Greetings once again! I give to you Chapter 4. I asked all my readers to please review, even if it's just one-liners and if they don't like the story...I just really like to get reviews. You see, I am in competition with a hunk of warm cheese, who recently posted and has only three less reviews than me, although the cheese only has one chapter and I now have four. Don't let me be upstaged by a food item, please! (I encourage you to read A Hunk of Warm Cheese's story, though, because it's hilarious. Legsagorn, help me out with reviews wink wink)
I originally had the whole episode with Aragorn and posse happening in this chapter, but I realized that it made the chapter way too long, about twice as long as a regular one. Also, I wasn't sure if Théodred actually died at the scene of the battle as some accounts said or, like in the movie, was taken to Edoras alive and died there. I used the first instance (Eokat: If I have an error there, please let me know and I will change it.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, but I do own a very nice pair of slipper with monkeys holding bananas which I have named Frodo and Sam.
Second Disclaimer: Events from here on out will be consistent with the books, so on parts that were actually in the books, most the dialogue will be Tolkien's...but I will make some subtle changes, and naturally it will be from Éomer's viewpoint.
Chapter 4: No Life Lives Forever
3019 TA, the Fords of Isen
Rain poured down heavily from an ever darkened sky, and beneath, a battle raged by the fords of the River Isen.
Many horses lay in death or dying, surrounded by their own blood—puddles of which were washed away by the rainwater. The bodies of men and Orc lay thick on the ground. The waters of the river roared, and the current was strong, for even it could feel the hatred that fought at its banks. The servants of Sauron were nearly spent, however—their strength and numbers were waning. The Rohirrim looked to victory.
Victory held a bitter taste, however. As the last Orc met his death, his agonized cry echoed throughout the air. Éomer son of Éomund raised the blade of his sword to the sky and declared victory for the Mark. He looked up, and the raindrops fell to his face and ran down his helm. He watched as the sky's waters washed Gúthwinë's blade clean.
He looked forward once more to see his men looking at him, their own swords half-heartedly raised. Éomer's own heart sank at the sight of them. So few, so few have survived...
Then he felt terror rise in him. "Théodred!" he called. "Théodred! Where is the king's son?" He drove his weary stallion forward, and looked about him. "THÉODRED!"
"Éomer..."
Éomer turned. One of his men had dismounted and knelt at the river's bank, with his arms in the dark water, gently raising a limp body...
No...
Éomer leapt from his horse and ran over to where the young soldier knelt. There was blood, one with the river's waters, being slowly washed away...and there lay his cousin, Théodred, with arrows pierced through his chest. He took the man in his own arms. The other soldier stepped back, and Éomer was alone with his cousin.
They bore so many titles, them both. Both were called Marshals of the Riddemark. Théodred was heir to Rohan, the king's only son, and Éomer the king's sister-son; both were held in high regard and were given much respect. However, as Éomer looked into his cousin's face, none of that came to his mind.
Théodred was alive but only barely. His glazed eyes wandered, and finally rested on Éomer, who whispered his cousin's name repeatedly as tears streamed down his cheeks and mingled with the rain. Indeed, as Éomer looked upon his dying cousin, he saw not the great Rohirrim warrior—but the man who had been his brother, taught him the art of swordfighting, stood by him...the Théodred who had helped him to live after the tragedy of his parents' deaths...
"Théodred..." whispered Éomer. He reached for the arrows. "You live; we must bear you back to Rohan..."
Théodred clasped his younger cousin's hand. "Let it go, Éomer. There is nothing you can do for me."
Éomer knew not how to respond, but felt grief weighing heavy on his heart as he gently held Théodred's hand.
"Éomer...brother..." his breathing was labored, and when he coughed, blood spewed forth from his spent lungs. "I am sorry...sorry for all the times I...I doubted you."
"There is nothing to be forgiven, Théodred..."
"Yes. There is...too much...too many things left to say...know this, cousin," Théodred gripped Éomer's hand with more urgency and drew his sword to him with his free hand. "Know...know that I love you as a brother...my father, he always told me...no life lives forever, at least no mortal life...so now, I see that mine is spent..."
No, no, pleaded Éomer's mind. Yet the words he spoke were different. "The love was mutual," he said in a faltering voice that seemed not his own. Gently, he kissed Théodred's brow. "Go now, be at peace, rest in the great halls of our forefathers."
