Be Not Far From Me

Éowyn stretched and stifled a groan as she awoke.  Her neck was as stiff as a board, and her eyes were caked with sleep.  She glanced around the room blearily for a moment before realising where she was.

Éomer had returned with Théodred but two days past.  Rohan’s Prince was gravely wounded and Éowyn had sat with him through the days and nights, for there were none she could trust to sit with him.  Éomer had vanished, none knew why or where, and Elfhelm was not at court.  She must have succumbed to sleep at some stage, though she could not remember when.

She touched Théodred’s forehead to check his fever and drew her hand back in horror.  It was so cold – cold as the sausage stored in the icehouses of Meduseld in winter.  She would not…she did not believe it.

She shook him gently, calling his name.  It wasn’t possible, he couldn’t be, he wasn’t… “Théodred.  Wake up Théodred.  Wake up.”  He did not stir and she bit back a sob, calling him again, “Théodred!  Wake up, Théodred…Please”

He still did not move and for a moment she sat back on her heels, and then she shook him harder, calling him again and again, “Théodred, please, please don’t go.  You’re not dead, you can’t be dead…please don’t leave me.”

She kissed his hand over and over again tears threatening to steal her voice “Please Théodred, please don’t leave me…don’t leave me here alone…please I’ll do anything, I’ll try, I’ll try to be stronger, to do better, just please, please don’t leave me here…I’ll do anything, I will, just please, please don’t go.”  Her voice increased in pitch as she spoke and she found herself shaking him in anger, all but shouting at him, “No.  No.  You can’t die, you can’t!  I need you, please Théodred, I love you, please don’t go!”

He was still and silent, and finally the sobs she had restrained burst forth.  She lifted her cousin by the shoulders, yelling at him through her tears, “Ne beo ge nateshwon deade Théodred!  Ne beo ge nateshwon deade!”  He fell back, silent on his pillows, and Éowyn wept at last her bitter tears, cushioning her head on his chest.

She did not know how long she wept at her cousin’s bedside, but at last she stood, her eyes dry, but bitter from the many tears she had shed, and went to her Uncle.  She told him of Théodred’s death – and he did nothing.  He did not seem to understand what had happened – he looked at her and there was no recognition in his eyes.  She wanted to shriek, to tear that dreadfully blind old face; but she was so tired.  She was worn down; thoughts of Théodred sapped all her strength.

She went briefly to her chamber, and washed and changed her clothing, for the Lady of Rohan must always present her fairest aspect to the world.  She felt as though a thick woollen veil came between her and all the world, and she was numb with it.  Her head ached, and her movements were deliberate, as though she were wading through porridge. 

She filled a bronze basin with water, and brought it to her cousin’s room.   Though when they laid him out he would be cleansed, she wanted to rid his body of the worst of the stains upon it.  She rinsed a pure white linen cloth in water and gently wiped away the blood and sweat that remained on Théodred’s body.  She set her lips and focused her will on maintaining a steady hand for the task.  She could not look upon his face, for it would break her resolve, and so she held back her tears until she had placed his coverlet over him once more.

Then she wept as though the last part of her heart had broken; she looked upon Théodred’s fair face and wail after wail broke from her throat.  He it was who had taught her the blade, who had tucked her in at nights when the darkness was still full of terrors.  He had eased her heartache, and lightened her days with laughter, and now he was gone.  She clasped his hand in hers and whispered a brief petition that he would reach the halls of their fathers; but though she had faith that they would welcome Théodred with the love and honour he so richly deserved it did not comfort her. 

She heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and knew whom it must be.  He had come to gloat – to pick over her sorrow and feed on the parts that pleased him most.  She straightened her spine and kissed Théodred’s hand, promising him that she would not let it happen.  Rohan would not fall; Grima and his master would not have victory, not while she had strength left.  If she had to slit his throat with her own sword, and so be damned, well then so be it.  She would not let it happen, she swore it by the blood of Eorl that ran through her veins.

Her interlude with Grima was painful and for the second time she fled from him.  For a moment she had been almost beguiled by his words – what was there left to fight for?  Théodred was dead, Éomer gone and Théoden…Théoden had passed beyond anyone’s reach.  And so she had considered his words, and all that was weak in her had longed to lay down her shield, to let him win, to cease the struggle that cost her so many pangs, but she held firm. 

Still as she watched the white horse upon green blow away as dust in the wind, she wondered if there was any virtue in such strength.  She could not save Rohan, she could not even save her own kin, and all her promises to her Prince were in vain.  She felt a grim certainty that Rohan would fall – there was naught she could do to prevent it – and now the thought brought only a dull resignation to her heart.  There was nothing she could do – the storm might blow itself into nothingness, or it might blast them all as sheaves of grass, she could only wait.

And so she turned and returned to her hall, though she noted three riders making their way through Edoras.  She walked through the hall, planning on making her way to the kitchens, to find food for the King.  The knife in her boot was not tucked in far enough, and the hilt scraped at her ankle – she wondered how long it would be before she would be called upon to use it.  She bent to secure it, hopping a little until she managed to lean against the wall for support.  It took her some moments to replace the blade, and when she straightened up she heard a voice that kindled hope in her heart anew.  She walked back up the corridor, increasing her pace as she became that yes, it was he. 

As she entered the hall the word “Greyhame” died on her lips.  Gandalf threatened her Uncle with his staff, she could not fathom why.  She stared at the scene for a moment, and then darted forward.  She would hinder it if she could – Théoden should not suffer any more. 

But she was pulled back.  Strong hands held her arms, and the man, a dark man, hissed, “Wait!” in her ear.  She would have all but fainted in shock from the touch – none touched the Lady of Rohan save her kin, and even that was rare – but all her energy was concentrated on what lay before her.  Théoden spoke to the wizard in white, but it was not with the voice of her Uncle.

