To The King

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Measure of a Man

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Éomer opened the door to the great hall of the Meduseld because there was no doorward there to open it for him as was the normal case. The doorwards had both been slain during the siege, and all able bodied men, and quite a few unable bodied ones, had been pressed into service either defending the wall, fighting the fires or in support of these two. The King himself had spent the 24 hours since his return fighting the fires that threatened to reduce the heart of Rohan to ashes.

The King paused to look back at his city before he entered the room. That his city should come to this under his rule nearly broke his heart. Théoden had entrusted Rohan to him and what had happened since he became King? One of the prime breeding stations of the Mark had been destroyed and its invaluable herds slaughtered, the Snowbourne principality had been completely co-opted by thugs and murderers, and this the capitol city...the crown jewel of Rohan was but a shadow of her former self.

True enough the beautiful Meduseld and the magnificent stables had been spared the flames, but most of the other buildings had been at least damaged. His mind already reeled with ideas of how he would house and feed the people of the city this coming winter. Éomer closed his eyes to the sight before him, feeling a complete failure. All of his worst fears had come true and he felt mocked by the tapestries telling the proud history of the Mark and her Kings.

Éomer closed the doors, turned, and was very nearly staggered by the site before him. Never before had he seen the Golden Hall filled with moaning injured and wounded men. Stunned, Éomer began to walk down the center aisle of wounded, pausing to speak to those awake or even offer a touch of comfort.

The King worked his way down the line of patients until his eyes fell upon Bergfinn sitting beside a bed. Curious, for he could see that the smithy was not injured, Éomer hurried over. "Bergfinn…" Éomer could not continue once his eyes fell upon the one with whom Bergfinn sat. It was Felor!

"No," Éomer groaned, sinking to his knees beside the bed.

Gently he took the unconscious man's hand in his own. On the floor beside the bed lay a charred crutch. "Felor, you should have been less loyal, my friend," Éomer said softly, looking up and down the broken body.

"It was Felor that discovered the hill men, sire," Bergfinn said, tears in his aged eyes. "He alerted the guards and saved the city."

Éomer had to swallow before he could speak. "What happened?"

"The smithy caught fire and he was helping me drag out equipment," said Bergfinn, guilt and grief evident in every word. "The roof gave way and the cross beam caught him across the back. We were able to get if off him but not before he was burned."

"The burns are not nearly as bad as many of the others," soothed Berga. The woman was applying cool cloths to Felor's burned back. "He will be hardly scarred at all."

"It is not the burns that are the worst of it," replied the smithy brokenly.

Éomer met the man's eyes. "Tell me."

Bergfinn kicked at the crutch. "His back is broken, sire; he will not be needing this piece of kindling again, and it is my fault."

"Stop that nonsense this instant!" snapped Berga. Men! Honestly, they could fight off the foulest foe one moment and then turn around and weep into their cups the next. Well, she had no time for this tonight. "He is alive, and that is more than many of Edoras may claim this night." The woman glared at the smithy until he gathered himself and nodded acquiescence. "Felor is going to need his friends to be strong for him."

Bergfinn nodded his understanding. "I will be."

"As will I," added Éomer. "Felor is a hero of the Mark, and he will be treated as such."

Éomer followed Berga into the corridor leading towards the kitchens. "Berga…"

"Sire?" Berga stopped and turned back to face Éomer half afraid he was going to upbraid her for her outburst towards Bergfinn.

"Felor will live?" asked the King.

Berga shook her head. "I cannot give you the answer to that, Sire; only Bema knows at this point."

"I see," Éomer sighed. "Keep me informed of his condition."

"Yes sire," Berga answered and then paused. She was trying desperately not to notice his gleaming bare chest so close to her nose. Berga had a fleeting thought of Hildegard and had to fight down an almost overpowering urge to giggle. "You are overtired; stop this foolishness!" The woman did not even realize she had spoken aloud until the King's confused question.

