Chapter 79: A Hobbit’s Proposal

MEDUSELD

The candle’s warm light greeted Éowyn as she opened her eyes. The flame burned upright, undisturbed by even the smallest waft of air, and for the longest time, the daughter of Eomund stared at it with unseeing eyes, the cobweb of sleep still enveloping her mind. It took her a while longer until awareness of the unusual quiet blew them away with a wild gust.

Without transition, her heartbeat catapulted itself into a wild rhythm, racing in her chest like a ferocious animal that had stepped into a trap. With a jolt, Éowyn sat up, the strange metallic taste of panic in her mouth telling her that somehow, while she had been asleep, the world had become badly unhinged. Her gaze shot over to the window, to see whether she could find the source of her disquiet there… but the muted twilight that seeped through the window seemed normal enough. Except that it had already been dark when she had returned from the burial to the confines of the Golden Hall, and the candle on the nightstand had already more than half burned down… and now by dawn, it looked barely touched again.

Frowning, Éowyn stared at the puzzle before her, and suddenly, her skin felt clammy and the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck righted themselves as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Something else was strange, too: if it was indeed already dawn, then why had they not woken her? Their éohere was about to ride to war today, and neither Éomer nor Théoden would leave without goodbye, especially when it was likely that this was the last time that they ever saw each other in this realm. Only that she could not hear anything outside. The preparations of an army as great as theirs was noisy, and all citizens would be up to bid their Riders farewell… but only silence was to be heard. No, something was wrong.

With a sharp exhale, Éowyn came to her feet and grasped her morning robe, tying the belt around her slender waist without looking while she rushed to the door. It, too, opened without a sound, although its hinges had creaked badly only the previous evening. Now the coldness in her stomach spread icy tendrils all through her body as a sense of foreboding filled her. There was no guard before her door, and as she stepped into the thick twilight of the great hall and looked around, Éowyn saw that it was the same with Éomer’s door further down the corridor. All of Meduseld appeared to be utterly bereft of human life… except for a solitary silhouette that sat huddled into a thick cape by the hearth. She knew to whom that cape belonged, but was nevertheless astonished to see Théoden here. Wasn’t he supposed to be with their army? Against her will, her feet carried her toward the lone man.

“Uncle?” The silence felt always liquid now, the air so thick that it almost choked her. “Aren’t you leaving with the men? What happened?” She reached for Théoden’s shoulder… when he suddenly turned around. What little air there was in Éowyn’s lungs, left them with a shocked gasp as she looked into Gríma Wormtongue’s mutilated face instead of her Uncle’s loving features. With all clarity she saw the marks of her teeth on his lower lip, and the black stitches where she had cut his cheek… and still, despite these wounds, her tormentor smiled, and it was a satisfied, self-pleased smile that instantly told her that his unexpected return was not the only bad tidings.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, fighting against the sudden light-headedness. She could not afford to faint now! “How did you get here?”

“Oh, but I am King of the Mark now. This is my place to be,” Gríma said coolly, and really, he wore Théoden’s silver circlet on his brow, and the sight was another shook to Éowyn.

‘Uncle?’

She wanted to rip it from his head, but her hands felt limp beside her body, and heavy like sacks filled with rocks. She could do nothing as Wormtongue got to his feet, taking his time as he savoured every single moment that he saw the horror on her face. The smile became a cruel smirk, the one she knew only too well.

“You thought your problem would be solved by chasing me away, my lady, but Gríma son of Gálmód is not so easily defeated. I always reach my goals, Lady Éowyn. Always. I am actually surprised to see that you didn’t know that before.”

Hastily, Éowyn backed away and almost fell over her own feet which felt as if they didn’t belong to her body. Then suddenly, all paralysis fell from her and she spun around and ran toward the great doors, shouting. Even if there was no one in the hall, they could not all be gone. Even if Gríma had sneaked in through the tunnel somehow, then the guards still had to be outside.

“Guard! Guard! Help me! The Worm is back! Help me!” She burst through the doors, where stark grey light greeted her, neither belonging to day nor night. Everything looked false in it, like a faded painting… a painting bereft of life. It was not only Meduseld, Éowyn realised with sudden clarity that killed her panic; all of Edoras was deserted. She was the only one left. As her eyes darted frantically through the empty streets below her despite her bitter knowledge, slow, sure steps approached her from behind.

“You can scream all you like, Lady Éowyn,” Wormtongue’s silken voice dribbled into her ear like liquid poison. “There is no one alive who can hear you… at least no one you would want to be heard by.” In response to his last words, a guttural chuckle reached Éowyn’s ears and froze her blood, and she turned her head to look for its source.

