UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK – THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER
Chapter 27: Rebellion
WHITE MOUNTAINS
For the longest time, Éomer could only stare at Aragorn as he tried to grasp the meaning of the older man's words, and his stomach plunged into a deep hole as he contemplated the full extent of the ranger's revelations.
"Béma help us…" He sank back into the pillow, suddenly feeling bereft of all strength as his gaze sought the ranger's eyes again. "Once again, you bring me heavy tidings, Lord Aragorn. And this while I am not even convinced that our strength will suffice in dealing with only the one foe that we knew of."
"I know," Aragon sighed. „ And believe me, I would have liked to wait before I told you, but time is running through our hands, it would seem." He fell silent, and for a while, both men pondered the implications of the other's revelations and silence thickened in the small room until their attention was diverted from the problems at hand by a shadow that suddenly moved in front of their window.
"Are we interrupting something?" a cheerful voice, muffled by the glass, inquired, which was all the more disconcerting as all the two warriors saw was the large head of a grey horse. "I could not help noticing that the curtains had been drawn aside, and thought that this would be the sight that would brighten your spirits, Éomer!" The next moment, the laughing face of a young man appeared in front of the glass.
"Halad!" Éomer beamed and with astonishment, Aragorn watched as the young warrior's expression change without transition from dread to heartfelt joy. "How good it is to see you! And what a splendid idea of you to bring Firefoot!"
Éomer straightened again and allowed himself to be helped by Aragorn, miraculously finding some reserves of his strength within his body. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, although he could not suppress a hiss as an angry bolt of pain raced through his injured thigh. Yet not even this could ruin his sudden enthusiasm as he looked at the ranger, who respectfully stepped aside as to not interfere with what seemed like the reunion of good friends.
"Lord Aragorn, please, could you open the window for me?" Éomer's smile broadened when, in reaction to his words, the horse's head turned around and the stallion's warm breath obscured his sight as Firefoot sought for his master, whose voice he could hear without being able to detect his comforting scent on the air.
"Only if you wrap yourself into your blankets," the ranger demanded sternly. "I spent all of last evening trying to warm you up; I will not let you undo my work now!"
"Oh well... now you sound like my father, even if you could not possibly be old enough." Éomer grinned, to which Aragorn nodded in mock-threat. As the Rohir turned around, he noticed the sceptical look on Halad's face.
"I hope you don't mind me agreeing with him, Éomer, but it does sound reasonable. I did not see you myself last night, but Freya said that you looked like death personified when they brought you in, and while you certainly look no longer dead to my eyes, I would not yet go as far as to say that you're looking at the peak of health again."
"I see. It's a conspiracy!" Éomer nodded, his eyes narrowed, but of course, he had no valid points to make against the two men's concern, and so he sighed and blindly groped for the blankets behind him. "Very well, if you insist…"
"I do indeed. And as you know, I always get my will," Aragorn confirmed with a wry twitch at the corners of his mouth, but then helped Éomer to untangle and spread the blankets over the injured man's shoulders.
Briefly creasing his brow as he noticed that – during his unconsciousness - he had apparently been gifted with a new shirt and trousers - Éomer then looked up with the expression of a child promised a very special gift as the ranger opened the window. A whiff of crisp cold air carrying the distinct scent of horse immediately wafted into the room, and the rider's smile widened in untainted joy as he reached for his horse.
"Firefoot! Come here, you big, grey, courageous, stubborn mule!"
Hooking his fingers into the simple halter, Éomer pulled the big head closer and rejoiced at the sensation of the stallion's warm breath against his chest.
"He guarded you well," Aragorn said, smiling at the sight of the Rohir's reunion with his animal ally. He had never seen any man beyond the Mark's borders so attached to his horse, but then again, the memory of how the stallion had risked his life for his master was still vivid and strong. "There cannot be too many horses on the face of this earth that would defend their riders against a pack of starving wolves. He was a sight to behold when he fought them."
"Aye. Aye, he is special through and through," Éomer said proudly, his fingers circling the healing bite on Firefoot's cheek. "He knows it though and thinks it an excuse for his unsurpassed haughtiness. Don't you, Meara-mule?" With narrowed eyes, he regarded the thick crust of dried blood which had formed on the gash, sharing Halad's opinion that it was barely more than a scratch that would be forgotten in a few days. With a brief glance at Freya's brother he asked: "Is that his only wound?"
"There are a few more scratches and another bite on his left foreleg, but it does not hinder him. He doesn't even limp. I cleaned everything and he didn't even twitch." The young man clapped the stallion's muscled neck adoringly, and his smile broadened as Firefoot began to chew on Éomer's shirt. "He, that is my shirt you are destroying there! Watch what you are doing; I don't have so many that I can afford to let you eat them!" He gave the halter a quick tug, and the stallion tossed his head in refusal. "Èomer!"