Théodred attempted to smile, but it turned to a grimace as he was taken by an onslaught of pain. "Éomer..." he said in a desperate voice, his eyes wide. Éomer shook his head in silent denial. Then he felt Théodred's hand go limp in his, and saw that his cousin now stared blank-eyed at the distant heavens.
Éomer shut Théodred's eyes, letting go of his beloved cousin—no, brother—and sending him to his eternal peace. No life lives forever.
As the tides of the river slowly ebbed away, Éomer gently bore Théodred's body and lay it on the dry earth...as a distant song of mourning from his past seemed to be raining down in silent whispers:
Strong and weak exist no more, for in
the end all fall;
Voice in darkness reaches out to answer
Destiny's call...
Théodred was laid to rest in a tomb on the outskirts of Edoras, a great tomb in which had been buried many great men of Rohan. Around it white flowers grew in the green grass and swayed slightly in the wind, as though they too sang a sad song.
Théoden had been present at the ceremony. He had been leaning heavily on his walking stick, yet Éomer found anger in his heart at the sight of his uncle, for the man did not weep, nor speak words of his son...he simply stood silently. Gríma brooded at the king's side. Éomer was furious as Gríma's eyes wandered in boredom and lay repeatedly to rest on Éowyn. Now, at 24, his sister was a woman grown, with shining eyes and hair like a river of gold...
Night fell over Edoras. Éomer retired to the Golden Hall, and the events of the days passed turned over in his mind, giving him dark thoughts. However, as he made his way to his chambers, he was detained.
"My lord Éomer," came a voice. Éomer turned wearily to see Háma standing nearby. They were in one of the side halls, for they both had not desired to be in the king's presence.
Éomer grumbled something to himself about letting a sorrowful man grieve in peace.
"Éomer, this is urgent."
Seeing no other way out, Éomer turned to Háma, and felt slightly sorry for thinking ill of him. Háma's face was drawn and his eyes red...he, too, like other warriors and members of the guard, had borne great love for Théodred. Éomer spoke kindly to his friend.
"What is it, Háma?"
"We have received important news that will concern and grieve you. There has been an Orc descent into Emyn Muil."
Éomer felt his heart go numb. "What?"
Háma showed forth an Orc's helm. On it was a white hand, the symbol of Saruman the traitor. "There were men at camp there, who were slain...something must be done. This party will move forward, destroying, and leave naught in its wake..."
"But for the shadows of the dead," said Éomer quietly. He looked outside. The night was yet young. "These same helms saw I at the Fords of Isen...these Orcs are not from Mordor. And now they carry their ruin to our lands, bearing a white hand with which they plan to smite us all. Can I make this decision? Can I alone lead our men against Mordor and Isengard? No. We must bring this to the king."
"My lord, 'tis not wise..."
"NOW!" Éomer suddenly felt anger in his heart. Why did Háma go to him, and not Théoden? It was evident, of course. The king would do nothing. The king would sit back and watch his people fall to ruin, whilst a traitor breathed deceit into his ears. And now Théodred was gone. Who would they turn to?
It is not my duty to do the tasks of another, of the man who should be our leader rather than our burden...
Sauron was taking power. The Ring had been found, and Middle-Earth was beginning to see old fears renewed as the doom of the Third Age began. Rohan could not stand strong against both Sauron and Saruman without leadership.
Háma followed Éomer hastily into the throne room. Éomer held the helm so tightly that his knuckles were white, and trembled from his fury. He saw Wormtongue at Théoden's side. Across the room was Éowyn, despondently spooning broth into a bowl for the king. The traitorous wretch summons her here, thought Éomer of Gríma Wormtongue. He brings her and watches her with desire in his black eyes and in his mind. I will not have it...not for any woman of Rohan, my sister greatest in my heart among them.
"Your Majesty," Éomer said, striding up until he stood at the steps leading up to the throne. "I bring you ill tidings."
Théoden held his head in his hand, and laboriously turned and gazed at his nephew. "Why do you burden me with more of this? Is the death of my son not enough?" he said in a weary voice.
