WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
by NixNivis
Author's Note: Although the story is set in Peter Jackson's movie-verse, the description of Gríma is book-verse. There is reason for this.
Disclaimer: With the exception of my own original characters, I do not own any of the characters and places mentioned; they are all © the Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema. There is no infringement of copyright intended with this story, nor have I written it for financial gain.
She could not move. She could not scream. There was a vile taste in her mouth, but she could not swallow; all she could do was breathe, and roll her eyes to try to catch a glimpse of light through the massive darkness surrounding her.
She felt another presence in the room even before she heard the soft rustle of fabric. She tried to call out, but no sound passed over her lips. All she could do was wait in terror, and listen to the heavy sound of breathing slowly moving closer and closer. Listen to that soft whisper...
With a gasp, she bolted upright, her ears still ringing with the menacing hiss; but as sleep faded, so did the memory of the dream, and only the fear lingered into wakefulness.
* * *
The people stared as the Riders burst through the gate of Edoras, riding as hard towards Meduseld as their exhausted mounts would let them. Concerned looks passed amongst the onlookers; the party obviously had wounded, and a couple of the horses had been riderless – and that, they all knew, did not bode well.
Once outside Meduseld, the Riders dismounted, the unharmed aiding their wounded comrades. Worried eyes watched as Éomer lifted Théodred down; the son of Théoden King was still breathing, but they all knew he could not last much longer, for no man could survive as vicious a blow as he had been dealt.
"Get them inside!" Éomer barked. "Hurry up!" Then he spun and sped up the stairs to Meduseld, carrying the lifeless Théodred in his arms.
As he helped the Rider he had been sitting behind to get off the horse, Éorik's eyes anxiously followed the Marshal's run. The man in Éomer's arms could just as well have been he, he thought with a shudder. It certainly had been close enough...
He could not hold back a gasp of pain when the Rider beside him suddenly clutched his shoulder for support.
"Sorry about that, lad," the older man murmured apologetically. "My legs failed me there for a moment..."
"You are injured," Éorik stoically pointed out, trying to hide that he had to catch his breath. "Let me help you inside, and-"
"No." The greying Rider shook his head. "I can manage; you go."
"But-" Éorik started to protest, but both he and the other man knew it was only a token objection.
"Go to her, lad," the other man said firmly. "Let her know you are all right. I can manage!" he repeated in exasperation when Éorik still hesitated. "Go!"
The young Rider wavered for another moment; then he nodded, and the look he shot his older comrade before he twirled and rushed away was all gratitude.
Éorik ran. He flew up the stairs and rushed through the corridors, neither noticing nor caring that people threw curses after him as they had to throw themselves out of his way. I cannot be too late, he thought desperately. Please, do not let me be too late!
But when he finally reached his destination, he skidded to a halt. For a moment, he just stood there, eyeing the door warily; for he was afraid to open it, and of what he might find inside the room. He had promised her to be by her side when it happened, but the party had been gone longer than he had expected, and it had only been days away when he left...
Breathing deeply to steel himself, he turned the doorknob.
But his breath caught when he saw the woman standing on tiptoe by the window. She was supporting herself with both hands on the window frame as she peered out, her head swaying anxiously when she did not catch sight of whom she was searching for. When she shifted position to get a better view, she moved sluggishly, and the wide dress in green and grey could not hide her thick waist. Éorik sighed in relief. He was in time after all. He had not failed her.
"Wynifir?"
His husky whisper made the woman give a start and spin around, and the worry on her face faded into relief and joy when she saw the gangly figure.
"Husband!" she breathed. "I saw your party ride in, but I did not see you, and I thought... I was afraid..." And she trailed off, blinking hard to clear her suddenly clouded eyes.
Éorik's face turned to stone. "I was riding behind another; we were attacked by Orcs," he spat, "and my horse was slain. I barely escaped with my life." He shook his head at the memory. "Others were not so lucky."
"Oh, Éorik," his wife whispered, her face filling with concern and pity. Whoever those slain were, she knew they had all been friends and trusted companions. "Husband..."
With arms outstretched, she hurried towards him, her movements heavily weighed down by the burden she carried. Her husband came to meet her with three long strides, and he wrapped his arms around her to pull her as close as he could and dare.
"I was so afraid," he murmured into her pale hair. "I was so afraid I had been gone too long, that it would all be over..."
Wynifir chortled. "Do not think that you will get away so easily, my husband..."
Gently breaking away from his embrace, she grasped his hand to place it on her round belly; but the movement made Éorik recoil with a sharp hiss of pain.
"You are injured," Wynifir exclaimed, only now noticing the blood on his shoulder; but her husband warded off her concerned hands.
"It is nothing," he claimed stoically.
His wife clicked her tongue in exasperation. "You men!" she snapped. "Why is it that when one of your limbs has been all but cut off, you have to make light of it, but when you stub your toe, you wail like children?"
"Others took worse blows," Éorik grunted. He would have shrugged it off, had it not been for the burning pain in his shoulder; in her condition, she should not worry about such trifles as a little scratch...
"It is not 'others' I have wed," his wife angrily pointed out, "nor is it their child I carry!" Then her face softened. "Let me look at it, my husband," she said gently. "Get out of your mail, and I will-"
"Not now," Éorik cut her off, brusquely stepping out of her reach. "I must go back, to help tend to my comrades. Many were wounded," he explained in a softer voice when his wife looked hurt. "Théodred amongst them."
"Oh no..." Wynifir breathed. Unconsciously, she put one hand on her abdomen as if trying to shield the life growing in there. "Does he know?"
Her husband snorted. "The question is, does he care? With his mind poisoned by that... that..." Shaking his head in disgust, he broke off before his anger got the better of him, as it so often did. "I will be back soon," he instead promised his wife, again moving away when she reached out for him. "And then I will gladly let you see to my wounds."
His wife reluctantly nodded her agreement whilst absently stroking her stomach; but before Éorik left, she turned away and walked back to the window so that he would not have to see her tears.
