Chapter 37
"Éomer, sister-son, are you quite certain you wish to do this?" Théoden looked between the young man, his own blood by his sister, and the horse beside him. A bay, with darker mane and tail, beautiful in her own way, strong but slender. She did not have much bulk compared to the stallion that belonged to his nephew, in truth she stood near four hands below the grey. Éomer had rescued the foal after orcs had slain most of the herd and left the herdsman homeless. She still bore the scars from their claws on her flanks, shoulders and neck. She was no longer the skittish foal that he had found together with his nephew and his stallion inside the Golden Hall. At the time, he had thought she was a fine enough horse, but without the strength Éomer seemed to see in her. Now, at an age where she could take a rider, he had trained her well and she bore the heavy gear of the Rohirrim well.
She was stronger than he had expected her to be, and knew that Éomer had trained her well. The lad had a hand with the horses that surpassed many of his peer, even that of his own son Théodred and himself. Never had he been more pleased with himself than when he decided him worthy of a horse from the line of the Mearas.
Firefoot had served him well since then, more loyal than most beasts, stronger than most of the herd, and with a will unlike any other horse Théoden had ever known. Éomern had trained the horse to many a trick Théoden had not seen the use of at the time, but it would seem the lad knew what he was doing. Having been allowed to join the riders younger than most his sister-son had little in common with the men. He had not the experience to understand their bawdy tales and jokes. All he knew of tavern wenches was that coin gave you ale. Théoden did not even know if he had truly experienced what too much ale one night might do yet. He had felt it for the best to leave that part of his education to Théodred. He had seen his own son through that ordeal the first time, it would suit him just fine if it was Théodred who did the dead for his cousin.
Firefoot had been a great aid to him, but had also served to stand him aside from the men. None of them had a steed of such worth, and some were jealous of the boy. Others saw it as his right of his line, but did not see how a youth his age could handle the stallion in battle.
Éomer had proven his mettle more than once now, and earned the respect of those he rode with. Even if some still shook their head that he would waste time on a skittish mare.
For two fortnights he had slept in the stable to keep the foal calm, allowing the creature to follow on his heels wherever he took Firefoot. Training her well into the night to take not only the clash of swords, but to heed his commands. Once she was of age, he trained her to take a saddle and rider, and at the time it had worried Théoden that not once had the mare thrown him.
Firefoot, when Éomer trained him to ride had thrown him countless times. The stallion never seeming to lack for a new way to unseat his master and rider. It was a constant battle between the two who would come out the winner. Théoden would watch as he came in for the meal, bruised and limping, wiping blood from his face while his eyes shone. Firefoot was no docile horse to allow anyone to ride him. He was a warhorse true and fair, and no one who was not worthy would ever be allowed to ride him. If Éomer wanted to be master of the horse, then he would have to fight for it, and while Théoden winced in sympathy for his pain, he would not have it any other way.
An old palfrey was for anyone to ride, there was no need for skill nor for any effort. One might simply climb aboard and point the horse in the direction you wanted to go, and hope you eventually got there before you were an old man.
A horse like Firefoot though, was no horse to be taken for granted, even when Théoden knew that his sister-son would come out the winner, he knew that between the rider and beast the battle would never truly be over. Firefoot would heed him, and would do so with unending loyalty, but he would never be so docile that Éomer could fully let down his guard.
Should his sister-son ever take his steed for granted and treat him with less than the reverence he deserved, then Firefoot would not hesitate to take him to task about it.
Even now, even after they had rode together for years, he would see the horse unseat the rider on a spur of the moment as impulse struck him. Only a month past, had he not seen how Firefoot felt Éomer spent too long grooming Snowmane. The stallion had not taken the offence lightly but had trod most firmly on his foot and pulled his hair. He would not begrudge Snowmane, whom he did indeed defer to, receiving the attention, but he would receive no less than the same from Éomer himself.
