Chapter 28
The day grew old as they rode northwards. Miles turned into leagues and the Sun carried on her steady journey to the west, until at last she began her descent behind the White Mountains.
The company kept up a fair pace, as they had some distance to catch up before they could hope to reach the outlaws and their prisoners. Éomer kept an eye on his wife as much as his surroundings and Eadwig. He wasn't sure what he expected or dreaded more: that she'd see something, or that her strength was failing. However, she rode with her head held up high and her look was focused.
Éomer swallowed the words of concern that had risen to his tongue. Instead, at times he asked her if they were still going the right way, and she reassured him it was so. He did send some scouts riding ahead, but that was mostly to keep his company from wondering too much. Maybe at this point it was inevitable the truth would come out, but he'd still rather postpone it as much as possible.
Or maybe – hopefully – her name as a white witch would grant her a smoke screen and some security with it.
Eventually they had to stop for the night: the entire company had been on the move for most of the day and they needed to rest for a few hours. Much like himself only last night, it was now Eadwig who was reluctant to stop. He tried to argue with Éomer at first, insisting on carrying on, even though his face was drawn and grey with exhaustion. But the distress he felt for his daughter burned beyond all physical failings of Man.
However, after Éomer had made it clear in some stern words that his Knights would go no further tonight, Eadwig was forced to comply. Even though he was anxious to continue, at least he understood he needed the King's help if he wanted to get his daughter back safely.
So they made a camp and a guard was set. Eadwig's company stayed a little way apart from the King's. They kept to themselves and were quiet, as if trying to blend in with the landscape. Eadwig himself stood with his back to the camp. What thoughts passed through his mind then – what plans he might be making, and what he expected to happen once his daughter was safe, Éomer could only guess. Yet perhaps he was sincere about his promise to surrender. He had brought less than half the men Éomer had, and none were as well-trained like the Riders of the King's Company. He could be thinking of escaping once his daughter was safe, but that too was a precarious course of action. Eadwig's ambitions for his daughter had been to make her a queen; to make her a fugitive and deprive her of their ancestral seat seemed like the last thing he'd do.
The young king exchanged a look with his captain, and Éothain nodded silently. No words needed to be said. Éothain too was keeping an eye on Eadwig and was prepared for shenanigans. For now, much couldn't be done. Eadwig wouldn't reveal his intentions by just asking nicely – unless, of course, he really was just trying to get his daughter back.
Éomer's concerns did not end with Eadwig. There was still so much he wanted to ask his wife, but she was almost asleep on her feet and so he did not have the heart to say anything except to tell her to get some rest. She smiled slightly, settled down on a bedroll provided to her in Healding, and passed out almost immediately. Alfwen looked nearly as spent as the Queen, so Éomer decided he wouldn't interrogate her either.
So the camp settled down for the night, and even if some among them felt unease or foreboding for the next day, most of them were too tired to worry too much. Éomer laid down next to his wife, arranged his cloak so that it covered both of them, and then allowed himself a moment of just feeling at ease. He put his arm around her and took a deep breath of her hair. It made his throat feel so tight, he had to spend a minute just swallowing and trying to get a grip of himself. How long was it since he had slept next to her? The relief of having her by his side again was still as overflowing as when she had first run to his arms. Even if they were in the middle of a war-camp, and tomorrow could very well bring more hardship, at least tonight they were together.
He roused his company before the sun had even peeked her face over the horizon. Rest had done them all a whole lot of good, and his Knights' preparations were swift and focused. Lothíriel kept up admirably well, even considering Alfwen was helping her. She had yet to complain about the harsh and unpleasant realities of camp-life and the hunt. Eadwig seemed to have noticed this too, considering the conflicted looks he threw in her way. Éomer suspected that the ageing lord was now forced to check again many of the prejudices he had had against the young queen.
But before they began to move again, Éomer spoke for a while with his wife. She was confident they were still moving in the right direction, and that Guthild and her companions yet lived.
"We should perhaps steer a little bit to the north-east, though", she told him quietly.
"There are some difficult fenlands that way", Éomer muttered, frowning. "Which they are counting on, I imagine. Luckily, I know those parts well."
Even the remotest corners of the East-Mark were not unknown to him; he had been hunting and patrolling in these fields since he was but a beardless, gangly lad. While Eadwig had keen knowledge of his own lands, that was where his expertise ended. By himself, he wouldn't have reached his daughter in time.
His wife touched his hand and smiled.
"See? I told you it's all inside your head already", she said, so calm and confident that it was as if Guthild's rescue was no longer in question. He wasn't sure if it was because she had seen it, or if she simply believed in him that much.
"Well, it's one thing to know, and quite another to do", Éomer said evenly. He couldn't grow over confident, even if he had a seer by his side.
"Indeed. Let us get to the doing, shall we?"
So they continued. Again Éomer sent scouts ahead, though he still didn't expect them to find much. Like Lothíriel had advised, he steered the company north-east. Something cold always shifted in his chest when he went that direction, recalling the death of his father near Emyn Muil. But he ignored that feeling and hastened along.
Come afternoon, they reached the fenlands, and there took a short rest. The scouts had directed them there, having found some tracks that looked like they were left by a group on foot. Eadwig in particular brightened up to hear this, but others too were glad to know they were on to the outlaws and their captives.
Once again he took counsel with Lothíriel – with Éothain listening close by – and for a while she looked over the wide landscape. A soft mist had risen across the fens, obscuring the view. It wouldn't be as bad as earlier in spring and summer, but he still didn't look forward to facing the armies of midges that inhabited the damp marches of fens.
"I do not think you should follow them straight. There's a better path if we steer a bit to the east from here..." said his wife at length.
