To Hope's End and to Heart's Breaking

Chapter 2

Éomer had returned to Edoras with one hundred and five of his éored. Fifteen Riders had fallen to the orcs, and when she saw that they were gone, Éowyn was a little ashamed of the great relief she felt when she saw her brother alive and well still. She never showed her deep feeling as she stood on the stone platform before the Golden Hall to welcome the Riders, but her heart swelled as always when she saw them riding up the winding path. They came in a long line of mail-clad men, swift, shining, fell and fair to look upon. Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed, their grey coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms, and streamed in long braids behind them; their faces were stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their burnished shirts of mail hung down upon their knees. Éowyn had known most of them from childhood, and Éomer had always seemed to her the fairest and strongest and best of them. He was taller than any other Rider with his father's height, and from his helm as a crest a white horse tail flowed. His eyes were clear and bright in their greyness, and Éowyn knew that even through the sadness of their lives, his heart had never succumbed to the chill that gripped hers. Early death of beloved parents had swept them both with sorrow, but Éomer had thrown himself into his new life in Meduseld, gradually drawing her into it as well. For a few years they had enjoyed themselves. But it had been many years now since Éowyn had felt the freedom of her childhood. It had been many years since Gríma Wormtongue had begun gaining power over Théoden—and somehow over her. Éomer had returned home, but he would go out again. And she would remain at Edoras.

All the men looked up at the tall figure of the woman in flowing white, pale hair blown by the wind that flowed through the lives of all the Rohirrim. Éowyn was much admired and beloved by her people, and often she was called by the name of her mother, Théodwyn—"Delight of the People." Pure Rohirrim womanhood she was, slender and tall in her white robe girt with silver, but strong and stern as steel, a daughter of kings. Very fair was her face, her long hair was like a river of gold nearly to her knees, and her eyes were the grey of an overcast day on the Plains. Each Rider touched his spear to his helm as she looked on him, and Éomer kissed his sword and held it out to her.

The éored presented itself to the king and reported its dead, and the king nodded and waved them away feebly while Gríma whispered in his ear. Fear struck Éowyn's heart. She knew that Gríma had long been whispering slanders about her brother into her uncle's mind. Many things Gríma said she saw the truth in, yet they still coiled serpents of horror around her heart, but nothing he could say against Éomer could sway her. But the light in her uncle's eyes was unfriendly as he watched his nephew stride from the hall in his youth and strength and beauty.

She went to Éomer as he cared for Firefoot, the fiery grey horse that had long been his close companion. In a land whose culture was founded on horses, the people were Riders, and a horse was as dear as a child. Éowyn's one sense of freedom in those harsh days was to ride out onto the Plains until all sense of time and place was gone, until all that existed was a Rider, a horse, the wind, the grass, and the mountains. Now she walked through the stables greeting each horse as a friend, passing a sorrowing hand over the nose of Gúthwind, Théodred's horse, and came to stand near her brother as his swift, sure strokes brought a gloss to Firefoot's grey coat.

"Éomer, where are Arod and Hasufel? Did they fall along with their Riders and the rest of the horses?"

He did not answer for a long moment. "We met . . . travelers on the Plains. A stranger three I have never seen, for they were an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man, and when I exchanged words with the Dwarf about the Elf Witch of the Golden Wood, he was defended by the Elf, and the Man stopped both with a gentle wisdom. They had come from Tol Brandir on foot in fewer than four days in pursuit of orcs and small creatures they called Hobbits."

"Four days!"

"Four days. The Man was a thing out of legend, and Wingfoot shall he be known among the Rohirrim. But you will see them all, for they will return Arod and Hasufel before many days are passed."

"You gave them Arod and Hasufel!"

"I did. And I say to you, Éowyn, my sister, that with this Man I one day hope to draw sword against orcs and against Mordor, and great will be the battle on that day!"

