ADVENTURES OF AN ÉORED: SINS OF THE FATHER

Chapter 3: Elfhelm’s Tale

EASTFOLD, NIGHT

Most Riders had quickly withdrawn to their lairs after the evening meal – tribute to the rousing celebration of the night before – but Éomer could find no sleep. No matter how he tossed and turned on his blanket, or stared at the stars in hope that their comforting light would allow him to follow his snoring comrades into the realm of dreams, the thought of his confrontation with Arnhelm kept his mind racing.

What had he been supposed to do differently? What had his mistake been? Had he not been respectful enough when he had addressed Arnhelm? But they could not seriously expect him to crawl on his stomach and lick the man’s boots, did they? At least Éomer had never heard of such a thing. Again and again he saw the scout’s cold look before his inner eye and heard his angered answer like most of the riders. His face burned as he remembered their confused, questioning glances, and before he had turned his back on them, he had even thought to see pity in some of the men’s eyes. He did not want ‘pity’. He despised ‘pity’. ‘Pity’ was something reserved only for those who could not help themselves, not for aspiring warriors like him. He was no lad of ten years anymore! And still, Éomer had to admit with a deep, but soundless sigh, he could not deny that he was, in fact, helpless. He was at a loss, questioning himself as much as the man who had given him such misery, and even Éothain’s well-meant attempts over the evening to brighten his spirits had only resulted in him withdrawing even further.

Unwilling to discuss his wretched state of mind even with his friend, Éomer had claimed to be unwell to excuse himself from the evening meal, and the broad grins of many of his comrades had told him that they had held the ale responsible. That had been fine by Éomer, but of course, Captain Elfhelm had not been fooled as easily, and Éomer had felt his knowing gaze he had dropped onto his lair, glad for the cover which the high grass provided to him.

With a deep sigh, he turned on his other side again. The noise of the crickets drowned out most of the sounds around him, but like the distant rustle in the grass moving toward him, the son of Eomund barely heard them. His mind was occupied once again with a scene he had coincidentally observed earlier that evening, while he had been grooming Stormwing. It had taken him a while to discern the voices of Elfhelm and his scout as they stood among the horses, caught up in a quiet but nonetheless intense discussion and apparently having overlooked the very object of their conversation behind his mare. Quickly, Éomer had dropped into a crouch when he had heard them, straining his ears although he had not been certain he wanted to hear what the men had to say…

----

“You should have told me!” Arnhelm had not shouted, but the intensity in his voice had left no question about his state of mind. The man was very obviously agitated.

“And I did!” Elfhelm had justified himself, just as intense. “But it was before your injury, and you must have forgotten about it. Yet I do not recall you voicing any concerns then.”

“Probably because I had other things on my mind. So yes, I forgot. You should have reminded me.”

“Why? What would you have done then, leave the éored over a recruit? What difference would it have made?”

“At least I would have had more time to acquaint myself with the thought… and with the thought that he looks just like his father. It is something I needed to know, Elfhelm!”

“Are you telling me that you would have had no problem to ride with the son of Marshal Eomund if Éomer did not look like him?”

“I cannot say, but it certainly would have helped.” Arnhelm had lowered his voice by then, and Éomer had barely understood his next words. “It chokes me whenever I look at the boy. It is not a conscious decision; it simply overcomes me, and I cannot change it, no matter what you say, Elfhelm. I have known Eomund when he was that age; their resemblance is uncanny! So if you care for the lad as you claim, do him and me a favour and keep him out of my path. I mean it! Do not try to force something that is clearly not meant to be.”

A rustle in the scarp had told Éomer that the scout had turned away, and he ducked deeper, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping on his superiors. For a moment he had waited for Elfhelm’s reply, but none had been uttered...

----

As he rolled on his back to stare at the stars again, Éomer went over the fragments of the discussion he had overheard once again, his emotions mixed. He felt vague relief because apparently – despite his initial fears - he seemed not to be at fault here; the scout’s quarrel appeared to be with his father only, and apparently, Elfhelm did not share his view. And yet Éomer could not help wondering what his father had done to turn an experienced warrior like Arnhelm, who was at an age when he should know better than to blame the son for the sins of his parent, into such a dedicated foe. He was not certain that he wanted to know the answer.

