Chapter XIII: A Waning Moon
His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions, but an answer to their unsolved questions.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.
They left as mourners departing a bed of death. Above them, the sky blushed with twilight, clouds every shade of rose and violet. The sun set gentle that night, descending with pale dignity into the West.
Éomer looked back only once, and through the gulf of shadowy air, he saw the tree, standing still and straight, unimaginably old. Atkiray looked back too, and Éomer saw that the boy's face had healed greatly in the interim. He realized that his own aches and bruises were also gone, and that made him sad enough to weep. But only Atkiray broke the silence.
"The world-tree is dead," he said. His voice was that of a child's, soft and wondering, trying to comprehend.
"Yes," Legolas answered. His eyes were dry, eyes the color of leaves in springtime. "Yes, the world-tree is dead. But her roots will turn to stone and hold the Earth forever." Then slowly he began to sing. The words were simple, the tune even simpler, a song any maid might sing as she harvested the grain. But his voice was low and sad and resonant, and it seemed to Éomer that it was a fitting plaint.
"She walked in spring, her hair was flowers
Wandered the willow-meads where rivers go
Stood through sun and soft spring showers
And smiled as she watched the willows grow
She walked in summer, dressed all in green
Flitting through meadows, gathering roses
Peering past elm and birch tree in-between
Smiled as she threaded her hair with posies
She walked in autumn, her hair was all gold
Among the rowan trees, shapely and stately
Laughed at the colors so bright and so bold
And smiled as the forest bowed so sedately
She walked in the winter, barren and cold
'Neath snowy branches of pine and of fir
Asking the frosty wind a question so old
Saying, what does spring tarry for?"
They walked past the black porphyry field, where the scorched snake bones lay, a sacrifice offered up to the starry sky. It was deep night when they reached their horses and the nightjars called their watch.
Firefoot nuzzled him in greeting, and Éomer wrapped his arms around the stallion's neck. He felt old and weary. The moon, smaller now, drained all the colors into ghosts.
He must have fallen asleep as he stood, his head pillowed against Firefoot's shoulder, for a hand was suddenly shaking him. The moon was lower in the sky, the stars paler. He turned to see Legolas.
"Horses may sleep standing up, but horsemen cannot. Come."
There were tear stains on the Elf's pale face. Éomer straightened himself but did not leave Firefoot's side. "Would you rather have the company of horses or horsemen?" he asked.
Legolas's mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he looked away from Éomer. A small thing, but it startled the man. "I am sorry for you, Éomer, and your people," he said. "The last of the Ent-wives has passed beyond our time. There will be no more Entings, and the Ents will grow less Ent-ish and more tree-ish. By the time your children's children ride under the eaves of Fangorn, they will feel it only as an old and musty forest, shaggy and grey, without power or even….magic."
"I think not," Éomer answered after a minute. "I think that when my children's children ride under the eaves of the Entwood, they will feel all the old memories stored up in that forest. The power that you say is gone will be buried deep in the marrow of the Earth, and they will feel it, and reflect on it. It will not be as strong as it once was, but it will be there."
Legolas looked back at the man, a gleam in his green eyes. "You have changed," he said thoughtfully. "You have changed greatly, Éomer." He laughed, like a breath of wind, and chanted softly,
"The silver ships come gliding down
All wrapped in mist and moon
They go as kings without the crown
And grey oars swing to a tune
So in wind-voices, they call farewell
To all the lands that bore them
To flower and forest and dewy dell
Clayey bank and willow stem
And for one moment they turn aside
And look out onto the shore
They cry, 'Our ships are not full-laden'
We have room for just one more.'"
The light of the setting moon fell full on Legolas, and Éomer had never seen a face so beautiful, so wistful, so eldritch and sad. "I know what you saw," the Elf said. "Would you sail West, Éomer, son of Éomund?"
In the darkness and the moonlight, it was not as unthinkable as it was by day. Beyond the horizon the moon sank towards, there was another horizon he could not see. But he knew it was there. Yes, in the moonlight he was as certain of that land as he was of his own heartbeat.
And yet many a man holds a treasure in his hoard whose worth he does not understand, and so it was with Éomer. Something restrained him, pulled at him as the moon pulls at saltwater. "I doubt that power is given to you to grant me safe-keeping across the waters," he said at last. "No, I was born Earth's son, and I will die Earth's son. I will sleep the sleep of the sword in the barrows of my forebearers, and so it shall be."
"So it shall be," Legolas echoed. A sad shade of a smile passed his lips. "And I shall not set sail until you do so."