Éowyn stared at her brother. He seemed to have grown taller yet, and a light shone from his clear grey eyes as he remembered the meeting. Would that she had ridden with the Rohirrim, a true shieldmaiden of Rohan! "Éomer," she said abruptly, "beware Gríma Wormtongue. He whispers constantly to our uncle against you and fills my heart with foreboding."

Éomer listened soberly. Too long had he seen his land attacked, his people threatened, while the king did nothing and said all was well. He had grown tired and impatient with inaction, so he had led his éored against the king's orders to the battle he knew had been necessary to the Mark's security. Would that Théodred had not been slain! He smiled and tried to laugh. "Take no care for me, sister. I have not fallen so far from my uncle's graces that Gríma can overthrow me. For-" The smile fell from his face, his eyes turning sad. "For I am now his heir," he said in almost a whisper.

You have not lived in this hall month after month and seen the slow devastation of the king! Éowyn wanted to cry. You have ridden away to battle and cannot feel the slow chill that creeps over this place! Would that I were a man and could ride away—away—and not slowly suffocate here! But the words caught in her throat, and as she walked quietly away, Éomer thought how fair and strong she was.

A deep affection Éomer had for his sister, yet his eyes, keen in many other things, were often blind to what she kept hidden behind her set countenance. He had seen her grow silent, cold, and stern, yet to him, a Man of Rohan, this seemed as natural as the fact that she had grown tall, strong, and beautiful, for were not the women of Rohan as grim and fell as the men? He had never felt he must worry about his sister, for he knew she neither needed nor wanted anyone to protect her. Yet later in the Golden Hall, as he sat at meat by his uncle, his disobedience for the moment unresolved, he saw Éowyn's hand tremble just a little as she served the king, and he quickly followed her line of sight to where Gríma sat on the other side of the king. He had seen before now how Gríma looked on Éowyn with liking and had felt disquiet, but when he saw his sister's reaction, he looked at the counselor more closely and longed to strike him. What was it in Gríma's eyes? Desire? Need? A kind of obsession was there as he laid his pale fingers on Éowyn's wrist and asked a quiet question. She jerked away, revulsion and—could it be fear?—on her face as she poured him wine and moved quickly away. Gríma watched her as she went, and then his eyes flicked to Éomer. The blackness in them kindled, and he slowly smiled and turned away to whisper to the king.

A fury such as he had never known filled Éomer, and he clutched the edge of the table to keep his hands from Gríma's throat. To attack the king's counselor in the king's presence in the king's hall was punishable with death, but perhaps he could put the fear of the Rohirrim into the foul little snake. He rose early from the table and went out, standing in shadows near the door to watch those exiting. Gríma came out last with the king and then turned, seeming to remember something he had forgotten. Éomer followed him soundlessly back into the empty hall, quietly loosing Gúthwinë in its sheath. Without warning he grabbed Gríma around the throat, lifted him and thrust him against a pillar, pressing hard enough to cut off his air and bringing his sword up just under his chin, nicking the soft skin and drawing a little blood. The man's eyes bulged, and he clawed impotently at Éomer's arm.

"Too long have you watched my sister with foul intent in your eyes," Éomer hissed. "If I see again or hear report of you even looking upon her, I will cut out your eyes and feed them to the carrion-fowl, and if you dare to touch her again, I will slit your throat and give your body to the orcs!"

Gríma knew he would do it. The man was too great a threat to his mastery here at Edoras, but he had prepared for something like this. His eyes flicked toward the door.

Too late, Éomer heard the footsteps. The king entered, hunched over his stick, Éowyn assisting him. Éomer saw that a smile touched his sister's face when she saw him and his victim, but the king barked hoarsely, "Éomer!"

Éomer slowly released Gríma, giving his throat one last vicious squeeze and allowing him to drop heavily to the floor. Gríma scuttled over to where the king was slowly lowering himself into his throne. "My good lord," he rasped, "you see that what I have told you is true. Your line has failed, and there is no trust in the children of your sister. Your son is gone, and now your nephew would murder the only man you can trust. What can be done with such an one?"