‘It cannot be! They cannot be here!’ her mind insisted stubbornly, but of course it was as her eyes showed her. Numbly she stared at the towering Uruk-hai commander who watched her from the side of the terrace where she had always liked to stand and gaze at the endless plains below. Aware of her undivided attention, the creature bared its fangs in bellowing laughter, and a cloud of putrid stench assaulted Éowyn’s nostrils.

“The Dark Lord crushed your little, insignificant army under his boot as was to be expected,” Wormtongue whispered into her ear, brushing aside her golden tresses with a sickening gesture of familiarity he was not entitled to. “The realm of Gondor is no more. The realm of Rohan might endure if I so decide, but of course, it will be a different existence than before. I am its king now, installed by the mighty Lord Sauron himself, and you, my dear, head-strong lady, should thank me for choosing you for my queen, because this arrangement will surely make your life much more pleasant than that of your fellow kinsmen… at least of those who are not dead yet.”

Éowyn heard him, and the words felt like glowing embers in her brain, scorching her mind. ‘Éomer… Uncle…’ They could not be dead. Not like this, without a last blast of defiance that carried all the way from Mordor to the Mark. It simply could not be. But then she saw the heft of the sword on which the Uruk-hai’s clawed fingers rested, and the sight of the two golden horse-heads finally drove the deadly fact home, even if it’s usually bright sheen was likewise dulled by the strange light: there could be no mistake that this really was Gúthwine. In another lifetime, this sword had belonged to Éomer, and it had protected the people of the Mark. Now this aberration carried it, and its razor-sharp blade would be used kill their old, their women and children; all those had not ridden into battle. It was a thought she found impossible to accept.

An eerily cold hand suddenly cupped her cheek.

“Be my queen, Éowyn, for there is nothing else left for you to be.”

“Then I’d rather be nothing!” Suddenly she found herself running toward the Uruk, who stared in surprise at her.

“Catch her!” Wormtongue’s voice could be heard behind her, suddenly in panic as if he had guessed her intentions. The hideous creature shot out its arm, and Éowyn ducked. The grasping fingers missed her by a hair’s breadth, but the Uruk was still blocking her path, and now it knew what she planned. It would not let her pass.

Mockingly, the thing snarled at her in a crude imitation of a chuckle, and flexed its fingers. Éowyn watched as they swung toward her. Then Gúthwine’s dull shimmer caught her attention, and with sudden clarity, she saw the way. A quick feint sent her foe in the wrong direction as she darted straight at him. Éomer’s sword – “Friend in Battle”, its Rohirric name meant, and now it would be her friend – cleared the scabbard smoothly as she pulled it away from its unrightful owner. A gleaming half-circle in the air, it separated the Uruk’s head from its neck, but from the corner of her eye, Éowyn saw many more of these things start toward her from the other corners of the terrace. There was but one thing to do now, although it was a shame that she could not take the Worm with her. With a hard smile upon her lips, Éowyn turned the sword against herself.

“You can have our land, Gríma Wormtongue,” she said, enjoying the expression of sheer panic in her tormentor’s eyes. “But it will be dark, and it will be empty of everything you want!” A violent push sunk the steel into her flesh. ‘It is Gúthwine. It is my friend.’ She held on to the thought as she fell to the ground, impaling herself further until she felt the steel exit through her back. Wormtongue’s anguished yell was drowned out by the loud buzzing sound in her ears, as if she had stuck her head into a beehive. A thick, coppery taste flooded up her throat. ‘I’m coming, Brother…’ she thought as the light faded. ‘I’m coming, Uncle. Soon, we will be reunited…’

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With a shocked gasp, Éowyn sat up in her bed. For the longest time, she stared first at the burned-down candle beside her, and then at the darkness beyond her window, shaking violently.

“Gods…” She buried her face – her wet face – in her hands, choking. “Gods, please… let this be over!” Barely suppressed sobs shook her body, and for a moment, it was almost too tempting to give in to desperation… but slowly, composure returned. If she let go of what little control she had now, there was no telling where this would end. She had seen people so traumatised by war that they had lost all ties with reality. They were usually first pitied and later avoided, as no one wanted to be reminded of the horrors they had seen and the frailty of the human mind. She was determined not to allow herself this weakness. She would not give in to the nightmares… but to defeat their power, she had to get away from Meduseld. There was no way around it.

A few more steady breaths cleared her head and brought back control over her body. The shaking subsided enough for Éowyn to get to her feet and, grasping her robe – ‘It is the same as in my dream…’ – quickly made for her window. The cool air helped to blow away the webs of the nightmare, and the fact that it was night outside and not some sickly dawn not caused by the sun’s light comforted her. And still she could feel Wormtongue’s lingering presence, his prying eyes on her although he was not here.

