was sure of, it was his faith in Gandalf.

A shrill neigh pierced the air from Shadowfax’s stall at the end of the stable, and Éomer turned his head. Would the Méara permit the hobbit on his back whom Gandalf wanted to take with him to Minas Tirith? Would he tolerate the additional rider? He quickly dismissed the thought. Shadowfax would do whatever the Istar asked of him. Although Gandalf was not his master – no man nor Istar would ever be able to claim this position for himself - the friendship between man and horse seemed strong enough to grant the wizard this additional favour. Somehow, it seemed to Éomer that Shadowfax had always been meant to become Gandalf’s mount; it felt like a piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. Éomer’s gaze lingered for another moment on the stall door, that hid the chief of the Méaras from his sight, surprised to feel a sudden stab of jealousy. No matter how useful to their cause Shadowfax’s friendship with the Istar would prove to their cause, it was not easy to understand why the stallion had decided to give his trust to a stranger rather than the royal family, as had been a tradition for centuries between the sons of Eorl and the méaras.

Still lost in thought, Éomer was unprepared for the hard blow that suddenly hit him between the shoulder blades. He stumbled forward and barely avoided to crash face-first into the stall door, then turned around with a sharp reprimand on his tongue... to meet Firefoot’s arrogant gaze as the stallion regarded him from the lofty heights of his superior position. Snorting in disbelief, Éomer picked himself up and shook his head.

“Now don’t tell me, Demon, that you have learned to read my thoughts!”

“Your distraction was rather obvious, and we both know how your steed likes to be the centre of attention,” a familiar voice cut into their dispute from the neighbouring stall, and as he turned his head, Éomer saw Éothain standing there with an expression of cautious amusement on his face, helmet cradled in the pit of his elbow. And yet despite his little jest, his friend’s tense bearing told Eomund’s son that Éothain still felt uncomfortable in his presence. As the morning had been filled with formal affairs, there had not yet been time for their talk; no chance to settle their differences. If there were any differences still left to settle between them, Éomer thought with sudden pity. What he had learned from Lady Glenwyn had certainly opened his eyes... and thoroughly changed his perspective: he understood now all too well why Éothain had stayed behind, and approved of his friend’s decision as the right one; he even understood Éothain’s inner turmoil, for in a way, the decision the son of Cérol had been forced to make had certainly not come to him any easier than it had been for Éomer to choose between his sister and his duty to the Mark.

Aye, they still needed to have this conversation, but not to cure things between them. All that remained to be cured was Éothain’s evident self-hatred. Somehow, Éomer thought with a soundless sigh, he would have to find a way to make his brother-in-arms see the truth and convince him to forgive himself… still an ambitious task, for in certain regards, Éothain and he were almost scarily alike.

Before him, Éothain still seemed to wait for his answer.

“Should I ask what you were thinking?”

“Nothing of import.” Éomer shook his head. “I was merely wondering what Shadowfax might think of having to carry two riders to Mundburg. Even for the chief of the Méaras, it is a bloody long distance to Gondor with additional weight on his back; all the more as the road may be unsafe.” Shuddering, he remembered the fell black thing that had attacked them on the way from Isengard. Not even a horse as swift as Shadowfax could hope to escape those foul things when they dropped from the sky like oversized birds of prey, deadly talons spread to seize their prey and squeeze the life out of it. Still, after their last encounter, perhaps the Ringwraiths would think twice about attacking the wizard on the horse’s back.

There was no question now that the wheels had been set into motion, turning faster and faster, and it seemed that these days, not an hour passed without the surfacing of new risks and unpredictabilities. Aragorn and Gandalf would not be the only ones taking a high risk; one could only wonder what would await their own army once it left for Gondor...or those who would remain behind without protection. Like Éowyn,’ Éomer thought desperately. ‘Only last night, I almost swore to her never to leave her again, but in a few days, I will be gone again... only this time, my return is even more unlikely.’

Forcing himself to push the frightening thought aside, he reached for the reins, and for some strange reason, his mind turned to the wizard who seemed to have become their chief strategist. It was impossible to deny that something had vastly changed in the Istar’s bearing since they had last met, shortly before the Mark had truly plunged into darkness. Though the benign, friendly wizard Éomer had known from his youth was still somewhere underneath, an entirely different, powerful and determined aura surrounded the old man now, and the distinct notion that he would not hesitate to use his new abilities. The wise old counsellor had become a marshal. ‘He is our leader now,’ Éomer suddenly understood, and his eyes widened slightly at the realisation. “He and Aragorn, they are our main weapons against the Dark Lord. If they fail, all will go to hell.’

