Lady of Gondor Ch 23- Choices
(Warning: RotK spoilers)
Late March 3019; Fields of Cormallen
---------------------------------------------------------
Mellamir and Merry rode off towards the Fields of Cormallen with Éomer's messenger, Mellamir and Merry riding the horse Fengel had given her to ride to Minas Tirith and the messenger riding a fresh horse from the royal stables.
Of course he had no way of knowing it, but Merry had a much easier journey than Pippin had. Merry rode in relative comfort, on the back of a fine horse. The world was set aright as far as he knew and he was going to the fair land of Ithilien. He knew that Sam and Frodo were still unconscious there, and that was the worst of his concerns: what cruel irony for those two to destroy the ring and never wake up again to see the world they'd saved! But Merry knew they were in good hands, and that Aragorn and Gandalf would save them if anyone could. Poor Pippin, on the other hand, had left his best friend behind and taken the healers with him, away to battle.
But Merry didn't know any of what Pippin had endured and how much nicer the land was already. Everywhere he looked he saw death: they would ride for hours across scorched grass where the Orcs had been, or pass what had been orchard groves, the trees uprooted and rotting on their sides. The trees that still stood were limp, like they had no life, and many had gashes along their sides, the sap bleeding out of them a sickly green. Seeing those trees made Mellamir think of Fangorn, and of Treebeard in Isengard, and she wondered how he was faring; she hadn't heard from him since she left for Dunharrow.
Merry couldn't wait to reach the Fields of Cormallen, to see his friends and share the news, but Mellamir seemed content to just let the world float by. In fact, in all of her journeys, she hadn't taken as leisurely a ride since the trip from Minas Tirith back to Edoras with Éomer, after she saw her brother Boromir for the last time. Thinking of that trip reminded her of Éomer. He was a good boy, always had been -- no, a good man. He had grown a lot since she first met him, but so had she. Since then, she had ridden with wizards, talked with tree-herders, smoked pipes with hobbits, and convinced the horse-lords to slaughter their horses. For most people this would be enough. It should be enough, damn it! And she was getting on in years. Time to settle down, she told herself. Grow some roots. But then the other half of her seemed to say, not yet. There was so much she hadn't seen. She'd seen more than most people ever did, and suddenly it just wasn't enough.
~*~
Éomer could have been drinking to victory; he would have been in good company. The Rangers from the North had invited him to go off hunting, but he'd passed. Gimli had offered to finally correct him in his grievous misgivings about the lady of Lothlórien (on their first meeting Éomer had called her a "sorceress" and nearly lost his head to Gimli's axe for his lack of courtesy), but Éomer just brushed him off. Another day, perhaps. He wasn't interested in the lute playing, the feasting, or even in the game of lalethan (a simple game which involved hitting a chestnut with a plank of wood for the opposing teams to catch in brass cups) he had seen developing over on the south side of camp. Usually he would have been right in the middle of all the fun, and more than likely trying to do two or three things at once. But the scouts had ridden in not more than an hour ago with news that three strangers were riding in on two horses: a boy, a woman, and a man, coming from the direction of Minas Tirith.
Then he saw them with his own eyes. At first he could only see the horses. One was a deep brown, the other a brilliant yellow. He saw on the yellow one a fine lady with deep auburn hair, no longer the fiery red he remembered first seeing nearly twelve years ago. As she approached he saw that the child was not a child but instead a hobbit. And the messenger, the man riding the brown horse -- was he smiling? He never smiled! But he certainly seemed to be now.
As he was walking out to meet them Éomer suddenly felt a pang of guilt. He remembered, all those years ago when this Lady of Gondor first arrived in Edoras, how he had wanted to race out and meet her straight away, but his uncle Théoden had held him back. Now Théoden was dead, and so was Háma, the guard Théoden had sent out to welcome Mellamir instead. But Éomer would soon be the king; and he walked out in the direction he had seen the three riding from, because he felt like it.