Éomer’s gaze grew distant as his mind drifted back to the happy days of his childhood when Eomund had still been Third Marshal of the Mark. Whenever the watchtower’s bell had announced the return of the Riders, Éomer had been among the first to welcome the warriors home. How proud had he been to see his father ride in front of them, leading them, erect and imposing in his bearing until his gaze found his family and the sternness in his eyes melted into love. Yet in the years since Eomund’s death, Éomer had to his dismay learned that his father’s renown was not unanimously regarded as spotless. No one had ever spoken openly to him about this delicate subject, but although he had been a young boy when Théoden-King had taken them with him to Edoras, Éomer had noticed several times how passionate discussions seemed to suddenly stop when he had approached the men, only to be picked up again once they thought him far enough away. Only upon his increasingly determined questioning had Théodred finally relented and given him what Éomer had perceived even then as a considerably softened account of the reproaches voiced against the great Eomund of Aldburg. It had been then when he had first perceived that perhaps, the world could not simply be divided into good and bad; black and white; that there were many shades of grey between these two opposites.

Reluctantly, Éomer returned to the reality of the marsh lands, biting his lip as he realised that after all these years, he was probably about to find out the truth; a truth he feared to hear. His father had been his greatest hero from his early childhood days on; the paragon of everything Éomer aspired to be: a loving man to his children and wife, a passionate protector of his people and a valiant and much respected warrior. Would he learn now, after sixteen years, that Eomund of Aldburg had, in fact, not been the shining example of Rohirric virtues he had always taken his father to be?

Another rustle disturbed the high grass around him, and this time, Éomer heard it. He jumped to his feet, Gúthwine in his hands and ready to defend him when the thicket was parted - and Tondhere emerged from it. With a curiously cocked eyebrow, the other rider cast a quick glance at Éomer’s readied blade before his gaze travelled upwards to his face.

“Bad dreams, Éomer? I understand it is a challenge to sleep in this terrain, but would you mind not cutting off my head, please? I still need it, whatever else you may think.”

“Gods…” An almost painful surge of relief swept through Éomer’s veins. Forcefully exhaling, he sheathed his sword and cut his comrade a reproachful look. “What did you expect if you sneak up on me like this, Tondhere?” he hissed quietly, not wanting to wake Éothain who slept close by. “I thought that--”

“—I was an orc?” Tondhere shook his head. “They’d be quieter. In fact, I made as much noise as I could, to ensure that you would not mistake me for one, but of course you would not know the difference yet.”

“What do you want?” Éomer grumbled, embarrassed to be reminded of his inexperience even at this nightly hour.

“The Captain sent me to see whether you were sleeping. Since you are obviously very much awake, he told me to lead you to him. He wants to speak with you. Come on, it’s the end of my watch and I would like to get a few hours of sleep before we move on.”

Barely slowed down from the initial fright of the nightly disturbance, Éomer’s heart jumped into his throat again as he picked himself up and followed his comrade through the grass.

‘So, here it comes: Elfhelm is going to tell me that he will send me back to Edoras, or at least to another éored, because I am nothing but trouble. And he is telling me now because he wants to spare me the shame of having others overhear our conversation. What else could he want in the middle of the night?’

It sounded convincing. Unlike his scout, Elfhelm appeared to be a decent man who would not humiliate a comrade - even a recruit - in front of others, and yet Éomer found no comfort in the prospect of having his inglorious fate told to him in privacy. Like a sentenced man on the way to the gallows he trudged behind his older comrade with hanging head, and not even the sight of the éored’s horses as they lifted their heads to watch them pass could brighten his spirits. At last, Tondere stopped and lifted his arm to indicate a dark shape on the hillock before them, its head barely visible over the gently swaying grass.

“There he is,” he said, and, with a look at Éomer’s fraught expression, clapped his shoulder. “It will be all right, Éomer. No need to be so tense. Go, he’s waiting for you. We’ll see each other in the morning.” He walked away.