Again he stared down the aisle, just in time to see the stall door at the end open and the object of his musings emerge with Shadowfax following in his tracks like an obedient dog, although there was neither bridle nor saddle on him. With an unconscious grimace, Éomer noticed the distinct tension on the face of the Halfling who would accompany them. He could not blame Pippin: the prospect of having to sit on that volcano of a horse without the help of any tack seemed bad enough, even without the though of the danger awaiting them along the way.

‘Along the way…’ Éomer straightened. It was time to be on the way. A strange feeling of anticipation overcame him, as if he were about to ride into battle himself. ‘Not yet. Not for a few more days. But soon… very soon.’ He shook his head, inwardly berating himself. Once the fires called them to war, it would be a reason for dread, not for a celebration.

“Come, Éothain. Let’s go.” He exchanged a quick glance with Aragorn, who straightened beside Rohyren and patted the bay’s neck, giving him a barely noticeable nod to indicate that he was finished as well. Together, the two very different and yet also alike men strode toward the light of the opening doors…

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They were greeted by the sun and enthusiastic cheers, and as Éomer shielded his eyes to squint into the light, he beheld the men and women of the royal household on the terrace and stairs above them. Still more people awaited them further down the winding path for as far as he could see, which was surprising as it was still early morning and last night’s celebration had ended only a few hours ago. Beside him, Aragorn also looked astonished.

“Your kinsmen are up early,” he stated with wonder, brows raised... only to weigh his head and wink a moment later. “But then again, I remember from my time among Thengel’s men that the Rohírrim always had a great reputation of being adapt at holding their liquor, to the point where they would challenge all who dared to doubt them… and I do not only speak of the Armed Forces.”

Inspite of himself, Éomer felt a grin spread over his face.

“Well, it is something we take as seriously as our weapons skill, and losing to a challenger is considered a great shame. Though I noticed that your own company were also no beginners when it comes to strong brews. A reliable source told me this morning that that the dwarf drank one of my hardiest drinkers under the table last night. His comrades had to dump a bucket of ice-water on him to get him out of bed this morning… and I dare say that he still looks quite destroyed, contrary to your friend.”

“Well…” Aragorn laughed. “Whatever enterprise Gímli takes part in, he’ll be in it with the greatest dedication. You won’t ever catch that dwarf at a lackadaisical effort.” They both turned their heads to meet the quizzical gaze of Gloín’s son, who had apparently noticed that the men’s conversation was about him, but stood too far away to understand their words.

Éomer’s grin widened.

“Should I be concerned then? If we defeat Mordor and he doesn’t like my verdict on his glorious Golden Lady… will I continue to be faced with a serious danger to my health?”

“A most serious danger!” Aragorn confirm and turned back in an attempt to grow serious again, for he had seen from the corner of his eye that Théoden-King and the Royal Guard were approaching. But underneath his breath, he murmured conspiratorially: “You might just have to lie to him to save your hide.”

“Rohírrim don’t lie!” Éomer said indignantly, his eyes likewise on the Lord of the Mark, although he was avoiding Théoden’s gaze. Thankfully, at that moment Gandalf stepped into his line of vision and shielded him from the King’s attention.

“Théoden-King,” the Istar raised his voice, and around them, the cheering stopped as all strained to listen. “At last, the time has arrived for us thank you for your hospitality and be on our way. The respite you granted us in your house was invaluable, but now circumstances call us, and we can no longer delay. War is coming.”

“And when it does, it will find us prepared. Be assured that if Gondor should indeed call for us, Rohan will answer. I wish you a safe journey, Gandalf Greyhame. It was a most fortunate fate that led you to us in the time of our greatest need.” Théoden turned to Aragorn. “The sons of Eorl are also indebted to you, Lord Aragorn. They say that help unlooked for is twice welcome, but never could we hope to gain such mighty allies in our fight. You came to help us in our plight, and now whatever may be in our power to aid you in your quest, we will do, for it for the good of us all. I beg you to forgive my rash words at the counsel, for in the wake of my counsellor’s treason, I was still wary and unable to see the truth, and that truth is that I have never seen a worthier man for the throne of Gondor. Perhaps, with you as its ruler, we will finally see the old friendship between our realms renewed.” The two warriors shook hands, and as he leant forward, Théoden lowered his voice: “Just make sure you travel safely on that evil road, because something tells me that the skill of Elendil’s Heir will be needed on the battlefield before long.”

