Lion Cub
Summary: Superstitions and paranoia makes people do terrible things, particularly on the innocent. When the people of Aldburg threaten to revolt, Éomer's parents must make a difficult and life-threatening decision regarding their son.
Rating: T, as the contents might be disturbing for some readers.
Disclaimer: Not one hair from lion's mane.
All of my stories are interconnected unless stated otherwise but you do not need to read one to understand the other.
My stories are now available in the form of a list in chronological sequence on my bio.
Enjoy!
~S~
Aldburg,
Third Age,
A violent storm blew outside the Hall. Rain hammered on the shuttered windows, demanding entrance and receiving none. The wind howled and the thunder was so loud it made Éomund's ears ring.
Instead, he kept his focus on the closed door right in front of him. It was not like him to sulk in an empty, darkened corridor in late hours of the night. But his wife was in the birthing chamber giving life to his unborn child and he refused to leave and celebrate until he was sure his wife and child were both safe. Thunder rumbled, drowning out his wife's moan. While he knew he was useless in womanly matters, it made him feel powerless to know she shouldered the pain on her own.
"I suppose you look worse than your wife in that chamber." An amused voice called from the end of the corridor. Éomund raised his head to greet Helmfast's smiling face.
"You shouldn't be jesting about childbirth," Éomund warned. "Not when it has taken many women of late."
Helmfast's smile faded.
"I did not mean to imply anything on the lady's behalf." Helmfast said quietly. "Forgive me."
Éomund said nothing, wincing when he heard another sound from within the chamber. It was a low groan which told him Théodwyn was tiring from birthing. Éomund buried his head in his hands. He was a large man. Any child of his was bound to be just large. And she was a dainty little thing with such narrow hips that she could easily be mistaken for a child.
"She'll be fine," Helmfast comforted him.
It was hard for him to believe but he was also desperate enough not to have some sort of hope flickering inside him. Théodwyn was in all things his better half, the one who calmed him and kept his darker side at bay. It was here in this moment, when the danger of losing her was so close that he realised the depth of his feelings and how destroyed he would be if she ever left him.
Then he heard it. It was dim but it was unmistakably the cry of a babe. Éomund did not wait for the midwife to call him. He reached the door and yanked it with his strength, frightening the women inside half to death.
He caught a glimpse of his wife still lying in bed, pale and tired. The soft crying broke into full blown wailing, followed by the midwife's laughter. Éomund nearly ran to reach her. One of the maids saw him and intercepted him.
"Please, my lord!" The maid exclaimed, flushed and weary. "She is not yet decent." Éomund frowned at her.
"Foolishness," Éomund scoffed. "She is my wife. Decency is not a word well-known in marriage."
The maid's lips thinned in response to his bluntness.
"She will be ready within the moment." She said. "My lord, please-" Éomund pushed past her.
He threw one look at the midwife cradling his child before looking down at his wife. She was sweaty and pale, with ruddy cheeks and tangled hair spread across the pillow. She looked terrible but all Éomund felt when he saw her was relief. Théodwyn looked up and held up a shaking hand for him. Éomund reached her in long strides.
"You look like you fought a battle with a dragon," Éomund said thickly, taking her hand and pressing her palm against his cheek. It was a gesture she often used with him and he rarely encouraged. But he needed her, needed her strength and her assurances that she was fine. Théodwyn laughed and rubbed her other hand on her eyes.
"It felt that way," Théodwyn confessed. "If the dragon suddenly decided to have my body rebel against me and tear me from the insides."
Éomund bowed his head, feeling wretched.
"I am sorry." He murmured. He would never touch her again!
"I didn't mean-" Théodwyn began, startled. She forced him to look at her. "Éomund, there is great joy in this. Do you not see? Have you not seen your son?"
Éomund pulled away from her caress and looked up. The midwife carried the babe to him.
"Gently," the midwife spoke sternly. "He is not as strong as your sword." Éomund was surprised to see his son was so light. He was tall, as Éomund expected with a small tuft of golden hair. The babe had a bruised skin, and his head was slightly long. Éomund glanced at his wife. Théodwyn already dozed off to sleep.
"He'll be fine," the midwife said with a laugh when he mentioned it. "The birth is not easy on children. Give him a month or so, and both will come to rights." Éomund turned away from the midwife after that and cradled his son as he took him to the shuttered windows. The storm outside quietened to a steady stream of rain. The weather was skin-piercing cold. He gathered the layers of blankets around his son tighter until it formed a warm fortress.