Gazing out without really seeing, Wynifir uselessly blinked to try to clear her eyes. It seemed that the smallest thing made them cloud nowadays, she thought with irritation; usually, she seldom cried, but these last few months she had been all tears. She tore up every time her husband had to ride out, and was sick with worry until he returned. She had ridden by his side for as long as she could, but now she was confined within the walls of Edoras, forced to wait for whatever news of him the Riders would bring. Good for nothing but weeping, she thought with a frustrated toss of the head. So heavy and clumsy...
She was jolted from her ruminations by a rustle of fabric from the door.
"I hear your husband has returned."
The voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but Wynifir spun around like she had heard a shout.
"You!" she hissed at the black-clad figure just stepping over the threshold. "What are you doing here?"
But her unwanted visitor seemed unmoved by her violent reaction; if anything, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to gleam with amusement as he slowly advanced into the room.
"What a relief it must be," he drawled, "to have him back at your side. I cannot be easy for you, to have him leave you so often in your condition..."
"My 'condition' is no business of yours!" Wynifir spat. Protectively folding her arms over her belly, she tried to back away, but before she had taken two steps her back met the cold of the wall. In panic, she realised that she would have no means of escape if he came any closer – but to her relief, the intruder stopped his advancement, with a hurt look on his pale face.
"It pains me that you think so ill of someone who merely wishes to express his concern."
Forcing her hands to relax by her sides, Wynifir drew herself up to her full height, staring down at the wizened figure before her.
"I do not need your false concern, Wormtongue," she said coolly. "You are intruding, and I would advise you to leave these rooms before my husband returns."
But her proud words only brought an amused smile to the thin lips of her unwanted visitor. "Certainly," he agreed. "Only a fool would subject himself to the wrath of Éorik, son of Éothed..."
"Leave," Wynifir said in a hard voice. Standing with her back as straight as her heavy front allowed, she balled her fists to keep them from forming a shield over her abdomen; he had startled her once, and she would not again give him the pleasure of seeing her cower.
Lowering his head in a mocking bow, Wormtongue to her surprise turned to leave; but at the threshold, he twisted to give her a sly look under heavy eyelids.
"Tell me, lady... do you dream?"
For a moment, Wynifir's composure crumbled. "What do you mean?" she demanded harshly, but her visitor just smiled.
"Nothing else than that you need your rest. It would be worrisome if troubling dreams kept you awake at night..."
Wynifir's fists trembled. "Leave," she repeated.
She managed to stay cold and straight-backed until the door had closed behind him; then she collapsed in a chair, and started to cry.
Moving swiftly down the hallway, Wormtongue chuckled. Not so cocky now, was she, the once-proud shield-maiden? No, now she was just fat and weak, and frightened. Oh yes, so very frightened... she had tried to sound brave, but he had seen her shiver as the memory stirred.
The act had meant nothing to him; it had been a little enjoyment, nothing more, a way to pass time. It had not even been a challenge, since the potion he had used made her unable to wail or squirm - but he still took great pleasure in seeing the fire in her eyes doused by her growing fear as the memories dulled by the drug slowly rose to the surface. That was what she got from talking back to Gríma! She had thought she was safe behind her mistress' skirts, that he would not dare to reproach her for her brave words and her contempt, but he had showed her. Oh yes, he had showed her... even though she made a poor substitute for the woman he truly wanted to see quenched.
And that reminded him – something would have to be done about Éomer...
* * *
"This is an outrage!" Éorik spat. Trembling with fury, he sought Éomer's eye, but the Marshal's attention remained fixed on his horse and saddle.
"Of course it is an outrage," he dryly agreed without turning his head. "What else could it be, with the King's actions dictated by that slithering worm?"
"I should go with you," Éorik insisted for the third time, even though he knew this one would be as useless as the first two. "Please. I beg you."
Freezing in mid-movement, Éomer looked up from his saddle-girth with surprise on his face; "beg" was a word seldom used by the proud, young Rider standing beside him on the crowded courtyard.
"Your place is here, Éorik," he said firmly, making a final, tightening tug to the girth. "Right now, your wife needs you by her side more than I by mine. Besides," he added when the younger man seemed about to object once more; "I need to know there are still trustworthy men watching over Théoden King when I am gone."
"You also need to know you have loyal men behind you!" Éorik claimed angrily.
"I already have ten score," the Marshal replied curtly. "One more or less will not make any difference." Then his stern face softened as he saw his young friend's chagrined look. "Never think that I question your loyalty, Éorik son of Éothed," he said in a low voice, "but this is one sacrifice I will not have you make. Remain with your wife, and with your King." He smiled crookedly. "There will be plenty of time for foolhardiness later."
Before Éorik could once again speak up, Éomer had put his helmet on, and in one swift movement, he vaulted into the saddle. Seeing their Marshal mount, his Riders did the same.
Éomer raised his arm. "We ride!" he called in a strong voice; then he spurred his horse forward.
It was with an odd mixture of regret and relief that Éorik watched his comrades ride off. He would have followed Éomer right through the Black Gate, had the Marshal commanded it – but the decision to leave Wynifir and their unborn child would not have been an easy one to make, and he was grateful that Éomer had rid him of it.
Wynifir! She must have seen the Riders move out, and she would think...
Not noticing to the curious glances from the few remaining men, Éorik twirled and fled up the stairs.
But when he returned to his wife, Éorik found her in tears, still sunken into the chair she had collapsed on when Wormtongue left her. With a cry, her husband rushed up to her, and threw himself on his knees by her side.
"Wynifir..." he said urgently. "My wife... my love... what is it? What has happened?" But before his wife could say anything, Éorik's face hardened as he realise what the answer must be. "It is he, isn't it? He has been here again? That filthy, despicable..." He broke off, almost choking with anger.
But Wynifir shook her head. "No," she sobbed, wiping her cheeks with her hand. "No... it is I who overreact. He did not... he just..." She tossed her head in frustration when the tears would not stop running. "I do not know why I fear him so; before, I held him in nothing but contempt, but now the mere sight of him is enough to make me tremble..."
