Adventures of an Éored: Midsummer

Author's Note: Okay, I found it necessary to change the rating to "T" for this chapter, not having foreseen where this story would take when I picked it up again after so many years. Yet I'm confident that this is the heart of darkness, and that things will lighten up again with the next chapter.

Hoping against hope that some of you might find it in yourself to drop me a quick line or two of feedback (be it negative or positive, yet

hopefully constructive), I'm leaving you to your reading now. Cheers!

Chapter 6: The Exorcism of Thorvald

000

"Halt! Who goes there?"

The guard's voice sounded gruff and nervous, and a telltale prickle in the pit of his stomach told Éomer even though he could not see the man yet, that in all likelihood, an arrow was pointing in their direction. Not that he could blame the man. Even if was common practice to always have two guards share their duty at any given position, standing out here in the dark a good distance away from the camp was bound to leave any man jumpy. Not that anyone seriously expected an orc-attack to happen in the middle of the Mark during these shortest nights of the year. Cover was in short supply on the plains, making it difficult, if not impossible for orcs to reach their destination without running the risk of having the sun burning their skin on their way back, or worse, being detected by one of the patrolling éoreds. Yet it could never hurt to be careful, and so twenty positions had been established in a wide circle around the festival grounds in order to keep everyone safe.

"It is I, Théodred, Second Marshal of Riddermark," his cousin answered calmly enough, obviously having expected to run into their guards. "And in my presence are Grimbold of Westfold, Elfhelm of Aldburg and a few others of my riders."

In the meantime, they had approached far enough to make out the shapes of the two men before them in the pale light of the half-moon. And aye, Éomer noticed unsurprised, the taller of the two did only now lower his bow.

"Marshal Théodred? It is I, Héorulf... and Fastred is here with me, as well." His voice clearly betrayed his surprise over meeting his commander so far outside the camp at such an ungodly hour, but the warrior knew that it was not his place to question the cause of this strange event. "Everything has been quiet so far, although it seems that a thunderstorm is headed our way. Either that or it is just heat lightning. Is there anything we can help you with?" His puzzled gaze travelled over the little group, which accompanied the King's son.

"Aye, Héorulf." Théodred inclined his head in greeting at the two men. "We will leave the camp for a while, but we will not go far. I would like to ask of you that you reposition yourself for the next hour about three hundred paces further towards the festival grounds. We will inform you when we are done here… oh, and you might hear the odd noise coming from our direction. This will be no reason to be alarmed. Just ignore it."

It was obvious that his order did nothing to clarify things to the guards, and his cousin did not seem willing to lessen their confusion. Had Éomer not felt rather tense himself, he might have laughed at the other men's thoroughly bewildered expressions as they turned to leave with an implied half-bow.

"Aye, my Lord Marshal," Héorulf nodded. "We will be behind that next rise, should you need us anyway."

"Very well, Héorulf. Just one last thing: you never saw us, and you will not mention this to anyone. Have I made myself clear?"

"Very clear, my Lord Marshal. Come, Fastred." The guards slowly back away with a last greeting, and then disappeared into the night. For a while, none of the warriors spoke as they continued in the darkness, and yet all of them felt the tension rise with every step that they took.

000

"Are you certain you want to witness this, Èomer?" Théodred had silently inquired on their way over to the Westfold camp to see whether Thorvald agreed to his plans. The others were trailing a bit behind them, lost in their own dark thoughts, and so the older man had gladly seized the opportunity. "It will get ugly; that I can guarantee. And it is already late. A hard trial is waiting for you tomorrow; mayhap you should really make for your own camp in order to meet its requirements."

"Then why involve me in this affair at all, Théodred?" Éomer had asked, his brow furrowed. "You cannot first present a matter of such heavy consequence to me and then expect me to forget about it only because of the late hour. Now that I know the full extent of the problem, I need to witness the outcome. There are fates at stake, that I understand. You want me to learn, and I am willing to learn from this."

"All right then…" With a short affirmative nod, Théodred had come to a halt just outside the still mainly deserted Westfold camp, and for a moment, his pensive gaze had rested on his cousin, unmistakably sizing him up. "Just remember, you do not have to watch this. Should you, at any point of the fight, decide otherwise, I will not hold you to your word. You can leave whenever you want."