It was ill fortune that the Stallion was now lame, ill fortune, and the strike of an Orc club against his leg. He would be well, the wound was not bad, but he would need rest to recover and would not be fit to ride for at least a fortnight or two. Ill fortune indeed, as the Orc band they had been chasing had not been fully vanquished. Well over a dozen of them had managed to slip away while the riders were busy dispatching judgement on the others, slaying them. Too many men wounded and too many horses though and the men had returned to Edoras before they took up chase of the Orcs.
Théoden did not doubt for a moment that the riders would catch up to them and defeat them, the Orcs moved slowly on foot, and the riders were swift on horseback, but Éomer without Firefoot to safeguard him made fear clench around his heart with a cold fist.
When the men returned his sister-son's eyes had been ablaze with cold fury that his beloved horse had been injured. His lips a thin line, and his heart raging with anger as he rode behind one of his fellow riders to spare the injured horse. Rarely had Théoden seen such cold anger in him, and it worried him.
This was how Éomer's father had been lost, how he had forgot all sense and the hot fury had cost him his life and left two children without their father.
Now, after a few hours of rest and a good meal the anger still burned in his eyes, but there was a determination there also.
Long ago or so it seemed to Théoden, when Éomer had devoted so much time to train Earnwinë, Théoden had thought that perhaps the mare would eventually be a good horse for his sister to ride. He had not wanted to discourage Éomer from training her, though he did not see how the horse could ever be a warrior's horse, now, in need of a steed, Éomer had indeed insisted on taking the mare. He had saddle on her, one much smaller than Firefoot's, as the bay stood several hands shorter. She seemed steady enough amongst the men, trained to the noise and the hectic preparations, but she was untried as a war horse and she did not have the bulk of most her peers. Never before had she been ridden into any form of combat, and Théodon just could not see how she could stand the test.
"Sister-son, I would grant you the use of any other horse," he stated, his hand gently stroking the mule of the bay. "I do not seek to miss trust your judgement, for I have always known your eye to be keen and your skill great, but Earnwinë has never truly been tested. She does not know that what she will face, and I fear she may not have the heart." Snowmane, like Firefoot would bear no other rider than he as the master, but at his word, Snowmane would allow Éomer. Not gracefully, and not without objection, but Éomer was well known by the warhorse, and if Théoden commanded it, the horse would obey. Rather that, he felt, than this untried mare. "At your word, any other horse, even my own vaillant Snowmane."
"I have no need of another horse, Lord," Éomer stated, his tone firm, but his eyes warm. "And I would not ask Snowmane to suffer me, no more than I would ask Firefoot to suffer any other rider against his will. Had the need been greater, I would have thought it the highest honour, and do not think I do not know it, Uncle, but there is no need, Earnwinë shall serve me well in this. She is slight, I know, but what she lacks in her size, she makes up for in her will and heart. We shall be well, you need not fear for us, my Lord."
"Be certain that you are, Éomer," Théoden nodded with a heavy heart. He would never wish to distrust his sister-son, but the fear of an uncle will sometimes seem greater than the confidence of a King. His own sister had passed from her grief at the loss of her husband, and of her, he now only had her children. Èomer and Éowyn, both with their father's strength, and both with the demise of their parents weighting heavily on them.
If Éomer was lost to them, would he lose Éowyn as well?
He did not know, and his heart seemed to freeze at the thought of learning the truth.
Théoden had thought they would be gone for many days, so far, the Orcs when fleeing had always sought to flee fast and far from the might of the Rohirrim, but this time, already on the second day the cry came that the Riders were returning.
Hurrying out onto the front steps of Meduseld he waited as the gates were thrown open to let the green cloaked men into the city. There were two empty saddles, but the one horse was white of colour, and the other a dapple. At a count, they had lost two men, and many more had been injured. Horses had been lost he knew as some were riding double, but his eyes searched for the bay and the rider with the white horsetail on his helm. Only when his eyes saw him did he release his breath, though his heart was no lighter.
They bay limped badly, scarcely able to move with the rest, and Éomer in the saddle was hanging over her neck. Rushing down the steps to greet them he made for his own blood and kin first.
