(Of course I do not own any of the main characters, I just borrow them once in a while ….)
Chapter Three – The Future Looks BrightAfter a hard ride they reached Dunharrow. Gamling and Éothain had succeeded in summoning a large number of riders, but still their numbers did not seem enough. Many had not heeded the call of the king. The king and his entourage passed through the camp and the king called out to the lords and marshals of the Mark present, asking how many they had brought.
Théoden seemed upset that his people had not answered the call and voiced his malcontent because he saw no explanation.
"Perhaps they had none to send," Éomer murmured to Gamling. The older man nodded. He, too, knew how many had lost their lives during the past years' raids, especially the Westfold had been hit hard and many of the herdsmen had been killed.
The king had obviously expected more – at least double of the six thousand that had assembled at Dunharrow. But then – his uncle might not be aware how much his absent presence of mind these many months had cost Rohan, Éomer thought to himself, as he joined his uncle and Aragorn looking out over the camp below them.
"We count six thousand spears now," the king remarked; there was, however, a more sullen than hopeful note to his words.
"Six thousand spears will not be enough to break the lines of Mordor," Aragorn stated. Théoden looked at him. "More will come," he said, but his voice did not sound too confident.
Aragorn looked at the king with a sombre mien. "We have no time; only until dawn and then we must ride." He clearly doubted that they would have the time to muster more men. Éomer nodded his silent agreement; that was probably the truth. Still, they would have to make do with whatever strength they had. They could not stop now.
Éomer left his uncle and Aragorn and went to his horse to remove his saddle. Firefoot nickered softly and nibbled at Éomer's glove.
"You know what awaits us, don't you, lad?" Éomer asked his horse, as he stroked Firefoot's soft muzzle. He suddenly felt tired from the long ride and from the stress of the past weeks, but in spite of his fatigue he knew that he would not be able to rest, he could feel that in his entire body. As he was placing his saddle on the rack outside his tent, he noticed that several of the horses behaved strangely especially when they came too close to the mountain. Also the men seemed quiet and subdued; the banter and rowdy gallows' humour, which usually flowed through a camp like this, was not present.
Éomer stood for a while, contemplating this; he felt it, too, the ill-fated feeling of the place. He knew why; he knew the legend of the Dwimorberg. Legolas and Gimli came up to him. The elf looked pensive; "The horses are restless and the men are quiet," he said.
Éomer nodded. "They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain."
Gimli looked at them both. "What is this place; where does that road lead?" he asked.
Legolas answered for them both: "It is the road to the Dimholt, it goes under the mountain."
Éomer looked up at the mountain, his brow furrowed and his voice dark. "No one who ventures there ever returns. That mountain is evil. I for one would not attempt using that ancient pass. The place is death." He could see Aragorn standing at the entrance to the pass, looking at something, but he could not make out what it was. Then he turned and went to seek out Éothain; he had to relay a couple of matters with him before he could find his tent.
After his talk with Éothain, Éomer took a tour of the camp to see to his men. It was quite late when he returned to his own tent. Éowyn's tent had been set up close to his. He could see that the lights were on in there and he could hear her voice; apparently she was talking to somebody. To Éomer it sounded like the hobbit, Merry.
Gamling was sitting by the fire, enjoying a late evening meal and Éomer sat down beside him. Gamling offered him a plate of stew and some bread. Éomer suddenly realised that he had hardly eaten during the day and accepted it gratefully.
Éowyn had apparently provided armour for Merry and she was now shoving him out of the tent, telling him to go the smithy to get his sword sharpened. Merry grinned and hurried happily along, swinging his small sword in the air. Éowyn stood looking after him as he disappeared towards the blacksmith's tent with a smile on her face.
As she turned to go back into her tent, Éomer's voice stopped her. "You should not encourage him, Éowyn, it is not right!" he growled.
Éowyn turned at the entrance to the tent and shot back at her brother, "And you should not doubt him!"
"I do not doubt his heart, only the reach of his arm," Éomer retorted. Gamling chuckled, but stopped as Éowyn glared at him.
"Why should Merry be left behind? He has as much cause to go to war as you. Why can he not fight for those he loves?" Éowyn's voice trembled and her eyes were wide.
She turned. "Oh, I have no patience for men right now," she hissed angrily as she opened the tent flap to go in.
Éomer sighed, rose and called out "Éowyn, wait!" He went to her and put a hand on her shoulder: "You know as little of war as that hobbit. When the fighting takes him, and the blood, and the screams – and the horror of the battle; do you think that he would stand and fight? No, he would flee – and he would be right to do so." He paused looking intensely into his sister's eyes. "War is the province of men, Éowyn."
His sister's eyes were wide and rimmed with tears, and somewhere deep down inside of him he sensed that he understood some of it that was driving Éowyn. She wants honour and renown and thinks that she cannot find it being a woman. Perhaps this is that what she seeks in Aragorn. But why would she want to go to war? She is brave, yes; and she knows to handle herself – but war, no! She does not belong in war; I cannot bear to lose her as well.
After a while, where they just were looking at each other, and where all sorts of mixed feelings ran through Éomer, he finally was able to voice his feelings. "Éowyn, I need you to be there when and if I get back from this – and if we do not get back, Rohan will need somebody to rule it – and you are as good as any man but not in war, leave that to the men. I would not be able to live on, if anything happened to you. You are all that I have now."
Éowyn did not reply to this but her eyes flashed at him when he turned and left; Éomer could sense that she was angry and hurt – but also very determined about something. He shrugged; he knew her well enough to know that he would not get it out of her however much he tried. He went to be with his men. There would not be much sleep that night.
Coming back to his tent much later, to at least to get a couple of hours' rest and to get his weapons ready, he saw Aragorn riding out of the camp followed by Gimli and Legolas – towards the Dimholt! He hurried to his uncle's tent, where he found his uncle taking his leave of a tall man in a hooded cloak, who rode away silently.
"Uncle, what is going on? Why is Aragorn leaving? Who was the messenger, and what tidings did he bring!" Éomer looked inquisitively at his uncle. He knew that it must have been something drastic to have Aragorn to leave them at the eve of battle.
