Recommended listening: Dvořák, "The Bells of Zlonice"
Héodis was the first to make her way toward the exit of the Marshal's Quarters. "I shall reunite with you later," she said. "There are yet other matters I must attend to." She disappeared with a wink and a wave.
"Your sword, Marshal," said Elfhelm, handing Truva her belt and scabbard.
"Thank you," said Truva, strapping it over her gown. Tradition might dictate that no armour was to be worn during a coronation ceremony – for fear of inciting misfortune during the King's coming reign – yet a weapon was never to be separated from its wielder.
Together the two commanders darted through the crowded streets, dodging baker and poet and dog alike until they came upon the rear of Meduseld, where the royal chambers lay. The balcony adjoining the King's accommodations remained empty, for Éomer had taken up residence in the Prince's rooms; he was King in all save ceremony, yet he dared not challenge precedent. And so Elfhelm instead mounted the southerly steps leading to the secondary bay, beyond which lay the smaller suite of rooms.
Truva did not follow at once. When Elfhelm noticed her absence, he turned in confusion and asked, "What gives you pause?"
"I have never stepped foot into any of the royal chambers," Truva answered. Communications with the King, whether Théoden or Éomer, had always occurred in the main hall or the Marshals' Quarters, the training ground or the gatehouse – anywhere save the personal chambers of the royal family.
"A great many things will change this day, Marshal," said Elfhelm quietly, beckoning to her. "Some more significant than others. That you are expected to greet the King in his chambers before his coronation, however, is most certainly amongst them."
Reassured, Truva gave Elfhelm a wan smile and ascended the stairs after him. They passed through a vestibule and into the Prince's private accommodations, which were remarkably similar to the main hall itself. Thick tapestries hung upon the wall, depicting such things as the two lines of Eorl, the lands of the Mark from Westfold to the Wold, or the battle of the Field of Celebrant. Unlike the main hall, however, a thick rug was spread underfoot, so lush that Truva feared stepping foot on it. She stood awkwardly upon the threshold, unsure as whether to enter or not.
Éomer greeted the Marshals with a brief nod as he stood before a gilt mirror, pinching and tugging at an emerald silk tunic. Éowyn was there also, her brother's blade in hand, ready when he required it. All four stared at each other in contemplative silence for a time; how swifty circumstances had altered! Not a year ago their lives had been nearly carefree, weighed only by concern for Théoden King's worsening condition and the Dunlendings' bothersome pillaging. They felt as children, suddenly expected to fulfil a guardian's role, feet flopping in slippers doubly too large.
"My Lord and Lady," said Truva, dropping suddenly to one knee. Elfhelm was swift to follow suit.
"My King, honourable Lady Éowyn," said he, but in three strides Éomer was before them, drawing them to their feet.
"The swearing of oaths is to come anon," he said. "There is no need to hasten such ceremony. In this moment we are but friends who have lived prosperously together in times of peace, and drawn our swords together in times of war."
Truva wordlessly reached for one of the King's sleeves, where the pearl buttons still lay undone along the wide cuff. She fastened them one by one, shadowed by Elfhelm on the other arm. Gold embroidered horses glistened upon a field of blue silk, seeming to frolic in the sunlight that streamed through the window. The sight entranced Truva, and she stared even after the last button had been threaded through its loop, unable to meet the eyes of the man who would soon be King both in address and in ledger.
Éowyn broke the spell by stepping forward with a mantle in hand.
"Must I wear that?" Éomer protested. "Helm himself would say the weather is unbearably hot this day."
"Unless you wish to defy a custom each and every King – regardless of line – has abided by, since the coronation of Eorl himself," Éowyn chastised. And so Éomer lowered himself, allowing his sister to wrap the mantle of ermine about his shoulders. Another breathless beat passed as they studied one another for a final moment, wondering whether they had not forgotten something, when Éomer inhaled sharply and made suddenly for the exit.
"Come, let us conclude this silly business as swiftly as possible," he said. Éowyn and the Marshals followed close behind, only to be brought up short by the crowd of foreign dignitaries who had gathered in the vestibule beyond.
