Chapter 13- Caged

After a fitful night’s sleep, I awoke to the sound of soft voices. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Or at least he was last night. The healers say it will take time for him to recover his strength, and he is still in shock over his father. They have not told him the manner of his death yet, for which I am grateful. I believe that it would be too much for him right now,” an unfamiliar voice was saying. I wondered who he was talking about as he continued with a sigh, “I have not been able to visit him this morning, nor will I be able to, it seems. And how is your sister?”

“It is hard to say.” That was Éomer. “Even if she was in pain, she would never speak of it. But she is troubled, more deeply than I had thought.” I fought down my embarrassment at this as best as I could, not wanting him to know I was listening. “How could I have let things go this far?” he continued, self-recrimination obvious in his voice. “I knew that all was not well with her even back in Edoras, but I never dreamed that it would come to this.”

“I do not know if there is anything you could have done to prevent her from coming, Éomer,” the other man said. “But she is safe, at least as safe as anyone in these lands can be now.”

“Yes, and I owe you a great debt for that. If you had not seen that she was still alive…” Éomer’s voice trailed off, and a pang of guilt struck me; I had not realized that he was so distraught. Though my brother was by no means timid about speaking his mind, it was not usually like him to talk so openly about his feelings. “I know that this meeting is important, Imrahil, but I cannot leave her yet. I promised her that I would still be here when she wakes.”  

Before the other man could respond, I finally allowed myself to stir a little in order to give him the impression that I was just waking up. A muffled groan that I could not quite stifle escaped my lips as the slight movement caused another bolt of pain to shoot down my left arm. “Éowyn!” Éomer exclaimed, beside me in an instant as I opened my eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asked with concern in his voice.

“A little better,” I said hesitantly. The ache in my muscles from the journey had lessened to a mere stiffness, and my head no longer felt as if it was being split open. Even the pain in my broken arm had eased somewhat. My sword-arm still felt stiff and cold, but I thought that would go away soon. At least I hoped so. Seeing that he was once more clad in his armor—if he had even taken it off at all—I asked, “Are you going somewhere?”

He nodded. “The lords of Gondor have called for a council to discuss what action we should take next. I do not know how long I will be gone—will you be all right?”

“Yes, I will be fine,” I said, slowly forcing myself into a sitting position and drawing the blanket up over the shift I was wearing. I hoped the simple movement would be enough to convince Éomer that I had improved during the night, though it drained my strength far more than I had expected it to.

It seemed to work. “I should go then,” he replied, reluctantly standing up. As he did, I looked towards the door to see a tall man standing there, obviously of Gondor. His raven hair was slightly touched by grey around his temples, and his grey eyes regarded me with a piercing gaze. Oddly, he had an air about him that reminded me a bit of the Elves I had encountered recently. Éomer followed my gaze. “Forgive me for my rudeness,” he said, looking back at me. “Éowyn, this is Prince Imrahil, Lord of Dol Amroth.”

“My lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am glad to see that you are recovering.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I said politely, glancing over at Éomer.

He understood the unspoken question and quietly explained, “Lord Imrahil is the one who discovered that you were still alive after the battle.” I nodded, and Éomer squeezed my hand gently. “I will return as soon as I can,” he said, turning to Imrahil and adding, “Let us go.”

Once the two men had left, I studied my surroundings. The room was tiny, barely able to hold the sparse furnishings. There was only the bed I sat upon, a small table with a pitcher and water basin upon it, the high-backed wooden chair that Éomer had pulled beside the bed, and a narrow wardrobe against the opposite wall. The walls, instead of being stone as I had originally thought, were covered in a creamy white plaster that took on a slightly golden hue in the morning light. A small fireplace of light brown-streaked stone had been built into the wall that stood opposite of the bed, with several candles resting on the mantle. The same brown stone had been used to pave the floor. There was one window in the room; judging by the way the light came in, it seemed to be facing north.

