Chapter 9. The Fallen

Of late, the King had grown ever more reliant upon Éowyn, since war had broken out upon the western borders.

He had begun to seek her presence, and would fret or murmur if she were not near. He would not let her pass from his sight, but kept her close from morning until late, though he indeed asked little of her—as though her nearness alone were a balm to his spirit, like a drowning man clinging to a shard of driftwood upon a dark tide.

Éowyn found herself no longer able to tend to the affairs of the court beyond the council sessions. And even there, the King had grown more wilful of late, speaking with a newfound resolve—though by now, it was no surprise that his words so often bore the shape and shadow of Wormtongue's speech.

She was troubled by this change, fearing for a time that the King's strength and mind had waned yet further. The dread of losing him grew anew within her, and she tended him in all the ways she could: bringing fresh, fragrant herbs sought with care even in the lean days of winter, listening attentively to his wandering recollections of years long past, and seeing to his every need with diligence. At first, she was also concerned that she would be compelled to endure more of Wormtongue's presence, for that man now seldom strayed from the King's side. But her unease was soon in part allayed, thanks to Éomer: the King gave orders that two guards should remain ever at Wormtongue's side, "to shield him from insolence—and from certain inappropriate threats."

It was not long after Théodred assumed full command of the military that Éomer sought her out, asking after Gríma—and whether that man had ever done anything that might rightly be deemed unwelcome, or a cause for alarm.

"Speak, Éowyn," he had said to her in private, his voice low, yet charged with urgency and restrained wrath. "You must know—I stand with you, now and always."

She was put on her guard, yet her voice remained steady. "What is it, brother?"

He did not answer at once. A long breath passed between them.

"I—and Théodred—beheld him… following after you. And the way he looked—" He met her eyes then, grey to grey, unwavering. "For that look alone, I would call him forth to answer."

Yet he could not—for Wormtongue, well aware of his intent and loath to face his wrath, had struck first. He had contrived to secure the King's protection, and in addition to the guards, the King himself laid a warning upon Éomer: that in the Hall, no man was to draw sword.

When Éomer was called to depart for Aldburg once more, he was visibly troubled. Éowyn had seldom heard him speak so much to her in a single evening—from how late she ought to stay awake, to what food she should give heed to—and so, ere she bade him goodnight, she showed him the dagger she had carried ever since the loss of Elfhild.

"I regret beyond words that you must bear this, sister," he said at last, and clasped her hand firmly. "But wait—only a little longer. Wait for us to set all in order. We shall rid the Hall of this snake."

"It is our uncle and King for whom I fear the more. As for myself, I can fend well enough. But you—do take care as well," was all she said in return.

Later she thought, with both relief and a strange sense of loss, that he had changed—and for the better. He did not overreach as much this time, as though beginning to accept the truth that, however willing, he could not shield her from all of this alone. That truth angered him, and brought him frustration—but it also brought growth.

He was soon nominated to the rank of Third Marshal, though not without scrutiny and doubts stirred by Wormtongue: "Are we to encourage this restlessness, this unruliness of youth, that sets itself against the wisdom of both the King and his Heir?" But Théodred stood by his cousin, and with a wry smile and calm authority, dismissed the charge: "Or are we to foster this folly, this suspicion more often found among the faint of heart, that sets us against sound judgment, and turns us one against another?" And so it was done.

Now that his long labour in fortifying Aldburg for war had at last borne fruit, he could return to Edoras more often than before; the Riders under his command formed a great part of the city's defence, and Elfhelm was frequently called away by the needs of Théodred.

Théodred. Her heart turned ever more anxiously toward him. She missed him keenly, and was swift to read each message that came from the west, in whatever little time she could spare from the King's side. It had been more than a month now since last she saw him, and already the season was turning to early spring. With war now waged openly against Saruman and his allies, the Prince and Second Marshal had removed his seat to Helm's Deep, whence he now directed the defence of the Fords and the western marches.

It was just past noon when Éowyn heard the horn sounded at the gate—a single blast, short and sharp, not the long cry that welcomed returning riders. She paused, listening where she sat. The King had finished his morning drill and now dozed by the hearth in his chamber. Wormtongue was not about; he had been rather busy of late—no doubt spreading fresh lies and sowing discord, she thought coldly.

She rose in silence and withdrew. The horn signalled a messenger, and she had not been able to look to the tidings these past three days, for the King had taken a sudden turn—weaker than was his wont—and had only now begun to mend. When she stepped through the doors of the Hall and stood atop the high stair, she saw that the sun hung high, yet veiled by a thin drift of cloud, and the air was still. But the wind had turned in the night, and now blew keen from the East.

Guards saluted her as she passed. When she reached the foot of the stair, she saw a messenger being led up in plain haste. One glance told her all: something grave had come to pass. Dust-covered and hollow-eyed, his hair clung to his brow, and his hands trembled with the weariness of long and hard riding. As he and the gate-guard beheld her, he bowed at once, clearly recognising who she was.

"My lady," he said—and no more. His throat moved once, then twice.