Théoden looked wearily at his nephew. "It was the Lord Elrond. He came to seek out Aragorn. I do not know what they spoke about, because I left them, but I know that he handed Aragorn the Sword that was Broken and that he asked him to take the Path of the Dead to summon the Dead, this much Elrond told me."
Through the Dimholt! Éomer felt cold fear rise in him at the thought. He wanted to call them back, but knew that it would be in vain. They could only hope that they would see them again.
He went over to stand with Gamling as they watched their three friends leave. Somebody asked why Aragorn left at this time, and Théoden replied, "He leaves because he must." Gamling remarked quietly to Éomer, "He leaves because there is no hope; we cannot win."
Théoden looked at him and at Éomer. "You are right; perhaps there is no hope and perhaps we cannot win, but try we must." He put a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "You and your sister are the hope of Rohan; do not let me down." His face was determined. Suddenly it seemed to Éomer that his uncle was back to being the man that he had been before he had fallen under Saruman's spell, although perhaps not of the same spirit, and he still looked tired and sad.
"No, uncle. We will not." Éomer assured his uncle. His uncle gave him a ghost of a smile.
"Now, sister-son, go and get some rest; there is only little time left until sunrise. And you, too, Gamling!" The king turned and went into his tent.
As the sun rose, Éomer opened the tent flap and went outside. He had hardly had any sleep; there had been too many thoughts swirling in his head. He saw Éowyn, who stood just outside her tent, facing the rising sun. Her face was pale and drawn and he knew that she, too, had seen Aragorn leave. She whispered "How could he leave us now? Why?"
Éomer drew in his breath: "Because he must, Éowyn. To fulfil his destiny, he must – or die trying. That is what we all must."
"Uncle said that, too," she whispered, "and he asked me to take his seat at Meduseld, until you and he return – and if you do not ….," her voice broke.
Éomer pulled his sister into his arms and kissed her forehead: "I take my leave of you now, we must ride soon. I will not say goodbye; we shall see each other again – and if not; you will be a great Queen of Rohan! I love you, little sister." She accepted his embrace, but he felt a certain reluctance and despair in her; perhaps she had still not forgiven him for his words last night. He caressed her cheek. Then he turned and left her. She stood for a while, her gaze following him. He turned only once to look at her, but he did not see the look in her eyes, which was both thoughtful and determined.
He went to his uncle's tent. His uncle sat in his chair, fully dressed for battle. "I am ready, my Lord – and so are the men." Théoden nodded: "Have you said your goodbyes to your sister?"
"Yes, I have – hard as it was."
The king rose. "Then let us leave; we must ride light and swift. It's a long road ahead, and Man and beast must reach the end with the strength to fight."
Éomer nodded and went out of the tent ahead of his uncle. They mounted and readied to leave the camp. On the way to the rallying point they saw Merry standing beside his pony. The king went over to him and forbade him to go in spite of his protests. The hobbit looked devastated. Pondering his conversation with Éowyn the night before, Éomer was not quite sure that the hobbit would leave it at that.
In spite of what he had told Éowyn last night, he almost felt sorry for Merry; it was obvious that the hobbit wanted to be with his friends, who were all in the middle of the array; that he missed them; that he wanted to be a part of it all – not caring that it might cost him his life. Éomer shook off the feeling; they had a long, hard ride ahead of them, and the hobbit was better off staying behind. Then he would live to tell the story, the rest of us might not, he thought, as he called out for the Éorlingas to move out.
The Rohirrim rode hard all day, only stopping for a while to water the horses and get something to eat. Éomer reported to his uncle that the scouts, he had sent out, had returned with the message that Minas Tirith was under siege. They would have to ride through the night to get there in time. Théoden agreed. "Then it is what we shall do; pass the command, Éomer."
As Éomer was riding through the ranks, passing on the command, he thought for a moment that he saw a familiar face in a young, beardless rider - Éowyn? He shrugged at the thought and shook his head. No she would not, it was impossible. He was just seeing things, because she was in his heart. He returned to his éored to confer with Éothain.
Approaching Minas Tirith, they heard the sounds of the battle growing louder and louder. Fire lit up the night sky. Éomer bit his lip, as he pressed on Firefoot alongside his uncle. Soon we will be facing the enemy and none of us may ever see the plains of Rohan again. "We will get there by dawn; the light of day will be to our advantage," he shouted to his uncle.
As dawn broke, the Rohirrim came up over the hill above the Pelennor Fields. The sight below them froze Éomer's heart. He had never seen an army of that size. Thousands upon thousands of orcs filled the fields before the burning city of Minas Tirith. "It looks like we got here just in time," he remarked dryly to Éothain, who came up beside him. Éothain nodded silently. The two men clasped hands. "May Béma be with you," Éomer said to his friend.
"And with you, friend," Éothain replied, sending his friend a ghost of a smile. Éomer reciprocated it; they had known each other for so long, they needed not tell each other what was in their hearts.
"Blow the horns; let them know that Rohan has arrived. Give the defenders hope!" Éomer shouted and the Riders took up his command. At the sound of the horns, the attackers stopped and looked up the hill. They turned to face the Rohirrim.
Théoden ordered that Éomer should take his éored down the left flank; Gamling was to follow the king's banner down the middle and Erkenbrand to take the right flank. Éomer nodded and gave his orders to his men. The king rode back and forth, encouraging his men and then called out: "Forth, Éorlingas!"
The Rohirrim set in motion; a wave of riders was streaming down the hill towards the orcs. They did not sing, as it was the custom of the Rohirrim riding into battle. In stead they took up the cry that Théoden King had started, "Death, Death, Death!" they chanted as they charged head on against the enemy.
They completely overrode the first ranks of Sauron's hordes. Many fell but it did not stop them. The battle and the sheer force of his rage towards these beasts took Éomer. He only heard the sounds of the battle in a blur; the thrusts of his sword and the screams of the dying, the sound of metal against metal, and the whinnying of the horses. Afterwards he did not remember, how he had gotten to this point.
The orcs fled before them towards the river. Éomer turned his horse and shouted: "Drive them to the river!" The men cheered, believing that they had won the day.