"I have already been in battles," Éomer had replied curtly. "I am not known to faint at the sight of blood."

"Well, it's your call, Cousin. Now stay here while I am going to establish whether Bard's rival will be ready to play." Théodred had clapped his shoulder and signaled for Grimbold to follow him while Elfhelm had left to catch their healer.

Temporarily left with Bard, Éomund's son had regarded his fellow rider for a few long, silent moments, anxious. True, over the course of the past year, he had seen how powerful the big warrior could be in battle, and yet at the same time, the scene of Thorvald deliberately hurting Gaerwolf repeated itself before his inner eye… and there was no question that the Westfold warrior had probably far worse ideas in his head about what to do with his rival.

"You need not be afraid for me, son of Éomund," Bard had replied to his unvoiced question, the slightest of smiles playing around his mouth while his gaze stayed glued to the scene before him, where their Marshal had reached his opponent's guards. "I can hold my own against Thorvald… provided he agrees to the plan. Although I cannot imagine why he would not. After all, this is what he wanted all along."

"It is strange to think of him in Findarras' place, as a captain."

"And yet he was, and he was good at it. The riders were eager to follow him into battle." Bard had sighed. "Théodred was right to remind us of this. It is easy to forget when things have been bad for a while. But we do owe Thorvald this chance."

"Is it true that he saved your life?" Éomer had inquired, to which the warrior had nodded.

"Not just mine, your cousin's, as well. And Eflhelm's. Grimbold's, too, though not in the same battle. He really was a force of nature on the battlefield. I suppose he still is… only these days, it seems he gathers all his energy from a dark place, and that slowly but surely it consumes him."

Together, they had watched in silence while their marshal had presented his idea to the Westfold warrior, and neither of them had been particularly surprised when Thorvald had quickly risen to his feet.

"So," Bard had commented. "I guess we will have a fight tonight…"

000

"I suppose we are far enough away now. This is perfect." Théodred eyed the natural hollow with a satisfied expression on his face and turned around to face the two combatants. "This is it, Gentlemen. Should any of you want to back down, now is the time to speak up. Otherwise, we will leave you to your business."

"I certainly have not come all this way to simply walk back now," Thorvald replied, his gaze fixed on his opponent in obvious anticipation. "Although I would not be surprised if Bard here decided to turn tail, now that he's about to get his just come-uppance."

Bard issued a grim laugh.

"Me? I'm looking forward to this, believe me. I have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time."

"Just remember…" Théodred raised his voice, "…that I will not allow you to seriously hurt each other. We will step in at once should you attempt to break each other's bones… or worse. Short of that, the rules of the fight are up to you. See that you get this matter settled once and for all, or Béma help me, the next time it is me you face!" With those words, the Second Marshal retreated to the side and indicated to the other captains to follow his example. A hard tension suddenly filled the atmosphere as the two rivals walked into the middle of the hollow and turned to face each other.

Stepping up to his cousin, Éomer held his breath, suddenly certain that Théodred's idea would lead to a catastrophe. And it seemed that his anxiety had been clearly written all over his face, for at the next moment, he felt the Prince's hand upon his shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze.

"Do not worry, Éomer," Théodred whispered under his breath, his eyes never leaving the two warriors. "I've got this under control. Trust me."

Before them, Thorvald rolled his shoulders and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes in the light of the stars as he began to circle the younger man. "So, Bard… I hope you are prepared to receive the worst beating of your life. You certainly deserve it."

"Will you try to talk me to death, or are you actually going to do something, Thorvald?" the Eastfold warrior replied, cracking his knuckles in answer. "I'm right here. Let's see whether you have the guts to actually approach me!"

His opponent uttered a short laugh and inclined his head. Then he charged. With all the momentum of a wild Westfold ox, he leaped at the younger man. With a quick sidestep, Bard easily evaded his swinging fists and instead scored a hit to Thorvald's neck himself. His rival pivoted, and his grappling hand almost found purchase in the younger man's shirt had he not quickly bent backwards. Another punch missed the Eastfolder's jaw by the breadth of a hair.

