A/N: My thanks as always to all you generous folks out there who are reviewing. kiss, kiss. Just a couple of replies:
Lindahoyland: Aragorn is very bad not to have commented about Eomer's arm. I shall tell him so and attempt to rectify that.
Athelea63: Sorry about the formatting. I was having trouble getting to show me a preview before posting, so finally just went ahead and posted without it. If anyone knows how to make a guaranteed line break I'd be grateful. I've tried various things, but they just seem to disappear if they aren't added in the preview stage. Sorry about being so mean to Faramir – in my stories everyone gets to suffer. 'Tis only fair. ;-)
Frigg: Hi. I've enjoyed your stories. Sorry, I'm terrible at reviewing 'cos I tend to sneakily read stuff at work when I should be doing other things. Me bad.
Chapter 28 – The return
Erika stared at the tray that had been delivered to her cell. The food she could easily ignore, even though her stomach rumbled with hunger. The jug of water was far more tempting. Her mouth was dry and her body craved fluids. No. She would not risk it. The memory of Eomer's suffering was still raw, and she had no desire to discover first hand what it was like to be poisoned. She could survive a while longer without nourishment. Rescue would come, wouldn't it? Surely Elfhelm would not leave her…
The rattle of a key in the lock put an end to her contemplation. Moments later the door opened and Ceorl strode into the cell. She was sitting on a low bench, and now she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and pressed her back against the wall, grateful for its solidity. His gaze went to the untouched meal.
"No appetite, my lady?"
She attempted indignation. "I meant no harm in seeking out the king. Why have you imprisoned me?" She looked past him at the two guards who had followed him into the cell and who now stood either side of the doorway. Escape was impossible.
Ceorl moved closer. His fingers gripped her chin, and he turned her face first to the right, and then to the left. "I have met you somewhere before."
"As I said, you must have seen me in the kitchen."
She had no warning of the slap. One moment she was looking up at him. The next she was sprawled on the floor at his feet, her cheek stinging and her palms grazed from where her hands broken her fall. His fingers tangled into her hair and she was pulled to her feet.
"Who are you? A name. Now."
Her mind was spinning. What to tell him. Half truths? Lies? Or the truth? Did he already know that Eomer was still alive? She glared at him, trying to decide what path to take, but as she did so, recognition lit up his face.
"I know that look," he said, tugging on her hair so her head was forced painfully back. "You are from the northern villages."
"Aye," she said, deciding it was best not to lie about geography. He could too easily catch her out. "Does that solve your mystery, then? That you know me from there?"
His eyes narrowed to slits as he studied her. "Your name, woman. Now."
Her eyes were watering from the painful grip he had of her hair. "Erika. My name is Erika." What did it matter if he knew her? He had no proof that she was anything other than what she claimed to be. "Perhaps you do know my face. There was a harvest celebration two summers past. You were there, but I did not think you noticed me."
"Erika." He repeated thoughtfully, and then released his grip. She gratefully straightened her head, relieved that her name did not seem to mean anything to him. He watched her for a few moments and then paced away, throwing words over his shoulder. "Do you not think it odd that someone from the northern villages should be found in the chambers of the King of Gondor at such a time as this?" She stared blankly at his back. Abruptly he turned. "What message did you carry to him?"
"Message?" Her heart was beating fast, adrenaline flowing through her. Once again she glanced at the door, wishing she could flee. "The only message I bore was my own. That I sought work…" A second slap caught her across the face. This time she stumbled, but did not fall. "Why do you not believe me? What is it you think I know?"
"Who did you travel to Edoras with?"
"No one." She rubbed at her stinging cheek.
Ceorl's expression sharpened. "You did not perhaps travel with a Gondorian woman and a Rohirrim?"
"No. I told you. I travelled alone."
He stepped towards her, pushing her roughly against the wall, his fingers of his right hand curling around her neck, squeezing her throat. "And you did not, I suppose, travel with a man who claimed to be king?"
Her vision was beginning to turn hazy, and she couldn't answer even if she wanted to. The pressure on her throat increased and it was all she could do to drag enough air into her lungs to remain conscious. Then abruptly he let her go. She fell to the floor, coughing as air flowed down her abused windpipe. Ceorl stared down at her, his face now an expressionless mask. Somehow she managed to find her voice. "I… don't know… what you're… talking about."
He gave a derisive snort. "I think you know exactly what I speak of, but it matters not. Let Eomer come. I will do what others have attempted and failed." He leaned over her, his spittle flecking her face as he spoke. "He will die. And so will any who have attempted to aid him."
The threat was clear enough. She tilted her chin defiantly. "Death holds no fear for me."
He sneered at her. "Indeed not. In fact I should imagine you will welcome it long before my men have finished using you in whatever way they see fit." His fingers wrapped into her hair again and he twisted her head to one side so he could examine her profile. "Yes, a very pretty gift you will make for them at the celebration tomorrow."