"He should leave you be!" her husband spluttered furiously. "He has no right to torment you like this! He should leave you alone! He should leave us alone..."
Lifting his good arm, he stroked Wynifir's round belly like wanting to comfort the unborn life inside; then his hand suddenly froze, and a look of wonder spread across his face as he glanced up at his wife.
"He is moving again!" he whispered in amazement.
"Yes," Wynifir agreed with a faint smile, fondly putting her hand on his. "She is."
Éorik grinned at her; it was a game they played, where he consistently referred to their child as a son whilst Wynifir always spoke of a daughter. Then he again felt movement under his hand, and quickly rose on his knees to lean forward and press his ear against his wife's stomach. He giggled in delight when the child in response boxed his cheek with expert aim.
"Did you feel that?" he asked eagerly, his bright blue eyes gleaming with excitement.
Now Wynifir could not help laughing. "My sweet, silly husband," she said, gently running her hand through his tangled, flaxen curls. "Of course I felt it..." But then her mind wandered back to more unpleasant thoughts, and a worried frown crossed her face. "Promise me not to do anything rash? The Wormtongue has the King's ear, and nothing but ill will come
from confronting him."
"I promise," Éorik mumbled absently, shifting his weight without lifting his ear from her belly. "I do!" he yelped when his wife suddenly tugged his hair.
"Just making sure you were paying attention, husband," Wynifir chortled.
Straightening, her husband planted a quick kiss on her stomach before he rose. "Always, my love" he assured her. "Always."
"Good." His wife smiled in relief. "Now, if you would help me fetch some water and a cloth, I will have a look at your shoulder..."
* * *
"Wormtongue! Stop!"
His wife's warning sounded loudly in Éorik's ears as he hurried towards the wizened, black-clad figure, but he was too furious to pay it any heed. It had only been two days since he gave her his promise, but now the worm was there, right under his eye, strolling down the hallway alone like he had nothing to fear – and Éorik would never forgive himself if he did not grasp this opportunity.
The shout made Gríma turn around, and his eyes widened in surprise when he recognised the rapidly approaching young Rider.
"How unexpected," he observed with a condescending smile; "one thought you would have chosen to ride off with-" His voice became a strangled gargle as Éorik grabbed him and in one swift movement slammed him into the wall with one arm pressed against his throat.
"Go near my wife again, worm," he hissed, "and you will not live to see the light of another day!"
"Y-you misunderstand!" The black-clad man whimpered, wriggling to try to break free from Éorik's relentless grasp. "I was merely showing my concern – you wife is, after all, in a delicate condition..."
Wormtongue's knees buckled as Éorik suddenly let him go and stepped back with a snort. "She is," the Rider agreed, contemptuously brushing off the sleeve that had been in contact with the other man. "And she does not need to be tormented by your poisonous tongue!"
Wormtongue had been rubbing his bruised throat; but now he paused to give the other man a look with gleaming eyes. "Are you sure of that?" he asked slyly. "Are you sure it is my words that torment her, and not her conscience?"
"What do you mean?" Éorik snarled, taking a threatening step closer – but Wormtongue did not flinch. Instead, he smiled a knowing, almost friendly smile.
"Tell me, Éorik son of Éothed – have you asked your wife what she dreams when she moans in the night? Have you asked her whether it is from pain... or pleasure?"
With a furious roar, Éorik raised his arm to strike the worm to the ground – for nobody could imply, nobody could even think something like that about his wife and still go on living... but then he caught the glitter in Wormtongue's dark eyes, and shifted his aim at the last second so that he instead slammed his fist into the wall right next to other man's ear.
"No," he hissed, putting his face so close to Wormtongue's that his breath stirred the greasy, black hair. "I will not give you the satisfaction!"
He stared at the pale-faced man for another moment; then he twisted on his heel and stalked off, followed by a low chuckle that made him tremble with fury. Part of him wished that he had smashed the cringing worm into a bloody pulp, and damn the consequences... but another part, whose voice spoke louder the more his head cooled, was already regretting his act.
He should have listened to Wynifir, he thought morosely; though a year younger than he, she had always been wiser and more level-headed, urging restraint where he wanted to rush ahead. And now he had again let his temper get the better of him, despite her warnings; he so desperately wanted to shield her and their unborn child from all the evils of this world, but
instead, he had endangered them both. If Wormtongue exiled him, there would be nobody there to protect them... but he would not bow down, he thought furiously. Never that he would crawl before that worm and ask his forgiveness! Not for anything, not even... maybe not even...
Only for Wynifir, he thought. For her, he would do anything.
With gleaming eyes, Gríma watched the furious Rider walk away. He could easily have that whelp exiled for this, he though as he absently felt his throat to make sure nothing had broken, and he would – but not yet. The boy was all bark and no bite, a young fool thinking himself impressive and nothing more. He was not yet dangerous – and besides, his pompous strutting was rather entertaining...
With a chuckle, he drew himself up. It was best that he returned to the Hall; he could not risk that something happened in his absence that would awake what remained of Théoden's mind.
* * *
She could not move. She could not scream. There was a vile taste in her mouth, but she could not swallow it down; all she could do was breathe, and roll her eyes to try to catch a glimpse of light through the massive darkness surrounding her.
The heavy breathing was beside her now. There was a soft rustle of fabric, a low chuckle – and then, suddenly, there was a weight on top of her, almost choking her as it ruthlessly pressed her down. She gagged when a stream of rancid breath hit her face, but she could not turn her head to escape it. All she could do was blink uselessly into the dark, trying to keep her tears away as hands started groping.
"Not so cocky now, are you?" a purring voice whispered into her ear. "Oh no, not so cocky..."
Then the darkness turned red with pain.
Wynifir sat up with a gasp. The dream fled quickly, but she could still feel the pain ripping through her, and she could not hold back a frightened sob.
Beside her in the bed, Éorik stirred.
"Wynifir?" he mumbled – and then clearer, as his drowsy mind slowly drifted into wakefulness: "My love, what is the matter? Is it the child? Is it time?" Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he clambered upright, looking at his wife with an odd mixture of excitement and trepidation on his face.