Thorvald snorted.

"You fight like a craven, Bard! What is this? Are you going to evade me all night?"

"You are only too slow, old man!" Bard grinned. "I can see your blows coming from miles away! Perhaps you are still too drunk for this. Shouldn't we rather wait until tomorrow in order to grant you even half a chance?" He sidestepped another charge, this time succeeding in scoring a kick against Thorvald's standing leg and sending the big warrior to the ground. "See, you can't even walk properly! This is easier than fighting a blind Uruk!"

Now seriously enraged, his rival picked himself up, and in the brief light of a distant bolt of lightning, his eyes seemed to spray sparks of hatred as he threw himself at Bard with a roar, unleashing a fistful of sand into the other's wide open eyes. The next moment, the two bodies collided with an audible sound.

"Gods…" Clenching his fists into his shirt so hard that his fingernails dug into his own skin, Éomer flinched. The true fight was on now, all ridicule and foreplay forgotten as the two warriors shoved and pushed each other around, their hand grappling for hold in the other's clothes and hair, grunting and groaning from the strain of their efforts.

With a sudden jolt, Thorvald's brow crashed against the bridge of Bard's nose, breaking it. A pained grunt escaped the Eastfold warrior as he stumbled backwards, still unable to open his eyes. A dark torrent shot out of his nose. And still his opponent clung to him, now starting to bludgeon the younger man's side with his freed fist.

"Théodred!" Éomer gasped.

"Not yet," the King's son muttered under his breath, but it was easy to hear that he, too, was dismayed about the turn of events.

Although not being able to see and catapulted into a sudden world of hurt, Bard' survival instincts kicked in as he first dragged his rival down with both hands and then rammed his knee into the other's abdomen, satisfied to hear a muffled grunt. He followed it with a quick blow of his elbow between Thorvald's shoulder blades, again sending the older man to his knees. Three fast steps back brought him out of his opponent's reach, finally succeeding at wiping the sand out of his watering eyes.

"You fucking bastard," he hissed with a quick glance at his bloodstained hand while before him, the Westfold warrior scrambled to his feet again. "I knew you'd fight dirty! You could never win an honest fight!"

"What would you know about an honest fight?" Thorvald spat. "This is nothing! This is but the start of it! Prepare to get hurt!" And again he lunged, yet this time too uncontrolled to evade Bard's glancing blow to his cheek bone. More blood flowed.

Théodred felt the questioning glances of his two captains as well as his cousin upon himself and wordlessly shook his head. No, the time to intercept had not yet come.

Before them, the two combatants rearranged themselves for another round. Wary now after each had drawn first blood, they circled each other, arms expanded to both sides, knees bent and muscles ready to catapult them to either side in order to evade their opponent's charge at the slightest twitch. For a moment, their sculpted silhouettes stood in stark contrast against the sky when another lightning illuminated the night, then everything plunged into darkness again. No thunder followed. The night seemed to hold its breath.

Then the next flicker revealed intertwined bodies, wrestling, grappling each other in their efforts to gain the upper hand, then darkness again, followed by groaning, grunting, hard bursts of breathing and the dull sound of heavy punches against flesh.

When Éomer's eyes readjusted to the blackness, the two opponents had separated again and stood a few paces apart in similar defensive stances. Both fighters breathed heavily, and their shirts hung in rags from their bodies, dirty and stained.

"You're bleeding," Thorvald stated with obvious delight and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "Though not merely enough for my taste. You stole my wife from me, you dirty rat! What kind of man would do that to his brother-in-arms? To think that I saved your life once! I should have let the orc-scum have their fun with you!"

"What kind of man would hit his wife until she bled?" Bard rebuked, quickly evading another punch that was aimed at his chin. His own fist connected with a sickening thud with Thorvald's lower ribs. "And in front of your children, too! I did not steal your wife, Thorvald; she left you! You scared her away! She was afraid you were going to kill her! Get it in your thick head!"

