Chapter 76: Shadows

EDORAS

It was past midday before Éomer directed his mount toward the winding path which led to the Royal Stables. After his talk with Éothain and satisfied with the result, the son of Eomund had followed a sudden impulse to take a detour through their camp to speak with Erkenbrand and show himself to the Riders whose Commander he now officially was. As before in the Westfold, when he had assumed his position as leader of their éohere, an incredible surge of pride and love for his fellow kinsmen welled up in Éomer as they cheered him, until that emotion was replaced by an even stronger sense of responsibility. These men were laying their lives in his hands; they trusted his decisions and would follow him to Gondor and further, if fate would demand it of them. And while rationally, Éomer knew that it would be impossible to bring them all back alive – indeed they would be glad enough if any of them returned from Gondor at all – the sight of the conviction in their eyes almost robbed him of his power of speech.

Erkenbrand had welcomed him with a knowing smile upon his lips, but the older, esteemed warrior had chosen not to comment on the emotion he had seen in his marshal’s eyes as he gave his report. It sounded good enough: after two days of rest, both horses and men had recovered from the battle in Isengard and the long journey through the Mark enough to leave whenever the fires would call them, and their number was – thanks to the errand-riders Erkenbrand had sent out on his ride from Westfold – still rising. If war came, it would find Rohan ready. Satisfied with Erkenbrand’s report, Éomer ordered his Captain to ensure that none of their riders would go to bed without a warm meal that night, which the citizens of Edoras would happily supply for their warriors. The day when the men would need their strength was fast approaching.

In high spirits, the son of Éomund had then turned back toward the gates, relieved to be done with the most important tasks he had set himself for the day, and eager to return to the Golden Hall to meet his sister. In which condition would he find Éowyn, Éomer wondered as the roof the ancient stables rose before him. Would she still be as weak as on the previous night, unable to sit up by herself and too exhausted to speak with him? Or had what little food she had already eaten partly restored her strength? He could barely wait to see her.

Usually, Éomer enjoyed taking care of Firefoot himself after a ride; the feeding and grooming usually providing him with the highly welcome opportunity to let his thoughts stray for a while whereas for the rest of the day, he usually had to remain focused on his many duties. Yet today, it seemed to take almost unbearably long to relieve the stallion of his tack, rub him dry and fill his manger with hay and oats, but at last he was done, and under the surprised glances of the stable hands, the honourable First Marshal of the Mark left the stables almost running.

As Éomer stormed up the stairs toward the Golden Hall, he already caught sight of an unusual arrangement – two chairs and a little table - on the western side of terrace, sheltered from the wind and with a seemingly endless view of the plains below, and a relieved smile spread on his face. Surely if Éowyn felt already well enough to sit outside, it had to be a good sign.

Barely stopping to acknowledge the door wardens as they nodded their greetings at him, Éomer approached the sheltered niche with long strides… and cocked an eyebrow as he realised that Éowyn was not alone. The remaining hobbit – Merry - was by her side, and just now carefully spreading a warm blanket over the fitfully sleeping White Lady of Rohan. Strangely moved by the little one’s caring gesture, Éomer silently stood and watched, not making his presence known. It began to dawn on him why Aragorn and his companions had gone to so much effort to find and rescue these Halflings. There was something about them that penetrated even the tough shell of a warrior, and it was not that alone by their very size, they reminded one of children. No, it was a notion of earnestness Éomer received from them that he very much liked; a sense of caring for others combined with the inability to lie. Although it would seem to the ordinary eye that a hobbit and a Rohír could not have much in common, it nevertheless began to dawn to the son of Éomund that there were more traits they shared than there were dividing them.

A puzzled frown spread on his face as he thought about it deeper. How could he feel so strongly about these Halflings when he had barely met, much less spoken with them? Éomer was still wondering when the object of his musings felt at last that he was being observed and turned around. A red hue crept into Merry’s cheeks as he beheld the warrior behind him, who had obviously been watching him for quite a while, and he lowered his eyes, as if Éomer had caught him at some forbidden thing.

“Lord Marshal… I mean, Marshal Éomer…. I…” He looked at the young woman beside him, who was still asleep. “I just thought… your sister is still so frail, and with the sun gone, I did not want her to catch death out here. I was merely being concerned.”

“And I thank you for your concern, Master Meriadoc,” Éomer nodded. “It is much appreciated. There was to little of that in those dark days through which we went.” His gaze softened as he regarded Éowyn. It was testimony to her exhaustion that she had not woken yet, although they were not whispering. “´My sister can surely need a friend who helps her to come to terms with the horrible things she endured… all the more as I will be gone again, soon.” He sighed, suddenly feeling sad as the thought settled.

