Chapter 78: Call to Arms

Author's Note: It is almost done... I have been wrong before, but I think that the next one will be the final chapter of this epic after more than two years. So buckle up, take a cookie and milk and sit down for the second-last instalment of the adventures of Éomer, son of Eomund... and of course, if anyone who has not commented on the story yet but read it just the same, feels inclined to drop me a quick review, you would make a simple author very happy:-)

EDORAS

The square was already crowded when they arrived with the last light of the setting sun. Most or all of the citizens of Edoras had gathered, but contrary to the raging celebration of the night before, the people stood silently side by side, families and friends close together, and barely a word would be exchanged between them. They were here to pay their respect to the men who had died to defend them against the menace of Gríma Wormtongue.

Éomer narrowed his eyes as he reined in Firefoot. The men they were about to bury had died because their resistance had come too late. Such an ending could have easily been avoided if only they had acted years earlier. Even on the day of his banishment, Éomer mused, such resistance would most likely still have been rewarded with success, for he did not think that the Worm had already assembled his host of Dunlendings in the secret tunnels of Meduseld then. But of course, everyone had waited until there had been nothing left to avoid total defeat. As tragic as their deaths were, they had brought it about themselves. Which did not make this ceremony any easier.

Shaking his head to himself with a deep sigh, Éomer directed the stallion over to the platform, where one of the newly assigned Royal Guards extended his arm for the reins, but quickly backed off when the great warhorse flattened his ears at him, barely even noticed by those upon his back.

“Éomer…” Éowyn murmured before him, softly and – to his ears – with a great amount of dread. “Oh Éomer, this is horrible! There are so many of them, and I saw them all die! I was occupied with trying to reach Gríma then, but to seem them now, like this…” She interrupted herself, feeling that she had already told her brother too much of the things she had meant to keep to herself.

“You were there, when…” Éomer inhaled sharply. He had felt that Éowyn had withheld certain details of her ordeal during their meal, but had refrained from asking because he had not wanted to torture her by forcing her to relive her nightmare. “You were in the actual battle? When the Worm’s men seized command?”

“Right in its midst,” she admitted dully, aware that she had made a mistake by mentioning it. But now that it was out, she could hardly lie at her brother. Éomer knew at once when someone did not tell the truth, and he did not appreciate being lied to. “I could not sleep and stood by the window when Gríma’s men came up the slope with their prisoners, and I sensed at once that something was not right, so I raised the alarm.” She took a deep breath, lost in memory. “But of course, it was already too late.” Although Éomer sat behind her and she could not see his face, Éowyn felt his gloomy disposition over her tale. Was there perhaps something that could cheer him up? “At least I managed to cut up his face before they put me away. Quite deeply, too. Wherever he is now, he will carry that scar for life.” She thought she heard Éomer silently chuckle to himself.

“My sister, the wildcat,” he then murmured approvingly in her ear and pressed her against his chest when he brought Firefoot to a stop. “Now I cannot wait to meet the Worm again, just to see what you did to him!” His amusement was quickly ended, however, when his gaze fell upon the biers with the fallen warriors. No matter that these men were in the end responsible for their own death, they had still died in performance of their duty, he reminded himself. With a deep intake of breath, Éomer slid from Firefoot’s back and lifted his arms to help Éowyn down.

As he righted himself again, he saw Éothain and his mother standing by the bier farthest from them. On the platform, Théoden and Gamling and the newly appointed Royal Guards stood and observed, obviously waiting for the right moment to begin his speech, and for a moment, Éomer locked eyes with his uncle… and what he saw gave him pause. Outwardly composed as would be expected by their people, the old man’s anguish was visible in his eyes, only, and Éomer read abysmal guilt and shame in their watery blue. These men were dead, first of all, because their king’s error of judgment. Their trust in their ruler had put them in their graves. He could well imagine what a load on the older man’s back this recognition had to be. For how long had Hámá been Théoden’s trusted friend? Over twenty years at least… and now he was dead.

Breaking eye-contact, Éomer tied Firefoot’s reins to a hook, his lips a grim, bloodless line. It gave him no satisfaction to see the old man suffer like this, no matter what Éowyn thought. What use was saying “I told you so!” when the catastrophe had happened?

“Éomer?” Éowyn spoke into his dark thoughts as if she had read them, her slender fingers squeezing his arm. “Is aught wrong?”

