Chapter 1 – Éomer’s Big Mistake

It all began when Éomer, on his way home from the stables, turned the corner and found himself facing a rather ugly and smelly animal. He was so deep in thought that it took him a while to gather his wits. Black plus white stripes down its back equals skunk. Skunk!?

He turned to run, but by that time, it was too late. The nasty beast let fly with a well-aimed blast of awful smelling fluid. Luckily, Éomer had been in the process of turning and so, rather than his eyes, the back of his head caught the full force of the blow.

The stench enveloped him like a wet blanket. His eyes clouded and began to water. His lungs seemed to tighten and all breath was choked off as the horrible fumes covered him from head to foot, forcing him to gag. He could also feel the awful liquid slowly trailing its way down his head and the back of his neck. As he ran to the palace, loosing all decorum in his hurry, he could feel the cold, slimly fluid on his back. This was quickly turning into a very, very bad day.

His entry into the Golden Hall was like that of a rain cloud at a picnic, only worse. Rather than everyone calmly packing up and leaving, there were exclamations of surprise and disgust and everyone in the room grabbed their nose. Even the king, who had of late been distant and fey, felt the impact of that stench and reached hurriedly for his nose. Grima Wormtongue, standing behind the throne of Théoden King retched, causing Éowyn, standing on the other side of her uncle, to glance his way and step to the side.

"Éomer, sister-son, what malodorous odor have you brought into my home?" Théoden asked rather nasally, his nose still covered.

"I assure you, my King, that I meant no offense! I wish merely for a bath, and quickly!" Éomer replied, his eyes still watering.

"He should not be allowed to remain longer here, my Lord," Wormtongue muttered into the king’s ear, causing Éowyn to covertly stomp on his foot. He grimaced but no wail escaped his lips.

"Then, by all means, take one!" Théoden called to Éomer. "Only take it in the stables, please! Now get ye gone before you foul the rest of the palace. Éowyn will bring you fresh clothes."

With that, Éomer trailed slowly outside, wondering how in the world he had ever gotten himself into this mess.

~*~*~*~*~

Once he had bathed with prodigious amounts of the palace’s best soaps and huge amounts of water, he dressed himself in fresh clothes and stepped out of the empty stall he had occupied. He found Éowyn talking to her horse across the stable. She turned as he walked up. She was kind enough not to grab her nose, but her face wrinkled.

"It did not work, Éomer," she stated rather bluntly. "I am afraid that what the herb master tells me is true. You will have to bathe again, only this time, in the juice of tomatoes. Unfortunately, he has none on hand. I suppose you will simply have to stink until it all wears off with time."

Éomer groaned. "You know Uncle will not allow me into the palace smelling like this! Where am I going to stay?"

"You could stay in the barracks with the men, although they would, no doubt, give you grief about it. Perhaps you could go on a camping trip."

"A camping trip?" he asked incredulously, quirking an eyebrow at his sister. "Éowyn, be serious. I have duties I must perform and there are so many things to do. I cannot simply go camping, it would look ridiculous!"

"Well, my brother, it is either look ridiculous or smell ridiculous. I suppose it is your choice. Which would you do?"

Éomer glared at her for a moment. "Are you sure there are no tomatoes anywhere in the city?"

"No. I merely said that the herb master has none. Would you care to go on a tour of the city, smelling as you do, soliciting for tomatoes?"

"You could do it."

Éowyn gave her brother a rather aggravated stare, tossing her head to get her hair out of her face. "Come now, Éomer. Now you be serious. A Lady of the Royal House of Rohan, going door to door, asking for tomatoes in order that she may present them to her royal brother, Lord Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, so that he may bathe himself in their juice to rid himself of the foul smell of the skunk which he, not looking where he was going, happen to run into. Do you really want me to?"

"No, to tell you the truth, I do not. You would have the entire town know of my disgrace."

"They will anyway. Do you not think that the story is already sweeping the countryside, so that even the small villages on the outskirts of Rohan know of it? Surely you know the old women of Rohan better than that. The Old Widow was a spectator, you know."

Again Éomer felt compelled to groan, but he simply glowered instead. The Old Widow was their name for an old woman, they didn’t know if she had ever been married or not, who was the local gossip. Whenever anything happened to anyone, she was there to witness it. Éomer suddenly recalled having seen her in the royal hall as he ran in, but she had not been present as he walked out.

