Part 2. White Horse upon Green
Chapter 1.
The sun had already risen when Éomer woke. The beams of light made a rectangle of brilliance on the dirty stones of the floor. He could feel the warm rays soak into his pale skin, urging the blood to flow. Éomer opened his eyes painfully; they had been shut with dried blood and grit. He stared at his hands which were covered in rivulets of dark, dried blood. It flaked off as he slowly squeezed them into fists and then released. His thick digits ached at the exercise. He continued the examination and saw his tunic was torn, and dirty. By lifting it up gently, he saw it covered a slowly blackening portion of bruised abdomen.
The rest of the day passed slowly and Éomer spent most of it staring out of the single barred window of the cell. All he could see were the tops of the buildings and the faces of people. Not one turned to meet his gaze. No food passed through the bars and his stomach felt the loss keenly as the sun began to set. He had been sitting against the rough stone wall for most of the day in a trance-like pose. A bright pinpoint of red light remained above the hills outside and then vanished, casting the whole country into darkness. The busy sounds of horses and people that had filled the city until dusk were replaced by the trickle of a fountain.
The jailor and three men entered the cell. By the looks on their faces and the jailor's yellow smile, Éomer could tell they were not here to release him. One man pulled Éomer up roughly and held back his arms. There was no strength to struggle as the following blows pounded his body. They quickly tired of the sport. It was not enjoyable to beat a body that did not give them sport. Éomer found himself face down on the ground, watching the dirt on the floor swirl in intricate patterns, disturbed by a cold wind from outside.
A rat darted across his feet as he struggled to sit up against the wall and keep the scene from spinning around him. His tongue scraped across wasted lips that tasted bitter from dry blood. Fresh blood flowed thick and warm from his nose replacing the dried blood he had just done away with. In an effort to stop the surge from his nose he pinched the bridge. He tried not to think about anything else but his immediate survival, but past regrets and nightmares made any chance of sleep slim. Cold wrapped around him until he was numb. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he told himself not to succumb to the comfortable unfeeling.
Around midnight, he found himself suddenly awake and listening to scuffling noises on the wall outside. In a few moments a silhouette filled the barred window and slender white hands gripped the bars tightly. Éowyn's quiet voice motivated him to stand and stumble towards the window. She was dressed in a dark cloak and her right hand held a small loaf of bread. Two blue orbs filled the shadow of her hood and pierced his own eyes.
"Sister, you should not have come, I am sure Grima's men will be watching for you," he said with a hoarse voice, trying not to betray his weakness.
"I care not what that worm does. He shall do nothing to harm me as long as I am the only heir to the throne, and his only chance to control the kingdom."
"You must leave Éowyn, run away, take Brynefot; he is quick and sure of foot. Flee to Gondor before I die. There is no way to save me now, save yourself."
"No brother, I will not run and forsake our people. The kingdom has already died, but on my wedding night Grima will die also. His blood and not mine shall stain the sheets of our bed," Éowyn said with a cold voice and a disturbing, unfeeling tone.
"Sister what wickedness or sorcery had done this to you? I care about your safety, not the kingdom. I cannot lose you as well. Please if you ever cared for me flee this place, it may be that you can find help for us in Gondor."
"Éomer," she said earnestly, "I do not fear death. It is better to die in honor for this country than to flee like a coward. I will do this for us brother and I shall meet you in the halls when the task is done," she said pulling away her hand and stepping back into the night.
"Éowyn!" Éomer shouted at her, but there was no answer. A cold biting wind slapped him across the face. He slid along the wall and collapsed on the floor sobbing. Silence enveloped him as he bit the bread she had given him angrily and wiped his eyes with his tattered sleeve. The cold wind surrounded him and pierced him to the soul. To think Grima would not suspect such a thing. He would be prepared for Éowyn's ill-conceived attack and then the kingdom would belong wholly to him. King Grima Wormtongue of Rohan, a mockery to the throne he would sit in.
The next morning, Éomer woke late once again. The jailor and two of his men entered before noon and began to repeat their usual treatment. Before they could land a dozen solid blows they were stopped and dropped their prisoner to the ground. He could not hear the words that were exchanged between them and another man who had entered the cell. A few minutes later he felt himself being raised from the ground. Háma smiled grimly at him.
