Chapter 8. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 4

The Man called himself Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He bore the manner of the Men of Gondor—yet in stature, strength, and presence, he surpassed them all. “Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!” [1]

And so Éomer had to choose.

The Sword of Elendil—broken long before the Eorlingas came to the Riddermark—had been reforged. Halflings, once no more than hearthside tales to amuse children, were real. Elf, Man, and Dwarf—three wholly disparate peoples—journeyed together in pursuit of two halflings taken by Uruks, and in less than four days they had covered forty-five leagues. A Dwarf had stood in steadfast defense of an Elven lady. To find oneself in such a world, where dream and legend had become waking truth—what was a man to do?

To this, the Man had replied: “Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” [2]

And so Éomer made the choice his heart could bear.

On the road to Edoras, he told himself he must share the tale with Théodred—all of it. And if ever the chance arose to know those strange companions better, so much the better. But no sooner had he returned than he sensed something was amiss: the air in the city hung heavy, stifling, and the awe and wonder of his encounter vanished—shut away, as if by a closing door.

He had scarcely passed the reins of Firefoot to Éothain when Háma emerged through the gathering crowd, two soldiers close behind, and came straight to him.

“What are you doing here?” Éomer asked, taken aback. The Captain of the King’s Guard had no reason to come down for so routine a return.

“Wormtongue gives orders: you are to be brought before the King the moment you return, without delay,” Háma said—but Éomer heard the name Wormtongue, and that said enough. He suppressed the urge to spit; it would change nothing. Since the day Théodred had first named Gríma thus, the name had spread swiftly. Those who mistrusted the man used it freely in private—and a few, even to his face.

When Éomer first discovered Gríma’s blatant and presumptuous desire for Éowyn, he had been ready to act at once—but Gríma had moved faster. By what means he swayed the King, no one could say. The old man had not only placed guards about him, but had also warned Éomer against any rash deed beneath the roof of the Golden Hall. Left with no recourse, Éomer could only restrain his fury. Each time he rode out from Edoras, he reminded Éowyn—again and again—to be careful. She never voiced complaint. She only showed him the dagger she kept hidden at her side—and that, more than words, pained him all the more.

He walked with Háma in silence for a time toward the Hall. Then, as they reached the base of the steps, Háma spoke—suddenly and low: “Lord Éomer… I am sorry for the loss.”

“Loss?” Éomer frowned, mounting the first step. “No wonder the city feels strange. Who is it?”

“You have not heard?” Háma paused, then said quietly, “It is the King’s son.”

The words struck like a thunderclap. Éomer stumbled and nearly fell. “Who? Say that again!”

“Word reached Edoras four days ago,” Háma answered swiftly, as if fearing his strength might fail if he delayed. “The Prince fell in battle at the Fords, on the twenty-fifth. Grimbold and the others had no choice but to bury him there—per his own wish.”

“Lies!” Éomer regained his footing and seized Háma by the chest. “It cannot be!”

“It is true. Grimbold himself planted the Prince’s banner over the mound and said, ‘This will be defence enough.’ ” [3] Háma met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “For before he died, he said, ‘Let me lie here—to keep the Fords till Éomer comes.’ ” [4]

Éomer’s knees nearly gave, and his grip slackened. His ears rang. The solid earth beneath him felt as though it had split—no longer able to bear his weight. Théodred is dead. Théodred is dead. The twenty-fifth—that was five… no, six days ago. Six days. While his cousin fought and fell at the Fords, still hoping Éomer would come—where had he been?

Six whole days—and he had not known.

He did not remember how he reached the top of the stairs. Háma led him through the doors of Meduseld and remained just within. Alone, Éomer walked the length of the Golden Hall and came before the man who had ever been as a father to him—now white-haired, weary, seated upon the throne, crowned in gold. And in that familiar face, he saw not even the faintest trace of sorrow.