"Well then, what are we to do?" he asked hopelessly. "Neither you nor I wish to journey door to door and yet we still have need of tomatoes. Shall we send one of the servants?"

"It would take one person all day to visit every house in the town, you know that as well as I. Perhaps you can order the men of your company to scour the town for some. They would do it for you, I know."

A smile illuminated Éomer’s face. "I would hug you, my brilliant sister, if I smelled better! You have found the answer! I am off to beg their assistance."

~*~*~*~*~

Éomer watched, ill at ease, as his men spread throughout the town, rapping on each door in turn until they were out of view. His uncle had banished him from the palace until he no longer stank, so he was stuck standing outside far from all places of residence with Éowyn who, being rather fond of her brother, decided that he would need company, though she stood some distance from him.

"Do you see anything?" Éomer asked her presently.

"No, but I smell something," she chided him in a sisterly manner.

"Oh, dry up, Éowyn," he said, glaring at her. "Can you not forget it for just a moment?"

"No."

"Fine then, do not say anything unless you see someone coming."

"As you wish, oh Smelly One," she replied laughing.

They waited in silence for sometime, Éomer slowly getting restive and shifting his weight from one foot to the other as time dragged on. Then, suddenly, Éowyn pointed. "Look, brother," she said excitedly. "The men are returning. Perhaps they have found some!"

Éomer ran towards his approaching men, who screwed their faces up in an attempt to block out the rank stench that wafted their direction as the young Marshal hurried to them. "Have you found any?" he asked as they halted a few feet away.

"No, my Lord," his second-in-command replied. "I am sorry."

"No doubt," Éomer said ruefully, "but are you sorry for your Marshal, or yourself?"

The young man smiled. "Both, my Lord."

"Very well, you may return to your quarters."

Éomer questioned each soldier as he arrived, but from each came the same answer until Éomer had nearly given up all hope. Then the youngest, a boy of merely 17 years and the last to report back, walked up the slope towards him. "Have you found any?" Éomer asked him.

"Only this one, my Lord, and I am afraid that it will do little good." He handed his commander a rather wilted, shriveled grey tomato.

"I see," Éomer answered, rather deflatedly. "Well, I suppose you may return to your quarters. Thank you for your assistance."

Bowing, the young man turned and left, leaving brother and sister alone together once more. Éomer looked down at the tomato in his hand. The once green leaves and stem were now a sickly blackish-green, the fruit itself being the color of early morning mist, only, as a tomato, the hue left something to be desired. He turned to his sister who was also staring rather cynically at the offending fruit. "Do you think it will do?" he asked her hopefully.

"I do not know, Éomer," she said doubtfully. "I suppose we could try it and see. Come, let us return to your stall."

~*~*~*~*~

Once again Éomer found himself in the drafty stall, shivering with cold, the only change was the instead of soap and water, he was rubbing grey mush all over himself. He swore that if it did not work, he was going to go insane. The only high point in all this was the slight joy he found at seeing his sister’s mood lighten, for dark had been her spirit of late.

"Is it working?" he heard her ask from outside the high-walls.

"We shall have to wait and see," he answered grimly, all his hope dying as he spoke. "I do not know if it is me, but something in here still stinks."

"Let us hope it is not you, brother, for night approaches and if you have not rid yourself of the stench, you will have no where to sleep tonight."

"Do not remind me, sister. I am in a bad enough mood already without your assistance."

"My, we are touchy on this glorious spring evening, are we not?" she teased him. Éomer did not deign to answer. Sometimes his sister’s affectionate teasing grated just a little too much on his nerves, but he could never really be mad at her. "Do not worry, brother," she reassured him quietly, "it will work."

~*~*~*~*~

Éowyn handed yet another blanket up to her brother. "I guess I was wrong," she said as Éomer took the blanket from her.

"I guess you were," he growled somewhat testily. He was not mad at her, but rather at the skunk and Grima Wormtongue who had convinced the king not to allow him in the palace for the night. Grumbling, he rearranged all his blankets and pillows in the hay. He lay down in it, testing the comfort. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t the best either. It would just have to do.

Climbing down the ladder, he forced a smile. "I shall be fine tonight. Let me walk you back to the palace and then I shall return."

"Very well. I am sorry uncle made you miss dinner," she said apologetically as they walked through the moonlit streets of Edoras.