Éomer exchanged a look with Éothain, and then understood.
"They chose this way because it's difficult for horses. We'll lose time if we try to follow them straight. It may also be wiser to come at them from where they don't expect us. They will be tired, the captives especially, so we have time for a bit longer route, don't we?"
"Aye, I think you are right", Éothain conceded, but his voice was a little bit strained. There was a strange look, almost fearful in wonder, in his eyes as he regarded first his King and then the Queen. He seemed to swallow hard and then added, "You two could be formidable together – unstoppable even. I don't know why I'm only now realising it."
Éomer exchanged a glance with Lothíriel. She seemed a little bit uncomfortable and unsettled. But he flashed her a reassuring smile before meeting the eyes of his captain again.
"The fact is, I don't want to be. She's my wife, not my asset", he stated simply and firmly.
Éothain nodded silently and said no more; he understood he had overstepped with his observation. But Lothíriel reached for Éomer's hand and squeezed it tightly. Though she said nothing, her smile was grateful.
He returned the smile, kissed her brow and turned back to his captain to give the orders for their next leg of journey. Eadwig was not delighted to hear they wouldn't follow the trail straight – he argued they might lose it – but after a few strong words from Éomer and a remark of how difficult it would be to lead the horses this way, he relented.
So they continued. Even though they took a longer and steadier route through the fens, it was still necessary at times to dismount and lead the horses, which slowed them down somewhat. Like he had feared, midges descended upon them in glee, harassing both man and horse. Flamefoal swished his long tail incessantly to keep the insects at bay, but even the usually fiery young stallion seemed to be in low spirits. Whenever Éomer's anxiety threatened to grow, he glanced at his wife; she had a steadfast, reassuring look in her eyes and he knew they were still on the trail. A couple of times she whispered encouragements to him, but otherwise, he was starting to have a pretty good idea himself of where they were headed. A plan was forming in his head, too, but he would need some more intelligence to hone the fine details; as soon as the landscape got easier to travel again, he'd sent the scouts ahead once more.
Afternoon came and the shadows began to grow longer. The group was in need of some rest, his queen most especially – she kept a brave face, but her expression became more and more drawn as the hours passed – but they needed to cross the fens first. There was some light rain, but even though it passed away soon, Éomer did not particularly like having his wife in these damp, unpleasant circumstances. Still, whenever she caught him looking at her in concern, she just smiled.
The relief was almost tangible when the fens were left behind. They made a brief stop to rest the horses for a while; Lothíriel believed it was a couple of hours still before they reached the outlaws, and they would need their strength if it came to battle.
Éomer had just finished talking to his captain when he felt a gentle pressure on his arm. Next to him was his wife.
"I noticed you were scratching your neck. It's the insects, isn't it?" she asked him softly.
"Aye, they had a veritable feast on me", he replied, trying not to cringe. She nodded and produced a small vial from her pouch.
"This helps with the bites. I got the recipe from a woman I met in Edoras – her husband was also the midges' favourite dish", she said with a faint smile.
"You are a saving grace", he told her emphatically, which made her laugh softly, but he thought she looked pleased.
Seeing it was easier for her to apply the concoction, she had him sit down on a rock for the procedure. She produced her handkerchief, poured a little bit of the liquid on it, and then carefully dabbed his neck and particularly the itchy bites. A cool sensation spread on the spots she tended to, and soon enough the worst itching subsided. At first, there was some hesitation in her touch, like she wasn't certain if they were yet to their normal level of intimacy. But eventually she grew more confident, and when she was done, she kissed his brow.
"There! That should do it. Try not to scratch the bites, it will only make it worse", she instructed him. He just grunted in answer, wrapped his arms around her midsection, and pulled her close to himself. She let out a small gasp, but was quick to recover. Gently she cradled his head and pressed her cheek against the top. So they remained for a moment, both basking in the simple, quiet intimacy. It meant the world after the past few weeks.
"I missed you so much", she whispered eventually. "I felt so... untethered when I couldn't come to you."
"I missed you, too. Being alone never felt good, but without you it was something else entirely", he confessed. When did his voice become so rough? Even without meeting her eyes, he felt exposed. Then again, maybe he shouldn't expect that allowing himself to be vulnerable with her once again would be easy at first, even if they had reconciled. But this was a good start.
These words exchanged between them also revealed something else: they needed one another, and not in the way Éothain had previously remarked. She wanted to feel grounded, to feel safe, and her companionship and support made him stronger – made him thrive. It was beautiful and simple and he felt so angry with himself for nearly letting it go. Yet maybe he had needed to make this mistake in order to really understand what he had got.
For a minute Éomer had rather forgotten the world and the task at hand, but others had not. There was a loud cough nearby, and he raised his eyes to see Eadwig looking at him expectantly. But the young king sensed something else, too – some grudging understanding. He guessed the ageing lord had watched their tender moment, and realised at last what he had tried to destroy.
Be that as it may, Éomer had yet to deliver on his end of the bargain, and moments were passing. So he got up on his feet, pressed his hand against the back of her neck, and kissed her briefly; allowing himself a longer kiss would keep them all here Béma knew for how long. He saw her eyes were damp and so gave her a minute to compose herself before turning to rouse his company to the road once more.
Scouts rode ahead again, but with orders to try and keep from being seen. He didn't think it would take long at this point: his wife believed it would be dark when they reached their quarry, and he guessed it meant this very night, unless something went badly. If they were that close now, they needed to be more careful. The best chance they had of saving the captives without any needless casualties was if they had surprise on their side.
