Éomer's Hope12.16.04
By: Sarah Creviston
Éomer picked his way carefully amongst the wasted bodies littering the field of battle at the foot of Minas Tirith. Every part of him ached – muscle, bone, mind and soul. He beheld his fallen comrades with an odd sort of distant sorrow, spears protruding from their swollen chests and crude Orc arrows poking through torn flesh. The men had fought honorably. He vowed that they would have a funeral befitting the heroes that they were. With a sigh, he continued searching, looking for any yet alive.
It was then he saw it; causing his breath to catch in his parched throat. A brief moment of weak sunlight gleamed on long, golden hair pooled beneath a Rohanian clad form, pale and silent. It must be impossible! Surely, he was overly tired and imagining things! He ran stumbling to the body.
Drawing near, and realizing his eyes did not deceive him, a great animal sound wrenched itself from his body, howling in grief-stricken horror. He fell to his knees beside Éowyn's lifeless body and he clutched her to his chest, tears streaming down his face.
How? How did she come to be here, in the middle of this hellish nightmare, when he had waved farewell to her not three days ago? It was obvious she had disguised herself. Why had she not listened to him? Why had she felt such a burning desire to fight? Was his sacrifice and effort not good enough for them both?
He sobbed uncontrollably, rocking the body draped in his arms back and forth. The world meant nothing to him now. His sister – his beautiful foolish sister – was gone! He was trembling from his grief so intensely he nearly missed her shuddering breath.
Starting, he let her fall back slightly so he could behold her face. Her eyes slid open, glossed over in pain.
"Éowyn?" he whispered. "Éowyn? Oh, thank God! I thought I'd lost you forever!" The tears started flowing once more and he hugged her to his chest.
"Éomer," she gasped. "I cannot breathe."
He released her and smoothed her hair. "I am sorry. I am so sorry! My sister, why did you do it? Why did you fight? There are a hundred men who would have gone to battle in your place, and for your sake alone!"
"I chose to fight for myself, and for my people. No one could do that for me," she said.
Éomer ran his finger down her dirt-streaked face. "Sister, you are cold. I must get you some aid."
Éowyn began panting with the effort to speak, strength draining quickly from her body. "Listen to me, Éomer. Uncle Thèoden is dead. I fought my hardest, but could not save him." Éomer cried out again and wept anew at this news. She let him cry for a moment, before becoming panicked. "Éomer," she gasped. "I cannot feel my arms or any other part of my body. Say goodbye to me before I slip away too. I love you."
"I will save you, Éowyn," he said, but she had already sunk back into unconsciousness.
Gathering her up in his arms, Éomer lifted her and picked his way through the gore that lay spread upon the field. He had eyes for only two things: his sister's face and the broken white gate of Minas Tirith.
With some difficulty he found his way to the Houses of Healing. A woman, dressed in the robes of the healer's craft, saw him come in and led him to a cot to lay the body. He set her gently down and stepped back, suddenly feeling helpless and awkward.
"Is there anything you can do for her?" he spoke, voice quavering.
The woman nearly leapt in shock, suddenly realizing the new patient was a woman – in armor. She shook her head and clucked her tongue, making it obvious that she was strongly opposed to men sending their women into battle.
"I am not sure, young man. We shall see."
"Please," he begged. "You must heal her! She is the only sunlight I have left in this forsaken world."
The woman's old face crinkled in a sad smile. "I understand. She will be taken good care of."
This was meant as a dismissal, but Éomer didn't budge. "I will wait with her. Please. She is my sister. She would want me by her side."
The woman studied him and satisfying herself of the resemblance, nodded her head reluctantly.
He sat by Éowyn unmoving, hands clutched tightly together as though in prayer. He wished there were something more he could do for her. He bowed his head, waiting. Slowly, without meaning to, he fell into a light sleep.
Éomer suddenly found himself home in Rohan. "How strange," he thought. "What am I doing here?" He walked through the echoing halls of their home, perched on the peak of the hill. He wandered from room to room, but all was silent, not a soul to be seen. Where was everyone? Had they gone off without him?