‘Not yet. But I will return, and it will be soon. You know it.’

Éowyn blinked his image away and turned toward her closet. She had to get out of this room, no matter how late. Its sanctity had been permanently despoiled; it was no longer a home to her. Hastily she picked out her old sparring clothes and put them on, before she all but fled toward the throne room.

The fire in the hearth was still flickering merrily, and from the activity she perceived from the kitchens and servants’ chambers, Éowyn concluded that she had not slept for long, two hours perhaps. Long enough for Gríma Wormtongue to get into her head again, anyway. Frantically she looked around in search for someone to distract her from the upwelling memories of her dream… and found a lonely hobbit sitting on the bench closest to the hearth, his thoughtful features illuminated by the flames. With a deep breath, Éowyn approached him.

“Master Merry? I did not see you at the burial earlier.”

Life returned into Merry’s eyes, but his expression was a sad one.

“Aye, I remained here. I thought…” He lowered his gaze, as if ashamed to admit it, “I would have felt like an intruder there, I think.” A questioning glance found Éowyn. “I mean… there is nothing more intimate than saying goodbye to your loved-ones. You wouldn’t want a stranger to be there and see your grief, isn’t that so? At least that is how I would feel, I guess.” Awkwardly, he took a sip from his tankard.

Éowyn felt a small smile spread over her lips. Bless the little one, such decency and warmth were rare things to find these days. She felt instantly better as she sat down on the opposite bench.

“I cannot imagine that anyone would have found you unwelcome, but still… thank you. You are being very considerate; it is a trait not many have. A very welcome trait.” She looked at him encouragingly, but he did not return her smile.

“I suppose mostly I did not go because I feel somehow responsible,” Merry muttered darkly and looked into the flames. “Not for the men you buried today, but for those who died in the Wizard’s Vale. Your brother told me that he did not see it this way, and so did my friends, but still… it was horrible to see what the Ents did to them. They would not listen to us once they had decided to attack; it was out of our hands… and it was us who roused them.”

“My brother also told me that your actions might actually have saved many of his men,” Éowyn objected gently, recalling what Éomer had recapitulated during their shared meal. “He thought that the battle might have ended badly for his men had you not intervened.”

Merry sighed, unconvinced.

“Perhaps your brother was just being polite.” He looked up in surprised insult when Éowyn unexpectedly burst into laughter.

“Excuse me, Master Merry,” she chuckled, trying to contain herself. “You would be the first ever to accuse my brother of politeness! It is not something that would usually be said about him. When people talk about Éomer, they usually use words like ‘passionate’, ‘willful’, ‘determined’ and ‘fierce’ to describe him, and about his diplomatic skills, ‘direct’, ‘honest’ and even ‘blunt’ would be more appropriate. He would never say anything he didn’t mean. Trust me on this, Sir!”

“Hmm…” Merry made, but the young woman’s outburst of amusement seemed genuine enough considered how almost panicky she had looked when she had first approached him. Almost as if she had fled from her chambers. He wrinkled his brow and dared a more measuring glance at her. The shadow, albeit faded, was still there in her eyes, the dread of something unspeakable swimming behind their deep blue. Should he ask her about it? Was it his place? This was the King’s niece, after all, and he was only a little hobbit with neither a great name nor title. If there was something that he did not want to do, it was to annoy this poor young woman when her own peace of mind seemed such a frail thing.

“You ask yourself what brought me out of my chambers at this late time,” Éowyn took the question out of his mouth, and this time it was she who avoided his gaze. “Do you remember our afternoon’s conversation?”

“Every word,” Merry said truthfully. “It was the shadow of your foe, wasn’t it? That man who held you captive?”

“He still haunts my dreams. But it was even worse this time, because in this dream, our éohere had already left for Gondor… and they had been defeated.” She heard the hobbit’s sharp gasp and turned her head. “I fear for them, Merry… and yet I want nothing more than to ride with them and escape these haunted halls. I’d rather die on the battlefield in defence of my people than sit here and have that evil man rip my mind to shreds with each new dream. Do you understand that?”

All of a sudden, her blue eyes were like icy daggers that pierced Merry’s skull. But he did not shrink from her stare.