Suddenly, the babe opened his mouth wide in a yawn which then turned into the mewling wail. Théodwyn was instantly awake.
"My baby," Théodwyn struggled to sit up. The midwife pushed her back.
"Lie back," the midwife ordered. "I will get him to you." Éomund surrendered his son to her and he watched as the midwife taught his wife how the babe would suckle.
"He must be shown to the hall," Éomund said suddenly. He forgot there was life outside his precious circle of wife and child. "I have an heir now!"
"Aye, you do." Théodwyn smiled at him as she laid her head back against the pillows. "Let him fill his belly, and dress in clothes fit for a royal before present him to your men."
Éomund later watched as the maid dressed the babe in warm blankets, and then adding later the last blanket that was embroidered with his emblem, the face of a lion with its mouth wide open in a snarl.
"Bring him in later." Éomund ordered the maid. "I do not want his sleep disturbed by the merrymaking." The maid bowed her head in consent.
He later entered the bedchamber and found to his surprise, that Théodwyn was not in bed. Instead she sat on a chair facing a polished silver shield while the maid painstakingly worked on her hair. She was dressed in fine gown of deep red, meant for a banquet.
"What are you doing out of bed?" He barked, annoyed.
"I want to be there when you show my son to our people." She said, waiting as the maid placed the last pin in her hair before Théodwyn reached up and patted down the stray strands. She was unperturbed while her husband towered over her.
"You are not supposed to be up and about, woman." Éomund said sternly. Théodwyn calmly matched his glare with a serene look as she carefully got up from her chair.
"I refuse to remain in bed like an invalid when my son is presented to the court." She replied. Éomund glowered at her. Stubborn woman, he thought. She was just as stubborn as he was. A part of him whispered that this was good. This meant she was a lioness capable of handling him, a lion. He pushed that part away.
"No one would blame you for not being there," Éomund said. He placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to remain seated. "Stay. Regain your strength. I will not have it said that I, Éomund, forced his wife into the feast while she should be resting."
Théodwyn glared at his reflection in the polished silver and pushed his hands away from her shoulders.
"You see the world only through your own eyes." She scoffed. She turned around to look at him. "I will do as I so please. He is my son as well. And I will not missing the ceremony for all that you do."
Éomund smothered a sigh. Pride. It was the downfall of monarchs, and Théodwyn held herself as one.
"Come, then." He said gruffly but not unkindly. "Béma knows I cannot stop you if you set your mind to something." Théodwyn flashed him a smile, stopped to drop a kiss on his cheek to mollify him and strode out the door. This time, Éomund sighed.
A merry feast met them as soon as they stepped into the hall. Loud cheering and hooting soon followed after. Éomund felt a smile tug on his lips.
"Ah!" One of his men said aloud. "The marshal graces us with his smile. Let it be known forever that this was the day he was pleased!" Roars of laughter echoed. Éomund was thankful his son's appearance was much later; the noise was deafening.
"May your son be as bold and true as you, Éomund of Aldburg!" One of his men shouted. The other men roared in agreement. Éomund dipped his head with a small smile.
"And may a daughter follow, that she may be as lovely and gentle as her mother," Éomund answered.
"Flatterer," Théodwyn breathed even as the men shouted their approval. Éomund's small smile betrayed his humour.
The shouts and laughter slowly dimmed as the maid approached Éomund. Éomund carefully took the babe from the maid. He was so light, swathed as he was in layers of soft blankets. The bruising had mostly faded to reveal a pink skin and velvet soft lips. The babe slumbered deeply, shifting only when Éomund jostled him to keep more comfortably in the crook of his arm.
"I present you my heir," Éomund called out, making sure his voice carried to all corners of the room. He hoisted his son up carefully, supporting his neck in one large hand. "Éomer, son of Éomund! Let he be known as courageous and bold, and let the bards forever mention him in song!"
"Hail, Éomer of Aldburg!" The men boomed, rising their right fists in allegiance. Éomund lowered his son to his chest. Éomer stirred a little, his face marred with a frown.
"Now give him to me," Théodwyn ordered Éomund. "Béma, no man knows how to carry a child."
Éomund flashed a grin at her.
"A child, perhaps. A woman, though..."
"I will banish you from our rooms if you continue such talk."
"Well, then, I will wait until you are keener to hear it..."