"You're lying! I saw how Daléna always looked at you! You could barely contain yourself until I was gone to slip into our house!" Thorvald bellowed. "What a rotten thing to do to your fellow rider! And yet I am the one who gets all the blame!" He spat, a mixture of saliva and blood. "The time when my injury forced me to stay home must have been excruciating for the two of you… or did you bang my wife whenever she told me she would go to buy provisions? Did you shag her somewhere in a barn while I was lying broken in my bed, fighting for my life?"

"We grew up together, Thorvald! Your wife is like a sister to me! We have known each other from the earliest days of our childhood! That's why she was friendly with me, and we never made a secret out of it!" Bard shouted. "Yet we were never in love! She loved you! And it was you who destroyed that love with your suspicion and your foul moods! You made her life an unending nightmare! You have no one to blame for this but yourself!"

"How dare you!" With another enraged roar, the Westfold warrior catapulted himself forward, and this time, Bard's fist connected with his jaw with full force, knocked his teeth together and split his lip. For a moment, Thorvald stood swaying as his blood pattered onto the ground, and it seemed as if he would remain on his feet. Extending a hand for his rival, the fighter stumbled forward. One step, two steps – until all balance left him, and he crashed to the ground with a pained grunt.

With a sharp breath, Éomer averted his eyes. Aye, Théodred had warned him… and yet this was beyond what he had expected. Far beyond. It was unclear to him why his cousin had not already stopped the two rivals, as it seemed to him that both men would rather die than give in… even if Bard made no move to take advantage of his opponent now that he had landed the first really severe blow. Instead he watched impassively as Thorvald scrambled around in the dirt before him in a desperate attempt to regain his feet, and suddenly knelt down before his opponent.

"You know what Daléna told me just the other day, Thorvald?" He inhaled. "She told me that your son did not speak for a full month after what you made him witness! He was like a puppet, she said, some lifeless thing, not a child. He would not respond when he was being talked to; he would not even blink! She barely managed to feed him! And after all this time, the poor lad is still having nightmares about it almost every night! Every night he sees you charge into the room to beat his mother bloody, and he wakes up screaming and will not stop crying! How can you live with that?"

Thorvald froze, and in the pale light of yet another lightning, Bard could see that his last accusation had penetrated the older man's defenses.

"What?"

"You heard me," he said, calmer, but with the same intensity. "You became a monster to your child's eyes. An orc."

The accusation stunned the older warrior, and all of a sudden, his efforts at regaining his feet stopped, and a strange expression crept onto his face, one that Bard had never expected to see in these broad, angular features. Was it really shame? Had Théodred been right after all?

Thorvald's mouth worked, but it took him a while to actually form the words, and even when he uttered them in a voice husky with emotion, they were barely audible.

"You are only saying this to hurt me."

Bard lowered his voice.

"It is the truth, Thorvald, and you know it. Little Wulfric saw everything, and of course, it had an effect on him… as it had on his mother. Daléna is no longer the same, Thorvald. The incidence lies eighteen months in the past, but I have yet to see her smile again. Do you remember her smile? I do." He inhaled, the pain in his broken nose fresh and sharp. "It was such an innocent, pure smile. We all loved her for it, but it was not that kind of love. She was yours, and we all understood and accepted that. It is possible to love someone without wanting to be together with them. You used to understand that, too, but after your injury; you were never the same again. What happened, Brother? Tell us. We are here to help you."

The Westfold warrior uttered a bitter laugh.

"You want to help me, you say? This is what you do to help me?" He ran a hand over his bloodied beard, and his accusatory gaze found the other men when he held out his bloodied fingers, the blood black in the cold starlight. He stared at his marshal with such hatred that it sent a chill down Éomer's spine. "You gathered your men around you, Théodred Théodensson, and then waited until I was so drunk that your henchman could beat me up without risk. And now that I'm on the ground, you see to it that every abhorrent thing I have ever done is thrown into my face. Tell me, what is it that you want me to do, kill myself? Do you think that I haven't tried?"

"Thorvald, you misunderstand." The King's son stepped forward, his voice low and compassionate as he approached the fallen rider. "Brother…"

"Don't call me 'brother'!"

"You left me with no choice when you attacked our recruits earlier tonight. I would have liked to wait until you had sobered, but you forced my hand. And yet you misunderstand me when you think that we are here to punish you for the things you've done."