"No," Wynifir whispered after a moment's consideration. It had not been the right kind of pain, and it was quickly fading together with last the images of the dream. "No, I just... I had another nightmare, that is all." She shuddered at the hazy memory, no more now than a lingering feeling of dread. "I think... I dreamt that someone hurt me..."
An unpleasant thought stirred in the back of Éorik's head, but he was too drowsy to notice it. "Nobody will hurt you," he instead with a yawn assured his wife. Carefully he wrapped his arms around her, and pressed a kiss on her cheek as he pulled her close. "Not while I am here."
"But what about when you are not?" Wynifir's voice trembled on the brink of tears. For a brief moment, a memory flickered, filling her with fear, but it almost immediately faded back into haziness.
"I will be." Tightening his embrace, Éorik slowly rocked his shivering wife. "I will be, my love..."
Even though Wynifir knew it was not true – for even the most devoted husband could not always be at his wife's side – the absolute conviction in his voice made her feel calmer. Resting her head against his chest, she did not protest when he gently urged her to lie back down, and she went back to sleep safely nestled in his arms.
Once more did Gríma Wormtongue make Wynifir cry – but this time, it was tears of relief. It was only three days later when Gandalf the Grey and his party arrived at Edoras and the Golden Hall.
* * *
"By order of the King, the city must empty!" Háma's voice boomed over the crowd. "We make for the refuge of Helm's Deep. Do not burden yourselves with treasures; take only what provisions you need!"
Meduseld was bustling with activity. In every corner and every room, people were packing – for even though the King's order had said only to bring the bare necessities, there were still things no Rohirrim would allow to fall in Orc hands, should the city be overrun.
"Éorik!" a voice called across the throne room. "We need your arms over here!"
"In a moment!" Éorik called back, and then quickly moved away before he could hear the reply. He had spotted his wife entering the hall, swaying her head like she was looking for something, and now he hurried to meet her.
The frown on Wynifir's face turned into a warm smile when she saw her husband rushing towards her. "There is no need to run, my love," she chortled as she turned up her face to receive a kiss in greeting. "I cannot move so fast these days..."
"I know," her husband murmured apologetically as he with a light squeeze placed his hand over the one she already had resting on her round belly. A wondrous look spread across his face as he felt the child move, but it lasted only a moment before his mind turned to more immediate, grimmer matters.
"I will not be able to ride by your side, my wife," he reluctantly told her.
"I know," was the calm reply.
Her husband frowned. "And you will not reconsider? You will be far more comfortable in a cart than-"
"Éorik, no," Wynifir firmly interrupted him. "Others need the room better than I; it is bad enough that I will be riding when so many have to walk."
"Éorik!" a testy voice anew called before the young Rider could answer his wife. "We need you!"
"In a moment!" Éorik barked over his shoulder, and then immediately he returned his attention to Wynifir as he once again felt movement under his hand.
"He is frisky," he said in a proud voice, patting her stomach gently. Wynifir laughed.
"Yes," she told him. "I have noticed that."
The amazed look returned to Éorik's face when his touch was rewarded with a kick so strong it made Wynifir wince. "He must have heard me!" he whispered, looking at his wife with glittering eyes.
"Maybe," Wynifir chortled.
But the gleam in Éorik's bright eyes faded as a frown crossed his face. "It is strange," he mused; "only a year ago, I would have relished the chance of going to war and show those Orcs what the Riders of the Mark are made of, but now..." He shook his head. "Now I find myself wishing it had not had to come to this. Mock me for it if you want," he added tersely when his wife smiled.
Wynifir sighed in amused exasperation. "My sweet, silly husband," she said, gently stroking his blond, stubbly beard with her free hand. "Why would I do that? Why would I mock you for growing up?"
"Éorik!"
Éorik muttered something under his breath that his wife was grateful she did not catch. "I have to go back," he told her glumly. "But I will catch you before we ride out!" Then he quickly bowed down to plant a kiss on her stomach before he scurried away.
Smiling, Wynifir watched him leave. Silly, she thought fondly. Her sweet husband, trying so hard to be a man when he was still so much of a boy...
She chased the thought away with an annoyed shrug. There would be plenty of time to reminisce later; she should make herself useful instead of just standing here, feeling melancholy... but that was just the problem: right now, she was of no use. All around her, people were hurrying to get everything packed in time, lifting and carrying and running – and in this condition, she was not particularly good at any of that. Slow and clumsy, she thought, clicking her tongue in exasperation; a far cry from her old, lithe self. And even though she would miss carrying the child under her heart, on days like this, she could barely wait to get that self back.
She looked around the hall, searching in frustration for something, anything she could help with, and her annoyed frown faded into a smile when she spotted a seemingly forgotten box on a table nearby. It did not look heavy, she thought as she strode over to the table as briskly as her girth allowed; this, at least, she should be able to carry. Her already strained back protested angrily at the added weight when she picked the box up, but even so, Wynifir with steely determination started to haul her burden towards the exit.
She had not taken five steps before the box suddenly floated from her grasp, lifted by a pair of strong arms.
"Let me take that," a man's soft voice said. "You have quite enough to carry."
Refusing to let go, Wynifir angrily clicked her tongue; why was it that men always had to treat her like an invalid just because they could not understand her condition? "I appreciate your concern," she replied, not quite able to keep the irritation from her voice, "but I assure you I can manage." She did not know his name, but she recognised the tall, dark man beside her as the ranger who had arrived with Gandalf the Grey; the only Man in that odd company of dwarves and elves.
"You should not strain yourself," he persisted.
Shaking her head, Wynifir was about to give this impertinent ranger a tongue-lashing he would not soon forget – but it died on her lips when her gaze met his. There was something in those keen, grey eyes, something about the way he looked at her with his brow lightly creased in concern, that made her feel... safe. She did not know this man, but she knew she could trust him, and slowly, she let the box go.