"My lord!" Merry called as he saw Éomer approaching. He jumped off the horse (Mellamir slowed it down when she saw Éomer coming) and bowed deeply.
"You silly hobbit!" Éomer cried, laughing as he ran over. He took Merry by the shoulders, straightened him, and kneeled. "It is I who should be kneeling to you. You saved my sister's life at Pelennor. I owe you a great deal of gratitude."
"Oh, no, Lord Éomer," Merry answered as Éomer stood up. I only saw a friend in danger and did what I had to, to save her if I could. I didn't really know what I was facing."
"I can vouch for that, Éomer," Mellamir said, dismounting from her horse. "He questioned me for near two hours, and still he thinks he is a coward instead of a hero."
Éomer frowned. "The Merry who left the Shire may have been a coward, though I can hardly believe it, what with all the stories I have heard. But this hobbit who stands before me now, he is no coward, that much I know. He was braver than all of the men of Rohan, and he saved my sister from death and protected my uncle's body from that hideous Witch King. So if Merry is a coward, then this hobbit surely is not Merry. I'll call him Holdwine, because I want him to hold my wine cup and stand beside me, as long as he wishes or fate allows.
"Now, Master Holdwine," and at that name he smiled, "I have a small request to ask. It is, what, the fourth hour past dawn? Take some time, rest from your trip. But when you are ready, there is a, shall I say, difficult patient in the hospital tents. He was injured at the battle and just woke yesterday; and already he has chased away three serving-men. He misses his friends, thinks they have deserted him, and he really was too young to go to war, but he came anyway. And he's very precious to me and the other captains; we would like to see him well again. Something tells me he might react better to you than the soldiers he has been throwing his bedpans at. Will you look after him?"
"Of course," Merry nodded. With that he went on ahead toward the camp. Éomer turned to Mellamir and started to hug her. After a moment, though, Mellamir pushed him away.
"No, Éomer, it's not -- it's not right."
"Why not? You always let me hug you before."
"Before you and I were children. But you're a prince of Rohan, and I'm governor of Dunharrow and steward of Gondor, at least until Faramir's well enough to take the title back. But more importantly, you're a man and I'm a woman."
So the two of them walked into camp, holding hands and talking about all that had happened since Éomer left Dunharrow.
~*~
An hour later Merry stood outside one of the hospital tents, wearing the linen slacks and wool tunic of the king's guard. Hirlan, the younger brother of Éomer's good friend Fengel, had presented him with the collar of the king's household, a leather collar he wore under his tunic, decorated with three horses running along a river sewn in mithril thread. He held in his left hand a wine flask and balanced in his right a bronze tray of salt pork, toasted rye bread, two fried eggs, and golden fries. He walked in and set the tray down on the table, then ducked the coffee saucer that was thrown at him. As it crashed against the tent wall and fell to the ground, breaking into several pieces, he heard his irritated patient say without turning to face him:
"Have they run out of men, that they have to send boys now?"
"Come now, cousin, don't tell me you're so sick that you're blind with fever."
At that Pippin turned and saw what he'd really been waiting for: hope that all the bad things really were going to come undone*, that the world was going to be okay. Because there was Merry, his cousin and friend. He wasn't alone in this whole camp.
Pippin sat up, put his furry feet on the ground, and tried to stand up -- but too quickly. He started coughing, bent over, and Merry ran over to him. He helped Pippin sit back down on the bed and rubbed his back until the coughing passed. "I see Lord Éomer had some sense in him," Merry said at last. "I thought the men here must have strange tastes in lunch, but this is no lunch; it is a second breakfast, and worthy of a prince of the halflings!" And they had a good laugh. Everything was going to be just fine.
Éomer and Mellamir turned away from where they had been standing just beyond the entrance to the tent. Merry was healing, and now that Pippin had his best friend back he'd soon be better again as well, or as better as he would ever be.