The company was now deep into the lands of the Wold. In the east flowed the Great River Anduin, and in the west loomed Fangorn, or Entwood as it was otherwise called. Between lay the wide, uninhabited marches, lonesome rolling hills where nobody strayed for long, and where the sky was endless. In times past, the herders had spent whole summers here to let their horses and cattle to graze on the rich grass, but then the shadow of growing power in the Dark Land had sent them closer to the permanently settled parts of the land. Many battles had been fought on these fields and often had blood watered the hills and vales; this was where Éomer himself had honed his skills as a warrior. Prowling orc bands, survivors both from Isengard and Mordor and even occasional raiding parties from the Misty Mountains, still made the Wold unsafe, although he had plans of founding a new seat of a Marshal in this part of the land. A more permanent camp would come first, then barracks for an éored solely tasked with guarding the North-Mark. In time, perhaps, his people could wander the land in peace again.
Altogether he wasn't surprised the outlaws had chosen this way. The fens in between had first made following them more difficult, and the Wold had no foothold for the search parties. Of course, the outlaws did not know they were tracked not only by the most skilled Riders in the realm, but also a seer.
Grey twilight came, and soon after, the scouts returned. They brought most interesting news.
"Lord, we have located the outlaws some five miles north from here. They are setting a camp in a small hollow by a stream. They were starting a camp fire, too. The prisoners are little way to the side, seemingly bound and gagged, but the guarding of the camp seems nonexistent", said one of the scouts.
Éomer considered these news for a moment before turning to his captain. Lothíriel was nearby as well, and so was Eadwig, bearing a furious look on his lined face.
"Why aren't they making more effort for secrecy?" Éothain wondered out loud.
"Because they don't think they have to. Their tracks were covered well in the fens", Éomer said. "Maybe they didn't even consider it. There may be men with formal battle training among them, surely, but if any of Elfhelm's earlier reports bear truth, most of them are more used to wielding ploughs and pitchforks. Who knows what pecking order they have? If they are men whose spirits were broken in the war, I doubt they are able to maintain a chain or command, or pay heed to caution. Our job here may be much easier than we guessed."
The lack of proper guard over the captives was probably for similar reasons. What could these poor things do except wait for a rescue? They were all civilians, unusused to battle. Fighting back would not help them, and being here, in the middle of wilderness without means to fend for themselves, what choice did they have? They were even more likely to die if they tried to escape, and perhaps they still had some degree of faith in the better natures of their captors. The could only wait and hope.
"They have one advantage, though. The captives", Éothain pointed out, as if he had guessed the very topic in his king's mind. "We don't want them slaughtering the innocents when the battle turns sour."
"Aye, and that is why we must make them our first priority. Secure them first, then we deal with these ruffians", said the young king.
"What are you thinking, Sire?"
"I'll lead a group to the captives and make sure they are safe. You will command the mounted Knights against the outlaws and drive them to the ground. Let them surrender if they will, but don't let any escape. If anyone refuses to give in – well, you know what to do."
"And what about my daughter?" Eadwig put in.
"I shall take care of her. You'll ride with Éothain, Lord Eadwig; you'll beg my pardon if I take only my own men to free the captives", Éomer replied.
"You don't trust me."
"I don't, and for that you have your own actions to thank."
The two men exchanged a long, stern stare. But in the end, Éomer's will was sterner, and Eadwig turned away. The aging lord must realise he was only wasting time by making a fight, and even antagonised, he understood that the King and his chosen men were more than qualified for rescuing the captives. Being an older man, he was not the most welcome participant to a mission where stealth, speed and efficiency where imperative.
So Eadwig relented, though his expression was sullen. But Éomer had no time to worry about him. Instead, he turned to make plans with his captain, who was eagerly waiting nearby, and to interrogate the scouts on how the landscape looked like at the camp. Quickly they made tactical plans of how the King's own party would secure the captives, and how the Riders lead by Éothain would fall upon the outlaws. It would be quick work, if all went according to plan.
After all finer points had been agreed on, Éomer joined his wife and pulled her away for some privacy. She had not spoken during this exchange, but she had not needed to. She had played her part, now waiting for him to fulfil his.
"I don't think there will be particular touble with the outlaws now", he said to her quietly. "But you should still stay away for the time being. Alfwen and a couple of Knights will stay with you. If in some unlikely situation things go badly, then I expect you shall escape, and fast."
"And leave you here?" she asked softly.
"Yes. You carry the future of Rohan within you", he replied, quiet but stern.
His wife took his hands in his own and held them tight. He could feel the tremor going through her.
"I can't raise him without you", Lothiriel whispered.
"And you won't have to, love. I promise. But before I go to this battle, I must know my wife and my son are safe. You promised, didn't you?" he asked her, but not angrily. She sighed.
"I know so many things, but not this, and it scares me. Yet you are my king, and I did promise. Forgive me my wilfulness – it's only that I wouldn't be parted from you now", she said very quietly.
His hear grew immeasurably soft at that. How could he say he didn't understand her? How much did he want to stay, supporting and sheltering her? It was not natural what was asked of him – fighting battles and conquering villains at the peril of his own life, when his pregnant wife was here exposed to the wilderness and its dangers. But often the demands placed on the King of Rohan were hardly natural.
"I will see you soon. Until then, be careful", he said to her, and then he kissed her. There was a desperation in that kiss and her hands grasped his head tight. She clung to him even when the kiss It ended, and was reluctant to let him go. But he knew he needed to go, and so he did swiftly, turning away from her in a sharp motion. He shared a look with Alfwen and the Shieldmaiden nodded severely. She would look after the Queen – and the baby.
