A/N: Hello, everyone! Breaking news: I am alive! Whew. 2020 has been a monstrosity of a year, no? I hope all of you are healthy and safe in whatever corner of the world you call home! All things considered, I won't bother making excuses for the break between chapters, and will instead thank all of you for your patience and grace in this tumultuous time. Your reviews have been a bright spot in all of this craziness, and I am insanely grateful for each and every one of you readers!
I'll keep it short and sweet so that you can get to the chapter, but I do want to take a moment to inform all of you that this story is now cross-posted on AO3. If that is your preferred reading platform, you can find the story there under the same username and title. Regardless of your presentation choices, I hope you all enjoy the chapter!
And millions of thanks, as always, to the fabulous Wordspin for her hard work beta-ing and making sure my writing is suitable for public consumption! Check out her work. You will not be disappointed!
Please review and let me know what you think! :)
Chapter Nine
A Spark of Hope
It is not like Éowyn to be late, Théoden mused. Then, taking a deep draw from the goblet in his hand, he reconsidered. Is it? Who am I to know?
She had grown into a woman before his eyes, and yet he had no memory of the change. Not for the first time in the past weeks, he cursed Grima Wormtongue under his breath. His mind and body had been all but stolen, and now his dear niece seemed a stranger to him.
As did her brother.
The king peered at his nephew across the table. The boy—the man, Théoden corrected himself—favored his father so greatly a quick glance found them indistinguishable. But he did not speak with the ease and familiarity that Théoden had shared with Éomund, who had been his brother in heart long before marriage had reunited the branches of the House of Eorl by law. The King had dared to hope for something similar for his son and nephew—one to wisely rule the realm and the other to bravely defend it. Alas, fate was a fickle mistress.
Dark days had hardened his nephew, no longer a foolhardy youth but instead a stern commander of his éored. Upon joining the table, Éomer had greeted the king with manners befitting a Marshal of the Mark, delivered reports on the comings and goings of Rohan's riders, and then fallen silent as he focused on filling his goblet and savoring its contents.
It had not always been like this. How had they fallen so far?
In Meduseld, the midday meal had traditionally been a much more intimate affair compared to those held in the evening. Most often held in the king's private chambers, it was an opportunity to connect with those held most dear. It had been only himself, his niece and nephew, and his son at the table, joined by one of his advisors on the rarest of occasions. In those moments, the weight of the crown was absent. He was a father and an uncle whiling precious time with those treasures closest to his heart. He would ask about their studies and activities, encourage Éomer and Théodred in their martial pursuits, and regale them with tales from his own youth. There had been joy, laughter, and warmth.
He had not realized that such a time had ended when first he invited Grima Wormtongue to the table. Else, he would have gutted the spineless snake where he sat and fed his entrails to the crows. He had been bewitched, and suddenly Grima's counsel had become more important than his family's attentions. The meals had become fewer and fewer as his son and nephew spent more and more time away from Edoras, until they stopped altogether. If only he had understood then that Éomer and Théodred's distance had been born of Grima's greedy manipulations and not their supposed plotting.
Once Théoden had regained his senses and Grima had been expelled, the king had fully intended to resurrect the tradition. But the battle at Helm's Deep and its aftermath had kept them busy. And in any case, it had not seemed right to dine together knowing that Théodred would never join them again. Perhaps he was reckless to begin anew now, with an outsider joining the table once again, but it was already done.
As if on cue, the heavy door to his chambers swung on its hinges to admit Gamling. The trusted Captain of the King's Guard offered a shallow bow before announcing his missing guests' arrival.
Éowyn's greeting was warm as she swept forward even before Gamling could finish his introduction. As if she needed introduction. She placed a quick kiss on the king's cheek as he rose to his feet. "I hope we have not kept you waiting long?"
"It is never a chore to wait on you, my dear," Théoden returned, clasping his niece's hands between his own and offering a warm smile.
The king then sought his guest of honor. She still lingered near the doorway, watching the family exchange greetings with polite interest. Théoden had to look twice to be certain his eyes were not deceiving him. "Lady Rimiriel! Come, let me see if the hospitality of my house has treated you well."