One of the guards stepped forward, his gaze raking hotly down her body. "Perhaps we should try the goods now."
Ceorl smiled coldly as Erika attempted to shy away. "Patience," he murmured. "Let her spend the night contemplating her fate. The taking of her will be so much sweeter when the long dark hours of fear have had time to tenderise her spirit."
Moments later the door closed on her. She huddled into a corner, tugging her shawl tightly around her. Across the room sat the tray of food. If it had been poisoned, she would now have welcomed it gladly.
0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0
It was time. Eowyn stepped from behind the screen and watched as Ceorl took in her outfit. Apparently he approved because he nodded slightly before giving her another up and down look.
"You look beautiful," he said. "One might almost say bridal."
She frowned at that. The care she had taken in choosing a dress and braiding her hair was out of respect for Eomer. If the worst came to the worst and she did indeed end up marrying Ceorl she would wear sackcloth rather than the soft woollen dress that Eomer, who admittedly had drunk rather a lot of ale at the time, had once declared his favourite. "Just one thing," Ceorl said as he stepped forward and used his index finger to lift her necklace away from her skin. "What is this?"
"It's a horse's tooth," she replied, tugging the necklace's leather thong from him.
"Surely you have something more fitting?"
"It was a gift," she snapped. "From Eomer." He'd been barely fourteen summers old, and she had thought him quite mad when he'd presented it to her during the harvest celebration. She'd laughed at him, and he'd stomped off in a temper, declaring that he had not known what else to give her to mark the feast day as their uncle did not see fit to give them money nor an opportunity to earn coins of their own. Only later did Theodred inform her it was the first milk tooth to be shed by the young horse Eomer had been tasked with caring for, and that most Rohan riders considered such a thing to be precious. Dismayed at her foolishness she had sought her brother out, apologised for her uncouth behaviour and given him a garland of wild flowers by way of recompense. He gallantly wore the garland for the rest of the celebration, bravely ignoring the teasing of the other young lads at court who thought it highly amusing that he should appease his sister in such a manner. Now she met Ceorl's gaze. "I own no piece of jewellery that is more fitting."
Ceorl's lips tightened, and for a moment she thought he would argue with her. They both knew that her jewellery box contained far more precious items - a necklace of smooth green glass that once belonged to her mother, a stand of fine silver links given to her by Gimli, and several other items. However, he merely inclined his head, caught her by the arm and began to escort her towards the Golden Hall.
A hush fell as they entered the hall. As she approached the shroud-wrapped body in the centre of the crowd, people bowed reverentially. Her eyes met those of Faramir, but he almost immediately looked away, apparently preferring to stare at the ground rather than to look at her. She could not blame him for that. His treatment at her hands had been most cruel. Moving on she walked past Aragorn. As King of Gondor, it would normally have been correct for her to make obeisance to him. Today, however, he bowed to her as the grieving sister of a fallen monarch. Yet as he did so, he did not lower his eyes. Odd. She stared at him, trying to read the rather strange expression on his face. Was he trying to tell her something? And if so what? Her gaze swept around the rest of the crowd. Many of the dignitaries were unknown to her - only the style of their clothing telling her that they were from Gondor or Ithilien or Dol Amroth. A tall man with grey eyes bowed. She immediately recognised him from Theoden's funeral. Prince Imhiril, father of Lothiriel and, judging from the distressed look on his face, yet another person who had held her brother in high regard.
Her slow steps finally led her to the body. The ceremony within the Golden Hall was a simple one. All she had to do was recite a traditional prayer of thanksgiving, and then they would depart in a procession to the mounds east of Edoras where mere weeks earlier she had attended the burials of her cousin and her uncle. She glanced around as she prepared to speak. Did they not wonder at the lack of tears on her cheeks? Did none of them not suspect that she was about to utter a sacred prayer for a man she did not know? That Eomer was out there somewhere. Though whether dead or alive…
Tell them. She should tell them. Her gaze shifted upwards to the archers hidden in the shadows above the heads of her guests. No, she could speak nothing but the words of the prayer. Any deviation would bring down death. Nor could she speak when they left the Golden Hall for Ceorl had warned her that his archers would follow, ostensibly as an honour guard, but in reality as a leash around her neck. Fixing her eyes on a distant point, she began. The hall was completely silent except for the well-rehearsed words tumbling from her mouth one after another.
Suddenly, there was a ripple towards the back of the hall, near the outer door, and then a male voice cut across her own.
"This is a little premature, don't you think?"
Eowyn froze. Stared down the hall into the beam of light that blazed from an upper window. There was a murmuring of barely restrained gasps as soft footfalls approached. And then a figure stepped out of the dazzling light. Long blonde hair. Beard. More gaunt than she remembered, and yet…
"Eomer?" His name was on her lips, even as the danger registered. Her gaze swung up to the archers. "Eomer. No!" Her dear, foolish brother. He'd walked right into the very heart of danger. She turned towards Ceorl, desperately trying to think of a way to prevent him from giving the order that would bring down death, and yet knowing it was impossible. She saw Ceorl raise his arm, and heard the words.