“Aye,” Merry said, and he did not look more cheerful than the warrior before him. “To Gondor. To war.” He exhaled, and for a moment, stared into the direction Gandalf and Pippin had taken. There was nothing to be seen of them anymore, although the view was unobstructed for many leagues. He shook his head. “It seems that everyone is going there, and only the useless stay behind to await whatever fate eventually finds them.”

Éomer furrowed his brow.

“Surely you do not mean what you say, Master Hobbit. I have not heard the entire tale of your journey, but if you made it from the far north all the way to Edoras, surely it was not only because your companions carried you on their shoulders. I saw with my own eyes the part you played in the downfall of Saruman. Do not belittle your deeds, Meriadoc Brandybuck. It would appear to me that it was largely your doing that prepared the ground for our triumph in the west.”

Merry looked at him with doubtful eyes.

“And yet many of your riders died when the Ents attacked. I do not feel at all confident that it was the right decision we made.”

“But you did not know of our coming… and neither did we know of yours. It was an unfortunate coincidence that we arrived at Nan Curunir shortly after each other, without the chance to establish that we were both on the same side. It was not your fault. ” Éomer’s gaze briefly wandered toward the camp before the city gates. “And yet it is useless to speculate how things might have turned out had the Tree Druids not intervened. Saruman’s army was many times larger than ours, and the territory was better suited for their way of fighting. I would not have dared to attack them there had there been another way.” He shook his head, then gave himself an inner push. “As I said, it is no use musing what might have happened under different conditions. We must look ahead now, because that is where our future – or our doom – awaits us. You played your part in the proceedings already, and it was certainly not insignificant.”

“But why must it end here, when everyone else proceeds?” Merry insisted, and the anguish in his expression was unmistakable. “All my friends continue to contribute to the common effort, only I am told to stay behind like… an old person, or a child.” Defiantly, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I am no child, Marshal. I may not be tall of statue, but I am no child. I know how to use my sword, and I did so many times on the journey that lies behind me. Why am I not allowed to accompany you into battle?”

Éomer sighed. It was a discussion he had led many times before with his sister, and he was no stranger to the points Merry was trying to make. Involuntarily, his gaze strayed to Éowyn, but his sister still lay silent beneath the blanket, although he could not tell whether she was listening or sleeping.

“You think this an insult, Master Meriadoc, when it is, in fact, proof of your companions’ love. They do not want you endangered when there is no need for it. They want you to be safe.”

“Isn’t it rather so that every being that is no orc or troll or otherwise in Mordor’s service is endangered for as long as the threat in the east exists? At least that is the situation as I understand it, but of course, I am only a hobbit who knows nothing of war.” Again Merry’s gaze went to the distant horizon, and the bitterness on the innocent features made it hard for Éomer to look at him, so he followed his gaze. Yet what he saw could not soothe him, for it seemed to him that the formless darkness in the east had spread since the morning, and its very sight set a chill in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, the Rohír saw Merry’s head turn around. “Isn’t it true, however, that our chances of survival will grow, the more of us work together against that threat?”

Éomer took a deep breath.

“So you are desperate to ride with us into battle; that is what you want to tell me?” His gaze hardened. This was where all compassion ended. Merry had to understand of what he was speaking… that war was not an adventure. “Have you ever been in one, I wonder, aside from the one at Isengard which you only experienced from the lofty heights of a being the orcs did not dare to attack? You were but an observer in Isengard, Master Hobbit. The triumph achieved is partly yours because it were you and your friend who roused those creatures, but it was them who did the fighting, while you observed from the security of their branches. Let me assure you that the experience of battle is quite different on the ground, amidst scores of enemies racing toward you with their fangs bared and weapons raised to hew you to pieces. Where your senses are assaulted by orcish stench and the cries of your friends and kinsmen as they are being butchered all around you, and where the very soil beneath your feet is soaked and slippery with blood. Trust me, Meriadoc Brandybuck, it is not an experience you should aspire to make. Consider yourself lucky that you won’t have to…unless, of course, we lose. Then it will still be early enough.”

Unwilling to discuss the subject any longer, Éomer shifted his attention toward his sister. It worried him that, despite their intense discussion, Éowyn had still not woken, although it also seemed to him that something had changed in her breathing. Still he could not decide whether she was only pretending to sleep and instead listening in on their argument of a topic she was no stranger to herself. In that case, she would probably pick it up once they were alone. He did not welcome the prospect.