Passing the doorway that led to the terrace, he stopped. There were voices. He pushed open the doors and stepped out, only to be astonished beyond measure. Before him stood himself, only at a young sixteen years of age! What could this mean? His younger self was turning slowly around, a proud smile lighting his face as he showed off his new leather armor.
"Is it not fantastic, little sister?" he was saying. Éomer stepped closer to the scene in surprise. Éowyn was here? A figure caught his eye on the other edge of the terrace, sitting on a bench. Her long golden hair cascaded in waves down her back, catching the setting sun. She was short, not having hit her growth spurt yet. Her chin was stubbornly set – so beautiful and young!
"I suppose." There was a yawn in her voice.
"What is it? Do you think it is too tight across the chest?" He tried flexing to feel the stretch of the armor and Éomer couldn't help but chuckle at himself. What a vain peacock he had been!
"If you are trying to make me jealous, Éomer, it isn't working."
Young Éomer laughed. "If showing you my well-earned armor is able to make you jealous, then that certainly reveals what type of girl you are!"
Eowyn flew to her feet. "And what type of girl is that?" she demanded, eyes flashing dangerously.
Young Éomer grinned wickedly. "A silly, daydreaming one that does not know her place!"
Eowyn gasped in fury (to the delight of Éomer both young and old). "Take that back!"
"Not unless you come and claim it," he taunted. He then drew his sword, letting it glitter menacingly in the sunlight.
Éowyn glared at him. Then fleeing the terrace, she flew past the Dreaming Éomer. She was back in an instant with a sword of her own.
"I shall claim it back, dear brother, and you will regret every word!" There was a momentary glimmer of fear in Young Éomer's eyes at what he had just started, but he blinked it away and the siblings began to circle one another.
"A girl in a dress is no warrior," Young Éomer sneered.
"And neither is a boy who battles a post in the stable with paper armor and wooden sword!"
"Paper armor?!" Young Éomer slashed out with his sword, Eowyn blocking it with a sharp clang. She whipped her sword around, blades hissing free of one another. They circled once again. "You are jealous, Éowyn, admit it! Why do you not ask Uncle for your own chestplate and helmet?" She didn't answer but struck out, lightening fast, only to be blocked. She withdrew. "I will let you try it on to play in; when I am not wearing it, that is," Éomer said. He felt it a generous offer, but it was obvious the girl didn't think so. Éowyn whirled around, dress flaring and laid into her brother's arm. He managed to glance the blow aside just in time. It wouldn't do to have the leather scratched up just yet!
"You can keep your foolish armor!" Éowyn yelled at last. She swung at his shoulder, forcing him back. "You look no better than an ugly Orc in that stupid thing!"
Young Éomer froze. Furious, he threw down his sword and started to strip the beautiful leather armor from his body, standing in his chain mail and breeches. "An ugly Orc, am I? Here! You can have it! I should never have shown it to you in the first place!" He threw the armor at her feet. "With it, you may have the protection against battle, Éowyn, but you will never fight for Rohan." He turned and stalked away.
Before he got far, Éowyn screamed, throwing her blade on the ground and leapt onto Young Éomer's back. The Dreaming Éomer was amazed at her untamed fury. Had she always been that wild?
His younger self battled with his unseen foe, struggling to get her off. They fell to the ground and started kicking, and, of all wicked things, pulling hair. They rolled across the terrace, screaming insults and curses at one another. They rolled closer and closer to the edge until they were impossibly close. The Dreaming Éomer cried, "Éowyn, look out!"
With a gasp, she went over. The boy was on his stomach and had managed to grab her hand before she went tumbling down the steep hillside. With great effort he pulled her up and into his arms. He held her as she lay limp and trembling at what had almost happened.
"Éowyn, I am sorry. I am so sorry. Forgive me. I should not have provoked you." Getting to their feet, he made sure she was steady before letting go. Without warning, she drew back and punched him square in the jaw. He reeled from the hit, stars of light blinding him.
"No, you shouldn't have," she spat, and stormed away. She halted at the doorway, close to the Dreaming Éomer, golden sun highlighting her soiled face. "By the way, Éomer. Nice armor." Then turning, she was gone in the shadow of the house.