"Things should turn more ill if you turn blind to the deaths of your people!" said Éomer, his own voice rising to almost a yell. He thrust the helm at the king's feet. "There you have it, Uncle," he said. "The helm of them who slew your son and heir. And now, who descend to Emyn Muil and take the lives of your people! Some new foe, large and ruthless as the Orc yet cunning and quick as the Goblins, with thick armor and broad shields, who come to us from none other than Isengard. They bear the white hand, do you see? The mark of Saruman. There will be no more peace between us and the white wizard." His gaze bore into Théoden's withered form; the king seemed to have not even flinched at this news.
Gríma crept forth from the shadows. "What cruel mockery is this?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice. "You dare spew lies about one of your king's greatest allies, and accuse him of the unspeakable?"
"It is his treachery that is unspeakable," replied Éomer, wishing for nothing more than to take Gúthwinë and remove Wormtongue's despicable head from his shoulders. "And who are you to reprimand me? I address the king, not his pawn." He saw a flash of hatred in the man's eyes. He ignored it, and turned again to Théoden.
"Uncle," Éomer said, softening the tone of his voice. Let him hear me as once he did. Let me know that my uncle, who has been like a father to me, is still in there somewhere. "Something must be done about this. Simply give the command, and I will lead a host against them to obliterate this threat before it can destroy the lives of those whom you have vowed to protect. I will do anything you ask of me."
Gríma turned in an almost snakelike manner and looked deep into Théoden's eyes, leaning in close. "'Tis folly, Your Majesty!" he hissed. "Tell me that you would not send forth the army again on a foolish youth's notions...especially since last time he led them, it ended in such tragedy and grief..." he stroked the chair and laid one pale hand on Théoden's wrist. "You will not issue this command. Please, assure me, for I have only the best interests of Rohan at heart."
"Leave him, scum!" cried Éomer, rushing forward. Háma and Éowyn were quickly at his side and restrained him. "Leave him alone! Deceiver! Traitor!" He fought against the hold on his arms, but it was fruitless. All he could do was glare in loathing.
Wormtongue simply gazed at Éomer with contempt. Théoden's eyes looked distant as he turned and peered at his advisor. "Of course. I will not allow this."
His voice is not his own, Éomer realized. It sounds his, but it comes from somewhere else. What dark magic has been performed here? "You cannot mean that," he said icily. "These are your people! You are their king, you took an oath to rule and protect them, yet you would let them perish like animals in mindless slaughter?" Théoden simply sat silently, and Wormtongue's face nearly glowed in triumph. Éomer could control his anger no longer. "YOU ARE THEIR KING!" he yelled. "YOU ARE THEIR KING AND YOU DO NOTHING!"
"You heard the command," said Théoden weakly. "I will say no more."
"Éomer..." said Háma, gently trying to lead him out. Éomer pushed him aside and wrenched his arm from his sister's grasp. But he did nothing else. He simply looked at the king, at the advisor, with bile rising in his throat in disgust. His eyes met with Gríma's.
"The Lord of the Mark has spoken," said Wormtongue decisively.
Éomer said nothing but shook his head, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. He looked at the helm that still lay at Théoden's feet. Then he turned and stalked out. He heard movements behind him; the king was being ushered to his room to rest for the night.
"This will not be the final word," he said to himself.
"Éomer, please, our uncle is not well," said Éowyn as she went after her brother.
Éomer stopped, and turned to her. His fury had turned to a strange despair. He did not speak harshly to her, for she was at fault for none of this. "The blood of kings is weakened," he said. "Gondor has no true leader...and now, neither does Rohan. The world of men will fall, Éowyn. It will perish at the hands of traitors and fools."
"No," she said softly, with an odd glimmer in her eye. "It would sooner fall at the hands of those who obey the commands of traitors and fools. A cautious man will tirelessly obey the will of his master, even when his heart tells him otherwise, and therefore live a long life in neglect of what life should truly be...but a brave man, a wise man, will do what he does for others without hesitation to consider a weaker man's words. A true warrior does what is right, even in the face of imprisonment and exile and death. Which are you, brother? A cautious man, or a man of Rohan?"
They shared a meaningful stare. There was undeniable truth in Éowyn's words, and Éomer felt this wisdom reaching his heart. Without saying anything else, his sister left him, the sound of her footsteps echoing back through the halls.
Éomer looked out the window at the passing moon. It was still early in the night, he supposed. A rough plan was forming in his mind.