I roughly pushed the blankets off, shivering slightly as the cool morning air penetrated the simple linen nightshift that I was wearing, and carefully swung my legs off the edge of the bed. The stone felt almost unbearably cold under my bare feet, and I hastily jerked them back. Now that I was fully sitting up, I could see a wooden chest at the foot of the bed and my cloak lying on top, neatly folded even though it bore traces of blood and grime from the battle.

I gingerly set my feet on the ground once more and stood up, closing my eyes and grabbing the wooden bedpost for support as the room began to tilt a little. After a few tentative steps, I finally ended up collapsing back onto the mattress and closing my eyes, feeling strangely exhausted. How can a broken arm make me so weak? I wondered in frustration. Though it was little more than a childhood memory, I was nearly certain that my strength had not been so easily sapped the last time I had similarly injured myself.

Not daring to attempt to stand again quite yet, I began carefully using my unbroken arm to help scoot myself further down the mattress while remaining seated. Finally, I reached the end of the bed and picked up the cloak, fumbling to maneuver it around my shoulders with only one arm. I succeeded at last, and as I grabbed the neck of the cloak to hold it closed, my hand closed around cool metal. I opened my fingers slightly and looked down to see the clasp that Théoden had given me, still pinned to the cloak. My fingers clenched more tightly around it, clutching the silver horse head as if my very life depended on it, and forcing back the sudden grief that threatened to overwhelm me.

After resting for a time, I decided to try walking again, and moved towards the window. By the time I reached it, I could not stand up without support any longer and leaned heavily against the wall as I looked out. Through the glass, I could see nothing but stone. Below me, there was an empty, narrow street of light-colored stone. The same stone had been used to construct the buildings across the street and the wall encircling this level of the city, which I could see through gaps in the line of buildings. Even the sky, a featureless shade of grey, could have been made of stone. I shuddered slightly at the sight of it, feeling trapped.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a cry of alarm. “My lady! You should not be out of bed yet!”

I turned and saw a petite, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway. She could not have been much older than I, but she shook her head in an almost motherly fashion as she briskly walked over and took my right arm, attempting to steer me back towards the bed. “Come, my lady, you must rest.”

I pulled my arm away roughly, nearly dropping my cloak as I did so. The swift motion made my head spin a little and I pressed my back against the wall for support, hoping she would not notice. “I feel fine.”

“Our instructions were to see that you do not attempt to rise until your strength is fully recovered,” she said firmly.

“And it is, or I would not have risen,” I argued. It was not true, of course, as my brief foray out of bed had drained most of what little energy I had recovered. But my pride would not allow me to let this woman order me around.

An older woman poked her head into the door. A dark scarf covered her silvery-grey hair, and from where I stood, I could see the lines etched into her forehead and around her eyes. “Is there a problem, Mithríel?” she asked, giving me a disapproving glance.

“The lady refuses to lie down, Mistress Ioreth,” the younger healer answered.

“I do not see why I should be made to lie down when I will recover more quickly if I am allowed to rebuild my strength,” I said, turning back towards the window just long enough to decide that I hated the view.

Ioreth entered the room, giving me a stern look. “My lady, both the Lord Éomer and the Lord Aragorn asked me to keep a close eye on you. I will not have you give them cause to say I did not fulfill my duty.”

My frown grew deeper as I wondered why Aragorn insisted on showing such concern for my welfare, when he would not even deign to see for himself how I fared. I sighed inwardly, but decided that for my brother’s sake, I would listen—for now. “Fine,” I growled, and walked past them to sit down on the bed with my back resting against the headboard as I glared at the fireplace across the room. I knew it was a childish reaction, but I did not care.

Ioreth and Mithríel looked at each other. “I will return to check on you again later, my lady,” Mithríel said politely.

“Very well,” I muttered, barely glancing up as the two women left, then pulling the blankets up to warm myself. I hoped they would stay away for awhile; I needed to think.

I could not help feeling frustrated; even with all the effort I had put into my plan, it seemed I had accomplished nothing except to trade one prison for another. And this time, I could see no way of escape. But I could not give up that easily; one way or another, there would be another battle, and I was determined to be a part of it.

