Usual disclaimers and thanks: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.
Is this story more movie-verse or bookverse? Well, in some ways it is movie-verse being pushed toward bookverse. In other ways, not…
Section 03 Something Wicked This Way Comes
Stupid, stupid me—how could I have forgotten about the orcs? About two months after I arrived there was a major orc attack on one of the outlying villages. Three of the defending warriors were killed and two were severely wounded—and one of the wounded men was the King's son Théodred.
I can still remember every moment of that awful day. I was folding clothes in Princess Éowyn's sunroom when I happened to look out the window and saw Éomer and Théodred riding up to Meduseld. My immediate reaction was, "Oh good, Éowyn will be pleased—her brother's finally come back." Then I realized that both men were sitting astride the same horse, and that Théodred was practically falling out of the saddle. Éomer was behind Théodred and had to clutch him to hold him upright.
I charged downstairs as fast as I could and ran out the main door of Meduseld to find out what had happened. Haldred was minding the door just then, and he told me that the Prince had been cut up badly by orcs while on patrol in the Westfold. By the time I arrived, Théodred had already been taken away to the healers.
Within minutes, all of Edoras was in shock. Filled with rage and grief, Théoden and Éomer galloped out at once with their Riders to track down and kill as many orcs as they could find. At first it nearly destroyed me to think that Théodred's father was riding away from his child, who'd been hurt so badly. But he was the King, and the King's duty to his people is equal to his duty to his own kin. At any rate, that's what they believe in Rohan.
I have to admit, it sounds better than the excuses I heard from my own father.
Meanwhile, Princess Éowyn was left behind in Meduseld to nurse her cousin Théodred and to command the city and its warriors in the King's name. One woman, in other words, was expected to handle the work of three men. Isn't that just typical? To make matters even worse, as soon as Éowyn got her hands on the King's daybook, she discovered to her horror that Théoden and his favorite counsellor Wormtongue had allowed the battle-readiness of Rohan's greatest fortress to rot.
Naturally, when Éowyn said to me, "I believe that the Hornburg should be reprovisioned at once," I quickly replied, "Great idea, Princess!"
Food, fuel, and weapons for the Battle of Helm's Deep—yes!!!
Ensuring that Rohan's ancient Keep was prepared for war was yet another burden for Éowyn, so I volunteered to stay with Prince Théodred in her place. It was a hard choice for Éowyn—dreadfully hard. She wanted to take care of her cousin, but her first responsibility was to take care of her people. After many tears, she permitted me to take over the job, although she still dropped in to see the Prince whenever she could find the time. Somehow she'd gotten the notion that I'd fallen in love with Théodred while I was cleaning his rooms, and I let her think that, since it made her feel better about her decision. It's not like he really knew who was with him most of the time, anyway.
The Hall of Healing offered the best medicine that Edoras had to offer, which wasn't much. Its cabinets were filled with ointments and powders, tinctures and poultices—but no antibiotics, of course. I asked the woman in charge, old Guthrun, if she had any kingsfoil, but she'd never heard of it. She had herbs to stop bleeding, though, to keep wounds from going septic, and above all to numb Théodred's pain a little. God bless her for that.
The Hall was a depressing old place with drying clapboard walls and clean but cold floors. Pale slivers of sunlight seeped in through the tiny windows. Even the constantly-burning incense couldn't mask the pervasive odor of blood and bedpans.
Almost from the beginning, Théodred and I were alone. The other wounded soldiers had been whisked away by their wives to be nursed in their own homes alongside of their own hearths. I suppose I could have moved him to his own tower bedroom, but his stark warrior's chambers would be no more comfortable than the Hall, and we'd be much further from the drugs and the healers.
How serious were Théodred's injuries? Bad. Really bad. He'd suffered several wounds, but the worst was a severe abdominal injury—or to put it more bluntly, his belly had been sliced wide open by the filthy sword of an orc. When I finally nerved myself up to ask Guthrun, "What can you do to heal the Prince?" she stared at me with a sorrowful but incredulous expression, as if I was stupid to even hope.
There wasn't very much that I could do for Théodred except hold his hand while he drifted in and out of consciousness. His right hand, that is—the fingers on his poor shield hand had been hacked off up to the knuckle. While I sat there and listened to him moaning, I couldn't help but curse the years I'd squandered on semantics and transformational grammar when I could have been studying modern medicine. But eventually I came to believe that even modern medicine wouldn't have been able to help wounds like those. Théodred's injuries were mortal; when I looked into his eyes I could see the face of Death. He reminded me of Gramma, my last visit to her in the hospital. It was just a matter of time.