"Uncle!" cried Éowyn, but the king stopped her with a motion.

"Gríma sees truly," his once strong voice quavered out. "Háma!"

The door guard came into the hall and knelt before the king. "My lord."

"Bind that man, remove his sword and helm, and imprison him."

Háma looked up in astonishment. "My lord?"

"Uncle, Éomer is your truest subject!" Éowyn cried.

"Do you still obey your king, Háma?" Théoden asked, and a little of the accustomed fire shone in his eyes.

"I-I do, my lord." He rose and went to Éomer. "Please, my Lord Éomer, will you come?"

Éowyn flew to his side, caught his arm, and for a moment Éomer saw the passionate Éowyn he had known as a child. "Háma!"

"Please, Lady," Háma said quietly with sorrowing eyes, "I obey my king."

"As do I," said Éomer, and with his eyes on his uncle he unstrapped Gúthwinë and handed it to Háma. "Keep it well, good Háma, for it will be needed." He removed his helm and gave it, too, to the door guard, then held out his wrists for binding. Before Háma could lead him away, he knelt, bowed his head to the king, and said, "My lord king, you have my allegiance and my life."

"Excellent words, bravely spoken by a man in bonds," Gríma sneered. "But are they borne out in action?"

Éomer glanced back at his sister, and she raised her chin, allowing him to see her proud and strong as he was. But as he disappeared from her sight, hot tears flooded her cheeks. The king had closed his eyes and settled his head back as if exhausted. Gríma came and stood by her, an odd look on his face. He cupped a cold hand around her cheek and said softly, "You see, Lady? There are none left to stand by you. You are alone." And, oddly, there was compassion in his voice and understanding in his face, and for just a moment, Éowyn wondered if he really was the only one who truly understood her. But then she looked into his eyes, and the tears dried, and the coldness settled around her and inside her. She stepped away from his hand.

"Your words are poison," she whispered and walked away from him. I know they are poison, but I have already drunk them, and I am dying.

Faramir rode alone from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith, from the city on the Anduin to the City against Mindolluin. He rode slowly, pondering what he had seen or thought he had seen, remembering the great peace on Boromir's face, the odd belt, the many orcish weapons beneath his feet, the absence of his horn. What people had he encountered, what company had he been in to lay him out in such state? What had happened on his journey? Where was his horn? How came he to find such peace? And how was Faramir to tell his father that his most beloved son was dead? Would his vision even be believed?

He had no doubt that whatever he had seen was true. His grief was too real, his heart too heavy and too near to breaking. His brother was dead. His big, brash, courageous, alive brother was dead. Memories flashed through his mind, obscuring his view of the White Tower. Boromir the day he left, both exhilarated and grim, looking forward to his dangerous journey but knowing he left behind a city that might come under siege at any time. Boromir fighting orcs at his side in Osgiliath, calling out encouragement to him and imprecations on the orcs. Boromir staring out into the East from the White Tower of which he was Warden at the red glows and foul airs of Mordor, almost obsessed with the idea of somehow defeating the Dark Lord of that Dark Land. Boromir singing forth the glories of Gondor. Boromir quarreling violently with him over the values of war and learning. Boromir as a young boy defending him to their father. Boromir storming out of history lessons to hack a sword training post to bits in fury. Faramir smiled at that memory. Boromir had never liked lessons and used to taunt him for enjoying them so.