“Excuse me,” he said and put an end to his argument with the hobbit by working his arms underneath Éowyn’s body and picking her up. “But like you said, it is getting too cold for my sister out here in the shadow. I will bring her back to her chambers.” With Éowyn in his arms, light as a feather, he turned toward the awkwardly waiting Merry once again. “Please, do not misunderstand me, Master Hobbit: you are being needed here. I would be greatly relieved if you could be that friend to my sister she desperately needs, and I would greatly appreciate if you were there for her once I’m gone. Will you promise me this, so that my mind is at ease at least in this regard when I leave?”

For a moment, uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Merry contemplated Éomer’s offer. Then his shoulders slumped, and he lowered his eyes, defeated.

“Aye, Marshal. I will try to be a good friend to your sister.” He looked unhappy, but Éomer chose to ignore his miserable disposition, and his vow sounded true.

“I thank you, Merry. And I look forward to seeing you tonight in Meduseld.” With a solemn nod, Éomer turned around and left Merry standing, thus missing the look of sheer desperation in the hobbit’s gaze.

-----------------

Brother and sister attracted several questioning glances, but Éomer did not pause to explain himself as he strode through the warm twilight of the Golden Hall, Éowyn in his arms. The benches were partly occupied by men and women in Théoden’s service having the midday meal, all of whom looked up from their plates to glance with concern at the strange display.

“Is the Lady Éowyn unwell, Marshal?”

For a second, Éomer felt tempted to answer: ‘Until last night, Mistress Elfgyth, the Lady Éowyn was dying. How can you seriously expect her to be well only half a day later?’ But he remained silent and instead only quickened his steps to escape the general attention, curtly nodding his thanks at the guard who opened the door to Éowyn’s chambers for him. He had almost reached the bed when he felt movement in his arms, and a sleepy voice inquired:

“Éomer? What are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed, because you fell asleep outside, and with the sun gone, it is too cold for you there, Sister.” He gave her a little concerned smile and gently pressed her against his chest. “How do you feel, Little Bird?”

“Tired,” Éowyn confessed. She looked disdainfully at her bed. “A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise well. Please, will you not set me down, Brother? I slept long enough, and I will not get back my strength by lying on the bed all day. Tonight will be soon enough.”

“Would you rather like to sit in the chair then, perhaps?” he asked, already turning around.

She gave him a ghost of a smile.

“Aye. I’d like to look out of the window. But please, Éomer, do set me down. I can walk there on my own two feet; you need not carry me, I assure you. I am much better today.” She saw the doubt in his eyes, but then he complied – still holding on to support her. A wave of dizziness swept over Éowyn and for a moment, her grip on his arm tightened as she fought against it.

“Éowyn? Are you certain you do not want me to carry you?”

“Aye…” Her voice seemed to reach her own ears from a great distance, and she hated how weak it sounded. No wonder Éomer sounded concerned. “I am well… a little light-headed, perhaps but it will pass, the more often I do this. See?” She withdrew her hand, and with small, shaky steps, made her way over to the big armchair by the window while Éomer followed in her wake, ready to catch her if she fell. With an exhausted, but proud smile, she looked up, comfortably huddling into the blanket that he held out for her. He could not help but return it.

“Were those your first steps?”

“I already walked a little this morning, but…” she inhaled. “I’m getting steadier. Some of my strength already returned, it seems.”

“I am glad to hear this.” And yet she still looks so very frail, Éomer thought, fighting not to show his concern too openly. Éowyn despised pity as much as he did, and she had never been the one to enjoy being coddled. In a way, she reminded him of some wild beast, which only got more foul-mooded the worse it felt and punished anyone not respecting its wish for solitude. Well, he felt certainly not inclined to get a taste of her claws today; too happy was he over their reunion. “Can I get you something? Did you have the midday meal already, or would you like to eat together with me? I must admit, I’m rather hungry myself.”

“I imagine you must be,” Éowyn said. “After all, you were gone all morning. Uncle told me that you accompanied our rescuers to the crossroads and saw them off.” Furrows appeared on her brow as she looked at him. “So the Lord Aragorn has left before I could thank him? That is a shame. What will he think of me?”

Éomer shook his head.

“You were still asleep when he left, but trust me, he would not want to be thanked. He would not even accept mine. It is reward enough for him that you live.” He turned around, an eyebrow lifted in question. “I have not seen Maelwyn yet. Where is she?”

