Chapter 77: No easy Answers

MEDUSELD

For a while, life was simple and good. Sister and brother sat together and ate, rejoicing in each other’s long missed company, and the silence between them was a good one. At last Éomer leant back in his chair, feeling ready to tell Éowyn the details of his time as an outcast in as neutral a voice as he could manage, and she told him of the things that had happened in his absence, although she stayed deliberately vague about the cruelties that had been inflicted upon her by the hands of Gríma Wormtongue. From the look in her brother’s eyes though, it was clear that Éomer guessed what she left unsaid, and inwardly, she sighed.

They knew each other too well. Despite his outward mask of indifference, Éowyn distinctively felt the bitter undercurrent in Éomer’s voice when he told her of his ordeal, and since he had known his sister as a brave and courageous woman who would not have slipped into the state in which he had found her for the reasons she had just given him, the truth was communicated only between the lines.

The breaks between their exchanges grew as both sought increasingly often the refuge of the view from the window to escape each other’s knowing glances, until all relief and cheerfulness had vacated the room, and silence spread between sister and brother; it hung above their heads like a precariously balanced rock, ready to fall and crush them. At last, Éomer gave himself a push.

“I should go,” he muttered, evading his sister’s eyes. “Éothain asked me to attend his father’s burial later today, and there are a few things that need my attention until then.”

Éowyn nodded, and a shadow fell upon her already pale features.

“I would like to be there, too. Éothain did so much for us. Éomer, can you not take me with you? Please?” Her brother regarded her sceptically.

“I doubt that you are strong enough yet. The burial grounds are not exactly in the neighbourhood.”

“I could not walk there, no. I agree. But I believe that I could hold myself on a horse. And Windfola has a much easier temper than your stallion. Please, Éomer, this is important to me.” Her gaze pleaded.

Éomer did not look convinced, but he understood Éowyn’s desire. Éothain was a close friend and had been for many years, and among friends, it was expected that one stood by each other in times of need for as long as one could still move. It was an urge one had to answer. So despite his concern, he nodded, although it was with a heavy heart.

“All right. I will take you along. But you will be riding with me in Firefoot’s saddle where I can hold you should your strength give out. And I will not discuss it.” For a moment, he saw objection flicker in Éowyn’s eyes, the headstrong streak they both shared making an unexpected appearance – ‘Good to see it back!’ – then she consented, apparently having sensed that Éomer had already gone as far as he ever would. She acknowledged his offer with a nod.

“Thank you, Brother. This is something I must do, and I know that you understand.” She inhaled. “When should I be ready?”

“The burial will take place an hour before sunset. I will come to fetch you a little before that. You know how long it takes to get down there, so be ready in time.” And with that, Éomer rose to his feet. He picked up the now considerably lighter tray. “Maelwyn is at home, you say? Will she attend the burial as well?”

“I would think so. Éothain cares for her, and I’m sure that the same holds true for Maelwyn. She’ll want to be there for him. Why?” Éowyn looked up, but she did not receive an answer. She hesitated, suddenly tense. There was something she had meant to discuss with her brother since she had first witnessed the strange tension between him and Théoden on the previous night, and even more when she had perceived the old man’s sadness during their earlier conversation outside. It was something that needed to be addressed urgently, but was it the right time to do this now before the burial of a good friend? On the other hand, Éowyn contemplated as her eyes followed Éomer to the door, she could hardly afford to wait, because in the light of everything she had learned in the course of the last hours, it was likely that both men would soon ride to war, and then it would be too late. No, however much she feared it, she had to address this issue now. Bracing herself because she knew that Éomer would not take her intrusion well, Éowyn took a deep breath.

“Éomer?” He turned around. “Wait. There is something else.” Sudden wariness stood in his gaze at her strange tone.

“What do you mean? What else?”

“You and Uncle…” He tensed. Of course. He knew where this was going. “I could not help it, but… last night, when he came and you left my room, I felt the tension between you… and as much as you tried to tell me of the things that happened to you in the wild without emotions, I still perceived a notion of great bitterness from you.” She looked him straight in the eye. “You still haven’t forgiven him, have you, Éomer?”

His eyes darkened, and had she been anyone else, that look would have filled her with fear.

Éomer’s voice was low and cold, a dangerous glint in his eyes telling her to drop the subject.

