Chapter 6. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 2

“Why should I rush? It is women who grow anxious with age, not men. And besides, I am not so old—am I? I am only thirty-seven. Our grandfather, after all, was thirty-eight when he wed.”

“And you know how rare that was,” Éomer scoffed. “Besides, does one not need to meet someone first? Come now—tell me: have you even met anyone at all?”

Usually, when pressed like this, Théodred would parry with a stream of jests and effortless deflections. But this time—whether from drink, or the lack of it—the words would not come.

Or perhaps he simply no longer had the heart for such careless sport.

The King’s illness began early last year. One night, without warning, Théoden fell into fever and did not rise with the dawn. The old saying proved true: “Illness strikes like a falling mountain.” Théoden, son of Thengel, was sixty-six—not in his prime, yet by the reckoning of the Rohirrim, not so very old; many among them lived well into their eighties. Strange, then, that the sickness came with such sudden force. But healing took precedence.

Gríma the leech, a healer of no small repute, happened to be in Edoras. Whatever Théodred or Éomer thought of him, neither could deny his skill. Théodred summoned him to the Golden Hall without delay. To his credit, Gríma laboured without rest for a full day and night—and at last, the King opened his eyes.

“Our lord King has borne much toil and care in these past years,” Gríma said to Théodred outside the chamber, with Éomer and Éowyn nearby—his face pale as linen, yet his manner composed, flawlessly courteous, and offering no fault even to the most discerning eye. “Though he has weathered this trial, he will require closer care for a time. With your leave, my lord, I would dedicate my service to the King and remain near, that his needs might be swiftly met.”

He had reason—and Théodred had no grounds to refuse. Together with Éomer, he stood at the King’s bedside and watched Éowyn gently wipe the sweat from her uncle’s brow. Only then did he realize how deeply the worry had settled in him—how heavy the burden on his shoulders had truly grown.

Since then, the King had never truly recovered. His strength waxed and waned without pattern, and so Gríma remained ever at his side, gradually taking it upon himself to speak on the King’s behalf. At first, the court murmured at this; but over time, as the matters proved trifling, they grew accustomed. Théodred took up the duties of heir more fully, holding court in Edoras, while the defense of the realm fell to Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Éomer. Thus it was that, when a summons to council came from Gondor the following year, Théodred found it no easy thing to spare himself for the journey.

Ever since the days of Eorl the Young—when he and Cirion, Steward of Gondor, swore an oath of perpetual friendship and alliance—the Rohirrim had dwelt in the Mark, bound to Gondor as steadfast allies. Many times since, the horns of the Eorlingas had sounded in the southern lands, and the knights of Gondor had ridden north to their aid. Far away in South Ithilien, the barrows of King Folcwine’s twin sons—Folcred and Fastred—still stood tall upon the banks of the river Poros.

The royal line of Gondor had long since failed, and for over a thousand years the realm had been ruled by the Stewards. The current Steward, Denethor son of Ecthelion, was known for his pride, keen insight, and tireless vigilance. Théodred was no stranger to the growing troubles of the world—threats pressed upon both Rohan and Gondor from many quarters. That Denethor should seek to gather the lords of his allies and vassals in such a time was, therefore, no surprise. At first, Théodred had not hoped to attend—until, by some rare grace, his father rallied enough to sit once more in council and resume a portion of his duties. Only then could Théodred spare the time to journey east to the White City, taking Éomer with him.

The White City—called Mundburg by the Rohirrim, and Minas Tirith , the Tower of Guard, by the men of Gondor—was built into the eastern face of the White Mountains, beneath the hill of Mindolluin. It rose tier upon tier, a city of seven levels, hewn from stone and held to be the mightiest stronghold of the Free Peoples. Théodred had seen it before, yet its majesty struck him anew. As for Éomer, beholding it for the first time left him openly awed.

Council, after all, was never merely a matter of policy—it was the study of those with whom one might, in time, make either war or peace. Later, Éomer would remark that Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, was “more like to the swift sons of Eorl than to the grave Men of Gondor.” [1] And Théodred had agreed heartily. That day, as he stepped from a meeting with the Steward, he saw his young cousin in the courtyard, deep in talk with Boromir. Éomer, clear-voiced and unyielding, was saying: “Rohan will hold to the Oath of Eorl—but only because we stand beside friends, not beneath masters. We serve no foreign lord, good or evil.” [2]

The words were not untrue—but to speak them to the heir of Denethor? That was bold indeed.