So the company spurred to action, though in complete silence. They were now too close to their quarry, and Éomer did not want to give them any signal of what was about to happen. Quietly his company rode forward. No voice was raised in the stilness as the night deepened. But tension grew in the dark, and the young king could well imagine his Knights already loosening their swords in their sheaths, or testing the weight of their spears. His own hand was never far from the hilt of his blade.
At last, he saw the flicker of a camp fire before him. It was not well hidden and it wasn't small. He almost felt pity at the terrible incompetence he was witnessing. Yet perhaps it wasn't just incompetence, for how could these outlaws know who was hunting them?
Éomer took a deep breath. The call of battle was more than urgent in his blood, but he couldn't just throw himself into it. First, the innocents.
His troop silently dismounted and Éomer gave the orders as quietly as he could. Éothain and Eadwig remained horseback; even in the darkness, Éomer could feel the Lord of Healding glaring at him. They would in silence ride to surround the spot. Their horses instincttively knew to keep silent.
He stood quietly for a moment, thinking of how he was going to rescue a lady who, in another lifetime, might have been his wife. And yet he was here precisely because of that other woman whose entrance nobody had predicted – who was in every way so suitable and so unsuitable for being his queen. He smiled. Even now, his thoughts involuntarily turned to Lothíriel.
They crept forward. The camp fire grew closer. Silence was heavier than ever, until at last, Éomer saw them: helpless captives huddling together and a single careless guard nodding off. How had the man got this unfortunate job? Maybe the poor sod had lost some bet, or some other hapless game, to be placed on this duty – which, in all honesty, he didn't seem to be taking that seriously.
Éomer himself moved forward, swift and silent. There was a fire in his blood that sped him, and before any of the captives could gasp out loud, he was already on the night guard. He grasped the man in a deadly embarce, holding his arms and covering his mouth and nose. There was a brief struggle, but it only served to waste what breath the man had in his lungs, and soon enough he fell limp in his attacker's arms. His heart should still beat, though; Éomer very much intended to bring these men to the King's Justice.
"Peace!" Éomer whispered into the darkness in order to calm the civilians, who were now stirring to the disturbance. "Your king has come."
There were soft gasps, even a small sob of relief. Yet even in their distress, the captives were able to keep still and quiet, and not give in to the sudden joy this must have caused in them. As Éomer carefully eased the unconscious guard to the ground, his Knights moved forward. They came to the captives, hands open and calming. Éomer heard a familiar voice very close: "Where's Eadwig, my father?"
"You'll see him soon, Lady Guthild", he replied under his breath, before reaching for his dagger. "Quickly now – we must loose the bindings. We raise a shield wall once the battle begins, and guard the innocents. Let no man through."
Hopefully, Éothain would keep them too busy to try some such mischief, but even one desperate man with a sword could do serious damage against the defenceless.
By now the outlaws had finally spotted the strange activity near their prisoners. Shouts were beginning to rise and there was sudden movement around the camp-fire. As if on cue, the clouds rolled back and the bright moon illuminated the scene so that it was more like twilight than dead of the night. This was all the signal that Éothain needed. The low thunder of hooves rose beneath the moon, and then voices ringing: "To the King!"
Panic and chaos broke out. The outlaws didn't even try to form ranks – it was every man for themselves. A couple of them did escape the spears and swords of Éothain and the mounted Knights, trying to get to the captives, but they only met a solid shield wall. They were so outnumbered that Éomer was hesitatnt to even call it a battle. The swipes of his sword were almost careless.
It was over quickly. One or two men were determined to fight to death, perhaps knowing they had nothing waiting for them back among society, even if the King somehow was inclined to show mercy. A few tried to escape – a foolish notion. Most of the group were quick to surrender their arms. Some corpses lay on the ground, but the only casualties appeared to be the members of this gang. Carefully they were being herded together, ordered to sit quietly on the ground, and not make any unnecessary moves. Relief was high in the air: the now freed captives clutched one another, some sobbing uncontrollably now that the danger had finally passed. There were Guthild's kin, cousins and an elderly uncle, and a few servants. Eadwig came flying from the back of his horse, calling for his daughter's name, and despite all the harm and nuisance the ageing lord had caused, the young king felt a brief surge of satisfaction in seeing the father and the daughter reunited. Guthild practically threw herself in Eadwig's arms – a most unusual display of emotion of this young woman who was always so careful of what she showed to others.
But Éomer remained on the edge. This had been too easy. Some sense of foreboding still lingered in the night, as if a shadow just at the edge of his vision. He scanned the moonlit landscape, but nothing moved that his eyes could see – except for the few Knights tasked with bringing the remaining horses to the scene, and then the Queen arrived with Alfwen and her two other guardians. Something shifted in the bottom of his stomach and he felt like he should tell her to ride away at once.
"Éothain", he said to his captain in a low voice, "send out a few scouts and set a perimeter around the site. Something is not all right."
The Captain nodded seriously and left his side. After so many years of riding together to campaigns and patrols, the King's second in command knew to trust his instinct.
With a few, long strides he made it to his wife. She was just dismounting.
"You shouldn't have come yet. I'm not sure everything is all right", he said to her brusquely.
She looked up at him with a frown.
"But the battle is finished. I figured my help would be needed with Lady Guthild and her companions", she protested softly. Well, that was not so wrong – he had not forgotten her ability to calm the distressed. She was better qualified for that job than anyone else present.
And could he now tell her to leave? If there was still something out there, and he sent her away without a proper guard… no, she was safer close to him. Hopefully.
"Very well then. Take care of them and comfort them. But be careful", he told her seriously. He glanced at the Shieldmaiden and added, "You know what to do, Alfwen."