The two walked around the camp, catching up on old news. Finally Éomer said, "I didn't call you all the way from Minas Tirith for a status report, you know. I am glad Éowyn left you behind to govern the people, but now that I know of it, I'm not concerned with whatever happened back home. Maybe I should be."
"So I assume you are now my king?" Mellamir asked.
"Not yet," Éomer answered. "It is an old custom. The king's heir is not crowned until he has properly buried the old king. I think it was to make sure the king was properly buried. But what about you? You don't have to stay in Rohan now; it is safe for you to go anywhere."
"Well, that's certainly a dangerous statement!" Mellamir exclaimed. "Anywhere, including into an Orc's den or a warg's lair? An Orc's still an Orc, even if his master is dead. But you're right. I can go most places. And I have been thinking about it. For the moment, I have to go back to Minas Tirith. I'm still the steward, until Faramir's well enough to take over. And there is much work to do. It's just us now, of our entire family. He'll need my help."
"Lots of work, yes," Éomer replied, "but for you and Faramir, only one job left."
"And what job, pray tell, would that be?" Mellamir asked. "Sweeping the streets or clearing the stones or rebuilding the gates or..."
"No, all that has to be done. But it's not your job." Mellamir looked at him with an uncomprehending stare until at last Éomer said, "Nobody's told you. You really don't know."
"Know what?" she demanded.
"Mellamir," Éomer answered, "I'm no Gondorian but I would think it'd be common sense. What is the one job of the steward?"
"To safeguard the kingdom," Mellamir replied. "To keep Gondor safe."
"Until?" Éomer pressed.
"Until the king returns," Mellamir said, "but I don't see --"
"Do you remember the prophecy," Éomer answered, "that the hands of the king will be the hands of a healer? Think about it: who healed Éowyn? Who healed Faramir and Merry?"
"Oh," she said at last.
"So you will return to Minas Tirith for a few weeks," he asked, "present Aragorn his crown, and then what?"
"Oh."
"Mellamir, are you okay?" Éomer looked at her carefully, a concerned look on his face.
Finally she snapped out of it, then started walking off toward the north. Éomer followed her. After a few minutes she turned east, then after three steps south, then north again, then west, until finally she spun around and collapsed into Éomer's arms. He sat her down gently on the ground, then kneeled in front of her. "Mellamir, what's wrong?"
"I... "she began, "I don't know where to go." She sighed.
"Well, you don't have to leave right now!" Éomer laughed. "Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"
"No, it's not that. I mean, yes, I want lunch, but it's bigger than that. I didn't think I would have to make this decision for a while yet. I don't know where to go, when Aragorn becomes king. I don't want to stay in Minas Tirith. Too many painful memories of Boromir, especially with Aragorn around. The first time I met him he brought me my brother's gloves. That is how I will always remember him. I'm sure he is a great man, but..."
"He brought you your brother's gloves," Éomer finished for her. "I understand."
"But where...?"
"Where to go?" Éomer replied, guessing her question. "I can't answer that for you, Mellamir. You'll always have a chair at the Golden Hall. A throne, if you would take it."
"What?" Mellamir asked, surprised by that last part.
"Mellamir, I love you," Éomer replied tenderly. "I have loved you since I first set eyes on you, when you rode out of Fangorn toward Edoras. Uncle would not let me go to you then. But, Mellamir, even now -- when I'm away from you, I am always thinking about you. You are beautiful, you are brave, you are wise, you are noble, you are honourable. I couldn't ask for more, and I doubt I would find more, not if I searched all of Rohan and the surrounding countries as well."
"What about Tova?" she said at last.
"Tova?" Éomer repeated.
"Tova," she answered. "The orphan I have been watching after? Or does reality enter into your fantasies?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Éomer said, finally understanding the question. "Let her come and live with us. She's a fine girl."
"Éomer," Mellamir replied, "I need to think. But right now what I need more than that is a plate piled high and a mug running over."
Éomer nodded, then laughed. "That at least I can help you with."