With a deep breath, Éomer shifted his attention back to the dark silhouette before him and gave himself an inner push. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible... Taking heart and inwardly swearing to himself not to come apart before his commander even if his worst fears turned out to come true, Éomer climbed to the top of the elevation. Éon, Elfhelm’s long-legged war-horse, regarded him for a moment with pricked ears, but then decided that the young man was nothing to worry about and stuck his head back into the grass. Below them, the marshy plains of the Entwash-delta glistened in the silvery moonlight all the way to the horizon, but the son of Eomund had no mind for its beauty as he came to a halt beside his Captain.

“Lord Elfhelm, Tondhere said you wanted to speak with me.” Not daring to establish eye-contact, he missed the compassionate expression upon the older warrior’s face.

“Aye, Éomer, that is right. I had a feeling that you might be awake, and thought that the reason for your sleeplessness needed to be addressed. Come here; sit down with me, young man. And relax, I am not going to eat you.” Elfhelm patted the ground. Still tense despite the warrior’s calm manner, Éomer obediently lowered himself into the grass. From the corner of his eye, he found Elfhelm looking at him, but still dared not to meet his gaze openly. The Captain was almost twice his age; his knowledge and experience vast, and respect demanded that he spoke only when spoken to, so Éomer remained silent. Before him, the fast-flowing waters of the Mering stream sparkled in the moonlight like liquid silver.

“It is beautiful up here, isn’t it?” Elfhelm said after a moment of prolonged silence, and Éomer nodded, not knowing what to reply. “So peaceful… viewed from here. And yet even as we speak, there could be a band of orcs crawling through the grass to slit our throats…” He looked at the young man by his side, and a wry smirk formed on his lips at Éomer’s sudden frown. “Not tonight though; don’t worry. The horses would have sensed them already, and there has been little to no orc-activity in the last weeks in the Eastfold. Still, young man, you would be well off to remember what Tolgor taught you yesterday, as he told me upon your return…”

“To never let down my guard,” Éomer whispered dutifully, then bit his lip. “Aye. I learned that lesson.”

“You will not have learned it fully until you once forgot it,” Elfhelm replied evenly, and his gaze found back to the plains below. “If you survive that incident, only then will you have fully understood that lesson… and yet many die because they have not been ready for it. Life is the cruellest teacher, for it seldom forgives mistakes.” He exhaled. Another awkward moment passed, and Éomer felt his stomach clench in expectation of what the warrior would tell him.

“Your father… he learned this lesson very early in his life. And he was reminded of it time and again in his duty as protector of the Eastfold. He was also taught another lesson, one even bitterer…” Elfhelm was aware of Éomer’s questioning glance as he stared at the river, scenes of the past passing before his inner eye. “Sometimes, even when you are on your guard, you cannot change your fate… or that of the people around you. Sometimes, the odds are so highly against you that victory is beyond reach, and all you can do is flee and save as many of your men as possible.” He inhaled deeply, and briefly surfaced from memory to solemnly regard the young man beside him who listened with baited breath. “It was a lesson Eomund hated to learn, and it made him bitter. He would not accept it lightly.”

“Théodred told me once that some people thought of Father as too bold,” Éomer said slowly, the memory of the conversation with his cousin still in his ears after all these years. “I sensed even then that he wanted to spare me from the full truth, but I dared not ask him further that day. It was something I did not want to hear.”

“I am not even certain that your father could be condemned for what he did,” Elfhelm said, his expression pensive. “Certainly, I would not have been his best friend if Eomund had mindlessly disregarded the safety of our éored. Your father cared for his men very much, and each death aggravated him endlessly, as you doubtlessly know. Some people – people who did not know him – said that he was trading blood for renown, but I know that this was not the truth. The problem was an altogether different one: each death that he could not prevent made Eomund bitterer, until he would strike back against the enemy as hard as he possibly could whenever he saw the chance… to the point where sometimes, he would forget all need for caution. The orcs knew about this streak in his character, and laid a masterful trap for your father… one he could not have possibly ignored.” Without warning, Elfhelm’s gaze became piercing. Silently his gaze asked Éomer whether he wanted to hear more.

“It is why Arnhelm hates me, isn’t it?” Éomer brought out through clenched teeth. “That so many died who need not have died. He is one of those who think Father only wanted to further his glory.”