"Do not let it worry you, what you brought out was enough. Thank you."

"You are welcome, brother. Good night," she said as they reached the stairs of Meduseld.

"Good night, sister," he said, watching to be sure she made it inside. Once inside, she would have to fend for herself. He turned slowly and sauntered his way back to the stable. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 2 – Éomer’s Loss of Patience

Early the next morning, the palace of Meduseld was awakened by a horrible odor which had taken over the entire premises. Théoden King fled from his room, still in a loose robe. "The bloody thing has taken over my room!" he shouted fiercely, the horror of the moment retaking his mind from the clutches of the consuming evil which had overpowered him as of late.

Soon people were gathered outside the palace near the king’s window examining a rather rough hole which was placed directly under the embrasure. A foul stench wafted towards them from the hole, compelling all to wrinkle their nose in distaste. They were alerted by grunts coming from beneath the structure as the Dreaded Beast waddled out from its home in the early dawn for some unknown purpose.

The crowd scattered quickly, watching covertly from behind walls and fences as the skunk sniffed complacently and began to struggle from its den.

Éomer had awoken rather early lying on his stomach with a backache and a mouth full of hay. Sometime in his sleep he had completely rolled off the blankets and pillows, falling face-first into a pile of musty straw. It was not a good way to start the day.

He spat out the hay and dust and raised himself to his hands and knees, stretching like a cat. His belly rumbled, reminding him that last night’s fare was far from adequate. He climbed down from the loft and opened the large stable door. He found, from a quick glance at the stars, that it was just passed midnight. He groaned audibly, leaning wearily back again the door jam and closing his eyes to the unfriendly world which confronted him.

He would die before admitting it, but as a child he had been terrified of the dark, sleeping fitfully unless cradled in his mother’s loving embrace. When his parents had died, he had found solace in Éowyn who also had a fear of dark, moving shadows in the night. They had spent many a night cuddled together in Éomer’s bed talking of different things, mostly their parents or horses.

He had outgrown the fear when he turned ten, but it returned slightly now, so many years later. Without his sister, he hadn’t a friend in Edoras right now. He was alone, stranded out in the cold night air, banished from his own home and smelling of fresh horse droppings. He cursed suddenly. It had not been his wont to use such language, but growing up around soldiers had taught him many things, some of which his mother would have deplored.

He looked up to the night sky again, silently invoking his parents’ help. So many things were happening over which he had no control. His uncle’s mind was being corrupted by the Snake and he could not be reclaimed. The country was being left to the destruction of roaming orcs and here he was, locked out of his own home. He made a silent vow to always watch where he was going from now on.

He reentered the stable and crossed to Firefoot’s stall. His favorite mount was laying in the hay, his head propped up against the wall, watching his master through sleepy eyes. Éomer smiled and quietly left him to his rest. He was not completely without friends, he corrected himself. He still had his horse.

He busied himself around the stable, sweeping and tidying, chores he had hated since childhood, but now served as something, anything, to do. He was startled by a cackle from the doorway. There stood what amounted to the root of all the trouble, in Éomer’s mind anyway, namely, Grima Wormtongue. The rising sun’s light poured through the door behind Grima causing Éomer to shield his eyes, a gesture which pleased Wormtongue. He loved to be ever a cause of discomfort to the young marshal.

"What is the young commander doing this morning?" he inquired, simply oozing with sarcasm. "Oh, dear, what a shame, he is doing the stable boy’s work. This will never do. Would the young prince like me to fetch him breakfast on a silver platter? A fresh change of clothes? A few tomatoes to rid himself of his perfume?"

Éomer growled fiercely in reply, curling his lip into a snarl, and swept a large pile of dust violently in Grima’s direction causing it to fly up in a large cloud. Grima coughed and sputtered, but regained his composure for more nagging.

This continued until Éomer, having repeatedly hit Grima "accidentally" with some object or another, finished his small, self-appointed tasks and left the stable, the Worm still in tow, babbling incessantly. Éomer, intent on ridding himself of his ‘tail,’ turned his steps in the direction of the palace. With luck there would be no one else around.

They reached the palace and Éomer had no trouble finding his way to their destination. It looked as though his wish had come true. He could see no one else abroad this fine morning. He grinned evilly to himself as he saw his unknowing accomplice in crime step slowly from his den.