The Gondorian answered the king's beckoning wave, crossing the room with brisk steps. Éowyn had done well in seeing to their guest. An elegant lady had replaced the mud-soaked urchin he had previously encountered. She swept into a graceful curtsy once she stood before him, her eyes respectfully downturned just so as she offered a stiff greeting. Appropriate in the Tower of Ecthelion, Théoden observed, but too formal for the halls of Meduseld.
As she rose, the king recognized the features of the House of Húrin in her face, as firm and resolute as the mountain city her family called home. But the lady bore the traits of more than just her father's people. She smiled as she thanked him for his hospitality, and when she did her eyes sparked as if the fiery sun of South Gondor had been trapped inside. Théoden had seen such eyes before, in the faces of his own dearly deceased mother and sisters. With silence stretching between the realms for so long, it had been easy to forget that he himself still had kin in Gondor, distant and removed as they might be. Southern fire and Northern resolve had already proven a potent mix, Théoden mused as he remembered the conviction with which the young woman had previously addressed him.
He also remembered how that determination had teetered on the edge of desperation.
"You look well—much better compared to when last we spoke," he observed with an approving nod. "How are you feeling?"
"Refreshed and well-rested," Rimiriel confirmed, yielding to the king as he wove his arm into hers and guided her to the table.
"I am glad to hear it," Théoden said, pausing to pull Rimiriel's chair from the table. As she sat, he gestured across the table, where his nephew was dutifully aiding Éowyn. "You have met my niece, of course, but I have not formally introduced my nephew, Éomer."
The Marshal nodded a plain, wordless greeting, which the Gondorian matched with a simple acknowledgement. Théoden supposed it was the best he could hope for, considering all circumstances. He was quietly relieved that neither took the opportunity to revisit the open hostility of the previous afternoon. While he did not know enough of the lady's character to pass a fair judgement, he knew his nephew was not one to forget a perceived slight.
The king returned to his place at the head of the table and gestured for the meal to begin as Éomer reclaimed his seat at the table's tail. The cooks had produced a simple meal of roasted chicken accompanied by stewed vegetables and fresh baked bread. A bowl of winter apples also stood by, tempting those who might crave a sweeter fare. Théoden encouraged everyone to fill their plates, taking satisfaction in Rimiriel's own hearty portion. He was tempted to point out the needless formality as he watched her primly cut everything into tiny morsels and chew each nibble slowly but feared doing so risked causing offense. Instead, he left her to enjoy her meal as she pleased, engaging his niece and nephew in trivial talk concerning household affairs and goings-on across the realm.
"Tell me, Lady Rimiriel, how was your journey?" Théoden inquired only once his guest's plate sat near-empty. "We did not have the chance to speak of it yesterday."
"I am afraid there is little to speak of, my lord." The lady took a long drink from her cup, averting her eyes from the company.
"I find that hard to believe." The king's face grew grim. "My servants reported that you were injured, but you refused a healer."
"Scrapes and bruises heal on their own well enough—hardly worth a healer's valuable time. Rest is often the most effective medicine, and you granted that in abundance."
Her tone was dismissive, but this only served to heighten Théoden's concern. "I have heard the southern road has grown dangerous. Were you attacked?"
An assault by brigands would explain the lady's desolate state upon arrival, as well as why she had arrived with no supplies or escort. And perhaps also her reluctance to speak of it, Théoden thought. His blood boiled hot as he envisioned lawless men dishonoring the lady and murdering those meant to protect her.
"Only by nature itself, my lord."
The king proved an attentive audience as Rimiriel recollected her journey to the Golden Hall, explaining how her supplies and weapons had been lost while crossing the flooded stream marking the border between their lands.
"You were fortunate to lose only that," Éomer observed afterward. "Even strong swimmers have been lost when the Mering floods."
Théoden nodded his agreement. "I am surprised the borderwatch did not warn you against crossing."
"I encountered no one on my journey." Rimiriel's cheeks flushed pink. "Perhaps they thought none would be foolish enough to try."
"The borderwatch changes posts every fortnight," Éowyn pointed out. Théoden did not miss her reassuring tone as she smiled at their guest. "Perhaps you were just unlucky in that your crossing aligned with the guard rotation."