"I beg your pardon?" So intently had the woman been staring at his chest that the King glanced down involuntarily, almost expecting to see a strange mark of some kind.

"Oh!" started Berga. "I mean….you are exhausted, Sire. There is a tub of hot water waiting for you in your rooms so that you may refresh yourself and take some rest."

"Rest?" Éomer questioned tiredly. "How may I rest when so many of my people are in need? I have failed you all."

"No, sire," Berga argued, "you have given us hope." She put her hands on his shoulder and turned him around, surprised at her boldness. "Now go!"

Éomer went without protest, and Berga continued on to the kitchen shaking her head. "And they say womenfolk are emotional," she mused.

Éomer stopped before his door and turned back towards the direction from which he had come. What in all of Arda had come over Berga? One moment she was blessing out Bergfinn, the next she was twittering and blushing like a maiden, and then she was ordering him about like Hildegard had done when he was a lad. It had been a strange exchange, but she was carrying after all. Éomer had not been around many women at such a time; perhaps they were all so confusing. He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He sighed and entered his rooms. The least he could do was to wash up and don a clean shirt. As he walked, Éomer thought back to his last conversation with Felor and how the man's simple words had buoyed him. He prayed that Béma would spare this gentle soul.

O-o-O-o-O

Hamm and Liam quickly dispatched the two guards at the mouth of the cave and signaled the men to advance. The troop quickly moved through the cave seeking Gamling and Erkenbrand and gathering those able bodied enough to aid them. To a man, the men of Rohan were appalled at what they found. Conditions in the mine were unspeakable.

Gamling and Raolf had settled down to sleep after tending to Erkenbrand's wounds. The Marshall had fallen into a fitful sleep while Raolf finished applying all the salve, and the young man had then covered Erkenbrand with their cloaks to keep him warm. Though exhausted, Gamling could not sleep, but lay thinking of Berga and his life before these wretched times.

The sound of movement through the mine caught his attention, for none dared to move around at night, and the guards never entered after dark. He rolled over as quietly as possible, ready to observe who moved and if necessary protect Erkenbrand and young Raolf. Gamling silently cursed his lack of a weapon, but found a rock that he could at least grasp in his hand.

Gamling could see torchlight now, and it was coming closer. Resolutely, he grasped his rock, ready to do battle. Guards moving through the mines at night could only signify something bad. The light neared, and just as Gamling was ready to strike, he pulled back. "Dageth!" Gamling hissed, not quite believing his eyes in the dim light of the torches. "Can it be you?"

Erkenbrand and Raolf roused at the sound of Gamling's voice.

"What is it?' asked Raolf, moving to a protective stance over Erkenbrand. It was all the Marshall could do to sit up groggily.

While Dageth stayed here, Hamm led more of the men deeper into the mine to gather forces.

Dageth was thrilled to find those he sought. "Chief of Knights! Where is the Marshall?"

"I am here," Erkenbrand said weakly. "What is happening?"

"Marshall!" Dageth knelt beside his Marshall, heartsick at his condition, but determined to hide the fact from Erkenbrand. "It is good to see you."

"Dageth, is it really you?" Erkenbrand could hardly believe his eyes.

Raolf was looking from Erkenbrand to Dageth. "Who are you? Where have you come from?"

Dageth looked at the young rider. "We were sent by the King. We are here to take back Snowbourne!"

"Éomer," breathed Gamling. "The King is here?"

"No," replied Dageth, hating to dampen their hope. "In truth there are few of us, but Lord Faramir has a plan."

"Faramir?" asked Erkenbrand. "The Steward of Gondor is here…in this place?" The Marshall shook his head. "That last beating must have scrambled my brains."

Dageth smiled. "No, my Lord, I fear your brains are intact, and the Steward is indeed here. Now we must hurry, for our part is vital to his plan."

"Our part?" questioned Gamling warily. "Most of the men here can barely walk…there is no way that they can fight."

Dageth met his eyes. "I know what we ask."

