Chapter III: "An Evil Death Hath Set Forth The Noble Warrior…"
26 February, 3019
Not long after the conversation with Háma, Éomer received word of orcs roaming and pillaging on the outskirts of Rohan. It was obvious to everyone but my uncle that Gríma was no longer on our side. He poisoned Théoden's mind so that he did not listen to anyone save him—did not trust anyone but Gríma, even his own son. It hurt all of us very deeply to see what was so fine and noble destroyed so shamefully. Théoden was weak and would not last long. He would soon die. I tried not to think of what would happen should he die before Théodred could return—not only to me.
But when Éomer requested permission to go after the orcs, Gríma-through-Théoden claimed they could not spare the men. Éomer was not to be swayed from aiding the ravaged counties by a refusal of permission. Despite threats from Gríma, he left—but first he vowed to me that should Gríma touch me in his absence, my shame would be avenged by bloodshed.
"Éomer—don't hold yourself to such a vow, please. If he touches me, I will kill myself because of the shame; you will kill Gríma; and Théoden will kill you. And nothing will be left of us but blood."
"I will do what I must to protect you. I love you more than anything…" It was strange for Éomer to speak of brotherly affection for me; we both tried so hard to mask any emotion. But we were brother and sister, and we did love each other.
"What about Théodred" I teased playfully, tugging one of his blond curls.
"Even Théodred," he said, and meant it. "If anything were to come close to how I love you, it would be—"
"Weynia?" I asked. Weynia was pretty, I knew, and Éomer had liked her since he first came to Edoras.
"You're so foolish sometimes," he said. "I was going to say love of country. And you do not mind being loved as I love Rohan?"
"No." I hugged him. "Éomer—if he takes me—I won't be here when you come back. Promise me you'll tell Théodred—and Théoden."
He pulled away. He was crying. We knew that, though his death at an orc's hand in battle was possible, my death at my own hand was more likely. This could be the last time we ever saw each other.
"I love you so much," I said as he started to walk towards the stables. "Don't forget that."
"I won't."
Then he and a host of men were gone.
The first few days after he left, I was careful. I didn't go anywhere alone; I never left my door unlocked; I wouldn't go to my quarters alone or unarmed. But after a while, I grew tired of always being afraid; I couldn't bear constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed. I had to have a moment—just one—free of fear.
So one early morning, I woke before sunrise, so I could have a moment alone. Surely neither Gríma nor his spies would be up so early!
I crept down a dark corridor in the back of the House, sure that Gríma would not care to frequent such a seldom-used part of Meduseld. I could see the light of the door, just around the corner, when I stopped, listening. I had thought I'd heard a step. I'm paranoid, I laughed to myself. Who in their right mind would be up so early? I continued walking.
Then I stopped again. I had heard a quick scuttle of footsteps.
I whirled around just as Gríma leapt upon me and shoved me backwards, into a rarely used backroom. He cut off my scream by putting his hand over my mouth. "Don't scream, milady," he hissed. "It would not be beneficial to your present predicament."
I froze, realising my stupidity in imagining I was safe here. I should have taken a more public route if I wished to avoid Gríma. Théoden was still asleep, and the guards at the wall were too far away to hear me. "Be quiet, and I'll let you go."
I nodded, and his hand moved from my mouth to my neck.
"Get away from me," I hissed. His hand had forced my lips against my teeth, and I could taste blood. "My brother and my cousin will know about this. If you touch me, they will kill you. Leave me alone, snake!"
"Oh, but you are alone," he mocked me. "You are very alone. No one can save you now."
"What will you do if I carry your child," I asked, trying to reason with him. "Let me go."
"They'll think you're a whore," he threatened. "Who is to say it's mine?"
"They won't," I lied. I would be thrown from Edoras, and would have to take refuge in an outskirt town. Or be put to death.
"Or I could say you were my mistress, and Théoden King would give me your hand in marriage." His eyes glowed. "The daughter pays her mother's debt," he said in a low hiss, pushing backwards. My legs felt the couch behind them, and it was easy for him to push my shoulders hard enough to make me lose my balance, and we fell onto the couch together, him on top of me, his weight serving to hold me down.
The thought of beautiful Mother ever engaged to this demon repulsed me. I pulled and struggled frantically. "I would never marry you, Worm!" He grabbed both of my flailing hands in one of his and pinned them above my head.