(Warning: RotK spoilers)
Late March 3019; Fields of Cormallen
---------------------------------------------------------
Mellamir and Merry rode off towards the Fields of Cormallen with Éomer's messenger, Mellamir and Merry riding the horse Fengel had given her to ride to Minas Tirith and the messenger riding a fresh horse from the royal stables.
Of course he had no way of knowing it, but Merry had a much easier journey than Pippin had. Merry rode in relative comfort, on the back of a fine horse. The world was set aright as far as he knew and he was going to the fair land of Ithilien. He knew that Sam and Frodo were still unconscious there, and that was the worst of his concerns: what cruel irony for those two to destroy the ring and never wake up again to see the world they'd saved! But Merry knew they were in good hands, and that Aragorn and Gandalf would save them if anyone could. Poor Pippin, on the other hand, had left his best friend behind and taken the healers with him, away to battle.
But Merry didn't know any of what Pippin had endured and how much nicer the land was already. Everywhere he looked he saw death: they would ride for hours across scorched grass where the Orcs had been, or pass what had been orchard groves, the trees uprooted and rotting on their sides. The trees that still stood were limp, like they had no life, and many had gashes along their sides, the sap bleeding out of them a sickly green. Seeing those trees made Mellamir think of Fangorn, and of Treebeard in Isengard, and she wondered how he was faring; she hadn't heard from him since she left for Dunharrow.
Merry couldn't wait to reach the Fields of Cormallen, to see his friends and share the news, but Mellamir seemed content to just let the world float by. In fact, in all of her journeys, she hadn't taken as leisurely a ride since the trip from Minas Tirith back to Edoras with Éomer, after she saw her brother Boromir for the last time. Thinking of that trip reminded her of Éomer. He was a good boy, always had been -- no, a good man. He had grown a lot since she first met him, but so had she. Since then, she had ridden with wizards, talked with tree-herders, smoked pipes with hobbits, and convinced the horse-lords to slaughter their horses. For most people this would be enough. It should be enough, damn it! And she was getting on in years. Time to settle down, she told herself. Grow some roots. But then the other half of her seemed to say, not yet. There was so much she hadn't seen. She'd seen more than most people ever did, and suddenly it just wasn't enough.
~*~
Éomer could have been drinking to victory; he would have been in good company. The Rangers from the North had invited him to go off hunting, but he'd passed. Gimli had offered to finally correct him in his grievous misgivings about the lady of Lothlórien (on their first meeting Éomer had called her a "sorceress" and nearly lost his head to Gimli's axe for his lack of courtesy), but Éomer just brushed him off. Another day, perhaps. He wasn't interested in the lute playing, the feasting, or even in the game of lalethan (a simple game which involved hitting a chestnut with a plank of wood for the opposing teams to catch in brass cups) he had seen developing over on the south side of camp. Usually he would have been right in the middle of all the fun, and more than likely trying to do two or three things at once. But the scouts had ridden in not more than an hour ago with news that three strangers were riding in on two horses: a boy, a woman, and a man, coming from the direction of Minas Tirith.
Then he saw them with his own eyes. At first he could only see the horses. One was a deep brown, the other a brilliant yellow. He saw on the yellow one a fine lady with deep auburn hair, no longer the fiery red he remembered first seeing nearly twelve years ago. As she approached he saw that the child was not a child but instead a hobbit. And the messenger, the man riding the brown horse -- was he smiling? He never smiled! But he certainly seemed to be now.
As he was walking out to meet them Éomer suddenly felt a pang of guilt. He remembered, all those years ago when this Lady of Gondor first arrived in Edoras, how he had wanted to race out and meet her straight away, but his uncle Théoden had held him back. Now Théoden was dead, and so was Háma, the guard Théoden had sent out to welcome Mellamir instead. But Éomer would soon be the king; and he walked out in the direction he had seen the three riding from, because he felt like it.