"Now you want my help again, Halad, hm? Where is the cheek now that you showed to me earlier?"
The young man shrugged.
"Oh well, do nothing then. What do I care if your untamed horse eats your borrowed garments, for it is not I who will have to walk around unclothed in the snow once these are gone, as I have no others to spare." Immediately, Éomer tugged at the fold of the fabric Firefoot had in his mouth.
"It is good, Big One. I know how much you love me, and I love you, too. Now please, leave me this shirt if you will." He pressed against the grey head, and reluctantly, the stallion let go, but instead tried to seize his master's bandaged hand. "No. No, Firefoot!"
Having followed the playful exchange for a while, Aragorn strained to look past the stallion.
"Halad, can you see my friend back there?... Legolas, I mean?" Legolas had left early after the morning meal to search for tracks and find out whether they had been followed. He had been gone for a while now, and while Aragorn knew that the elf could certainly look after himself, he found himself getting increasingly impatient.
"The elf? Not since he left this morning." Halad's playfulness change to nervous uncertainty as he noticed the shadow that suddenly fell upon the Dúnadan's weathered face. "Do you believe he might have… found something unexpected?"
It was too early yet to be alarmed. Legolas was thorough, Aragorn told himself; there was no doubt that he would cover a great distance to ensure that his report would be well-founded. Distinctly aware of Éomer's suddenly wary look, the ranger fought the sudden feeling of foreboding and shook his head.
"No. It is nothing." None of the two Rohirrim looked particularly convinced, so he added: "Our company has been through a lot since we set out, and it makes one cautious. My friend is probably still underway, but if he is not back in an hour, I will go after him." He inhaled deeply and looked down on Éomer. "First though, I will have another look at your wounds and change the bandages. The injuries seemed less inflamed last time I checked, but I will not take any chances."
For a moment, the rider's gaze seemed to penetrate right into his thoughts, and in response, the younger man's expression likewise hardened as Éomer gave Halad a curt nod, dismissing him.
"Thank you for letting me see Firefoot, Halad. And thank you for taking such good care of him, too. There are few who could have done that."
The younger man smirked and briefly tugged at the stallion's halter to catch his attention.
"I know. And it makes me feel thoroughly special, knowing that your ill-tempered demon likes me enough to let me tend him." He clicked his tongue. "Come, Demon, and meet the ladies on this farm. We could do with some Méara-blood around here..."
With a last nod, he took the stallion with him and left the two warriors alone. Silently and brooding, Aragorn closed the window while Éomer leant back into his pillow, staring at his new-found ally with precisely the same sense of foreboding he had read in the older man's eyes.
"Orcs do not hunt in the daylight," he said slowly, yet not entirely convinced himself. The new breed of orc the White Wizard had bred was oblivious to the sun. Their skin did not burn, or they did not mind the pain as much. Of course it was possible that something had happened to the elf out there on the mountain path, and this very moment, a sling could be tightening around their necks they did not even know of. Aragorn nodded, instinctively understanding from Éomer's tense tone that the Rohirrim had likewise already encountered the new orc-species.
"He will soon be back. He just wants to be certain, that's why he is taking so long. I know it." Blinking as he shook off the cobwebs of the dark vision haunting his mind, the Dúnadan nodded at his patient. "Now let me see your hand again…"
OOO
EDORAS
The omnipresent buzz of the citizens on the way to their many errands came to an abrupt halt as all on the market square as well as the winding path froze in their tracks, and the atmosphere abruptly thickened with the weight of looming violence. A serious conflict was about to erupt, blood was about to flow, this much was clear to all of the onlookers as they watched with obvious tension in their bearing as their riders marched toward the Hall of Kings.
The sight and sound of the city's two éoreds storming up the hill with grim expressions, their hands on the hilts of their swords, spears and bows, and preceded by their young captain, whose blue eyes blazed with determination, could only mean one thing: the patience of their Armed Forces had ended. Word of Céorl's mysterious disappearance in the wake of his return from Aldburg had spread like wildfire through the city, and not only the people well-acquainted with the Captain's son expected that the numbness of the warriors in the face of Wormtongue's dubious orders would end with this unsettling incident. Meaningful glances were exchanged between the people, whatever could be used for a weapon was picked up, and suddenly, a great upwards movement set in, drawing the citizens to the place of the expected conflict…
OOO
MEDUSELD
"My Lord Gríma, quick! There seems to be mutiny in progress!"
Guthlaf the broad-shouldered half-blood threw open the door and stormed into the throne room, not caring who heard him as he frantically sought for his master's pale shape in the deep shadows. He finally heard the door to the King's chambers open and saw Wormtongue emerge with an expression of disbelief on his face.
"What are you saying, Gúthlaf? Mutiny? Who? And where?"