But how? I wondered. Disguising myself would be much more difficult this time, especially with my arm to contend with. Undoubtedly, Éomer would be keeping a close eye on me anyway to try and prevent me from doing such a thing again. And as much as I hated to admit it, I still felt greatly weakened from the battle the day before—much more than a broken bone should account for. I glanced down at my sword-arm. Though I kept it covered, the heat from the woolen blankets did not seem to ward off the slightly numbing chill that still lingered. My brow furrowed as I looked at it, suddenly troubled.

A tentative knock on the door interrupted my thoughts again. “What?” I called out crossly. The door opened, and a small figure with light golden-brown curls tentatively poked his head inside with a nervous expression on his face. My eyes widened and I cried out, “Merry! Forgive me, I thought you were one of the healers. Please, come in.”

He gave me a half-hearted grin, and slowly made his way in, half-supported by another hobbit, this one with darker brown hair. “Éowyn, this is my cousin, Peregrin Took,” Merry said by way of introduction.

The other Halfling bowed slightly. “But you can call me Pippin,” he added with a grin. Though his expression bore the marks of one who had recently been through a great trial, his green eyes still held a hint of mischief that I suspected rarely left.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Pippin,” I replied, nodding my head politely, then turning back to Merry as Pippin pushed the chair closer to the bed. “Why have they kept you here?” I asked, noting how tired Merry seemed to look as he climbed up into the chair. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my arm, a little,” he admitted, rubbing his forearm absently. Then he looked up at me, concern in his brown eyes. “How are you?”

“I will be fine,” I said automatically. Will you? a nagging voice in my head wondered, but I ignored it. “Although, you would think I had broken both my legs instead of my arm, the way these healers insist on treating me like a complete invalid,” I added crossly.

Pippin glanced over at Merry, then bowed deeply. “I will leave you two alone—there’s a friend of mine here I wish to visit,” he said. “But I will come back for you in a bit, Merry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” I wondered at his hasty departure as he left, but at the same time I was grateful. There was something I knew I needed to say to Merry, and felt much more at ease without the additional company.

“Merry, I…forgive me,” I blurted out. “I never should have brought you into this.”

“I’m not sorry,” he said, a determined gleam lighting up his eyes briefly before his face fell again. “I just wish I could have been more of a help.”

I hesitated before speaking again. I knew that Merry had played a large part in my survival, but though I did not wish to hurt his feelings or belittle what he had done, I could not feel grateful. And yet, somehow I knew it was my duty to try to reassure him. “If not for the help you gave, I would not be here now to speak with you,” I finally answered softly.

It seemed to work, as he quickly brightened up again. “Then I am glad that I came,” he said with a smile. His expression grew sad again as he added, “I am truly sorry though, about your uncle. I wish I could have known him better.” I dropped my head a little, biting my lip, and he quickly apologized, “Forgive me, Éowyn, I did not mean to upset you.”

“I am fine,” I repeated. Perhaps if I told myself that enough, I would start to believe it.

-------

Éomer did not return for the remainder of that day, nor for most of the next. After Merry left me, I spent the majority of the time sleeping or testing my strength by walking around the room, listening carefully for any footsteps in the hall. While I was up, I searched all throughout the wardrobe and chest, but I found nothing that would help me. It was just as I had suspected—they had not kept the armor or the men’s clothing I had worn, at least not in a place where I could find them. The chest held nothing but a few extra blankets, and the wardrobe was empty except for an extra shift. And despite my best efforts, I could not think of any way to get out of my room long enough to see if there was anything in the Houses that could help me. Just as an experiment, I had tried once to sneak out of my room, and gained nothing from it but a tongue-lashing from Ioreth.  All this made me even more determined to find a way to leave; if I had to spend many more days imprisoned in such a manner, I was certain that I would go mad.

Night had already fallen when Éomer finally returned, and I knew as soon as he walked in the door that it was going to be an unpleasant conversation.  I could almost feel the tension radiating from him, and wondered what had happened in that meeting.

I straightened up as he sat down next to the bed, looking as if he was considering how to say something. I broke the silence first. “What did you decide?”