"Aye, Sire", she replied sternly, keeping her hand close to her blade.
There was much to do – to interrogate the outlaws briefly and find out if they had a leader, to apprehend Eadwig, and to remove to a safer location. But his skin crawled, and he couldn't fully put his mind to any of these issues, not when his instinct told him the danger was not yet over. Éomer gave his surroundings a sweeping glance. There were the outlaws, still sitting on the ground and being guarded by a few Knights. Others were piling the rather pitiful array of weapons collected from the gang. None of the King's Riders had received grievous wounds, but a couple of them were wrapping up some small scratches. Eadwig was talking quickly with his daughter, his arms still around her shoulders, and she appeared to have composed herself now that the threat was, seemingly, over. And Lothíriel had already gathered the rest of Guthild's company around herself, and even from his vantage point, she was like a beacon of some gentle, soothing power. A couple of young girls were almost clinging to her.
Éothain returned to him, and Éomer asked, "Anything yet?"
"No, Sire. Maybe we should -" Éothain started, but was never able to finish his sentence. For it was then that the threat materialised.
A Rider, one of the men Éothain had sent out, came galloping and shouting, "To arms, Eorlingas! To arms!"
It gave them the few seconds that, in so many battles, decided the outcome. Éomer leapt to action, feeling a kind of grim satisfaction to know that once more, his instinct had been right.
"Protect the innocents! Shield wall! Form the line!" he bellowed, almost flying as he made his way to Flamefoal. His feet barely touched the ground as he mounted. Éothain followed him as though a shadow.
They came like a dark tide. Most were orcs, mean and famished creatures. But there were also a few massive Uruks and even some Dunlendings. These were, no doubt, survivors from Isengard who, for one reason or the other, had not returned to their tribes on the other side of river Isen. Perhaps they were not permitted – thanks to some unknown crimes which had driven them here, to make alliance with what remained of the once great power of Isengard and Mordor.
Screams rose anew and for a moment, the site was in chaos once again. Riders were mounting, others were desperately trying to form a ring around the civilians, and the air filled with shouting and the clash of weapons. Some of the outlaws took the opportunity to flee, others joined their strength with the orcs, and there were even a couple of men who now decided to support their king instead – perhaps hoping it would earn them some mercy. This sowed further chaos into the scene. Only very briefly Éomer could see the dark-haired head in the middle of Guthild's company, and he prayed to Béma and all the Powers that be that Alfwen would now stand vigilant and ready.
He rode, and ran his spear through one big Uruk that was fiercely hacking at the shield of one of the defenders. Flamefoal finished the job by trampling the creature to ground. Éomer then grasped his blade, swinging it left and right, shouting orders as sweat streamed down his neck. Fire beat in his veins, a mixture of rage and dread, for it took one stray arrow, just one strike of a blade, to deprive him of his family. It didn't matter how fiercely he fought because she was out there and he could not protect her, he could only try to harrow and push back those of the attackers that were trying to go after easy prey.
The battle raged, and momentarily he caught sight of her again, and she was guarded by Alfwen, who had joined the shield wall; Erkenbrand's daughter used her shield and swung her sword with speed and precision worthy of song. But Lothíriel was clutching some of the youngest of Guthild's kinswomen, merely girls, in her arms, as if she could protect them from all harm.
Now the lines of the King's Riders were finally in order, and the advantage of surprise was spent. The King's orders, roared into the night air like steady hammer blows, began to take effect. Once again, discipline and training were beginning to prevail the sheer chaotic madness. Their numbers were almost even, if he counted right in the dark whirlwind of the battle, but the mounted warriors and their night-eyed warhorses were an advantage that evened the odds.
But not all was yet decided and misfortune could still fall tonight. Suddenly, as Éomer finished off yet another Uruk, he heard Eadwig's voice from his left: "Éomer King! Save my daughter!"
The Lord of Healding was there, standing in the shield wall, and fighting with the ferocity and recklessness of a man half his age. His daughter was not among the civilians he was protecting.
Éomer just barely had time to nod in agreement, and then he halted, searching the scene desperately for any sign of Guthild. She had not been standing with the civilians – she had been talking to her father, so when the attack became, she must have been separated from him…
Even though night was uncommonly bright, with just his eyesight he might not have spotted her in time. Eadwig seemed to realise this, and he risked a moment to point him the right way with the tip of his sword, shouting from the top of his lungs, "There!"
Then a female voice, calling for help in that very direction…
Éomer kicked his heels into the side of Flamefoal and the stallion leapt over the corpse of one orc. He now saw his quarry. A slight shape was struggling to get away, pursued by a shape that could either be a man or orc. It was a matter of seconds, a question of whether Flamefoal was indeed worthy of his name and had the kind of fire in him that would win the race. The young stallion almost flew across the field, his rider was pressing against the animal's neck, his blade at the ready… Guthild screamed again, and then Éomer's sword swung in a mighty arc. The severed head of the assailant flew into the darkness.
He sheathed the blade momentarily, pressed his whole lower body as tightly against the stallion while he used his torso and arms to stoop low, and used the momentum to catch the fleeing woman by her waist. She screamed at first when she flew in the air, but was quick to realise what was happening once she was placed sideways on her stomach in the King's saddle. It couldn't be comfortable in any way, and her rough landing probably knocked the air out of her, but she clutched both man and animal where she could, knowing there was no safer spot for her right now.
Éomer, turning Flamefoal around again, prayed that by saving Guthild, he had not sacrificed the woman he did love. What irony it would be, if his manoeuvre had just cost Lothíriel's life, thus giving way for all that Eadwig and his daughter had hoped!