“She looked tired, and so I told her to go home and spend the day with her husband and children. She did far more for me than I ever had a right to ask, and I feel well enough to not need a constant caretaker anymore.” Éowyn leaned back into the chair, and her blue eyes scanned her brother’s features as if she asked herself how much he knew of the happenings in Meduseld during his absence. Was Éomer aware that Maelwyn had risked her life for him? She could not tell. There was a strange guardedness about Éomer that reminded her of her Uncle’s behaviour earlier. She did not know its reason, although she had a vague idea. It was strange though, as if a part of Éomer’s personality was shut to her, whereas before she had always been able to read her brother like an open book. There was a notion of great bitterness that she sensed, and a reluctance to address the problem that had caused it. She was not sure whether she should ask him.

Meanwhile, Éomer seemed happy enough to concern himself with more immediate demands.

“Very well. Then I will get us something from the kitchens, if you will just excuse me for a moment?”

He disappeared and left Éowyn with a vague feeling of unease. With a deep breath, the daughter of Eomund turned her gaze toward the window. After the clear morning, the sun had hidden behind a layer of high clouds, and although the view of the mountains was still inspiring, the shadow brought back the memories from her dreams. Of course, Gríma Wormtongue had visited her again, even while she had been sleeping in her chair.

Suddenly shivering, Éowyn huddled even tighter into her blanket, but it helped little against the rush of ice water in her veins, as she cast a nervous glance to the back of her room. She could still feel his prying eyes on her, and his silken voice that had uttered such horrendous threats at her with the smoothness of poisoned honey still reverberated in her ears as if Wormtongue were standing behind her.

A black surge of despair welled up in Éowyn, and she hid her face in her hands as her lips began to tremble. No, she did not want to burst into tears when Éomer would be back any moment! Her brother had enough worries already; there was no need to cause him yet more concern with her torment, especially as he would be powerless against it.

“Go away, Worm,” she whispered into the silence of her room. “Why can you not leave me alone and find some other soul to torment?” And yet contrary to her plea, a pale, sneering face began to take shape before her closed eyes.

‘Did you honestly think it would be so easy to get rid of me, Daughter of Eomund?’ Wormtongue seemed to ask her; his expression bespeaking his amusement. ‘Have you learned nothing? I will always be with you, if not in body, then in spirit. No matter how hard you will try to deny it, but for the rest of your life, you will feel my eyes upon you, and when you lie down at night, I will lie with you. It is my prize, the one thing your kinsmen could not take away from me even when they chased me away! Better make yourself comfortable with this thought.’

“No. No!” With a gasp, she opened her eyes, and as before, the view of the snow-capped mountains greeted her… and yet it seemed to Éowyn as if, she could still see the fading outline of Gríma’s victorious smirk in the rough rock. It was the sound of the door which rescued her from the nasty daydream, and grateful for the distraction, she turned around in time to see her brother enter with a large tray in his hands. The tantalising smell of roasted meat reached Éowyn’s nose, and she forced a smile on her face. “Gods, Éomer…! You do not honestly expect me to eat all this, do you? I could not even have managed so before my illness!”

Éomer smiled as he lowered his obviously heavy treasure onto the table.

“Don’t worry, I will help you,” he announced generously and rubbed his hands, already feasting his eyes on the overladen tray as he handed Éowyn her cutlery.

Even if Wormtongue’s unexpected assault had just dampened Éowyn’s appetite, she had to admit that it looked good. There were several thick pieces of honey-glazed roast with sauce, an assortment of steamed vegetables, bread, and two steaming bowls of something that looked like creamy pumpkin soup, and while she was still taking it in, there was a rap on the door and Elfgyth appeared with yet another tray in her hands.

“And here we have your wine and juice. Lord Éomer, my lady…” she nodded at Éowyn. “Enjoy your meal.”

“We will, Mistress Elfgyth. Thank you.” Carefully, Éomer poured wine into their glasses and then sat down on the other side of the table. At the sound of the closing door he lifted his glass and looking at Éowyn. “What shall we drink to, Éowyn? To freedom? The defeat of our enemies?”

“’Freedom’ sounds good,” she said, and lifted her glass to meet his. In the back of her head, she heard Gríma chuckle. ‘Oh, but you know that you will never be free from me, my lady!’ Doing her best to ignore it, she met Éomer’s expectant gaze over the table. “To ‘Freedom’, Brother!”

For a moment, it seemed to Éowyn as if a shadow had suddenly fallen over Éomer’s features, and his eyes pierced her questioningly - ‘He could not have heard him! The voice was only in my head!’- but then he simply nodded and said: “To ‘Freedom’, Sister… may we all enjoy it when we sit here, one year from now, and look east with glad hearts.”