Théoden King also pulled his horse to a stop and ordered, "Make safe the city!" But before they could make good of the orders and as all fell silent, they suddenly heard another terrifying noise: the drums of the Haradrim! And something else, a horrifying sight. Éomer tightened his grip on Firefoot's reigns. "No time or need for panic now; it is just another challenge, old friend," he muttered to his horse. He had heard about these creatures! Firefoot whinnied and it sounded defiant.
"Mumakil!" Éomer shouted; he could see the disbelief in his men's faces. A large host of Mumakil was approaching at great speed, replacing the rows of orcs.
Théoden ordered: "Rally to me. Reform the ranks!" The Rohirrim did as ordered, turning to face their new enemy. Gamling blew his horn, sounding the attack and the Rohirrim rode fearlessly into the battle against the Mumakil.
The chains on the tusks of the Mumâkil threw about a large number of the riders, and many were crushed under the feet of the great beasts, but they also managed to bring down some of them in an absolute mayhem of blood, screams and dying men and horses.
Evading the legs and tusks of one of the Mumakil, Éomer clutched his spear; he turned Firefoot around and faced the Mumâk out of range of its tusks. He could see the Haradrim commander triumphing and pure rage filled him. He flipped his spear and threw it – and hit the Haradrim right in the chest; he fell to the side of the Mumak's head, hanging in its reins. This caused the giant beast to lose its balance, tumble into another, bringing down of two of the giant beasts. Éomer blew out air; he looked around him, taking in the chaos around him and threw himself back into the battle with a defiant roar.
He saw the Nazgûl attacking his uncle, but before he could do anything, another giant beast blocked his way, and his uncle was hid from his sight. He grabbed his bow, and rallying some of the men to him, he shouted. "Aim for their heads!" He did not know whether they heard him, but he fired off the arrows that he had in the quiver hanging from Firefoot's saddle and then swung his horse around to face another attack, drawing his sword, staring the danger right in the face. He saw several of his men around him, but could not distinguish their faces. Everything was a blur.
Bringing Firefoot to a rash turn, he looked towards the river and his heart froze in him as he saw the black ships approaching. He remembered that Gandalf had talked about the black ships coming from the South. The Corsairs. Apparently Aragorn had failed and they were now doomed, outnumbered by the enemy. As if that was not the case beforehand, Éomer thought bitterly as he watched the ships approaching Osgilliath.
Then he looked around him. The Rohirrim were still fighting and he felt the pride soar through his body. They shall not get me easily. Éomer hoisted his sword in the air and laughed. I laugh at death! I am young and they shall feel my wrath before they get me! He thought as he urged on his men in a charge. "Forth, Éorlingas. We have a battle to fight!" The men around him laughed as well and they sang as they turned to face the new challenge.
Then suddenly in the haze of the battle before him, Éomer saw a black banner unfold in the wind – on it the star of Anórien, the tree of the King of Gondor set with seven stars and he laughed even more, as he realised that it was Aragorn, not the Corsairs.
A cold wave passed him – and he looked up to see a ghost army approaching from the river. Aragorn! He had really succeeded in summoning the Dead to fight. He saw Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas joining the fight, and the hope rose in him again. He made it! He succeeded in summoning the Army of the Dead! Éomer charged on, hope filling him.
Soon all resistance was fought down, the last of the Mumâkil defeated and as the fighting on the Pelennor was dying out, he saw the ghost army entering the city, killing all enemies in their wake. Soon all fell silent. A strange silence after all the chaos and noise. Éomer halted Firefoot and dismounted. He stroked the large neck of his great animal, grateful that they had both made it, and removed his helmet, as he dried blood and sweat of his face. He caught the eye of Aragorn, who stood leaning on his sword, watching the Army of the Dead ridding the city of the remainder of the foes and nodded silently to him, acknowledging his timely arrival. Aragorn returned the nod.
Then he turned; he had not seen his uncle since he saw the Nâzgul approaching and looked around. He saw Éothain moving towards him: "My Lord Éomer – your uncle, he …." Éomer ran in the direction that Éothain indicated. Gamling was kneeling beside the king. His body was crushed beneath his horse Snowmane, and he was barely alive. Not far from him was the large corpse of the fell beast.
Gamling looked up at Éomer, his eyes were suspiciously blank. Éomer knelt beside his uncle and took his hand. "Uncle," he whispered in a broken voice. Théoden King recognized his nephew and smiled vaguely. He gestured at the banner of the King with the white horse, which Gamling had taken from the dead body of the king's standard bearer.
The king said in a remarkably strong voice, "Hail, King of the Mark." Then his head fell to one side and he was dead, his eyes still open and staring blankly. Through the tears that blurred his sight, Éomer reached over and closed his uncle's eyes. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer to the gods to help his uncle pass on to the halls of his forebears.
When he looked up, Gamling and Éothain knelt before him. "Hail, King of the Mark", they said. Gamling handed Éomer the banner of the king and Éomer took the banner and planted it in the ground beside him.
Éomer remained where he was, looking at the man, who had been in his father's stead, sorrow clenching his heart. We had no time, uncle; there was so much that I needed to ask you. And then he suddenly realized what this meant. He made an impatient move. I have no time to mourn; I must look to the men, they are my responsibility now; I am the King. He raised his head and looked out over the Pelennor towards the distant river.
Éothain could see in his friend's eyes that he had realised what it meant that Théoden King was dead, and he saw the immense sorrow in Éomer's eyes. He, too, looked out over the battlefield. We have lost so many.
Éomer signalled Éothain and Gamling to follow him as he began searching the field to evaluate their losses and find the wounded. Those who had survived unscathed followed him, helping their wounded comrades and gathering their dead.
Aragorn had dismissed the Army of the Dead and stood overlooking the Pelennor. He also saw Éomer kneeling at his uncle's side, saw him rise and move around the battlefield. He knew that it meant. Théoden King was dead, and Éomer was now King of the Mark.
Éomer moved about; from time to time he knelt down, turning over a body. So many – so many of his men had died or had been maimed. Men he had known since he was a boy; young men his own age that he had ridden together with since he became a Rider of the Mark, and men he had commanded. Young boys, yet beardless. So many.