Right from the start I decided to stick with Théodred 24/7. My kids would run errands for me if I ever wanted anything, and there was a parson's bench next to the cabinets that was just right for naps. You could doze on it, but it was too hard to really let you sleep. That was what I needed. Guthrun was good with medieval herbs, but she was deaf as a post. I couldn't bear to think that Théodred might wake up and call for help—and that nobody would hear him.
*************
On the third night, about half a candle before morning, I noticed that Théodred was sweating and mumbling in his sleep. So I got up to find a wet cloth to wipe his face. As I was turning back to Théodred's cot, I caught sight of a black-robed figure hunched over in the arched doorway. It was Gríma Wormtongue, smirking and rubbing his hands together as usual. Checking out the handiwork of his master Saruman, no doubt!
The last thing on Middle-earth that I wanted to see was that man's evil pasty face. I looked around for backup, but didn't see anyone but Guthrun, who was snoring in a corner. And the sad lump under the covers that was Théodred. So essentially, I was on my own.
Gríma was a snake, but he was still a dangerous, scary guy. Nevertheless, I stalked over and glared up at him. I wasn't going to let him inside where he could mess with the medicine cabinets. "You can't come in here. The Hall of Healing is restricted to patients and nursing staff."
Gríma bared his teeth in a fake-humble smile and craned his neck back and forth to see who was around. It was obvious that it was just him and me. "I merely came to see how Prince Théodred fares," he said unctuously. "It is said in the Great Hall that he will not last the night. What a tragedy, for the King to lose his only son and heir."
I'd spent too many hours watching Théodred die to listen to this creep slime all over him. "Save the phony sympathy for the suckers who think you care. You haven't fooled me for one minute. I know what you really are—and I know who you're working for."
I was gratified to see an apprehensive shadow pass briefly over Gríma's face. "You say that you know what I truly am? Then by all means, enlighten me."
"You're a spy, Wormtongue. You're a servant of Saruman, the evil Wizard—and you're plotting to destroy Rohan." I suppose it was stupid to open my mouth and announce to Gríma that I knew what he was up to. But I couldn't help but compare myself to Éowyn. She was a warrior princess, bold and courageous. She'd never shrink from an enemy—she'd stand her ground and give him a piece of her mind. How could I do anything less?
Gríma grew very quiet and calculating, then half-shrugged, as if to say, 'Well, no witnesses here.' "If I am a spy, then that is something that we have in common, Barbarella Broom-maiden."
Now it was my turn to be apprehensive. "What are you talking about? I'm not a spy! You're insane!"
"No, I am not insane. Neither am I a credulous, hamfisted fool." Gríma's perpetual, maddening smirky smile returned full-force. "Two months ago, Captain Háma found you wandering in the north prairie of the Westfold, a 'pathetic innocent traveler who had lost her memory'. Háma, fool that he is, readily swallowed your claim that you knew nothing of Rohan."
His eyes darkened, and nictitating membranes seemed to flutter over them, as if he really was a snake. "And yet you speak perfect Rohirric. Now, how can that be? Nobody learns our language except for those who have business in the Mark. Clearly, you're a liar and a spy."
This had been my worst nightmare from the beginning—somebody who was able to pick holes in my story. And it was Wormtongue! As I struggled to put together an answer, Gríma continued to gloat. "So I asked myself, who might have sent you here? At first I thought you an agent of Gondor—but the Ruling Steward would never entrust a task of this gravity to a mere woman. And then I was informed of the Council of Elrond—a motley group of representatives of the so-called "free peoples" who were summoned to Imladris and harangued to 'join or die.' That explained it all. It was the Elves who sent you here, to ensure Rohan's continued allegiance to the failing Armies of the West."
I finally found my voice. "You're wrong! I wasn't in any Council, and I wasn't sent here by Lord Elrond."
In a spurious gesture of tenderness, Gríma reached out and brushed back a long, sweaty lock of hair that had fallen loose from my chignon sometime during the night. "You were not? Then perhaps you will tell me—how did you know that Elrond is a Lord?"
For a moment I was too shocked to reply, and then I realized that Wormtongue had just laid his hand on my breast. So I slapped that fishbelly face of his. As he rocked back on his heels, cupping his reddening cheek with his palm, it occurred to me that slime or no, Gríma was a man of Rohan. If he fell into a battle rage, I'd have terrible, terrible trouble on my hands.
