Chapter XV
Éowyn was not much help at all. She really could not answer any of my questions and the only thing that she said that was new was that I should never ever disobey my elders (which really was not new either). If I was married off to some womanizing, sleazy, multiple bed warmer, I was supposed to just sit through it and smile happily. Oh, yes, that made me feel much better.
The times did not help much either. There were increased orc skirmishes along the Westfold, and no one was quite sure from where they had come. Éomer came back one time with a very nasty scrape on his sword arm that put him out of commission for a few months. Éowyn and I had been drafted by the healers to help, as the healers were stretched almost too far trying to tend to all the men who came back with injuries, which luckily, for the most part, tended to be minor, though too major to be tended to on the patrol.
Éowyn held Éomer's other hand as he lay on the bed, talking to him about nothing in particular. She did not speak of bravery or courage or tell him that he had done his best. She talked about the most random things, and it was ruining my concentration.
I was no stranger to blood, Morwyn's suicide had made sure of that, but there always was something sickening about it, no matter how much. I used to pass out at the very sight of it, the only time I had not was of course when Morwyn killed herself, rather odd since it was the most blood I had seen in my lifetime. But by now, I had cured myself to only a little paleness and small shaking in my hands. I uncorked a bottle of wine, not any of the good stuff, but medicinal wine used to disinfect wounds. Éomer winced with discomfort as it spread it liberally over his lower arm with a bit of linen. The healer, whose name I did not catch, was in the corner preparing some sort of wicked painful salve which he told me I was to spread over the wound and then bandage it with another strip of linen. The healer looked to be well past middle-age, his grey hair was matted, and there were lines under his eyes from lack of sleep. He moved quickly and efficiently, not a movement of flourish anywhere, not a spark of true life. He made only necessary moves. I finished wiping the cut; the scab had broken slightly, and blood began to ooze slowly. Éowyn chattered on. She was the only one in the room speaking.
The healer finished, turned, and handed me a small, short jar that was missing a lid. He handed me to new pieces of linen, one to bandage and the other to spread the salve. He gave a hint of a smile, but departed quickly.
I stared at the salve for but a moment. It did not look particularly comfortable. I set the bandage aside, and dipped the other piece of linen into the liniment. I nearly jumped back when Éomer gave a faint, painful groan at the touch of the cloth. But I kept dabbing.
"Remember the picnics we had down at the glen when we were small? I don't think we had them often, but they were so much fun..."
The salve was difficult to control. It looked mildly solid in the jar, but moved about wildly over Éomer's arm, leaving brownish ink marks as trails.
"...that time when I spilled the goat's milk all over the blanket that mother had worked on for so long, and I nearly ruined it in a moment..."
The ointment trailed down the side of Éomer's arm and threatened to hit the covers, which I almost knew would leave a nasty stain, or worse. I swiftly used the cloth to bring the droplets back up before they touched the sheets.
The darkness of the room made my job all the more difficult. Many lighted candles sat around the room, wax dripping slowly.
"...and the time we ate apples while sitting in the tree and you fell off and broke your arm. Mother was furious..."
As she went on, Éowyn's voice seemed to get a little unnaturally high pitched. I do not know exactly why she was getting panicky: the wound was small and probably would have healed on its own without too much trouble.
My breathing became a little unsteady. I needed to get out of this room. I needed to see sunlight again. The darkness in this stale room was doing something odd to me.
"...how I played with my dolls, and you would always try to collapse my dollhouse because you thought it was funny when I made the dolls' agonized screams with my own voice..."
I held my breath to keep from breathing too fast as I put the last of the liniment on the wound. The room smelled musty and old.
"...and the girl from that village who fell in love with you and it took her such a long time to realize you had no interest in her..."
Éomer lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over. He looked occasionally at Éowyn, who still blabbed on like a six year old, and at me as I began to gently wrap his arm with the strip of linen that would serve as a bandage.
I blocked out Éowyn's voice as best I could. I tied the bandage firmly, but not tightly. Rohan did not need a Marshall and second in line to the throne to have his sword arm fall off due to lack of circulation.