He closed his eyes; they had won, at least this battle, but the price had been high. Rising from the body of one of the men of his éored, he suddenly froze. A lithe body lay on the ground some yards from him – the hair, the armour! He stood for a moment as if he did not believe what he saw – and he felt like choking. Then Aragorn and the others heard an unearthly wail: "Nooo, no – Éowyn - nooo!" They saw the young king flinging his helmet and his weapons as he ran, and they saw his men freeze where they were standing.
Éomer dropped to the ground and lifted his sister's body in his arms. He held her close. No, not Éowyn – no. Why – why did you do this?" He cried out in utter grief and looked wildly about him without comprehending, cradling his sister in his arms.
Aragorn and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who had joined them from the city, ran to his side. Éomer looked up at them, apparently without recognizing them. "She is dead, she is dead," he cried. Imrahil knelt beside him, searching for life signs and saw her lips quiver. "No, no – lord Éomer; she is still alive – look she is still breathing," he said.
Aragorn ascertained the same; he felt a weak, but distinct pulse and ordered a couple of the Rohirrim to make a stretcher and take the lady Éowyn to the Houses of Healing. With Imrahil's help, he wrenched Éowyn out of Éomer's grip. "Let them take her, Éomer," he said. "She is alive, but we must take her to the Houses of Healing at once."
They lifted up Éowyn's lifeless body and Éomer followed them as in a trance. Aragorn turned to Éothain and Gamling. "You take command here, until Éomer returns to his senses and can take command again."
They nodded, as they watched their king following his sister as she was being carried to the Houses of Healing, silently praying to the Valar that she would live. Éothain for one did not know what it would do to Éomer, if she did not. He had suffered enough losses for one lifetime.
When Aragorn came back from tending to Faramir, the young Steward of Gondor, he saw Éomer sitting silently beside the cot watching his sister, who lay motionless. Her wounds had been tended to, but she still had not stirred.
Éomer looked up as Aragorn approached, his face was all drawn and tear strained. "I do not understand; she has hardly stirred. But I see no other wounds than those, which have been tended to already, and they seem light?"
Aragorn looked at his young friend. "I fear that it is the black breath. She fought an enemy far beyond her skills or power and when she slew him she was affected by it. But I shall try my best to call her back. It was the same with Merry. Pippin found him not far from Éowyn, but he will soon be all right again."
He crushed some Athelas leaves in a bowl of steaming water and immediately the scent filled the air. Éomer himself felt quite relieved by it. Then Aragorn placed his hand on Éowyn's brow, and muttered some words in Elvish. Éomer could see that he struggled; his face was all drawn and grey.
After a while he looked up; "She keeps slipping from me; it seems as if I am not strong enough to call her back. Perhaps I do not love her enough."
Éomer looked at him: "She loved you, Lord, from first she saw you, I know that now. I did not know that she was touched by any frost until that moment, but I do not hold a grudge against you."
Aragorn shook his head and placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "In me she loves only a shadow and a thought, but you she knows and loves; you can call her back, Éomer."
Éomer moved closer to Éowyn and took her hand. "Éowyn," he called softly, "Éowyn, come back to me; you cannot leave me. I need you. Forgive me, I did not know."
Suddenly Éowyn opened her eyes and looked wildly about her: "Éomer, uncle is dead. I could not save him!" Then she turned her head and saw Aragorn, too. He looked at her with tenderness in his eyes. "Welcome back," he said and then turned to Éomer. "Stay for a while, Éomer, but I shall soon need you for a council in the King's Hall."
Éomer nodded silently; the enemy was not yet overwrought. He stayed with his sister for a while, until she fell into a peaceful sleep and when he had ascertained that she really was soundly asleep, he called one of the women, who attended the wounded, to him and bade her watch over his sister while he went to the council.
The young woman approached him. She did not look an ordinary servant woman or healer; on the contrary there was something noble about her, although she was quite modestly dressed. Her face was pretty – with large sea green eyes and dark hair, which was mostly hid under a scarf. She nodded. "Go about your business, my Lord. I shall look after her and will be proud to do so; we have all heard of her deeds." Her eyes followed the young king as he left the room.
Éomer entered the King's Hall, where he found Aragorn deep in thoughts, looking at the statue of Isildur, his arms crossed. Gimli was sitting in the steward's seat smoking his pipe and Gandalf was speaking silently with Legolas and Imrahil. The wizard looked at the young king: "I am sad to hear of Théoden King, but he fought bravely and can now join his forebears with pride." Éomer nodded silently to the others.
Imrahil smiled. "I hear that your sister has awoken; she will soon recover, I am sure."
"Thank you for your help," Éomer said. "Without you and Aragorn, I might have left my sister for dead along with all the others." His voice trembled.
Gandalf interrupted them: "We now need to debate what we are to do. The darkness is deepening. I fear that I have sent Frodo to his death. Ten thousand orcs now stands between him and Mount Doom."
Aragorn turned: "No. If Sauron had the ring, we would know it. There is still hope for Frodo; he needs time – and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that."
The others looked at him. "How?" Gimli asked.
Aragorn looked at them, his eyes were shining: "Draw out Sauron's armies. Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."
Éomer looked at him, disbelievingly: "We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms; even with our joined forces we do not have enough men – but I am willing to go with you even so."
Aragorn smiled: "No, my friend, we cannot. Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron's Eye fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves."
Gandalf protested: "Sauron will suspect a trap; he will not take the bait."
Aragorn smiled enigmatically: "Oh, I believe that he will – this time." Later they all learned that he had challenged the Dark Lord using the Palantír, which Pippin had found at Isengard, and which Gandalf had given Aragorn in keeping.
He looked at Éomer. "Go and gather your strength. Let your men get some rest and some food. We ride to the Black Gate in two days. We have no more time."
Éomer looked solemnly at Aragorn. What he saw was a king, although still dressed in Strider's weatherworn attire. "If any one can do it, it is you. I will follow you – even to death! And so will my men, you know that!"
Éomer said his farewells and left with Gandalf. Legolas and Gimli had already left the room. He walked out of the hall towards the lower levels of the city to the Houses of Healing. He wanted to see his sister.