At his signal, Éothain and Déorwine now came to flank him, protecting the lady from further harm; she struggled to remain on balance and find some support while the steed moved forward again. There was little Éomer could now do to join the battle again; he had lost his spear, he couldn't well use the sword without endangering Guthild, and it was too dark to shoot arrows. By his sides, his Captain and Knight dealt blow after blow against the attackers.
But there were still things he could do, and Éomer rode, holding on to Guthild the best he could, and marshalling his men, and in the next few minutes he could see the tide of the battle was turning. The shield wall, supported by mounted Knights, held the line unbroken, stoutly keeping the enemies at bay. It reminded Éomer of a hammer and anvil, and the orcs were now caught in between.
It was a couple of them at first, and then more and more of them began to try and break away. The Riders were ready, chasing after fleeing orcs on their swift steeds. The night was full of dreadful noises and shadows danced as if in some nightmare. It was probably a sight that would haunt the memories of the innocent who witnessed it, but for the young Lord of the Mark, this was all too familiar. He was more concerned with his wife. Was she unharmed? What about the baby? Such terror could be enough to cause her to lose the child. But she was Imrahil's daughter, born of a line of brave, stout-hearted men and women.
Now it was only a matter of finishing up. The Riders swarmed, pursuing fleeing orcs here and there, and battling with the occasional Dunlending; a few of them were still alive, and as ever, they were less inclined to cowardly escapes than defeated orcs were. Those of the surviving outlaws and Dunlendings were surrounded, but their number was less than after the first battle. How many had escaped into the night was uncertain, but Éomer wasn't going to send men to look for them, not while he had innocents to protect and no knowledge if this was yet the end of tonight's troubles. At least, he did not feel as much on the edge as before, but he wasn't about to risk it on a hunch.
Seeing the scene was starting to calm down, he dismounted and helped Lady Guthild down. She was pale and breathing heavily, her hair and clothes were in disarray, but she was still able to summon a degree of dignity.
"My lord, I thank you for your aid. My father has told me of your bargain and I'm grateful you decreed my life worthy of making it", she said, curtsying as if they were in Meduseld and not in the middle of a battlefield. He had hard time paying attention – his eyes were searching the scene, trying to spot Lothíriel. Where was she? Was she all right? His heartbeat picked up again as his dread grew once more.
"I'm glad you are safe, Lady Guthild", he said absentmindedly, still looking for Lothíriel with his eyes. He wanted to dart away, to go look for her, but to leave Guthild alone was practically an invitation for her father to try and get out of the deal…
She looked around herself, growing suddenly anxious, as if his mood had infected her.
"Where is my father? We were separated when the battle began..." she said, concern plain in her voice.
"I haven't seen him since he asked me to come and get you", Éomer replied as a sense of foreboding came to him. The way Eadwig had been fighting… of course. Abruptly he understood what this was about.
"Father!" Guthild screamed, and started running. She had already found him, not far from where the shield wall had stood.
And so had somebody else. Then Éomer felt the strangest mixture of emotions: overpowering relief when he at last saw his wife, so strong that his knees felt weak, but also dismay, for she was kneeling next to Eadwig and was pressing her hands against what seemed to be a large wound. She looked up at him, and he understood what she was doing. She was not trying to save his life, knowing he was already beyond all help, but attempting to keep him alive long enough. Alfwen towered close, silently watching over the Queen. The Shieldmaiden still clutched her sword and the shield in her hands.
Guthild flew to her father and nearly collapsed next to him. She cradled his face, sobbing her agony and despair.
"Father, what did you do?" she was stammering, but Éomer already knew the answer.
Eadwig must have realised what would happen once his daughter was safe. He would be taken to Edoras and before the King's justice, his name and house would be shamed and brought low before the whole kingdom. His daughter could forget her hopes for a good marriage or holding her head up high when she came to the capital. But falling in battle while trying to save his daughter's life – that was an honourable death, and it would absolve his heir, too. So Eadwig had chosen to restore of his House's prestige what he could, laying his life aside so that his daughter could live without shame. It had probably been his plan all along; Éomer had not foreseen it because his mind had rather been otherwise occupied, the well-being and safety of his pregnant wife on this quest not being the least of his concerns.
The dying man did not answer his daughter. His eyes first sought those of the woman who was trying to delay his bleeding and buy him a few more minutes with his only child, and Lothíriel met the look. Then his gaze found Éomer.
"My lord, I now understand your choice. It was better than I had realised. Can you forgive an old man his ambition and pride?" he rasped in a thin, weak voice.
Éomer struggled with himself briefly. Eadwig's crime was grievous, and he would have judged the man for it if things had gone differently. But the old man had also shown courage tonight, protecting not just the innocents but also the Queen herself – the very woman he had hoped to replace. In the moment of his victory, he could well afford to be generous. The young king was a warrior, and had been most of his life. All the best songs of his youth were about soldiers who laid down their lives for others. Now, knowing he himself was to become a father, he understood a parent's need to secure their child's happiness. Yet it was also for Guthild that he decided to ease the dying man's heart.
"Go in peace, Lord Eadwig", said Éomer with a tiny nod of his head.
The old lord visibly relaxed, and now all his attention, and his remaining breaths, were given solely to his daughter. Lothíriel remained silently next to them, still staunching the wound as she could, but she raised her eyes to her husband. In her gaze, he saw pride and admiration. He met the look with one of his own, and he hoped that she saw how much he admired in turn her bravery and the steadfastness she had shown tonight. They had made it through this thing, proving themselves stronger than plots and schemes – and stronger than enemy blades in the night.