"You appear every inch a King of Rohan, milord," said Prince Imhrahil the instant Éomer emerged. He bowed deeply, as did Aragorn and Gimli. The sons of Dol Amroth followed suit, yet Lady Lothíriel appeared far too caught up in the King's unexpected appearance that her curtsy was rather delayed. Éomer bowed in acknowledgement.
"After you, milord," said Aragorn, hand upon the door that opened onto the gallery. Éomer's mantle rose and fell once as he took a final breath, then nodded. With a grand sweep, Aragorn drew back the door.
Chaos erupted at once. Trumpets blared and bells rang, and an immense sea of well-wishers let loose a raucous cheer as musicians added their instruments to the clangour. A shower of pure white petals fluttered down, though they did not reach the King, for just beyond the vestibule a guard of four Riders raised a damask canopy overhead. It was beneath this the royal retinue stepped, descending as one down the steps.
The crowds parted instantly, revealing the path that led from the rear of Meduseld. At once the music ceased, replaced with a slow patterned beat as a band of drummers fell in behind the retinue. There was a pause from Éomer so slight that perhaps only Truva and Éowyn noticed it, and in a flash it had passed; the King marched forward to the rousing cries of all observers. Even as they wove from street to street, tracing each path and byway of the entire city, the tumult never once subsided. Each doorway and window and gutter was packed with Eorlingas from near and far.
Soon they came upon the tannery row, tucked upon the far north end of Edoras, where skinner and fellmonger and currier alike all engaged in their trade. The sharp scent of lime and urine bit into the noses of any who drew near, yet Éomer strode along as if he were not perturbed by such unpleasantries. With a swift triplet the drumbeat paused. From the artisans' shops at the end of the row, the man they called Felcús stepped forth from beneath his awning to greet the procession in the manner dictated by years of tradition:
"My King!" cried he. "What brings you to our humble tannery on this glorious day?"
"My good man," replied Éomer, "I come to beg the tanners look as kindly upon the Mark as they did during the age of my forefathers!"
"This I swear," said Felcús. "And in honour of my word, may I present to you the finest of my work?" From within the shop emerged an apprentice bearing a saddle of most immaculate design, its embossings and silver trappings sure to look most becoming upon Firefoot. Éomer accepted the saddle and admired it a moment before passing it to Elfhelm, who placed it into a cart at the rear of the procession.
"I thank thee for thy word, and for your most generous gift," said Éomer. "In return, I present to you a hogshead of wine – for though it is but a simple offering, it symbolises my dedication to the prosperity of the Mark, and by extension your own trade."
"It is with deepest appreciation that I accept your offer."
Even as the saddler spoke, said hogshead was rolled forth from a second cart and turned upon its end before the tannery. Felcús bowed deeply, and the procession moved on, coming next upon the goldsmithy.
"My King!" cried the man called Wéland. "What brings you to our humble smithy on this glorious day?"
"My good man," Éomer replied, "I come to beg the batours look as kindly upon the Mark as they did during the age of my forefathers!"
"This I swear," said Wéland. "And in honour of my word, may I present to you the finest of my work?" Already in the goldsmith's hand was a livery collar of unparalleled intricacy: gilt leaves and steeds wove about glittering emeralds, giving the impression of Mearas prancing upon the fields of the Mark. Éomer bent his head low, and Wéland placed the collar about his chest.
"I thank thee for thy word, and for your most generous gift," said the King. "In return, I present to you a hogshead of wine – for though it is but a simple offering, it symbolises my dedication to the prosperity of the Mark, and by extension your own trade."
"It is with deepest appreciation that I accept your offer." Another barrel was unloaded from the cart, and by the number that remained, Truva surmised there were yet a great many more exchanges to be made. Next came the cordwainer, who presented the King with ostentatious leather boots, and the bowyer and his weapon of the finest yew. Bronze chalices from the potter and beakers from the horner were also placed within the cart, as was a chest inlaid with gems from the Glittering Caves, crafted by the coffer maker and his apprentice.
Then came the glasier, whose pane of stained glass depicting the Eorlingas' victory against Sauruman's Orcs at Hornburg proved most extraordinary to Truva. This was not placed in the cart, but instead two captains were summoned to bear it in hand.