“I will not talk about it, Éowyn. And least of all today. As I just told you, I have a burial to attend; do you not think that this is enough on my mind for one day?” Again he turned to go, meaning to cut off the discussion. But they were not siblings for nothing.

“When then?” This was too important, Éowyn reminded herself when she beheld the angry sparkle in her brother’s eyes over her refusal to give in. “You will soon ride to war. All kinds of things can happen on a field of battle. What if one of you is killed? Do you really want to ride sundered from the man who raised you like his own son?”

With such force that he almost shattered the tray, Éomer put it down on the table.

“You make it sound as if it were I who is to blame! Do I really have to remind you that it was he who banished me? Do I have to remind you of the horrible things he said to me?”

“It was Gríma who banished you!” Éowyn stated, in as calm a voice as she could manage. It would not help her case if she, too, resulted to shouting. “He used Uncle’s voice and body, but it was not Uncle who did the damage, and in your heart, you know this, Éomer! I understand that you went through many hardships, but it was not our Uncle who did this to you! Why will you not see this and forgive him?”

“Have you forgiven him?” Éomer asked instead, his voice deadly cold as he stepped closer. “Everything that Gríma did to you was also the result of his failure. Even if Wormtongue did not ravage you for whatever reasons, he could easily have, and that is because he was empowered by our Uncle whom you deem so innocent of everything that happened!”

“I do not have to forgive him because it never even entered my mind to accuse him!” Éowyn did not flinch from Éomer’s piercing glare, although he stood now right in front of her and stared down from his superior position with boiling intensity. ”It was the poison in him that did the harm. The poison, and the Worm!”

Éomer shook his head.

“And I ask you again: would you be so lenient with him if Gríma had raped you?” Éowyn blanched, sickened by the thought, and immediately, Éomer felt a pang of guilt. No, certainly this was not what he had had in mind when he had come here. He had not wanted to shout at Éowyn and stir up the memory of her ordeal, but she left him no choice.

“It would not have changed anything, Éomer, for I know that he was not the source of this evil,” Éowyn said, albeit more defensively now. Éomer’s gaze said that he did not believe her. She shook her head and inhaled. “You suffer, Éomer; how can you think that I do not see it? You try to hide your pain behind your anger, but it is in every word that you say, and in every look that you give me. It hurts you to be at odds with Uncle, and it hurts him as well. Do you not believe that Uncle would give everything to undo what has been done in his name? That he will live to regret his mistakes for the rest of his life? He lost his own son because of them, Éomer! Do you not think that this wound will torture him for the rest of his days? Is this not revenge enough for you? If it is indeed revenge you want, I dare not say. I can only hope it is not.” She could already tell that she was not getting through to him.

“I certainly do not get any satisfaction from Théoden’s current disposition, if that is what you mean, Sister; you should know me better!” Éomer sneered, enraged, then a sudden idea hit him and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion: “Let me guess: he ask you to plead with me, didn’t he? It would seem just like him, another one of his tricks. I told him to leave me alone, but he will not listen. I suppose a king is not used to having his will rejected. When next time you speak with him, tell our Uncle he is not helping his case by relentlessly pursuing me with this!”

“He asked me for nothing! He did not even mention your quarrel to me!” Éowyn snapped, now likewise enraged by her brother’s stubbornness. “And there was no need to, because I see with my own two eyes what is going on! It cannot stay like this between you, Éomer; it simply cannot!”

“So I should forgive him just because we might die with our quarrel unresolved?” Éomer snorted, disgusted. “You want me to forget what he called me and what he did to us so that he can die with a clean conscience, is that it?”

Furious, Éowyn jumped to her feet, unable to contain herself any longer.

“I want you to forgive him because it is in your heart, Éomer!” Then she saw the look on his face, and suddenly it felt as if a horse had kicked her in the stomach. “It is not… is it?”

Silently, Éomer regarded her for a moment longer, and his expression made it clear to her once and for all.

