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Chapter 14- The Hopeful and the Fallen

He wheels where the shadows are,
Where clouds stir in their sleep;
He sees a dusty angel there,
Alone and obsolete.
He looks below, discouraged now
By the gray that haunts the sky,
A glimpse can tell a history:
There's nothing left to die.

The next few days passed in a gray haze of fog and dimmed sunlight.

They stoically passed through the Wizard's Vale, a place of flat, dismal ruin and wilted vegetation. There were caves of jagged stone in the distance, and Éomer thought that he saw bestial eyes peering out from their shrouded interiors.

The Vale gave way to the Ring of Isengard. The shafted fissures opened beneath their feet, and Éomer caught glimpses of dampened metal and wreckage. He kept his gave locked forward as they traveled along one of the roads, all leading centrally to an imposing black spire.

Soon, they were standing before the gates in silence, and the tower cast its shadow over them. The land around them seemed defeated as they waded through a few inches of water and rubble.

They waited. Nothing happened. Something had been defeated here.

The silence lasted until it was conquered by a bout of laughter from beside the broken doors.

Éomer blinked. Everything had been so awe-inspiring in its degradation, so overwhelming…and now, he was looking at two laughing, smoking figures sitting comfortably atop the debris. At first glance, they seemed to be children. Upon closer inspection, however, their faces were those of full-grown men, even if they contained a certain childish joy.

Right away, Éomer knew who these diminutive figures were.

"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!"

Éomer couldn't keep the smile from spreading across his face as Meriadoc and Peregrin introduced themselves, impishly welcoming the lords of Rohan and carefully ignoring their friends—until Gimli could take it no longer.

"And what about your companions? What about Legolas and me?" cried the dwarf, interrupting a casual conversation between Meriadoc and Gandalf concerning Isengard's 'new management'.

"You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling—and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy, that if I do not burst, it will be a marvel!"

"You speak for me, Gimli," said Legolas, laughing. "Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine."

The banter continued, and eventually the conversation shifted as the Halflings—or Hobbits, as they declared they wished to be called—began to explain their race to the stunned men of Rohan.

Meanwhile, Éomer continued to smile to himself. His mind flashed back to his first meeting with the Three Hunters, and the grief that had passed over their faces when Éomer had insinuated that these two were dead. He understood part of that grief now. There was simplistic joy here, enough to brighten even the darkest day. Losing that joy would leave the world a much dimmer place.

Éomer looked to his left, where Aragorn was mounted. The man had yet to say anything; his quiet nature set him apart from the others, for he seemed to have no need to share in the playful exchange. Even the smile across his face grew small and reserved.

However, Éomer recalled the constant look that had thus far haunted Aragorn's eyes: one of resignation, even sorrow, hundreds of emotions layered in fathomless depths. That had changed now.

There was only happiness in Aragorn's eyes.

Éomer cast another look at the merry hobbits, their innocence and mirth pervading the entire atmosphere. Who were these two, that they could steal the sadness from the stare of a reluctant king?

There was something very rare here; very rare, and very special.

It was soon after that Gandalf took Théoden, Éomer, and the men of Rohan on a short expedition to find Treebeard—an Ent, according to what Meriadoc had been saying.

Merry, thought Éomer to himself. I remember them calling him Merry, before. Merry and…Pippin?

Somehow, the names fit perfectly.

Éomer looked back over his shoulder at the small party they were leaving behind. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had stayed with the hobbits, and the five of them were crossing the waters, making their way to a small guard-house as they spoke, several of which lined the Ring of Isengard. Briefly, Éomer wondered exactly what strange circumstances had brought together these unusual friends; he had never truly been told, though he supposed it was irrelevant.

As usual, the sight left him with a small pang of exclusion. He looked away, determined to focus on helping the wizard who rode before him.

"Polite young fellows, aren't they?"

Éomer looked to his side as Théoden pulled up. The old man looked rejuvenated, his eyes gleaming. "I never thought I'd see such a sight. Myths are springing to life around us."

"It is a time for myths and legends," said Éomer. The two shared a smile before Théoden went forward to speak with Gandalf.

They were going northward, around the side of the tower. Shadowfax was the only horse that did not trudge sullenly through the waters; the proud beast held its head high, and every step was noble—much like its rider. Éomer, on the other hand, felt exactly like his plodding horse. The sight of the hobbits eating and smoking had reminded him of the hunger lying dormant within him, and so much merriment had worn him out, reminding him that he desperately needed rest. He hoped their exchanged with Treebeard, who had apparently managed to overthrow Saruman, would be brief.

Gandalf began to turn inward until he was roughly perpendicular to the wall of the Orthanc. Théoden followed, as did Éomer, but Éomer could see nothing. Orthanc was surrounded by a series of angular metal sheaths that both buttressed the wall and provided its overall atmosphere, and these points formed nooks along the exterior. They were heading towards one now, but Éomer could see only an empty shadow.

Then the shadow moved.

Éomer started. He would never have noticed the pale, earth-toned figure, tree-like limbs creaking as it moved. It looked like the other Ents he had seen, but taller and gnarled, obviously older. Éomer realized in that moment that no two Ents actually looked the same. He felt briefly ashamed that he had never noticed that the same thing was true of trees.