Éomer's chin slipped from off his fist and he awoke with a painful jab to his eye. Yawning, he rubbed his jaw. It tingled slightly; from the point of rest for his hand, or from the memory of that punch still lingering, he did not know.
Turning to his sister he saw that she slept fitfully, a look of buried anguish creasing her brow. He stared at her, studying her face. Delicate, almost unseen freckles speckled her nose and cheeks.
He remembered the day that the Lady Eilanora had visited their halls from Minas Tirith. While she was older and talked unceasingly, she was beautiful, her skin smooth and perfect, almost as if it was made of fine white pottery. So many men in Rohan admired her, she was never without someone to wait on her. All the woman of the house and town were wildly jealous of her. He remembered the scene almost as if it were yesterday. He had walked past Éowyn's room, the door open to reveal her washing her face. He had paused to watch in amusement. Sometimes, she spent so much time washing, it seemed she did little else. When the towel was drawn from her face, however, her skin was bright red. Startled, he ran into the room.
"Éowyn, what is it? Are you ill? Have you a fever? Shall I send for a healer?"
Éowyn had turned to him, angry at being discovered. "No, you fool! I am not sick! Only cursed!"
"Cursed?" He was confused.
"Yes, cursed with these awful freckles!" She plopped down onto her pallet on the floor. "Why can I not have skin like Lady Eilanora's?" She pouted, her lower lip sticking out.
Éomer laughed. "Because you are not a useless old mare who has no other function than to tempt men to swoon after her! No one cares about your freckles, and neither should you."
"Why not?"
"Because…" He searched for an answer. "Because it hides the dirt better?"
"Éomer!"
"No, no wait! Because… Freckles are great marks of beauty." He smiled and searched her face, which was full of doubt. "Yes, they are great marks of beauty," he continued. "Only a truly beautiful woman has them, and only men of pure honor and valor can recognize them."
She frowned slightly. "Well, if that is true, then why does Uncle Thèoden keep inviting Lady Eilanora back? He must find her somewhat attractive and she has nary a mark on her!"
"Oh, pah!" Éomer sat beside her on the floor. "That is only out of duty, of course. She's a distant cousin, and Uncle Thèoden feels it is an obligation to keep the family ties strong. Besides, what else is he supposed to do if she shows up? Throw her out, head over heels?"
She grunted slightly, trying hard not to smile.
Éomer grinned. "The guard would take her by the back of the neck and toss her out the front door, her feet flying over her head, end over end, until she landed in a heap. Oh, she would not be hurt, of course. Oh, no. She would have landed in a soft, fresh mountain of horse manure!"
A giggle bubbled up from Éowyn, as she imagined such a scene.
"What would you say if you saw that, Éomer? Would you not feel wretched?"
"Oh, no. I'd say, 'Good riddance, the old bag. She eats too much anyway.' " By this time Éowyn was laughing hard.
"Marks of great beauty, huh?" she said finally, rubbing her raw cheeks.
"And if anyone says differently, they shall answer to me." He smiled and cuffed her on the shoulder.
Éomer sighed, stretching his arms. A smile from the memory still lingered on his lips. The old woman, by this time, had returned and brought a bowl of steaming water.
"Go, stretch your legs, son," she said. "I need to wash her now, and I doubt she would want you by her side for that."
Éomer went without question and took his leave out of doors. He stepped onto the terrace, stretching and looking out over the plain. Even though bodies still lay scattered about, the scene didn't look as horrible from up here, far away from everything. The horizon, however, still threatened; the dark cloud of Sauron looming above Mordor.
He stood, trying to keep his mind moving, for if it stopped for but a moment, dark thoughts would crowd in and his mourning would return. Try as he might, however, the thought of his uncle dead, brought up a wave of anguish. He had nurtured them since childhood, their parents having died in sickness. Thèoden had been like a second father to them. It wasn't only that, but the thought of losing his king and commander – the one man he was proud to dash into battle's rage with at his side – was no more. And that was a hard burden to bear.
Éomer's shoulders slumped in grief and he covered his face with his hands, willing the tears to stay at bay. It was then that a hand fell heavily onto his shoulder. He started, almost thinking it was his uncle, but turning, to his surprise, he found Aragorn. Sadness was etched into the man's face.