"And who said you didn't know how to woo a woman?" Théodwyn teased. Éomund began an answer but the change in the air around them stopped him. The hall had grown suddenly quiet. The crowd shifted to let someone pass and Éomund's lips tightened in a grim line. Beside him Théodwyn gasped and buried herself against his side.
Three old women slowly marched up to them. Their feet shuffled and their canes dragged over the stone floor. They wore old black garments and their white hair was covered with a veil. Two of them aged horrendously, with sagging bodies and wrinkled faces. The third still retained some of her youth and walked with a straighter back than the others. The three widows. They were on a journey with their husbands when they were captured by Orcs and taken to the base of the Mountain. There, their husbands were tortured and killed while the Orcs used the women as their playthings before cutting them and leaving them to die. They somehow survived and it was said thereafter that the dead from the mountain helped their survival and gave them the gift of knowledge.
It was superstition, Éomund thought uneasily as he placed a hand on his wife's shoulder. Théodwyn's hold tightened over her son as much as she dared without waking him.
They stopped a few strides away from the couple. One of them reached out with her hands. Théodwyn hesitated before stepping down from the platform and presenting her son to them. The crone tried to take the babe. Théodwyn did not let her son go.
"The child will grow strong and brave." The first declared in a raspy voice.
"Death will follow him wherever he goes." Another whispered. Hushed murmurs circulated in the Hall.
"He will sire a line of kings." The last one murmured. The whispering around the Hall grew louder, more excited and surprised. Théodwyn pulled her son away and held him close, pulling her cloak forward to shield the babe from view before joining her husband again on the platform. Éomund placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Leave him on the plains for a night of storm." The first said. She turned on her heel and walked away. The crowd parted for her, giving her a wide path.
"If he survives, then Rohan will accept him." The second said before walking away. The third followed soon after, her voice carrying behind her as she ambled towards the door.
"If not, then he will bring more evil to this land."
Éomund pulled his wife close until he was half-embracing her. He cared not what the widows said about his son. They were all superstitions. He laughed in scorn at them. But then his people looked upon him expectantly and realised this was one fight that would be hard to win.
oOo
Aldburg,
Third Age,
Éomund kept his eyes on the book spread on his table. He never liked reading; it barely caught his interest but the book was on war and its history. That was the only topic he enjoyed reading about.
He heard a small gurgle and his son shifted on his lap. Éomund looked down and smiled. The young child blinked once and answered his smile with a toothy grin of his own.
Éomund smiled down at his only child. He was only barely a year old but already he showed a spark of personality. He was curious, unafraid and had a bad, sulking temper. Éomund laughed quietly. Éomer was definitely his son.
In looks, he had fair hair that seemed to curl at the edges, a fair skin and golden brown eyes. Éomer was tall for his age, with long arms and legs but he was small compared to Éomund. It made him feel large, surly and clumsy sometimes, to watch his son run as a nimble as a doe in flight.
Éomer quickly lost interest in his father. Instead, he shifted in his lap and turned his attention to the table before him. He began to explore with his hands. Éomund inched his book out of his son's reach. Éomer's hands went for the ink pot. Éomund reached forward and set down the ink pot firmly as soon as Éomer lifted it.
"No," he said firmly. Éomer grinned, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling. Éomund doubted he understood. There was pure mischief in his eyes and smile, but Éomund sternly held back his laughter and looked at him with a straight face. Éomer hummed to himself and began to explore other items on the table.
Éomund watched his son for a while. He heard a knock and the door creaked open before he gave permission.
"You know I do not like to be disturbed in here." Éomund said darkly. The room had many uses; it served a complete purpose of a family room. Éomund's desk was pressed against a corner, beside the large window. Books lined the shelves for leisurely reading. Those were not his. Éomund did not believe in reading unless it was absolutely necessary. He often let his wife handle everything. Those were purely there because of Théodwyn. She adored books. And he adored her.
"It was urgent." Helmfast said shortly.
Éomund knew precisely what the urgency was. His one hand crept over his son's shoulder with newfound protectiveness.
"The boys nearly a summer old, Éomer."
"If you wish to speak, then speak plainly." Éomund said testily. His other hand reaching for his sword that leaned against his desk.
"You wouldn't draw blood in your son's presence." Helmfast scoffed.
"I will not kill you here, Helmfast." Éomund said quietly. "I will do it for all to see, to set an example."