Treebeard took two slow, massive steps forward, emerging into the gray sunlight.

"Young Master Gandalf," he said in a low, rumbling voice. "I am, hrum, very pleased you could come."

"Greetings, my old friend," replied Gandalf. "These beside me are Théoden, King of Rohan, and Éomer, Heir of Rohan. They have fought alongside me in battle."

Small, intelligent yellow eyes stared at Théoden and Éomer from behind layers of bark. "Young Masters Théoden and Éomer," he said. "Friends of Gandalf's are friends of the Ents. Welcome to Isengard."

Treebeard turned back to Gandalf. "I believe that trees will grow here again."

Éomer looked around at the lifeless expanse that stretched into the distant. He hoped trees would grow; he hoped this land would produce beauty again someday.

Gandalf smiled. "You have done well, my friend. It appears that Saruman's dominion has been destroyed."

"The Ents went to war," said Treebeard. "We would not stand aside and be destroyed. Now, the evil here is being washed away, and the work of Saruman has crumbled beneath him. But there remains the wizard in his tower."

Théoden turned to Gandalf. "Will we confront him?" asked the king.

Gandalf did not immediately answer. "Treebeard," he said, once again regarding the Ent. "Saruman is weakened, am I correct?"

"Weakened, yes. But he remains alive."

Éomer cast a side-glance at Gandalf and Théoden. "Even at his weakest, he is dangerous," he said, entering into the discussion.

Gandalf paused. His gaze passed over the length of Orthanc, rising hundreds of feet into the air, lingering on the uppermost chambers.

"We will confront him," said the wizard softly. "We will see what we can learn of Sauron's plans. He may help us yet, if he has nothing left to lose."

"And we will rebuild, hrum," said Treebeard. "We will make this a place where there can be life again."

"I am sure it will be beautiful," whispered Éomer, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Treebeard looked down. Éomer wasn't sure if Ents truly smiled, but he thought he saw Treebeard's expression lightening, adopting the surety of hope.

"Yes, Master Éomer," said the Ent. "It will be beautiful again."

"Master Treebeard," said Théoden. "My men are hungry and weary, for we have ridden long and hard. Is there anywhere for them to refresh themselves?"

Treebeard nodded, a creaking, cumbersome movement. "The young hobbits discovered the stores of man-food in the guard-houses, hrum. There are beds there for men to rest. The house directly behind you and across the road has food, so they may eat there. The ones alongside it will be the places for rest."

Éomer nearly fainted from relief at the thought of a meal and a bed.

"I thank you, Treebeard, on behalf of all of Rohan," said the king.

"You are welcome, Master Théoden. Now take your men to rest."

They crowded into the guard-house, seating themselves on the benches. There were shelves lined with salted pork and bacon, as well as some fruits and bread with butter and honey. It put Éomer in good spirits to eat again; he even laughed and jested with the other men, something he had not done in far too long. Théoden and Gandalf remained aloof, planning and keeping to themselves. At some point, the two of them left to deliberate with Treebeard again. Éomer, however, opted to stay.

"Who would have thought that Saruman had so much here, hidden for himself?" commented Erkenbrand.

Éomer smiled. How strange, that he hadn't spoken to Erkenbrand in so long. The twenty men here were of the king's household—they had some relation to Éomer, if distant. And yet, during the ride, they had been like strangers.

It was an interesting feeling, the realization that he had been the cause of his own loneliness. Companionship had been at his side; twenty willing companions, their valor downplayed in the face of the greater war.

Éomer looked around the items stashed on the shelves. On the second shelf to his right, he found several barrels with faded labels that read "Old Toby". Perhaps this was the pipeweed that the hobbits had mentioned.

"Erkenbrand," he said mischievously. "Would you like to spew smoke?"

Erkenbrand looked horrified. "Like the Halflings did? It disturbed me, Lord Éomer. It looked far from pleasant. Besides, you lack the contraptions they carried."

"I do not."

Éomer reached over to his pack, which he had brought down from his mount. After shifting around the items for a few moments, he found what he desired:

A pipe.

"Lord Aragorn carried two of these," he said. "A more intricate one and this one, plain and wooden. He took it out at our last camp; not to smoke, but just to look over it, hold it. He almost left it behind. I forgot to give it back to him today."

"Well then, Lord Éomer, I hope you thoroughly enjoy yourself."

"Come, Erkenbrand! Come outside and try it with me."

"Do you command it, my lord?"

Éomer laughed outright. "Yes, my friend. I command it."

Éomer collapsed onto one of the barracks in the dim guard-house. Smoking had been disgusting at first, but gradually became oddly addicting. Erkenbrand now believed it to be the singular most satisfying habit in Middle-Earth.

However, Éomer was through with levity for the day. He knew that he would not be allowed to sleep long—a few hours, at the most. Then they would confront the wizard Saruman, who had been in league with darkness. The transition from the hopeful to the fallen was not one he looked forward to.

Fortunately, for the moment, all that existed were the thin sheets around him. Éomer collapsed gratefully into the bed and passed from consciousness to dreamless sleep.

Coming Soon: Chapter 15—Eye of the Enemy

Éomer expected to encounter Saruman, but never imagined that he would have his first encounter with Sauron as well…