But then Guthild let out a cry like a wounded animal, throwing herself over the body of her father, and the young king knew that Eadwig, Lord of Healding, had passed away.
Around them, the aftermath now unfolded and Éothain quickly reported what he had gleaned so far. Thankfully, all the civilians were unharmed. Four Knights and seven men of Eadwig's household had fallen, but all the orcs and the few Uruks were dead. The last living Dunlendings had finally surrendered and they were now added to those of the outlaws that remained. Half of their number was gone, either dead or escaped. Riders walked around the site, letting the wounded orcs out of their misery. The night was growing old; it had seen much bloodshed, but perhaps morning would usher a more peaceful dawn. Eadwig was dead, and hopefully his schemes with him. Wigmund's role in all this remained unclear, and so was the full story of how exactly the Lord of Healding had been trying to drive the King and Queen apart. Who now could tell that tale? Éomer doubted Ceorl was still alive. He couldn't say he wasn't dismayed. He had hoped he could bring at least one of them to Edoras and his court of justice, but now both men lay dead. On the other hand, they had paid the ultimate price for their actions, as if fate itself had decided to intervene. Ceorl had died as a small, pitiful bully, and Eadwig had drawn his last knowing that his high hopes for his daughter would never be realised – even admitting his folly to his king.
Still, there was a promise at the end of this night: Éomer and Lothíriel were reconciled and the Prince of Rohan slept under her heart. In due time, all of the Riddermark would learn that joyous news and celebrate it.
Éomer now helped his wife to stand up. From his belt he produced his own flask, and offered to pour his remaining drinking water on her hands so that she might wash off Eadwig's blood. She added some bit of dried herb from her pouch, probably to help cleanse her hands and to rid them of the smell of blood.
"Everything all right?" he felt compelled to ask, even though there did not appear to be a single scratch on her.
"I'm fine, love. Now go take care of things – I'm sure Éothain has at least a dozen questions and requests for you", she told him and briefly kissed his cheek. She was right, of course, but he still pulled her close to himself. He closed his eyes and just relished this. He ached to take her home right now and put all this behind them, but such glorious things would have to wait.
"Look after Lady Guthild. A great price has been paid for her life today, and for her companions", he said then, and she nodded solemnly, already up to her task.
He shared a look with Alfwen and saw strange, fierce joy in her eyes, and he understood: she was a young warrior too, and there was nothing quite like fighting in a shield wall and gaining victory with one's brothers and sisters in arms. He could tell this had been a transformative night for her.
Éomer turned to speak with Éothain and to deal with the situation. They spoke of whether to travel tonight and move the civilians to some safer location, how to provide them with drink and food, and Éomer gave orders to send for reinforcements. It shouldn't be too hard to find groups from the Muster of Edoras. They were just talking about tending to the fallen Knights when a sudden scream pierced the night: "Éomer! Watch out!"
It was his wife's voice. He turned and instinctively stepped aside. But there was still a sudden sting across the back of his shin – the part not guarded by the greave he wore. On the ground, one of the orcs, until now taken for dead, had hauled himself on his elbow and even though dark blood was pouring down his chin and his breath was but a weak rasp, he had still mustered some final reserve of strength to try and stab the Man walking next to him. Without even blinking, Éomer produced his sword once more and ended the miserable creature with one swift stroke.
"Sire! Are you hurt?" Éothain asked in shock, grasping his arm as though expecting him to drop dead right there.
"I'm fine. It was just a scratch", said Éomer carelessly. The wound was so puny, he didn't even think to clean it immedieately.
But now Lothíriel came running. All colour was drawn from her face and her eyes were huge and terrified.
"Éomer!" she called to him, forgetting all formality, which was most unlike her – usually, she only used his name when they were alone. In a gesture similar to Éothain's, she came to him and cupped his face between her hands, as if looking for some fatal sign in his eyes.
"Really, it's fine. He only scratched me, it's barely even a wound", he told her calmly, but his words didn't seem to placate her.
"I saw your death in that blade", she uttered in a strangled voice, and next to them, Éothain twitched.
"Well, I suppose you were able to warn me in time. No need to worry, love", he reassured her, smiling slightly.
Lothíriel still didn't seem entirely convinced, and for a minute, she watched his face very closely, trying to see if she ought to worry or not. Eventually she relented, but the concerned look did not wholly leave her eyes.
"Very well. But please, be more careful with where you step", she told him. He considered trying to ease her mind by making some light comment, but decided against it. Maybe she had a point and at the very least, he should try and not shock or upset her, especially with the baby in her womb.
"Duly noted, my Queen", he said seriously and kissed her hand. She smiled a little bit, though some tension still remained in her figure. She began to make her way back to the civilians, followed by Alfwen.
"Are you certain you're all right?" Éothain asked in a low voice, watching the now truly dead corpse on the ground, and also eyeing with suspicion other bodies around them.
"Would you cease your worrying? We have more urgent matters at hand", Éomer said with considerably less gentleness and patience.
"Fine", his Captain said, although his look implied the young king would be paying for snapping as soon as they got in a training ring once more.
"Now, we should tend to the fallen and send them to their homes as soon as possible. We'll need to make arrangements for their families, and make sure they are provided for. Lady Guthild will probably want to take her father's body to Healding, so that's where we should head first..." Éomer started to speak to his captain once more, his voice even and calm. But after a while, his tongue began to feel a little stiff in his mouth. Then a wave of dizziness washed over him. Like an ice cold lance, a jolt of pain shot up his leg, straight from the point where the blade had scratched the skin. The night, now late and dark, grew darker still in his eyes.
His foot threatened to give in under him and his hand reached out, finding purchase on Éothain's forearm.
