Chapter IV: The King of the Golden Hall Restored

02 March, 3019

I ran into the Hall through the door that opened behind the throne on the dais. I slid through the tapestry and took my place behind my King. Gríma heard my footsteps and turned to look at me. I dropped my eyes and avoided his gaze.

The door creaked open as the four travellers were admitted. I had missed Hama's announcing them to the King, and so had missed their names. No matter; it wouldn't be hard to figure them out.

The four figures entered through the large door at the end of the Hall—four silhouettes in the smoky haze that the fire created. First was Gandalf the Grey: even before I could clearly see him, I recognised his pointed hat and the knocking his wooden staff made against the stone floor. When he had passed into the light a high window made, I saw he looked much as I remembered him… tall, yet stooping; old, yet seemingly strong and fit; wearing a dingy-grey woollen cloak that covered anything he wore beneath. Only shoes peeped from beneath its folds; I was surprised to note that they were a shining, rich white.

Then the tallest one came. He had long, blond hair; the Rohirrim was chiefly a light-skinned race, but he was a different blond, lighter and seemingly full of light; his face was so pale as to have a hidden candle flickering beneath the flaxen skin. He was clad in a green tunic with embroiderings in a silver thread; the pattern seemed to be leaves and water, with strange runes that I could not read.

The third stranger was short: scarcely a child's height. Yet he was covered in facial hair; his thick chestnut beard hid feature and upper torso. Only two dark eyes were distinguishable. I wondered how he ate under the massive amounts of hair.

Fourth, and last, was Hasufel's Rider, as I called him in my mind, knowing no other name for him. He looked about the room as he entered, smiling to himself at our tapestries, deeply inhaling the scent of the fire. His face was old… yet he seemed younger in body. Like Gandalf, I found paradox in every movement he made. Despite the apparent youth of his frame, his dark hair was flecked with grey. His eyes were grey, but not the cloudy, hazel-grey of my kin; they were clear as water, and I wondered if his thoughts were transparent through them. A glimmer of light caught my eye: he wore a woman's pendant on a silver chain around his neck. I wondered what it meant to him; who had given it to him; where she was; and why she had given it to him.

Then the four were scarcely three metres from the dais. Gandalf stepped forward, and the others remained behind him, standing quietly. I tensed when I saw Gríma's face. It reminded me of a snake readying itself to strike.

There was a pause, and all waited for Théoden to make some welcome to the four, or at least to acknowledge their presence. When it was apparent there would be none, Gandalf said, "Hail Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned. For behold! The storm comes, and now all friends should gather together, lest each singly be destroyed."

Théoden stood shakily, and I rushed from my place to help him before he nearly toppled form the dais. He was old, yet still there could be seen traces of his former glory that old age and Gríma's spell hadn't blotted out. "I greet you," he rasped, clutching my arm to keep his balance. "And perhaps you look for welcome. But, truth to tell, your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf. You have ever been a herald of woe; troubles follow you like crows, and ever oftener the worse. Here you are! and with you come evils worse than before, as might be expected… why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow? Tell me that!"

He let go of my arm and sat down harder than he probably meant to. He winced, but mastered himself and dismissed me. I stepped past Gríma and stood behind the throne again. Gríma rose and said, apparently to Théodred but directed at our visitors, "You speak justly, milord. It is not even a week since Éomer brought tidings that your son was slain: your right-hand, second-in-command, your heir. And in Éomer, your next-of-kin, there is little trust. Few men would be left to guard the walls of Edoras if he were allowed to rule."

I clenched my fists and had to restrain myself from jumping in and defending my brother.

"And now," he continued, "We learn the Dark Lord is stirring in the East: such is the our that this wanderer chooses to return. Láthspell I name you: Ill News. And ill news is an ill guest, they say."

He smirked at Gandalf, who looked at him imperturbably. "You are held wise, my friend Wormtongue."

By whom? I wondered.

"And you are doubtless a support to your master. Yet in two ways may a man come with ill news. He may be a worker of evil; or he may be such as leaves well alone, and comes only to bring aid in time of aid."