She started forward when she heard the words “If I go, Théoden dies,” but the man’s hands held her firm, and she watched as the confrontation built to its peak.  And at the last moment, when she thought verily her Uncle and her King had fallen, he changed.  Théoden became, before her very eyes, the man she had known in her girlhood.  The man who had inspired respect and awe in all around him, not pity.  And he knew her name. 

Things moved swiftly then, and Grima was cast from Meduseld.  The dark man convinced her Uncle not to kill him, and Éowyn wondered that she did not feel any lust for the Wormtongue’s death, but inside she was only desolate.  The wind plucked at her dress and hair, and she looked at the elf beside her, and the crushing weight that was her grief for Théodred fell upon her once more.

She heard Théoden’s say, “Where is Théodred?  Where is my son?” and looked up to see all eyes upon her.  She made her way down the steps as her Uncle searched the faces around him, trying to find that which was most beloved.  He looked upon her with relief and said, “Éowyn, sister-daughter, know you where Théodred is?”

She motioned desperately with her hands, and said, “Uncle will you not come inside?”

“Where is he Éowyn?”

“I will tell you Uncle, but please, let us return to the hall.”

“Éowyn where is my son?”

He had all but roared the last sentence at her, and she paused screwing up the courage to tell him, to see the pain chase across his face.  She took one of his hands and said, “He is dead Uncle.  He was ambushed by orcs and the wound was mortal.  He died some time in the night, I know not when.”  She watched his face collapse and felt as though a knife had sliced through her heart.

“My son?  My heir?”

She reached out to him, saying, “Uncle?” but he pulled back with a low cry of “Leave me!”  He walked past her, and returned to the Golden Hall.  She wanted to follow him, but thought better of it.  Some griefs could only be borne alone.

She stood for a moment in contemplation, and then looked up.  The dark man stared at her, and as she glanced around she saw that all eyes were upon her.  She could not endure it, and so she made her way to the stables, ignoring those few who called to her.  She saddled Windfola as swiftly as she could, her hands shaking as she cinched the knots.  She was all but ready to go, when a commanding voice gave her pause.

“Lady Éowyn where are you going?”

“Greyhame?  I thank you for your healing of my Uncle…”

“Why do you saddle your horse?”

“I must leave, I cannot stay.  Please, let me go; it will be only for a moment.”

“Surely the lady of Rohan cannot be so desperate to ride the plains?”

“I am my lord.  I have been confined to Edoras for nigh on year, and I must get out!”  She realised that she was upon the point of breaking down, and thought that she would be shamed beyond imagining if she wept in front of the wizard.

“Lady Éowyn, it is too dangerous.”

“I can defend myself Gandalf!  And I shall not wander far from the city walls.”

“Go then, but mind that you return with all speed.”

“I will.”

She mounted Windfola, and rode swiftly from the stables and out through the gates of Meduseld.  Soon she was hunched over the mare’s neck, tears streaking her cheeks as she urged her horse to greater and greater speed.  If she rode fast enough she could not hear the sobs that tore through her body.  The wind dragged her hair out behind her and Éowyn laughed bitterly – she had longed for that very sensation for months.

At last she came to a stop.  She wiped her eyes roughly on her sleeve, and turned Windfola for the ride back to Edoras.  She tightened her hands on the reins when she saw that she had been followed.  Even now he approached her, and the fury in her blood determined that she would not allow him to catch her.

She dug her heels into Windfola’s sides and raced for Meduseld.  She did not care if her pursuer wounded himself or his horse in his attempts to catch up with her – she hoped in fact that he did.  She did not look back, but prayed that he was not too close.  Her face was tear-stained, and she felt unhinged – the last thing she wanted was the challenge of sustaining scrutiny. 

When she reached the stables, she discovered that he had indeed followed her back to Edoras, for he was stabling his horse beside hers.  As he dismounted she turned away from him and ignored his approach until he said, “My lady.”

She turned then, and answered him, “Yes?”

“I hope I have not caused offence.”

“Why did you follow me?”

“Gandalf asked me to accompany you – the plains are dangerous for a rider alone.  He did not wish the lady of Rohan to ride forth unprotected.”

“I do not need your protection!  I need to be left alone!  Can I not even grieve for my cousin in peace?”

“My lady I did not intend to intrude…”

She turned away from him, more tears stinging her eyes.  “Well you did!  I am surrounded by people always; is it so much to ask that you grant me a moment’s peace?”

He said nothing, and she took a few deep breaths, containing herself once more, and turned to face him, saying, “Who are you?  And where did you get a horse of Rohan?”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, a ranger of the north, and Hasufel was granted me by Éomer, Marshal of the Mark.”

She stared at him in shock, “You have seen Éomer?  When?  Where did this happen?  He was in health?”

His eyes widened, and she answered his unspoken question, “He is my brother, and I have been greatly worried for him since he left.”

He was about to answer her when a voice called out from the entrance, “Lady Éowyn?”  It was Hama, and as he approached he smiled at her, glad to have his King returned to him.

“What is it Hama?”

“King Théoden awaits you my lady.  Preparations must be made for Théodred’s funeral.”

“Of course.”

She nodded at Aragorn, and followed Hama.  As she made her way to Meduseld she bid her fathers once again to welcome Théodred to their halls and grant him a place by the fire.

Author’s Note

I have diverted into movie-canon for this chapter, and shall for the next.  I hope this does not cause too much irritation, as it was necessary.  Unfortunately however I could not divert so far from canon as to allow Théodred to live. The title comes from Psalms 22:11 in the Bible - "Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help."

Glossary

Ne beo ge nateshwon deade - You will not die at all