“I was just thinking,” he replied vaguely, unwilling to elaborate. She probably knew what had prompted his mood, anyway. And, with a deep breath, he added: “I promised Éothain to help him carry the bier. Will you be all right walking with Uncle?”

If Éowyn had noticed his informal addressing of the man he had claimed to hate, she didn’t show it.

“Aye, of course, Éomer. We will follow you to the graveyard. It is not so far from here anymore; I can manage. Go to Éothain; he needs you now. I will see you later.”

Éomer nodded, and then briefly lowered his head to brush a fleeting kiss upon Éowyn’s brow, before he turned to the already waiting Elfhelm with an expression upon his face that told all who looked how much he wished that this evening was already over.

Together, the two warriors made their way around the platform and past the biers. Fifteen there were arranged before it, and the warriors upon them had been adorned in their full armour which they would take with them into the afterlife. Their kin and friends stood around them, waiting to carry the fallen to their final resting place, only accompanied by their friends and kin. The people’s expressions were composed, but their silence spoke louder than words. This was a dark day for Edoras and the Mark.

The last bier they passed on their way to Éothain’s family was Hámá’s, and here at last Éomer could not help but halt and stare at the man who had been so kind Éowyn and him ever since they had come to live in the King’s household. And although it was Hàmá who – as Captain of the Royal Guard - was to blame more than anyone else for this disaster, it was not bitterness Éomer felt now that he stood before the broken body of the man, but pure, untainted sadness, the way it should have been. He turned to the warrior’s widow, who stood behind him with her three almost grown children.

“My condolences, Lady Mildred. Your husband was a good man, and he will be sorely missed, not only by Éowyn and me. He was always kind to us.”

Mildred nodded, and from the sparkle in her eyes, it was obvious that only her iron will held her from spilling tears in public. Later, in the privacy of her home, she would allow herself to let go of that control and cry, but for now and for the sake of her children, she had to remain strong.

“Thank you, Éomer. It helps to know that he will be remembered in this way.” She inhaled and forced a weak smile on her face. “And it is good to know you safely among us again. I did not have a chance to tell you this sooner, but I want you to know.”

“Thank you, my lady.” From the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that Théoden was about to begin his speech, so he quickly excused himself and took the last paces over to where Éothain and Lady Glenwyn were already expecting Elfhelm and him. Beside them, Éothain’s captain Aedwulf stood with a stone-set look upon his face and his gaze on his fallen commander. They were the four who would carry the bier. “Lady Glenwyn? Éothain?... Captain?”

“Thank you, Éomer. This means much to me,” Céorl’s widow said, and there was a look in her eye that told Eomund’s son that she meant more than his promise to carry her husband to his grave. He nodded to let her know that he understood, and then stepped aside to let her greet Elfhelm. Although the Captain of Aldburg still looked pale too pale, Lady Glenwyn did not question his intentions to be one of the carriers. The two warriors had been friends for long years, and nothing short of having his arms hacked off would have kept the Eastfold captain from his duty.

“Your husband died in defiance of the enemy,” Elfhelm said lowly, when behind him on the platform, Théoden stepped forth. “He fought valiantly and made our foes pay dearly for their victory. He had a death a warrior could only wish for, honourable and dignified. Wherever his spirit is now, looking down upon us, I am sure that he is content with the manner of his passing.”

“Thank you, Elfhelm. Although I had not doubted it, it is good to hear it confirmed by you… and praised be Béma for giving at least you back to us alive. You were the best friend my husband ever had; a friend to the bitter end and unafraid to pay the consequences for your loyalty.” She took his hand and pressed it. “Know that it is a great comfort to me to see you among the survivors. The Mark needs warriors like you, and I am certain that my husband would expect you to carry on for him.”

“Whatever I can do to fill the space he left, I will.” Elfhelm meant to say more, but at that moment, Théoden began to speak, and all turned around to listen while behind the fence, the eastern horizon began to darken with the beginning of night.

“My fellow kinsmen,” Théoden said, and from his elevated position, his gaze roamed over the crowded square. “This is the second night in a row that we have come together at this place, only tonight, it is not in celebration. Tonight we are here to pay our respect to the men who gave their lives in defence of the Mark and to honour their achievement, for in the end, victory was theirs and their courage and loyalty in the face of danger shall never be forgotten.” His gaze briefly fell on the fifteen biers before the platform, and for a moment, his throat tightened, but when he spoke up again, his voice was clear and strong with conviction. “Fifteen men we will carry to their final rest tonight, but there were many more who fell to protect our land, far from here in the west. And although they will not be buried here, their sacrifice should be remembered, and I would beg you for a moment of silence now to honour their memory.” Théoden lowered his head, and in response to his words, thick silence spread over the square until even the low crackle of the fire in the guard tower could be heard.