"I'll scream!" I threatened. "Let me go!"
He made no response but a low growl. I shrieked, and he looked up, saying, "What if I told you I could make sure Théodred never comes home?"
"You can't," I protested. "You don't have the power to do that. Not even you."
"You have no idea how far this goes," he laughed. "Whose orcs do you think they went to fight?"
I didn't know whether to believe him, or not…
"Stay very, very still, and he will return. If you cry out, or fight me…"
His finger traced from my jawline to my neck, where my bodice lacings poked out. I felt the gorge rise in my throat. And then his mouth descended on mine, open, with his teeth bared—I flinched as he kissed me, turning my face away so that he slimed my cheek. The lacings of my bodice gave easily. "You will regret this," I hissed. He only laughed and raised his head so he could see his hand, fumbling with the clasp at the neck of my gown. Then he froze—his grip tightened—he didn't say a word, just looked somewhere over my head. Were we discovered? I finally dared to turn.
Éomer was standing in the doorway, looking down at us. His face was white, with twin spots of scarlet on his cheeks. He had an expression of fury on his face I had never seen. It terrified me. I could hardly move, and somehow breathing became difficult.
"What," Éomer's voice was low and quiet, suggesting barely controlled wrathful passion. "What is going on here?"
I did not—could not speak. Gríma made no answer.
"Speak!" Éomer roared. "What are you doing?!"
Gríma let me go suddenly. I brought my hands down and shoved him off of me, sitting up and clutching my dress to myself. "What have you to say for yourself, Master Gríma?"
Gríma took a step towards Éomer. "Milord, I—"
Éomer drew his sword and charged into the room. Gríma turned tail and scurried off. "My king! My king! Your nephew is mad! My king!"
I took the opportunity to pick up my bodice and slip back to my chambers. I changed out of my torn clothes into a wool burgundy-gold gown and ran to the Golden Hall, where I had no doubt Gríma had headed for refuge.
Weynia, in my absence, had assisted Théoden to his throne—he was listening to Gríma, who was facing Éomer. Éomer was being restrained by five of the guards. Gríma looked up as I entered. "And here," he said dramatically, "Is my witness. Did Éomer not threaten death to me on the halls of Meduseld? Did he not pursue me with a sword?"
I pinched my lips together, then said, quietly, "I cannot deny that he did those things. But could you explain to the court why he did so?"
Gríma turned to Théoden. "A simple matter of being quick to anger and action without forethought—if I recall, a vice of his father's, Éomund." A quick flash of anger flitted across his face, I thought—or did I imagine it? "Was it not this temper that spurred him to his death? Éomer saw Éowyn and I together this morning; being a protective and caring brother—as well as aforementioned hot-headed—he naturally assumed…"
He paused and gave a quiet, modest cough.
"…And he rushed to defend her. Any might do the same—though he carried it to greater lengths than he ought to. But it is this lack of forethought that makes me believe he is not suited for the position in which you have placed him. He is always assuming, even of people he has known and loved since forever. Did he not leave to pursue orcs when you forbad him?"
"I am going to kill you!" Éomer screamed, fighting the guards.
"You see?" Gríma asked.
Gríma had made his case and rested it. And who doubted the victor?
Then he walked to me, taking my hands in his. I flinched, ever so slightly, at his touch. "I assure you, milady, your brother will be perfectly normal in a few days. He is weary from his trip—the one against his uncle's wishes?" He gave Théoden a sideways look. Then he said: "My King, I propose that for threatening me—before your very eyes; in your own hall—and for going against your wishes, you put him in the prison. A few weeks in confinement will cool his hot head."
Now I saw why Gríma had taken my hands. As he said this, he indicated his feet, and I looked down—he was standing over the place where Théodred was accustomed to stand during court. It was a reminder. And so even as I opened my mouth to defiantly tell my uncle what truly happened that morning on the steps, I knew no sound would come out. I could not sell my cousin's life for any amount of pain. I had been saved from Gríma for the moment. Éomer would not be executed.
So I bowed my head—unable to look at my brother—and backed away. I did not look up from the floor until I was in my room—door bolted—and lying face-down on my bed.
I had to blink back the tears that wanted to flood from my eyes—but a shield-maiden did not cry; tears connoted weakness.
I had to see Éomer. I had to talk to him. I didn't know how I was going to sneak past the guards—I was sure Gríma had instructed them that Éomer could not have guests—but I was going to.
