Chapter 6. Healing Hands
When Éowyn returned to the King's stables, she was half-surprised to find Elfhild there within, brushing down Théodred's horse—a spirited grey of six years, white at the feet.
"A new Rider in the ranks, set to stable-boy's work?" Éowyn said, lightly.
"Aye—sentence for 'withholding counsel of import from one's marshal,' and 'acting without leave or pressing need,'" Elfhild replied with a rueful breath. "Half a moon's time, by the Prince's word."
"That is not too harsh," Éowyn said, smiling—for it was just like Théodred: fair and firm, yet never without a trace of jest.
Elfhild cast a glance at her attire and raised a brow. "And you? What were you about? Your hauberk—"
"Yes, I know," Éowyn broke in. "And my earrings. And the braids—though those are soon mended." She looked down at her armour, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. "It seems I must seek out the smith you worked with before."
And indeed, she had grown—swiftly, and not a little. Though Elfhild was three years her elder, they now stood equal in height, and Éowyn's growth had not yet run its course at sixteen. It was often said that all the children of King Thengel stood tall among the folk of the Mark, a trait ascribed to the Lady out of the South—a gift much spoken of and well praised.
"Hold!" Elfhild cried suddenly, turning sharply to face a figure lingering near the stable gate. "What are you doing there?"
Éowyn turned—and saw Gríma, the leech. His gear was packed for travel, and an aged horse stood waiting just beyond the threshold.
He gave no answer to Elfhild, though she was one to draw the eyes of men at once. His gaze turned only to Éowyn, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth—too smooth, like oiled wood: fair to hear, yet ill to trust.
"I came to bid farewell to Lady Éowyn," he said, bowing low. "It was an honour to make her acquaintance upon the road to the city."
"You are leaving?" Éowyn asked, somewhat taken aback—for he had given no earlier sign of departure.
"Aye," he replied, inclining his head. "And I hope our paths shall cross again."
"What was that about?" Elfhild asked, frowning as she watched the man lead away his weary horse. "I would not wish my path to cross with his again—not for a long while. And he seemed known to me."
"Aye, he is the leech," said Éowyn. "Their craft is worthy of respect, but I would not wish the need for it upon any. I chanced to speak with him earlier."
She did not speak further of their meeting to Elfhild. Walking back to the Hall, she recalled it—and though the questions that had weighed on her mind had been addressed, she was left unsettled. The man was strange. He was unlike the men Éowyn had known all her life: broad of shoulder, and proud of it; men who held honour and valour above all, who spoke plainly, and who loved and hated with equal force.
This one was slight of frame, his words smooth and courteous, but with a manner of humility that bred not trust. And though she had not spoken her thoughts aloud, he spoke of her grandmother once more—unbidden—as though he had read them.
"My father had the honour of serving the late King," he had begun thus. "He advanced the craft of healing with knowledge passed down by the Queen. Our allies in Gondor surpass us in such arts, as all would grant, and she brought that lore with her—lending aid in times of plague."
He paused, as though awaiting a question. But she remained silent. After a moment, he went on.
"Your grandmother was no warrior—but she wore mail, once."
Seeing her eyes turn toward him now, he spoke on.
"To the barracks—when the need was dire in Westfold, and a muster was called in Edoras. I was a boy then, and I saw her. She looked not queenly in the ill-fitting gear… but she shone, as if in cold light. She bore no blade—only bandages and salves. 'If you would bleed for the Mark,' she said, 'you must also learn to staunch the bleeding.'"
Another pause. His voice dropped almost to a murmur.
"You shone in that same light, for a moment, down there."
She had not expected it. The words, quiet though they were, struck more keenly than they ought. There was something in the man's tone—unsettling, almost seeking—that set her on edge. She became suddenly aware of how close he walked beside her, and how intently he watched.
No man had ever dared speak to her so—not with Éomer always near, and the favour she bore from the King and the Prince so openly known. Among the folk of Edoras, she was held in love and deep respect—sometimes even in awe—but never thus.
"My brother was right," she said, her voice cool. "I am not for your trifling words. Thank you for what you have told me of my grandmother, Master Gríma—but we had best part ways here."
That evening, Éomer was late to supper. Éowyn had bid the kitchen keep food warm for him, and when at last he returned, he bore a mingled air of excitement and vexation.