When he entered Éowyn's room, he saw that she was awake and that the young woman that Éomer had asked to look after her was tending to her. As they walked in through the door, she rose; she had been feeding Éowyn some broth.
Éowyn looked up at her brother, a sad, tired smile around her lips. "Forgive me, brother," she said, "I have not hailed you properly as my new king."
"Éowyn – don't!" Éomer growled. "I have not yet really come to terms with uncle's death – and much less with the fact that I am now the king; everybody seems to regard me as if I was different now, and I don't need you, my sister, to do the same."
The young woman curtsied. "If you do not need me anymore, my Lord, I will take my leave. There are others who need me."
Éowyn smiled vaguely at the young woman. "Thank you for staying with me and for your help." The young woman smiled back at her and left silently.
Éomer sat down by the bedside and took his sister's hand.
"How are you, sister? What drove you to this; did you think that you were better off dead?" he inquired.
Éowyn smiled; a sad little half-smile: "When you all were going to battle, insisting on leaving me behind, I felt so useless, as if I never would be able to win honour and renown, just because I am a woman. I met Aragorn before he left to take the Paths of the Dead, and he told me that he could not give me what I sought; he could not give me his love. I felt so hollow. But, I did know that it was only a dream. I had known that for some time, I saw his face when he spoke of his lady and what was in his heart, and I knew – deep inside – that it was, indeed, a shadow and a thought that I loved."
"And I did not exactly help you – with the speech, I made the last night at Dunharrow. I am sorry, Éowyn. I regret that I said it; both you and Merry have proved me wrong. But I meant it at the time, and I would never have wished any harm to come to any of you. Although deep inside me I knew that you would not stay back, if you found a way to go to war. You have been Dernhelm before, Éowyn. I should have known that you would resort to that way again. Thank goodness though that both you and Merry are safe."
When they were younger, Éowyn had sometimes assumed the identity of Dernhelm and ridden out with her brother and her cousin so as not to have explain herself to her uncle – or, in later years, to Wormtongue for that matter.
"Merry, how is he? I have not even thought about him." Éowyn asked anxiously.
"Oh, he is fine; a couple of minor wounds and a blow to the head – but Aragorn tended to him, and the last I heard was that he demanded a large breakfast. Pippin is with him." Éomer smiled. "I suspect that he will come and see you, now that he knows that you are alive and well."
"It is not over, is it?" Éowyn then asked solemnly.
"No, sister. Indeed it is not. We must leave for the Black Gate in two days. We must help the Ringbearer achieve his goal. We shall lure out Sauron – and it is more than likely that we shall not return any of us."
"I wish that I could go with you." Éowyn put a hand to her brother's cheek.
"Luckily you cannot. If we succeed in defeating Sauron, someone must be left to lead our people and rebuild our country. And if not, it will not really matter." Éomer insisted, his voice serious. "But let us talk about something else – let us think happy thoughts; these may be our last days together, sister."
Éowyn smiled; this time a more optimistic smile. "Do you know who the young woman, who has been tending to me, is?"
Éomer shook his head. "No, how could I."
Éowyn smiled again. "You have been ordering the Princess of Dol Amroth about. She is Prince Imrahil's daughter and a fine woman; somebody I would like as a friend. And did you know that the young Steward of Gondor, Faramir, is her cousin?"
"No - but how do you know?"
"She brought her cousin to see me, because I complained that I was confined here when I heard that you were all leaving for battle and the warden would not let me go." Éomer cast her a glance. Would she ever desist!
Éowyn looked at him, knowing what he was thinking. "And then they sent for him, saying that it was up to the steward to decide – but he said that he was also at the warden's mercy, and he would not be allowed to go, either. He is a gentle and nice person – a good man, says Lothíriel."
She blushed. Éomer smiled inwardly – Must be some man to have my sister blush like that. He bent down and kissed his sister. "I must go see the men; both the wounded and those who are not. And I need to confer with Éothain and Gamling. I will see you tomorrow. Get some rest, you are not yet recovered."
When he left his sister's room, he looked into the gardens. He saw a man and a woman sitting on a bench and recognised the young woman, who he now knew as princess Lothíriel. He went outside and when Lothíriel caught sight of him, she called out. "My Lord Éomer, do you have a moment?"
Éomer went to her. "Of course, princess. How can I help you?"
"I would like to introduce you to my cousin. Faramir, this is the King of Rohan, Lady Éowyn's brother – and Éomer King; this is Faramir, Steward of Gondor."
"The last steward of Gondor, presumably. The king has returned – and gladly I welcome it." He was still pale from his illness, and had apparently not yet recovered from his wounds. He was almost as tall as Éomer, but he was a few years older. His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Rohan's young king. Oh, so this is the man who can get my sister to blush like that, Éomer mused.
He held out his hand "I am pleased to meet you, and pleased that you managed to persuade my sister to forego the oncoming battle. Once was enough. I would not like her to be part of this battle."
Faramir inclined his head: "I am also pleased to meet you, Éomer King. I have heard of the bravery of the Rohirrim – and of yours. Thank you for coming to the rescue of Minas Tirith."
They were interrupted by one of the servants. "Lord Faramir," he said, "Beregond calls you; there is some business that you need to attend to."
Faramir nodded. "I will be with you shortly. I take my leave, cousin – and Éomer King, until we meet again."
"He has not yet recovered from his wounds; he is still very ill, but he will hear no talk of resting. He will do his duty until the king has assumed his throne." Lothíriel looked after her cousin. "I believe that if he could, he would ride with you."
She looked up at him; her eyes were solemn and thoughtful.
"I apologize that I have not greeted you properly according to your status, Sire," she said, "but only when I left you and your sister and met with my father, I truly realised who you were. That is, father told me." She curtsied to him.
Éomer waved depreciatingly. "No matter," he said. "Please don't. I am not yet used to the title and would prefer to be treated with a little less ceremony." At this Lothíriel smiled.
Éomer could not take his gaze of her. Indeed, Imrahil's daughter was an attractive woman; she was as tall as his sister but where Éowyn was pale as a winter morning, Lothíriel was dark as the night. Now that she had removed her scarf, her dark hair was hanging down to her waist in a neat braid, her sea green eyes glittered and her face was slightly flushed.