"My lord!" Merry called as he saw Éomer approaching. He jumped off the horse (Mellamir slowed it down when she saw Éomer coming) and bowed deeply.
"You silly hobbit!" Éomer cried, laughing as he ran over. He took Merry by the shoulders, straightened him, and kneeled. "It is I who should be kneeling to you. You saved my sister's life at Pelennor. I owe you a great deal of gratitude."
"Oh, no, Lord Éomer," Merry answered as Éomer stood up. I only saw a friend in danger and did what I had to, to save her if I could. I didn't really know what I was facing."
"I can vouch for that, Éomer," Mellamir said, dismounting from her horse. "He questioned me for near two hours, and still he thinks he is a coward instead of a hero."
Éomer frowned. "The Merry who left the Shire may have been a coward, though I can hardly believe it, what with all the stories I have heard. But this hobbit who stands before me now, he is no coward, that much I know. He was braver than all of the men of Rohan, and he saved my sister from death and protected my uncle's body from that hideous Witch King. So if Merry is a coward, then this hobbit surely is not Merry. I'll call him Holdwine, because I want him to hold my wine cup and stand beside me, as long as he wishes or fate allows.
"Now, Master Holdwine," and at that name he smiled, "I have a small request to ask. It is, what, the fourth hour past dawn? Take some time, rest from your trip. But when you are ready, there is a, shall I say, difficult patient in the hospital tents. He was injured at the battle and just woke yesterday; and already he has chased away three serving-men. He misses his friends, thinks they have deserted him, and he really was too young to go to war, but he came anyway. And he's very precious to me and the other captains; we would like to see him well again. Something tells me he might react better to you than the soldiers he has been throwing his bedpans at. Will you look after him?"
"Of course," Merry nodded. With that he went on ahead toward the camp. Éomer turned to Mellamir and started to hug her. After a moment, though, Mellamir pushed him away.
"No, Éomer, it's not -- it's not right."
"Why not? You always let me hug you before."
"Before you and I were children. But you're a prince of Rohan, and I'm governor of Dunharrow and steward of Gondor, at least until Faramir's well enough to take the title back. But more importantly, you're a man and I'm a woman."
So the two of them walked into camp, holding hands and talking about all that had happened since Éomer left Dunharrow.
~*~
An hour later Merry stood outside one of the hospital tents, wearing the linen slacks and wool tunic of the king's guard. Hirlan, the younger brother of Éomer's good friend Fengel, had presented him with the collar of the king's household, a leather collar he wore under his tunic, decorated with three horses running along a river sewn in mithril thread. He held in his left hand a wine flask and balanced in his right a bronze tray of salt pork, toasted rye bread, two fried eggs, and golden fries. He walked in and set the tray down on the table, then ducked the coffee saucer that was thrown at him. As it crashed against the tent wall and fell to the ground, breaking into several pieces, he heard his irritated patient say without turning to face him:
"Have they run out of men, that they have to send boys now?"
"Come now, cousin, don't tell me you're so sick that you're blind with fever."
At that Pippin turned and saw what he'd really been waiting for: hope that all the bad things really were going to come undone*, that the world was going to be okay. Because there was Merry, his cousin and friend. He wasn't alone in this whole camp.
Pippin sat up, put his furry feet on the ground, and tried to stand up -- but too quickly. He started coughing, bent over, and Merry ran over to him. He helped Pippin sit back down on the bed and rubbed his back until the coughing passed. "I see Lord Éomer had some sense in him," Merry said at last. "I thought the men here must have strange tastes in lunch, but this is no lunch; it is a second breakfast, and worthy of a prince of the halflings!" And they had a good laugh. Everything was going to be just fine.
Éomer and Mellamir turned away from where they had been standing just beyond the entrance to the tent. Merry was healing, and now that Pippin had his best friend back he'd soon be better again as well, or as better as he would ever be.