With each street and turn, the procession drew nearer the main gates, and when they came at last upon the gatehouse Éomer and his escort ascended the stairs. The retinue looked out upon the surrounding outskirts and the plains that spread south to the White Mountains, west to the Misty Mountains, north to the Entwood and eastward toward the Entwash. The sun beamed down, enshrining each blade of reedgrass and every farmhouse in golden light, carving sharp lines along mountain peaks and pooling along the North-South Road, where even now travellers bustled toward the capital.
A breeze played at the braids Héodis had woven into Truva's hair, carrying with it the camphoraceous, earthy scent of the Entwood and whispering promises of ages long past and futures yet to come. She was certain it spoke to Éomer, as well, for he squared his shoulders and aligned himself behind an embrasure.
All sound ceased at once. In the outskirts below, those who could not squeeze themselves into the city itself pressed near until the ground was lost to sight; not one Eorlingas wished to miss the King's words.
"My friends, Eorlingas and guests, all," Éomer's voice rang out, amplified by the magnificence of events. The masses drew even nearer. "I am not the son of Théoden, Thengel's son. Such distinction belongs to Théodred alone, whose valorous spirit now lies in rest upon the Fords of Isen, to guard our western border until the end of eternity. By rights it ought to have been he who bore the distinction of King, yet the fates did not see fit to bring such a story to us; and so it is with heart burdened by tremendous loss that I stand before you now.
"My father, Éomund son of Éodir of the line of Eofor, was likewise slain in combat, defending the Eastmark against Orcs. When my mother Théodwyn subsequently fell ill, Théoden King took me in as his own son. For many years did I live in service of the Mark under his guidance, always with the expectation that it would be Théodred I would ultimately offer my blade to. Alas, that our destiny would be thus marred.
"Yet the line of Eorl the Young was sundered once before – and may Théoden King live as strongly in our minds and his name be as frequent upon our tongues as that of Helm Hammerhand, end of the first line. In his memory, and in memory of Théodred, I offer my blade to the Mark!"
With that, Éomer unsheathed his sword and raised it overhead, casting brilliant rays across rooftop and paddock, blinding all who turned their eyes upon it. He let loose a terrible shout, which was soon picked up by each and every onlooker. Even those at the furthest reaches of the gathering, far beyond being able to hear the King themselves, lent their voices to the cry. It reverberated within the ground as they stomped their feet and clapped their hands, and still the tremors could be felt as Éomer King descended from the battlements to the sound of music resuming.
From the gate the cortege made directly for Meduseld, this time approaching from the front. Here, the garlands of autumn blossoms were joined by yard upon yard of silks, gold upon green, as well as the colours of visiting delegations. The fabric beneath their feet softened their steps and fluttered upon the wind, joined by three banners – that of the Mark foremost amongst them.
Yet even as the party mounted the final steps, Elfhelm halted, causing the others to stop in their tracks. The Marshal then stepped forth from beneath the canopy and declared:
"If any person denies Éomer son of Éomund of the line of Eofor, next heir to Théoden King, to be the rightful heir to the Riddermark, here is the King's champion! For he who would gainsay this son of Eorl is a false traitor, and I am ready to combat with him on whatever day shall be appointed."
With this challenge issued, a deathly silence fell across those gathered; for though it was issued out of tradition alone, no Eorlingas wished to hear so much as a murmur of dissent against their beloved Marshal turned King. Even had any complaint been forthcoming, Elfhelm was known to be the most decorated of all warriors within the Riddermark save Éomer, and none dared take up arms against him.
And so, with a well pleased expression, Elfhelm Marshal turned to Éomer and motioned for him to enter. The retinue swept into Meduseld, where already the most illustrious members of the Mark had gathered: great Chieftains from distant villages sat alongside advisors who had spent their years in counsel with Théoden King. These were joined by the finest craftsman of their respective guilds, having raced to take their place within the hall after presenting Éomer King with their gifts. Immediately upon entering, Aragorn, Gimli, and the representatives of Dol Amroth were guided to their seats in the midst of these dignitaries.
Éomer strode forward, followed only by his sister and Marshals. The steady drumbeat continued to throb outside the hall. An advisor by the name of Beáda, seated nearest the dais as he was most senior, rose to his feet, though it was not Éomer but Éowyn who strode forward to accept the heavy tome he proffered. As she thumbed through the pages, Éomer knelt upon the dais steps and bowed his head in deference.