There was a time when Helmfast and Éomund were staunch friends but that time was long ago. Now, they rolled between the territories of friends and enemies more often than naught. Helmfast was becoming dangerous in Éomund's presence; he was bolder, more unafraid to voice his opinions. If e continued down this path, there will come a time when he and Éomund would cross more than just words.
"I see how it is." Helmfast sneered. "You would rather rule like a tyrant; kill those who come in your way."
"I don't like it when people threaten what is mine," Éomund placed his free hand on top of Éomer's head. "I made it clear to the people; if I am to Marshall this land, then I expect to be followed carefully. I have never been unjust or cruel."
"But you don't agree with the wishes of the people."
"Aye. I don't. Not when it concerns the safety of my child." Éomund leaned forward and spoke in deadly quiet. "My son is none of their concern."
"It is when the three widows speak of him."
"The three widows are old crones who are scarred from their past." Éomund scoffed and leaned back. "Their word does not change the fate of any man."
Helmfast slammed his fist on Éomund's table so hard that Éomer jumped in Éomund's lap. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Helmfast.
"I warned you."
It was always considered a good omen that the first child born was a son. But it was not a good omen when one of the old crones made a grim declaration when the babe passed before her.
"You need to take this more seriously," Helmfast warned him.
"You need to leave this to rest." Éomund answered, his voice deep and gravelly. He eyed his friend irately. "I made myself heard before; my son will not be subjected to your superstitions."
"You should not mock the workings beyond your understanding so easily."
Éomund turned on his heel and fixed Helmfast with a glare. The man shrunk under his scrutiny.
"You should not test me." Éomund warned. Helmfast's lips curled in loathing.
"You have changed much, Éomund, if you threaten your own men."
"I maintain order in my éored," Éomund answered coldly. There was a time when he thought of Helmfast as a friend. Now, the notion was laughable.
"There are traditions," Helmfast seemed to cajole him which annoyed Éomund further. "Traditions that have proved to help us-"
"Superstitions," Éomund mocked. "I shall call them for what they are. They harbour nothing but nonsense, harvest nothing but fear, and end with nothing but sadness. It is foolishness to put your beliefs in such things."
"But my lord, traditions must be upheld-"
Éomund uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, anger turning his eyes dark. Éomer yelped and grabbed onto his father's shirt for balance.
"Traditions," he repeated in deadly quiet. "I have something to say about traditions. I do not respect them the slightest, particularly if they are merely for show, or to calm people's unfounded fears." Éomund was not eloquent of speech, but he knew enough to make his opinion well known. Helmfast glared at him.
"This is not over." Helmfast warned him. He left before Éomund could retort.
Éomund felt his black temper brewing, like a storm. He swept his son in his arms, ignoring his startled squawk and carried him outside the room, where a nursemaid sat on a chair waiting beside the door. She sprang to her feet as soon as she caught sight of the Marshal.
"Take him back to his mother," Éomund ordered in clipped tones. The plump, young woman nodded and took Éomer from him. Éomund went into his bedchamber, still troubled.
Théodwyn sat by the window where the wind played with the hair framing her face. She worked quickly on her forming cloth in her hand, her two needles clacking together. He stayed where he was, a part of him admiring the way her hands moved with speed and dexterity. The balls of yarn bounced in their bowl as more and more yarn fed into her project.
"Any faster and you might tangle your own hands into your threads." Éomund rumbled. Her hands instantly stopped and she looked up with a smile. Then her smile faded.
"What is wrong?" She asked him.
"Nothing that is worthy of your concern," he said. Bu Théodwyn set her knitting on her lap and reached out with a hand. Éomund sighed in resignation. His wife understood him like no other. He marched up to her and knelt, allowing her to stroke his cheek. The bristles brushed against the palm of her hand.
"The people grow restless." Éomund muttered. Théodwyn continued to caress him.
"Why?" She asked softly.
"You know." Éomund whispered. Théodwyn tore away her hand as if it burned.
"It has nearly been a year since his birth," Théodwyn whispered. Her hands gripped the knitting into two small fists. "When will they leave us alone?"
"I am afraid that we will always be under scrutiny," he said gently. "You, the sister of our King. And I, the Marshall."
"The let them watch. I am a mother. I will not bend at their whim."
Éomund admired her strength. She started out a frail young woman with a slight build and a fragile face that nearly made Éomund fearful. She seemed so delicate, like a doll made from glass that he often worried if he'd break her if he so much as sounded forceful. But underneath those delicate features and gentle spirit, Théodwyn possessed a fierce desire to nurture and protect those she loved.