"You speak of luck and good fortune, and yet I think crossing the border was the easier part," the Gondorian ventured, her voice grave. "My maps and compass were lost to the river, and I had no way of knowing how far I had been swept downstream. I put the mountains on my left shoulder and kept moving, sure that I would find the road again eventually. By the time I realized it might have been wiser to backtrack along the riverbank to the road…"
Rimiriel trailed off, a faraway look in her eye as she swirled the contents of her goblet and took a deep drink. Théoden waited patiently. To cross the Eastfold directly was no small task, even with knowledge of the terrain; to relive such a journey in one's mind would be equally exhausting.
Éowyn, however, was still young, and had not yet gained the forbearance that came with age. "But you did find the road, yes?" she pressed. "You made it here, after all."
"Oh yes, I found the road." Rimiriel's confirmation was dry. She leaned forward in her seat as she eyed her audience. "As a child, I read about your lands: of wild horses tamed by brave men and battles fought with courage and honor. The books described grasslands and mountains, rivers, streams, stone fortresses and simple villages. None, however, mentioned the marshes, or how cleverly they hide within the seas of grass…"
Dread dropped into Théoden's gut like a lead weight as he anticipated the rest of Rimiriel's tale. She spoke of riding easily only to suddenly sink like a stone, her horse chest-deep in mud. She spoke of hours lost digging herself and her mount out of the bogs. Once, twice, three times. Her voice was calm and even as she explained how the final time had happened at night. The king, however, sensed the underlying fear as she recalled struggling against an unseen enemy through pitch darkness, working to free herself and her horse by touch alone. He imagined the panic of one who knows they are the only hope of a people and may be doomed, leaving the mission incomplete with none to speak of her fate. The Gondorian painted a vivid picture. Théoden could see it all as if he were the one collapsing beside his horse when they were both finally free, exhausted and desperate for rest. He could not decide if the lady was blessed by the Valar to be sitting before him now or had somehow incurred their wrath to have faced such peril in the first place.
"I awoke to creaking wagon wheels," Rimiriel continued with a humorless chuckle. "We had nearly met the road less than a hundred feet away. I tried to wave down the driver, but he was already too far to hear me. I pushed Voronwё hard, and the road led straight here."
Guilt weighed heavy in her voice as she finished. "My horse…how is he? I fear I have run him to his death."
"He is recovering in our stables, road-weary but alive," Théoden assured her. "You would find no better place to care for him."
Clear relief smoothed the lady's grave features as she declared, "I would like to see him after we are finished here." Then, as if realizing her request had the sound of a demand, "If I may?"
Éowyn spoke quickly. "I can take you."
"That is a fine idea," Théoden agreed, nodding his approval. Above all else, the Rohirrim were people of the horse. They all understood the special bond between man and beast. And it had already been brought to his attention that the lady's stallion was not an easy charge for his stablemaster. "Perhaps it would do well for both of you to see the other safe after such an arduous journey."
"Thank you, my lord." Rimiriel's voice was sincere as she acknowledged the king with a bow of her head and then turned to the young woman seated directly across from her place at the table. "And you, Éowyn."
"However, there is still more to discuss before you go," Théoden said. "We must speak of the forces marching against your land."
The king stood and reached for the pitcher of ale in the middle of the table. He took his time filling each goblet: first, his niece, then their noble guest, his nephew, and lastly his own. Rimiriel seemed to age before his eyes as he circled the table. Shadows darkened her eyes and her jaw hardened as muscles flexed beneath her skin, pressing her lips into a thin line. Not unaffected himself by the weight of the impending discussion, Théoden did not reclaim his seat at the table. Standing at its head, he took a long drink from his cup, setting his eyes on his Gondorian guest as he began, "This army from Mordor, what do you know of its numbers?"
"When I was ordered to ride north, reports on the enemy set their number at fifteen thousand orcs amassed in Osgiliath," Rimiriel announced. "But that is only the beginning. At the same time as we learned of the wizard Saruman attacking your lands, our scouts began tracking Easterlings and Southrons moving through Ithilien toward the Black Gate. If those men have joined Mordor, the total force could be thrice as large."