For a moment, Elfhelm hesitated. Was it the right measure to tell the young man before him of the events that had cost Eomund’s life, for he knew it would be devastating to the son of a man who had always wanted to become like his father. But yes, he decided quickly. Éomer needed to know. The problem with Arnhelm would not be solved if he did not understand its source.

“Arnhelm’s wrath stems from two separate incidents,” he began slowly. “The first one was that Théoden-King appointed your father the position of Third Marshal, although he was younger and less experienced. It took Arnhelm a while to overcome his disappointment, although Eomund did everything in his power to demonstrate his appreciation for his scout’s skills… but then Arnhelm’s son was killed in that fateful last attack that also claimed your father’s life.” From the corner of his eye, Elfhelm saw Éomer blanch. “The boy was only a year older than you are now, Éomer. He was still an apprentice and not ready for battle; Eomund had always taken care that Gilbéard would never be in the first row of attack, but whoever coordinated the orcs’ attacks at that time knew what he was doing…”

He turned toward the boy, held his gaze. It was important now to make the young man understand, to not turn the pride and love held for his father into shame.

“You see, Éomer, that our éored had done great damage to the enemy, especially through Eomund’s boldness. By going against the rules and seeking pursuit even if it did not seem wise, we destroyed many orcs who had not anticipated our appearance, and they feared us like no other éored in the entire Mark. We were unpredictable, and I firmly believe that this very unpredictability saved many more lives than it claimed, because hardly any orc dared to enter the territory of Eomund of Aldburg while he was in charge.” Again he paused, but Éomer’s gaze urged him to continue.

“Your father posed such a great threat to the orcs that they finally decided to focus on him, no matter what it took… and they laid their trap masterfully. I am still convinced it was no orc who conceived it, that it must have been a man’s plan, although I could not think of anyone who would have helped them. They used Eomund’s bitterness and his reluctance to accept defeat to lure him into their deadly trap, even if it cost them many lives to spring it.” Shutting out the pain that was still connected to this memory, Elfhelm held eye-contact with the young man before him, aware that his words would be even harder on the boy who had lost his father in the events he recapitulated.

“What was it that they did?” Éomer all but whispered, torn between wanting to jump to his feet and run away to escape Elfhelm’s poisonous words, and staying until he knew the full truth in hopes to find long-delayed closure.

“For weeks, small bands of orcs assaulted our settlements and herds, killing and maiming in the worst way only to disappear from sight before they could be brought to justice. They never stayed in a place long enough to be found, and their attacks were like needle pricks, designed to drive Eomund into a state of rage where he would forget all about caution if he were ever given a chance to pay the enemy back in blood… and when they finally gave him that chance, they saw to it that it would be on their condition. The small band that had assaulted the village lured us into rough terrain, allowing us to kill them one by one and pursue the survivors… all the way to where the rest of them lay in wait. And when I say “the rest of them”, Éomer, I mean it was a small army. Our éored stood no chance, and it was a miracle that not all of us were killed… It was also the first time ever that orcs had used such cunning strategy. Usually, they fight barely different than wild beasts, so we were not prepared for their trap.”

“You said that Arnhelm tried to warn my father,” Éomer said weakly, and Elfhelm nodded.

“Aye, and I did, too, although we could not put our unease into words. We could give Eomund no valid reason why we should abandon pursuit, and so we followed them further and further into the mountains and only sent back a rider for reinforcements. Arnhelm’s bitterness is, I think, just as much directed against your father as it is against himself for failing to see the signs of the coming assault. He feels he killed his own son as much as he blames Eomund for his death… whom he could not accuse personally, because Eomund was also killed in the assault. For all these years, Arnhelm has never been free of this pain, and now that he sees you, who is almost the exact likeness of Eomund in his early years, he can no longer contain it although he knows he is wrong to unleash it against you.”

For the longest time, all Éomer could do was stare at his Commander, speechless, as everything about the scout’s behaviour became clear in his head. He slowly shook his head, not knowing what to say, and ran a hand through his hair in a helpless little gesture.