"Hush," Éomund interrupted, cupping her face in his large hands. Théodwyn quietened immediately. "There is no cause for alarm. You will worry for nothing." He pressed his forehead against his wife's and drew easy, calming breath. Théodwyn felt reluctant in his embrace and he waited until her body moulded against his body.
"Not all children face the wild this young." She whispered against his chest. "Why must he?"
It was indeed true. Only the babes weak at birth, the ones with prophecies and those that were born in different circumstances were taken to the wild. And Éomer's reason was that of the second one.
"You know why."
"Éomund, promise me." Théodwyn said urgently. She pulled away from him and held his head between her hands. "Promise me that you will protect our son and see to it that he doesn't come to any harm."
He placed a hand on hers.
"He is our son." Éomund said quietly. "If we do not protect him, then who will?"
Théodwyn sighed and sagged against him in relief.
oOo
The sounds of painful screams led him to the healing room. The door was wide open and Éomund marched in. There were five rooms against each wall and supplies on the tables at the farthest end.
All the beds were occupied. Some of the wounded were stretched on the pallets on the ground. The air was thick with the stench of blood and dried herbs.
The nearest bed held a boy barely seventeen summers. His leg was mottled black and brown and pus seeped from the wound. The boy was sweating and tossing in a fevered dream.
"The leg is poisoned," the healer said grimly. "We must amputate it, so that there may still be a chance to save him."
Éomund stopped to one of the wounded on the pallet. It was a woman, between forty and fifty. He looked over her wounds. She had a knife wound in her side and marks on her neck. He looked closer. The marks were imprinted from teeth. She was bitten.
"Orcs attacked their village," Helmfast rumbled, stopping beside him.
"Helmfast."
"Nearly all the men were killed, even those that were children in their mothers' arms. The women were raped and only few survived. The rest of the village burned. Now it's only a ruin."
Éomund looked around him, troubled. Orcs steadily grew bolder, pawing at the borders and sometimes coming deep into the kingdom, killing and pillaging and scurrying out before the éored responded. And then came the problem of the Dunlendings who also raided, but that was not mostly Éomund's concern. The Dunlendings did not harm his part of the Riddermark.
He ignored the accusing looks Helmfast threw at him.
"Alert the men," Éomund said at last. "We will ride out soon. First, I must make plans."
Helmfast stayed for a second longer to display his insolence before leaving. Éomund watched him go and shook his head.
The particular band of Orcs responsible for the disaster was most likely not far. When the plans were laid down, Éomund bid the men to be ready; they would leave at dawn.
He noticed the restlessness among them, and also the dissatisfaction.
"Do you have doubts?" Éomund demanded of his men. "Do you fear death at the hands of Orcs? Is this not what one man would do for another of his own country? Speak your minds! I never told you to withhold them!"
One lifted his shaggy head and stared at him with glittering blue eyes.
"You are the bravest of us," the man declared. "And we have never had any qualms of being our leader. But you show no respect for the old ways, the ways of our people."
"You claim that you care for this land," another burst out angrily. "But you do not make the sacrifices for it!"
"And what," Éomund asked calmly but with a touch of steel to his voice, "have I not sacrificed for the sake of this kingdom? Have I not fought beside you, was wounded alongside you? Have I ever left a battlefield while the battle was ongoing?"
"And what of your son?" Another man demanded, pock-faced and ugly. Éomund looked at him, using the build of his body alone to intimidate him.
"What I do for my son is only my concern."
"If you do not choose," a man said unflinchingly. "Then we will have to choose for you."
Éomund instantly understood; do as the people asked, or suffer a revolt.
Helmfast stood in a corner, a smug smile on his face. Éomund tore his eyes away in disgust.
"Would you throw away your child for the wolves upon the say of a few?" Éomund asked. Anger coloured his voice.
"Aye," one said spitefully. "The old ways are true to us. It has always been so. The three crones-"
Anger burst like a dried stick suddenly caught with flame. Éomund launched at the man and slammed him against a wall, hoisting him up clean off his feet with a hand pressed against his neck. The man gagged and struggled, grabbing onto Éomund's hand.
"Do not speak to me of them," he hissed. "They are the cause of this trouble. If it were not for them, my son would have played amongst the other children, and not be alone with whispers following any path he takes." Éomund let him go. The man fell to his knees in front of him, gasping. Éomund looked at him in contempt and then turned on his heel.