"You are probably right," she reluctantly admitted, smiling a slightly embarrassed smile. She could feel her back sigh in relief as the ranger took the box from her and hoisted it up on his shoulder. "But I... I feel so useless!" She surprised herself by admitting to this stranger something she could barely tell Éorik her husband. "I am just slow and clumsy and in the way..."
The ranger smiled faintly. "I doubt anyone but you thinks that," he said. "You already carry a precious burden. You are far along?"
It was not so much a question as a statement, and Wynifir only nodded in reply.
"And will you be able to make it to the Hornburg?" Now there was a hint of concern in the ranger's voice as well as in his eyes.
"What choice do I have?" Wynifir grimly asked him in return. "Other than to stay here and be slaughtered?"
The ranger just regarded her in silence for a moment; then he shifted the weight of the box on his shoulder as he shrugged. "I have some skills in healing," he told her. "Let me know if you get uncomfortable; there might be something I can do to help."
He bowed his head in acknowledgement when Wynifir nodded mutely; then he took his leave, and walked away with long, striding steps. She watched him go with a frown of puzzled wonder. He was know ordinary ranger, of that she was certain... but then who was he? What was he?
She did not notice her husband stalking up to her until he touched her elbow; then she gave a surprised start.
"What did he want?" Éorik growled, with utter disgust nodding in the direction of where the ranger had disappeared. Wynifir smiled.
"To look after your wife," she told him impishly, and was rewarded with a dark glare.
"I don't like him!" was her husband's immediate, heart-felt response. "I don't trust rangers!"
Now his wife sighed deeply, putting her hands on his shoulders to make him turn and look her in the eyes. "Éorik son of Éothed," she said firmly, "I love you more than anything – but sometimes, you are incredibly silly!"
"Why?" her husband demanded, his eyes widening in earnest confusion when Wynifir just laughed. "What did I do?"
Instead of answering, his wife rose on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "You are sweet," she told him.
"What-"
"Éorik!" a voice bellowed from the door. "Get going; we're moving out!"
Éorik just waved his hand in reply. Then he put his arms around his wife's waist, and hugged her as close to him as he dared to press a kiss on her head.
"Be careful, husband," Wynifir whispered, letting her fingers run through his unruly, flaxen curls. Éorik grinned.
"Aren't I always?" he teased.
His wife just clicked her tongue at that.
And so Edoras emptied. Solemnly, its inhabitants filed out through the city gates, the long line of men and women, old and young meandering down the hills and out on the plains as it steadily moved towards the northwest. It was not the first time that their people sought refuge in the Hornburg, and they all knew they would be safe once within its strong walls. The keep had saved them in the past; now, it would do it again.
They had not been on their way for long before Wynifir was forced to admit that she would have been wise to listen to her husband's suggestion. Even though the pace was slow and the ground even, she was more uncomfortable than she had ever imagined she could be on horseback; every jolt, every sudden movement made sharp stabs of pain sear up her spine and down her legs, soon making every bone in her body ache. But I cannot give up already, she thought with stony determination. I have started this, and I will see it through.
She was so focused on staying in the saddle that she did not notice the dark-haired ranger appearing at her stirrup until his soft voice addressed her.
"How are you feeling?"
Giving a painful start, Wynifir grimaced. "I am cursing my pride that made me decline the sensible offer to ride in a cart – but don't let my husband know I said so."
That made the ranger smile faintly for a moment, but the smile quickly faded. "There is still some way to go..." he pointed out.
"I will manage," Wynifir curtly forestalled the question she knew he would ask. "There is no need to worry," she added in a kinder voice when the ranger frowned; "I may not be as lithe as I used to be, but I can still ride a horse, and wield a sword if I have to."
She had expected him to belittle her brave words, but instead of a patronising response, she to her surprise got a nod of approval.
"Let us hope it will not have to come to that," the ranger said in a low voice. When her only reply was a grimace, he briefly bowed his head before picking up his pace to again move forward along the column.
Under a deep frown, Wynifir's eyes followed him. Certainly no ordinary ranger, she mused, this man they said spoke to Théoden King like an equal and who yet treated the minions like his peers...
Chortling at the memory the thought evoked, she shifted her gaze, letting her eyes run ahead towards the King and his entourage at the head of the column. She did not see him, but she knew that somewhere amongst those sturdy warriors was her Éorik, and even though he would never admit it, she knew he must be fiercely proud of riding so close to the Lord of the Mark, and she smiled. Her sweet, silly husband...
Then she heard the cry:
"Wargs! We are under attack!"
The response was immediate. Far ahead, Wynifir could see the Riders surge forward, urged on by their King, whilst over the cries and frightened shouts of the milling villagers rang the Lady Éowyn's voice:
"Make for the lower ground! Stick together!"
Far ahead, Wynifir could see a single, green-clad Rider twist in his saddle to gaze back at the column for a brief moment before he charge after the King. She could not see his face, and she did not have to.
"Be careful, my husband," she whispered. "Be safe."
Then, blinking hard to clear her suddenly clouded eyes, she urged her horse forward.
Many wept with joy when the strong walls of the Hornburg finally came into view; once behind them, the people of Edoras knew nothing could reach them. Now they were safe. Now they could rest.
The keep was already crowded with refugees from the Westfold, but Wynifir barely noticed the people around her as she staggered through the mighty gates. With a sigh that was almost a sob, she collapsed onto a rickety cart that was the first thing to come into view. Its owner, a lanky old man with only a fringe of greying hair remaining, shot her an annoyed glance; but when his eyes took in her condition, his glare faded into compassion.
Wynifir just nodded weakly when the man gruffly asked if she was all right, too tired to even open her eyes and look at him. Her muscles were writhing around aching bones, her head throbbed and her entire back was knotted up in cramp. Not even giving birth could be as bad as this, she though with a half hysterical giggle; and like it could read its mother's mind, the child under her heart kicked her ribs firmly in reply.
"Wynifir? How are you feeling?"