"A great crowd is coming up the path, and they look very angry! Captain Éothain leads them, and it looked to me as if he is accompanied by both éoreds! And not only that, many citizens seem to have joined them as well, armed with hayforks and shovels and whatnots. They must soon be here, and I don't think my men can stop them! There are too many of them, and they look quite determined!"
"Éothain, huh?" Gríma sneered menacingly. "What does that brat think he's doing? Does he think he is the Marshal now?" With a deep breath, he swivelled and looked to where his most loyal henchman was silently awaiting his orders. "Felrod, take a few of your men and get me Céorl and Éowyn from the dungeon. Meet me at the door, quickly! I don't care if you have to carry them. All others-" Wormtongue waved at the host of heavily armed Dunlendings occupying the throne room, who had already risen in expectation of finally being allowed to slaughter their adversaries without having to care for secrecy anymore. "Follow me! The moment for which I prepared you has arrived. It is sooner than I anticipated, but that changes little, they stand no chance against us. Come, my brothers!"
OOO
EDORAS
"What will we do once we're up there, Éothain?" Aedwulf asked underneath his breath, not wanting for anyone else to hear. Only two more switchbacks ahead, the dark silhouette of Meduseld stood in stark contrast against the cloudless sky. As the sun was behind it and blinding them on their way up, he could not see whether they were already being expected, but it would be foolish to think that they could surprise Wormtongue. "If they deny us entry – will we fight our way through to the King? I do not wish to fight against Háma and Gamling."
"If what I feared happened to my father, then Háma and Gamling won't welcome us at the doors," Éothain growled, his hand already sweaty on the hilt of his sword. Of course, it was not really his sword, but one of the ten they had been able to acquire from the craftsmen. They were unfinished yet, still lacking their ordered decorations, but their blades were sharp, and that was all that counted. And what was more, the craftsmen had been able to supply them with plenty more useful things: several finished bows and spears and axes, and a couple of war-hammers. Enough to make short shrift of whatever minion of Wormtongue's would dare to stand in their way. Many of them had even chosen to accompany them, armed hammers, clubs and iron bars, ready to finally make their stand.
"At least I hope it for them, for if they tolerated that, I would not spare them. Still, the other option is not really better, because it would probably mean that they are dead."
Once again, Éothain changed his grip, silently asking himself whether this was indeed the day when he would at last hew the Worm's ugly head from his shoulders. The whole situation felt decidedly unreal.
"Perhaps not," Aedwulf muttered without real hope, yet not wanting to resign to dread when nothing was proven yet. "Perhaps he locked them into the dungeon instead. As hostages. They could be of great worth for him… and your father, too."
It was not a question, and Éothain felt not inclined to answer. The rising noise behind them told him that many citizens had joined their éoreds, and his heart beat furiously in his chest, as for the first time in months, a feeling close to exhilaration flushed his veins. It was enough; finally, all were ready to fight against what they had earlier accepted as fate, and perhaps they would succeed in casting out the poisonous snake that was Wormtongue from the Hall which had provided him shelter to this day. Oh, how satisfying it would feel to stick his sword into the filth slowly and avenge all his brothers-in-arms who had died as result of all the cunningly laid traps Saruman's orc-hordes had been able to set with the help of the spy in their midst! And Éomer… Gods, he would cut the Worm into stripes for what he had done to his best friend!
"What will we do then?" Aedwulf interrupted his train of thought again. "What if Gríma locked up all who are not on his side and holds them hostage: Théoden, Éowyn, Háma and Gamling… what are we supposed to do then? Tolerate that they will be killed when we attack?"
Éothain's heart froze at his captain's question, for he had no answer to his very valid question. Angrily shaking his head to himself, he hastened his steps instead, quickly approaching the last switchback which would lead them to the stairs. He inhaled deeply.
"We will see how it goes, Aedwulf. But no matter what my orders will be, I need to know now that I can trust you to follow me." He turned his head to look at the older man without stopping and read consternation in the grey-blue eyes. "Can you promise me that?"
"Why wouldn't I-"
"Forget I said that," Éothain suddenly interrupted him, inwardly swearing at himself. Now was definitely the wrong time to alienate his brothers-in-arms. "I did not mean that-"
The sight awaiting them on the top of the hill silenced him like a blow to the gut, and as his men followed his gaze, gasps and swearing rang out into the air. Of course their ascent had not remained unnoticed, and he wouldn't have suspected so. Yet what he had not anticipated was the sight of the terrace in front of the Golden Hall brimming with dark-haired men dressed in rags and armour; all of them pointing their bows at him and his warriors. Dunlendings! Their swarthy appearance gave them away even though they were clad in Rohirric armour from head to toe. There were so many of them that the narrow space in front of the opened doors hardly seemed sufficient for all of them. He had not yet recovered from the sight, when a cold, familiar voice rang out into the stunned silence.
"No step further! Or all of you will regret it deeply! I will not hesitate to let my men riddle you with arrows if any of you so much as twitches!"