Later he sat beside Théodwyn in his bedchamber. Neither of them spoke. The silence lay over them like a heavy blanket. Both of their heads were bowed as if nodding off to sleep. Éomund finally stirred.
"So it has come to pass." Éomund's voice was quiet and tired. "The men have lost their faith in me. All for a single choice on preserving my son."
"Stay strong," Théodwyn whispered. "Stay firm. What parents are we to abandon our child so? We already agreed while I was with child that the practice was barbaric. Let us stay true to that."
But Éomund shook his head.
"It is not so simple." Éomund said. "The times are difficult. If the unrest continues, it will spread through the Riddermark like an infection, throwing all the royal family in doubt."
"That will not happen!"
Éomund gave a sardonic glance.
"Our history speaks clear, my dear. We are not to be trusted when there is a feud between us and the people."
"And what will you suggest that we do?" Théodwyn murmured. Her eyes were bright with worry, her forehead creased with a small frown.
Éomund bowed his shoulders helplessly. What could he do? The Orcs grew bolder and pawed the borders of the kingdom. Some of the villages were already burned and their inhabitants killed or captured. In Meduseld, whispers of a new war were brewing. Soon, Éomund knew he would be called to bring forth the éored. For that he needed allies. And he would not get them by antagonising the people. The Rohirrim were open and honest people, but they believed strongly in loyalty and allegiances. If Éomund tried to break free, they would view him as an outcast, an outsider. Worse, they would do the same for Théodwyn and Éomer.
"It has to be done." Éomund said lowly. Théodwyn turned to him, astounded.
"You cannot mean it." She gasped. She raced up to him and pushed her hands against his chest. "Tell me you do not mean it! You promised me! You promised!"
Éomund kept his gaze lowered and his fists clenched. He was too ashamed to look up and meet the eyes of the mother of his son. Théodwyn turned away in disgust.
"You are a coward."
Aye. He was. Éomund had the courage to admit it. Even if he did not believe in superstitions, he was not brave enough to challenge them openly. When he hesitated in his answer, Théodwyn shook her head in disgust and walked away.
"Superstitions," Éomund muttered under his breath. This time, it sounded like a curse.
Théodwyn avoided him throughout the day. If their eyes met, he saw that his wife looked upon him with frosty eyes and an impassive face. It only added more weight to his conscience. As night drew closer, Éomund found him drawn to his son. He lingered in the room where he played with his toys, while his mother fed him, was bathed and finally put to sleep. He stayed at the doorway, listening to the maid sing sweet lullabies and watched as his son's eyes slowly grew heavy.
He never realised his heart grew heavy as well.
Éomund never liked children. He only enjoyed them from afar. He would have been content if they were childless. But he cared for them enough to ensure their safety. And what he was about to do, leaving his own son out for the unforgiving elements, crushed him.
When the maid left and he knew his son was asleep, he entered the room. Éomer slept peacefully in his cot, small pink lips slightly parted as he breathed. Éomund wrapped him in his blanket before lifting him. When he stepped outside, he found Théodwyn in the corridor dressed in her dressing robe and wielding a lit candlestick in her hand like a weapon.
"What have you become?" Théodwyn whispered in wonder and anger. "Do you now steal away a child from his mother before she says her farewell?"
"I do not wish to do this anymore than you do." Éomund returned.
"There is a difference." Théodwyn hissed angrily. The flames on the candles danced as her hand moved in a fierce gesture. The shadows on the walls distorted, showing a man carrying a babe away and a woman looking on. "I do not approve. I would have never taken a child into the weather on the saying of people who are comfortable in their own warm homes!"
Her words cut deeper than any sword he ever encountered.
"It must be done." Éomund said lowly.
"Then go," Théodwyn spat. "Get out of my sight and if any harm comes to my son, then let our bed forever be cold. After this son, I will not bear you any more heirs."
"After this son, I doubt I want more heirs." Éomund said. Éomer stirred and he gently rocked him back to sleep. Théodwyn looked at him with a mixture of anger and disappointment. Then she turned away as if his sight was unbearable. Éomund bowed his head to her back and left, feeling as wretched as a worm.
The ride out to the plains away from Aldburg was as quiet as a battlefield before a battle. His son slept evenly, his head pressed against Éomund's side with a trust that made him feel even more wretched. The clouds were dark, heavy with rain. A storm was near. Inside Éomund, another storm brewed.