There was a pause as Gríma assessed suitable replies. Then he hissed, "That is so, but there is a third kind: pickers of bones, meddlers in other men's sorrows, carrion-fowl that grow fat on war. What aid have you ever brought, Láthspell? and what aid do you bring now? Do you bring men? or weapons? That would I call aid, and that is our present need. But who are these that follow at your tail? Three ragged wanderers in grey—and you the most beggar-like of the four!"

I felt someone watching me, and looked at Hasufel's Rider. He was staring in my direction, deep in thought, and though he met my eyes, I wondered if he saw me, or whether he saw someone else. I cocked my head in my curiosity, and the movement brought him to himself for a moment. I met his gaze, and I felt something leave my body and touch his… a transmission of emotion. It seemed he knew my thoughts… my fears… my joys… that in that moment, he had read my entire soul. I blushed and looked away.

Gandalf turned to Théoden. "The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden son of Thengel. Has not the Door-Warden, Háma, reported the names of my three companions? Seldom has any King of Rohan received such guests. Weapons they have laid at your doors that are worth many a mortal man, even the mightiest. Grey is their raiment, for the Elves clad them, and thus they have passed through the Shadow to your Hall."

Gríma did not miss his chance. "You speak of Elves: you are in league with them, then, and the sorceress Galadriel of the Lothlorien the Golden Wood? It is not to be wondered at: nothing of aid or well-being comes out of such an evil place.

The Dwarf would have taken a step forward and retorted angrily, but Hasufel's Rider grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

And then Gandalf sang. The melody was sweet, but the words were unclear, and only the suggestions the song evoked reached me behind the throne. Seldom had anyone seen her in her Golden Wood, the Elven Queen Galadriel. She was pale as the Moon, and twice as beautiful, and few men walked the grass, or could imagine the splendour of Galadriel's well.

There was a hushed silence. Even Gríma did not speak. Gandalf cleared his throat. "The wise speak only of what they know," he said quietly. "A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue between your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy words with a serving-man until the lightening falls."

He raised his staff. There was a noise as thunder, and I was hard-pressed to keep a scream from emerging my mouth. The hall darkened until it was black as night. Even the fire dwindled to tiny sparks. In the blackness, I heard Gríma shrieking, "Did I not tell you to forbid his staff? Háma has betrayed us! Guards!"

I could not bear for hope to be thrown away by Wormtongue's hissing. I abandoned my post behind the throne and kicked as hard as I could in the direction of his head; my foot made contact with something solid. There was a quiet moan from Gríma and a thump as he crumpled to the ground. I hoped I'd killed him, but doubted it.

Hoping no one had observed me, I slipped back behind the throne.

"Now, Théoden son of Thengel, will you hearken to me?" Gandalf asked.

Yes—say yes!

Théoden shifted in his chair.

"Not all is dark," Gandalf went on. "Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find. No counsels have I to give to they that despair. Yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you. Will you hear them? They are not for all ears. I bid you come out before your door and look abroad. Too long have you sat in the shadows and listened to twisted tales and crooked promptings."

Théoden stood again. I helped him down the steps, joy in my heart. Wormtongue was yet on the floor; I hoped he would never leave it alive.

Théoden and I went to the door. Gandalf rapped at the heavy wood with his staff. "Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"

The guards opened the doors. Sunlight streamed in. A breeze caught my hair and played with it, swirling it around my face.

"Send your guards to the stairs foot," Gandalf said to Théoden. Then he turned to me. "And you, Lady Éowyn… leave him a while with me. I will care for him."

I met his eyes with a smile of gratitude. Silently I let go of Théoden's arm—he stood on his own!—and did a courtesy, which Gandalf received with a small bow. I turned towards the house and took one step, before I turned again, wondering if I really should leave my King alone. Théoden looked at me as if he had never seen me before. He smiled at me. There was love in his eyes… love that had been there for Théodred and Éomer all along, but never for me. I returned his smile tentatively. Strange, after all these years, all the eleven years I had spent there, that I had never had him smile at me like he loved me. Like he loved Théodred and Éomer.

"Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter," he said softly, his eyes filled with the love I had longed for. "The time for fear is past."

The time for fear is past. Fear of what? I was afraid of so much… what fear is past? Did I no longer need to fear Wormtongue? Yes—I was sure of that. Did I no longer need to worry for Éomer's safety? That also seemed likely. What about my dream to become a shield-maiden? Anything was possible now, it seemed.

I stood at the threshold of Edoras. I looked at the King, standing there so strong and sturdy. He was taller than I was, now that he didn't stoop. I smiled at him again, rejoicing in the mutual love we had for one another.

Then I turned into the Hall where Gríma was sitting up on the dais, dazedly touching his head. I walked over to him. "Greetings, Master Wormtongue," I said coolly.

He looked about the Hall and saw we were alone. He gave a slight smirk as I ascended the steps of the dais to meet him. I turned to him as I reached Théoden's throne, careful to keep an inert, motionless expression on my face. I didn't want him to know yet how exhilarated I was.

"Éowyn…" he murmured, attempting to intimidate me as he once had. But now it didn't work. I had worn my sword at my waist ever since Éomer had been arrested, waiting. I was ready.

I drew it. "Yes, Gríma, you can try to scare me with your hiss," I said in a low and dangerous tone. "But I will never be yours. You have failed your master, Gríma. The Lord Gandalf has come, and you are defeated."

He looked at me. "You had some work in this, didn't you?"

"I did."

Gríma felt the lump on the back of his head. I nodded.

Suddenly there was a knife in his hand. It seemed orkish—the blade was notched and curved. I stood still as he came towards me, holding my sword ready. "You will die for that, Éowyn."

"I will not die. And yet I would welcome death as one of the lesser cruelties you are capable of inflicting, Wormtongue. I do not fear you."

"No, you do not fear me now that all your dreams have come true!" he hissed, stopping just beyond reach of the blade I held. I thought of how easily I could lunge forward and slit his throat.

"My dreams have not come true." No—but they will!

"They died with your cousin, then."

"No, they did not die with him." I felt a stab of pain at the memory of Théodred. "They have not yet been born."

"Then I will see that they are born dead!" he spat. "They will never come true for you! You will never know happiness!"

"Perhaps I will not," I said slowly. Then I whirled, placing my sword-tip at his neck. "Perhaps not while you live!"

His beady eyes widened. I contemplated killing him. He deserved death; yet the crime of murder—no matter how justified—in the Golden Hall was rewarded by the same.

"Milady—"

"Oh, so we are back to Milady again, are we?" I said sarcastically. "Spare me your grovelling, worm!"

He didn't say a word more, just looked at me pleadingly. I did not take pity; his eyes were no more pleading than mine had been when he tried to rape me. He had not taken pity… neither would I.

"Drop the knife."

It fell to the ground with a clatter.

"Get out," I spat.

He jumped up and ran outside.

I sighed in relief, and sheathed my sword. Then I turned towards the tapestry of Eorl. To my surprise, the dark-haired man stood there, watching me.

"Greetings, milord." I spoke in the common tongue.

He bowed and answered in the Rohirric—my own language. "You fear that man—the one you drove away?" His voice was even, mellow, and gentle.

"Not anymore."

He turned towards the tapestry. Eorl stared down at us placidly, unafraid, laughing in the face of danger. "You fear him yet, milady," he said in a low tone.

My tone rose… I knew he spoke truth. "I don't fear him any longer!"

"You still fear that Gríma could do you harm, though your king has been freed."

He was right. "Who are you that you know such things about a girl you've never seen before?" I asked.

He turned back to me. "I am Aragorn, known to many as Strider."

"When have you been here before? This is not your first time in the Land of the Horsemen… I can tell."

"How can you tell?" He seemed amused.

"You speak our tongue as if you once spoke it often, and you entered the Hall as if you knew it well. When were you here? Not while I have lived here."

"Many years ago, before your time."

"Was Théoden the King at that time?"