I watched Éomer's face surreptitiously as I gathered everything up to set on the dresser for the healer to gather up for a new injurée. His face was sweaty, in fact, his whole body was slightly damp. It was warm, no fever, but it seemed unnatural. He closed his eyes wearily, and I wondered if he was trying to sleep. I did not see how he would be able to sleep at all if Éowyn kept chattering like an excited squirrel. Stars, she was becoming acutely irritating.
"Lady Éowyn," I said sharply, using her title to grasp her attention. She tried to glare at me for interrupting her sharing of memories, but mostly failed. "Please take these materials to the north corner. I am quite sure they are performing a minor surgery, and these may be needed."
That was a blatant lie. I had no experience in healing or medicines. I could stitch a cut and follow directions, but I knew nothing of how to perform a surgery. But I knew that I had to have Éowyn do something, or she would just sit here and waste away.
Éowyn stood, swaying slightly. I endeavored to keep my eyes on the ground or on some other unpretentious thing. I think she would have exploded if I made eye contact. She grabbed everything, staring at me like a drunkard while she did so. What on Arda was wrong with her?
She tripped something dangerous and obtrusive (ie, the floor) on her way out, but caught herself. I did not comment at all, and I lett out a weary sigh of relief when the door slammed closed after she left.
Éomer spoke for the first since Éowyn and I saw him off on the patrol on which he had been injured.
"What happened to her?"
His voice was hoarse, and not a little rusty, like a door that had not been opened in a very long time. I took a ladle and dipped it in a bucket of cold water, and moved it toward his lips.
"I think she was panicking a little. She should be all right."
He nodded and used his other hand to take the ladle from me as I meant to held it to his mouth. He smiled kindly and said, "I am not quite a total invalid."
I smiled back. He lifted the ladle to his lips and drank. I motioned toward the bucket, asking if he wanted anymore. He shook his head and gave the ladle back to me. He then turned on his side and fell asleep. I shook my head and smiled.
I put the ladle back in the bucket and moved it to the door. The healer had asked me to put it next to the door when Éomer was finished with it so a healer could open the door and get it without disturbing the patient. I gave a glance back at Éomer.
A strange feeling welled up inside me as I looked at him softly sleeping. I felt much older, like forty years old, maybe forty-five. I stifled a light chuckle with my hand. I moved back to him, pulled the blanket up, and moved his arms under it, being careful to move the injured one as slowly and carefully as I could. I pulled the blanket up to his neck and carefully tucked it in around him, for no reason whatsoever. He looked so different in sleep. I patted his cheek and left.
Being a mother would not be so awful, sometimes.
---
I opened the door and stepped out into the hall, only to find Wormtongue coming down it. I was in no mood for a confrontation, and I suspected he might what to flirt with me or, heaven forbid, make a pass. For even though I had humiliated him and those guards spread it around like wildfire, he knew that I would be a good match. Yuck.
Think fast think fast. Where could I go? Had he seen me yet? I should have let me maternal instincts brood a bit more back in there with Éomer. I darted down the hallway as quickly as I dared, hoping he would not recognize me from behind.
Brilliant idea. Bloody brilliant.
"Lady Ardeas!" he called out.
I pretended I could not hear and broke into a light trot. I turned and slipped into the room affectionately known as the "place of bowel stress," plugging my nose against the unbearably, writhingly-awful stench, and hoped he would not follow. This room had a reputation, and I intended to use it to my best advantage. I heard him pause outside the door, contemplating whether I was worth this room. He walked away. I guess not. He wandered off, probably to find somebody else to latch onto and suck the life away from it. He had a bad tendency to do that; figuratively, of course.
After a few minutes, I opened the door cautiously and peered outside. Wormy was gone. Good. I had no intention of speaking with him again, if I could help it. I stepped out and closed the door behind me; I then decided I would go to the library. The healers knew to find me either there, my room, or on the practice field walking and occasionally watching the men swear at each other.
Cursing was a bizarre practice of conversation and greeting practiced by men who fought, while they swung swords at one another, infrequently making contact, causing the man who was hit to imprecate repeatedly and the man who hit him to give a snort/grunt as it would be too feminine to giggle. What was it with men and masculinity? Did they have to be crude and disgusting because they thought breasts would appear if they did not? I choked back laughter at the thought of Théodred in a long lavender evening gown making eyes at soldiers. After a moment's thought, I quickly came to the conclusion that all men, with a few small exceptions like Krane and Éomer, were insane.