He found a small rise in the plain covered with a soft bed of grass. Éomund dismounted and carried Éomer to it. He looked down at his firstborn. His eyes were closed, hiding his brown eyes from the world. His cheeks were rosy and adorably round. Éomer's small lips were slightly apart. Éomund reached up and traced his face lightly with one finger. How could a child survive on his own? Many did, in fact but they were many who died as well. Rohan was not kind to the weak and defenceless. It was not the child's fault for whatever the cronies said. Éomund pressed his lips grimly and steeled his heart as he set his son on the grassy ground.
"Béma," Éomund prayed under his breath as he lay his son tenderly on the bed of grass. He gathered the blankets close around his son and as an afterthought, he released his cloak from his brooch and added the extra layer around Éomer. "I give you my firstborn, who is also my son. I name you guardian. Have mercy and do not let him perish." He turned around, his heart growing heavier until it became as heavy as a city when he mounted his horse.
The gathering storm brought an early evening. Éomund knew the sun hid behind the clouds somewhere, but the skies were dark. Thunder rumbled ominously above. He caught the flash of silver through the blackened clouds. His gelding neighed softly and drew back his ears.
When the city was moments away, Éomund pulled his horse short and sat stock still. His mind was blank but his conscience screamed at him.
"To damnation, all of them," he muttered under his breath and tugged hard on his horse, too preoccupied to be gentle. He turned his horse around and with a sharp intake of breath, he nudged his mount into a full gallop.
The skies opened above him.
Water poured over him in torrents as if someone unleashed all the rivers from the sky. He was soaked through in a matter of few minutes. He shivered violently, exposed to the element as he was because he wore no cloak. His clothes clung to his skin, and he stank of wet leather, wool and horse. Hair plastered against his head and he felt the unpleasant sensation of water trickling over his back and sloshing in his boots. Still, he pressed on until he finally came to the place where he left Éomer.
A lion was in his way.
His golden mane was shot with silver as lightning crackled above. His body was sleek and powerful, muscles bunching as he crouched. The lion looked at him directly, his lips pulled back in a snarl. Two rows of sharp, yellowing teeth grinned at him.
Fear gripped his heart in a tight fist. Éomund struggled to breathe. First he felt numb, soon followed by grief at his son's early demise, then it gave to anger and fear. He unsheathed his sword and stepped forward with determination. He would kill the lion, if it meant his life was at stake. He could not return to his wife with their child's dead body.
Then he heard something. Laughter.
It was quiet, but Éomund heard it. His heart thundered in his ears and he looked at the lion again, searching for the source.
Nestled between his front paws was his son.
Éomer was wide awake, unperturbed of the storm around him. He was soaked to the skin, the coverings nestled around his waist. His back was pressed against the lion's front. He closed his eyes as raindrops got into them, and stuck out his little tongue to taste the water. The boy clapped his hands in delight and looked up with awe at his unlikely saviour.
Éomund edged forward, his sword drawing halfway as he did. The lion turned to him, mouth wide open in an angry snarl.
Lightning flashed again, turning the terrain white. The lion looked at him and then, to his surprise, closed his mouth. His body relaxed, the muscles loosening under his golden coat. Éomund watched him warily, his sword nearly out of his sheath but the beast did not move.
His instincts whispered to him that the lion was harmless. That the beast was here not to kill. He heard whispers of beasts being kinder than men. He slowly sheathed his sword and watched.
The lion closed his eyes slowly as the rain trickled down his face. But he kept his protective stance of the child. Then he looked directly at Éomund before turning his head to the side. Éomund followed his gaze.
Lightning flashed, and for brief moment when silver light split the sky, Éomund caught glimpse of a being as tall as an Elf, with high cheekbones and a handsome jawline. He sat atop a rearing horse. His hair was dark under his helm and his eyes were molten gold. He was dressed like an archer, a long bow clasped in one hand and the reins in the other. Then the being disappeared when lightning flashed the second time.
He was not sure when he fell asleep, but he woke up on his side with his cheek pressed in the ground and his beard muddy from the last night's rainstorm. He was shivering, but fortunately felt the cold no longer. It was morning. Éomer showed no signs of hunger even though it was a long time since he last ate. Instead, the young one tried his best to climb upon the lion's back, his toes curling around the fur of his body for some purchase. The muscular body of the lion rippled and Éomer fell on the ground right on his bottom.
Éomund immediately turned his eyes to his son. Éomer pushed his thumb into his mouth and patted the lion in long, clumsy strokes. Éomer ran his fingers into lion's mane. Suddenly, he pitched forward and bit the beast's shoulder.
