Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. That would be cool if I did; it would make me a genius like Tolkien. But, alas, I do not. Yet life must continue. The Road Goes Ever On and On...
Summary: This is an account of the life of Éomer, which follows the version told in the books. It tells of his journey from being orphaned as a boy to becoming one of the greatest kings of Rohan. LONG chapters. Rating subject to slight change as the story progresses. Please R/R!
Chapter 1: Destiny's Call
3002 TA, Edoras
The soft touch of the evening glow cast warmth upon the tension that ruled Edoras, and the burden upon the hearts of its inhabitants was lightened, even if it was only a little. Conversation was scarce; the attempts at talk were only high-strung efforts to relieve apprehension and worry. A slight breeze and the singing of birds seemed no more than a mockery of the city's despair.
The wind ruffled the golden hair of a young boy of eleven winters, who sat upon the steps of his home, which stood near the Golden Hall. The house was humble, with a thatched roof common to the rest of the houses of Edoras, but upon the door was engraved the head of a horse and two crossed swords beneath it. The wooden frame was embroidered with gold. It signified that the house belonged to one of royal lineage, none less than the home of the King's own sister. And now it was his nephew, the young lord Éomer, who sat waiting upon its steps.
Two weeks had passed since Lord Éomund, Éomer's father and husband of Théodwyn, King Théoden's sister, had fool heartedly embarked on a pursuit of a small Orc raiding party against the King's protests. He had left with only a few companions at his side. Finally, the King had sent out six of the Rohirrim warriors to find them and hopefully bring them back alive.
Days later, Éomund's wife had fallen gravely ill, and his two young children kept constant vigilance-- Éomer spent long hours outdoors, waiting, making inquiries, hoping to receive new that his father had returned. His younger sister, Éowyn, was only seven, and usually stayed at her mother's side and awaited her brother's reports.
So it was on that fateful evening, and the sun began to drift down behind the peaks of distant mountains, that one of the guards blew one of the great trumpets, calling all of Edoras to attention.
"The lords have returned!" he called, shading his eyes and gazing out onto the horizon. "The Rohirrim ride to the city!"
At this announcement, King Théoden himself departed from his magnificent hall and led the people out to the plains. Éomer stood quickly and managed to push through the massive crowd until at last he stood at his uncle's side. They stopped about twenty yards out and watched as the stallions drew closer, and the thundering of their hooves against the worn ground could be heard even at a distance. As they neared, Éomer noted only six riders returning and saw no others-- no horses bore two riders. He felt his heart grow heavy. Somehow, he knew that the Rohirrim would bring ill tidings, although he tried to cling to a small amount of hope that discouraged that notion.
At last the horses came to a halt before the people of Edoras. The faces of the riders were lined with weariness from lack of sleep and constant riding, and when their gazes met that of the king, their expressions were grim and bitter. Across the back of one of the larger horses a body bag made of tarnished leather lay. Two of the Rohirrim took it from the exhausted creature's back and gently laid it on the ground. Then they turned and bowed low before the king."Your report, Riders of Rohan?" asked Théoden. "What tidings do you bring with you?"
Lord Birgion, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark and lead rider of the expedition, came forth. "I am sorry, my king. The quest was in vain. We found them many leagues away, slain, the bodies piled and left to decay by the Orcs. We brought the body of Lord Éomund back to see proper burial or cremation. The rest were too great a burden to bear. We gave them a solemn service and buried them in the river, with hopes that the bodies of our kinsmen may be carried to the sea. It was all that we could do."
Théoden nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. "Very well. I thank you for your service. Go now and rest, and we will cremate the body of Lord Éomund. It is I who must now bear this grim news to my beloved sister."
With that, he turned, and the silent crowds parted, bowing slightly as he passed through.
Éomer said nothing. He stood still, his fragile frame trembling slightly as if taken by sudden cold. He stared at the body bag, unable to believe that in it was his father. He felt strangely devoid of emotion and did not feel a hand on his shoulder nor hear the many consolations offered to him. When Lord Birgion attempted to speak to him, he tore away and ran back through Edoras. The cobbled stone pathways hurt his bare, aching feet, and his eyes stung and his hair whipped into them. He did not stop running until he was once again at home, and went passed the room where Théoden was speaking to his mother. Éowyn stood in the corridor, tears in her eyes, and threw her arms around her brother as soon as he entered.
"Éomer!" she cried. "Father is gone! Uncle--" she broke off and was overcome with sobs. Éomer held her gently.
