Broken – Chapter XIII

Truth and Darkness

Edoras, August 1st, 3018 T.A.

Èowyn was grooming Windfola in the stables when Èomer chose to make her company. She knew that he was only worried about her, but she had no desire to speak with him.

The last months had taken a great toll on her and she was but a shadow of what she had once been. Her face was as pale as the snow on the mountains and she had dark shadows under her eyes - eyes that had once sparkled with hope and innocence, but now only held sorrow and despair.

Still, she went by her duties like before, though now her warm smile was replaced by a cold, emotionless façade – the cold lady of Rohan.

For Èowyn the past two months had been nothing but grief and sorrow. Grief for her lost cousin and sorrow for her failing uncle. Oh yes, they knew that now. The King would no longer rule this country with the grace he once had. Too late had they realized it… and that realization had almost broken them apart.

Èowyn remembered it all too well. It was a month ago, but it could just as well have been yesterday. She had spent the entire day at her uncle's side, sometimes earning greedy looks from the King's advisor. Her brother had been gone for several weeks, patrolling the eastern borders and that day he was due in the Golden Hall.

She had heard him enter the throne room and the conversation he had had with the King was a conversation she wanted to forget. It wasn't like the conversations she knew that the King had had with his son… but it filled her with anxiety and fear nonetheless.

Half an hour later Èomer had stormed into his chambers to find Èowyn waiting there for him. Without any reason they had started and argument and it all had ended in Èomer blaming their cousin. Of course, the moment those words had slipped through his mouth, he had regretted them… but it had been too late. The damage had already been done.

Unbeknownst to both of them, Grima Wormtongue had listened to their entire conversation and had then told them in a dangerously calm voice that neither one needed to concern themselves with the realm's politics. Not unless they wanted to end up like their cousin.

When the advisor had left, all walls of hostility between the siblings had vanished and they had looked at each other uncertainly, the same thought swirling in their heads. Could it be that Théodred had been right after all?

Ever since then Èowyn had recoiled deeper and deeper into her own shell, cursing the King's advisor for breaking this household apart.

Now, standing with her right hand resting on Windfola's neck, Èowyn reluctantly looked up at her brother and waited for his words. She could see that he was struggling with whatever he needed to say and that he was fully aware of the fact that she did not wish to speak.

"Èowyn…" Èomer began hesitantly. "I can't take this any longer. I've heard you. At day you go by your duties unmoved, but at night I hear you crying… and I know why."

He paused to wait for a retort of some sort, but when none came, he went on with a sad sigh. "When will you stop punishing yourself? You know that he is not coming back…"

At that Èowyn's head shot up, her eyes flaring with anger. "That's not the only wrong thing in this country, Èomer. Do you remember how we helped to ensnare him here? Do you remember how uncle disinherited him? His only son. Well, of course you don't. You weren't here. But I remember."

Tears were running down her cheeks now. "I remember when I told uncle he was leaving. I witnessed as he was disinherited. I was there when he was ill in bed and treated like a madman, and now… now all of Rohan knows he was right. Even the peasants know that the King is not well. And what now, Èomer? What about Théodred now? He is dead."

That word. That terrible truth.

Almost a month ago the King's Guard had found the body of the banished Prince on the shores of Entwash, burned to almost unrecognizable with only the armor and the abused features to prove whom that body had belonged to.

For almost four months the King's men had searched for Théodred without success, but then the body had been found, and half of Rohan had been sent into a blackness of despair.

The King had refused to give his son a proper burial, but the men had seen it fit that the diseased Prince was put to rest as tradition demanded. Now all that hope, pride, and courage that Théodred had once brought with him, was buried under the Simbelmynë by the Fords of Isen.

As it had been his last location before his desertion and following death, the men had seen it befitting to bury him at the place he had last sworn to guard. Perhaps the riders of the west had forgiven and forgotten their late Prince's actions… or perhaps they knew more than they let know… but it had certainly angered Grima Wormtongue – almost as if the riders' loyalty to their dead Prince had somehow been an act of revolt in the eyes of the advisor.

Èowyn couldn't understand that reasoning.

"Westfold is burning… Eastfold is weakening. And the King's health is failing. How corrupted has this land become? Are we to perish along with it?"

Her voice broke and she buried her face in the mare's mane, leaving Èomer dumbfounded to ponder her words. After a few moments, Èowyn's choked voice reached his ears again.

"People have gone missing, too, but of course the King wouldn't care… not with that snake around him. When I visited Helm's Deep I was told by a young girl – a child – that her sister had left on a few-mile journey to their uncle… and never returned. That's four months ago, Èomer. Four months."