"I certainly cannot bring you before the king like this my lord. I suppose we will have to visit the bath house first," he said, helping Éomer up and leading him outside of the prison. "I had not realized it was the job of our jailor to torture the prisoners," the door warden said angrily. He helped the injured marshal out of the building and across the unoccupied path.
"Neither had I," replied Éomer roughly, "Perhaps it is a welcoming reserved for only the most honored guests," he paused, "It matters little what I look like the day of my execution. I look more than fit enough to come before our King."
Háma looked at him with an amused, knowing expression as he led him to the large basins in the bath house, "I will have to find you a new tunic as well," the door warden said to himself as he left Éomer to wash.
"Bring me my sword also!" Éomer shouted after him, his vocal chords discordant from the strain of yelling, "If I am to be killed today, then I would like to have my sword by my side. I would only lay it at my uncle's feet before I die."
He undressed and submerged himself completely in the large tub of water and cringed as he cleaned his head wound with a wet towel. He bound his hair behind him with a piece of rope to keep it out of his face and continued to wipe the blood off his face. The reflection in the water showed a swollen eye, a crooked nose and a gash along his forehead that would create a decent sized scar if allowed. He unbound and rinsed his hair of all the filthy residue and secured it in two braids, as was custom for Rohirrim men.
Háma reentered a few minutes later with a simple green tunic and Éomer's sword. The door warden spoke as the younger man gingerly dried his arms and face with a towel. "This day we have received four travelers, an elf, a man, a dwarf and Gandalf the wizard."
"Gandalf?" Éomer stopped short with surprise, "I was told he is dead. What trickery have these travelers brought from the elven mistress of the Golden wood?"
"It is Gandalf, though I do not know of what magic they bring, they have worked a considerable amount upon your uncle." Háma replied with a chuckle and then his tone became more serious, "He has summoned you to him and the court at Gandalf's bidding. Your uncle has risen from his seat and spoken to the travelers with the strength of his youth. He has been renewed," the door warden said with shining eyes.
It was too much for Éomer to believe. He dressed quickly ignoring the pain it brought him and grabbed his sword out of the man's hands roughly. He strapped it on as he walked out of the building. His legs shook beneath him, but he ignored the soreness that came with every step. A flower of hope sprang up within him. The doors to the Hall stood open and a fresh wind seemed to have blown away the evil of the place. He stopped short near the back and watched his uncle arise from the throne with a straight back and reach to his side where his sword had once been. He seemed puzzled that it did not hang there still and muttered to himself.
Éomer strode forward with a quickness of excitement and spoke, holding his sword forward, "Take this dear lord, it was ever at your service," as he reached the dais he knelt before Théoden and offered the hilt towards his uncle. Even if this was some foul witchcraft or yet another rendering of Grima's he would be glad to die at the hand of so noble a lord.
A voice that Éomer had not heard in many years issued from the king's mouth, "How comes this?" he said looking at the sword Éomer held out to him.
Háma had come up silently behind them and his voice trembled with fear and amazement at the change in his master's voice, "It is my doing lord, I understood that Éomer was to be set free. Such joy was in my heart that maybe I erred. Yet since he was free again and a Marshal of the Mark, I brought him his sword as he bade me."
Théoden looked at them both sternly and Éomer for the first time in many years spoke to the king with respect and not pity, "To lay at your feet, my lord."
They both remained still, frozen in that moment; both waiting for what would come next. Éomer shook within at the punishment that might lie before him, and the terror that his restored uncle would find some fault within him. He wanted only to assure the King that he was his servant and had always acted out of service to the lord and the country. The room seemed to draw a collective breath and ask: where had the old man sitting on the throne gone to?
"Will you not take the sword?" said Gandalf from the king's side.
Théoden took the hilt in his hand and lifted it into the air. Suddenly, he swung it round, the light glinting off its side as the air whistled at the movement. A deep, powerful voice reverberated through the hall. "Arise now, arise Riders of Théoden! Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward. Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded! Forth Eorlingas!"
