Chapter 9: An Unexpected Encounter 

THE RIVER’S EDGE

The Mering’s voice filled Éomer’s conscious whole; the river’s eternal song the background to the young warrior’s restless dreams. Again and again the son of Eomund raced through the nightly forest on his flight to the water, the orcs so close behind him that he felt their putrid, hot breath in his neck. Time and again, he tumbled down the ravine and found himself staring paralyzed into malicious, luminous eyes and saw the dagger’s deadly gleam in the orc’s hand before the river carried him to safety.

Then, for a while, the young man’s sleep deepened, exhaustion leading him to where no whatsoever dream could disturb the replenishment his strength; a place of silken, soothing blackness. Like a rock he slept for a few more hours, dead to the outside world, until at last, a gentle shake succeeded in waking him. Drowsy and disoriented, Éomer opened his eyes to grey twilight… and a face he recognised. And yet at the same time, his still sleep-numbed mind insisted that what his eyes showed him could not be reality.

“Father?” He barely dared to breathe for fear that even the slightest move would destroy the image of the man he still loved more than anyone in the world; the man he still missed every day although five years had passed since Eomund of Aldburg’s death. And yet while common sensed screamed at him not to believe in the unexpected vision, Éomer’s sight suddenly blurred as long held-back tears spilled over.

A warm, loving smile that was matched by the expression in his eyes lit up Eomund’s face, and when he opened his arms to his son, the voice inside Éomer´s head was silenced by the overwhelming need for comfort, and he all but thrust himself against his father’s chest. Yet the flood of words that wanted to burst from his lips, words he had been meaning to say for so long, was silenced by the enormous lump in his throat, and so instead he settled for pressing his face into Eomund’s garments, while silent, painful sobs shook his battered frame.

 “Father… I need you.  I miss you so much!”

“Sshh, Éomer, no need to worry… I am here now, son.”

At once, memories of the happy days when his father had still been alive welled up in Éomer. How many times had he listened to that deep, warm voice with baited breath as it recounted the courageous deeds of the Mark’s heroes, seeing it all before his inner eye in the darkness of his room and silently sworn that one day, he would be one of those their people sang about before sleep finally claimed him.

How often had it explained the wonders of the world to him, from the smallest and insignificant things of his childhood to the rules of battle and the use of weapons. It had admonished him, encouraged him, lectured him, and it seemed to Éomer that all of a sudden, he recalled every single word his father had ever spoken to him as he shut his eyes to relish in the joy of the unexpected reunion. Strong hands ruffled his hair. He had hated that gesture in his childhood days because it had made him feel like a small lad when he wanted to be a fearsome warrior, but not so now. It was his father. His father!

“It is all right, Éomer,” Eomund soothed, stroking his son’s head. “All will be all right. I have come to help you.”

“I miss you every day, Father!” Éomer somehow managed to croak through his tightened throat, and still he clung to his father’s garments as if he never wanted to let go again. “I cannot do this without you.”

“Yes, you can, Éomer, and you have done very well so far on your own. I am proud of you, Son.” Eomund inhaled, and crushed him against his chest in confirmation. “One day, you will be a warrior our foes fear, but those things take time. You cannot expect to learn everything one needs to become a rider of the Rohírrim in the course of a few weeks... and unfortunately, it seems that my legacy is a hurdle in your path. I knew it would make things harder for you, but I did not foresee just how hard. It is something that I regret greatly, Son. You should not have to pay the price for my mistakes.”

Sniffling, Eomer fought against the flood of his tears in a brave attempt to compose himself. He was sixteen now; it would not do to cry like a small lad anymore… but how to do that when he felt both the overwhelming joy of the unexpected reunion and the full extent of his miserable situation at the same time?

“But perhaps Arnhelm was right,” he somehow brought out between two suppressed sobs. “I endangered the entire éored by running away in the middle of the night. The orcs were ready to ambush them; scattered as they were in the forest, I’m sure many of them would have died. And they could have died because of me! Perhaps it is for the best that I--” Suddenly, Éomer found himself looking into Eomund’s angry face as he was being held at arm’s length. The rest of the sentence died upon his lips. Alas, he knew that expression well.

“I will not hear that, Éomer! You are an apprentice rider, of course you still make mistakes, and the truth is that you will never stop making them; take it from someone who knows. With time, your experience will grow and help you prevent most of them, but we are all human. It is not our fate to be always right, no matter how hard we try. Do you think I wanted to lead my éored into that ambush? Do you think that Arnhelm never erred? When he joined the éored, he, too, had to learn the trade of war like everyone else. And even though it might be hard to believe for you right now, t in the end, what makes you a man are those very mistakes– if you survive them, you will have learned your lesson, so that next time you are faced with the same choice, you will make the right decision.. Just look at yourself, Éomer - you already learned last night’s lesson. Is it not so? Show me that you are indeed my son, and that the blood of Eorl flows through your veins, and say it loud and clear that you will not let Arnhelm dissuade you from the course you have chosen – the course to becoming a protector of the Mark! Say it, Éomer!”