Lothíriel on her part saw a tall, broad shouldered man in his late twenties – still very young for a king. His hair was blonde; presently it was wind tangled and slightly dirty. Obviously, he had not taken time to wash it or even bathe since returning from the battlefield; he had only washed his hands and face. She presumed that his hair would be the colour of gold when it was newly washed. A pair of hazel eyes under dark brows looked solemnly into hers. A short beard, a little darker than his hair, covered his chin. He looked every bit a warrior.
She woke as he spoke. "Princess, I have to take my leave," he said, "I must go see to my men; I was actually on my way there when you called to me. I want to thank you, though, for looking after my sister."
"Then go see to your brave men, Éomer King. I will see you shortly, I hope." Lothíriel's smile lit up her eyes and wrinkled her nose. Somehow he found that charming.
"I hope so, too, princess." Éomer bowed slightly to her and left, with Lothíriel's gaze following him.
They did not, however, get a chance to meet. Éomer was caught up in a lot of preparations, councils, planning and only had few chances of even seeing his sister, who was still in the Houses of Healing. On these occasions, he looked for the princess, but learned that she had been spending time with her brothers and father before they were to leave.
The night before they were to leave, he kissed his sister farewell and left to go to his quarters. On his way through the city, he stopped to stand at the battlements looking out over the Pelennor Fields towards Mordor, where the eruptions of Mount Doom lit up the dark skies. He thought of his uncle, his parents and his cousin and sent a silent prayer to them to look down on him and help him through what he must now face. If this be one of my last nights alive, so be it, but if not give me a sign of hope that will carry me through this. He was startled as he felt a hand on his arm.
"I saw you standing here; you seemed so deep in thoughts." He heard a female voice say. Lothíriel.
He turned towards her and saw a tear blinking in her eyes. "I have just bid my father and brothers farewell," she said, "and then I saw you standing here, looking so lonely."
"I was thinking of the people I have lost – and that I would like to have some hope to cling to, now that we are probably going towards our doom." Éomer looked into her face. She smiled a little half-smile; "I wish that I had any hope to give, Éomer King, but let my thoughts follow you," she said, and standing on her toes, she kissed him on the cheek.
Looking into her eyes, Éomer somehow felt elated. He bent over her hand and kissed it and she smiled at him. "The Valar protect us all," she whispered and left him with a slight nod.
He stood for a while looking out over the plains again and then went to be with his men.
Next morning, Aragorn and the Captains of the West led the remainder of the Rohirrim and the Gondorian army towards the Black Gate. From the walls above the city, Éowyn and Faramir watched them leave. Éowyn felt desolate, as she watched her brother leave. "Will I ever see him again?" she said, almost choking, the tears welling in her eyes.
Faramir squeezed her hand and assured her. "You will, Éowyn, the good will prevail; I am sure that this darkness will not endure."
The army of the West came to a stand in front of the Black Gate. The hobbits Merry and Pippin had been allowed to go with them and Éomer had Merry sitting behind him on Firefoot. "Behind me – not in front of me; I want you out of harm's way," he had said to Merry when they were about to mount, and Merry had just nodded. He knew better now than to discuss with Éomer.
Pippin sat in front of Gandalf, and Aragorn had taken up his rightful position as the King of Gondor, leader of the armies of the West and was riding ahead of them all. He was now dressed in the armour of Gondor with Andúril at his side. Strider, the ranger of the North was no more.
As they pulled to a stop, Éomer heard Pippin's voice: "Where are they?" Meaning, of course, the armies of Mordor. Aragorn gave Éomer a lopsided smile in which Éomer read: "Hobbits!" and beckoned to Éomer, Legolas and Gandalf to follow him. They rode towards the Black Gate, followed by a soldier carrying the banner of the king of Gondor.
In front of the gate they pulled to a stop. Aragorn called out: "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth. Let justice be done upon him!"
They waited: Looking up at the large gate, Éomer wondered if Aragorn had been heard at all, but suddenly the Black Gate slowly opened and out rode a strange creature, almost beastlike, in black armour and on an armoured horse.
The creature greeted them. He called himself the Lieutenant of the Black Lord, the Mouth of Sauron. He was truly hideous. "I have a token that I was bid to show thee," he hissed and held up a set of Mithril armour: Frodo's. Pippin gasped "Frodo" and Merry cried out "No!" Éomer reached back and put a reassuring hand on Merry's leg. "Peace, Merry. He is only taunting us; Frodo might not be dead," he whispered.
The creature threw the Mithril shirt at Gandalf; he took it and gave it to Pippin, who clutched to his chest. The hideous creature looked directly at them. "The halfling was dear to thee, I see." He told them that Frodo had been brave and that it had taken a lot to break him.
He continued, "Is there nobody here with the authority to negotiate?"
Gandalf answered that there would be no negotiations. "Tell your master to surrender and to leave these lands," he simply demanded. The Mouth of Sauron did not reply to this.
Aragorn rode forward, the creature looked at him and hissed. "And what do we have here, the heir of Isildur. It will take more than a fine Elvish sword to make a ranger a king." Aragorn's eyes narrowed, and seconds later, it became too much for him. He simply chopped off his head with a single blow of Anduríl. He turned to the others and said passionately. "I will not believe that Frodo is dead. I cannot!"
Éomer's eyes widened, as he silently mused Well, if not him that I would gladly have done the deed. It was not often that Aragorn reacted irrationally, but Éomer understood well why he did so now. He knew that Aragorn had been fond of the young hobbit and that he was feeling very uncertain that he had done the right thing, letting Frodo and Sam set out towards Mordor on their own. He had told Éomer that he had sworn to protect Frodo and now felt that he had somehow broken his word.
Gimli, who sat behind Legolas, remarked dryly: "That concludes the negotiations, I should say." The gate opened once more and through it they could see the vast armies of Mordor marching out.
Aragorn called out: "Fall back!"
They spurred on their horses and rode back to the lines. Aragorn looked at them all. "Courage" he said to the others – and then proceeded to give the men courage: "Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!"