"Lord, we were ambushed," Elfhelm came forward. "The foul scum lay in wait for us ere we had gone far. They are all slain now, but there were losses. Helmüt, and Handar were lost."
"They are growing more bold and more cunning it would seem, but never before have I known them to be so bold so close," Théoden shook his head. Éomer was still slumped in the saddle, and he would know how badly his sister-son was hurt, but first he needed to see to his duty as the King of his men. "I have ordered the healers to be brought, and food for your men to be prepared. Those who are able may take care of their horses, the rest we will have tended to first of all, then you may give me your full report."
"Aye, my Liege," Elfhelm nodded, giving the order over his shoulder and men dismounted around them.
Lowering his voice for his long time friend and trusted commander alone Théoden stood himself closer as he was still seated on his horse. "How fares Èomer? I feared for him taking a horse so untrained, how badly was he wounded?"
"Crossbow bolt," Elfhelm sighed softly. "A bad enough hit, it passed through his leg and into the mare, we dared not attempt to pull it. It needs to be cut to do no more harm to man or beast."
Nodding grimly Théoden took a step back to allow his friend to dismount, giving the order to call for the blacksmith, for he would have the tools. With Elfhelm at his side he went to his kin, noting how he sat slumped in the saddle, his brown eyes hooded with pain though not a sound passed his lips.
"Éomer," he reached up a hand to his sister-son's thigh, the crossbow bolt had indeed gone through his leg, and into the shoulder of the mare. Deep, it had forced itself and Earnwinë stood favouring the leg, her eyes large and frightened.
"She has true courage, Uncle," Éomer started hoarsely. His hands were clutching tightly at the reins. "She stood fast, her heart was strong enough and she served me well."
"Aye, indeed she did," Théoden nodded, holding his hand still on Éomer's leg he let the other stroke her soft nose. She could have bolted after a hit like that, and he would not have had it in his heart to blame her. She could have panicked, and she could have thrown herself to the ground, and her rider would have perished under her. She had not, and he had done her an injustice in thinking her too weak hearted for battle. "She has proven her valour," he stated, watching a ghost of a smile come across Éomer's lips. "It will be but a moment, lad, and we will be able to see to you both."
He nodded, determined to show no weakness before his uncle and Liege, raising a gloved hand to his mouth when the bolt was cut just where the shaft was protruding from his leg. When Théoden and Elfhelm both gripped his leg, and pulled it free of the shaft, he could not stop a choked cry to escape his lips before he fell forward over the neck of the mare. Feeling the pain as sharply in his own chest, Théoden reached up his hands to guide him from the saddle.
"Inside sister-son, inside so that you do not bleed to death," he urged, for now blood was pouring from the wound and could still kill if it was not staunched.
"Earnwinë…" Éomer gripped at her mane as much of desire to aid her, as to keep himself upright. Théoden did not think him able to remain upright much longer, and so took his arm.
"Inside, and have that wound tended to, unconscious you will do her no good. She bore my sister-son home safe to me, for that alone I owe her and I will see to her now myself." He allowed a faint smile to cross over his face. "Or do you propose to once more take her into my halls? I would not begrudge her, but I think she will see better care for that wound in the stable."
"Aye, thank you, Uncle," relief clear on his face Éomer allowed Elfhelm to take his arm and drape it over his shoulders to take the young warrior into the hall with the rest of the wounded.
Théoden watched them, his heart heavy. Every patrol, every battle brought them more losses. Was it not warriors and their horses, it was the farmsteads and their crops. Black horses were stolen for some evil purpose he did not even dare guess at, and they were becoming scarce and had to be well guarded.
Taking the bridle to lead the horse to the stable he sighed as she dragged her leg. To have had to run, with the bolt still in her would have brought terrible pain to both beast and rider, and he did not think a lesser horse would have endured it. Indeed, he would not have guessed that she would have had the strength before.
Now though, he doubted she would ever do so again, even if the wound healed well enough to bear a rider, well enough for battle she would not be again.