Éomer felt a warmth rise in his heart. "I am honored," he said simply.
"I fear I have been rather promiscuous with that promise," Legolas warned him. "I said the same to Arwen and Aragorn."
The man laughed softly. "And what of Gimli?"
Legolas's smile seemed sweeter, brighter. "The Dwarf has managed to lift his beard-cumbered face and find something more beautiful than his caves. I doubt very much if his long home will be beneath a mountain. But you must forgive me. I forget men do not like to speak of such matters in the night."
"Nor in the day," Éomer agreed.
"Of course," Legolas said. "Tell me, what will you do when you return home?"
"Home?" Éomer shifted. He had many half-formed thoughts, and an aching to begin the labor. "First, I shall beard the old swan in his bay, and tell him I have no need of a wife. Then I shall roust Elfhelm from the throne, appoint a new Marshall to captain the Third Éored, and have a new blade forged for me."
"Very pragmatic," Legolas observed. "As for me, I also shall beard the beast in his den, and speak to my father of establishing an Elven colony in Ithilien. I doubt he will take kindly to it, but others will."
"My sister will welcome you," Éomer said. "Indeed, she may even embrace you if you help her heal Ithilien."
"Yes. Our paths crossed once or twice in the spring," Legolas answered. "I tell you; it was a strange sight to see a woman with a trowel in one hand and a sword in the other. There were many forays, and even now, Ithilien is not quite cleansed from Orcs." He spat the last word out as if it had a bitter taste.
Éomer turned on him. "Orcs?" he demanded. "Éowyn never said ought of Orcs in her letters. By her account, Ithilien was as peaceful as any pleasure-garden."
Legolas turned away. "Perhaps I have over-stated the risk," he said cautiously. "My nurse was a skilled seamstress, but I was always far better than her at the embroidering of things. And besides," he added in a lighter voice. "Faramir is always by her side."
"And should I derive comfort that?" Éomer retorted, his voice a challenge. Legolas studied his face for a brief minute as if considering the best answer.
"Faramir is a skilled warrior," he said at last.
Éomer snorted. He had come to know Faramir thoroughly, studying him in the hopes of finding some flaw. The simple truth-that Faramir's flaws only seemed to strengthen and steady him-had done nothing to increase Éomer's fondness for the man. And while holding any grudge or lingering dislike against him was a hard task, Éomer had spared no pains, for, in his heart of hearts, he had always hoped that Éowyn would stay by his side. From children, they had always been together, companions, rivals, always eager to outdo each other, and always ready to turn back and help the other up. In Edoras, they had been named þeir-lofgeornost, for their skill with horses and their prowess in the yard, as well as their readiness to boast or to fight. Circumstances, and later, the Wormtongue, had contrived to separate them, but the love between them had always been strong. He could not understand why she would so willingly give her hand to a stranger, after laughing in the face of every man who came to woo her.
He near forgot Legolas was by his side, as he sat immured in thought. He had known she was miserable, lessened to a cupbearer and a care-taker, and yet he had been helpless in the matter, being ever sent away to the borders. And every time he had returned, she was more hardened, like one who slowly changes to steel. After some years, she no longer spoke to him of Gríma, although he had seemed to hound her more, watching her every movement from under lidded eyes. She did not complain nor lament. Ice seemed to fill up her heart, her words became frozen. She grew pale and wan in that hall, forever bound to the withering King's side. He knew too, why she had ridden. She had gone seeking death, not valor on the battlefield, and death had nearly found her. He understood why she would not return to Edoras. Meduseld housed such memories that it could no longer be a home, even to one as strong as his sister. He would never breathe a word that could taint her new-found happiness, yet at times it still hurt that she would leave him and their country behind.
Green and gold swam before his eyes, taking shape, becoming a sea of grasslands, as green as summer memories.
Ahead of him, Éowyn is riding, her hair flowing in the wind at her speed. She is only a girl on a pale half-grown filly. He puts the spurs to his own steed, a horse his legs do not at first remember. Then it comes to him: a hard-mouthed mare, his first horse. If she will obey you, his father had said, then any horse will obey you.
She will not obey him. She moves like a stone-footed nag. Éowyn pulls further and further ahead, her steed going like quicksilver in the green grass, going like the golden-haired girl's other self.
He lays his spurs in the mare again, harder, begging and pleading with her. But the quicksilver filly moves like the wind, forever ahead, outfooting, outstriding, outlasting. Éowyn leans over her filly's neck, whispering her forward without whip or spur, and the horse flies like silver smoke through the green grass.
