A/N: Apologies for the extended period of no posting.  Life intervenes and time disappears.  Finally, Life has settled a little and I have carved out some time to do some writing!  Thanks to my hubby as beta and encourager.  ((belated hugs and Holiday good wishes to all!))

Ch. 18 – At this darkening hour…

Belatedly remembering that she was only dressed in her nightgown, dressing robe and slippers Éowyn returned to her suite of rooms to ready herself for seeing her uncle.  On its face the summons appeared ordinary but in her heart she knew this was different.

“Oh my lady, so glad you have returned,” flapped the usually unflappable Waerith, “We have much to do!”

Éowyn looked at her quizzically, still a little dazed from the onslaught of emotions since awakening. “Much to do?” she parroted uncomprehendingly.

“For your audience.”

“Audience?” she parroted again, “Éomer and I are called to my Uncle’s bedchamber.  That is all.” She demurred, vainly trying to avoid what needed to be accepted.

Waerith looked at her with doleful eyes and shook her head slowly and said firmly but softly, “No my lady.  Grima’s manservant appeared not moments before you arrived and said to see you properly attired as befitting an Audience Day.”

Éowyn stared at her lady’s maid, “An Audience Day…in the Great Hall.”  She paused, “but Uncle hasn’t left his rooms in weeks."  Having voiced this final denial she allowed in the thoughts she had been refusing earlier as a pit of strong dread had formed in her stomach that even a swallow of the still warm mead Waerith had just pressed into her hand could not dissolve. 

***

Éomer strode toward the Great Hall apprehension flaring forcefully within his heart.  He clutched the bag containing the helm of a slain orc with the fervent yet fleeting hope that his uncle would listen.  He had hoped to catch his uncle alone in his bedchamber and away from Grima’s words.  To let him hear the truth of the ambush without the wheedling lies that Grima would instantly pour into his ear upon presentation of visual fact take hold once again.  But it was not to be.  The King was not in his bedchamber.  Éomer was informed by the king’s manservant that Théoden King was in the Great Hall. 

As he turned the last corner leading to the side entrance reserved for family and close attendants, he saw his sister dressed all in white as befitted her maiden status, but she was in her finest gown of white wool and trimmed with pearls that she only wore on Audience Day, which gave him slight pause as to wonder why such finery was necessary.  He opened his mouth to inquire but stopped as he saw her draw a deep breath and impatiently wipe away an offending tear.  Éomer’s heart broke to see his sister in such clear distress.  His father’s last words echoed through his mind, “Take care of your sister…”  His words had guided Éomer’s world and yet she stood in obvious distress trying not to cry.  Éomer knew in his mind that he could not protect Éowyn from all the pain of this world but in his heart the twelve-year-old boy who had made such a vow still felt every tear.  He strode forth to comfort her and at that moment she looked up and saw his unguarded pitying look. At once she threw her shoulders back and held her head high and looked him in the eye. Éomer forestalled his intended actions and merely brushed her temple with a brotherly kiss and whispered, “Let us sally forth my warrior-hearted one.” His heart filled with admiration for her strength that always bolstered his own.

They entered side by side.  The Great Hall was filled with retainers. Some Éowyn recognized, others she did not which was unusual in and of itself.  Meduseld was a close-knit community within Edoras itself. The Riders assigned here for guard protection were on a rotation basis, but that rotational span was long in duration, allowing time for the residents to come to know them by name and as far as she knew it was not time for the rotational change.  These thoughts, however fled her mind as the sight of her uncle slumped on his throne dressed in less than crisp clothing nearly undid Éowyn’s heart.  How could Eothred, the King’s Steward allow him out of his bedchamber so attired.  She would have words with him later. She looked at her uncle, he had always been a larger-than-life man to her young eyes, ready with an action or a decision the second he had been made aware of the need.  She approached from the side and immediately knelt at his throne her head bent in respect as she spoke, “Uncle, you have summoned us?  What is your need?”  She felt movement at her side and heard the muted thunk of metal on wood.  Éomer had just knelt beside her.  She heard a rasp and looked up into vacant and rheumy blue eyes as she steeled her soul to accept what she was seeing.

“Sent for you?”  A slight pause, “Yes I did…” Théoden’s voice trailed off. Éowyn felt a stirring of impatience from her side.

“My King…” Éomer started respectfully with a hint of hesitancy, “Give me leave to speak. I pray your pardon.”  Éowyn heard a ruffle of thick robes from behind.  Those sounds presaged only one foul, yet ever-present soul.

"My Liege…” came Grima’s wheedling voice.