Éomer’s heart beat a frenzied rhythm in his chest as he saw the anger in his father’s eyes, and for a horrible moment, he wondered whether it was directed at himself rather than the scout.

“I will become a protector of the Mark, but not in Arnhelm’s éored. I--”

A strange smile that was only in his eyes lit up Eomund’s expression.

“Yes, you will become a warrior, Éomer, and it will be in this éored. This is not Arnhelm’s command, and while Elfhelm was taken by surprise with the situation yesterday, I assure you that he will handle things differently today, and that your opponent is in for a rough awakening. You may think that everyone was against you last night, but that is not the truth. It is Arnhelm who will find himself alone in the rain once this is over. I know these men. Take my word.”

“I will not crawl back to them.” Stubbornly, Éomer lowered his gaze. “They did nothing to stop him. I would not know how to behave toward them after last night. I’d rather not see them ever again.”

“You’d rather run away from a difficult situation than fight for what’s yours?” Suddenly, his father’s voice sounded stern; his hands fell from Éomer and the young man cringed, knowing the sound of reprimand well enough to understand that Eomund was truly angered now. “I thought I’d raised a son who was not afraid of confrontations. A son who would not shy away from making understood that it was his god-given right to become a rider of the Mark, even if the path leading there was rocky.”

This, Éomer decided, he could not let stand. He lifted his chin.

“I will become a rider, Father, but not in this éored. They made it clear that they do not want me among them. They do not respect me!”

Eomund rose to his feet, and from his superior height, his hard gaze pinned Éomer.

“And what should they respect you for, son? Noble blood alone is no reason for respect. Which great deeds have you already done for the men to respect you? And do you think you would be more respected in another éored if you eluded the problem you’re faced with in this one? Respect needs to be fought for, Éomer. You do not get it handed on a plate because of your lineage. I thought I taught you better. I did not foresee the situation with Arnhelm and I greatly regret it, but I always hoped that my son would grow to be a man who would not give up at the first obstacle on the path to his destiny… or am I mistaken? Éomer?”

Now Éomer’s face turned a deep crimson, his father’s words hurting worse than if he had been slapped. No words would come to him as he stared at the rough rock of his shelter, his head empty while he felt Eomund’s uncompromising gaze upon himself. His lips pressed together, he listened to the river’s voice in hopes that the answer to what he was supposed to do would come to him.

And while he waited for this to happen, his surroundings slowly began to take on a different quality: the sound of the Mering’s fast-flowing waters deepened, and cold crept into his bones. His seat on the rough rocks became uncomfortable as he felt the pebbles press against his flesh through his trousers, and against his face, and the air thickened to the point where it felt almost liquid.

‘Oh no… I’m waking. Father…’

Éomer opened his eyes, at once feeling a nasty crick in his neck from his awkward sleeping position against the rock. His head, too, still throbbed like a bad tooth, and one cautious touch quickly established that the lump was still on his forehead, although it had spread and was no longer as prominent.

With a deep sigh, Éomer turned his head, and with a pang of sadness, found that the space where his father had stood was empty. And still he could hear Eomund’s voice oh so clearly in his mind.

‘Respect needs to be fought for, Éomer.’

 What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to win a fight against a man who had ridden with the Armed Forces for almost four decades? Where was he supposed to turn?

With unseeing eyes, the young warrior stared at the world outside the cave, still shrouded in a veil of mist through which the light of dawn slowly began to creep. In his subconscious, Éomer was aware that his garments were still wet and clung to his body, but strangely enough, he did not feel cold. Temperatures had risen again after the nightly thunderstorm, and now the moisture wafted in ghostly clouds into the air, lending the early morning a decidedly mysterious atmosphere.

With a suppressed groan, Éomer picked himself up and stepped out into the world of swirling white. The mist muffled everything:  the water’s voice, the birds’ jubilant songs in celebration of the new day, and for a moment, Éomer was not certain whether he had not passed from one dream into the next. With sluggish steps, he walked over to the Mering’s edge with the distinct feeling of being the only human left in this world.