"Tis the imposter. Kill him."
"No!" she cried again, stumbling forward. Expecting to hear the hiss of arrows. The thud of metal and wood biting into flesh.
Nothing happened.
She jerked to a halt. Looked wildly round. Eomer was still approaching. Slowly, steadily… and unharmed. She stared at the soft leather tunic that covered his chest. There were no arrows embedded there. No blossoming blood stains. Ceorl gave a cry of rage as Aragorn and Faramir stepped out of the crowd and fell in step behind Eomer, one behind his right shoulder, one behind his left. "Kill them," he howled. "Kill them all."
Above her head, Eowyn saw the blue liveried archers standing now the front of the balcony, arrows knocked and ready. "Look out! Faramir! Eomer!" They were going to die. And she was powerless to stop it. No, please, no.
"Peace, sister," Eomer said, with a calmness that confused her. "There will be no massacre here today."
Wanting to believe him, but barely able to do so, she looked up again. And saw the familiar face of Eothain looking down at her. Next to him was another face she knew. Elfhelm! And then another. And another. By the gods, it was Eomer's eored that stood above the crowd, not Ceorl's henchmen. How had…? The question remained incomplete as the sibilant hiss of a sword warned her of danger. She sensed Ceorl's advance, rather than saw the action.
"Eowyn!" Eomer shouted her name, but she was already moving. Ceorl's hand snatched at her arm. His fingers folded around fabric, and there was a ripping sound as she pulled away. He was left holding the torn sleeve of her dress in one hand, and his sword in the other. Denied her as a hostage he turned his sword towards Eomer, his gaze racing over the gathered crowd as he pointed the tip towards Eomer's chest.
"He is an imposter, I tell you. Listen to me. All of you! It is nought but witchcraft that makes you see the likeness of a dead king. This man is not him."
"That is not true," Eowyn shouted. "Long have I known my brother still lived. Now he is here, standing amongst you." She dropped to her knees. "Hail, Eomer, King of the Mark." Glancing up her eyes met Faramir's. Pain cut through her as she saw hurt and uncertainty, which was swiftly masked as he turned his attention from her. There was so much to explain. So much to ask forgiveness for. Now was not the time, though. This moment belonged to Eomer.
The crowd shifted uneasily, bemused faces turned towards the unfolding scene, and confused whispers rolling from one person to another. Eomer's hand dropped to the hilt of his own sword. Almost leisurely he drew it from its scabbard, holding it up so that all could see the fine craftsmanship and, more importantly, so that those who knew him could see it was Guthwine that he held. Deliberately he looked past Ceorl to the throne at the back of the hall. "You are standing in my way, Ceorl, Sister-Son of Grima Wormtongue." Another shocked rush of sound raced through the crowd. Eomer took a step forward, his face challenging. "Move aside… unless you can offer some reason not to do so."
Ceorl shrank back. Fear on his face. He stared at Eomer, and then suddenly his expression turned sly. "Do you expect me to simply relinquish the throne to you, Eomer, Son of Eomund?" His eyes flicked to Faramir and then to Aragorn. "I cannot deny that you give the appearance of strength with a king and a prince at your back, but what of the strength of your arm?"
Eomer stopped. "My arm is strong enough for the likes of you."
Eowyn winced. It was obvious that Ceorl could see what she could - that Eomer was not in the best of health. There was a pallor to his skin that she had rarely seen, and certainly not since he'd become Third Marshall and taken to spending much of his time outdoors on horseback. Also, he seemed… wearied. The spark of vital energy that made all eyes turn to him whenever he entered a room had been dampened. By what she could not imagine, but it was clear that Eomer's time away from Meduseld had been physically gruelling.
Ceorl's lips thinned into a tight smile. "Let us put that to the test. I declare you unfit to rule, Eomer, Son of Eomund, and I hereby claim the right to try for the throne of Rohan through combat."
"You would fight me?" Eomer sounded surprised, but Eowyn caught a glint in his eye that alerted her to the fact that all was not as it seemed.
Ceorl lowered his sword and walked boldly up to Eomer now. "The second line of kings is ended. I have a right to challenge the first of a new line, as does any Rider of Rohan."
"You speak of ancient laws," Eomer replied. "But I accept your challenge."
"Eomer. No!" Eowyn could not remain silent. She stepped forward, intending to place herself between Ceorl and her brother, but then she saw the satisfied look on Eomer's face. The fool! This was what he had intended all along. He wanted to take on Ceorl in a duel. In which case, surely he must believe that he could win despite the fact that Ceorl was younger, clearly fitter, and possibly as a good a swordsman, if not better. She stared at Eomer and tried to convince herself a victory was possible. Tried to make herself believe that her brother had not returned to Edoras to simply sign his own death warrant.