Aragorn inclined his head.

“I thank you for your kind words, Sire, and my heart tells me that we will meet again. And when we do, I will bring hope with me.”

The two men embraced, and when he stepped back, Théoden’s gaze at last found Éomer. He lifted his chin.

“Be well, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and your men with you. Go and take the good wishes of the Éorlingas with you. As a sign of our new bond, the First Marshal requested to be allowed to accompany you to the crossroads with his éored, and I will gladly grant this. Farewell, my Lords. May we meet again in happier times.”

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EDORAS

Under the cheers of the citizens, the long procession of horses and riders snaked down the hill. As every single man and woman knew that those men were not riding home, but heading straight into danger’s way, they shouted out their thanks, their good wishes and promises to include the men in their prayers, and their demonstration of faith brought tears to the eyes of many travelling in Aragorn’s company.

From his elevated position of Firefoot’s back, Éomer regarded his kinsmen with mixed emotions. He was satisfied to see that their people obviously understood the impact their newly-found allies had already had on the fate of the Mark, and glad to see Aragorn receive his deserved praise... and yet while the riders around him smiled and waved at the crowd, Éomer could not help feeling eerily reminded of the last time he had ridden down this path. No one had cheered then; they had avoided his gaze and turned their backs on him, casting him out of their protective midst although they knew about the wrongness of the accusations. Sitting rigid in the saddle, his stomach a block of ice from where the cold spread its long fingers into every last corner of his body, Éomer almost expected them to repeat their insult, even if the voice in the back of his head insisted it was nonsense. ‘They only did it because they were afraid of the Worm. When will you finally believe it?’

Aye, he knew that… and still it was easier to look over their heads at their surroundings. Right before them, the ragged peaks of the Ered Nimrais loomed majestically behind the city gates, still covered in snow… except for the one, dark peak in the distance, the evil mountain at the end of the Dimholt road. To Éomer’s eyes, it seemed to crouch behind its brethren like a hungry dragon, only waiting for the men on the way to challenge it to rip them apart with sharp teeth and claws. He slanted Aragorn a quick side-glance, but there was still no sign of fear on the older man’s face to be detected, as the Dúnadan nodded his appreciation at the people of Edoras.

On the eastern plains behind the gates, their éohere had erected a vast camp with hundreds of tents, and the sight of all the colourful flying banners could have been almost cheerful, if it were not for the thought that all these men and horses were waiting for war, and that most, if not all of them, would never return to the green meadows of their homes. Very soon, they, too, would travel on that Great Road beside which they rested now, once the fires called them; ten thousand riders and horses on the path to their destiny, the great battle of their time.

The sky above them was of a spotless blue, and yet as Éomer’s eyes strayed further to the eastern horizon, he beheld a strange darkness there, a formless twilight with a red glow from below, as if the clouds were stretching over a large fire.

“A storm is coming,” Gandalf spoke into his thoughts, confirming to Eomund’s son that he was not the only one who had noticed the strange phenomenon. Behind him he could hear, in fact, the men muttering as they pointed east.

“So that is already Mordor’s darkness?” he asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer. And as his reluctance was visible upon his face, the wizard spared him, although his expression could not be misinterpreted.

“His attack will come any day now. We must be swift.”

Pippin in the saddle before him blanched, and once again, Éomer pitied the Halfling. Obviously these little beings were far hardier than he would have believed, or they would never have made it so far south from their home, but still battle was no place for them. There were no ancient tree-beings this time who would carry them safely through the clashing armies; untouchable. His friend, although he had seemed both angry and desperate, had been right not to accompany him. Whether he would be safe here in the Mark was another question, but at least, he would live a few days longer if Sauron’s forces overran them.

“But we are riding straight into it, aren’t we, Gandalf?”

“Yes, Peregrin Tuck; that is indeed where we are going. And yet perhaps it will comfort you to know that the great gates of Minas Tirith have never been breached. Although the city will be in Sauron’s focus, you will not find a safer place in all of Middle Earth.”