To death, Aragorn! Éomer vowed silently. He felt strangely moved by Aragorn's words and at the same time felt the adrenaline of an imminent battle cursing through his veins. If ever there was a worthy fight this was it, although they would probably all be dead in a few hours if Frodo was not still alive.
They all dismounted and released their horses. Éomer patted Firefoot's neck as he let him run free. This fight would be on foot. Éomer turned to catch Éothain's eyes. He nodded silently to his friends – Elfhelm, Éothain, Gamling --- we have gone so far together and fought so many battles; will this be the last? He looked at the army of orcs marching towards them. "So this is it!" he thought. "The final battle for Middle Earth. Think of me, sister!" He closed his eyes; and as he did an image of Lothíriel came to him. Be now my hope, princess!
He saw Aragorn moving forward slowly, as if called by somebody and then he saw him turn towards them; his eyes shone suspiciously as if the tears had welled in them: "For Frodo!" he said in a broken voice and then he started running towards the orcs. The hobbits followed and the others hesitated but a moment and then followed Aragorn as a humongous and desperate war cry filled the air.
The two armies clashed; Éomer could not think coherently anymore. He just fought as in a rage, slaying enemy upon enemy. At one time he saw Gandalf – and then Aragorn, but he soon lost track of them as he hurled himself into the fight side by side with the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan. He was attacked from all sides but fought back with sword and shield.
Unearthly shrieks filled the air; looking up Éomer saw the Nâzgul flying in from Barad Dûr, but suddenly out of the skies, he also saw the Windlord Gwaihir and his brothers approaching.
Through the noise of the battle, he heard Pippin shouting: "The eagles! The eagles are coming!" and saw them chasing away the Nâzgul. A large cave troll was approaching Aragorn. It struck Aragorn to the ground. Both Éomer and Legolas tried desperately to get to Aragorn to help him, but their paths were blocked by more orcs, and even though they struck several of them down, more kept coming. He could still see Aragorn pinned to the ground, desperately trying to get free. Oh, no – not Aragorn, not Aragorn ran through his head.
Suddenly the earth shook; explosions lit up the sky – and out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw the Black Tower crumple. Mount Doom exploded in a rain of fire and smoke. He did not believe his own eyes. Vaguely he more sensed than heard Merry shouting "Frodo!" and he understood that the Ringbearer must have succeeded. The Ring had been destroyed.
The cave troll released Aragorn. Orcs fled in panic. The ground cracked open and swallowed them as the Black Gate crumpled and disappeared into the cracks. Éomer lowered his sword; he removed his helmet and wiped the sweat and dirt from his brow. He saw Aragorn get up and Imrahil embrace his sons. Éomer's and Aragorn's eyes met – we made it, we did it – but at what cost! Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gamling and Éothain approaching and embraced them.
Gandalf summoned the eagles and went to find Frodo and Sam, and the captains gathered the remainder of the armies and headed for Cormallen, where they were to wait their return to Minas Tirith. Aragorn wanted some time for the armies to recover before officially entering the city as the King, and Éomer understood him.
Éomer sent for Éowyn to have her join the celebrations, but she declined – under some lame pretence he thought. Obviously there must be something – or rather somebody – who held her in the city. Surely she must be well enough by this point to make the trip to Cormallen, or at least Éomer thought so although Éowyn, in her letter, stated that she was still weak.
"Probably my cousin," Amrothos, the youngest of Imrahil's sons grinned drunkenly. He and Éomer had shared a couple of bottles of brandy – celebrating or trying to forget, Éomer was not sure of which. He was becoming fast friends with the sons of Imrahil – and with Imrahil himself. Especially Amrothos had turned out to be a match for the Rohirrim when it came to celebrating.
Finally, the day came when the troops entered the city in triumph. The Steward of Gondor – Faramir – welcomed the king at the gate to the City, relinquishing his staff, thus ending the rule of the Stewards. Aragorn gave it back to him, asking him to remain as the King's Steward, which Faramir accepted.
King Théoden's body had been taken to the citadel to lie in honour along with the Kings of Gondor until such time as the Rohirrim could bring him back to Edoras to be buried alongside his queen and son.
Lothíriel had welcomed her father and brothers back to the city, but her eyes had also sought the handsome king of the Rohirrim, whose sister seemed mightily amused by the fact, that Lothíriel was finding it difficult to keep her eyes off him.
A couple of months' recovery from battle, where the dead were buried in great mounds on the Pelennor, the rebuilding of Minas Tirith and Osgilliath began, and peace found its way to all, reached a climax the day that Gandalf crowned Aragorn on the steps of the Citadel in the presence of the inhabitants of Minas Tirith, the soldiers, the hobbits, the elves – and the lords of Gondor, Rohan and Dol Amroth.
During that intermediate period, Éomer had – among all his duties – also found time to spend with the Princess of Dol Amroth, getting to know her a little better. With her he again found the lighter part of himself, the part, which he had buried deep when his first love had died. He had never in his life met anybody, who suited him so well. It was as if they were kindred spirits.
It soon became no secret to anybody that the king highly favoured the little sister of his friends, the princes of Dol Amroth.
At the coronation ceremony, Éowyn and Faramir stood together, and everybody could tell from their happy faces that Éomer had given his consent to their marriage and announced their betrothal, although he had made Faramir promise that the wedding would not take place until they had taken Théoden back to be buried at Edoras and Éomer had been crowned King of the Mark.
Éowyn had seen to it that her brother had been formally dressed in clothes befitting a king. He wore his armour, but his tunic was more elaborate, embroidered with gold and the cloak of the king hung from his shoulders. In Lothíriel's eyes, he was the most handsome man present, and it was no more a secret to her father – or any others for that matter - in which direction her heart was inclined.
As Éomer watched his friend being crowned and the petals of the flowers of the White Tree were raining down over them all, he thought of the fact that soon it would be his turn to be crowned king. He thought of the conversation that Aragorn and he had had at Edoras about the uncertainties that they both had felt about their inheritance. Well, now there is no turning back, Elessar – for either of us. He smiled.