"No: Thengel was the King." He did not look old: perhaps twice my age (four and forty years), but certainly no more. Yet if he had been here in the time of Thengel, he had to be older than Háma or Théoden.

I looked at the necklace. Up close, I could see it was in the figure of a diamond eight-pointed star, the north and south points longer than the others; the east and west more elaborate; the north-east, east-south, south-west, and west-north wrought out of silver. "Who gave you the necklace?" I asked.

"A woman from the valley of Imladris."

I was about to ask her name, but he asked a question of his own. "And whose company am I enjoying?"

"I am Éowyn daughter of Éomund," I said.

"Horse-lover," he said, speaking the meaning of my name.

"Yes, milord."

"It suits you. I can see you are a Shield-Maiden of Eorl."

I nodded. "I can use a sword better than many men here. My cousin taught me, and my brother also."

"Your cousin is…"

"Théodred, the son of the king," I said, lowering my eyes so he could not see the grief. "He is dead… slain a few days ago. We were betrothed."

"I am sorry." I looked up. There was pain in his eyes. "You must mourn the loss bitterly."

"Yes, milord."

"And think of the things you might have gone on to do, had he lived."

"Yes, milord."

He was silent, looking at me. We stared at one another, and I wondered if he saw the lack of love. I was ashamed to admit the man I pledged to marry I did not want—that we shared a platonic emotion, but nothing more—and I hoped he did not see.

A messenger's entrance broke the uneasy stillness. "Milady, you are wanted."

I nodded to Aragorn and followed the messenger out the door.

He took me to the King outside on the porch. Éomer was standing beside him, and when he saw me, he opened his arms.

I ran down the steps and flung my own arms around him, unashamed by those who watched our meeting. Tears of joy coursed down his cheeks. "You are all right," he said softly. "Never was I at rest in the prison, picturing what might be happening to you—"

I put a hand on his lips. "Don't speak of that here, Éomer. I am all right. We are all right now."

Théoden touched my cheek as Éomer and I broke apart. "You look like my mother once did," he told me. His mother was Morwen of Lossarnach, my grandmother. "You have grown since you came."

I nodded, choosing not to remark that growth in eleven years is normal when you are twelve. "Yes, I have grown, milord."

"It is fit that you see my counsellor reckoned with."

I nodded and stood by Éomer, feeling safe.

Háma entered, followed by Wormtongue. Háma knelt and presented Théoden with Herugrim, Théoden's sword. "Here, milord, is your ancient blade. It was found in the Worm's chest. Loth was he to render of the keys. Many other things are there that men have missed."

Gríma hissed, "You lie! And this sword your master himself delivered into my keeping!"

"And now he requires it of you again," Théoden said softly, with a low menace to his tone. "Does that displease you?"

A hiss escaped the blue-tinted lips. "Assuredly not, milord," he said, though all saw he lied. "I care for you—and for your house—as best I mat. But do not weary yourself or tax too heavily your strength. Let others deal with your irksome guests. Your meal is about to be set on the board… will you go to it?"

"I will," Théoden said. "And let food for my guests also be set beside me. The host rides today. Send the heralds forth! Let them summon all who dwell nigh! Every man and strong lad able to bear arms, all who have horses, let them be ready in the saddle ere the second hour from noon.!"

Wormtongue was taken aback. His eyes flitted from me to Théoden, from Théoden to Éomer, from Éomer to Gandalf, from Gandalf to Háma, from Háma to me. Our eyes met momentarily, in which time he sent me a glare of pure venom. I forced myself not to look away, and finally he turned back to Théoden. "Dear lord!" he cried. "It is as I feared! The wizard has bewitched you! Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your—treasures?" Once again his eyes lingered on me. Éomer made a fist. "None to guard the Lord of the Mark?"

"If this is bewitchment," Théoden said, "It seems to me more wholesome than your whisperings. Your leechcraft ere long would have had me walking on all fours like a beast! Nay, not one shall be left—not even Gríma! Go! You have yet time to clean the rust from your sword!"