"Congratulations on your first day leading the ride," she said as he sat beside her. "I did not mean to mar it."
"Aye, I know—and you did not," he replied, his tone easing as he looked at her. "It was gladdening, in truth, to see you out there before the company rode forth." He turned back to his meal. But after a pause, he added, "Keep clear of that leech—he was fortunate to be gone when he was. He ought to learn what is and is not fitting. If he ever dares to trouble you again, speak to me at once."
She blinked, taken aback. "There is no need for concern—I mean to do just that. But how did you know he had gone?"
Éomer did not look up from his plate. "The stablemaster told me. Said some pale fellow followed you to the stables, but Hild turned him away—and well she did, say I. She has my thanks."
Éowyn rested her elbows lightly on the table, watching him. "You meant to seek him out?"
"I asked, that was all," Éomer muttered between bites, and then added, under her quiet, steady gaze, "Though I would have sought him out, aye." He took a long draught, then leaned back, his ire cooling. "He should not have spoken so of you—that pretentious, presumptuous, wretched creature."
Éowyn shared his unease, but felt he had already overstepped, and so kept to herself what the man had said afterward—pretentious and presumptuous though it was, it ought not to warrant a duel that might end in blood.
And she had not seen the man again until two years later, when she turned eighteen.
She was now taller than most maids in Edoras, no longer in the boy's shape but a young woman in bloom. Her presence at court had become the norm. The King's trust in her only deepened, as he began to feel the first signs of age—groaning as he rose from his chair or stretched in the morning. "My old bones are growing stiff," he would say, then glance at Théodred to silence any remark before it came.
He asked her to read the letters—mainly those from Gondor and the Lord Steward—to record the names of new recruits, merchants, and refugees, and to keep tally of the arms and provisions needed to hold all in order. Working with Master Gléowine had become a daily duty, and she was glad for her years spent learning book-lore as she grew up.
She sparred and rode less, but never gave it up. Elfhild was a captain now—though not yet a marshal. Tested and tempered by patrols and skirmishes along the western marches, she was like a blade unsheathed: her beauty, weathered by sun and scar, was overlooked by some, but all the more striking in Éowyn's eyes. Stationed in Westfold, she returned at whiles to Edoras to see her kin, and it was as Éowyn stood at the city gates to see her off one morning that she heard a familiar voice.
"It has been long indeed, lady," it said, "And heart-warming it is, to find Meduseld still proud upon its hill—and the Lady of Rohan gleaming brighter than the hall that crowns it."
Both young women turned, and Elfhild, after a moment's reflection, remembered who he was and muttered, "Shall I strike him now, and be done with it?"
But before Éowyn could answer, the man stepped back and bowed.
"Though ever a pleasure to behold you, my lady, I must away to duties long overdue—there are folk here in need of my craft. And as I passed the outer fields, I glimpsed the Prince's banner to the west. He should be arriving ere long."
The joy of hearing of Théodred's return overcame her. It had been many months since the Prince had ridden to Hornburg to aid Erkenbrand in holding the defense against the Dunlendings. Éowyn had not seen him in all that time.
"Come," she said to Elfhild. "Pay him no heed. I would see my cousin with my own eyes—and meet him on the road."
Afterwards, of course, Éomer grumbled about her riding out without proper escort—as was his wont—and Théodred, as ever, came to her defence, though not without a firm reminder of the peril. All was as it had ever been: familiar, fond, and well known to her.
The return of the leech to the city slipped from everyone's thoughts, until one morning, early in the new year, the King failed to appear at breakfast. A serving maid ran back, breathless, reporting that the King was stricken with a high fever.
He had been hale and strong the night before—but by dawn, the illness had taken him. He lay now in a burning fever, lost to the world in a heavy stupor. Éowyn, seated beside him, pressed a cool cloth to his brow, which burned like glede, and had just wrung it afresh when Théodred stepped in, plainly in haste.
"The King is ill," she said. "We must send for a leech."
Notes
There is very little personal background about Gríma—only that he was a counsellor to the King, and that his father's name was Gálmód. Drawing on what is given in Unfinished Tales, and the use of the word "leechcraft" in LotR, I chose to make his heritage that of a leech, as was his father's before him—a role through which he gained easy access to the King's daily life, and thus rose in time to the position of counsellor.