"Eorl the Young, son of Léod, last Lord of the Éothéod, first of the Riddermark Kings," Éowyn pronounced, having come at last to the page she sought. Each syllable of her declaration was rhythmic and purposeful, in time with the drums outside. "Brego son of Eorl, Lord of the Golden Hall. Aldor the Old, second son of Brego."
Beáda mounted the dais and drew near the King's throne. There glimmered the diadem of Eorl, which had laid upon the seat cushion ever since Théoden was laid to rest amidst his brethren upon the barrowfield.
"Déor the Protector, son of Goldwine."
Beáda's fingers hovered above the diadem, his momentary hesitation a reflection of Éomer's own, a fleeting tribute to a King and a world gone. The hall hung in suspension, breath baited; silence floated to the rafters, and nothing was heard without.
"Helm Hammerhand, last of the first line," Éowyn announced, and at these words the drums struck a thunderous toll. At once the spell was broken, and when the reverberations fell away, Éowyn continued: "Fréaláf Hildeson, first of the second line."
The drums resumed their steady pace, and Beáda at last seized the diadem; his wizened fingers curled about its golden braiding and glimmering emeralds with palpable reverence. He turned sharply and strode back toward Éomer as Éowyn continued to list the names of each King within the House of Eorl:
"Folca the Hunter, son of Walda. Folcwine son of Folca, Fulfiller of the Oath of Eorl. Fengel, third son of Folcwine."
Standing directly before Éomer, Beáda held the diadem over the King's head. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a rainbow of colours upon the scene and dying both circlet and Éomer's locks deep blues and rich scarlets.
"Thengel, Fengel's son, friend of Gondor." With each breath Éowyn inhaled, the audience leaned in closer, anticipation mounting as the names of Kings known personally to many were spoken. Once again the drums stilled, drawing all into an expectant hush.
"Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel, last of the second line."
Utter silence reigned. As it stretched on, Éowyn laid the tome upon the dais at the feet of the Councillor, then took his seat before the dais. Arms still bearing the diadem upraised, Beáda disturbed the hush:
"Éomer son of Éomund, born of the House of Eofor, sister-son to Théoden Ednew," he cried, with surprising vigour for one so elderly. Truva suspected his voice might reach so far as those who gathered beyond the gates of the city. "In kneeling before me, you kneel before all people of the Riddermark – whether they be high or low – to swear your oath as King. Do you comprehend the significance of this oath?"
"I do so comprehend," spoke Éomer. As one, the audience inhaled, their tension in part eased by the ceremony beginning in earnest, and in part heightened by what was soon to come.
"Do you promise to defend these lands to the furthest extent of your capacity, whether that be by word or by the sword, and to seek counsel from the wise when the way is not sure?"
"I do so promise."
"Do you agree to treat with all in fairness, and to rule with a heart both righteous and merciful; that any may come to you in dispute, and in taking their leave know that the resolution you mediated was an equitable one?"
"I do so agree."
"Do you resolve to act always with consideration to the benefit of the Riddermark and its people: in the making of laws, the leadership of the Muster, the establishment of relations between foreign lands, the taking of a Queen, and in all else?"
"I do so resolve."
"Have you any trepidation regarding your succession to King, or any concern which might prevent you from executing your duties to the degree demanded by such a station?"
"I have no such fear."
"I bid you write your name in the ledger of Kings, in which each Lord of the Riddermark has written since the days of Eorl."
A second advisor darted forward, surreptitiously passing a quill and inkwell to Éomer. A brief moment passed, during which only the scratch of quill upon paper could be heard. When at last his title had been scrawled in full, vermillion letters glistening in the sunlight, Éomer laid aside the quill and looked once more to Beáda. The stoic, expressionless countenance of the Councillor appeared to soften momentarily, the suggestion of a smile just barely discernible as he declared:
"Thus begins the third line of Eorl!" In one fell motion, Beáda lowered the diadem upon Éomer's brow. "I do declare thee Éomer, King of the Riddermark!"