As his thoughts returned to the horrible sight of their fallen after the water had retreated from Saruman’s fortress, Éomer stared unseeing at Céorl’s lifeless form. So many had died, and although Théoden had spoken of victory, he knew just as well that nothing had been achieved yet. Perhaps with this victory, the sons and daughters of Eorl had been gifted with a few more days to live before Mordor’s darkness would forever devour them. He hoped that their deaths had not been pointless.

With a deep breath, the son of Eomund returned to the present, and found himself looking at Céorl’s marred face. The Captain of Edoras had died because he had taken a stand. Now the Rohirrim were about to take a stand, and Éomer could not help but wonder whether they would pay the same high price. Briefly he wondered what Aragorn was doing. Was he still alive, and even now making his way through the cursed path underneath the mountain? Would he be able to honour his promise that they would see each other again and fight their enemies side by side, or had those words been spoken despite the secret knowledge that no measure they took would be enough to overcome the Dark Lord’s armies?

His brow deeply furrowed as he pondered these thoughts, Éomer did not react at first when the silence around them was disturbed, first by murmurs, then quickly by rising cries of dismay.

“Éomer, look! The fire!”

It was Éothain’s voice that woke him from his reverie as beside him, Elfhelm spat an ancient Rohirric curse. Instinctively Éomer knew what he would see, and still as he lifted his gaze southeast past the fence toward the towering shape of Halifirien, the sight of the blazing signal fire upon its peak stole his breath.

In the square, the silence grew deafening. None of the present had ever seen the beacons lit; not in their lifetime, and neither had their parents or their parents before them. None could even recall when last the fires had called the Riders of the Mark to war, and the month-long duty as warden of the beacon had always been regarded jestingly as something only for the lazy and cowardly.

Upon the platform, Éowyn involuntarily grasped her Uncle’s hand and squeezed it in a sudden urge to reassure herself of his presence. She, too, what the fire meant, and her heart froze at the prospect. Their army would leave with dawn. After a time of worry, Éomer had just been given back to her, and now she would lose him again, possibly forever. And Théoden, who had just woken after the many years he had spent under the poison’s influence, would he ride, too? She feared that it was so, that even though he was not yet in full possession of his strength again, their uncle would insist on heading their éohere on the way to Gondor to make up for his failure. Come dawn, she would lose the two men left of her kin... and there would be no one left in the accursed walls of Meduseld to help her in her fight against the Worm’s memory.

“Gods…” Éowyn gasped breathlessly, as the full significance of the fire punched her in the stomach. Suddenly, she found herself wrapped in Théoden’s arms.

“All is not lost yet, Éowyn,” he soothed although all colour seemed to have left his face, and his tone left no doubt that Théoden was aware that answering Gondor’s call for aid would mean to ride to his death. “Look at our riders. They already achieved a great victory, one that could not be expected, and they will triumph again, for this time, they will not fight alone. No enemy ever prevailed when Gondor and Rohan stood side by side.”

Éowyn’s throat was too tight to speak, so she only nodded. And yet somewhere deep within, she felt that it was different this time. That this time, there would be no victory against the storm which was about to be unleashed against them, and that those who would be left behind in the city tomorrow would wait in vain for their loved ones to return… until the enemy’s might crushed them as well. Only there was one question in Éowyn’s mind, claiming her attention: why wait for the bad tidings of their army’s defeat and empty the bitter cup slowly by first submitting oneself to the sharp sting of loss, and then wait broken-hearted and without hope for the enemy to arrive? Why not ride with their éohere and go out in a blaze of glory instead, perhaps even killing a few foes before the Riders of the Mark would forever be obliberated? Wouldn’t that be the better way to go? Better than sitting in the dark hall on top of the lonely hill, trying in vain to escape the haunting of her tormentor? Against her will, Éowyn’s gaze wandered back to the beacon, and she felt how the initial shock slowly changed into a persistent sense of doom… beneath which conviction began to grow.

Only she was too weak to ride, and she could not deny it.