"What else should this be, a reward? You even brought your recruit so that he could witness my destruction!" Thorvald's hateful glance made Éomer shiver, and he barely felt Elfhelm's soothing hand on his shoulder. Before them, his cousin lowered himself to his knees, the expression on his face serious and sincere.

"This is not an attempt to destroy you, Brother. It is rather a last, desperate attempt to find the man you once were inside this maelstrom of blackness that devoured you in the wake of your injury. You used to be a man we all respected, and your riders were eager to follow you. You might even have been promoted to marshal by now had this accursed ambush not happened. We all know that the path to recovery was long and hard for you, and it seems that somehow, you lost your way on it." He interrupted himself, and if possible, his gaze became even more intense. "And yet you are not the first man who had this happen to him, Thorvald, nor will you be the last. If one thing is certain, it is that each of us can fall, every day. The important part is to get up again. And if it is too hard to do it by yourself, you must allow your brothers to help. Let us help you, Thorvald, for the path you are headed is leading to nothing good."

Thorvald snorted, and there was a self-derogatory, horrible undertone in his voice when he answered.

"And how exactly do you plan to help me, 'Brother'?" he mocked Théodred. "Tell me, what had you hoped to achieve by cutting my roots and sending me to the Westfold? Did you not think that the riders would inquire why an Eastfolder was transferred to their éored? Did you not think they'd find out?" Now his burning eyes met Grimbold's in raw accusation. "And did you think that I would not understand why you ordered me into the vanguard for every assault we performed, Captain? Did you think that I would not understand that you hoped for our enemies to rid you of me? That I would not see the disappointment on your face whenever I returned from an attack with your riders?"

Grimbold swallowed.

"It was only after your second clash with Raedwulf that I decided so, Thorvald," he confessed in a low voice. "You almost killed him, barely a few days after our last conversation. What was I to do? Not only did you defy your orders time and again; you actively went and sought trouble. I thought that, by placing you in the vanguard, it would help you focus your destructive temper exclusively against our foes. That you would spare your fellow riders if you were allowed to unleash your frustration against orcs and Dunlendings instead."

"Mayhap you truly believed that." Thorvald shook his head in resignation, and suddenly it seemed as if all energy, which had flooded him during his fight with Bard, had left him. "And yet I dare you to deny that you were also hoping for our enemies to kill me." He stared at his captain and at last, the other man had to avert his eyes. With a deep breath, the warrior continued.

"I knew it. And I will confess that I was hoping for it, too, each time that we rode into battle." He saw the shock in the others' eyes. "What was there left for me? My wife and children were gone and the men of my éored despised me for what I had done to them. I was forced to leave my home, and the riders of Westfold never accepted me. And at last, my own captain ordered me into the most dangerous position on every charge that we rode. Had I killed myself in my despair, Sleipnir would have refused to carry my soul up to the halls of my ancestors, and even if he had, they would never have permitted a coward who took his own life to enter. So I hoped for our enemies to release me from the burden of existence… to find an honourable death on the battlefield in defense of the Mark. But my survival instincts are too strong, I suppose, so I am cursed to live on." With a shaking breath, Thorvald hid his face behind his hands.

"There might still be a way to turn your life around," Théodred offered quietly. "To come back from the abyss, back into brotherhood. You may even find personal happiness again, Thorvald. It is not impossible."

"How?" The warrior shook his head despondently. "There is not a single rider in the Mark who has not heard of my monstrous deeds. No matter where you transfer me to, Marshal, they will all know who I am. "

"True, they will recognize you," the King's son agreed. " And yet you could change the way they regard you by taking responsibility for the things you did… and by apologizing to the people you hurt… starting with Gaerwolf tomorrow… and the riders of your éored. Let them know that you regret the things you've done, and that you are willing to do what is necessary to change."

Thorvald's hands dropped to his lap, but the glance he gave Théodred in answer was deeply skeptical.