She stepped forward. "What news?"

Her calmness seemed to lend the man strength.

"The Fords," he said at last. "The Fords were attacked."

She grimaced. Dire news indeed—but not unexpected. They had long known that, to invade Rohan, the troops of Isengard must first strike at the Fords.

But the messenger had not finished. He looked at her with a helplessness that could not be explained by the weight of such tidings alone. Meeting his gaze, her heart sank.

"What is it?" she said—quietly, yet with a steady command that permitted no evasion.

"The King's son is fallen," he forced the words from his lips with great effort, and avoided her eyes. "The night before last, at the Fords."

All sound fled. It was as though the wind itself had been struck dumb.

She stood still as stone. Her hands, which but moments before had rested lightly at her sides, now clenched into fists so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She did not move. She did not speak. She did not breathe. She did not think. Her mind was swept bare, and her gaze grew hollow, as if all meaning and sense had, in that instant, forsaken the world.

It was a voice from behind—feeble, trembling, and uncertain—that called her back.

"Daughter," it said. "Why are you out here? It is so cold."


Éowyn did not know how she had supported the King back inside, to his warm, fire-lit chamber. Her body moved without her mind's command, as though she had become an empty shell, acting on instinct alone—as if thought itself had perished within her. She did not know how to speak the news to her uncle—and even if she did, she was not certain he would understand. He seemed utterly bewildered. When at last the old man fell asleep again, after no small measure of care and quiet reassurance, she rose once more, passed into the Hall, and felt the cold settle upon her like creeping frost.

The messenger had been received by Master Gléowine, as she remembered—with what remained of her mind. And so her steps turned that way, to the east wing, where the King's scholar was wont to work. As she approached, Gléowine rushed out, his face pale as snow—he had, it seemed, already heard the tidings. But when he spoke, his words were not of consolation, as she had expected—and could not have withstood.

"My lady," he said, in a tone grave and unwavering, "you must hear this."

She was led to his study, where scrolls and parchment lay scattered about them—records half-read and hastily set aside. The messenger was there, seated now, some small measure of vigour restored.

"The Fords were attacked two days ago," Gléowine began, "and the Marshal, Elfhelm, received the Prince's summons and set out at once. Edoras has since had no further word—"

"But the Marshal left word!" the messenger broke in, though plainly wearied. "The Prince called for aid, and the Marshal answered without delay—but he also sent the alarm, requesting reinforcements before he rode out, for more would be needed if it came to open war. Of this, Lord Erkenbrand was made aware."

In her numb, slow mind—thickly clouded by a suffocating darkness—a flash of lightning tore through. The words struck her with the weight of a blow, but deeper still was the chill that bloomed in her chest. Amid the maelstrom of grief and disbelief, something cold was beginning to take shape.

The sudden change in the King's condition. How she had been kept from all matters beyond the council sessions. A suspicion had taken root—and now, she had to be certain.

"Tell me everything," she commanded, with a calmness unnatural, yet strangely well-suited—dismissing their concern with a silent, unwavering gaze. And so she heard it all—the battle, the loss, the still-unclear aftermath, and the Prince's final words. She listened with a face set as steel.

Then, without a word, driven by a sudden renewal of strength, she turned and went straight to the chamber where the daily affairs of the realm were handled. Scrolls, letters, and loose pages lay scattered across the long table—records of duty and routine, dry as dust, lifeless as old bones.

She searched—quick, but methodical. At last, beneath a cluster of lesser reports—livestock, fodder, a scribbled request for woollen cloaks—she found it: a note from Elfhelm, bearing the Marshal's hand and seal, and marked urgent. It was addressed to the King, but unopened. With a trembling hand, she broke the seal.

It was a summons for aid, plainly written in haste—urging the King to send Éomer with all the Riders he could spare, and echoing the counsel sent this very day by Lord Erkenbrand, who had further advised: "Let the defence of Edoras be made here in the West, and not wait until it is itself besieged." Dated two days past. [1]

Slowly, she sank into a chair and sat in the dim chamber, until the candle guttered low, the crumpled message clenched tight in her fist.

"It saddens me greatly," came a voice from the doorway, soft and cloying, as if out of nowhere—when it seemed an age had passed. "To see you so troubled and grieved, my lady. How tragic, for our beloved Prince—"

"Silence," was the first word she had spoken in hours. Rising and turning, she faced him, her voice ragged, stripped of all warmth. "Spare me your words. You never loved him."

The man who was named Wormtongue by her cousin slipped into the chamber, cloaked in shadow, dressed all in dark—like an ill omen. "It is unwise, my lady, to refuse consolation freely offered for your comfort."

"My comfort is none of your concern," she said, staring at him, unable to fathom how he could speak with such shameless boldness. "All I see is you gloating over the fallen—for it was you, you who sought to withhold his further aid."

Wormtongue recoiled slightly—not in shame, but in faint surprise, and with calculated retreat. "That, lady, is a grave charge."

She cast the note at his face. It struck its mark, though he did not flinch.

