Farewell, My King!

Summary*

Battle is raging. Men are going to battle, never to return. They will fight for the free people of Middle-Earth. They will fight for their honour. They will fight for their king, but what happens when that king is slain during battle. What will happen to the hope of his men? Rather, what will happen to the hope of that man who now bears the burden of kingship? Will he lead his men to victory, or to death, now that he is now alone, with his king and uncle dead, and his only sister's death is imminent? What will he do, knowing that war is now futile, with nobody to return to?

It was a day nobody wanted to see. The day that the women dreaded, for fear their men would never return. It was evening now. The Pelennor Fields were strewn with carcasses. Orcs, Uruk-Hai, Men, horses. All of them alike, now lay on the ground, entirely still. The only comfort to them would be that of the hard, bloodied earth. The only sounds they would hear henceforth, would be that of the birds of prey. Those who fought to defend their land were now gone forever, in all but legend. Their valour, and their names would be remembered by none, save their families. They had rallied to their King. The king of Rohan, King Théoden, son of Thengel. They had rallied to the Heir of Isildur, but this day, Rangers, and the Rohirrim met their ends as one. As heroes. A very small portion of the soldiers lived to see the next day. They lived to see a new King. King Théoden was no more. He had joined his ancestors in their great halls, leaving his sister-son behind, to continue his legacy.

It had been like any other battle, for Éomer. He was a leader. Third Marshall of the Riddermark. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, even though he knew that the pain of seeing his men fall was too much to bear during a battle. Every-time they fell, he knew they were dying for him, but he was wrong. This battle, he had lost everything. He hadn't led his people into battle. Aragorn had, but he was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't taken on the Nazgûl, and sacrificed himself for his king. He couldn't even protect his sister. All he had told her was to stay safe in the Golden Halls of Meduseld, and yet, he should have known that she would never agree with him on that matter. She was Rohan's Shield Maiden, but first, to him, she was his sister, and yet, he had failed in his duty. Not as a king, but as a brother. The fair lady had fought the Witch King all alone, with the help of but an inexperienced hobbit. One whom he held no faith in. The one who he thought would desert him in battle. He had been proven wrong yet again. He had made a grave mistake in not trusting the two of them, and that was going to cost them their lives. They were still lying on the battlefield, pale and cold. Éomer would have fought unto death, but it was not his decision to make. He couldn't leave his people leaderless. It wouldn't be called a sacrifice. It wouldn't be called bravery. It would be called treason. Betrayal. He was a king,and he would have to lead them like one. Now, as he rode into battle, accepting his fate, memories of his past flooded his mind. Memories that he would relive one last time, before the battle led him to meet his loved ones once again.

It was at least a decade ago. He was but a kid, looking out for his little sister. His father was leaving for battle. His sister was crying, for her mother was too, but little Éowyn knew not why. Her father Éomund was in his battle gear. He had just bidden Lady Théodwyn goodbye. He rode off on his tall horse, leaving his family anxious for news of the battle. He had been a fierce warrior, but too reckless, and loyal. That loyalty had proved fatal to him. He never came back that day, nor any day since. His horse came back riderless. A warrior, who would have come back home to a caring wife and adorable little children now lay buried deep within the earth, his weapons placed beside him, for he would never hold them again. Within no time, his mother was gone too. She was no elf, and yet, it was grief that caused her death. Éomer was orphaned, and so was his little sister. It was too much for her to take. She was too little to understand. He was painfully reminded of the fact that it was the last day he had seen her smile. SHe knew no true joy ever since. It was one thing he could never give her, no matter how hard he tried.

It was soon after their parents' death, that his uncle had taken them in. He took care of them as a father would. He loved and raised his sister's children as his own. They lived with their cousin Théodred,who loved them as a brother. Alas! Even that bit of happiness wasn't meant for a warrior like him. Fate was cruel. Too cruel for anyone to accept. Too soon was their cousin snatched away from them. Théodred met a warrior's death, but death no less. He was mortally wounded when they found him, but even the best of their healers could do nothing. The damage had been done, and he closed his eyes, one last time. Once again, a loved one lost to the jaws of time, and the cruel claws of death. The friend they could always trust, was lost to them. Their beloved cousin had left them behind. Théodred was dead.

Not long after the death of his beloved cousin, he had lost his uncle. Not to death, as one might imagine, but to a traitor. A snake disguised as a well-wisher. A silver tongued worm. Gríma Wormtongue. His uncle had changed, and not very much for the better. Gríma had terrible intentions towards his sister. It was one thing to be a traitor, but a man who dared harm his sister did not deserve to live. She was now a Shield Maiden of Rohan, not to be trifled with, and yet the man wouldn't let go. Éomer had only spoken about it to his uncle. The one he thought cared for his sister as his life, but he was wrong. He was banished for trying to protect his people from the clutches of Saruman. Those loyal to Rohan undertook exile,and called themselves the Éorlingas. His own people were now divided. Should a battle arise, the Rohirrim would now kill each other till none were left but darker forces. He had to leave his people. He had no other choice.

Then, there was one last memory. One that he hoped he'd rather not carry with him. It was the last he would ever have of his little sister. He hadn't known then that it was her, but he would rather acknowledge it now than never. They were the memories of seeing her fight as Dernhelm. He had first seen her upon the battlefield as they rode out to bring down the oliphaunts, and those riding atop them. He had seen her scream with all the might she had, as she proceeded to bring down one of them before he brought down some more, with his allies trying to bring down the rest of them. What really caught his attention, though, was not her first kill, but when she took on the Witch-King himself. She had defended a man who was like a father to him, and for that, he was grateful. With a final strike, she had brought him down. It was she who had brought an end to the reign of a once-mighty king. One whose pale face, if it could ever be seen by the living, was now contorted in deep agony. He had left it at that, not bothering to see what happened to the warrior later. He had more pressing concerns as Marshall on the battlefield. How he regretted that now. What worth was all of Rohan to him when all those he had cared about had forsaken him for the afterlife? True, he had his subjects, but even they wouldn't last much longer with the dark forces caving in all around them. There was no one to return to. He would have to wait an eternity to see them once more, if this battle did not see it done.

With difficulty, he pushed aside any other memories that threatened to return to him. This was a battle. He couldn't afford to get distracted, especially when they were terribly outnumbered. Plenty of lives depended on him. Lives of men he hoped would live to see another day, even if he did not.The Corsairs of Umbar had just arrived. Suddenly, where the enemy should have been, he found his friend. Aragorn. He was alive, and he had brought back an army. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth was there too. Side by side, they fought with renewed hope, and the battle was won at the cost of blood. Aragorn and he had escaped unscathed.

Aragorn.

"The hands of a king are the hands of a healer." Those were the prophesied words.

Perhaps, there was still some hope left.