Author's Note: Apologies this chapter is not complete...
Chapter 31
Brotherhood
"Uncle!" Elboron's weary but clear voice echoed across the field.
Eomer looked up to see his nephew and horse hastily picking their way to where the King of Rohan sat astride Firefoot.
It had been a good day, Eomer thought as he proudly surveyed the effect his Rohirrim had had on the battlefield. They had started in the south and quickly overrun the Serpent and his cavalry. With a free hand from Aragorn, Eomer had then allowed his men to wreak mayhem into the ranks of the Easterling infantry as the main force of the Gondorian army had moved forward to engage.
Eomer and his men had ravaged across the field, so that now he found himself to its north. He had called a halt in order to survey the proceedings further. Back the way they had come he could see sporadic areas of fighting, there particularly seemed to be activity toward the centre of the field where much blue smoke hovered to block his view and strange noises emanated. Eomer supposed that was where the two wizards fought. He shook his head, never one to be interested in the way of wizards, he quickly made the decision to leave that fight to Aragorn.
As he viewed the rest of the field, his battle lust still heating his blood, he looked for further action. He was about to call his men back to attention so they could charge the Easterling infantry that was falling away to skirt the banks of the river and disappear eastwards unnoticed but Elboron's voice called for his attention.
The boy reined in beside him and Eomer's eyes narrowed as he took in his nephew's appearance. Elboron had lost his helm, his hair was unruly about his shoulders and his face grimy with what may have been the streaks of tears but his eyes shone brightly. Elboron's uniform was ripped and he bled from the many small injuries that a soldier could expect, if he was lucky, when engaged in close hand-to-hand combat. All things considered the boy presented a gratifying sight to his proud uncle.
"Bron!" Eomer bellowed. "'Tis well met on such a day as this!"
But Elboron's shoulders slumped and his voice revealed an infinite sadness as he responded. "I fear it may be well met for us but it will be too late for others, Sire."
Eomer eyed the boy. "We have a glorious victory. See the enemy is about to run!" He gestured to the field as he spoke.
"Here, may be," Elboron responded numbly. "But not in the marshes." Newly formed tears began to run down his cheeks as he fought to retain his composure. "My father is sorely tested. He sends me to King Elessar to . . . "
Eomer leaned forward and hugged the boy to him then. "Take heart, brave sister-son," he said. "If Gondor has need, Rohan will answer! Has it not always been so?" He pulled back. "Now go, Lord Elboron. Take your message to your King but also tell him too that the Rohirrim will ride to re-enforce the White Company line."
A half smile lightened Elboron's face as he sniffed back his tears. "Is this the time that I may ride with the Rohirrim, my uncle?" he asked.
Eomer guffawed and landed a hearty blow to the young man's shoulder. "Would that it were, Bron, but you have a mission given to you by your Captain. I cannot countermand such an order. Know you there will be other times when you ride with your kin. Have I not promised it? Now go to King Elessar with speed!"
He landed another ungentle blow, this time on Snowflake's rump and the horse leapt forward. Then Eomer turned to the men that remained about him. There were about fifty riders, the rest of the Rohirrim were scattered about the field. Eomer had noted from his nephew's demeanour that time was precious, so he made the decision to ride to the marsh ground with the men he had, knowing that Aragorn may send more support once he received Elboron's message.
"Come Rohirrim!" he ordered. "We ride to the marshes for the Prince of Ithilien is hard pressed to hold his line!"
With a joyous cry the Rohirrim spurred their horses forward, eager to find where the fight still flourished.
"I heard an old Gondorian stallion was faltering and had need of the young audacious blood of the Rohirrim!"
Faramir closed his eyes in relief and drew in a long breath as the King of Rohan's voice boomed across the marshes towards him. He opened his eyes just in time to see an orc ready to pounce at him. It was all the White Company Captain could do to lift his weapon once more and defend himself from the violent attack.
Since ordering Elboron away, the Uruk-hai had launched the assault that Faramir had feared. He had had little time to dwell on his decision or to think about ought else except rallying his men and defending the line once more. They had lasted longer than he had believed possible, each man drawing on unimaginable reservoirs of valour and strength but still the enemy swarmed down on them. For every uruk they killed it seemed there were three more to take its place. Still Faramir refused to give up the fight and threw himself at each opponent with increasing ferocity and desperation. His men drawing more courage from his example did likewise.
As the intensity of his concentration on the fight began to lessen, the Steward became aware of a presence at his side and glanced over to see Eomer standing beside him, face grim and sword swinging at an orc before him.
"Glad you could join the excitement," Faramir muttered.
Eomer growled as he dispatched his first opponent and then slammed into the next. "You should have invited me earlier," he said. "I had no idea you were having such a good time here. I must complain however that you could have chosen more suitable ground. Firefoot refused to walk on such a bog!"