But I got lucky. I guess Gríma had lived too long in Meduseld, where according to the law of Rohan, the King and all his household were sacrosanct. Instead he circled me like a vulture and spat out his spite in words.
"I never dreamed that a contemptible little she-cat like you would become my bane! When you first stumbled into this castle you seemed only a foolish mewling virgin, but you wasted no time in placing Princess Éowyn under your thumb. You've enchanted her! She's become arrogant, reckless, a threat to all of my plans. You have undermined my influence with Théoden King, and assault my rightful authority in Meduseld. You even dare to insult Saruman, the great White Wizard!"
Gríma's spurt of invective took my breath away, but truth to tell, listening to his tantrum made me feel kind of proud. I'd spent the last couple of months wondering if I'd ever be anything more than Éowyn's maidservant.
"Saruman's not a great Wizard anymore—he's nothing more than a lackey of a power much eviler than he is. Like you," I taunted daringly. "And if you think he'll ever share any of his power with you, you really are insane!"
I knew that Gríma would rip at me for that, and I was right. He glared at me and retorted, "And what of you, Barbarella? You have chosen to place your trust in the promises of the Elves, but in the end, they'll sail west to the Undying Lands and abandon you to the Doom of Men."
Then Gríma laughed, a short, ugly bark. "Or perhaps your ambitions were more… earthy? Did you hope to cozen Prince Théodred into bedding you and making you Queen of Rohan? Alas, the wretched creature is utterly incapable of it now."
This time I threw a pitcher at him. It missed, unfortunately, and struck the clapboard wall with a sharp 'clank!' Gríma ducked, hissed out a traditional villain line, "You'll regret this," and stormed out the door.
Once I was sure he was gone, I woozily picked up the pitcher and set it back on the medicine cabinet. It was pewter, so it hadn't broken.
That's the thing about Rohan—nothing shatters there. Except your heart.
*************
For a while I simply stood there gasping, drained of all energy. Screaming-fit confrontations had never been my strong suit, and besides, I was getting to be really scared of Gríma Wormtongue. I was no shieldmaiden of Rohan—a couple of self-defense YMCA classes were the extent of my personal combat training. Physically, I was no match for him.
Once my ears stopped ringing, I heard someone calling my name.
"Barbarella…Barbarella?"
Although faint and quavery, the voice was fiercely demanding.
"Barbarella!"
It was Théodred!
Spinning around, I raced madly over to my patient's bedside. Prince Théodred had woken, and he was staring up at me with alert, unclouded blue eyes. It looked like his delirium had lifted for at least a little while. I grabbed a cup of boiled water and dropped to my knees on the cobblestone floor next to his cot, then pressed the cup to his lips, hoping to get some fluid into him. But he pushed the cup aside.
"No…no time," Théodred panted. He was very weak, but grimly determined nonetheless. "Barbarella, is it…is it true?"
I should have just said 'yes' and made him sip the water, but he must have seen the confusion in my eyes. Grabbing the chain of my necklace with his shaking right hand, Théodred yanked my head down close to his own bloodless face, then winced and bit his lips as he gathered the will to speak.
"The orcs are too many…we cannot kill them all," he whispered painfully. "My people lose faith…I have failed them."
"No, no, don't say that!" I was trying not to panic, but he was getting more agitated by the second. I had finally accepted that Théodred was going to die, but not then. Not while he sounded so despairing. "You fought bravely!"
"But we cannot defeat Saruman…his power grows ever stronger. Tell me, Barbarella—is there still hope left for Rohan? I thought that no one would come to help us, but you have come. Is it true…that you possess the magic of the Elves?"
For maybe a second I didn't understand what he meant—then I realized that he must have heard Gríma and me yelling at each other about Elves and enchantments.
Now, maybe you could have denied hope to a dying man in his most desperate hour—but I sure couldn't. Instead I gently pried his quivering fingers away from my necklace—the stupid Evenstar that I'd never figured out, but which was the only possible reason why I was here in Middle-earth.
And I told him, more or less truthfully, "Yes, I bear the magic of the Elves. And I promise you, whatever powers I possess I will use to save your people."
"Our people," he said intensely. "You must say 'our people'—you are part of the King's household now. And you are a brave woman. I would have been honored to make you my Queen."
As Théodred's right hand dropped limply to his side, the lines of pain on his face smoothed a little, and he grinned up at me like a mischievous boy. "And I would have enjoyed bedding you."