Without waiting on leave that might never come given the unwelcome entrance the King’s counsel Éomer’s voice rose, cutting Grima off, “My liege, your son was ambushed by Orcs!  Orcs wearing the White Hand of Saruman.” he said without preamble knowing he had only a few words before Grima started pouring unctuous lies into the King’s ear.  He quickly grabbed the burlap sack placed at his side and pulled out an Orc helm emblazoned with Saruman’s clear mark of white upon the crude helmet.  Éowyn stared at the helmet for a beat or two and then looked up to Théoden’s face. Through the rheumy haze she thought she saw a spark of connection.  Éomer began to speak again, more forcefully.  “Orcs are roaming across our borders at will, pillaging as they go! They must be stopped!”

Théoden looked about to speak but Grima was immediately at the King’s armrest, hand upon his king’s forearm applying pressure, Éowyn noted. The king’s words died upon his lips as he turned his head to stare once again vacantly into Grima’s eyes.  “Why do you pour these troubles unto an already troubled mind.”** Grima spoke. Turning his gaze to Éomer, “Can you not see you trouble him with your malcontent, this warmongering!!”**

“Warmongering?” Éomer asked incredulously.  His temper was rising to boiling point. “How long has it been since Saruman purchased you, Grima?” The words were spat with contempt and accusation.

Éowyn noticed that the phrase fell unto the dais to utter silence, the normal murmur of a crowded room ceasing.  Forbidden thought never spoken aloud and in the Great Hall until that moment commanded the attention of all present. 

Grima’s eyes glittered menacingly, all pretense dropped.  His utter contempt of Éomer was clear for all to see.  He stood from the King’s right hand, the stoop always present disappearing as he threw his shoulders back. “You see much Éomer… too much.” Grima began ominously. “You ask why you were summoned here this morning?” The voice was quiet yet clear.  He paused and withdrew a scroll from a sleeve, unrolled it and began proclaiming, “Éomer, Son of Eomund, Third Marshall of the Riddermark, you are arrested forthwith, to await trial for treason against Théoden King. In direct opposition to the King’s command, you deserted your post and left Edoras unprotected. By order of Théoden King, Son of Thengel, your freedom is forfeit.” He stopped reading. “Guards!”

Éowyn saw riders that she did not recognize come forth to seize her brother, who started to struggle against their restraint.  She remained on her knees frozen, mute unshed tears blurring her vision as she was witnessing the unimaginable.

“Oh, please do resist, my Lord Éomer, please do. It will make this even easier.” Grima boasted, triumph in his voice.

Éomer stopped struggling, the hate and contempt for Grima boring through his eyes as he stared at the loathsome counsel.  “You have no right! Grima!”

“Oh but my Lord Éomer.  It is not my rights I exercise but the King’s!” Grima crowed, false submission and victory comingling in his tone as he pronounced his words with glee.  He unfurled the scroll to show the King’s decrepit scrawl of his formerly bold signature and the seal of the rampant horse in green wax.  “Take him away!”

Éowyn stared at the seal and somehow the reality of it released her from her frozen restraint. Still kneeling she turned back to her uncle and grabbed his gnarled hand and pleaded with him to show some emotion, some acknowledgment of the injustice taking place, but he just stared blankly at her, almost as if he did not even know who she was.  This broke the carefully constructed shielding around her heart. “Uncle! Uncle!” she cried, past caring who saw her distress any longer. “Please, Uncle!” she sobbed. “Please don’t leave me alone!  Don’t leave me as well!” She pressed her cheek upon his gnarled hand, her heart breaking as her innermost fears laid out openly for all to see.

“Oh, but you are alone!”** A voice behind her sounded.  She stiffened as she felt a hand stroke her hair and then move it to the side to caress her shoulder.  A thick revulsion swept through her as she spun around to find Grima sitting on the step beside her trying to look sympathetic but there was no hiding both the desire and the loathsome sense of victory dancing in dark eyes. 

“Leave me alone, snake!”

“But who else is there?  Cousin at death’s doorstep, brother arrested for treason and desertion.” Grima moved forward to claim as he saw it the prize of her lips.  Strength borne of both desperation and training gave Éowyn the ability to shove him away as she ran outside the hall.  There she stood as the February wind whipped through her hair and blew the folds of her white skirts around her legs, cleansing her mind, bracing her body, driving away the emotional stench of Grima and the horrible reality of his presence.  She heard a ripping sound and looked up, a pennon had ripped from its post and was flying away on the wind. She looked in the flag’s direction beyond the gates of Edoras and saw horses, three horses approaching the gates.

 ** Quotes from either book or film.