"I will keep that in mind, your highness," Faramir grunted with effort. His current opponent was proving to be most difficult to kill. "For the next time I have the honour of hosting your royal person." His last word ended in a grunt of pain as the tenacious uruk managed to work a way through his tiring defence and slashed the Steward across his shoulder and face with the point of his blade. Luckily Faramir had managed to lean back so the full force of the blow did not hit him but still an angry red line bubbled up across his left cheek. The chain mail at Faramir's shoulder had been breached by the thrust and from there also blood began to spew forth as the Steward sank to his knees in the mud.
Eomer shook his head and leaning across dispatched the surprised uruk from his blind side.
"Thank you," Faramir muttered weakly.
Eomer beamed. "Eowyn would never forgive me if I lost you," he said by way of explanation.
Faramir smiled wanly. "You know me, when there is entertainment to be had I am the first in line."
Eomer laughed. "Downright selfish, that's what you are!"
He reached out to pull Faramir back to his feet. The Steward winced as his left foot hit the ground awkwardly.
"Lame again?" Eomer asked with a smirk as he noted an ensanguined bandage clinging to the broken arrow shaft protruding from Faramir's leg.
The charge into the fray of the Rohirrim, even without their horses due to the sticky ground, had served to force back the uruks once more. Faramir glanced around. The familiar sight of the fragile line of men in differing states of injury met his eye. He signalled to them to rest easy for a while.
Eomer cleaned his sword on the nearest uruk body and then thrust it into his scabbard. He ripped a piece of cloth from the same corpse and turned to the Steward.
"Here, let me clean your shoulder," he said.
Faramir snorted. "With that?" he questioned. "It's dirtier than I am!"
"Hush, son of Gondor!" Eomer muttered. "I am sorry I have none of the soft eastern silk from Harad such as the merchants land at the port of Dol Amroth that your pampered skin is used to, Steward. Needs must and this will have to do."
Faramir flinched as Eomer wiped the wound. "I lost Daisy," he said through gritted teeth.
Eomer nodded tersely. "When I have seized back Steelsheen we will see the quality of her foal. My guess will be you will see the spirit of your Daisy in its eye. My only request would be on its name!"
"You know why Daisy was Daisy," Faramir replied. He sighed. "How goes the battle?"
"Well," Eomer replied. "Most of the Easterlings turn and run, it is only the orcs here that still fight, I believe. There is much smoke and thunder in the centre. I think the wizards are trying to resolve their argument."
Faramir's eyes widened. "That I would see," he muttered.
"Aragorn was with Pallando, no doubt he will give you a full report later," Eomer was dismissive as he wiped the blood from the other's cheek. He stepped back to examine his handiwork. "'Tis naught but a scratch but no doubt you will spend three months in your Houses of Healing because of it!"
Faramir scowled as he flexed the shoulder gingerly. He chose to ignore the comment and said, "It seems that the Easterlings tactics were lacking in imagination and rather one dimensional. I thought Shanen was rumoured to be a good tactician. It seems they expected to get through here with their best fighters, outflank us and encircle our army from the rear."
Eomer nodded but refused to be sidetracked from his previous point. "I think I understand your strategy now, Lord Steward."
Faramir's eyes narrowed as he regarded the younger man with misgiving. "In what way, Sire?" he asked, suspecting he would regret the question.
"After every battle you have suffered so much hurt," Eomer paused and his blue eyes rested on Faramir's thigh wound and then moved up to his shoulder knowingly, before he continued. "You are forced to spend months doing nothing but recuperate. Your wife fusses around you constantly answering your every whim, while you lie flat on your back apparently suffering in anguish and distress. And then, nine months later, out pops another little heir to the house of Hurin! No wonder you have such a seemingly limitless capacity, you are better looked after than my best stud stallion!"
Faramir could not contain the totally inappropriate guffaw that burst from him so loudly that the men close by turned to regard him with incredulity. He looked down and shuffled his feet with boyish embarrassment.
"See," Eomer continued with mock gravity. "You do not even have the good grace to deny it!"
Faramir regained his composure and looked up at his brother by law, his dirty cheeks still flushed. "I am most impressed, Sire," he smiled. "Your perception is wondrous indeed. I had sought to keep my plan secret but you have seen straight through it!"
Eomer shook his head. "Remember, Lord Steward," he said. "I know your intent now! But rather than disclose it to others just yet, I sought to employ it to my own ends today." His expression appeared supremely self-effacing as he continued. "Alas I am just too skilled and no opponent has been able to fight through my defences to injure me, as yet!"
Faramir assumed a similar grave face. "That is indeed a defect that never threatened my plan," he agreed with modesty. "There is of course a second even more fatal flaw which, forgive me your Highness, you may not yet have contemplated."
Eomer arched his eyebrows. "There is?" he responded. "And what be that?"
"In order for it to work you need to find the right brood mare," Faramir responded. "Are you sure Lothíriel would react in the desired way?" With that he limped away towards where Anborn waited with the other men.