I was so choked up by tears that I couldn't speak, so I bent down and pressed my lips to his clammy forehead in a hesitant kiss. I heard a little gasp, and when I raised my head to look at Théodred's face I realized that he'd stopped breathing.
I screamed so loud that even Guthrun heard me. By the time she tottered over to me, I was blubbering on Théodred's shirt. I'd known that this was inevitable, and that he was out of his pain now, but it all seemed so horribly, horribly wrong. What kind of awful place was this, full of orcs and monsters and evil wizards, and where good people had nobody to help them?
Eventually I felt a hand touch my shoulder, and I was so exhausted that I didn't even leap up and scream. It was Éowyn. It must have been Haleth who brought her to the Hall of Healing, since he was standing right next to her. She looked teary-eyed but controlled—a lot more composed than I was, or than Haleth was either for that matter. The poor kid couldn't turn his eyes away from the body that was lying on the cot in front of him.
I couldn't help it—I started to cry again. "Théodred's dead."
"I know. Come, you must sleep now," Éowyn said firmly. Before I could protest, she and Haleth hauled me away and laid me down to sleep in Éowyn's bower. That seemed horribly wrong, too. A princess isn't supposed to take care of a handmaiden! But I was too wrung out to protest.
************
I slept for at least twelve hours. When I finally woke up, it was late afternoon. Throwing on a smock, I slapped some water on my face, grabbed an apple off the sideboard, then ran downstairs to learn what had happened while I was out of the picture.
It looked like the Great Hall was being readied for…something. All of the banners of Rohan had been mounted into staff holders, and rows and rows of candles in little clay bowls were lined up on tables on either side of the Hall. Half a dozen boys—most of them my kids!—were scurrying back and forth with baskets or boxes or armfuls of cloth. I snagged Wiglaf, who was dragging a stave at least twice as tall as he was, and asked him what was going on.
His puppy-brown eyes filled with tears. Prince Théodred was to be buried tonight, he told me. Apparently Théoden King and Marshall Éomer had finally—finally!—returned home, and the King had commanded that his son's Honors be held immediately. That sounded awfully fast to me, but of course it wasn't my call. So I hurried off to find Éowyn. Surely there'd be something she'd need me to do.
I found Éowyn in her chambers. Her wardrobe boxes were open and her clothes were scattered all around. She'd decided to wear her black wool gown for the funeral, but to honor Théodred, she also wanted to put on a silver net overtunic that had been passed down from her mother, Théodred's aunt. The netting was pretty complicated, so the princess needed another pair of hands to help her put it on. Once again it was time for me to play handmaiden. I would have no such problems with my blue velvet dress, of course—it had a zipper.
*************
Funerals everywhere are pretty much alike. A solemn crowd, warriors and commoners both, had assembled quickly in the Great Hall. For once it was brightly illuminated, since someone had lit all the little candles on the tables. Théodred's body had been placed on a wooden dais in the center of the Hall. He had been wrapped in gold-brocaded cloth and placed upon the banner of Rohan.
I'd never attended a state funeral in my life, let alone in Rohan, so I was a little afraid that it would be unrelentingly grim and formal. Most of all I was afraid that King Théoden would be grim, formal…and unfeeling. Too many busy men never seem to have enough time, or love, or attention to spare for their own children. I hadn't seen the King and his son together very often, so I didn't know if the King was that sort of father, and it really wasn't something I wanted to find out at his son's funeral.
As it turned out, there was no reason for me to worry. When Théoden King first stepped forward to speak, it was very clear that his grief was real and deep. In front of all his people, he was making a heroic effort to be stern and resolute, but if you were looking closely—and I was—you could see that his eyes were bright with tears and that his lips trembled slightly when he spoke.
The worst of days brought forth the best of men, Théoden told us simply. No King could have had a better heir than Prince Théodred; no father could have had a better son. Prince Théodred's life had been brief, but it had been sacrificed willingly for the love of Rohan. The King didn't say very much else, but really, what more could you say?
I wish that my own father had been like him.
Next, Prince Éomer stepped up in front of the crowd of eorlingas. His leather armor had been buffed until it shone and his face had been scrubbed clean and pink. He too had a few words to say—a very few words, because poor Éomer wasn't much of a public speaker. Théodred had been a great leader and one of the finest warriors that Rohan had ever known, he said, in a raspy voice that was more sedate than I'd ever heard it. All of the Riders of Rohan would miss Théodred very much, especially Éomer himself. Then Éomer hastily stepped back and let Captain Háma take his place.