"He is right," said Raolf. "I would rather die fighting than live another day in here."

"As would I," confirmed Erkenbrand. "We are men of Rohan; we do not die on our bellies." The Marshall shifted as he tried to sit up. "Help me up, Gamling."

Gamling met his friend's eyes and then smiled wolfishly. "We shall make such an end that songs shall be sung of our uprising!"

Hamm joined the small group. "Not an end, my friends, but a new beginning."

Gamling blinked. "Hammok? The farrier?"

Hamm grinned, "Aye, it is me; I came with Faramir."

"Why did the King not come?" asked Erkenbrand, still trying to understand what was happening.

Hamm glanced at Dageth before answering. "Edoras has fallen under attack, and the King was forced to return."

"Edoras?" asked Gamling, grabbing his arm. His mind immediately went to Berga. "Under attack?"

Hamm nodded. "Leave Edoras to the King; he will see our city safe."

"Come," Dageth urged, "we have little time."

"What is the plan?" asked Erkenbrand.

"We are going to rush the manor house and take it back."

"What of Gilmóod's men?" asked Gamling.

"The people of the village have gathered some weapons for us, and they will keep the hillmen occupied in their bunk house," explained Dageth.

"So that is why my father did not come tonight," breathed Raolf, equal measures of relief and fear for what his father was about to do warring with each other.

"The kitchen door at the back of the manor house has been left open for us," added Hamm. "We can gather some more knives for weapons."

Gamling eyed Erkenbrand uncertainly. "Dageth, the men here are willing, but there will be those who are simply not able to fight.

Dageth nodded. "No one will be left inside this mine. Those who cannot fight will be carried to the village and entrusted to the care of some of the women. They will have beds and nourishment this night."

"Béma willing," Raolf added. He came to his feet resolutely. "We are ready to fight for our freedom!"

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer sank down into the tub of water that had been brought to his rooms. He sighed with relief as his fatigued muscles responded to the warmth. The King lifted a mug and poured the water over his head. It seemed like forever since he had really been clean. The soap Berga left for him smelled suspiciously of something floral, but he was too tired to protest. Éomer was just finishing lathering up his hair when the door to his room burst open and the surprised King found himself face to face with three excited little girls, who did not seem to notice him attempting to scoop soap suds into the water as some kind of shield.

"King Éomer!" Márta cried, "The bad men came to the city and tired to burn us!"

"They shot arrows over the wall, and we were not allowed to even go to the stables!" added Meela.

"I was not afraid," boasted Thela.

"Why is your face red?" asked Márta.

"You smell good," added Meela, not to be outdone by her sister.

"Girls?"

Éomer heard Mistress Elena's voice only a second before the kindly woman unwittingly followed the escaped little girls into the King's room.

"Oh!" exclaimed the woman in strangled voice, as she quickly turned her back. "Oh my goodness!" Well, it wasn't every day that one came upon one's King sitting in a bathtub!

Éomer cleared his voice and attempted to retain some dignity. "Good evening, Mistress Elena; I seem to have found your missing little girls!"

"Shall I bring more apple cakes?" asked Hildegard as she walked into the room. "Oh!" the cook stammered. Her eyes went from the King to the little girls to Elena and then most appreciatively back to the King. "When I saw the doors open, I thought you were ready for your cake," she chuckled. Hildegard sat the plate down on a table and helped Elena shoo the girls back towards the door. "Come little ones," she clucked, "as fine a sight as our King makes in his tub, he'll look even better once he gets his towel around him."

If anything Éomer turned even redder. "Hildegard!"

"Now do not 'Hildegard' me, my King; I have looked after you since you were a lad!"

"Hildegard," Éomer groaned, drawing out each syllable as he shook his head affectionately. Éomer could never really be irritated with Hildegard. For years she had lavished on him all the mothering that the he and Éowyn needed, as she had done for Théodred before them.

"I am going, Sire; I am going!" Her good-natured chuckle could be heard as she closed the door behind her.

TBC