Hearing the familiar voice, Wynifir reluctantly pried her eyes open to meet the Lady Éowyn's frown with a wan smile. "I am fine," she assured the woman hovering over her. "I just... riding turned out to be a bit more taxing than I remembered, that is all." She made a face. "The next time my husband makes a suggestion, I swear I will just accept it without questioning. He wanted me to ride in a cart," she wryly explained when the Lady looked puzzled.
"You have a wise husband," Éowyn smiled. Then she straightened her back and reached out her hand. "Come," she said, offering to help the younger woman up. "Let us go inside, and find you a place where you can rest more comfortably."
But Wynifir shook her head. "I would rather stay here. Éorik is with the Riders; I want to be here to meet him when they return."
She looked up, her dark blue eyes meeting Éowyn's grey. Neither of them spoke what each knew the other was so painfully aware of: that the Riders might not return. Then Éowyn nodded slowly. She held Wynifir's gaze for one moment longer before she turned and moved away to tend the rest of her herd.
Wynifir did not have to wait long before the call everybody had awaited sounded through the keep:
"Make way for Théoden! Make way for the King!"
Rising clumsily from the cart, Wynifir anxiously watched the Riders approach. They were so few, so very few... and she could not see... had he... was he...?
But there! Amongst the very last to cross the bridge was that figure whose easy, almost insolent seat she would have recognised anywhere. He did not seem injured, she thought with relief – and she could tell from his posture that he was very pleased with himself.
Not caring about the angry shouts following her, Wynifir pushed her way through the crowd, and reached her husband just as he dismounted. With a cry of joy and relief, she threw herself into his arms.
"My husband... my love... I was so worried." For once she cared neither that her tears were streaming nor that some of his older comrades chuckled as she rose on tiptoe to fiercely kiss Éorik's face everywhere she could reach. "I was so afraid you wouldn't return..."
The last word became a muffled mumble as her husband's lips met hers in a tight embrace that lasted until both of them had to step back to catch their breath.
"Have I ever not returned, my love?" Éorik asked innocently, and grinned when his wife rolled her eyes at the silly question – but his grin quickly faded when he remembered he was the bearer of unhappy news. "But your friend did not," he solemnly said, but his wife's only response was a look of blank incomprehension.
"My friend?" she repeated.
"That ranger?" her husband clarified, not quite managing to quell a snort. "Aragorn, I think they said his name was. He fell, down a cliff..."
His wife sighed. "I am sorry to hear that," she said – "but I will not miss him, because I did not know him," she added with a hint of amusement in her voice when she saw her husband's disgusted face. "He was kind to me a couple of times, that is all."
"A couple of times?" Éorik immediately demanded, his voice trembling with outrage. "Ouch!" he then winced when Wynifir half-seriously punched him in the arm.
"Stop it!" she jokingly scolded him; "you act like he was trying to abduct me when all he did was to show his concern. He is – was – a kind man," she went on in a graver voice. "Not... not like he." It was obvious what "he" she meant.
Her husband frowned for another moment, just to show what he thought of it all. Then he grimaced. "I owe that ranger my life," he reluctantly admitted. "A Warg came up behind me that I did not see, and he cut it down before it reached me. But five Wargs I slew on my own!" he added proudly.
"You truly are a great warrior, Éorik son of Éthed." Wynifir's impish smile earned her a suspicious glare from her husband, who at first wasn't quite sure whether or not she was making fun of him – but then he decided that it truly did not matter.
"Come," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "You look tired; let us find someplace where we can sit and rest for a while."
His wife immediately claimed that she was feeling fine, but they both knew it was just a token objection, and as they walked deeper into the keep she was leaning heavily against her husband, thankful for the support he was so happy to give her.
* * *
"That's it." With a resolute grunt, the grizzled old soldier let the iron bar fall into place on its clamps, locking the massive armoury doors. "The armoury's empty."
To the surprise of all and the joy of many, Aragorn the ranger had returned earlier that day, very much alive if a little worse for wear. But he had brought with him word of a great host marching on Helm's Deep, that would reach them ere nightfall – and now the Hornburg was preparing for battle. Every man and strong lad would be armed, Théoden King had ordered, and his men had been carrying out that order to the letter.
"The King will be pleased," Éorik observed with pride.
"Will he?" The elder rider snorted. "Will he be pleased to learn that his keep is defended by dotards and infants? By farmers and stable-boys?"
"They are still Men of Rohan!" his young comrade angrily claimed.
"Yes," the older man solemnly agreed, "but they aren't warriors – and warriors are what we'll need if we're to survive this night."
For a moment, Éorik just stared at him, unable to force any words past his choking anger; and when he finally could speak, his voice quivered.
"My wife is in the caves, carrying our child that will be born any day." The sympathetic look on the other man's face only served to fuel Éorik's fury. "The Hornburg has never been taken – and it will not be taken now, not when I am defending it!"
Trembling with rage, he twisted on his heel and stalked off. This was no way to speak to a superior, he knew that, and he would probably be dressed down for it later – but he did not care. What they needed now was bravery, not cowardly talk from weaklings; the other men were frightened enough as it was without having to listen to spineless claptrap!
He did not realise where he had been going until he was already standing on the stairs, and inhaled deeply the crisp evening air that was such a welcome change from the musty confines of the armoury. His fury quickly cooled off in the fresh breeze, and for a moment, as he looked out over the vale bathed in the red light of the setting sun, he felt almost content; but the feeling lasted only until he spotted the tall, dark-haired man standing farther down the stairs, sword in hand and with a yellow-haired boy for a captive audience. The ranger, Éorik thought with disgust, showing off his swordsmanship to Háma's boy who seemed to relish every word from the man's lips. What was wrong with them all? Was he the only one who saw that Aragorn fellow for what he was? Everybody, the King, Gamling, even Wynifir, who was the most sensible person he knew, seemed completely dazzled by that shabby stranger; he had even heard people say that his returning alive was an omen foretelling that they would win the battle. Well, of course they would, his mind snarled – and they were perfectly capable of doing it without the help of any stray rangers!
