Epilogue. Ever in Mind

The Great War that changed the fate of the world and brought the Third Age to its end is told in full elsewhere. Let it be said here only this: from forest to fen, from mountain to sea, minstrels in many tongues have sung the tale of King Théoden, son of Thengel, who rose in the last year of his life. He led the Rohirrim first against the malice of Isengard and cast down Saruman; then, fulfilling the Oath of Eorl, he rode south to war.

On that day, when darkness veiled the Tower of Guard and the world stood poised upon the brink of endless night, horns rang—sudden as thunder—from the end of the mountain range. Beneath banners bearing the white horse upon green, six thousand Riders broke through fire and ruin and thundered across the fields of the Pelennor, with songs and war-cries fair and terrible—arriving with the sunrise, and with hope.

And from that hour, the tale unfolded as Gandalf had foretold: help came from the hands of the weak when the Wise faltered. [1] At last, Frodo the Halfling, alone with his faithful servant, endured peril beyond all reckoning, and came to the very fires where the One Ring was forged—and there they cast it down. The Dark Lord perished. The Shadow was broken. Peace returned to the world. Arnor and Gondor, long sundered, were made one again, and the long-awaited King was crowned.

More than a year had passed since the War of the Ring, and now the Fortress of the Stars of Osgiliath, spanning the great river Anduin, stood rebuilt and proud, welcoming guests from near and far. Ships from both the North and the South came and went upon its waters, and the air was rich with the hum of life and trade.

Éomer had crossed the bridge from the east alone, strolling westward. For all its strength, the Gondorian city felt a little stifling to one bred beneath open skies and raised upon the wind-swept plains. He sought the sky—a breath of air. Éowyn had wished to accompany him, but Faramir had gently dissuaded her; she had but lately shared the glad tidings that she was to become a mother, and thus had become the Prince of Ithilien’s charge of particular care.

As for Éothain, Éomer had expressly forbidden his lieutenant to follow. Newly wed to his southern bride, Éothain had grown even more lively—or talkative, depending on whom one asked—though his prattle now centered on the “lifelong happiness” of his liege-lord, to Éomer’s increasing dismay and annoyance. His curiosity, once confined to the Riddermark, had now extended to encompass all of Gondor.

Éomer was half-amused by the thought when he saw her.

She appeared little more than twenty, with dark hair and eyes of grey—features not uncommon in the South. Yet there was something about her, something that set her apart, as if she gleamed with an Elven light—not unlike the Queen Evenstar herself. And stranger still, he felt certain he had seen her before.

“Well met.” Sensing his gaze, the maiden turned with effortless grace and offered a bow. “I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil.”

“…Well met, Lady Lothíriel,” Éomer replied, not quite accustomed to being outpaced in introductions. “I am—”

But she smiled before he could finish. “I know you. You are Éomer, son of Éomund—King of the Mark.”

They walked the rest of the way together, pausing at the western end of the bridge to gaze out over the water. From there, even the busy Harlond beneath the White City could be seen.

“I saw you once in Minas Tirith,” she said, lifting her face in thought. “Five or six years ago, perhaps? You were in someone’s company. He seemed older—not quite so tall, but proud, and fair of bearing. While you and Lord Boromir spoke, he watched me. When at last he came near, I thought he might speak—but he only nodded, and walked on.”

Minas Tirith—five or six years ago?

Like lightning cleaving the dark, those long-buried words rose from the depths of memory and echoed in his ears:

—And what if I told you I had met someone? 

—You have seen her. 

—The road is long, and the land still uncertain. Let the war be over first. 

So that was it.

So that was what those words had meant.

She was the maiden of whom they had spoken.

Éomer had never deemed himself sentimental, yet he would not forget the day he left Aldburg and first came to the Golden Hall. Before the doors of Meduseld, he had seen Éowyn weeping in the King’s embrace, while he stood silent—sorrowful and unsure. Men do not weep, they were told, but only sweat or bleed —even in grief. Yet it was hard. And just as his resolve began to falter, the young cousin behind the King stepped forward, stooped slightly, and whispered: “Come with me.”

He did—and in the blink of an eye, seventeen years had passed.

“You shall be my squire. And as for the days to come… we shall speak of them when they come.”

“You are as a brother to me; whatever I have, it is yours also.”

“If I cannot trust you—then what remains worth living for?”

And at last: “Let me lie here—to hold the Fords till Éomer comes.”

Seventeen years… in which a boy, bereft of both father and mother, came into his prime—squire to the Prince, Knight of the King’s Guard, Third Marshal of the Mark—ever following the elder cousin held dear as a brother, who remained to the end the Prince and Second Marshal, and never once spoke the name of the maiden who had once touched his heart.

And Éomer had once vowed: You shall lead, and I will follow. 

And yet—how cruel was Fate, that he should wear the crown in the end.

“Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?” So ran the old song. In youth, he had heard only its might—now he heard its mourning. The helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing—they had passed like rain on the mountain, like wind in the meadow. [2]

To fall in war was no shame for a son of the Mark. From Eorl to Théoden, death in battle had ever crowned their path. And Éomer had said it himself: “Mighty was the fallen; meet was his ending. …War now calls us!” [3]

But now, the war was over, and the dust had settled. The ache left by the dead could no longer be denied. The voice, the laughter—long buried beneath the grass of the Fords of Isen. That short, bright life had vanished into a patch of dark earth, marked only by the white simbelmynë that bloomed there, year after year.

And those who remained—they were left to taste the long-delayed sorrow, which now came swift, and could not be turned aside.

“Was I mistaken?” asked the Lady of Dol Amroth softly, watching the young King remain silent for so long.

“No,” Éomer said, lifting his gaze toward the western shore. There, at the far edge of the Pelennor, beneath the shadow of Mindolluin, the City gleamed in white and gold. The White Tower of Ecthelion rose like a needle of pearl and diamond. And beyond… beyond the mountains—he could almost see the green plains of Rohan once more.

When the breeze had dried the wetness at the corners of his eyes, he exhaled—and at last, he said:

“He was Théodred, son of Théoden… my elder brother.”