The dark of night was treacherous to ride in, but good for slipping out unnoticed...
He felt Gúthwinë's hilt; the sword was still sheathed at his side. He strode through the hall, and watched, concealed in shadows behind a pillar in the throne room, as the king and those who accompanied him passed. Then he slipped into the room.
He opened the doors just barely wide enough to make it out.
"The hour is very late, my lord Éomer," said a guard at the door, stepping over slightly to block his lord's exit.
"Are any of the Rohirrim about?"
"Most are in bed, good sir. Barely any are out and about. One was in the armory, I fear he may have fallen asleep there wtih a bit too much wine in his head."
Éomer nodded. "I must go there. It is only fitting for him to be in bed; I will fetch him. Am I allowed passage?"
"Always, of course." The guards stepped aside with a slightly suspicious look and Éomer went out under the moon's stare, and ignored his weariness as he went down to the armory. The guards at their posts there let him pass also.
The man within was a young soldier named Tirence, who had fallen asleep against a far wall. Éomer shook him awake.
When Tirence awoke and saw Éomer, he groggily stood and gave a lazy salute. "What would you have of me, my lord?"
"We have to go somewhere, Tirence. You, me, and as many others as we can get. We are to pursue a party of those creatures who killed Théodred."
"Are these the king's orders?"
"These are the orders I am telling you, regardless of whom they come from." Then, as Éomer saw the look in his fellow soldier's eyes, he could not help but feel that the man deserved to know the truth. "Actually," he said quietly. "These are the opposite of the king's orders. But Orcs bearing the White Hand have descended into Emyn Muil, and the king would have us do nothing until they are at our gates, slaughtering our people. I need you help me rouse the others. We know where they abide. We must make short work of it. Will you assist?"
Tirence looked at the determined expression on Éomer's faceand was filled with determination of his own. "I will."
Midnight had come by the time Éomer and Tirence had, as Éomer pretended to be seeing Tirence home, visited the homes of the other Rohirrim. It was a long and tiring, and the houses were far, but as men were roused they also went in turn and found others. Éomer instructed them to find discreet ways and meet outside the city gates. Most men brought their own horses, and the rest managed to sneak some out of the stables. Finally, the host was assembled. Their number was a vast one hundred and five. Éomer felt a surge of pride. In the time frame in which he himself had only managed to get about fifteen men, the others had followed his lead. This party was far larger than he had dared to hope. It proved that the Rohirrim were truly faithful to the people of Rohan, and would defy the king for the good for the good of those they were meant to protect. It had taken long, though, and Éomer had been getting a bit skittish. They had to leave as soon as possible.
They had been forced to knock those guards at the front that would not cooperate unconscious. Three had joined the cause. Éomer looked out over his men, and the restless horses. He had explained to them why he was doing this...they had a right to know the entire story, after all, and he could only hope that none would turn away and go to the king, for he would have had to knock that man unconscious as well. Éomer was too determined at this point to be hindered. But to his surprise, none had fled. They all saw the reasons clearly enough.
"You will be called traitors, turncloaks," he said. "It is too late to turn back now."
One of the men had stepped forward. "We took an oath to serve the people of Rohan," he said, pride ringing in his voice. "No matter what words are uttered about us, we are fulfilling that oath now, and know it. None can truly fault us for it." The others murmured their agreement, and Éomer could see the light of justice gleaming in their eyes.
And, indeed, none could fault the Rohirrim, for there are times when the only truly path in life is that which follows the desires of one's own heart...especially when it is for the good of others.
At Éomer's call, the riders of Rohan rode forward, images in their minds of death and glory. The moon and stars lit their paths, and they donned their brightly glinting armor and long, pointed spears. They were the Rohirrim, and were riding out for the good of Rohan, living for Rohan as Théodred never again would...none, not fool nor traitor nor liar, could make them do otherwise...
Ok! There's chapter 4. Hope it was decent.
Coming Soon: Éomer overtakes the Orcs in Emyn Muil. Upon his return, in which he meets Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, he is imprisoned for one day in which he suffers mentally (angst) and physically (with thirst and hunger and maltreatment). Wormtongue's corruption of Théoden and desire for Éowyn increase, and there is nothing he can do, for he has been deemed a traitor in his own household...
Please R & R!