The two walked around the camp, catching up on old news. Finally Éomer said, "I didn't call you all the way from Minas Tirith for a status report, you know. I am glad Éowyn left you behind to govern the people, but now that I know of it, I'm not concerned with whatever happened back home. Maybe I should be."
"So I assume you are now my king?" Mellamir asked.
"Not yet," Éomer answered. "It is an old custom. The king's heir is not crowned until he has properly buried the old king. I think it was to make sure the king was properly buried. But what about you? You don't have to stay in Rohan now; it is safe for you to go anywhere."
"Well, that's certainly a dangerous statement!" Mellamir exclaimed. "Anywhere, including into an Orc's den or a warg's lair? An Orc's still an Orc, even if his master is dead. But you're right. I can go most places. And I have been thinking about it. For the moment, I have to go back to Minas Tirith. I'm still the steward, until Faramir's well enough to take over. And there is much work to do. It's just us now, of our entire family. He'll need my help."
"Lots of work, yes," Éomer replied, "but for you and Faramir, only one job left."
"And what job, pray tell, would that be?" Mellamir asked. "Sweeping the streets or clearing the stones or rebuilding the gates or..."
"No, all that has to be done. But it's not your job." Mellamir looked at him with an uncomprehending stare until at last Éomer said, "Nobody's told you. You really don't know."
"Know what?" she demanded.
"Mellamir," Éomer answered, "I'm no Gondorian but I would think it'd be common sense. What is the one job of the steward?"
"To safeguard the kingdom," Mellamir replied. "To keep Gondor safe."
"Until?" Éomer pressed.
"Until the king returns," Mellamir said, "but I don't see --"
"Do you remember the prophecy," Éomer answered, "that the hands of the king will be the hands of a healer? Think about it: who healed Éowyn? Who healed Faramir and Merry?"
"Oh," she said at last.
"So you will return to Minas Tirith for a few weeks," he asked, "present Aragorn his crown, and then what?"
"Oh."
"Mellamir, are you okay?" Éomer looked at her carefully, a concerned look on his face.
Finally she snapped out of it, then started walking off toward the north. Éomer followed her. After a few minutes she turned east, then after three steps south, then north again, then west, until finally she spun around and collapsed into Éomer's arms. He sat her down gently on the ground, then kneeled in front of her. "Mellamir, what's wrong?"
"I... "she began, "I don't know where to go." She sighed.
"Well, you don't have to leave right now!" Éomer laughed. "Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"
"No, it's not that. I mean, yes, I want lunch, but it's bigger than that. I didn't think I would have to make this decision for a while yet. I don't know where to go, when Aragorn becomes king. I don't want to stay in Minas Tirith. Too many painful memories of Boromir, especially with Aragorn around. The first time I met him he brought me my brother's gloves. That is how I will always remember him. I'm sure he is a great man, but..."
"He brought you your brother's gloves," Éomer finished for her. "I understand."
"But where...?"
"Where to go?" Éomer replied, guessing her question. "I can't answer that for you, Mellamir. You'll always have a chair at the Golden Hall. A throne, if you would take it."
"What?" Mellamir asked, surprised by that last part.
"Mellamir, I love you," Éomer replied tenderly. "I have loved you since I first set eyes on you, when you rode out of Fangorn toward Edoras. Uncle would not let me go to you then. But, Mellamir, even now -- when I'm away from you, I am always thinking about you. You are beautiful, you are brave, you are wise, you are noble, you are honourable. I couldn't ask for more, and I doubt I would find more, not if I searched all of Rohan and the surrounding countries as well."
"What about Tova?" she said at last.
"Tova?" Éomer repeated.
"Tova," she answered. "The orphan I have been watching after? Or does reality enter into your fantasies?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Éomer said, finally understanding the question. "Let her come and live with us. She's a fine girl."
"Éomer," Mellamir replied, "I need to think. But right now what I need more than that is a plate piled high and a mug running over."
Éomer nodded, then laughed. "That at least I can help you with."