Beside her, Théoden turned back to the waiting crowd with a deep breath, and it pained him to look into the grim, serious faces of his kinsmen. They had known that this hour would come, of course; their captains had prepared them after the councils held in Meduseld. With their éohere fully assembled before the city gates, they had even been awaiting it, in fact… and yet to actually see the fires lit as unmistakable sign that the Dark Lord’s attack on the free realms had begun, catapulted everyone into an altogether different reality. The wait was over, and war was upon them. A war that would bring peace at last… or extinction.

“You all know the meaning of this: it is Gondor’s call for aid,” Théoden began anew, not shouting, but in the sudden complete silence, his voice carried into every last corner of the square. “And only last night, I promised the man who is underway now to become its new king, the man who helped us to our own victory in the west, that the Riders of the Mark would answer it if it came. For the threat of which it tells is to us all, and only together will we be able to overcome it.” He inhaled, and with a last sweep of his gaze from one side of the square to the other, ended: “Now let us bury our warriors with the dignity and honour they deserve, and afterwards, I want you to gather your loved ones around you, families and friends alike, and take comfort in each other’s presence. Tomorrow at first light, we will ride.”

Upon his signal, torches were lit, and slowly, the level of noise rose when the citizens picked up their low conversations as they began to form the cordon through which the procession would move to the graveyard.

Éomer exchanged a grim look with the men around him. At last, Elfhelm shrugged and said: “Well, it is not as if we didn’t expect it. It was only a question of time, and the sooner the better, if you ask me. Waiting is not for me.” He stepped over to the bier with his fallen friend, and, with a deep sigh, laid his hand upon Céorl’s, which had been arranged in the usual way of the warriors with his sword upon his chest. At the grave, this would be given to his son. “Farewell, my brother. It was an honour to fight by your side, and I promise you to do everything in my power to protect the ones you loved. We will see each other again.” He let go and took the first handle.

Aedwulf was next.

“Your courage and devotion were always a great inspiration to me, Captain. It will not be easy to fill the space you’ve left, but your men will do their best. Rest well, my friend.”

Éomer stepped forth.

“You were more to me than a brother-in-arms, Captain Céorl. I first came to know you when I was very young, and you taught me many of the things I needed to know about the ways of a warrior. Of all my inspirations over the years, your contribution was certainly not the least.” He paused, the image of the stern, powerful warrior before his inner eye as he lectured Éothain and him on the training grounds, then lowered his voice so that he could barely hear his own words: “You took action on my behalf even against the King’s words, unafraid of the consequences. I will never forget this.” He laid his hand upon the handle and looked at Éothain, who would bid his father farewell in privacy once they had reached their destination, waiting for his signal.

Éothain nodded and exchanged a brief glance with his mother, who would precede them and light the way with the torch.

To their right and first in the row, befitting his highest rank, Hámá was lifted up, and Éomer was not surprised to see Gamling among his carriers. Although the older man, like Elfhelm, still looked pale, he had insisted on being one of the four who would guide his friend to his final resting place.

“Now, together!” Éothain’s voice claimed Éomer’s attention. “One… two… three”! And with one simultaneous move, the four men brought up the heavy bier upon their shoulders. The Captain of Edoras had been a tall, powerful warrior in life, and now, heavy with death and the additional weight of his armour, Céorl was no easy man to carry, yet his carriers did not falter as they followed his widow through the cordon in the thickening twilight.

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

When Éomer made his way back from the burial grounds, darkness had already fallen. The streets of Edoras had emptied, and the few who saw him pass only briefly dared to look at him, for despite his outwardly composed appearance, the marshal’s tense bearing told all who knew him to leave Éomer alone as he walked with great strides through the outer streets of the city, in search for something or someone.

At last, the son of Eomund found the house Éothain had described to him, and with a deep breath, he walked up to the door and was greeted by the angry barking of a chained dog. Casting the animal a casual glance, Éomer took in his surroundings, for once shutting away his battling emotions that had been stirred up by the ceremony, the lighting of the beacons and the sight of his comrade’s lifeless body as he was lowered into the grave, while the widow and the son he left stood stone-faced beside him. He could not afford think of these things now, for the hours were running through his hands and there was still much unattended business to take care of before he would feel to have settled his affairs for the likely case that he did not return. He knocked, and a few moments later, the door was opened.