Éomer stopped abruptly only a few feet from his target, grabbed Wormtongue, who had not watched where they were going, and flung him bodily into the path of the skunk. He fell face first in the dirt but promptly rolled himself onto his side and looked back at his antagonist who was grinning with expectancy. Only when he turned around to stand up did Grima notice the animal, now with its tail high and pointed in his direction, only a foot away from his face.

He yelped and turned to scurry away, but not fast enough as the blast of sickly grime hit him directly in the eye. He screeched an ear-piercing screech, pawing at his eyes as they clouded with grime. They were suddenly cleared when Éomer grabbed a nearby bucket and doused him with cold water. Wormtongue leapt to his feet, swore fiercely at Éomer, then turned and fled to the safety of the palace. The entire clearing rang with laughter as those who had been hiding behind walls, houses and fences witnessed what the young marshal had done to the greasy majordomo they all despised.

~*~*~*~

Remember, this skunk is showing his nasty little face in the morning. For those of you who are wondering, yes, I do know that skunks are nocturnal, so there’s something wrong with this one. Perhaps it’s rabid or just weird. Who knows?

Chapter 3 – Éomer’s Revenge

It had been several days since this all began and Éomer was beginning to smell a little better, but his hair had been deplorable, so Éowyn had cropped it short; it now came down only to his shoulders. Needless to say, he had been loudly opposed to the idea, but there was no arguing with her and the hair came off just the same.

The one bright point in his life at the moment was that he had been allowed back in his own quarters. It mattered little now that he smelled terrible because the entire palace now reeked. They had also found that by sleeping in the loft, he had ruined several bushels of otherwise perfectly good hay. It was now unfit to feed to pigs, much less the best horses in the land.

Théoden King had moved himself from his own room to one on the opposite end of the palace usually reserved for honored guests. They had not seen Grima since the incident under the window, and frankly they did not care. Éowyn, now recovered from the hilarity of her brother’s predicament, had returned to her quieter, grimmer mood of before.

As the early morning sun’s rays lifted over the city, Éomer sat brooding on the steps of Meduseld, a small cup of mead in his hand. They had tried to keep The Hole, as it was now called, blocked as much as possible, but several of the king’s hunting dogs had managed to blunder their way to the point of no return. They were soon after found yelping and scurrying their way through the town, the now well-known smell spreading in their wake.

Éomer, growling irritably under his breath, tossed the remainder of his drink to the ground and stood, stretching his arms high over his head. He stopped suddenly in mid-stretch. There, waddling along as if he owned the place, was the accursed skunk! Éomer cursed vehemently, startling the guards at the door. "I am going to get that Yvel Feonde!"

He grabbed a spear, wrenching it from the nearest unsuspecting guard’s hand. Creeping stealthily down the stairs, he followed the beast silently around the corner. As the polecat stopped to investigate an obstacle in its path, Éomer poised, motionless for a moment, before hurling his weapon with all his might. As it hit the mark, felling the smelly, disgusting animal, Éomer let loose with the Rohirric victory cry, startling the people around him. The Awful Beast was vanquished.

An invisible cloud of fumes burst forth from the animal as it lay, skewered on the ground. It drifted in his direction, causing Éomer to gag. The stench was putrid, but at least they would soon be rid of it. He gingerly lifted his victim, holding the very end of the spear to avoid as much of the smell as possible.

He carried it until he was satisfied with his distance from the palace, then he dug a deep hole. Dumping spear and all in it, he covered it and packed it all down as much as he could, stomping until his boot soles were covered in moist dirt which Éowyn would no doubt force him to clean off the floors should he tracked it in.

Content, he slowly treaded his way back home, stopping to wipe his boots in a patch of tall grass. The King was still under the influence of the Snake, the palace still smelled, his hair was cropped short and a lot of the winter’s hay had been ruined, but things were looking up.

~*~*~*~*~ 

A/N  This is my take on why Éomer had such short hair in the movie since in the book he was supposed to have a long braid.

Also, by the time Gandalf and his companions showed up, the palace had had sufficient time to air out and Eomer no longer stank. No doubt doors were left open, windows were left unshuttered and The Hole was filled in as quickly as possible. 

Thanks go out to all who have read this far and taken the time to leave a review. Thanks for the encouragement, y’all.

Chigger