He watched Aragorn move down the stairs and bowed slightly to him, as he passed him. Their eyes met and Éomer's lips curled slightly upwards in a smile. Brothers in arms; friends forever.
He was following behind Aragorn with Imrahil and Lothíriel as he saw his friend move towards a group of elves. Legolas, finally dressed as befitted the Prince of Mirkwood, came towards them.
Aragorn stopped and spoke to Legolas, who smiled enigmatically and moved aside to reveal a woman; the most beautiful being that Éomer had ever seen. Ah, this must be the lady of his heart, the Elvish princess he was telling me about. Along with the others, he cheered loudly as he saw his friend grabbing hold of his lady, kissing her long and soundly. He looked into the eyes of a certain dark haired young princess – and knew that this was the lady of his heart. I could drown in those eyes, he thought.
Without realizing exactly what he was doing, he reached for Lothíriel's hand and squeezed it. She looked up at him and a radiant smile lit up her face. "I hope that you do not think me bold, my Lady," he whispered to her as they moved along in the procession.
"I do not, Sire, but I cannot speak for my brothers; they might be offended – provided, of course, that they find out." Her eyes glinted teasingly at him and a flush coloured her cheeks.
He caressed her hand; obviously they needed not speak much of their intentions towards each other; they knew what their feelings were, but Éomer whispered to Lothíriel. "I will not tarry; you know my feelings towards you – I will make you mine." She blushed, but the smile she gave him, could not be mistaken.
Her brothers had noticed them. "Father, they are holding hands; this is not proper. And the way they look at each other." Elphir, the oldest, was as always concerned about his sister. His younger brother Amrothos grinned. "I do not think that Lothíriel minds. She could do worse than Éomer, and you do like him well enough as a drinking companion and brother-in-arms, Elphir."
Imrahil smiled at his sons; it was no secret to him that Lothíriel had taken more than a liking to the young king of Rohan, and if his friend felt the same inclination towards his daughter, he would not oppose it. It would, indeed, be a good match for his daughter and for their countries, and that it was so obviously based on love only made it better.
Therefore it was no surprise to him that Éomer approached him later that day for a private conversation. As it was typical of Éomer, he wanted to get matters settled and not beat around the bush too long. He would also prefer to be able to dance with Lothíriel – and take her for a walk in the gardens – with her father's blessing. He did not want to hide.
Thus, he met with Imrahil before the evening's crowning celebrations started, asking his permission to court his daughter. "And – if she so consents, I would like to make her my wife – and Queen of Rohan. I would like your blessing, Imrahil, to do so."
Imrahil laughed: "Your intentions have been clear to me these past weeks, my young friend. And it is no secret that my daughter holds similar feelings for you; you have my blessing."
He called in Lothíriel, who had been listening at the door, and joined their hands. "I give you my only daughter, Éomer King, my most precious jewel. Guard her well and treat her with respect; she will make you a fine queen."
Éomer blushed. "I shall guard her with my life and respect her as my wife and queen – and I shall treasure her always, Imrahil." He looked proudly at his friend: "You have my word as a Rohirrim, not lightly given but always true." He looked into Lothíriel's eyes.
Imrahil coughed; somehow he felt superfluous. "I will leave you now; I trust that you will behave yourselves – and do come in time for the start of the feast." He left the room, grinning. I was once young, too.
Éomer pulled Lothíriel into his arms. "I think that he just gave me permission to kiss you."
"I think he did." Lothíriel laughed happily. "If you only knew, how long I have waited for this." And then she said no more, because Éomer kissed her – long and soundly; and when they came up for air, he hesitated only a moment and then kissed her again.
Suddenly, Éomer stopped and drew away from her. She looked perplexed. "What is the matter?"
Éomer looked embarrassed. "I should do this right, not just fall all over you – although it is difficult not to." He led her to the window, took both her hands in his and looked straight into her eyes.
"Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Your father has given me his blessing, and I hereby ask you to do me the honour of becoming my wife and the Queen of the Mark."
Lothíriel looked at him and nodded blushingly. "I will gladly marry you, Éomer, son of Éomund, and be your queen."
"I shall see to it that he accepts a short betrothal period; I will not wait long ere I make you my wife." He bent down to claim her lips and pressed her against him.
After what seemed a very long while, she pushed softly against his chest. "Éomer, I think – that we should be going now; the feast must be starting just about now."
He laughed happily. "Yes, I think so, too. I shall never hear the end of it – especially from Aragorn – if I arrive too late at his coronation feast, together with you!"
The fact that they arrived together looking ridiculously happy, did not escape their friends or siblings. Éowyn laughed loudly as she caught her brother's eyes and saw the look in them.
Faramir smiled at them both – and Lothíriel's brothers raised their goblets. Loud catcalls were heard from the hobbits and Gimli – and Legolas inclined his head to the couple, as they passed him towards their seats.
The feast started – and it was a grand feast. They had much to celebrate. Wine and food flowed generously as did the friendly banter. Aragorn toasted his friend and liege, acknowledging with a smile what so obviously had happened.
Later that evening Éomer lead his lady out on the terrace overlooking the city with the purpose of getting some fresh air and look at the stars.
Lothíriel laughed, "A worthy purpose, indeed, my Lord, but I detect that you may have a hidden, and not quite appropriate, purpose."
Éomer laughed, as he crushed her tightly in his arms and kissed her softly. They walked towards the battlements and stood looking out over the city. He placed himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin against the top of her head.
As they stood there silently watching the city below them, Éomer thought back to the time when he had arrived back at Edoras, just before Théodred had been killed and he was banished, when he had thought of how lonely he was, lacking the welcome of a wife like the others. He knew that for the first time since he lost the young woman, he had loved in his youth, he could love again truly and fully and he also knew that Lothíriel was the woman he needed by his side as his wife and his queen.
No more would he think himself lonely; for the first time in many years he felt whole – or at least as if he was on the mend. He smiled to himself as he felt Lothíriel turn around in his arms.
She turned her face up against his. "Why are you smiling, my love?" she asked.
Éomer crushed her against him. "I am smiling, my sweet, because for the first time in a long, long time I really have something to smile about."
- and what followed, is told elsewhere.
17