"Éomer, I heard of King Thèoden. I am sorry." Éomer nodded mutely and stared back out at the horizon. "Éowyn…"
Éomer turned at the break in Aragorn's voice. "She is not - " His heart nearly ceased beating.
"No, my friend. No. She sleeps. I had not expected to find her among the bodies of the wounded here."
"No. None of us expected it. Perhaps we should not be surprised, after all, considering it is Éowyn. She always had a mind of her own, hidden beneath that angelic face of hers. Goodness knows, she never listened to me."
Aragorn smiled slightly. "Yes. I can see that to be true." He grew serious. "Éomer, I fear there is something else plaguing her besides a wounded body."
"What do you mean?"
"Something unseen, keeping her from coming back to us. I may be able to help her, but I must sit with her awhile."
"I will come with you." He followed Aragorn back inside where Éowyn was freshly washed and changed into a long white sleeping gown. She slept with soft murmurs, her dreams troubled.
Éomer sat beside her, a short distance away. Silently, he willed her to come back to them. He didn't know what he would do without her.
Aragorn sat on her cot, placing his hand on her head. He shut his eyes slightly, murmuring things in a language Éomer did not recognize. The sound was hypnotic and Éomer did all he could to stay awake and alert.
Sounds of the sick were all about them, moans and those crying out in their sleep. Éomer shut them out, trying to concentrate on Aragorn's words. He hoped with his whole heart that they somehow contained a cure for his sister.
The melodic chanting fell upon the man's ear and lulled him into a trance. His vision blurred, whirling before his eyes, until he was back in the hall of Thèoden's house. The hall was full of people, shouting and laughing. They were celebrating. Yes, they were celebrating the victory at Helm's Deep. Clay mugs clunked in toasts and belches rent the air, exclamation points of laughter following. Éomer found himself at the spigot of an ale barrel, filling up the mugs for Gimli as he went a round with Legolas, the elf. It was a rather dull job, but the sight of a dwarf attempting to drink an elf under the table was rather amusing.
Inbetween mug refills, Éomer's eyes found Éowyn across the hall. She was radiating a smile and he couldn't help but feel the corners of his own lips turn up in response. However, her look of happiness was not directed at him, but a dark haired man whom she was offering a chalice of wine to. Éomer frowned slightly. Who was this man that had caught her fancy? Surely, it was the look of adoration upon her face, and not just an exchange of casual comradeship.
He watched the two carefully. The man drank and Éowyn watched his every move. With a nod the man turned away and Éomer was surprised to find it to be the man Aragorn. His frown deepened. He wasn't sure how he felt about his little sister being fond of this man or any sort of man, no matter what his stature. Surely, she was still too young yet!
His Uncle Thèoden approached Éowyn then, blocking his view. A loud belch from the dwarf signaled another mug. Sighing, Éomer filled another, but his gaze never left his sister's eyes, glittering like stars in the candlelight.
Éomer started. The chanting had stopped and looking down upon Éowyn, he found her eyes opening. His heart leapt into his throat. She looked up into Aragorn's face, a deep sadness spilling from her eyes. He smiled gently down upon her, then standing, beckoned Éomer over.
Immediately, he was at her side, grasping her hands in his. "Sister…" he kissed her fingertips in gratitude. "You are going to live, after all, are you not, Éowyn?"
Her lips trembled. "Perhaps, after all, I might."
"Think not on the battle, or even of our poor Uncle Thèoden. You must save your strength so that you can become well again. I'll not have a sickling for a sister." He joked lightly, but there was still a little fear in his heart.
"It is lucky you have a sister at all," she whispered.
Éomer opened his mouth to retaliate, but swallowed his words. He had been about to ask her what she had meant by that, but instead he spoke seriously. "I admit, you are right. You alone are what I have to remind me of all that is good and beautiful in this world. I count myself blessed."
At this her smile widened. "At last. It was about time you came round to see it."
Éomer kissed her forehead and laughed, the sound of it echoing in the hall and filling those who heard it with hope as the black cloud of Sauron threatened more death on the horizon.