“My Lady, I understand you perfectly well, for it also the way I feel. It tears me apart inside to sit here, useless, while my friends are in danger and might need my help.” He looked at his hands, shook his head in frustration. “Of course I realise that I am only little, and that I could not possibly hope to make a difference--“

“Do not speak so!” Éowyn interrupted him heatedly. “Even a child’s hand can lead a deadly blade. And excuse me, Master Hobbit, but although you are short of statue, you do not seem like a child to me. You encountered enemies before and defeated them as you told me, and such experience alone would make you suitable for battle. Readiness and determination are not to be found only in a special race or gender. A Halfling could be a warrior if he had something to fight for, as could be a woman. Every sword is needed in this war… and yet, we are both excluded.” She shook her head, suddenly slumping as the full truth behind her words hit her. “I’d ride with them anyway, if I were strong enough. Under all that armour, no one would recognise me as long as I stayed away from my uncle or my brother… but it is vain speaking of that possibility when I know that I could not possibly hope to stay in the saddle for the long ride.” She brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen in her face, and her gaze darted through the twilit hall like that of a captured animal. “But I have to get out of here, somehow… out of Meduseld, or he will win after all.” Éowyn sank into grim silence.

For the longest time, Merry regarded the brave young woman beside him, and his mind raced. If he wanted to make the proposal, now was the time… but there would be no backing away from it once they were underway. No second thoughts.

“There might be a way…” he began hesitantly, and at once, felt her piercing eyes on him once again. “A way to ride with your army, I mean. If you truly want to--”

“You would not mock me, would you, Master Hobbit?” Éowyn asked, and her voice was sharp like a knife. “I thought I could trust you with this.”

“And you can, my Lady. I would never think of mocking you when we are in the same position. It is the truth: I might have a way for you to accompany your riders… but there would be one condition I’d have to insist upon, I’m afraid.” It was obvious that Merry felt most uncomfortable over setting conditions against a member of royalty, but Éowyn did not look insulted.

“That I take you along.” Her eyes observed him like a cat stalking its prey.

Merry nodded.

“Aye. Believe me, Lady Éowyn, I would not speak like this if I were not desperate.”

“It seems that we both know a thing about desperation, then.” Éowyn regarded the Halfling for a moment longer, trying to read him and finding nothing but utter truthfulness in his features… as far as she dared to judge a being she had never encountered before. Yet somehow, these Hobbits deemed her as incapable of lying as the Rohírrim themselves. With a deep breath, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me then how you think to achieve this deed. You are no wizard like Gandalf Greyhame, are you?”

“Nay, my Lady.” Even through his tension, a shy grin spread on Merry’s rosy face, and he looked down, trying to contain himself. “And neither do I have the healing powers of the Lord Aragorn… but my friend Pippin and I, we stumbled over something very interesting during our time in Fangorn Forest.” He looked up again, and found her listening. “We found a well… you did not notice the water’s special powers when you drank it at first, only that it seemed wonderfully cool and refreshing. But when we woke the next morning, our weariness was gone, and that was not because of the sleep. At that point, we had travelled a long and perilous way, and had just escaped from orc captivity a day earlier. Our exhaustion was such that you could not cure it with one night’s sleep… and yet when we woke, we felt ready to take on the world. Even that evil wizard in Isengard.”

Éowyn lifted her brows in sudden scepticism.

“Enchanted water? In Fangorn Forest? Even if it were true, how should I get there tonight?”

“It is true, my Lady, and you will not have to ride to Fangorn because I took the liberty of saving some for my friend and me, knowing that our journey was not yet at its end. I’ve got the bottle in my quarters and can get it for you right now if you want. There is just one more thing…”

The arcs become even more prominent.

“Another condition?”

“No. That water… it has a side effect.” Merry coughed, squirming under the maiden’s piercing gaze. “Aside from curing weariness, I mean. If you drink it, it could be that, when you wake tomorrow,… uhm… how shall I say it?”

“Yes?”

“Uhm… you might find that you’ve grown a little bit over night.” He exhaled forcefully and felt the heat of his blood as his face turned crimson with embarrassment. No, she did not believe him. She seemed to be wondering whether to laugh or be angry.

“As tall as one of those trees, I presume?”

“No, of course not. Only a few inches. Like I said, we drank from it, too, and while we will probably be the tallest hobbits in the Shire when we return, I would think that our height is not too different from what is considered ‘normal’. It is nothing to worry about, really. I just thought I’d mention it, in case that….” He shrugged, unable to imagine why this should be the reason to discard her plans.

Silence stretched between them while the daughter of Eomund tried to decide what to believe, and the anxious hobbit already saw his only chance to come to the aid of his friends dissolve. At last, Éowyn righted herself.