It was almost midnight when I reached under my bed to find the clothes Weynia had hidden there for me. They were simple, peasant clothes—more importantly, the cloak had a wide cowl that would hide my face. All my cloaks were rich and expensive, and no one would think me a peasant in them. I slipped them on, and braided my hair, tying it back with a bit of leather from the worn bodice.
I looked in the mirror from under my hood. No one would know me for anyone other than Weynia. I hoped no one would get a light near my face, or make me take off my cloak.
Weynia's father was one of the guards. I planned to say to the guard, "I am Weynia, Wéonsil's daughter. I need to see him." When I saw Wéonsil (Weynia had seen him about this earlier) he was to show me to Éomer.
I made my way through the House to the stables. It was so bone-chillingly cold, I did not need to remind myself to pull my cloak around my face—I was too frozen to let anything but my eyes show beneath the heavy cloak.
"I'm Weynia. My father is Wéonsil," I gasped to the first guard who accosted me. "Where is he?"
"Weynia!" the man said in a tone I didn't appreciate. "How are things with Éowyn, m'dear?"
"She mourns for her brother," I said.
"Sh' oughta mourn for herself," he replied, leading me down the hall. "Ol' Wormy's got his eye on that one. Trade with him!"
I pinched my lips together. He must have seen irritation in my eyes, because he said, "Don't worry, lass… you're the only one for Megel, here."
Megel was Weynia's favourite guard… I had never met him; he was new to Edoras from Dunharrow. I looked up at him and met his eyes for the first time. "And you're the only one for Weynia," I said.
He laughed and leaned down as if he would have kissed me, but I said, "Where's my father?"
"In here." He ushered me into a small room. Wéonsil stooped over a table with an ale. "Wéonsil! Your daughter's here!"
He stood up. "You're here!" he said. "Come with me."
Wéonsil took me down a long corridor to another small room. He unlocked it and said, "Call when you're ready. You shouldn't wander through here alone."
I slipped into the room, and Éomer was sitting on the floor in the corner, his head in his hands. "Brother."
He looked up. "Éowyn!" He leapt to his feet and embraced me. "Why are you here, you little fool? Did Gríma follow you?"
"Shall I always live my life worrying who is following me?" I asked bitterly.
"Apparently you didn't this morning," he said. "What ever possessed you to go out alone like that?"
"I didn't think he would be up so early," I began.
"Well, he was. But why are you here now?"
"I had to see you."
"No… particular reason?" he asked, his eyes searching mine worriedly. "Nothing you need to tell me?"
"Stop worrying about me," I said. "No… Gríma only got his hands on me this morning."
His arms tightened. "I wish I'd arrived sooner. I was almost too late."
"You weren't," I assured him.
He let me go. "Sit down, Éowyn. I need to tell you something."
I don't know how I knew, but I did. An intuitive thought burned itself into my head, and though for a split second I hoped I was wrong, I knew I wasn't. Théodred is dead.
"What is it?" my voice was serious, but betrayed nothing. Isn't it funny how we pretend? We know something is true… without knowing how we know, we just do. And yet we wait for someone else to confirm it for us before we let them know we know.
"He's dead."
It did not come as a surprise… only solid pain like a punch in the stomach. Solid pain, packed with even harder guilt, nearly bowled me over, physically and mentally. I swayed, and Éomer caught me. "I killed him then," I whispered.
"No," he said.
"I did—I did!" I insisted. "I killed my cousin!"
Amazing the conflicting thoughts that sweep your mind in moments of hysteria. In a second I went from willing to sacrifice honour, life, and limb for my cousin… almost screaming for Gríma to come and take me, rape me and give me back my cousin… to being red with hatred for him. He had killed my cousin. I did nothing wrong. Gríma had killed my brother.
"Éowyn, he died long before this morning."
I was silent for a few moments, allowing myself to cool down before I spoke. I imagined ice, pouring down on me and solidifying every emotion in me, as it was. I felt nothing. I was nothing.
"Where is his body?" I asked with practiced detachment. The frosty pride I was never seen without.
"They will bring it soon. It may arrive any day."
The door swung open. I leapt to my feet. It was Wéonsil. "Milady, the Sun is rising and my shift is done… you must leave now."