Háma is the Doorwarden of Meduseld. On that day he was wearing the full armor of his office: scale mail, gorget, greaves and all, with his helmet in his hands. He looked very imposing.
Now Háma is a born storyteller. He saw at once that we were all just about ready to break out bawling, so he started by speaking of how openhanded the Prince had been. Then he told the story of how Théodred had volunteered to take several of the younger boys on a camping trip last summer. It sounded like they'd all had a lot of fun, especially Théodred himself. I was sniffling by the time Háma finished with the funny story about the eggs. I wasn't the only one who needed a handkerchief, either—not that anybody had one.
Finally, Haleth stood at the head of Théodred's dais and sang a somber, minor key song in honor of a Prince who had died young. I don't remember most of the lyrics but the melody sounded very Welsh. Haleth has a wonderful voice; I'd often stopped to listen in the evenings when he sang to the King. He was so handsome in his new grownup tunic and pants, but what an awful occasion this was to demonstrate his skill to his people!
After the last notes finished echoing from the walls of the Golden Hall, a quartet from Théodred's éored stepped up on either side of the dais. The banner of Rohan, on which Théodred's body was lying, had been attached to two long staves. Together, the four warriors picked up the staves to raise the banner shoulder-high like a stretcher and marched toward the main doorway of Meduseld. Everyone else picked up a lighted candle and followed, so I did too, sliding into line right behind Éowyn.
When the doors were flung open I saw a mob of people crowded around the entrance. It looked like the entire population of Edoras was waiting for us. Most everybody was acting pretty stoic, although I did hear loud sobs from some of the kids and old women. As the eorlingas stepped forward with Théodred's body the crowd opened up to let us pass, then followed us closely.
Our procession moved slowly along the now nearly-empty streets of Edoras and eventually passed through the stockade gates. By this time it was growing dark, the snow-covered tops of the White Mountains were glowing pinky-purple, and the air was getting chilly. As we walked along, the dry grass under my leather slippers crackled with frost. Éowyn had told me that spring would surely arrive soon, but I saw no signs of any such thing. It was lucky that I'd brought along a woolen shawl to wrap around my shoulders.
At last we arrived at a rounded hill dotted with moonpale winter flowers. I saw a square stone doorway in one side of the hill that had been opened to reveal a pitch-black tomb. This was the burial mound of the family of the Kings of Rohan. They had all been buried there for generations. Now it was Théodred's turn.
I never did learn the name of those white flowers on the burial mound. Their petals were delicate and they smelled like French lilacs, but to me they were even creepier than calla lilies. It was the dead of winter, and they still bloomed; the King's only son was dead and they still bloomed. If Middle-earth were to be overrun by the forces of Sauron and the world of men were to fail, I'm sure they'd bloom then too.
The four eorlingas carefully slid Prince Théodred's body into the opening, then gazed over questioningly at the King. In the silence that followed I thought I heard a voice demand, "What of the last gift?"
Théoden King scowled briefly and shook his head, but more people started to murmur the same thing. Finally Théoden met the eyes of his son's men straight-on and proclaimed, "As you wish, so be it, eorlingas! You may come forward now and give Honor to your Prince."
The grieving warriors did something then that surprised me. One by one, as each man approached the mouth of the tomb, he tossed in a pebble.
"What are they doing?" I whispered to Éowyn.
"It is an ancient custom in which the people of Rohan share honor with the dead," Éowyn whispered back to me. "I did not think my uncle would permit it, since these are dangerous days and the Last Honor can inspire great recklessness. Each stone is a pledge to perform a deed of bravery in the name of Théodred."
Over the next few minutes, Éomer, Háma, Gamling, and a lot of other warriors that I knew from the Hall stepped up to repeat the ritual. Even Haleth. But not Gríma! At first, I assumed that this was a custom only for men, but then Éowyn went forward and dropped in a stone. I could see her lips moving, but I wasn't able to make out what she said.
One more time, for good or for ill, I found myself following Éowyn's example. I bent down, scooped up a piece of shiny quartz, and moved forward to join her. When I peered into the opening of the tomb, all that I could see of Théodred was his lower legs. They were protected by his heavy riding boots, so my pebble couldn't hurt him.
From now on, this was the closest I would ever get to Théodred. Closing my eyes, I held out my palm and let the pebble fall. As it rolled down into the tomb, I said very softly in English, "All right, Théodred. I'll do what I promised."
*************