They reached the square, and from the mighty fence that surrounded the city rose the sound of many horns as the gate opened for them. Here most of the citizens had gathered, and they cheered and in their midst, formed a long corridor through which the riders moved… and with wonder, the men saw that the celebration did not end at the city’s boundary: Outside, the Riders of the Mark had mounted their horses as well and lined the road left and right, leaving only the barrowfield with the tombs of their kings of old untouched, and the sunlight reflected on the spears and lances that were lifted above their heads with a fierce war-cry.

It was a sight to behold, a sight that made Aragorn’s heart go out to his Rohirric brethren and even more than before, filled him with determination. These brave and loyal men could not die, and they would not die for as long as he, Aragorn son of Arathorn had even a single breath left in him. No darkness would be permitted to prevail against such passionate and selfless camaraderie; the Valar could not allow it. Suddenly, Andúril was in his hand, and its bright sheen was like a beacon as he raised it above his head.

“Riders of the Mark! My brothers! We must leave you now, but take my word for it: for as long we hold together, no Evil shall ever overcome us! Let us meet again on a field of victory!” He stabbed the blade against the sky, and a war cry erupted from many thousand throats, echoed and multiplied by the nearby mountains until it seemed that the land itself was shouting their vow. Swarms of birds burst into flight as they panicked, their cries adding to the din… and then, all grew very quiet, until all that could be heard were the hoof beats of the passing horses and the creaking of old leather as the Grey Company moved through the sea of Riders toward the road.

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THE CROSSROADS

In silence they proceeded to the crossroads, too moved to speak after the incredible demonstration of faith the Riders of the Mark had given them, and many a head turned back to the vast camp outside the city gates until it disappeared behind a gentle rise in the ground. There it was at last; the broad path that would lead the traveller willing to follow it to its end all the way to South Gondor, or north until far behind the Misty Mountains.

With a tight feeling in his chest, Éomer checked his steed and cast a quick glance at Éothain, who immediately understood. Behind them, their éored fell into formation. He turned to the White Wizard.

“I wish you a safe journey, Gandalf Greyhame… and you, Peregrin Tuck. It was an honour to make your acquaintance, and I hope that sometime in the future, your paths may lead you here again.”

Although pale, the Halfling nodded bravely.

“That would be nice,” he said in a thin voice, clearly not accustomed to giving great speeches. “For my friend and I enjoyed the hospitality of your people very much. Please, I know that you will leave soon, too, but if you could see to it that Merry is safe… that would be of great comfort to me.”

Moved by the Hobbit’s concern for his friend, Éomer nodded.

“He will be as safe here as he can possibly be. Now see to it that you return to us in one piece, and with many tales of courage to share over another bonfire.”

“Aye.” It was a faint smile on Pippin’s lips, but it was genuine. “I will try to do so. And… thank you, my lord!”

A silent moment passed, a moment of awkwardness, where none of the warriors seemed to know what further to say, before at last, Gandalf turned to Aragorn.

“I will expect you in the east, my friend… with an army behind you that will make the Dark Lord’s forces run all the way back to Mordor, and further. You are the man to summon them; do not doubt yourself.”

Aragorn nodded.

“I will be there. Protect the White City for me until I come… both of you.”

They regarded each other, the Istar and the Heir of Elendil; uncertain whether they would be able to kept heir promises… then suddenly Shadowfax whirled around, and with a shrill shriek, he accelerated into a gallop no other horse on the face of the earth could hope to match. For a while, his rider’s billowing cloak could still be seen in the distance, and then they were gone.

With a sigh, Aragorn turned to Éomer and extended his hand. It was accepted.

“I assume that everything that needed to be said between us has already been said, Marshal… and yet I will not leave without telling you that I meant what I just said to your Riders: this is not the end, and not the last time we have met. We will see each other again, even if all the hosts of Mordor stood between us.”

They looked each other straight in the eye, hands clasped tightly in the warrior’s greeting.

“I will accept your promise, Lord Aragorn,” Éomer said solemnly. “And I will hold you to it. Or I will spend the entire afterlife hunting for you.” He inhaled. “Be safe…Brother.”

Abruptly he turned Firefoot around to reclaim his position among the ranks of his éored, and they stood in silent farewell, still as marble statues, until the last rider of Aragorn’s company had disappeared from sight.