Éomer’s face bore the same determined look that I had seen during our last meeting in Dunharrow—the look of a soldier who knew he was being sent off to die, but would obey his orders regardless. “We are going to Mordor.”

“Mordor?” I repeated, surprised. With the constant threat to our lands from the orcs, Dunland and, more recently, Isengard, Mordor had been of little concern to the Rohirrim for many long years. Even so, though any mention of it was hardly more than whispers of a distant evil, the name itself was still enough to make even a seasoned warrior shudder. “But why?” I asked.

“Do you remember when we were children, and Mother told us that tale about the last King of Gondor and the magic ring?”

I nodded slowly; it was one of the stories that my grandmother, a lady of Gondor, had passed down to her, and she in turn had told it to us. “For years afterwards, I thought all rings possessed some kind of magic,” I replied.

A faint smile briefly crossed Éomer’s face, but it was quickly replaced by the stern expression he had worn when he arrived. “The story was true.”

I stared at him incredulously. “What?”

Éomer sounded as if he only half-believed it himself as he said, “They have found the Ring, and one of Merry’s kinsmen and his servant are carrying it to Mount Doom. Gandalf says that it is the only place in Middle-Earth where it can be destroyed. If they can accomplish this, then the Dark Lord’s power will be broken, and so what remains of the combined strength of Gondor and Rohan will ride into Mordor to draw his Eye away from two Halflings.” He shook his head, though whether it was at the desperate plan or bewilderment at suddenly learning that yet another legend passed down among our people had come to life, I could not tell. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

“But we have lost so many; where will you find enough men to fight?” I asked.

“We will not,” he said flatly. “And the lords of Gondor do not wish to leave Minas Tirith entirely undefended. We will just bring enough to make the forces of the Dark Lord believe that we still think we can resist him.”

I stayed silent for a moment. “When will you leave?” I finally asked.

“In the morning,” he said. I silently began planning; I would need to find a sword, and find out where they had put my armor. And I would need a horse, because even I had to admit that I could not walk all the way to Mordor in this state…

Éomer seemed to read my thoughts, and firmly stated, “You are not going.”

My gaze jerked up to meet his. “You cannot stop me,” I said defiantly.

“You are injured. This battle is no place for you.” His brow furrowed. “And neither was the last one, for that matter. What on earth were you thinking?”

“I could not stay behind and do nothing this time. Surely you should be able to understand that,” I said.

Éomer’s frown deepened. “The King left you in charge of the encampment. You walked away from your duty and disobeyed a direct order. That is a very serious offense, Éowyn.”

“And what about you, riding out against those orcs when you were directly ordered not to?” I pointed out.

His eyes flashed dangerously. “That was different. I was doing what I thought was best for our people. You were… I do not know what you were thinking, but you certainly were not thinking of our people, or you would not have left them with little defense and no one to lead them!”

“What are you going to do then? Drag me back to Edoras and lock me in the dungeon?” I knew Éomer was getting angry, but I could not back down. “Do you wish me to apologize because I did not wish to be parted from you and our uncle, after you told me you would never return? Or shall I beg your forgiveness because I wanted to meet my end with honor instead of waiting behind to be butchered like a caged animal?  Is that what you wish to hear?”

Éomer abruptly stood up and began pacing the room. “I cannot discuss this with you any further tonight. There is still much that needs to be done before we can ride.”

“Then let me help,” I said, deciding to try a different tactic.

“No!”  I was surprised at how angry he sounded.  “You will remain here.”

“Éomer, please! I will go mad if I stay behind!” I protested.

“It seems to me that you have gone mad already,” he snapped. “You are obviously in no condition to fight, Éowyn. You cannot hold a shield, you can barely even stand up!”

I glared at him as I pulled myself out of the bed, using the bedpost as a support once again. Once I was on my feet, I just raised an eyebrow at him, silently challenging him to come up with another argument.

“Even if you can stand, you cannot march. I doubt that you could stay in your saddle, if you can get into it at all with that arm. You will stay here, and I will not accept any further argument from you!” He turned and began to move towards the door.