The thought crossed Théodred’s mind, and in that moment, he missed Boromir’s reply—only to hear Éomer speak again, firm and unflinching: “We speak plainly. The Men of the Mark do not lie, and therefore they are not easily deceived.” [3]

At that, Théodred made a mental note to call on the King’s scholar who had once tutored Éomer and Éowyn in diplomacy—and to inquire precisely what manner of reasoning had been imparted. But to his relief, Boromir only laughed, clapped Éomer on the shoulder, and said, “That is the way of it! I have no patience for those who speak in riddles and vanish when deeds are called for.”

Seeing that the future Steward of Gondor remained as forthright and large-hearted as ever, Théodred relaxed, the impulse to intervene slipping quietly away. As he lingered beneath the Tower, his gaze wandered—and there, across the courtyard where the withered White Tree stood in solemn silence, he beheld a maiden. She appeared no more than twenty, her dark hair a vivid contrast against the pale stone of wall and floor. At first, he thought little of it—until she turned and met his eyes. Then he was held fast by the sight.

So that was it, he thought later. It had never been a matter of readiness—only that none had ever been the right one.

He had seen many golden-haired maidens—warm and bold, beloved of the Riddermark. It was not that they lacked beauty; they were fair indeed. But this one was different. There was in her a quiet, unearthly grace that stirred a word in his mind: Elf. He had seen Elves but once, long ago in his youth, and the memory had never faded—though he had never spoken of it. The beauty and bearing they possessed… no Mortal could ever truly hope to match.

He came back to himself to find Éomer still pestering him, and said at last, with a faint smile, “And what if I told you I had met someone?”

“What?!” Éomer nearly dropped his cup, his eyes wider than a bull’s. “You are not jesting? Who is she? Do I know her?”

“You have seen her,” Théodred said, brushing the question aside with a wave of his hand. Of course he had made inquiries—her lineage was in no way unworthy. But he was much her elder, and though his grandfather Thengel had wed Morwen of Lossarnach despite a span of seventeen years between them, that was far from customary. And now, with the King’s health failing and the realm darkening under shadow, there was little room left for such thoughts.

When they returned from Mundburg, Théoden had waned once more—and Éowyn had changed. In their absence, she had borne the weight of both hall and household, tended the King with tireless devotion, and held Edoras steady through uncertain days. All spoke of her grace and wisdom, yet she grew quieter with each passing day. She had never been reckless, and her will had ever been strong—but once, she had been more open. Théodred remembered it well: how she would ride out to greet him, eager and radiant, her face alight with joy at his return from long duty in Helm’s Deep. In that moment, the burdens of the West-mark had seemed to weigh less.

When he learned from Éomer of her attempt to follow in Elfhild’s steps, he had been troubled at first. But he trusted her judgment—and chose to wait. It was only later, on a quiet night, as they sat together on the terrace of Meduseld beneath the stars, after a warm meal and a generous measure of ale, that he asked.

She had not needed much urging. “I learned the sword from you,” she said. “You know I am no less than Elfhild. But that time—I did not think it through. It will not happen again.” Then she paused. “You are dear to me as a brother, Théodred—and so you are to Éomer. He holds you in high esteem, and he will listen to you. Will you tell him not to fret so much? I am not made of glass. The daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn does not break easily.”

But he had never spoken of that conversation to Éomer—for in truth, he knew his cousin too well. That fierce protectiveness—they shared it, and it was not easily set aside, even when they knew it to be against reason. He trusted Éowyn’s strength. And yet, with so much now laid upon her shoulders, he feared for her all the same.

And then there was Gríma. Whether it stemmed from suspicion or some deeper instinct, Théodred could not say. Yet he had begun to watch the man more closely—with a mounting unease he could neither name nor cast off.

“If you truly have met someone,” said Éomer beside him, unaware of what passed through his mind, “then you must not delay! The King has long wished to see you wed—and if you did, who knows? His spirits might lift, and he might yet recover.”

At that unexpected reasoning, Théodred choked slightly on his drink once more. “Enough. The road is long, and the land still uncertain. Let the war be over first.”

Neither of them guessed, then, how long that war would endure.

---

Notes:

[1][2][3] Words highlighted are quoted from the LotR.