Obviously, the man before him did not recognise him at first, for his expression lit up only after a stretched, awkward silence.

“Marshal? Marshal Éomer?” The man seemed to be slightly younger than he, Éomer measured, and his broad-shouldered build told of his heavy work. For all Éomer knew, Torben was one of the metal-workers of the city, but he had not before seen Maelwyn’s husband. Furrows appeared on the other man’s brow as he regarded his unexpected visitor with growing confusion, before he quickly averted his gaze. Unlike his wife, the craftsman was not used to the company of the Lords, and it showed in his suddenly awkward stance. “What can we do for you, my Lord? Is it about the Lady Éowyn? Should I get my wife?” ´

From the safety of behind their father’s back, the couple’s children stared open-mouthed at their royal visitor, and with a sudden flash of memory, Éomer saw himself standing behind the door and gape with awe at whomever his father had greeted as high guests in their house. The fond memory brought a faint smile of remembrance to his lips.

“Aye, Torben, I would indeed like to speak with your wife, but it is nothing to be alarmed about. It is about a promise I gave her.”

The younger man’s expression bespoke his confusion, but he nevertheless nodded and, with a sudden pang of guilt, opened the door wide with an inviting gesture.

“Béma, Marshal, please excuse my manners! Will you not come inside while I fetch Maelwyn for you? Or perhaps you would like a cup of tea to warm you up? It is not yet entirely spring, after all.”

“No, it is not,” Éomer agreed, yet shook his head. “Thank you very much, Torben, but I fear that I cannot stay for long, for there is much left to prepare for tomorrow. This will only take a moment.”

“Well, if you say so…” Torben inhaled and looked over his shoulder. “I will be right back with her, if you indeed insist on waiting here.”

Éomer’s smile deepened. “I do. Thank you.” The children still stared at him, and he winked at them, in reaction to which their eyes grew even larger.

Chuckling, Torben took their hands and pulled them with him. “Come, you two. Let’s find your mother! And then it is bedtime for you!”

“But Father…!”

Still protesting, the little ones disappeared, and a moment later, Éomer heard light swift steps approaching.

“My Lord Éomer?” Maelwyn greeted him, quickly rubbing her hands against her meal-powdered apron as she had been working in the kitchen. “What a surprise! Is aught wrong? Your sister is well, isn’t she? I was surprised to see her at the ceremony already.”

“The speed of her recovery is indeed remarkable, but I am not here because of Éowyn,” Éomer quickly dispersed the handmaiden’s concerns and then reached into his pocket to reveal an envelope with the royal seal on its back. Confused lines appeared on the young woman’s brow as she saw it. “I am here because I gave you a promise last night; a promise I intend to keep. Here, I want you to have this.” He extended his arm, and with even greater puzzlement, Maelwyn slowly took the envelope, yet did not show any inclination to open it.

“My Lord, I do not understand. Whatever would you mean? I do not recall--” She interrupted herself, and suddenly, a dark hue crept into her face, and she gasped. “Marshal, please, no! I already told you that I do not expect payment for my service to your sister, aside from the usual. What I did for the Lady Éowyn came out of my own, free will. It was a favour for someone I regard, although I am but a commoner, not as someone who simply provides me with the means to sustain for my family; your sister is dear to my heart, my Lord. I know I am only a servant, but I care for your sister. It is not my place to call her a ‘friend’, but--”

Interrupting her, Éomer raised his hand.

“You are a member of the Royal Household, not a simple servant, Maelwyn, but that is not the point: you were there for my sister when she needed you, and you put yourself at risk for us and went far beyond the call of duty. This…” he nodded at the envelope in her hand, “is no payment for your service; it is a gift. It is a gift that comes from my heart, and if you rejected it, I would consider it a most serious insult. Go on, open it. I want to see whether its contents meets with your agreement.”

Her forehead still doubtfully wrinkled, Maelwyn carefully broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Behind her, Éomer briefly saw her husband curiously peak around the corner, but then he refocused on the handmaiden as she read his letter. It did not escape his attention that she suddenly stiffened, her breath caught in her lungs. With widening eyes, she looked up.

“My Lord, I … how could I even consider to accept this? She is one part Meara!”

“And the father of her foals will add another part.”