“You cannot force me to stay, you mule-headed…” I started to say, walking a few steps after him.

Éomer whirled around, his face flushed with anger as his grey eyes narrowed. “By the gods, Éowyn, what has gotten into you? Do you want to die?” I opened my mouth, ready to point out that he had just admitted he was riding off on a suicide mission, but as my eyes locked with his, I could not refute him, and I was the first to break the gaze. When I glanced up at my brother again, he looked bewildered. We stood there in a painful silence for a few moments. Finally, he spoke again, his voice dangerously low. “You will stay in Minas Tirith if I have to tie you to your bed myself to keep you here.” He opened the door and stepped out of the room, then without turning back he added softly, almost to himself, “I already thought I lost you once, Éowyn. If there is any hope at all that Gandalf’s plan will succeed, I need to know that you are safe here.” Then he shut the door firmly behind him.

I pulled the door open and rushed out into the hall, not wanting him to have the last word. “Éomer!” I called out, grabbing his arm. He wrenched it from my grasp without even looking at me and kept walking. I glared at his retreating back for a minute before re-entering my room, slamming the door in frustration. Then I sat down on the bed, determined to come up with a plan before I went to sleep. There had to be some other soldiers in the Houses that I could gather a disguise from. Maybe this time I should go with the Gondorian army, I pondered. If I keep the helmet on, no one will notice my hair. I wonder where I could find some of their armor…

-------

In spite of my best efforts to stay awake, my body betrayed me in its weakened state. The next thing I knew, the room was already bright with morning sunlight. I briefly wondered how the sun could still possibly be shining when everything else seemed to be growing darker by the moment. Then I suddenly remembered that I still needed to find a way to escape, and jumped out of my bed; I instantly regretted the swift movement as the room tilted dangerously. Once I had steadied myself, I grabbed my cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders, then hurried to the door.

It would not open, though the latch seemed to be working fine. I stared at it in shock for a moment, then tried again. It still would not budge. My eyes widened in realization, and I threw my full weight against the door, but to no avail; I had not the strength to move it. “Éomer, you mule-headed lout!” I shouted as I pounded on the door. “Let me out of here!” But there was no answer.

I hurried to the window without thinking, not remembering until I reached it that I would see nothing but the unyielding stone buildings. I ran back to the door now, beating on it again in frustration. Finally I realized that no one was going to come, and I backed away a few steps, feeling suddenly panicked at the thought of being trapped in the small room.

A muffled, but familiar voice outside called out, “Éowyn? Are you in there?”

“Merry, I cannot open the door!” I cried.

“The door is blocked. Wait a moment,” he answered, and I heard him say, “Bergil, can you give me a hand?” I heard a series of scraping sounds, as if something heavy was being pushed across the floor. Then the door opened, and Merry was there, a dark-haired boy who was about the same height as the Halfling standing slightly behind him.

“What was it?” I asked.

“There was a heavy chest in front of the door,” Merry replied. Éomer. The realization struck me hard, and I stumbled backwards slightly before sitting heavily on the bed. A look of alarm crossed Merry’s face. “Éowyn, are you well?”

I knew even before I asked. “He has gone already.” My voice sounded distant, even to my own ears. Merry gave a small nod, and I looked down at the floor. My brother was gone, and nothing short of a miracle would give me the chance to see him again. I never even got to say goodbye, I realized, and silently cursed myself, knowing full well that it was my own fault that we had parted on such ill terms. 

I barely noticed when Merry sat down next to me, until the boy bowed and departed. Then, without looking at him, I asked, “Where is your cousin?”

“He also left with the army this morning,” Merry said softly. Then we fell silent, each of us alone in our own grief.

 A/N: The last conversation between Eowyn and Eomer was reworked quite a bit--I'm hoping this will give a little more insight into his actions both here and in later stories I've written that he's featured in (namely, The Best Laid Plans).

And, for the record, the next new chapter is in the works, though real life has gotten in the way for a few weeks and I'm just now getting back to it. Thank you for your patience.

Reposted 8/10/07