It had been all night. The night had passed in a heartbeat. While I was screaming at Gríma, the moon had set, the stars had set, and now it was morning.
I nodded. "I will come back again, Éomer," I said.
"Go, Éowyn."
I ran to the Golden Hall. Théoden was gone, the guards were gone. There was no fire in the massive fireplace yet… no one was up. The room was so cold, I could see my breath as I walked across the stone floor. My footsteps echoed in the room.
I knelt before the golden throne and ran my hand over its gilded carvings. So important… so useless!
I did not allow myself to cry, but merely sat on the steps and wept without tears. My head fell forward into my chest and I slumped, powerless to move. The bitter cold of the night was ebbing; I could feel the sun's rays penetrating the high windows.
All this—the beautiful tapestries that chronicled the history of my nation… the ornate carvings on the pillars and walls… the design on our shields… "It's supposed to mean something!" I railed at the ceiling. "Rohan has fallen to an enemy within! We are nothing now… we are meant to be so much! There is nothing now of what once was here! Théoden is not what he used to be. The people… I am not what I used to be!"
I thought I heard a pattering of feet—whether it was my imagination or Gríma truly was watching me, I know not. Unwilling to take the chance, I stood and fled to my chambers.
They brought his body the next day. It was laid, for a short time, in his old room. I waited until Théoden gave up his anguished vigil at his side to go and see him. But then I knelt at his side, and touched his cold cheek. "I never told you I loved you, cousin," I whispered. "I never lied to you… and you died without hearing the words you longed for from my lips!"
I leaned over his body. His face was stern. It frightened me. But I did not falter in saying the words I should have said before he left me. "Théodred—I love you. I will always love you. Not the way you wanted me to… but I do love you."
I took his icy hand and pressed it against my cheek. I waited for tears to free me from my agony, but none came. For release from my pain, I have wept… but there were none.
I had thought I was alone.
I was wrong.
A whispery tune came from the shadows, speaking in the Rohirrim tongue. It was an old mourning song we all knew at Edoras.
"Bealocwealm hafath fréone forth onsended."
I did not turn to see who it was, but began to sing along, doing the harmony portion.
"Gledd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende…"
"On Meduselde." 7
As the finally notes died away, I indulged my curiosity and finally turned around. Gríma leaned against the wall, his eyes half-closed. I caught my breath.
"Milady," he said. "So sad. Your brother untrue to the House of Eorl… such shame you must carry! And now your fiance is dead… Well, for some people life is not easy."
I stood up, ready to flee if he came near me.
"You should take comfort, Lady Éowyn, in the knowledge that your betrothed died. He did not run off with a woman with larger breasts… better features… prettier eyes. There was no slut to distract him."
The bitterness in his voice stung. I knew he was thinking of Mother.
"He is dead, Gríma," I said quietly. "And he loved me, while he lived."
"How can you know?" he asked in a whisper. "How can you feel what they feel, and know if it is true?"
He was looking down at the floor. I was seeing a Gríma I'd never seen before… a broken, hurt Gríma.
"You can't, I suppose," I said gently.
Then he looked up, and his venomous, snake eyes told me he was no longer broken. "Milady, as you have lost a fiance, might I offer a substitute?"
I stepped back, nearly tripping over the cot where my cousin lay. "Nay, Gríma, I would not take your replacement were the whole House of Eorl stripped away from me!"
"It is, Éowyn."
I shook my head in defiance.
"Éowyn, the House of Eorl is destroyed. Do you think Théodred will allow an upstart nephew to take his place? His own son is dead. Come with me, Éowyn, and we can start a new House in Rohan."
I spat at him. "I will not be the founder of the House of the Worm! I will never be yours, if I must die to keep it that way! Leave me, you snake!"
He slunk towards the door, but turned. "Wait, Éowyn, and you will see how things turn out between you and me."
I spat again, and this time the spittle hit him in the cheek. He left hurriedly.
I looked back at my cousin. He could not hear, but still I spoke. "I need you to save me, cousin. I know what he says is true… The House of Eorl is ending. Éomer and I are the lone survivors of that line… your father has fallen into despair. Théodred, we will fall. Éomer will die… and he will come for me. And then what will I do? Who will hear me then?"
I left him. Corpses could not save me, and I needed the free air of the outside to lighten my mood. I made for the battlements where Théodred and I had walked, and looked out over the plains. The guards called out greetings to me as I stood on a ledge, feeling my hair whip around me and my skirt tug at my waist.