"Sire?" asked his captain in renewed alarm.
A terrible feeling now grew in the pit of Éomer's stomach. The wound had started to throb with a strange cold sensation, and he knew it was not all right.
He looked his captain in the eye and by the way they widened, he could see that his stout friend, who had not a fear in the world, was truly terrified.
"Éothain", he growled quietly, "I think we have a problem."
To be continued.
A/N: What's a long overdue update without a cliffhanger? ;)
This chapter took its sweet time. I had some trouble with the first part of the chapter, but the latter half I typed in a matter of a few days. It's funny how it works sometimes like that with writing.
In this chapter, I wanted to show a bit more of their respective gifts working together: that she doesn't have all the answers even if she's a seer, and that his abilities as a leader matter just as much. Éothain readily observes that if they wanted to, this combination of information and leadership could make for an unstoppable combination. The point is, of course, that Éomer would never seek to use her that way. In the end, how can Lothíriel not love the man who cares about her this much?
On the other hand, he has quite a lot on his mind, and his concern for her is not the least of the reasons why he doesn't see through Eadwig and realise that the old bugger came looking for death. I did think if it would be more satisfactory to see him face justice (and some of you may think so too), but I couldn't see a way to pull it off convincingly. From Eadwig's point of view, death in battle is the only way to redeem his House and I think he's crafty enough to hide his intentions while Éomer is distracted with the bigger picture (and the fact that he needs to make sure his pregnant wife lives through this). Éomer does suspect that Eadwig is plotting something and doesn't mean to be caught, but unfortunately he doesn't figure it out before it's too late. For Eadwig (being the ambitious man that he is) it would be out of character if he didn't try to make sure his line's reputation isn't wholly ruined by his actions, and in a culture like Rohan, there's one pretty efficient way to ensure it. I have to admit, though, that I didn't want to punish Guthild too much for her father's crime - and virtually the only way for her to keep her honour, in the eyes of Rohirric society, was her father's honourable death in battle.
I also deliberated whether to include this latest turn of events, if it were little too bold a choice, but then decided what the heck - this is my story and I'm going to have fun with it. There's another reason I decided to go through with it, but more on that in the next chapter.
Thank you for reading and reviewing! Your comments are very much appreciated. Stay safe out there!
Inspiration for the chapter: Wardruna - Skugge
Kalandra - Helvegen (cover)
EStrunk - Thank you! I am rather eager to get to untangling that little pile of schemes, but we'll get there, eventually. I must say, it has been incredibly satisfactory writing their renewed affections now that they are reconciled once more!
I hope you continue to enjoy the story. :)
Katia0203 - It does, indeed! There's a special kind of enjoyment to writing a couple's interactions when they have reconciled after a big argument or some other conflict.
She does have pressure on her, but what neither her or him has really understood until now that he is uniquely qualified to support her in this situation.
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx - Glad to hear you like it! :)
mystarlight - Thank you!
Wondereye - Thanks! I knew early on what role Eadwig was to play, and that after a conflict between them she was to use her abilities to help find his daughter. Life's little ironies like that add some flavour to stories, in my opinion. But this mission is as much dependent on Éomer himself and his gift of leadership, which, I suppose, was revealed to Eadwig himself before the end.
Jo - You guessed right! That old bugger has been scheming all along.
It was great to let them reconcile, indeed!
Catspector - I do hope you're not too disappointed that Eadwig's justice was mostly karmic! I thought it was rather fitting that Lothíriel would be so instrumental in saving Guthild after all the prejudice and hostility Eadwig has harboured against her.
Nightblossom - Thank you! :)
Simplegurl4u - Yes, I think he can be a pretty scary dude when he wants to!
I think it may sometimes be difficult for Lothíriel to follow, too. ;) But I'd say they both understand each other a bit better now, and Éomer knows that he can't go "macho man" on her, like you said. If he did, he would quickly lose her.
Lathril - I rather think that's what any serious marriage/intimate relationship boils down to! You can't always have your own way and compromise is incredibly important.
Unfortunately, things are still going sideways, so no quiet alone time for them yet!
sailor68 - I do believe he saw before the end that he had been wrong about a lot of things, especially Lothíriel. But he was also aware that he had come to that understanding bit too late, and it would not save him from the King's justice.
coecoe11 - Thank you! :)
Guest - He committed a grave crime, yes, but I think there are worse things still. Surely, the King's justice would have hit him hard, which he understood. So being the crafty old man he is, he decided to take the matter into his own hands and redeem his house - not for his own sake, but for his daughter.
Also I don't think disagreeing with the King is a crime per se (Ormar would have been executed many times over if it was so).
Christine - A pet bat does fit the picture, indeed! :D
Glad to hear you caught up with the story again!
I think Éomer is a man who, when he falls in love, he falls pretty hard. He hasn't really felt this strongly about anyone before now (not because he wasn't capable of it, but more because I believe he didn't want to commit to a serious relationship when his own life was so uncertain), so I'd say he does rather jump to it head first. And Lothíriel is simply so completely delighted with this person who makes her feel safe in ways nobody ever has before, so she's a little bit reckless, too. There have definitely been factors in both their childhoods/youth that have left their mark, contributing to issues and insecurities and trauma. But despite their troubles, that love is still so strong that they are willing to give it another shot.
Lady Jaina - Thank you! Sometimes, even if you had got the time, the story just refuses to come out! And other times it just flows like you couldn't write fast enough.
I think she can be wrong, but in those cases it's probably a matter if misinterpretation. Seeing she has had this gift her whole life, I'd imagine she's fairly good at making sense of it. But she's definitely not all-knowing, because omniscient characters don't make for very good stories.