“I did not say that I would never forgive him, Éowyn, but the truth is that I cannot tell yet if I can. My head agrees with you… but I fear that my heart is not ready for it. It is not only the banishment that stands between us; he listened to the Worm’s whisperings long before he fell into darkness, and you know that very well. Likewise, the things he said since my return have not helped to close the rift between us. I wish that I could put this behind me, believe me, because it occupies my thoughts when I should be thinking only about the coming battle. I wish it from the bottom of my soul… and yet every time I hear our uncle’s voice, my blood runs cold and it stops my breath, and in my head, I hear him calling me a ‘curse to his house’ again! I hear him blaming me for Théodred’s death. … And then I see his face before me when I stormed into your room, and I see the shock in his eyes over seeing me in Théodred’s armour, as if he honestly thought that I would steal it from the body of a man I regarded as my brother. No matter, what he said to excuse himself, I know the truth.” Righting himself, Éomer turned to make his departure at last. “No, Éowyn, as much I see the sense in your words and would like to follow them, I cannot find it in me, at least not yet. I’m sorry.” He looked at the tray on the table and nodded. “I will send Elfgyth to pick this up. Be ready when I come to fetch you.”

And with these words, he left, and all Éowyn could do when the door closed behind him was stare at the space he had left.

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Without detour Éomer made for his study, the expression on his face and the firmness of his steps warning all who saw him that it would be a serious mistake to try and address the son of Eomund. Only after he had closed the door behind himself did part of the tension leave him, and his shoulders dropped from the involuntary defence position he had assumed in the quarrel as his eyes strayed through the sunlit room, for a moment aimless. Slowly he wandered over to the window and opened it to let in the breeze, hoping that it would help to clear his head and calm him down.

Deep inside, he knew that Éowyn was right. He would not be granted another chance for reconciliation once they were on the road to Gondor; if he wanted to have this issue resolved he would have to act now. The question was whether it was indeed what he wished for. Was it?

Staring unfocused down on the plains outside the window where the shadows grew longer, Éomer desperately sought for the answer. Yes, it pained him to see Théoden, because it stirred up the memories of the man he had loved as a boy. And yet so much evil had happened; such hurt had been done to him because of that love until he had learned to shut himself to that memory and always expect the worst, rarely leaving Edoras disappointed in this regard. Of course it had all been the Worm’s doings, but still… why had Théoden ever taken the filth in and entrusted him all that was dear to them? Why did he have to taint his own memory with something that felt so dangerously close to treason?

‘Are you certain that such a mistake could never happen to you as well?’ a voice in the back of his mind suddenly spoke up, and he blinked to rid himself of it. This was ridiculous! He would never have granted a slimy worm entry into the Golden Hall, let alone entrust him with the most powerful position in the Kingdom after the King himself! Where had Théoden’s judgment of character been on that day when he had made this fatal decision? One look had been enough for Éomer to immediately mistrust the unhealthy looking man from the western part of the Mark; the Dunlending blood in Gríma’s veins more than evident. If Théoden had – for whatever reasons – felt fond of that slumped-shouldered person, or pitied him, surely he could have found a different occupation in the Court of Edoras for him, but one simply did not make such a man counsellor of the king!

Again Éomer shook his head. Perhaps that was all very true, but it did not help him resolve the problem… which, viewed closely, came down to a simply question, really: was he ready to risk being parted in anger from the man who had raised him beneath his own roof? If it came to the worst, would he be able to live with himself if he survived? And if they both died, would their quarrel accompany them into the afterlife?

Éomer exhaled forcefully. This was a frightening thought. The people of the Mark usually saw to it that they resolved all quarrels with their loved ones or friends before they rode out again; it was something nobody needed to tell them, a natural urge to have one’s affairs settled in case one did not return. Nobody wanted to be remembered only with bitterness; it simply would not do. And he had loved Théoden once, had loved their Uncle for many long years…happy years at first, but they had turned bitter with Gríma’s arrival. And the trouble was, Éomer realised, that he still loved the older man, or else Théoden’s treason would not hurt him so deeply. What could he do to cure this pain?

A shout reached his ears from the beyond the window, and with another deep breath, he woke from his contemplation. The answer was there, and it was only logical. All that was required was a courageous, first step… a step he was not sure he was ready for.