I was so alone… my brother imprisoned for who knew how long… my only other hope of freedom slain… I wondered if the wind ever felt as horribly alone as I did… as if no one could help it. Perhaps that was why it howled, I mused. Despair.
I looked out over the hills. The mountains in the distance longed for death with me… the rivers wept for me… the wind moaned for me… the plains spoke for me, saying, "What is death compared to life with Gríma?"
I looked at our flags, standing there. The white horse had run across the green flag since time out of mind. It would not for much longer. It would be destroyed, and all would come to darkness… I saw my country heading for destruction, like a horse running mad off a cliff. And I, like the rider, was forced to be dragged to its bitter end. Rohan was going to fall.
As if in reply to my thoughts, a tearing noise sounded. I looked up. The wind tore one of the flags off its pole and blew it away.
I watched as it grew farther and farther away, furling and unfurling in the wind. A tiny speck in a great blue sky. And then it disappeared over the wall. It was just one more symbol—one more portent—of what lay ahead. We were doomed, some to die, and I—
Yes! I was to spend my days the harlot of man who ripped us from the flagpole and thrust us to the wind, detached from all we had once been and uncertain of the future. I wanted to scream… my life was closing in… like a cage, I was trapped…
I whirled suddenly, half-expecting to see the House behind me in ruins, and Gríma waiting for me…
But the House was still there.
"Milady! Can you see them, milady?" a voice called from below.
"See what?" I called back.
"The riders—three riders—there!"
I saw them now—a white horse, travelling fast, and two in its wake. I recognised all three.
"It's Shadowfax!" I cried. "And Hasufel and Arod!"
"Is it Garulf?" a woman's voice shrieked. She was Gilléod, Garulf's wife. The Riders that had gone with Éomer had brought word that two—one of them Garulf—were slain, and their horses had been given to wanderers in need of transportation. But Gilléod, the bride that had only been married three days before her husband left with Éomer, refused to believe he would not return.
I looked carefully at Hasufel's rider. Garulf had flaming red hair that I should have seen, even at this distance. This man's hair was dark. "No. It is not Garulf."
Gilléod collapsed into her brother Garléod's arms. I continued to stare out at them. A man above me on the wall called out, "The leader is Gandalf the Grey!"
The crowd gave a hiss. I had not been involved in Gandalf's comings and goings from Edoras. All I knew was he had stolen a horse from Théoden—the King of the Horses, Shadowfax. I had never ehard the whole tale, and I didn't care, really.
There were two horses on Arod—a very tall one and a very short one, it seemed.
"There are four!" someone called. "Four riders."
They began to drift away as the foursome approached, anxious to greet them at the gates, and when the four reached the outer wall of Edoras I was alone on the walls. The gates opened. They rode through, towards the House. I watched the one on Hasufel. He was tall; even on the horse. Taller than Théodred was—once was. He was only dead now. Nothing else. He didn't love me anymore. He didn't fear for me anymore. He was just dead.
Hasufel's rider carried himself nobly. He rode as one of the Rohirrim, it seemed. He looked about him—Edoras was not strange or new to him. As when Éomer told me of Théodred's death, the instinctive thought passed through my mind—He has been here before.
I wanted to ask him when, for if he had ever been here while I was, I would remember such a man! He seemed so strong—a power seemed to live within him, but though he might desire it, he would not yet use it. All of him seemed consumed with holding something back—the power—the flame. It intrigued and frightened me. I could only imagine what he looked like u close.
He looked up and saw me. I held his gaze for a moment, but then his horse stumbled and he looked away. Hasufel had stopped before the Rohan flag. I watched him rein his horse in to gaze at it. I hardly dared breathe. The flag that was so important to us—if he left it in the dirt and horse dung, it signified our ignoble ruin at our enemies' hands. If he picked it up, there was still hope.
Hasufel's rider hesitated. Then he dismounted to pick up the flag. Reverently he dusted it, folded it, and tucked it in his tunic. Then he followed Shadowfax and Arod.
I left then, eager to see what would happen when these strangers arrived at the Golden Hall. Especially what would happen when Hasufel's rider returned the flag he had rescued. There seemed to be still hope.
7. Dirge: Featured in the extended version of The Two Towers:
An evil death hath set forth the noble warrior…
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels…
In Edoras.