The guards at the doors and the end of the hall sprang to the dais, thinking the call to arms real and laid down their swords in unison. "Command us!" they shouted.
Éomer nearly cried out in happiness, choked only by the weakness in his limbs. He saw his sister from where she was standing, near the three travelers, and then he smiled at Gandalf who was wearing white robes and seemed strangely changed.
"Westu Théoden hál," Éomer said weakly and then changed to the common tongue, "It is a joy to us to see you return into your own. Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief!"
"Take back your sword Éomer, sister-son, Háma go and seek my own sword, Grima has it in his keeping," Éomer grimaced at the title that his uncle still used for him and wished once more to be called son.
But, even with the new light there would still be shadows and scars left on the country. He would not complain of such a thing on a day of such renewal. He felt Éowyn at his arm and she smiled at him while helping him to rise. The coldness had not completely gone from her countenance and Éomer felt the loss as a tangible wound. He knew that even the power of wizards could not rebuild what had once been, nor restore Théodred from the grave, nor heal every hurt. He looked up to hear Gandalf counseling his uncle.
"…Should be sent west at once as Éomer counseled you: we must first destroy the threat of Saruman, while we have time. If we fail, we fall. If we succeed then we will face the next task. Meanwhile your people that are left, the women and the children and the old, should fly to the refuges that you have in the mountains…"
Gandalf spoke to them for a time and it was decided that it would be best for the men to set out at once for the Fords of Isen to try and help Erkenbrand and his men to keep the river. The women, children and old would continue on to Helm's Deep. Théoden, for the first time in many years would mount his horse and lead the men in battle.
Háma had returned and two men who were holding Grima by each arm followed him. The door warden held out a blade in a long golden scabbard, "Here my lord is Herugrim your ancient blade, it was found in your advisor's chest. He was reluctant to open it. Many other things are in it that men have missed."
"You lie!" Grima shouted spit spewing from his mouth, "this sword was given to my keeping."
"Yes, and now I require it back from you again, does that displease you?" Théoden asked sternly.
"Assuredly not, lord. I care for you and yours as best I may. But do not weary yourself or tax too heavily your strength…" he said in his conniving tone.
Théoden rose and unsheathed his blade. He approached Grima his voice turning to a growl, "Your witchcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast. No, my dear advisor, I think your death would not tax too heavily on my strength," he said placing his blade at Grima's neck. "Your voice will not bewitch me again, nor will your subtle poisons. I will not live in the nightmare your words and potions subjected me to. Now you may choose, stay here and face my wrath, or leave with any horse that will carry you and join your master Saruman," the king finished lowering his weapon and motioning for the guards to release Grima.
The man's face became full with fury, and his eyes filled with malice. With a hissing breath he spit at the king's feet and ran out of the door before any could stop him. "Follow him, see that he does no harm to any, but do not harm or hinder him. Give him a horse if he wishes it," the king ordered as two soldiers sprung after Grima.
"And if any horse will bear him," Éomer said with a sardonic smile.
Théoden had followed the soldiers' path out into the sunlight on the terrace; he glanced at his niece and nephew standing side by side behind him. His smile disappeared in a moment and his eyes searched for someone he would not find.
"Where is Théodred? Where is my son?" he said looking towards Gandalf. The wizard lowered his gaze.
Note: Hey guys, well I hope you liked the beginning of this story; I have been working on it a lot and have been experiencing a lack of ideas for this coming segment. But that won't keep me from posting hopefully.
Disclaimer: I'm only going to put this here one time, I do not own LOTR in any entity (movie or book) and I do not own any characters, dates, locations etc. that are of the LOTR trilogy. I do own all original characters never mentioned in his books and the story line is my interpretation of the timeline of Éomer's life.
Also this segment of my three part story will be based both on the movies and books though mainly on the books. Some lines you find in this story will be shortened, condensed etc. versions of those in the books. Too many of the lines are from the book to make notation of all of them, but just know that I am not stealing Tolkien's work and I give him full credit for any lines that are from the book.
Also please do not put me in your archive or use my original characters/ideas without permission.