He heard himself speak in a flat voice, recounting his journey. All that had once stirred awe in him now rang hollow. One thought circled endlessly in his mind: Théodred is dead. The shock had passed. What remained was a numb, unyielding disbelief. Do you not know? he thought. Théodred is dead. 

The answer came—but from another voice.

“Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark—do you know your fault?” Gríma stepped forward from beside the throne, his voice cold and lofty.

“What fault?” Éomer asked, the words falling from him by rote.

“First, you disobeyed the King’s command and abandoned the defence of Edoras. Second, you gave aid—and horses—to strangers of uncertain purpose. And third—you failed to answer a call for aid from the Prince. A grievous failure indeed.”

Éomer looked up sharply. Gríma descended the steps with measured tread, his voice calm, each word laced with venom.

“Elfhelm received word that the Prince had called for aid. He set out at once—and sent a rider to Edoras, bidding you come swiftly. And yet, you made no move to ride to the Fords. Instead, you went north—on feeble excuses. Why? Was it to consort with outsiders? Were you scheming for the throne?”

Éomer stared at that pale face, at the lips still moving, uncomprehending. What is he talking about? 

Then Gríma leaned in, his voice low—meant for Éomer alone: “You do not understand? Naturally. Because I withheld Elfhelm’s message.”

So—you withheld Théodred’s call for help? Then it was you who caused him to die? 

The moment the truth struck him, Éomer felt his blood surge—his vision blurred. With a shout, he drew his sword. Only one thought burned in his mind: Kill him. Why did I not strike him down the moment I saw how he looked at Éowyn? Why? 

“Guards! Guards!”

Gríma sprang back like a serpent, fleeing up the steps to the dais with uncanny speed. Háma rushed forward with his men, and the Golden Hall erupted into chaos. The guards tried to hold Éomer back, but he thrashed and lunged like a cornered beast. The struggle roused the dozing King; Théoden stirred and groaned. From behind the throne, Gríma raised a pale hand and shrieked, “What are you waiting for? Will you rebel with him?”

In desperation, Háma shouted, “Lord Éomer—are you mad? Do not force our hand!”

“I am mad!” Éomer roared. “But I will kill him today!”

“You heard him! Seize him!” Gríma shrieked. “If the King is harmed, who will answer for it?”

At last, the guards moved with force. Éomer, for all his rage, would not strike his own. They overwhelmed him. A blow to the head drove him to his knees. His sword was wrenched away, his armour stripped, his weapons seized. Blood streamed down his face. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes—as Gríma’s gloating voice rang out across the hall:

“Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, acted without leave, and now turns to violence. His intentions are plain. He shall be—”

“Éomer!”

It was Éowyn’s voice—never before had he heard such panic from her. She came running, her footsteps swift and desperate.

At the sight of her, Gríma faltered. “—shall be imprisoned pending judgment,” he finished hastily. “And from this moment, no one shall bear arms in the Golden Hall.”

Éomer, raising his head with effort but in vain, saw her halt—her eyes flickering from him to the murmuring King. She bit her lip, then darted to the dais. Gríma had straightened and now gently clasped the King’s aged hand, his gaze turned to her, full of feigned pity.

No—do not give him heed! Éomer wanted to cry. He schemed to murder Théodred. He schemed to have our brother slain. 

But no sound came. Darkness closed in. The last thing he remembered was the clang of the guard-house door.

It was March the first, in the year 3019 of the Third Age—the day before Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli reached Edoras.

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Notes:

[1][2] Quoted from LotR.

[3][4] Quoted from UT.

Per UT: “But Gríma used the curtness of this advice to further his policy of delay.” This I read as evidence that Gríma had already been employing delay—deliberately aiding Saruman’s design to see Théodred slain at all costs.

Per LotR: “Éomer grasped his sword. ‘That I knew already,’ he muttered. ‘For that reason [Gríma's desire of Éowyn] I would have slain him before, forgetting the law of the hall. But there are other reasons.’” And this, I believe, is one of the other reasons.