Chapter 40: Farewells

WHITE MOUNTAINS

It was still dark when Éomer stepped out into the chill air, but behind the transparent vapour of his breath he could already see the stark contours of the surrounding mountains against the slowly brightening sky. Dawn was on its way, and they had to leave. Despite his still weakened condition, he was glad to move on. Too much time had he lost here in this valley, forced to inactivity while the Kingdom was threatened and Éowyn in deadly peril. There was another reason for his brightened mood this morning: he was looking forward to riding with his men again and to feel their deeply embedded loyalty after days of loneliness and doubt. Forced to choose between their King and their Marshal, they had decided to trust in him, not caring that their choice turned them into outcasts themselves. The gratitude he felt was too great for words, and he hoped that his expression told the warriors its true extent when his gaze wandered over their smiling faces.

And yet at the same time, the warm feeling around Éomer’s heart was chilled by a sense of foreboding that assaulting him anew at the sight of his selfless brothers-in-arms. Would he lead them to their death? Would any of these brave men survive and return to their families? This was more than an ordinary skirmish they were headed for; this battle would decide the fate of the Mark. For a moment, the Rohir felt too stunned by the realisation of his responsibility to move on, his legs literally glued to the ground. It was only when he heard Aragorn call out for him from behind that he woke from his mesmerised state, and as Éomer turned around, he saw his saviour emerge from their hosts’ bedroom and head straight for him with long strides.

“Éomer?” Questioning eyes mustered him as Aragorn came closer. Éomer did not even try to hide his discomfort, knowing that the perceptive ranger had already sensed it. Yet to his relief, the older man did not comment on it, but tried in fact his best to brighten his spirits. “I looked after Osred again. His wound is clean, and it should heal without complications provided that he rests. Freya knows enough about healing to ensure that he will recover completely from this injury. Do not worry.” Thankful for the information and glad that the other man left it at that and did not ask for the true reason for his uneasiness, Éomer nodded. The keen grey eyes glided over him now. “And what about you? Do you feel that you will be able to stay in the saddle for an entire day? Or for two days even, as I have heard?””

“I will have to,” Éomer said tonelessly, dreading the prospect of the long ride to Erkenbrand’s domain even though he chafed to be on the way. He turned his back to the waiting warriors of his éored, adamant to show no weakness. The Rohirrim needed a strong leader if they wanted to defeat the White Wizard; they could not afford to doubt. “Saruman will not wait until I am ready to meet him. If we come too late, it will be the Mark’s doom.” And Éowyn’s...’ With a small nod, he acknowledged Thor’s presence as the Halfblood walked up to them with a tall white horse on the reins. “Yes, Thor?”

“My Lord Éomer, I can report that your éored is ready to leave.” The Half-Dunlending inclined his head and then pointed his chin at the horse. “This is Dralíon; he is Gunthard’s steed. Gunthard agreed to share the saddle with Aldor so that you may ride his horse. I thought since Firefoot is wounded, it would do him good to be spared at least some of the effort of the journey, as you will surely need his full strength again once we give battle.” He saw Éomer’s gaze travel over the stallion. “Oh, and I also managed to get a sword for you. It is Tolgor’s. He says that he is better with the bow anyway, so you could have his blade until we reach Captain Erkenbrand’s domain. Unfortunately, we do not have any spare mail for you, but I am certain that the Captain will be able to help you out with that… as well as with any additional armour and weapons you might need then.” He extended his hand with the scabbard, and Éomer accepted it with a thankful nod. Drawing the sword to test its handling, he was satisfied to find that it lay much better in his hand than Freya’s the night before. It would do for the task at hand. He laid a hand onto the Halfblood’s shoulder.

“I thank you, Thor. As always, you thought of everything. I am glad to count you among my éored.” Shifting his attention to the waiting riders, Éomer felt a sudden impulse and raised his voice: “And I thank you, too, each and every on of you! When I was expelled from Edoras, I thought I was left with nothing, and although I should have known better, I was uncertain whether you, my brothers-in-arms, would not accept the verdict. After all, it came from your King, even if all of us know by now that although it was his mouth that uttered those words, their origin was Gríma Wormtongue. The filth first killed the Prince, and then he rid himself of me... or so he thought. He thinks that our soldiers are simpletons who have no mind of their own and will never question the King' words or be interested in the truth behind them. In the case that the henchmen and orcs he sent to finish me off failed, he counted on you to do his bidding.” He inhaled deeply and raised his chin. “But your loyalty runs deeper than the enemy ever anticipated, and you proved him wrong! No matter how intricately that filth may spin his nets, Gríma Wormtongue will never be able to drive a spike between us Éorlingas, and that makes me proud!”