Resolutely, Éomer turned toward his desk. Time was running away and the shadows lengthening on the plains, and there was something else that he wished to be done with before war called him east, a debt to be paid that was important to him. With a soundless sigh, Éomer lowered himself onto the chair and opened the upper drawer to take out a blank piece of paper. As he reached for his quill, thoughts of what he would write already occupied his attention…

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“My little One. I am so glad to see you. Come here, Windfola! I missed you.” With a radiant smile, Éowyn slipped into her horse’s stall, unaware of the curious looks the present stable hands and her waiting brother were giving her. The men had all been beside themselves with joy over seeing their lady alive and on her feet, even if she still had to cling to Éomer for balance, and their good wishes had accompanied them through the aisle as they made for Firefoot’s stall. Éowyn had nodded her head at them, thanking them and letting the men know how much she appreciated their well-wishing, and despite the effort, a little colour had crept into her pale face, observed by Éomer with amusement and relief.

He readily granted her the time with her steed; they were still early. Aye, at last it seemed that Éowyn was well on the road to recovery, and silently, he thanked Aragorn once again. Wondering where his brother was at this moment and whether the Heir of Isildur would dare enter the Paths of the Dead at night because his company would not reach Dunharrow sooner, Éomer supported his elbows on the stall wall and watched Éowyn, revelling in his sister’s happiness. The afternoon would turn gloomy soon enough.

“Èomer? Son!”

A heavy hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and he turned around, not believing his ears although he was certainly glad to hear the familiar deep voice.

“Elfhelm? You are out of bed already?!” The two warriors embraced heartily, and from the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that his friend and mentor was not alone. A surprised smile lit up his features. “Freela! So Éothain asked you to come?”

“Aye, he said that my man needed me,” the redhaired woman nodded, likewise looking overjoyed at seeing him. “He sent a messenger. Éomer, Béma be praised for giving you back to us! When the news of your banishment came, we feared the worst.” She opened her arms, and with a little abashed smile, Éomer lowered himself to her, his glare silently warning the grinning stable hands to make even the slightest sound. Freela, however, noticed nothing as she gently cupped his cheek with her hand and looked him in the eye. “I prayed for you, Éomer. Every night, I prayed for you… and for Elfhelm, too.” And with that, she let go of him to steal back the hand of the man she loved and comfortably leaned against him.

“Elfhelm? Elfhelm!” In the stall, Éowyn spun around, her eyes widening with joy. “And Freela, you have come, too!” Hastily she slipped out of the box and threw her arms around the man whose presence had comforted her in the darkest days of her life, her station entirely forgotten. Nobody seemed to mind. After all, these were no normal circumstances. “Oh Elfhelm… what would I have done without you? It was you who kept me sane in the dungeon. Without you, the Worm would have won.”

“No, he wouldn’t have. You are a strong and courageous woman, Lady Éowyn. You made me proud down there. No warrior could have endured this ordeal with more dignity than you did.” Elfhelm noticed Éomer’s questioning look and asked himself how much detail of their days in the dungeon Éowyn had shared with her brother. Probably not too much; the King’s niece knew well enough what such knowledge would do to the man who had vowed to protect her from all evil.

Éowyn’s fingers, light and gentle as a feather, touched one of the welts on his face, and deep blue eyes met his gaze with deep sorrow.

“Gods… he did this to you to punish me, Elfhelm. How can I ever remedy what he did to you?”

He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“There is no need to remedy anything, my Lady. The Worm was defeated and chased away, and sooner or later, when we catch him, I might have a bit of him before everyone else does. It is not your place to make up for the cruelty of our enemy… and know that the sight of you up and about does more to heal me than our healers could ever do with all their potions and salves.” He looked at Éomer, who shook his head at him; his brow wrinkled.

“You still look like death warmed over, Elfhelm. I cannot believe that Yalanda let you go.”

The older man snorted.

“What should she have done to stop me, throw herself at me? A good friend is getting buried; I’d still have to be chained to the wall of the dungeon to miss it. And since I’m not, well…” he shrugged and received a wry smirk from Éomer. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the stable hands light the torches. “I believe we should be on our way. Twilight is not far off.”

“Aye.” Éomer nodded and looked at Éowyn. “Should I saddle Firefoot, or…” He interrupted himself when he saw her disbelieving glance and lifted his hands in defence. “I was only asking!”

“I am not crippled, Brother. As long as they don’t take off my arms and legs, I will still be able to ride bareback… even your great beast!”

‘But only for as long as he behaves,’ Éomer meant to say, but a quick glance at his sister’s indignant expression told him that it would be better to let her have the last word for once. He cocked an eyebrow and ignored Elfhelm’s amused look before his friend turned toward his own horse.

“Very well. Come then. We do not want to keep them waiting.”