"And Gondor's defenses?" Théoden asked, matching the lady's straightforward demeanor. He wondered if the lack of emotion in her voice was a means of protecting herself from the pain of considering her country's potential destruction. He could not blame her, if it were so. Either way, he appreciated her direct approach rather than meandering around just what it was her country was facing. Fifteen thousand orcs—such a force had not been amassed in many generations. And if they were to face the foreigners of the South and East as well—
"The garrison at Osgiliath numbers only five hundred strong, aided only by the Rangers of Ithilien, which number near three hundred. My brother Faramir commands them. In Minas Tirith, there are four thousand defenders at full strength. My father had not yet summoned the lords of the South and their men when I left. They could add another five thousand men to the count perhaps, but…"
The Gondorian's voice cracked. She quickly hid her face behind her goblet and did not reemerge until it was emptied. The king did not miss the slight tremble to her hands as she returned her cup to the table. Her brow carved deep grooves in her forehead and her teeth worried her bottom lip. She clasped her hands together in her lap until her knuckles turned white as a long silence fell. Théoden noticed Éowyn shift, as if reaching under the table to offer comfort in gripping Rimiriel's hand, but he could not tell if she responded. Despite the myriad of emotions playing across her face, her posture remained as unyielding as the marble statues he vaguely remembered from his childhood in Gondor.
Théoden spared a moment for Rimiriel to gather her thoughts before firmly pressing, "Please continue, my lady."
She looked up then, holding eye contact with Rohan's king. "If Osgiliath falls, the enemy will be free to besiege Minas Tirith and will have control of the river. Relief from the south will be cut off and the city will stand alone."
Though her voice was stone once more, the lady's eyes shone like smoky glass, proclaiming underlying fears left unspoken. My brother commands them—if Osgiliath falls—if my brother falls—
Théoden turned away as his mind conjured the image of his only son being carried into a barrow to sleep forevermore. He knew the pain and fear as well as his Gondorian guest. War brought death. Death brought sorrow and despair.
The king crossed to the room's single window, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down onto the streets of Edoras. He pictured those streets running red with rivers of blood as the houses burned. He imagined his people slaughtered by invading orcs, crying out for help that would never come.
"An enemy numbering fifteen thousand at the least," Théoden summarized in quiet horror, "against eight thousand at best, with those forces potentially divided between two fronts—"
"We defeated Saruman's ten thousand Uruk-hai," Éowyn noted bravely. "And there were fewer than three thousand of us then!"
"And we paid for our survival with many lives," the king reminded his niece firmly. He turned from the window, looking to Rimiriel. "If I muster Rohan's full force, I can hope for no more than fifteen thousand spears. We cannot best Mordor through numbers alone if they are joined by their allies as you suggest. We may have lost before we have begun."
"Defeat may be our fate," Rimiriel agreed grimly. "But sending no men to Gondor only postpones that fate for you and your people. The Dark Lord's forces will not be satisfied with destroying my country. After Gondor's farmlands are soaked with blood, after our cities are reduced to rubble or ash, after my people are slaughtered or worse, Rohan will burn. The Shadow of the East will sweep across Middle-Earth, murdering and pillaging until there is nothing left.
"Our only chance of turning the tide is a united front," she declared, her voice swelling with a passion that was difficult to argue against. "Even if we lose the battle, is it not better to leave a legacy of hope and courage by fighting, rather than giving into despair and waiting for the slaughter to come?"
"And what do you know of battle?" Éomer demanded before his king could voice his own reply, levelling a glare at the Gondorian.
"Mind yourself, nephew," Théoden warned as he returned to the table, recognizing the signs of an easily stoked temper while also sensing that his guest did not speak from a place of ignorance. "I fear you may assume too much."
"It is a fair question," the Marshal insisted. "Anyone can memorize scouting reports and deliver a message. Painting a pretty picture does not change the fact that you speak of war. Your words are worth nothing when the lives of our people hang in the balance!"