Eomer's face hardened into a frown. "That is my wife you question, Steward!" he snapped after Faramir's retreating figure. "Wait a minute, my sister too!"
The Steward looked back over his shoulder and threw the puffing King of Rohan a thoroughly roguish glance that Eomer himself would have been proud of.
Pallando finally wins the argument! Alatar started off with all this melodramatic warning stuff.
Pallando, unimpressed, will stride towards Alatar, bristling with indignation, and start insulting him, calling him 'donkey-brain' or something, saying he can't believe how stupid Al's been. Pallando will continue insulting Alatar, they'll start to fight; Pallando might switch to quenya but will continue to angrily name-call; Aragorn, who is presumably watching, will be amazed at the words coming out of his mouth, he'll think or remark that he never knew such words even existed in quenya!
Pallando will continue the barrage of power and insults/anger; keeping Alatar irritated and off-balance by the insults while going at him with magic. There will be a bloody blue light-show...Pallando will win.
Seeing their leader captured main Easterling army panics – surrenders or flees
The King of Rohan was on his knees in the muddy marsh. The land here was treacherous; even now it was sucking at his strength, pulling him down into its murky depths. Overcome by bloodlust, he had followed a retreating orc into the water, too late had he seen the danger. Now he let out a loud desperate growl as he looked up to see the ugly notched blade of an uruk arcing towards his hand. He braced himself for the final pain. . . but it did not come this time.
Instead there was a loud metallic clang as the fell weapon was stopped in its downward motion by the elven blade of Gondor's Steward. Faramir dispatched Eomer's would be assassin with clinical efficiency and then bent to pull the sodden King from the marsh that had threatened to be his watery grave.
"My thanks, Faramir!" Eomer said, as he somewhat ineffectively wiped himself down.
Faramir smiled. "It cancels out your action to save me earlier; we are even now, my lord," he replied. "Besides in order to benefit from my strategy you do have to be alive in the Houses of Healing!"
Around them there was much splashing and flailing as the White Company suffered its death throes. Even with Eomer's injection of men which had helped to hold the line for another three assaults, Faramir's fears were now becoming reality. The line had been pulled out of shape and now the uruks, drunk on the taste of blood and unconcerned how the rest of the battle fared, were swarming all over them. As Faramir glanced about himself wild images of the retreat from the Causeway Forts flashed through his mind.
"Hold!" he screamed as a number of men fell before the onslaught. It was useless he realised for now the fell creatures returned in the air, swooping on his men in one last orgy of destruction.
"They have lost!" Eomer growled at his side as they struggled back to the drier ground. "Why can they not just go home, like the rest of their incompetent army?"
Faramir shrugged as much as his injured shoulder would allow. "Would you?" he asked.
They stumbled over a number of bodies and then were forced to engage the enemy once more.
"Faramir, here!" Eomer ordered as he positioned himself on a piece of relatively dry, level ground.
The two men stood back-to back on the field each protecting each other in a valiant last stand. The bodies that surrounded them grew and the uruks circled warily. One would dash at the two men when he thought there was an opening but he would die on a sword of Gondor or Rohan.
Eomer had a deep wound in his left side from his jaunt into the water which was bleeding profusely. Faramir had lost the bandage on his leg and that wound as well as the one in his shoulder was opened once more. Neither man would be able to last long as their strength flowed out with their blood.
"It looks like you will have the valiant death you desire, Eomer," Faramir breathed softly.
The King of Rohan managed a quick glance at his partner between thrusts. "Aye it is a good day to end," he said. He hesitated before continuing, "But you will not have what you desired, Faramir."
The Steward snorted dismissively. "Matters not," he muttered. "I have been blessed with so much more."
"I have never thanked you," Eomer said.
Faramir looked genuinely puzzled. "Thanked me; for putting up with your primitive Rohorric humour?" he ventured.
Eomer shook his head with a smile. "For making Eowyn so happy," he replied. "I did have my concerns at the beginning."
Faramir smiled the warm expression that always touched his eyes when he thought of his wife. "That was easy for me," he disclosed. "I worship the very ground on which she stands."
"You are a fine man, Faramir," Eomer said.
"Even though I do have some strange Gondorian ways?" Faramir teased.
Eomer shrugged, "Maybe because of them," he admitted begrudgingly.
Above them a fell beast circled with the chilling cry of the nazgul. The uruks began to move forward as one, lessening the size of the circle at the centre of which the two men stood.
"I think it will not be long," Eomer said.
Faramir nodded with a gulp. "If this is where I die," he said. "I would not wish for it to be with any other by my side, my brother. My only regret is that you will not have chance to benefit fully from my breeding strategies!"
Eomer let out a loud guffaw that caused their enemy to take a communal pause but they began to move in again.
"Death!" Eomer screamed, raising his sword.
"For Gondor!" Faramir cried beside him.
Above them the sun suddenly forced a way through the mists and a bright light lit the sky. The fell beast swooped down and the uruks closed their circle so that either man could be seen no more.