Again, the rage started coursing through Éorik's veins. Just look at him, he though furiously; flexing his muscles, flirting with other people's wives... who did the man think he was? Well, Éorik was not impressed in the least – and that, he was going to show that puffed-up ranger!
When the son of Háma walked off – his back a little straighter, his shoulders a little less slumped – the son of Éothed in turn stalked up to the ranger, and drew up every inch of his gangly frame as he loudly cleared his throat to get the older man's attention. Immediately, the other man turned, with a mildly curious look in grey eyes easily on level with Éorik's flashing blue – and in an instant, the young Rider's bravado crumbled. For one moment more, he stood fast under that firm gaze; then his stare faltered, and he looked away.
"L-Lord Aragorn..." he stumbled, and then gave a start – for that was not how he had planned on addressing the man. "I am Éorik... son of Éothed?" When no recognition gleamed in Aragorn's eyes, he hesitantly went on:
"I just wanted to... thank you." Which also was not what he had intended. "For taking care of that Warg back there?" he added for clarification when the other man still regarded him only with curiosity.
Now a faint smile lit up Aragorn's face. "Ah," he said, now recognising the foolhardily valiant young Rider from the battlefield. "There is no need to thank me for that."
But Éorik, to his own surprise, was not done. "And... for looking after my wife. Wynifir?" he tried when Aragorn frowned, but without success. "She is with child. Very much. I mean-" he stuttered when he realised how ridiculous the last had sounded, but the older man's slightly amused nod halted him.
"I understand," Aragorn kindly assured him; "and there is no need to thank me for that, either." Then his countenance grew sterner. "You need to learn to watch your back, Éorik son of Éothed. Your child will need a father."
"And he will have one!" Éorik snapped, the fire of his rage for an instant rekindled; but it quickly died down when the other man just nodded sombrely in reply.
"If I were you, I would take my leave of my wife," Aragorn said as he turned to go back into the keep. "We will soon be manning the battlements."
Éorik was already halfway down to the caves when he realised he had heeded the suggestion without questioning.
* * *
There were no stars in the sky, no moon. The torches alone valiantly fought to light up the night, but their flicker was far too faint to stir the oppressing darkness. Vainly straining their eyes, the men on the battlements peered blindly into the dark, but they needed no light to know what ill news was heralded by the low rumble that relentlessly kept growing stronger. Many of them were grateful the night was so dark; for the blackness hid the stark terror shining in their eyes.
Standing on the outer wall, like his comrades staring into the night to try to catch a glimpse of light through the massive darkness, Éorik felt oddly exhilarated. No matter what he had told his wife earlier, now, when the battle was a fact, he could barely wait to sharpen his sword on some Orc heads. Let them come, he thought belligerently. Let the fell beasts come, and they would curse the day they took on the Men of the Mark!
But it was not only the wrath of the Riddermark the Orcs would feel. On the walls as well as behind them, side by side with the Rohirrim, now stood scores of elven archers, stone-faced and unmoving like statues. They had arrived at the very last moment to honour the allegiance that once existed between Men and elves – thanks to Aragorn, it was said. Éorik snorted; if he turned his head, he could see the ranger strutting along the inner wall, looking every inch like a king assessing his troops... and Aragorn must somehow have felt the smouldering look, for his eyes searched the outer wall until they met Éorik's, and returned the glare with a faint smile. With a grunt, Éorik looked away without acknowledging the greeting, and turned his back to the ranger and his elves alike even though doing so gave him an odd feeling between his shoulder blades. He was not all that happy about having those strange creatures with their tall bows standing right behind him; who knew where their arrows might hit...
They could see the torches now, rhythmically bobbing up and down accompanied by the ever-louder rumble of thousands of Orc feet that made the mighty keep tremble. They would feel it in the caves, Éorik thought. A force powerful enough to shake the Hornburg must be felt in the caves... where Wynifir was.
Wynifir. He wondered if she was frightened, trapped in the caves, forced to listen to that terrible rumble and with no one to comfort her. He was worried about her; it was so very unlike her, but she had wept openly when they said farewell, and even though she kept insisting she was all right, he had seen how exhausted he had been, how pale. He knew the ride to Helm's Deep had taxed her strength more than she would admit, and he was afraid she had pushed herself too far. She needed to be strong now, with the birth of their child so very near... and he needed her to be strong, for he could not be there to support her.
Wynifir. His wife, his love... his life. He remembered so well the first time he had seen her; the sun making her pale hair shine like gold, and that impish smile under sparkling, dark-blue eyes... he had loved her from the first moment he saw her – but she, of course, had been more level-headed, more pragmatic, and it had taken some quite persistent courting before she had finally agreed to be his wife. He remembered the first time they kissed – not before they were betrothed, but not from lack of trying on his part – and he remembered their wedding day, or at least most of it. And he remembered when she told him they were going to have a child...
A sniffle that was half a sob jolted him from his ruminations. At some point, a boy of about thirteen had come to stand beside him on the wall, almost comically clad in a helm made for a much larger head than his and with a sword at his side that was nearly as tall as he. Like Éorik, he was also armed with a crossbow, but the hands holding it were shaking badly, and the eyes under the heavy helm were wide with fear. Éorik felt a pang of sympathy; this boy should be with his mother down in the caves, not up on the walls fighting Orcs – and if he was this frightened, he would likely do his own more harm than good in battle.
Gently, Éorik nudged the boy with his elbow, and got a muffled yelp and a startled look in reply.
"Éorik," he introduced himself, looking steadily into the boy's large, frightened eyes. "Son of Éothed. And you?"
"G-Gáred," the boy stuttered. "Gáred, son of Hágard."
Éorik smiled his friendliest smile. "Tell me, Gáred son of Hágard – do you know how to use that crossbow?"
The boy's eyes widened, but this time it was in outrage, and not in fear. "Of course I do!" he snarled in a voice thick with indignation.
"Just making sure," Éorik grinned. "I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself – or me, for that matter."
The boy just shot him a murderous glare in reply before rigidly turning away to resume staring at the approaching torches. Good, Éorik thought with an inward smile, he had managed to make the boy angry – and in a situation like this, anger would be a lot more productive than fear.