“Forth Éorlingas!” over three dozen voices answered him, and a sudden rush of heat flooded Éomer’s veins. He had not intended to hold a speech, but the words wanted out now, his emotions so powerful that it was impossible to hold them back.

“The intention behind the Worm’s actions was to leave Rohan unprotected for the time when his true master sends his army. He probably thinks that he has achieved this aim, and his haughtiness will be our advantage! While Saruman still waits for the perfect time to launch his assault on us, we will assault him instead and meet him unprepared! We will kill the wolf while it still sleeps in its den. Will you ride with me and rid the Mark of this plague once and for all, my brothers?”

“Aye!”

“Death to the traitor!”

“Death to the Worm!”

Roused by his own speech and encouraged by the determination in the warriors’ features, Éomer raised his sword.

“For the Mark!” A many-voiced war-cry answered him and in the twilight, deadly steel glistened as the swords’ owners held them up against the sky. The Rohirrims’ declaration of resistance rang out into the dawn, and for the first time, Éomer felt the first spark of hope he had felt in a long time stir inside of him. These men were eager to fight to end for their cause, and it would be no different with the rest of their forces they’d meet in the Westfold. Their soldiers had suffered through the hardest times and had seen many of their kin and friends slaughtered; they would tear themselves in two to bring the offenders to justice. So what if Saruman’s army outnumbered them vastly; his men had a noble cause to fight for, which was more than the orcs could ever claim. They were killing machines without a home to defend, and it would make all the difference. No enemy had ever defeated their fully assembled éohere, and once the thunder of ten-thousand horses would be unleashed against the foul brood, the only choice left to them would be whether they wanted to vanish underneath the horses’ hoofs or flee. Once again Éomer’s proud gaze swept the ranks of his riders before he lowered his arm with a deep breath and sheathed his sword. “Let us ride!”

He took the reins from Thor, who regarded him with a strange mixture of awe... and something else. Éomer understood.

“Saruman will not only have orcs in his service. It is very likely that you will have to fight against your kinsmen.”

The younger man regarded him silently for a moment longer, and a shadow wandered over his face. Then his gaze hardened.

“I made my choice years ago, Marshal. This is my side now, and I stand by my decision. You will not have to worry about me.”

“I know, and I did not mean it this way. I trust you, Thor. You have long proven your worth. To me, you are no less Rohír than any of these men, and I know for a fact that they feel the same about you. ” Éomer looked the man fully in the face to prove the honesty of his statement, and in response, the dark-haired man lowered his gaze while his face turned a dark shade of crimson.

“I thank you, my Lord. It means much to me to be accepted among the riders. Many of them suffered because of the deeds of my people, and I do not take their trust and respect for granted. I never will.” He cleared his throat and his gaze went over Éomer’s shoulder. With a little nod, he turned and left. Already knowing that it had to be Freya and her sisters who had emerged from the main building to bid them farewell, Éomer turned around, briefly seeing Aragorn’s encouraging expression from the corner of his eye before the Ranger likewise went over to where his steed patiently waited for him.

“So, it is good-bye again,” Freya said quietly, her voice unhappy. “I wish you could stay for at least another day. You do not look strong enough for that long ride yet, Éomer.” She stroked his cheek and he caught her hand to press it in affirmation that he was.

“It cannot be helped. And I have ridden in worse condition, so do not worry about me. It takes more to defeat me.” Why did he suddenly feel so awkward around her, with half of his brain occupied with the question whether he should embrace her or not?

“Will I see you again?” Large, grey-blue eyes met his in an anxious question whether he would be all right. “Will you return here after the battle?”

“With Béma’s grace, yes.” No need to tell her about their chances against the Necromancer’s army. “Provided you want me to return. Perhaps it would be better if I stayed away for some time… until Osred and you have decided what it is that you want.”

She nodded.

“Aye, you are right. Perhaps it would be better at first. We have much to speak about, and much to learn about each other which apparently, we did not know before. But don’t stay away for too long, because you will be missed, Éomer, and not only by me.” She cast a meaningful glance over to the other house where Halad and Fléadwyn just exited with her children in their arms. Following her gaze, Éomer pressed his lips together. Would the lad be all right in the wake of what he had experienced? Would he be able to put the gruesome incidents of that night behind him and live with them? He prayed to the Gods to bestow that mercy upon Freya’s brother. It would not be fair to have a gentle soul like Halad punished for his decision to turn to the family for help.

“If you mean that, I will be glad to return.” He extended his arm and laid a hand upon her shoulder blade, hesitantly at first, waiting for her reaction first. But when she looked at him and he saw the fear in her eyes, fear for him, he could no longer hold back and pulled her into his embrace and kissed her brow. After all, the chances were that this was their final farewell.