Finally his memories brought him again to the day Boromir left Minas Tirith as he himself entered that city and slowly rode along the circling streets. Faramir had, of course, told his father he would journey to Rivendell to seek out the answer to his dreams, and Boromir had laughed and thrust him aside with the declaration that the dream coming to him at last meant that he should go. Boromir lived for glory and danger. He was a masterful man, and one to take what he desired. For days Boromir and Denethor had argued, for Denethor could not bear the thought of the son he loved heading into such danger. He both gloried in his older son's strength and prowess and dreaded where it would take him. For once he and Faramir were to an extent on the same side of an argument. But Boromir had gradually won him over, as always, until he began to feel that it was indeed the best way. On the day of the last argument, Denethor and Boromir, having almost come to a consensus, were discussing where Boromir's departure would leave the defense of Osgiliath, which had been attacked by the Dark Lord a fortnight before. Faramir remembered Denethor saying jovially:
"They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly that day!"

Boromir grinned and did not refute his prowess, but he did assert, "The victory belonged to Faramir as well."

Denethor cast a dark glance at his second son. "But for Faramir the city would still be standing. Were you not entrusted to protect it?"

"Our numbers were too few, Father," Faramir said quietly. They had had this conversation before, and he knew there was little use in arguing.

"You let the enemy walk in. But for Boromir coming to your rescue, they would have taken the city on a whim." The Steward glared at him, lowering his voice. "Always you cast a poor reflection on me."

Faramir felt the injustice of the accusation. Had he never done rightly? Had Boromir never failed? He kept his face calm, though he knew it was pale. He had long ago come to the realization that he would never please his father. Long ago he had ceased working for his father's approval. He worked only to keep the pain from becoming paramount. "That is not my intent."

Boromir rose with a violent motion and knocked over his chair. While Faramir rarely said anything when his father acted like this, Boromir and Denethor frequently had violent quarrels. They were very much alike and loved each other all the better for it. But Boromir always defended his younger brother to their father, even when Faramir did not want to be defended, when he knew it would only make matters worse. Boromir strode to the end of the room, and Denethor followed. They lowered their voices, but Faramir could still hear them echoing along the stone walls.

"Faramir loves you, Father!" Boromir protested. He loved his brother as he had loved his mother, unstintingly. His one pain was the way Denethor treated him.

"Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses, and they are few. Boromir, about this journey to Rivendell . . ."

Faramir approached, making his offer one last time for the quest that was his by right. "Let me go to Rivendell, Father."

But that was probably the deciding factor in Denethor's final decision. "You? Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality." He laughed bitterly. "I think not. No, the quest must be made, and it must be made by the one who will not fail. You will go, Boromir."

Exultation crossed Boromir's face. "Thank you, Father! I am sure something will come of this that will prove to be of help to us."

"You will do me proud, my son." It was a command, and as Denethor left the room, Boromir stood staring at Faramir with the sudden weight of heavy responsibility.

And now Faramir must bring news to Denethor of Boromir's failure. People cheered him as he rode, but he heard none of it. They stopped to look admiringly up at him, but he saw none of them. He did not know that he was as well loved as Boromir had been idolized. Boromir had been like a figure of history, but Faramir was one of them, a man of wisdom and virtue, a scholar and a warrior. As raven-haired as his brother, though not so broad and muscular, he was tall and quick, and his face was sad and proud. With his men he was stern and commanding; with his people he was gentle and wise. Behind his keen and bright grey eyes lay a sharp wit and a searching mind. He had begun to go his own way long ago, taking time in study, speaking to his people about what concerned them, learning from the virtuous and wise. All except Denethor could see his worth.

Faramir strode past the dead White Tree with his customary bowed head in reverence to the kings of old and the king who might one day come again, pushed open the doors of the great hall beneath the glowing tower, and entered the cool echoing shadows of the house of stone. He came to the metal door of the throne room and paused, gathering his wits and his courage. Then he entered, passing between the great pillars and images of the kings of old. Each of them he could name and describe, but today his mind was on what he must say to his father. And then he saw that he had no need of words, for Denethor sat in his chair, and on his lap was a great horn tipped with silver, and as he looked, Denethor loosed his hold on it and it fell in two pieces to the stone floor, and in his father's eyes was a terrible grief, too bitter for tears.