The lion threw back his head and gave a mighty roar.
Éomund scrambled to his feet, terrified for his son, but the lion shook his head and lay back on the grass. Éomer giggled and climbed up his massive body. The lion remained unmoving.
They were playing, Éomund realised. The lion dipped his head and nudged Éomer with his snout. The child tumbled to the ground on his back with a delighted shriek of laughter.
Then lion gave a wide lazy yawn and hoisted itself on its powerful legs. Shaking its mane once, it turned its back and walked away.
Éomer spent the return crying in hunger and thirst but the ride rocked him into deep slumber. The sun was high and the weather took a hotter turn. When he entered Aldburg, many people stopped and watched him pass. He stopped by the stables and dismounted, fully aware of the looks and whispers following him.
Éomund ignored them all. He cradled his son close to his chest, shielding him under his cloak from the biting sun. On his way up to the hall, he found Helmfast in the way. He stood with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.
"Tradition demanded the child spend the night alone in the wild." Helmfast growled in disapproval. Éomund found he hated Helmfast then. He skidded to a halt.
"Get out of my sight." Éomund barked. "Or I will not be responsible for the consequences."
Helmfast met his eyes squarely, but Éomund's blazing hot gaze proved too much. He looked away and slunk away from him.
When he entered the hall, Théodwyn stood waiting. She rushed to him as he pulled back his cloak and gathered their son in arms. Éomer's stirred awake and yawned.
"You stayed," Théodwyn said, surprise in her eyes. "You didn't leave him."
"I would have never forgiven myself if I did." Éomund answered. Théodwyn smiled adoringly up at him. "Forgive me," he murmured. "I was not a good father yesterday."
"You were one last night," she said. "You are already forgiven." She cradled her child lovingly in her arms, Éomer's leg on each side of her hip. She pressed many kisses repeatedly on Éomer's forehead as she left.
It was evening before Éomund had the chance to take her side and tell her his extraordinary tale.
"It cannot be true," Théodwyn said in astonishment. "Are you sure it was not distress? Or merely a trick?"
"I know what I saw." Éomund said wearily. "It was as real as you stand before me. Tell me, then, are you real?"
Théodwyn knelt between his knees and took his large, battle-worn hands in her slim, soft ones.
"Of course, I am real." She murmured. "I do not mean to doubt you. The story seemed so unlikely."
"I know not what to do." Éomund sighed and leaned forward, cupping his wife's cheek with his hand. "I never held belief in superstitions and old wives' tales. But what I saw was not a tale. It was real. And I fear the three widows were right about the boy."
They watched over Éomer anxiously over the next many weeks, but except for a mild cough for a week, he was fine. There were no more miraculous feats around the child. In all aspects, Éomer was an ordinary, happy child of a summer old. They guarded the tale of Éomer's odd survival jealously. All was not well at Meduseld. Villages were pillaged and burned by Orcs in the far corners of the kingdom. The nobles were strained and worried. The thought of Éomer as the new heir instead of Théodred would cause serious complications. Éomund did not want a fight with the nobles, nor by the King who was also his brother by marriage.
"Will we ever tell him about how he survived the night?" Théodwyn asked while she and Éomund watched Éomer play with Théodred on the field. Théodred was like a brother to Éomer and very patient.
"It is best not to." Éomund rumbled, stroking his hand absently against his wife's cheek.
"It might prepare him in the future."
"Or it might break him." Éomund shook his head. "If the fates will not change then it wouldn't matter if we tell him or not. The duty of kingship will fall on him regardless. But I want him to be as close to Théodred as brothers would be, so that there is love between them and not hatred. That will set my mind at ease that my son would not grow as a-" he swallowed. "A kingkiller," he whispered.
"But you know how lions live." Théodwyn murmured. "Only one male is the head of a pride. And if another male challenges him, then they fight to the death."
Grimly, Éomund turned his head to where Théodred played with Éomer.
"One of them must die."
~S~
Author's Note:
-Often times, people do not realise that things like curses and ill omens can easily be explained by science and medicine. While there are some things in this world that are not easily explained, that does not mean we should govern our life around baseless facts.
-Just as ever, I enjoyed playing Oromë into the mix, who is also known as Béma by the Rohirrim. I know that the Valar became reclusive during the events of Lord of The Rings but I still like to think their presence was there somewhere, playing from the shadows.
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