"What my brother means is—"
"It is clear what he means." Rimiriel cut through Éowyn's soothing tone sharp and quick, not sparing a glance toward her new friend. Narrowed eyes focused only on the Rohir with the deepening scowl. "You think me unqualified to speak of war, do you not, Lord Marshal?"
"Aye," Éomer confirmed without hesitation. "There is more to a battle than whatever you read in your books. To think otherwise proves you foolish. War is the business of men, and as such requires discussion better suited to a Captain of Gondor."
The Gondorian's mouth turned down at the corners. "If Gondor had a Captain to spare, they would be here. Alas, you are left with me. Do not presume to know me so well as to educate me on the brutality of war, my lord." A single brow quirked high as a scathing glare swept the Marshal from head to floor. "I daresay I know just as much about such horrors as you."
"Lady Rimiriel has been sent by the authority of the Steward of Gondor." Théoden's voice was stern as he aimed the reminder at his nephew before Éomer could share what would certainly be a caustic rebuttal. "Wishing for a situation to change will not make it so, and you and I both know war is rarely ideal. Not chosen lightly are those who speak in the Steward's name, and so I will trust his judgement."
"Judgement and authority mean nothing on a battlefield unless they are tempered by practical experience," the young Marshal returned. "You taught me that! If we are to properly plan an attack, then we need to know more than enemy numbers. We need to know the terrain, the defenses of both our allies and our enemies, supply routes—"
"Then it is fortunate that I was not chosen to come here simply because I am my father's daughter." Rimiriel's voice cut through Éomer's tirade as cleanly as a blade still hot from the forge. Its unshakable confidence called all attention to its owner, with the Gondorian surveying the royal Rohirrim with cool aplomb. Her demeanor suited a mountain's icy summit, strong and unassailable.
"I may not be the warrior you would prefer for your discussions of strategy, but that does not render me incapable," she insisted. "As a child, I received an education inferior to none. I learned everything from the procedures of governing Gondor's people to the functioning of its trades and industries. I later grew into adulthood within the Houses of Healing. The skill and knowledge gained there led me to the garrisons of Gondor, serving those wounded in the fight against Mordor. I soon learned how unpredictable the battlefield can be and the importance of being adaptable. Under my brother's command, I have acted as a messenger and a scout, and even an extra bow or sword when the need arises.
"I am not here as the daughter of the Steward. I am here to speak with the authority awarded to one with first-hand knowledge of this conflict. I have both saved lives and ended them in service to my country and its people. I know my land: I know our defenses, how long our cities can outlast a siege and which regions are most vulnerable to attack. I know our enemies: how they think and move, their strengths and weaknesses. It is not pride that drives me to say that you could search all of Gondor and find few more knowledgeable about the varying aspects of this war."
"But will that knowledge be enough to shift the coming battles in our favor?"
"I do not know," Rimiriel admitted, meeting Éomer eye-to-eye as a beat of silence lent gravity to her words. "You asked what I know of war. I know that if you think a battle hopeless then you have already lost. I know that if we do not stand together then Gondor will fall. I know that once Gondor falls, all of Middle-earth will follow." She turned to Rohan's king, a pleading note creeping into her voice. "We may be too late for victory, but we cannot afford not to try."
Théoden reserved his own opinion, intrigued by the exchange between his nephew and their Gondorian guest. Éomer's mouth was still twisted in a grimace and his eyes were intense as they studied Rimiriel as if searching her very soul for any trace of deceit. He no longer watched her with the arrogance of one who thought their opponent unworthy, however. Instead, his deeply furrowed brow suggested he was seriously considering her words and weighing the value of her knowledge and experience.
Pride swelled in the king's chest at the fact that his nephew was assuming an active role in the discussion with little prodding. Though the Marshal was rough, and his sense of diplomacy certainly needed refining, the seeds of a great leader were there. He had already proven himself on the battlefield and risen to the challenges of commanding his own éored, but now Théoden saw evidence that, given time and proper guidance, Éomer would establish himself as fit for Rohan's throne as well.
"If we are to go to war on foreign land, the other Marshals will need to have as much information as possible," the Marshal observed. Then, suddenly realizing he could be overstepping his bounds, he looked to his king. Théoden quickly nodded in encouragement, eager for his nephew to continue.