"He despised you—and rightly," she said, her voice cracking with wrath, her fists clenched—not in fear, but with the effort of restraint.

"Yes, of course he did," the man murmured. "These powerful, simple men—always bristling with swords and fury, always adored, always loved for it."

There was something in his tone that stilled her blood—poisonous, thick with envy and long-harboured spite. Yet she stared at him, unwilling, yet unable to look away—like a bird caught in the gaze of a serpent.

"And all those High Men—ever condescending, as though all wisdom were theirs—like those allies, the ones of Gondor," he whispered, stepping nearer. "Gondorians, Eorlingas—what sets them apart, save that long ago their forebears cast their lot with the power that prevailed, and so reshaped the world?

"But it does not last, lady. No—the world of Men ever changes, and so too does our fate. The time has come again to choose wisely—to align ourselves with those who shall shape what remains, when the tide turns."

"And who are they?" she asked, her voice sharp and cold as steel. "Whom do you truly serve?" She stepped forward and looked at him levelly, for she was of a height with him, if not taller.

"Have you considered," she said slowly, the words rising unbidden, yet so naturally, like water from a spring, "that the Men of old did not choose out of greed or fear, but for good and for evil? These allies you praise—does this power you serve sow deceit, treachery, and betrayal for gain? Then it is evil. It is the voice of the Shadow. We have heard it before, in the dark years long past. And the House of Eorl shall never hearken to it."

Gríma laughed softly then—a laugh without mirth, only scorn.

"The House of Eorl," he repeated, his tone thick with mockery. "I have never understood from whence this pride arises, my lady—despite the regard, and yes, the affection, that I bear for you."

She shuddered at his open declaration—not in fear, but in revulsion.

"The Golden Hall you treasure is but a thatched hall of wood," he went on, "the heritage you boast, no more than the dream of a herdsman's song. Where is the splendour, when your King is old and frail? Where is the Rider, when the world no longer trembles beneath their hooves?"

He stepped back into shadow.

"The world has changed, lady. Rise and embrace the new power—or fall, and perish with the old."


She returned to her chamber, exhausted, and bolted the door behind her. She stood with her back against it, and stillness closed around her.

At first, she thought she did not—and could no longer—weep, for she was utterly numb, as though the very capacity had been taken from her.

But then—a wetness bloomed upon her breast, darkening the linen of her gown. She looked down, bewildered, and only then did she realise her cheeks were wet with tears.

Her sorrow came not as a storm, but as a tide. In the darkness, impenetrable as ink, with the walls seeming to close in about her, she slid to the floor and curled there—wordless, trembling.

She dared not sob aloud—not here, not now, not with ears perhaps behind every wall, not with the serpent listening for weakness—so she wept as soundlessly as she could, her breath catching, her chest tight, struggling for air.

Only then, in the fog brought on by near suffocation, did she dare to think of him—Théodred: her cousin, dear as a brother; her teacher and guide; her liege-lord to be, and her most trusted friend. Buried in haste, far away, with no pyre, no funeral, no song. The one who had watched over her not from duty, but from love—who had known her heart and never mocked it.

She thought of his voice, and of his laughter, of the strength in it—so often wry, so often steady. She thought of his hand on her shoulder, and of the way he used to call her little sister, though he had ceased once she came of age. She thought of the way he stood, the way he strode, the way he rode—tall and proud, yet always with a light-hearted charm, commanding even silence with ease. She had grown so accustomed to his presence—and to her brother's—that she had never imagined he could be taken. So suddenly, and by a viciousness wrought in the dark.

And her brother. Éomer. Éomer was away in Eastfold—or was he still? Did he know? Where was he now? Would he be safe? Or would the next dawn bring another blow, another name to mourn?

Was this her lot now? To endure, to wait, to persist—in this Hall whose splendour was fading, whose gold had lost its sheen—watching one she loved waste away, while others, one by one, fell into peril? To listen in silence, to bear it all, yet hold no power to mend it, nor to turn its course, nor to forestall its coming?

She stared into the dark, her fingers digging into the wooden floor.

I am done with enduring, she told herself. Béma bear me witness—I shall endure in silence no longer.

She rose then—not steady, but resolute—and reached for her dagger. It lay well hidden at her side. But a wave of dizziness struck her, and she swayed, catching herself with a hand upon the table before her mirror, for she had taken neither food nor drink since noon.

Something cool touched her fingers then. Bracing herself, she groped and closed her hand around it.

It was the wing-shaped silver comb, once owned by her grandmother. Slowly, she closed her fingers around it. The wing-tips dug into her palm, drawing blood, but she did not flinch—as though pain had no claim upon her.

Steel endures—and it cuts. So she thought, a coldness rising from the depths of her despair. If it must come to blood, so be it.


Notes

[1] Erkenbrand's words are quoted from Unfinished Tales. In the same passage, it is said: "But Gríma used the curtness of this advice to further his policy of delay." This I read as evidence that Gríma had already been employing delay—deliberately aiding Saruman's design to see Théodred slain at all costs.