I reached the library without much further ado. Krane had, by now, finished tutoring me in speaking, reading, and writing Rohirric as well as reading and writing Westron. I was very proud of the fact that I could carry on an intelligible conversation in Rohirric and that I could read many of the difficult books in the library. However my glory in knowing two languages was rather short lived, as in Gríma's words, "The language known as Westron should be discouraged and only Rohirric should be spoken so as to increase national unity." I did not see what a big difference it made if we spoke Westron or Rohirric. Gondor spoke Westron, and they were the most powerful nation on Middle-earth. Krane was now teaching me a great deal of geography, history, and science. He said it was unusual for a woman to be interested in knowledge, but that he would teach me anyway.
Unfortunately, the library was empty; Krane must have been in his room. The books in Westron had been banished by Gríma to a small corner before their destruction later. Tomorrow, in fact, the Westron books were to be burned. Théoden, heavily under Wormy's guidance, much to my dismay, planned it to be a large celebration of the national individual: Rohan was independent and would not be bound by the rest of the world. "We will rise in power and greatness, and no one will share our glory, Rohan's glory," said Gríma in an address which scared the living daylights out of me. We were to have a grand party tomorrow as collectively we burned the Westron books. I was among a select group of people silently opposed to the burning. Krane and I scavanged through all the books in the library and took as many as we dared from the collection before absences would be noticed. I stood in the library now, looking at the books that would be burned tomorrow. I quickly scanned the titles, looking for one that I had liked. I chose one and began to read it, the last time the book in my hands would be read. That was an awful thought.
I did not quite realize when I began to doze, but through eyelids barely opened I noticed Wormy come quietly into the library. I wakened fully, but kept my same position. At first I wondered why Gríma was in Edoras at all, as most men except the wounded were out on the patrol along the borders in the East and Westfolds, notably the Westfold. But then I remembered that Wormy had made it a habit not to do his duty and help out, but instead had chosen to lounge about Edoras, deceiving the king (of which nothing could be proved), and eating Rhya's pastries that were covered in glazes as white as his skin.
He turned, noticed me, and ambled over to the chair in which I was sitting. He gave a quick glance to me, making sure I was asleep or similarly unmoving, then pulled the book from my hands. The pages were turned rapidly, and he glanced at them, not quite reading, but checking, most likely the language. He gave a nod of satisfaction to himself and smugly and perhaps cruelly smiled and then placed the book back in my hands. Stars, he reeked. His smell seemed to be morphing into something more disgusting daily. Today, it seemed that the aroma of the day was old urine. It took a great deal of strength not to plug my nose, or at least twitch.
I nearly blew my cover when Éowyn came into the room. She was the last person I had expected to come into the room with me pretending to sleep as Gríma check the language of the book, for political purposes, that I was reading.
She turned stiff at the sight of Gríma. She curtsied, short, respectful, and in a keep-your-distance manner. He smiled and spoke poison, something inane about her hair or her gown.
Her lips moved, and her teeth flashed prettily in her smile. The smile did not reach her eyes however. It was amazing how Éowyn and I could tell when the other was lying. Considering how many times Gríma lied, it was a marvel that he did not catch on to her annoyance of his character. He tipped his head respectfully, something I had only seen him do to her, and quitted the room.
Éowyn looked at me and saw straight through my guise.
"You can't fool me with that trick anymore, Ardeas."
I opened my eyes fully and sighed, setting the "un-Rohirric" book on the small end table.
"I know." A pause. I eyed her from where I sat. She half-glared at me. "I am sorry I sent you away, but you were becoming panicky."
Éowyn gave an irritated sigh, but said nothing, silently agreeing that I was at least partially right, but not wanting to say anything else to further the subject.
---
Tears are no match for flames. I had begged Théoden last night to spare the books, but to no avail. He lashed out at me and said something very cruel. I did not respond. He turned away a moment and apologized: he did not know what had come over him. He said stress. I knew what the problem was but heaven forbid that it should be Gríma. I asked that could Krane and I take the books to the bonfire instead of anybody else. Few understood books at all, and I felt that the last people who held them should at least care about them.