Wormtongue fell to his knees before Théoden. I looked down at him. He was a demon. A demon in human form. He could still do us harm, and I felt he would try. "Mercy, milord!" he cried. Éomer's hand strayed to his sword-hilt. "Have pity on one worn out in your service; send me not from your side! I at least will stand by you when all others have gone. Do not send your faithful Gríma away!"

Éomer snorted. Gandalf shot him a look.

"You have my pity," Théoden said. "And I do not send you from my side. I myself go to war with my men. I bid you come with me and prove your faith."

Wormtongue was looking around him with a hunted, frantic look in his eyes. He licked his lips nervously and stood up. "Such resolve might be expected from a lord of the House of Eorl, old though he be," he said. "But those who truly love him would spare his failing years! Yet I see I have come too late. Others, whom the death of my lord would perhaps grieve less"—a clever glance of scepticism towards Éomer—"have already persuaded him. If I cannot undo their work, hear me at least in this, milord! One who knows your mind and honours your commands should be left in Edoras. Appoint a faithful steward. Let your counsellor Gríma keep all things until your return—and I pray that I may see it, though no wise man will deem it hopeful."

Éomer laughed, holding me closer. "We know what all you would keep, Worm! My sister Éowyn will not be left unprotected in your care again! You seek to avoid fighting in battle, and see staying as steward an easy way to prey on those who cannot defend themselves!"

Wormtongue spat at him. "You lie!"

"That word comes to easily and too oft from your lips," Gandalf commented in a soft tone. "We do not lie." He turned to Théoden. "See, here is a snake! With safety you cannot take it with you, but nor can you leave it behind! To slay it would be just." Éomer moved to draw his sword, but Gandalf stopped him. "But it was not always as it is now. Once it was a man, and did you service in its fashion. Give him a horse and let him go at once where he chooses. By his choice you shall judge him."

Théoden took a step towards Gríma. "Do you hear this, Gríma? This is your choice: to ride with me to war, or to go now whither you will. But then, if we ever meet again, I will not be merciful."

Wormtongue looked around. At all of us. I felt no pity for the snake caught in a hard place—a trap of his own making—only disgust and loathing. He stood as tall as he could and stared Gandalf straight in the eye—for a moment. Then he dropped his eyes and turned to Théoden. Théoden stared back placidly. So finally Womrntongue came to Éomer and I. Éomer glared so hatefully that he quickly looked away to me.

I forced myself to stay serene and hold his gaze. His face changed suddenly to hate and malice, and such was the force of it that I pulled back. He spat at me, and his spittle hit my cheek. He turned to the King and spat at his feet, then turned and fled.

"After him!" Théoden yelled as I wiped my cheek with my sleeve. "See that he does no harm to any, but do not harm or kinder him. Give him a horse if he wishes it."

Éomer said to me, "He will never touch you again, sister."

"I know," I said.

Aragorn came down from the house and approached me. "Milady," he said, "On my way into the city, my horse tripped over a flag of the Rohirrim. It is here—I hope you will be able to restore it."

I smiled. He did not know what it meant that he should care enough for our city to return the flag. "Many thanks, milord; it was torn from the battlements this morning."

"I saw. I also saw a woman, looking out over Rohan—was that you?"

"Yes, milord." I folded the flag and handed it to Hilandia, who had somehow appeared beside me in the confusion. She took it and left—for the kitchen, I suppose. Weynia was also there, batting her eyelashes at Éomer. I gave her a look, and she started to go after her mother.

Éomer had not missed the exchange. He grabbed her hand and whispered something in her ear that made her blush and giggle uncontrollably. I gave them both a scowl and retreated to change for dinner.

I changed from my simple white dress to a more elaborate blue and grey dress with a golden bodice and slipped into the kitchen, where Hilandia and Chänna were preparing dinner. Hilandia shooed me out and told me to attend to the King. I obeyed, waiting on him as I was accustomed, and then took my place lower at the table. In times gone by, Gríma was at his left and Théodred his right—as heir to the throne—but now Gandalf was at his left, after him were his other guests, and at his right was Éomer. I was seated beside Éomer.