Bolstered by his uncle's reassurance, Éomer fixed his attention on the Gondorian. "Even the most trivial insight could prove crucial on the battlefield. They will have questions and they will expect answers. You are certain you can provide them?"
Rimiriel did not hesitate. "Yes."
Éomer nodded slowly before looking to his uncle once again. "Erkenbrand and Grimbold are assisting villagers in the Westfold. If we send a rider, they should be able to return by morning."
"Then morning is when we will gather to discuss this further."
"If you are calling your Marshals together, does this mean you are agreeing to aid Gondor?" Rimiriel glanced quickly between the king and his nephew. The confident timbre of her voice wavered, as if she feared allowing herself such hope.
"There is still much to discuss," Théoden began diplomatically. "My advisors and commanders deserve the opportunity to give their own opinions on this matter."
"That is not an answer."
Perhaps the Gondorian was too astute for her own good. She and his nephew had that in common.
"I have enjoyed our meeting, Lady Rimiriel." Théoden offered her a smile, though he made certain that the dismissal was clear in his tone. "Go. See to your horse and enjoy the hospitality of my house. It is yours as long as you wish."
His niece knew him well enough to recognize the dismissal. Eowyn stood and swept toward the door. The Gondorian stood but did not follow. The king tamped down his ire.
"Was there something else, my lady?"
He expected her to demand a more direct answer or to reiterate how dire Gondor's need was. A firm but polite rebuttal waited on the tip of his tongue.
Instead, Rimiriel gestured toward the table and the remnants of their meal. "These winter apples…might I have some for my horse? They are his favorite."
A barked laugh escaped Théoden as he surveyed the lady where she stood: poised, polite, and awaiting his answer. He should have known to expect more from a noble of Gondor. They had always been a clever people, and this one in particular clearly knew this game well. Today, she expected apples—an innocent request he could not deny without painting himself the rude host. Tomorrow, she would expect an army.
"Who am I to deny a horse his favorite snack?" The king circled the table and collected two apples from the bowl, pressing them into Rimiriel's waiting hands. "Let it ease your mind to see him safe and well-cared-for.
"If there is anything else you need, speak to Éowyn. She will ensure you are provided all you require."
"Thank you, my lord. Until we meet again."
Rimiriel offered him that low, elegant curtsey once more, and then she and Éowyn were gone.
"So it will be war, then?"
The words startled Théoden King from his reverie where he had reclaimed his seat, stroking his beard as he stared at the door through which his tenacious guest had withdrawn. The king looked to his nephew. The young Rohir probably thought his expressions well-guarded, but the uncertainty in his face was easier to read than any book. He would need to master that.
"What do you think, my nephew?"
Éomer blinked at the question answering his own, noting, "It is not my decision to make."
"Perhaps not," Théoden agreed, leaning forward in his seat. "But still I ask. Yours is one of the lives risked should we ride to battle, after all."
Éomer hesitated only a moment longer. That was his nephew—bold, always ready to face a challenge. Such courage would serve him well. "I think you would not gather the Marshals to discuss this if you had not already decided your course."
"Perhaps you are right"—Théoden poured himself and his nephew more ale— "I am afraid our guest may be correct. War has ensnared Rohan, whether I wish it or not. Is it better to ride out and meet it, or watch it destroy our neighbors while we await our turn at destruction? The answer seems clear, at first. And yet it is no small task to ask your people to face death in a foreign land."
"We are loyal. We will follow whichever path you choose."
That was a soldier's answer—drilled into his nephew's head from the moment he had been strong enough to swing a training sword. It was not a leader's answer. It was not a king's answer. Théoden sighed.
"That does not make the decision easier, my nephew," he counselled. "In many ways, the choice becomes more difficult. Whatever the outcome, you have only yourself to blame. Your men? Your people? They are only following where you lead."
Éomer considered this wisdom with the appropriate weight. The king watched him digest the words slowly, mulling them over with the grave expression better suited for a scholar than a warrior. The young Marshal was known throughout Rohan for his strength, courage, and passion. He was valiant and skilled, one of the realm's best even considering his youth. But the traits Théoden considered crucial to his heir were those most often forgotten when his people praised the youngest of their commanders: he was a discerning and decent man. In time, these traits could be forged into wisdom, of that the king was certain. If only the Valar would give him enough time.