"I know, Éowyn," he said. "I know." he tried to hold in his own tears, but eventually they silently fell and wet his sister's hair, the same radiant gold as his. He heard hushed conversation coming from Théodwyn's room. His mother was strong, and never before had he heard her cry. Now she did-- although she did so quietly and managed to keep her dignity. Théoden was telling her that the cremation service was to be held the next day, at sundown.
Éomer had no more memories of that day and the next thenceforth. It went by in a blur of tears, consolations, commotion, preparation, and fitful dreams. However, the cremation was one that he would remember all his life.
The sky was painted in red and gold the next day. The Golden Hall shone, yet none were left at that point in the city. All of its many inhabitants had gathered on a nearby hill before the funeral pyre, which had been set up for the cremation. Lord Éomund's body had been laid upon it. His cold hand gripped the hilt of his sword. Théoden stood in the foreground, with his sister by his side, and the children were there also. All were in mourning, as proven in their black clothing and expressionless faces.
Éomer stood by his mother. He no longer cried over his father's death; all his tears over that were spent. Yet he felt them rising as he gazed upon Théodwyn.
As the days passed since Éomund's departure her condition had worsened. Her entire body was trembling now, and it was not because of the grief that sent tears streaming down her face. Her skin was ghostly pale. Théoden looked at her with concern and sadness, and put an arm gently around her shoulder. Éomer reached over and took her hand.
Théodwyn looked down at her son and forced a smile. His eyes were brimming with crystal tears that he was trying to hold back, for her touch had given him more despair. Her hands were cold; as cold as ice. Éomer knew that she was ailing. His mother had fought strongly against her illness but it was starting to overcome her.
"Do not be afraid to give in to your tears, my love," she said.
"I must be strong, mother," he explained. "Father always told me to be proud. He told me that weakness would destroy a man."
Théodwyn gave a sad smile. "But what is weakness, my son? Love and fear are not weaknesses, nor is valuing life a weakness. The only true weakness is pride and arrogance, for they are destructive. There is a time to be proud of our accomplishments. Yet there is also a time to grieve, to mourn. Strength is only identifiable in men who are able to admit to their sorrow and fear. A man who does not feel these emotions is a fool."
Éomer let the meaning of these words sink in, and did not stop the tears once they began to fall. The Rohirrim warriors surrounded the pyre, dressed in full armor, the gold of their helmets catching the last rays of the setting sun and gleaming. Their swords were solemnly crossed over their chests. Two came forward, and, as they lit the pyre, another began to sing in the tongue of old with a deep voice that resonated throughout the land of Rohan:
Winter is enduring and finches
abandon song,
Eyes no longer seeing with the warmth
of summer gone.
Where does the horse-lord dwell, in shadow
beyond the light,
Sunlight wanes ere break of dawn and passes
before its time.
Stallion runs over plains alone in search of
fallen rider,
Star in the heavens dims and fades instead of
burning brighter.
Flames of fire no more than ashes and trumpets
have ceased to sound,
Tears in the eyes of a fatherless child flow
to barren ground.
A sword of silver steel is held in cold
and lifeless hand,
What was mighty once is buried now beneath
the shifting sand.
Strong and weak exist no more for in
the end all fall,
Voice in darkness reaches out to answer
destiny's call.
The flames gave forth a great heat as well as the smell of burning flesh. Éowyn turned away to avoid it, for when one looked upon it would sting the eyes. Théodwyn put her arm around them both. Éomer could feel his eyes burning and the warmth of the fire was nearly overwhelming, yet he refused to turn away.
Eventually the fire died down and was extinguished, at which point the body was no more than a heap of ashes. Théodwyn stepped forth and collected her husband's ashes in an urn, then beckoned to the children to follow her. The people parted and allowed them to walk farther out into the plains, until they stood about ten yards away. Théodwyn closed her eyes briefly, feeling the wind upon her brow, and then slowly released the ashes. "Suil Ennui, erio thûl lín i faer hen," she whispered solemnly. Éomer looked up at her in awe, for never before had he heard his mother speak in the Elven tongue. For a few moments they stood in silence. Then the procession back to Edoras began.
Éomer never thought to feel pain that penetrated as deeply as the loss of his father... until a fortnight later, when the illness claimed Théodwyn and her ashes were released to ride the wind with Éomund's.
Suil Ennui, erio thûl lín i faer hen-- Western Winds, may your breath lift this spirit.
Coming Soon: Éomer and Éowyn go to live in the Great Hall with Théoden. As Éomer grows, he begins to learn the ways of war: the glory as well as the horror. Can he rise up to become a great warrior? And is Théoden being lured into dark ways by the sweet bribery of a dangerous traitor?
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