"Yes, you may."
---
It was night. There were no clouds, but I could see no stars. I half moon winked at the revelers in the night sky. The collection of Westron books sat next to the bonfire waiting for Gríma's signal. The whole of Edoras had come out for the celebration; people were drinking and laughing, eating and talking in loud voices. I sat on the steps that led up to Meduseld as the fire burned brightly in the street. It danced and ordinarily I would have seen it as something exotic and sensual. But tonight, the fire seemed to smile maliciously. The books and what was written in them would never be heard again. Each time it crackled, I heard laughter.
Gríma Wormtongue walked to the podium and raised his hands, commanding silence. A hush quickly fell over the crowd. Somebody's snort of laughter hung in the air, making the woman on the opposite side of me blush hotly and duck down.
Gríma smiled at everyone. People hesitantly smiled back as one does when one is hoping an animal will not attack you.
"People of Rohan! Tonight is a night of celebration! For tonight we celebrate our individualism as the people of Rohan! We are independent! We belong to none! We will not be bound by the rules of the rest of the world! We will choose our own destiny! No foreigner will ever rule us! We will always be the nation of Rohan!"
A roar went up from the crow and a burst of applause quickly followed. Krane sat down beside me. His red hair looked different in the light of the fire.
"Did you notice his little speech was copied word for word from a book in Westron?"
We both smiled at that but it was soon dampened by what Wormy had to say next.
"Now the time has come to purge all foreign influences in the Rohirrim society! Burn the Westron books!"
The time had come. With tears rushing to the back of my eyes, threatening to spill over my eyelids, Krane and I stood, and walked through the crowd to a pile of books for the burning. Krane stood back a little, allowing me to throw the first book. I lifted one from the pile: it was the book with the twins in it.
"Goodbye," I whispered, not hardly moving my lips so no one could see that I was "un-Rohirric."
I stared at the book in the silence. The fire crackled contemptuously.
Krane nudged me, and I threw the book into the fire with all my might, all the anger at Gríma finding the worst possible outlet.
Apparently, Théoden had not told Gríma about his little agreement with me, for as soon as I threw the book into the fire, people around me began to pick up the books and throw them into the fire. They laughed and cried aloud that Rohan would belong to no one. I began to cry miserably and Krane pulled me away from the scene. We were soon joined by Éowyn and Éomer. Together we sat on the porch and watched it all safely away from it. I cried into Éowyn's shoulder. She made no move to stop me.
---
AN: The trouble will really start in the next chapter.
I just realized how impractical my finishing date is. It really is too bad, and I really wrote a great deal more than I usually do, but I am going to be on vacation all next week so finishing the story by Tuesday is improbable. Never fear, I will not give up the story and I will write when I can, and I will see if I can write on the plane trip to Denver, barring that the person next to me decides to not be nosy and read what I'm writing, which is something I can never stand.
I really, really would like a bit more reviews than I am getting per chapter on this chapter. If I had a digital camera, I would bake cookies, take a picture of them, upload them to my site, and give you reviewers a link so you could at least see some cookies for reviewing. But alas, I am technologically having problems. Lucille (for those of you who don't know Lucille, Lucille is my Windows 95 that I write all this on and then transfer it via floppy to Denise, the plucky family computer who likes to sleep, ie crash, a lot) has a problem with the floppy drive. Brilliant. Lucille's floppy drive, which I have now dubbed (censored), likes to now copy documents onto floppy drives, but X out sections of it. This has led me to much agony and hate, followed by happiness that I will be getting a new computer in August. Well, when I say "new," I mean new in the same Cro-Magnon way. I'll be getting a Windows 98 computer that has the same floppy problem, but this time has internet access. Like jumping from a cauldron of boiling water into a poisoned lake. I think I will get a job next summer to finance a new computer...
I have written a good deal of chapter 16, but as I have said before, will be on vacation all next week, so it is the day before I leave and I wanted so badly to upload this chapter. Thanks a bunch for reading and please review.