The water sparkled faintly through the mist, and with wonder Éomer beheld how far its level had fallen while he had been asleep. The wild beast that had almost drowned him only hours ago had calmed to a broad stream, and while it still flowed fast enough to make a crossing tricky, Éomer assumed that it was not utterly impossible anymore… and if he waited for another couple of hours, the river would cease to be a hindrance altogether if he truly chose to find the way back to his éored.

‘I cannot go back, Father,’ he thought desperately, and knelt down to refresh himself. ‘Why will you not understand?’ With the hollow of his hand, he shovelled water against his hurting brow, and for a moment, closed his eyes and cleared his head of all dark thoughts as he revelled in the sensation. Slowly the feeling of unreality abated, the past night fading to an unpleasant dream as daylight slowly brightened around Éomer. For a while, he was content with just sitting silently in the grass doing nothing and letting things happen to him as he took slow, deliberate breaths.  

As he opened his eyes again, Éomer, to his surprise, found himself staring once again into his father’s face. With a sharp intake of breath, he sat back on his heels, his heart skipping a beat before he curiously craned his neck to regard the familiar features before him. Eomund’s intense gaze seemed to silently ask him about his plans. Those dark eyes they shared, and which were so remarkable because they were such an unusual trait for the people of the Mark, stared at him from the shallow pool to his knees, demanding a decision of him.

‘What will you do, Son?’

And as Éomer returned the stare, unable to supply the expected answer, the face before him suddenly started to shift. At first, the changes were only subtle – the fine lines around the eyes disappeared from the weathered face, the prominent cheekbones which gave away the warrior’s noble blood and bold temperament seemed less pronounced, and Eomund’s close-cropped beard disappeared to reveal a face Éomer finally recognized as his own. With sudden clarity, the young rider understood what it was that had shocked the esteemed Arnhelm into forgetting himself. His appearance left no question whose son he was. And yet, Éomer followed that thought further with growing anger, why should this be a reason to be ashamed? How many people had been saved by his father’s boldness and courage? Would that not be a much greater number than the deaths Eomund had not been able to prevent?

Slowly, Éomer sat back, involuntarily straightening and squaring his shoulders. Above him, the first small spots of blue sky appeared as the rising sun burned its way through the clouds, while to the east, the shadow of Halifirien’s dark peak towered imposingly above the mist-covered plains. A sudden idea began to form in the young rider#s mind, or perhaps it was not so much an idea as a simple hope: What if he made his way to where his ancestor had sworn his oath to Gondor; the oath that had provided their people with their new home? What if he made his way up to that holy place? Would Eorl’s spirit still be there? Would his ancestor welcome and counsel him on the direction of his future path? Who else but the greatest of the Mark’s kings could give him sound advice in this difficult situation?

‘And the guards?’ a doubtful voice made itself be heard from the back of Éomer’s mind. ‘Will they let me pass? What if they don’t recognise me as Eorl’s heir? And how should they know who I am?’ His eyes narrowed to slits as he stared intensely into the mist, Éomer took a deep breath as he felt conviction grow stronger in him. ‘I will concern myself with it then. Perhaps it will not even be necessary. Perhaps they will know it when they see me.’  For a moment longer, his gaze lingered on the distant peak … when out of the corner of his eye, there was the brief glimpse of movement, stopping his heart for a moment of shock, and he looked up.

… and into large dark eyes. The deer stood by the river’s edge, only a few paces away, and while its big ears were turned in Éomer’s direction to listen for signs of danger, the animal amazingly did not seem to feel threatened by his presence at all. An involuntary smile spreading over the young warrior’s face as animal and man regarded each other in wonder, and Éomer could not help being touched by the gentleness in the doe’s expression. He barely breathed, afraid that even the slightest sound would scare his unexpected visitor away and destroy the magic of the moment. Not even if he had still been in possession of his bow would he have brought himself to point an arrow at something so beautiful and pure, and the wondrous smile remained on his lips as the animal lowered its head to drink.

‘Is it a sign?’ he wondered silently as his gaze travelled over the animal’s slender shape. Such grace. The doe was still young, the white spots in its fur had not yet entirely disappeared. Perhaps it had never before encountered an enemy and thus did not know what a cruel, hard world this could be. Perhaps that was the reason for its unusual trust.

And yet Éomer had barely ended the thought when the animal’s head shot up in sudden alarm. It was not looking at him though, but staring intently into the slowly lifting mist on the other river bank, and while Éomer followed its gaze with baited breath, he, too, heard the muffled sound of hoof beats approaching the water.

For a moment, he sat rooted to the ground, too scared to move – ‘Do orcs ride? Could that be orcs?’, then the deer broke away and disappeared in the mist with soundless jumps, loosening Éomer’s paralysis. As quickly as the animal, the young man gained his feet and slid away to hide between the rocks…