But for now, he took mercy on his nephew. "Pay no mind to me, Éomer. There is simply too much for this old man to ponder and scarce time for it. Whether we ride to war, what happens after should we be lucky enough to gain victory—"
"After?" Éomer parroted, his question clear.
The king had fully intended to dismiss the Marshal, but he supposed they could manage one more lesson, since it was Éomer initiating the discussion.
"We have been promised a renewed alliance," Théoden observed. "But rebuilding something lost to time takes effort. It is more than bartering arms and goods. There would be long talks, perhaps trading of lands. And if an alliance is to truly last, it needs to be bound in blood."
"There will be more than enough blood, I think, should we ride to war."
"You are not wrong," Théoden agreed with a deep chuckle. "But the people of Gondor prefer to seal their agreements with marriage. If I recall correctly, the Steward has two sons…though Éowyn is too strong-willed for such an arrangement. You, on the other hand, will need a queen if you are to take my place one day."
The king's heir choked on his ale.
"Me?" he spluttered, red-faced after several seconds of wracking coughs as he struggled to clear his throat. "Surely you do not mean Lady Rimiriel?"
"Do you find her so repulsive, nephew?" Théoden carefully schooled his expression into one of calm contemplation. Rarely did anyone have the opportunity to unseat Éomer so thoroughly. "I think her becoming in her own way. Willful, perhaps, and certainly proud, but you possess those traits yourself."
The king watched with no small degree of mirth as the Marshal struggled to craft a diplomatic response. He was trying, at least. With a hearty laugh, Théoden finally abandoned the game and sought to reassure his nephew. Perhaps there would be three lessons this day.
"Fear not, Éomer. While it has not escaped my notice that none of Rohan's women have both caught your attention and kept it, you are in no danger of being attached to Rimiriel. She is already spoken for."
The king raised his right hand, bending his third finger just enough to call his nephew's attention. He recalled, "There was a gold band on her finger. In Gondor, it is tradition for a betrothed couple to exchange rings to be worn in that same place. They are moved to the left hand once the union is final. The people of Gondor take the practice very seriously. They consider it a symbol of a husband and wife's commitment to one another. My mother wore her ring until the day she followed my father in death."
His nephew had that studious look about him once again. "I did not notice a ring."
"A king must consider all details, even in small matters," Théoden proclaimed, offering Éomer an encouraging smile. "But do not fret. You have spent your life training to lead warriors, not a court. You will learn these things in time. I foresee that one day you will be a strong, wise king, with none of my foolishness."
"There are none who would dare call you foolish, uncle."
"No? Perhaps they should," Théoden said, his voice pensive. Seeing concern in his nephew's face, however, he quickly shook off the shackles of self-doubt. "But I have kept you too long, Éomer. Go, send riders to gather the other Marshals. Tomorrow, we plan our war."
Théoden, King of Rohan, studied Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, as he offered a shallow bow in farewell and took his leave. He watched until the doors closed behind his nephew's broad shoulders, proudly upheld as if the weight of the kingdom resting on them was no more than a feather.
Théoden had bourne the weight of his crown so easily, once upon a time. How had he fallen so far? Did it matter in the end?
Lady Rimiriel had spoken of legacy, of hope and courage igniting a spark that might be strong enough to repel the darkness of the East. Théoden King knew he was not the fire of which she spoke with such fervor. He could sense—in the way a horse anticipated a brewing storm or the trees foresaw the shifting seasons—that his time was drawing to its end. He was a dying coal flickering before the inevitable chill of winter.
But Éomer…the king smiled warmly as he considered his nephew. Éomer was flint rock ready to throw enough spark to set all of Rohan ablaze. He was passionate, courageous, and dedicated to his homeland. Théoden could face the cold of battle and death so long as his nephew stood ready to carry the realm in his stead. Éomer carried the hope of Rohan, and he carried it well.
A/N: Thanks again for reading! Let me know what you think!
Lauren