"And Daléna? How should she ever forgive me, if things are the way Bard just said? And what could she even want from me, now that I am no longer a real man?" Even in the dark, he noticed the sudden look of understanding in Théodred's eyes, and nodded grimly. "Aye, Marshal. Even if I ever found another woman who could love me in spite of my history - I would be incapable of giving her children. Worse yet, I could not even please her. My wound made sure of that. I may still be able to fight for our land, but otherwise, I am completely and utterly useless."

"How can you say this, Thorvald?" Grimbold at last joined in, with another long glance at his kneeling marshal before he addressed his rider. "There are so many women, not only in the Westfold, left widowed by the war, and who are barely able to provide a home and sufficient food to their children, now that they are alone. Do you know what they would give for a man who provided protection and a pair of strong hands to help them master the challenges that each and every day presents them?"

Thorvald shrugged.

"Aye, perhaps one of them might take me in, out of pure necessity. But how could I ever be more than a farm hand to them if they knew about my limitation?"

"There are other ways to please a woman." Théodred remarked evenly, meaningfully lifting his eyebrows. Then his gaze became piercing. "You are more than your cock, Thorvald. I understand that for a while, this might have seemed like the end of the world to you, but it is time now for you to realise this. Look at yourself: you are a powerful man, one of the most powerful warriors of the Mark. You have two strong hands. You can wield a sword with them, or build something. You can fondle a woman with them. You can carry children in your arms, or rock them to sleep. You have two strong legs. You can walk with them, run with them, ride with them. You have a head with a capable brain on your neck; you were a captain! You know how to inspire people and make them follow you! You only need to remember it!" He shook his head with vigor. "Béma, it would be an utter waste to have a capable man like you pursue death, when the Mark is in such desperate need of defenders! Your land needs you, Thorvald… and I won't even start about the vow you took when you joined the Armed Forces, but it is high time that you see what you still have to offer!"

Dark eyes regarded him doubtfully, and for the longest time, silence spread between the warriors.

Hugging himself in the increasingly chilly night breeze, Éomer barely dared to breathe, and his head reeled from all the things that had been disclosed. It had been so easy to hate Thorvald after everything he had done, and yet now that he knew the whole story, Éomund's son could not help feeling for the warrior who was still on his knees in the middle of the hollow. He had only been with the riders for one year yet, and yet even those twelve months had confirmed to Éomer that his brothers-in-arms hardly ever let an opportunity pass to brag about their virility around the camp fire, proudly stating the many villages where they had unmarried wenches desperately waiting for their éored to pay them another visit, as if it were some kind of contest to them. How was a man supposed to feel who had lost his abilities? And wouldn't he naturally begin to see his fellow riders as a threat to his own marriage? What a mess!

"I would like to believe in what you're saying, Marshal," Thorvald said at length, his voice low and beat. "I would like to believe that there is indeed a way back for me—"

"But there is!"

"—but I think too much has happened. Too much that can't be forgiven." He shook his head. "The riders have formed their opinion of me, and I do not see how it should be possible to change it."

"If you think that you will not be given a chance in the Westfold," Théodred said with another long, telling glance at Grimbold, "I will offer you this, Thorvald: come to Edoras with me after the festival, and I will give you a place in my own éored. I will personally see to it that you get a fresh start. The rest is up to you. It might very well be the last chance you ever get." In the flickering light of another faraway lightning, the King's son found himself staring into widening eyes.

"But why would you do this for me, Sir? The Prince's personal éored… I do not deserve such a chance!"

A thin, determined smile formed on Théodred's lips, and behind him, the others slowly began to relax. Silently, Bard stepped over to where Elfhelm and their recruit were silently observing, and meaningfully cocked an eyebrow.

"Why?" The King's son repeated. "I tell you why: I want to see that man again who came to our aid when we found ourselves surrounded by orc hordes in the Eastemnet, outnumbered four to one. That man rode through the night in the middle of a snowstorm when he had learned about a trap the enemy had laid for us, and his charge saved the lives of two hundred and forty men; Elfhelm's, Bard's and my own included. We owe you, Thorvald, and that is why we are here. Accept our help and take the first step towards a new life tonight, Brother. I implore you."

And with those words, the King's son proffered his hand to the kneeling man… and his smile broadened when it was, at last, accepted.

"Welcome back, Brother. You have been missed."