Then a sudden flash of lightening lit up the vale, uncovering with piercing clarity the approaching enemy army. Around him, he could hear the men gasp, and for a moment even Éorik himself was taken aback. So many... he would never have thought there even existed so many Orcs in Middle-earth; there must be thousands of them, tens of thousands!
Beside him, he heard Gáred sob. "They're so many!" the boy whimpered. "They... we..."
Again, Éorik nudged him. "But that is good," he told the lad a lot more cheerfully than he felt. "This way, it doesn't matter if your aim is a bit off; you will hit something anyway."
"My aim is not off!" Gáred growled, looking fully prepared to put a bolt in the older man just to prove his point – but this time, he received no mocking reply. Moving in unison with the men around him, Éorik was raising his crossbow and threw a quick, final glance at the boy beside him.
"And now would be the time to prove it, Gáred son of Hágard."
The boy glared at him suspiciously for a moment; then he, too, raised his bow, with hands that were rock steady.
Roaring in their harsh speech and drumming their spears on the ground, the enemy army had stopped, seemingly just out of range of the crossbows. These were no ordinary Orcs, Éorik now saw; they were taller, broader... fiercer, the thought with a shudder. Maybe this wouldn't be so easy after all...
Suddenly, a bolt sizzled through the air, and for one ghastly moment, everything froze. Orcs and Men alike stared in dumbfounded surprise as one tall, black creature toppled and fell... and then, with a furious roar, the host on the ground charged.
From behind, somebody barked an order in a language Éorik did not recognise – but it was immediately followed by one he understood perfectly:
"Fire!"
Éorik was an expert marksman, and he did not have to watch the bolt to know it would fly true. He had readied another as soon as the first one left his bow, and then another, bolt after bolt felling enemy upon enemy... but it was not enough. Unyielding as an avalanche, despite the barrage of crossbow bolts and arrows, the enemy kept coming.
"Ladders!" somebody shouted.
Of course, Éorik thought with a mental snort as he drew his sword. No, this was not going to be anywhere near so easy as he had thought...
Children wailed in terror when they heard the low rumble and felt the ground tremble, and even though they were terrified themselves, their mothers did their best to comfort them – but the children felt their fear, and only cried more.
All around her, Wynifir saw frightened faces with eyes widening in dread, and even though she was trying to suppress her own fear, she knew she must look just like them. Éorik was out there, facing that rumble; her sweet, silly husband, always so brash where sense was needed, so quick to run headfirst into danger... still so much more of a boy than a man. If she lost him this night... but no, she thought, angrily shaking her head, she must not think that. She could not think that.
She had to move, she thought, clumsily getting on her feet despite the angry protests
from her cramping back. She just could not sit there and listen to that terrible sound...
...and then it stopped. For a brief, blessed moment, everything was quiet – but then the sound returned in full force, like a wave relentlessly bearing down on the shore.
They are storming us, Wynifir thought. Oh, Éorik, please don't do anything silly...
That was when she felt it. She knew immediately what it was, what it must be, but still she refused to believe it at first. Not now, she though in desperation, clutching her stomach like that could make it stop. It cannot happen now... but when the next cramp made her knees buckle, there could be no question that it was indeed happening, whether she wanted it or not.
"Wynifir? How are you feeling?"
The soft voice startled her, as she had not heard the footsteps approach. Slowly straightening her back as the pain released her, Wynifir turned, and was both relieved and embarrassed to find the Lady Éowyn standing beside her with a concerned frown on her face.
"I think it is time," she said in a miserable voice. "I am sorry; I could have timed it better..."
But Éowyn smiled an encouraging smile. "It is not your fault," she assured the younger woman, gently putting a supporting arm around Wynifir's shoulders. "Come; we will find a place where you can have some privacy and lie down – and somebody who can assist you better than I," she added wryly.
Like she had heard the Lady's summons, an elderly woman appeared, her hair more ashen than gold and her kind smile turning her face into a web of wrinkles.
"Is something the matter?" she inquired, taking in Wynifir's condition and the frown on Éowyn's face with a knowing, sympathetic nod. Gently, she moved to cup the young woman's chin, and turned the pale face towards her. "My name is Gerda," she said. "I have given birth to four children and helped seven grandchildren into this world; if I can be of any help..."
Gasping as another pain grasped her, all Wynifir could do was nod, in unison with Éowyn.
"Thank you," Gerda smiled as she quickly moved to Wynifir's other side to support her from there. "My lady... would you assist?"
Éowyn looked a bit taken aback. "I am no midwife and I have borne no children of my own," she pointed out; "I know nothing of these things."
"Nonsense!" the older woman snorted. "You are a woman, are you not? Besides, another pair of hands is always useful. Now, we need to find this girl a place where she can lie down; if you could fetch a kettle with water and get a small fire going...?"
She seemed a bit uncomfortable about giving orders to the Lady of Rohan, but Éowyn nodded resolutely. "Of course," she willingly agreed, getting a relieved smile in return.
"Take deep breaths, lass," Gerda returned her attention to Wynifir and started to rub the small of her back. "That's right," she said encouragingly; "deep breaths. We'd better find you somewhere to lie down; this child seems to be in a hurry..."
"Twenty! Twenty-one! Twenty-two!"
With a snarl, Éorik spun to skewer one enemy and in the same movement slashed another. This was getting on his nerves; he knew they needed every man on his feet and fighting, but if the enemy split the head of that dwarf, they would have done the world a favour. The little fellow seemed to know what he was about, that much Éorik had to admit; but if he could just stop that counting...
"Gáred!" he shouted over the clamour, felling another enemy with a blow he would happily have put into the counting dwarf instead. "Behind you!"
Hearing the warning, the boy twirled to stab the advancing Orc in the side only a moment before it could bring its sword down over him. With a grimace, he shot the older man a grateful glance.
"Watch your back!" Éorik growled; "I don't want to see he Orcs hack you into pieces!" 