She paused and turned to look at her brother. "If our dear cousin truly ran away, then I shan't let grief overtake me for the rest of my days. But, if he didn't. If he was…"

She couldn't finish the thought and Èomer had no idea what to say in response. Of course Èowyn was right. Those were matters he himself had thought a lot about ever since the number of Orcs had increased. These were no raiding outcasts. These were the seeds of an army… and an army always had a master.

-0-0-0-

"Here, my lord... drink this."

The King took the tankard from his advisor without hesitation and Grima watched contently as the King emptied the contents. Théoden was under His command now and no more than a mere puppet. His son's departure and death had been the last crack in the King's withering frame. His eyes were grey and dim like a blind man's, and his voice was but a shadow of what it once had been.

It wouldn't be long before Rohan would fall.

Of course there was still Èomer, but Grima saw no threat in him, however stubborn the Third Marshall could be. Not even the fact that the King had made Èomer his heir changed anything in his Master's plan. By the time a new King would be ready to rise in Rohan… there would be no need for it.

When Grima retired for the day, he couldn't help smiling contently. Théodred had been the only big threat and now he was long since out of the way, well secured in the hands of Saruman's Orcs. Not even his most loyal men would go looking for him now.

The body used in the deception had served its purpose… and when the time came, Grima Wormtongue would have the pleasure of killing Théodred son of Théoden with his own hands.

The Misty Mountains, August 3rd, 3018 T.A.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound of water dropping onto the cold rocks below echoed through the empty cave. But other than that it was perfectly silent. Not even the wind played in the creeks and the alcoves. The cave entrance was far too small and the cave itself far too deep.

But, it was the perfect hideout. And, it was there on the wet ground, where the water dripped onto the cold rock, that a man was sitting with his back resting on the stone. The man's eyes were closed, knowing that even when open, they wouldn't see in the darkness of the cave.

Three months. Three full months of darkness and damp air.

As he sat there, listening to the dropping water, scenes from the last few months flashed through his mind. There was this young woman who had given him renewed hope, but then there was that day it all had gone wrong. He could barely recall it in detail, but the feeling of hopeless despair was still there…

-0-0-0-

It was one of those nights that the Orcs didn't pay much attention to their prisoners. Sneaking up to the others, Dred helped them off their restrains and told them to follow him. His muscles were sore and tired, but he ordered his body to obey with every inch of his will. This was their only chance to get away.

The well-planned escape then turned into a massacre when one Orc didn't immediately die from the arrow piercing its heart. Its angry snarl alerted the entire Orc camp in a matter of seconds and eleven prisoners fled into the woods.

The Orcs being faster and more in number quickly gained on them…

Théodred looked over his shoulder and saw a black arrow pierce Faola from behind. Instinctively he turned around and shot down the Orc with the bow. With only four arrows left, he realized that if they didn't run fast enough, there would be nothing to escape from anymore. There was no way he could keep the others from getting killed if the Orcs caught up with them.

There was only one thing they could do. Run…

He knew that at least Gwyn and Dáfur were ahead of him, but he had no idea where the others were. Not even Ósle. Only Dríana was within his sight, and grabbing her hand he pulled her along.

Her gown was a tattered and ripped mess, her face full of cuts and bruises, but she kept on running, squeezing Théodred's hand tightly.

His mind told him to turn around and face the Orcs, but his heart refused. The fire that had burned in him when he was still a Prince of Rohan, was long since dead. And that's what drove him into those unknown woods.

Then suddenly Dríana stumbled on a root and fell to the ground with a cry of pain. The look in her eyes as their gazes met was that of cold determination. "Go. Get out of here."

Ahead of them, Gwyn and Dáfur stopped, too, and Théodred knelt down beside Dríana who was holding her ankle.

"No." He said. "My heart will never give me peace if I leave you here now."

"I'll only slow you down. Please, they'll kill us all."

"Then they will. I'm not leaving you..."

-0-0-0-

Théodred opened his eyes and looked down at Dríana's sleeping body. Her head rested on his shoulder and she had curled up into a tight ball, shielding herself from the cold. Her light auburn hair shone in contrast to her fair skin - much paler and dirtier than before. And for reasons unknown to him, she had never complained. Never seemed to regret her past decisions.

And in that moment, he loved her for it. And he wished that he, too, could forget about regret and find the courage to live. He didn't even have to fight... just live. For despite all the pain and misfortune, the Gods had so far graced him with the one thing that truly matter: life. And with life there was hope.

Gwyn, Dáfur... Ósle...

They had all understood the meaning of that kind of hope. Now they were gone and he lived. And somehow he just had to find the courage and will to accept it. To push aside his regret and...

Théodred let out a deep sigh. He had a promise to keep and he would stand by its consequences. If she wouldn't leave him, then he wouldn't leave her either. No matter what...