“Well now, Master Merry… while I will freely admit that your tale sounds rather strange to my ears, I suppose that I do not really have a choice, do I? There is no other plan that could make it happen; we do need a miracle. So, I will try your precious Fangorn water, if you would be so kind to fetch it for me. In return, I will take you with me… if it works.”

From one heartbeat to the next, Merry’s expression brightened with hope.

“I will get it for you right away, my Lady! If you will wait here for me, then…” He noticed that her attention was suddenly focussed on something behind him, and turned his head… to see Éomer step into the hall. Anxious, he turned back. No one needed to tell him that Éowyn’s brother was the last one who should know about his sister’s plans.

“Come to my chambers in an hour,” Éowyn murmured under her breath. “Most of the servants should be in bed at that time. We will discuss things further then. You do not have any armour yourself, do you? Or a sword?”

The hobbit could only shake his head.

“Nothing but a dagger. But I don’t care.”

“You should. I will see that I get something for you.” Without transition, Éowyn broke into a welcoming smile. “Éomer! Did you get things done? How is Éothain?”

“As could be expected after the burial of his father,” Éomer said, and absent-mindedly smoothed a damp strand of hair out of his face. He smelled of soap, telling Éowyn who knew his rituals before battle that he had been in the bath-house for the pleasure of a hot soak before they left Edoras tomorrow. The Gods knew when – or if – he would be given that opportunity again. The thought extinguished her smile.

“Master Merry?” Éomer nodded in acknowledgement, glad to find the hobbit apparently heeding his words from the afternoon, and also to see Éowyn readily enough accept the Halfling as company. His attention returned to his sister. “He was quiet, but I think he’s had enough time to come to terms with the pain of his loss, so when we ride tomorrow, he’ll be ready. Oh, I almost forgot: Maelwyn sends you her greetings. She’ll be back here tomorrow.”

‘But I will no longer be here,’ Éowyn thought, careful not to let it show in her expression. ‘At least not if everything works the way it should.’ Aloud, she said. “Thank you, Brother. I look forward to seeing her. Now tell me, should I go to the kitchens and order something to eat for my brother? For I do not think that they will be here for much longer.” She suddenly noticed the direction of Éomer’s gaze, and her heartbeat accelerated. He could not truly be contemplating… could he? She barely dared to hope.

“I’ll get something myself, later,” Éomer replied, and his brow furrowed as he stared into the twilight on the other side of the hall… where the King’s chambers were. “Is Uncle in his study, do you know?”

“He returned from the burial together with me, but I have not seen him since. Yet where else should he be at this hour? I assume he has quite a few things to arrange before he leaves tomorrow, and to leave those who stay with instructions.”

“Did he say yet whom he wants to take his place while he’s gone? Will it be you?”

“Me?” Béma, she hoped not! What was she to do then, disobey the King’s direct order? With all the plans in her head now about how to join their éohere, Éowyn realised that she had not even begun to consider this possibility… which was a very likely one. Wouldn’t it make her a traitor if she disappeared despite Théoden’s orders? To leave their people without a leader?

“I do not know. I haven’t heard anything. Why do you not go and ask him yourself, Éomer?” Éomer had been banished for the same crime, and even if there was no longer a Gríma Wormtongue present to enforce the law, Éowyn had to admit that it would be a serious breach of trust if she followed her urge after all. Yet what would it count if they would in all likelihood not return? There would be no future for the Mark if their army was defeated, whether she remained here to give orders or not.

Éomer nodded thoughtfully, but suddenly, he slanted her an inquisitive glance that caught her entirely unaware.

“Is there something I should know, Éowyn?”

‘He senses that I’m keeping secrets from him. Béma help me!’

“Aside from knowing that your sister will be worried sick once you have left?” she asked instead, praying that her expression would not give her away… and that the Halfling would resist her brother’s powers as well. She knew Éomer’s skill at detecting lies well enough. “I suppose not.” The dark gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer, and she could almost see his scepticism… but thank the Gods, her brother’s mind seemed to be too pre-occupied with something altogether different, and he looked away again, taking a deep breath as he squared his shoulders.

“I’ll be in Uncle’s study, and then later, in my chambers. Come to me if you change your mind. Master Hobbit, I wish you a good night.” And with these words, Éomer left them sitting, and from the rigidity of his bearing, Éowyn concluded with silent joy that he was not seeing Théoden only to discuss matters of war. Whether he sought this conversation only to please her, or to still some deeper urge of his own, she dared not say, but it was a first step. Her eyes stayed on her brother until the shadows on the other side of the hall swallowed him. Then she turned back to the silently waiting Merry.

“Let us start with our preparations. There is much to be done yet if we truly want to leave with the Riders tomorrow.”