“Oh… Béma… I did not know…”

“And how could you have? Still, one cannot punish the son for his father’s mistakes; Arnhelm knows so himself, and I am certain that he loathes himself for his behaviour… which might be part of the problem. He is even harder on you because he feels ashamed.”

Looking back to where most of their comrades were still peacefully asleep, Éomer inhaled deeply. Gods, what was he to do now?

“I wish Théodred had told me earlier. Or Uncle. It was wrong to spare me.”

“They thought you were too young to hear and understand the full truth back then. And I shared their opinion,” Elfhelm admitted quietly. “You went through much when your parents died, and when you had to fight to find your place in Edoras. These were hard battles for a young man, and your Cousin and Uncle did not want to burden you even further with this knowledge. I still believe it was the right decision…” He narrowed his eyes as he saw something in his recruit’s gaze he did not like.

“Do not condemn your father now, Éomer. I know he was the man you wanted to be when you were grown, and believe me, it is still a worthy goal. There is no man on these green plains who is beyond failure, although we would rather not admit it. Éomund was not, and neither am I, nor you, or Arnhelm. We do our best every day, but sometimes, no matter how much we weigh a decision, our choice will be wrong. And the hard truth is that the consequences of failure get harder with rank. A simple rider’s mistake will usually only cost him his own life; whereas a marshal’s error of judgement might result in many deaths. It is the responsibility we must bear, Éomer. Some people might say that we commanders lead a life of privilege, but it comes at a high price. Your father erred, and men died. It happens every day in this war. It is tragic, but it cannot be avoided.”

Éomer turned away, his emotions in an uproar. He knew that he still loved his father, still felt pride over being his son, but how was that pride justified when Eomund of Aldburg’s mistake had put many riders in their graves? He also felt thankful toward Elfhelm for finally unveiling the truth about his father’s last ride, and at the same time, he wanted to shout and to beat him for holding it back and leaving him unprepared for Arnhelm’s wrath. He buried his face in his hands, wishing for a deep black hole to open before his feet and swallow him so he could disappear from this complicated, painful world.

“And what now?” he finally muttered, dispirited. “What am I to do now? Avoid Arnhelm like he said? Or wear a sack over my head each time I cross his path so that he won’t have to look at my face?” He looked at Elfhelm in search for advice, utterly overwhelmed and confused by everything he had just learned.

“I suppose the decision is yours, Éomer,” the older man said, and a faint but encouraging smile crept upon his lips. “I must admit that I did not foresee this problem; I had thought that Arnhelm would be reasonable enough to understand that his quarrel was with your father, not with you. Yet obviously, emotion is stronger than common sense in this case, and I am not sure myself what to do with the two of you. While I understand Arnhelm to a certain point, and do not want to force him to take you as his pupil, there is only so much I am willing to tolerate from him. You were appointed to this éored so that you could learn from the best, and I also promised Théoden that you would get the best education I could possibly offer you. Arnhelm is undoubtedly the best scout at least in the Eastfold. He is also slowly approaching the end of his active duty, and his injury might even shorten the time he has left with our éored. I will not lie, Éomer: I want you to ride with him, and to learn what he has to teach… but it will not be easy to overcome his hostility. It will take courage. Are you ready to fight for this knowledge?”

Éomer stared at him. Scared, but not shrinking from his captain’s piercing gaze. It was a challenge Elfhelm offered him; his first serious challenge since he had joined the éored.

‘You will not get your titles handed to you on a plate just because of your lineage,’ his father had told him every time they had sparred together, every time when he had been close to giving up because he would never best a grown warrior in battle. ‘On the contrary, you will have to fight for them even harder than anyone else would have to. The blood of Eorl flows in your veins, and it wakes high expectations in the people’s hearts. You are expected to become a leader of the Rohírrim; a warrior the enemy will run from when they merely hear your name. It will be a stony path to leadership for you, but I will prepare you for it as best I can. You’ve got it in you, Éomer, if you are not afraid to claim it.’

With a deep breath, Éomer woke from his reverie and squared his shoulders, and he saw the approval in Elfhelm’s eyes when he said with conviction: “Whatever it takes to become a warrior, I will do it.”