The audience leapt to its feet in an instant, revelling in the sheer exultation of their leader accepting in an official capacity the role he had fulfilled in recent months. Amidst the rancour, Éomer rose at last from his knees and ascended the remaining steps of the dais. Beáda accepted a scabbard from Elfhelm and presented it to Éomer, who took it delicately in hand. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments before unsheathing Herugrim, the sword of his father, and raising it aloft to thunderous approval.
"My brethren!" he cried, though it took several repetitions before the cheers subsided enough to be heard. "My brethren, I thank you for your unstinting support; for always the spirit of the Mark bolstered me when my resolve threatened to fold. Yet there are those without whose support our recent campaigns would not have fared so well as they did. I ask that my Marshals step forward."
Truva glanced in confusion at Elfhelm, who appeared equally surprised; yet with a shrug of his shoulders the Marshal stepped forward to kneel before his King. Truva rushed to join him.
"War is indiscriminate," said Éomer. "She takes what her fickle will desires, and none can predict what ravages her fingers will sow. Time, while far less capricious, is equally devastating in her ceaseless progression. Théodred's passing is a travesty of the former, and Erkenbrand's retirement a gift of the latter – and thus we find ourselves with a dearth of leadership amongst our Muster.
"In vacating my own rank as First Marshal, I present the opportunity to another: Erkenbrand Second Marshal of the Mark, be it your will to lead the Muster as First Marshal?"
"I accept your offer with glad heart, my King!" Erkenbrand exclaimed, yet the smile he and Éomer exchanged was tinged with sorrow, for events by which they had arrived at their positions were not happy ones. The moment was fleeting, however, and soon their expressions were impassive once more. Returning Herugrim briefly to Beáda, Éomer unsheathed his own sword and gripped it by the blade, extending the hilt toward his newly promoted First Marshal, saying:
"In taking up my father's blade, I now bestow unto you my own sword, Gúthwinë, if you will have it – for it has served me well these many years."
"I know not if I am deserving of such a weapon," said Elfhelm, though already his hand crept forward to twine his fingers about the leather grip. "Yet if you think me worthy of wielding Gúthwinë, her use will be solely dedicated to the service of the Mark and its people."
"And so has it always been," said Éomer, and his smile did not fade so swiftly now. After accepting Herugrim from Beáda once more and strapping its scabbard to his side where Gúthwinë had only so recently hung, he turned to Truva.
"In vacating his rank as Second Marshal, Erkenbrand presents the opportunity to another: Truva Third Marshal of the Mark, be it your will to lead the Muster as Second Marshal?"
Neither her nor Elfhelm's promotions had been unexpected; indeed, much like their King, they had functionally been serving in these positions since before the War's conclusion. And yet, to hear the words pronounced aloud, Truva found herself so overwrought with emotion that she struggled to answer.
"It is my will," she said after several attempts.
"To my great regret, I have no storied weapon to bestow you," said the King. "Yet if my memory serves me correctly, I recall bidding you give your own blade a story ere we departed Edoras upon tasks formidable – and I do believe you have done so. Present to me your sword."
Truva withdrew her sword and offered it to Éomer, who took it in both hands and raised it above his head, declaring, "I dub thee Fréodhel, defender of the home!" As he returned the blade to Truva to thunderous cheers, he whispered, "Wherever it is you find home to be."
In the blink of an eye, the enigmatic expression he wore was gone. Before Truva could parse his meaning, the King cried, "Where might Mǽgling be found?"
The boisterous, golden-locked Captain emerged at once from the crowd. "Here, my King!"
Éomer beckoned him forward, saying, "Approach and kneel." When Mǽgling had done so – his expression equally as befuddled as Elfhelm and Truva's had been but moments ago – Éomer continued, "In vacating her rank as Third Marshal, Truva presents the opportunity to another: Mǽgling Captain of the Mark, be it your will to lead the Muster as Third Marshal?"
"Yes, milord, I will do all that you and my superiors ask of me!" he exclaimed.
"I would expect no less," said Éomer King. He then bade all three Marshals to rise, declaring, "Look upon your Marshals, dear citizens of the Mark, and rejoice that those so devoted in their duties shall be the defenders to watch over us all!"
Shouts and whistles and claps rattled Truva to her very bones. It seemed the onlookers did not tire of demonstrating their support of their new King, raising their voices to the rafters of Meduseld and beyond.