Tears brimming in her eyes which she tried hard to hold back, Freya pressed him against her, for a moment unable to let go of him… until at last, reason prevailed, and she forced herself to step back.

“May the Gods protect you, Éomer… you and your men… and us.” She swallowed, weighed down by the fear that all those riders before her were riding toward their death. “If you cannot defeat our enemies, there will be nobody left to stop them.” Only a heartbeat later, she hated herself for uttering these words. The burden Éomer carried was already heavy enough. He was a Marshal, yes, and a warrior with a fierce reputation… and yet he was still a young man himself, two years younger even than she. He was a young man who had been deserted by his kin and who had looked into a bottomless abyss himself only days ago. What business had she reminding him of what would happen if he failed? “Forgive me. I had no business-”

With a faint smile upon his lips, Éomer shook his head.

“You don’t have to apologise, Freya. Not to me, and not ever. Just look after your family for me while I’m gone. See that Osred gets back on his feet again.” He looked over her shoulder in the direction of the corridor, and for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Do you think I should… bid him farewell, too?”

She shook her head.

“He is asleep, and I would deem it best not to wake him up. I will tell him, Éomer. Don’t worry. We will be all right.”

Satisfied with her affirmation, he turned toward the twins and kissed them good-bye as well.

“Willa, Wyndra… I’m indebted to you. Aragorn told me how much you did for me that night, too, and I will never forget. Do me a favour and look after your sister and your brother for me, will you?”

The two young women gave him a faint smile.

“We will. But you must promise us to return victorious… and unharmed. It was a great shock when we saw you half-dead.” Willa bit her lips, and her eyes looked big in her thin, pale face.

Éomer’s smile deepened, but it was a smile in which his eyes did not participate.

“I wish I could do that, but I’m afraid that it is not in my hands. I will try my best though.” With a grave nod, he turned away to face Halad and Fléadwyn who had walked over to join the rest of the family, still carrying the little ones in their arms. He ruffled the children’s hair. “Watch your parents for me while I’m away, will you? Keep them from doing foolish things.” Loégar nodded bravely while Edilda stared at him with large, sad eyes.

“Our dogs are dead,” she said then, apropos of nothing as only a child could do. Éomer met her gaze.

“Yes, but they defended your uncle and your father bravely. And I promise you, when I return-” ‘If I return…’ he corrected himself mentally, “…I will bring you new dogs, and you will teach them, and you will love them as much as you loved Ossa and Fang.” A little spark of hope lit up the girl’s eyes, even if their brightness still mainly resulted from brimming tears.

“Really?”

“Really.” Again, he ran his hand to the lasses’ hair, and then turned his attention to Fléadwyn, who met him with open arms and brushed a fleeting kiss upon his cheek.

“Be careful, Éomer. We want to see you again in our valley in better days.”

“And I will be glad to return, Fléadwyn.” He nodded at her rounded stomach. “Take good care of yourself, too. I want to see the new family member when I return.”

She smiled and looked down, gently caressing her unborn babe.

“He still has three months. I hope to see you before then.”

Éomer did not think so, but he remained silent as he turned at last to Halad. Somehow, saying his farewell to the young man was even harder than to all the others. Perhaps it was because after the battle, Halad understood best of them all how slim their chances were for a reunion; he saw it in the lad’s eyes as they embraced.

“Take good care of your family for me, Halad. You are their protector now, and a very capable one, too. I count on you to look after them.” The voice that answered him sounded thin with emotion and insecurity.

“I will.”

“I know you will.” Straightening, the warrior gave the young farmer an encouraging look from his superior height, then lowered his voice: “Will you be all right, Halad?”

“Aye.” It did not sound convincing, but Éomer loved the young man for his brave attempt to appear content. “I will do what you told me. You are right, after all: they are dead, and I am alive. We are alive. I will have to remember this.”

“And I am sure that you will succeed with this task, as well. You have proven a remarkably skilled pupil. You made me proud, Halad. You will always remain like a brother to me, don’t forget this.” It sounded horribly final and choked them both, and so, with a final clap on the young man’s shoulder, Éomer deemed at last that it was time to leave. A quick glance at the eastern horizon confirmed that the sun was on its way, and he put a foot into the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle of his burrowed steed. Firefoot, whose lead had been tied to the pommel of his saddle, looked less than happy over seeing his rider on the back of another steed, and his grumpy expression with the flattened ears painted a quick smile upon Éomer’s face as he turned toward his men: “To the Westfold. Thor, you lead.”