He weeps as his mare refuses to gallop. Éowyn's filly goes like all that anchored her to earth is her rider, and even that is no longer enough.
Please, he begs, not knowing what lies ahead, only knowing Éowyn needs him by her side. Please. Please. Please.
His mare lengthens her stride, breaks into a gallop and Éomer clings to her. Ahead, the pale filly seems poised for flight.
His hard-mouthed mare becomes slick with sweat. There is salt in his eyes and blood in his mouth. The green is giving way to bronze, copper blades of grass fly by like spears, rustle like skeleton hands as they pass. Beyond is blackness.
Éowyn does not see. She is laughing, urging her filly onwards, arms outstretched as she embraces the future.
His hard-mouthed mare is gaining, gaining, gaining on the pale filly. The grass is gone now, gone as if it never was, never is, never shall be. They fly through a field of ash. He uses the bit and the spur wildly, recklessly, urging the hard-mouthed mare to her last. Cinders and sparks burst up from under the flinty hooves of the pale filly. They coat her with grey, singe her tail and fetlocks. The pale filly is grey. Éowyn's hair is grey. Their eyes burn like the sun and the stars.
He impels his hard-mouthed mare forward with voice and legs, screaming until his throat is raw. The grey filly and the hard-mouthed mare pull neck to neck. He leans out far, reaching for Éowyn, trying to pluck her from the back of the terrible filly.
Ahead a smooth black wall flings itself to the sky. The grey filly races towards it, never changing her course. He grabs for Éowyn's hand. She cries out in anger and pulls away from him. He leans out further, locks his grip around her waist. Her feet are tight in the stirrups. The grey filly plunges forward. The black wall is close now, very close, too close…
He pulls with all his might. The hard-mouthed mare veers away from the wall. He clings to her back with all his strength. Every muscle keens in agony.
The grey filly runs and runs. Éowyn comes free from the stirrups. In her eyes, he sees the reflection of green fields and blue tarns and golden suns. The grey filly vanishes through the black wall like smoke and salt.
He tries to bring Éowyn to his chest, but the impetus is too vicious for his boy-arms to command. The legs of the hard-mouthed mare fold beneath her. She crumples to the ground as Éowyn flies forward, into the black wall.
There is a sound, much too loud. Éowyn falls against him. Blood runs down her white forehead. Her face is white and young, her hair is grey. Her eyes are closed.
On the other side of the black wall, he sees the eyes of the pale filly. They burn like the sun and the stars.
Éowyn does not burn. Éowyn bleeds.
Éomer woke with a start, the dream falling like a shattered mirror. To the East, the sun was only a sliver of gold behind the Red Mountains, the sky still purple with night. He looked down at his hands reluctantly, fearful that they might be boy's hands, but they were his own, strong and large, the skin roughened with wind and sun and riding. The detritus of the dream was falling away fast, dissolving with daylight.
He sat up, Legolas' cloak slipping off him as he did so. He stood up, holding it carefully. It was as silky-soft as the petals of a morning-glory flower, the hues wavering like light on troubled waters. He went over to where Legolas slept with his eyes unclosed and laid the cloak softly beside the Elf. Then he returned to the horses. Alta pricked up her ears at his approach and he stroked her muzzle, admiring her. The filly was delicately delineated, but he knew she had an iron strength in those chiseled bones. Her neck was curved like the blade of a sabre, her eyes enormous and dark.
"You must be eager for home, lovely one," he said. She nuzzled him eagerly, searching for dates and not sweet words. He laughed, keeping his voice low, and stretched out his other hand to console Firefoot, who snorted with bruised dignity.
"If you are done feeding my horse's vanity, perhaps you could do the useful thing and feed her stomach."
Éomer caught the nosebag Atkiray tossed him and did as he was bid, and they worked in silence to feed and curry the horses. The others woke soon, and they partook of a sparing meal, for although Khutulun had been free-handed in supplying them, the journey had taken longer than any of them had expected.
They were all eager to leave. Even the horses pranced and tossed their heads, but Gimli stood by the edge of the porphyry field, looking out at it with a sad gleam in his deep eyes. "There was beauty here," he said finally, his deep voice a rumble that startled them all. "Still is, mayhap. Buried deep, but there no less."
"You have caves already," Éomer reminded him, although he knew in his bones that was not the right answer. "Surely you are not already wearied of them."
"No," Gimli answered.
"I know what you are saying," Legolas said from behind them. But what he understood, he did not say.