Indeed once the wound had been tended to by their stable master the look he gave Théoden was grim and saddened. "She'll do well for breeding, and she might do for the children to learn on, but a horse for a rider she will never be again," he shook his head, stroking a hand over his heavy beard. "The bolt took too deep into the muscle, we had to cut it out. She must have tried to spare her rider as well, even if it did more harm to herself as she ran."
"It would seem Éomer was right, when he spoke of her courage," Théoden sighed softly. "I should have had more trust in him it would seem."
"You were not alone in this my Lord," the stable master smiled lightly. "For I did not see her true worth either, but in this, I do not think even Firefoot could have served him better. What would you have done with her? She'll never be a warhorse again, though I do not doubt Éomer shall find the news heavy."
"When she is well, I think she shall go to Aldburg," Théoden decided. "It shall be a good home for her, and Éomer I think shall find it satisfactory."
"Aye," the stable master nodded. "He is quite taken with her, and I do not doubt he will be saddened, but it will be good for her."
"He shall at least rejoice that she will be well," Théoden stated. "I shall give him the news as I hear their report." A little lighter was his heart as he entered his halls again. The tables were filled and the din of hungry riders echoed inside the walls. While the ambush had meant losses, they had defeated the enemy and ale now flowed freely with the hot food that was brought for them. Those who could not stand were seated on the benches, surrounded by friends and countrymen as they sung songs of victory.
Thédon did not tarry there, instead he walked through the halls to the chambers deep within. Past his own, and that of his son, he came to that of his sister-son's, the door ajar and a fire lit in the hearth.
"Uncle," it was Éowyn who spoke, and he looked to his sister-daughter, seated on a chair not far from the bed. Over her lap lay what he took to be her brother's tunic, torn. Now she laid it down on the chair to stand.
"I had hoped to come and ease your brother's mind in regards to his horse, and that of my own, in regards to his health," he stated softly. "How fares he?"
"The healer was here," Éowyn stated. "And Éomer would not heed him, but I think he tiered himself out arguing for he fell asleep soon after," she bit her lip. "He's feverish and I worry for him."
"Foul and cruel are the weapons of our enemy, they often fester and bring illness, even for slighter wounds," resting his hand on his nephew's forehead Théoden did indeed feel the heat. "Èomer is strong, do not fear for him. He shall be well soon enough again, and he shall be grateful to you for mending his tunic."
"My brother tears them so often, if I did not, he would go without," she snorted. Then her face took a sombre look. "He asked about his horse, but I had no news to give him."
"I shall do so, when he wakes," Théoden soothed her, she had grown strong and beautiful with the years. Though she would not speak it, it was love and not duty that sat her with needle and thread now. Brushing the back of his rough hand over her soft cheek he pulled her into a hug. "Firefoot could not have served him better this time, and tis is what I shall tell him. Go and take your bed, 'tis late and you need your rest as well as any. There will be time enough on the morrow for that," he nodded to the tunic. "And I shall stay here a little longer I think."
Nodding she secured the needle, a delicate one, of finest silver. Not a large bone needle, one that Éomer and Théodred had brought back from the city of Minas Tirith where there were silver smiths that outshone those of Rohan.
She paused to brush a stray lock of hair from her brother's face, and offered a soft smile to her uncle. "I think I'll go past the stable before I retire to my chambers, I think both Firefoot and Earnwinë would enjoy an apple, and I think they have earned it."
"Do so child," he smiled at her, the proud smile of a parent as he moved tunic and needle from the chair to the chest. Taking the seat instead he allowed a sigh to escape him. He doubted Éomer would wish for a spare horse anytime soon, he had loved Earwinë far too much for that. Not any horse would suit the boy either, it would take a rare and special one to catch his heart.
At least he knew that until such a horse came along, Firefoot would give his master many challenges yet. The two of them shared a bond deeper than many of the riders and their horses.
A Temporary End... Please review, the Cricket is hungry...
Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.