Finally it was time to drink in honour of our guests and our happiness. Hilandia handed me the cup. I held it steady as I stood beside the King, looking into the cup. It reminded me of blood—and of the last time I had seen my father. He hand been born back by one of his men—Garulf had carried him on his horse.

"It is Father!" I cried. I did not like my father, but perhaps it would make Mother happy. She had been listless and wan ever since he had left. She ran out of the house to the porch, a look a hope I had never seen before on her face.

"Éomund!" she whispered. Mother climbed upon the railing so she could see better. "No!" Her face was stricken as the figures became clearer, and we could see that our father lumped forward on his horse, and Garulf was behind him, holding him around the waist to keep him from falling.

A rider rode ahead of the company and said, "Hail, Théodwyn, Lady of Rohan! We bring fell tidings: your husband was slain in a skirmish."

I looked up. Mother did not weep; no tears ran down her cheek. Éomer bowed his head and put his arm around her. She shrugged it off.

"Mother—" I began.

"Éowyn!" Éomer cut me off.

Mother ran towards them—through the gate and then through the fields. Her white skirts flew behind her as she pulled them up above her knees to run the faster. She stopped when she reached Garulf, and seemed to ask him something. He nodded, and lowered my father's body to the ground. Mother leaned over it. Her lips were moving, saying words I could only guess at. She looked back at us for a moment, and her face made me gasp. There were still no tears in her eyes, only a pain so indescribably sad and bitter. She rose from the ground.

"Why couldn't I go with you, Éomund?" she shrieked to the wind. We could barely hear her, though she was not so far away, so loud did the wind roar. "I wanted to die with you! I wanted to die for you! I loved you!"

Garulf dismounted, and lifted my father's body back onto the horse. Mother mounted behind my father, and Garulf led the horse with the rest of the company.

The horse's hooves clip-clopped over the stones as they reached our House. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.

Hilandia ran out of the house. "Lady! Is he dead? Oh, my poor lady!" Hilandia had always called Mother Lady.

Blood dripped from my father to the ground, forming a crimson pool on the clean stones. When Mother dismounted, I ran to her and hugged her around the waist—somehow I knew she needed it. Blood covered her dress—my father's blood. I felt sick. When Mother pulled away to help the men carry my father into the house, there was a red stain down the front of my dress.

Mother still wasn't crying. Even though she loved him, she didn't cry. I didn't cry; I didn't love him. I hated him. He had made Mother cry before; he had slapped me. I hated him.

Alone in the courtyard, I stared at the pool of blood on the ground. Crimson. Seeping. Blood.

Blood.

I shook my head to regain my thoughts—why did I have a cup in my hand?

It came to me. "Ferthu Théoden hál!" I said, proffering the cup. "Receive now this cup, and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy coming and thy going!"

He sipped a little and smiled at me. I smiled back. Then I carried the cup to Legolas. "Hail, Legolas son of Thranduil!" I had been told all the guests' names.

"Hail, Éowyn, lady of Rohan!"

"Hail, Gimli, son of Gloin!"

"Hail, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!"

I took it to Aragorn, and our eyes met. Once again, I had the sense he was reading my soul. I could no longer keep my voice clear and steady. "Hail, Aragorn, son of Arathorn!" I whispered, looking once more at the wine, moving in response to my breaths into the cup.

"Hail, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" His voice was low, but his did not shake, as mine did. And it was then I realised…

I loved him. There was no other explanation for the twisted feeling that I was going to suddenly explode—scream—laugh—weep. I had to love him.

I held his gaze for what seemed forever, and then I had to look away. Aragorn's gaze was too piercing, too hard, too kind, too wonderful. Yes, I was in love. These crazy thoughts could not come to my mind if I wasn't.

I was confused again. Then I realised… The cup. I had to give Aragorn the cup.

Somehow, I managed to extend my hand and give him the cup. Our fingers brushed—I trembled at the contact and almost dropped the goblet. I smiled at him, tentatively. His look was kind, but sad and troubled. I realised he somehow knew my thoughts. Why was that sad? Why was that troubling?