“This would be a gift for a lord, not some--”

“If you call yourself a ‘just a lowly commoner’ again, I will get angry,’ Éomer informed her decidedly, and pointed his chin at the paper. ”Besides, I already spoke with the herdsmen and informed them. The mare is yours, and the foals, as soon as they are born, as well. The birth of twins is very rare, but this mare had twins before and everything went well, so I assume that everything will be all right. I made some enquiries, and understood that the horse you own has seen far too many winters to be put to hard work anymore, and that your children share only an old, deaf pony. As a member of the royal household, you are, of course, expected to be seen only on a noble steed, which I hereby took the freedom of providing you with.” He stabbed his finger at her. “And don’t you dare to reject it!”

“Gods…” Completely overwhelmed, Maelwyn ran a hand through her hair, and then laughed when she saw the satisfaction in Éomer’s eyes. “Well, Marshal, I can hardly say ‘no’ when you stand before me like this, all imposing and determined, can I? I heard of the many fierce warriors whose will crumbled to dust once they were pitted against your powers of persuasion, so how could I, a gentle handmaiden, defy you?”

“You couldn’t,” Éomer confirmed with a smirk. “You are perfectly right in this, and so my advice to you would be to go and visit the herd tomorrow and get yourselves acquainted.” Without warning, the smile disappeared from his face, and Maelwyn found herself pierced by that intense look she had always feared even if it had so far never been directed her way. “There is just one more thing I would ask of you, Maelwyn.”

“Aye?” She barely dared to breathe. Whatever Éomer was about to demand, she had the distinct impression that it was something his life depended upon. “What is it, my Lord?”

“When I’m gone tomorrow, please be there for my sister. Continue to be her friend and confidante, because I know that she has not yet stepped completely out of the shadow that was left by our foe. She would not tell me, but I felt it. Éowyn will need your strength and compassion, all the more as I will not be there to supply her with it. Promise me this, Maelwyn.”

Relief swept over her.

“Lord Éomer, I will gladly be there for your sister whenever she needs me; this goes without saying! It is my own wish to help her put the terrible things that happened to rest; it is not something you need to ask of me. Be assured that I will do whatever is in my power to let the Lady Éowyn heal in body and mind.” She paused, uncertain whether to follow her sudden impulse, but then gathered her courage and looked him in the eye:” Lord Éomer, when you ride tomorrow, please know that our very best wishes accompany you. Of course there can be no safety when you’re riding to war, but I hope that the Gods will hold their protective hands over you and our riders, and that you will return to us once again. Until then, you will be in our prayers.”

For the longest time, Éomer could but stare at her, and in her eyes, read the deep earnestness behind her words. Silently he thanked Béma that this warm and loyal woman would be by his sister’s side once he was gone, and a little smile curved his lips, although there was also a distinct trace of sadness in it. Alas, he knew their changes all too well. From what Aragorn and Gandalf had told them about the enemy, it was clear to him that it would take a miracle for him to see the sparkle of the Golden Hall’s roof from the plains again, calling him home. This was farewell, not good-bye. There was no need to tell this to the concerned young woman before him, though. The little smile still on his lips, Éomer bowed his head.

“Thank you, Maelwyn, for your good wishes. Let us hope that the Gods will hear them, for surely there can be no victory against the Dark Lord without them on our side. Be safe yourself, and promise me that – in case that battle should turn ill for us – you will ride with Éowyn and the others and make for Dunharrow. Do not stay in Edoras.”

“Aye, Lord Éomer, I will do so if it should indeed come to that. But I have every confidence in you and our riders, and the armies of Gondor. Like Théoden-King said: no foe ever overcame us when Gondor and Rohan stood together!” Out of impulse, she took his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. “You will return to us; I know it. Be well, Éomer son of Eomund, and ride to the fortune of us all… and know that your gift is greatly treasured. Thank you, my Lord. ”

Éomer inclined his head in a final greeting.

“I bid you a good night, Mistress. Farewell.”

And just like that, he left her standing, and Maelwyn stood and stared in the darkness after him long after he had disappeared from sight; Éomer’s envelope pressed to her chest. He did not expect to return, she had gathered as much from his words. Miraculously, their men had been given back to them, only to be taken from them again now, and if it were not for the back injury Torben had attained two years ago in a fall and which hindered him from riding long distances, her husband, too, would be leaving with next morning’s light. From tomorrow on, Edoras would belong to the women and children, and to the old and crippled. And together, they would wait with baited breath whether the army they would first see on the eastern horizon in a few days time would be theirs… or their foe’s.