Chapter 47: Living Legend

WESTFOLD

Temperatures had dropped again. It was the first thing Éomer noticed as he gradually rose from the embrace of a sleep so deep, he did not even remember a single dream. Not bothering to open his eyes at first, he drew up the blanket to his chin and hid his bare arms underneath the thick warm wool, lazily rolling on his back. The bruise on his right side still made the movement somewhat uncomfortable, but thanks to Aragorn’s intense and skilled care of the last days, it had already started to fade and change from a crippling injury to a mere inconvenience. By the time they would ride into battle, he would hardly feel it at all even with all the armour on top of it, Éomer thought, and this at last was the thought which woke him completely. The battle, yes. They had arrived at Erkenbrand’s domain, and there were many preparations to be made, and many things waiting for his attention.

He opened his eyes – to broad daylight. The strength of the sunlight and the angle at which it fell through his window caused him to sit up with a jolt. Could it truly be past midday already? But as Éomer swung his legs over the edge of the bed and his gaze fell on the fireplace, he saw that the logs he had fed the flames just before going to sleep had turned into to cold ashes, and a sudden bout of anxiety assaulted him. Béma, why had they not woken him?

Cursing, he washed himself with the help of a bucket full of cold water someone had placed within his chambers while he had been asleep. Quickly he slipped into his borrowed garments and stormed out of the chamber in search for the others, again cursing as he beheld the advanced position of the sun through the windows he passed. He found the great hall empty except for a few servants and stopped the one closest to him.

“Can you tell me where I find the Lord Erkenbrand and his guests who arrived yesterday?”

“They went to the armoury a while ago, my Lord,” the elderly man said, lowering his gaze. “I have not seen them return yet.”

“Very well, then I should find them there.” Éomer turned to leave.

“Would you need someone to walk you there, my Lord?” the man behind him asked hesitantly. “I’m afraid you might not be granted entry otherwise.”

Irritated, Éomer looked back at the servant.

“What do you mean? Has the word not been spread yet that the King’s verdict has no longer authority in the Westfold?”

“I am sorry, my Lord…” The man seemed mortified by his heated rebuke and desperate to be somewhere else instead of the object of his Marshal’s anger, and with a deep breath, Éomer reminded himself to calm down. He was not wearing his Royal garments, and not all members of Erkenbrand’s household knew him well enough to recognise him without his distinctive armour. He nodded.

“Oh well, it won’t hurt if you accompany me, I guess.” His stomach rumbled, and instinctively, Éomer pressed a hand against his middle. If it was past midday already, it was no wonder that he was hungry. The servant had heard the noise, too, and with a little smile, offered:

“If you will wait for me hear, my Lord, I will quickly instruct the kitchen to prepare you a meal while we are gone. You can eat then upon your return.”

Éomer nodded, now feeling truly sorry that he had been so harsh at first.

“Aye, I would indeed greatly appreciate it. Uhm…”

“Lowéar, my Lord.” The man bowed his head. “At your service. Now, if you will please wait for me here, I will quickly be back.” And upon Éomer’s appreciative nod, he disappeared with great strides. Following his path with his eyes for a moment, the Marshal then stepped over to a window and looked outside.

The sun had just disappeared behind the mountain tops, casting a shadow across the land, and from the west, a thick layer of clouds hurried urgently toward them, promising another change of weather. From the hall’s elevated position, the streets of the settlement looked crowded as people went about their way. At one point, a cluster of them had formed with more people joining it even as Éomer watched. Creasing his brow, he strained to find the reason for the commotion, but then Lowéar already returned. “Your meal will be ready in a little while. Lord Èomer. If you are ready now, I will take you to the armoury.”

A big grin suddenly spread over Éomer’s face. He had discovered what - or rather who - had roused the people’s curiosity and could well imagine the Ranger’s discomfort over being the focus of so much loving attention. He turned to the servant, in whose eyes the irritation over his sudden amusement could not be overlooked.

“I thank you, Lowéar, but it is no longer necessary. I think I have found at least the Lord Aragorn, and I suppose that his friends will not be far.” He looked back to the crowd which was still growing. “I will be back for that meal you offered me so kindly though.” With a little nod, he indicated the cluster of people to the man. “I will be down there in case that Lord Erkenbrand may be looking for me. Thank you.” Quickly, Éomer limped toward the exit where clear, fresh air greeted him as he stepped outside. Yet with the next gust of wind, the distinct odour of horses reached his nostrils, and his grin widened. Ah, this almost felt like home again!

Sensing the guards’ attention, Éomer gave the men an acknowledging nod and then walked past them, down the winding path toward where he suspected Aragorn and his friends.

“Éomer! Éomer!” he suddenly heard his name called, and as he looked, his gaze wandered over the joyful faces of men, women and children welcoming him back in his position as their chief defender. A beaming smile upon his face, he inclined his head in greeting, and almost fell when two lads hardly tall enough to reach up to his chest flew toward him and embraced him while a thick-furred dog of an indefinable kind jumped barking around his feet.

“Éomer! You are back! We knew it could not be true what they said!” the taller of the two boys shouted, his expression one of honest happiness. Returning his smile, Éomer ruffled the thick flaxen hair. He had known Grimbold’s sons since their birth, and occasionally taught them a trick or two with the sword whenever he visited the Westfold. “We are so glad that you have come!”

“And I am glad to be here, Gaerwyne, and to be welcomed in such a hearty manner. It is as if I have woken from a dark dream.” He picked up the smaller boy and held him up. “You have grown a lot since I last saw you, Déor, and you are starting to get heavy, too. Has it really been so long since my last visit?”

“It was last fall,” the lad beamed. “And aye, I have grown. Soon, I will be as tall as my brother… even taller maybe.”

The other boy snorted.

“Hah! You will never be taller than I! Nor will you ever best me with the sword!” His attention turned back to the warrior. “Do you have any new tricks to teach us, Éomer? We have grown very skilled in the last feints and parries you taught us, so it would be great if we could learn something new.”

“I am sure I have, but I’m afraid it will have to wait at least for another moment.” Éomer pointed toward the crowd. The number of people it consisted of still seemed to grow. “I need to talk to my friends, first, and the captain of my éored. I will send for you later when I have the time. Will that do?”

“Oh, great!” The younger one clapped his hands, enjoying his view from the elevated position on Éomer’s arm.

Gaerwyne’ eyes widened in excitement as he followed his gaze, and he turned to accompany the warrior as Éomer continued on his path.

“They say that Thorongil had returned! Is that true, Éomer? So he is indeed a real man who lived and not just a hero from a tale?”

“Oh, I assure you that he is a very real man, indeed, Gaerwyne, and in fact most men of whose deeds you hear in our tales and songs have really lived. He and his friends, who are also mighty warriors, will help us against our enemies, and we can count ourselves very lucky to have them on our side.”

“But where has he been all this time?” Déor asked and stretched his neck in an attempt to see something over the heads of the crowd. “And which one is he?”

“Come with me.” Groaning, Éomer set the boy down. “But I’m afraid you have to walk. You are growing too heavy for me… and also a future Rider of the Mark can’t let himself be carried around anymore.” A lad on either hand, he approached the crowd, and was also instantly recognised.

“It is the Third Marshal!”

“It is Éomer!”

“Oh Béma be praised!”

Now the faces turned toward him and hands were extended for Éomer to touch and shake in reassurance as the son of Éomund slowly made his way through the crowd. A warm feeling spread through his body in reaction to the people’s warm welcome. It had been different upon his arrival, when their expressions had been tense and insecure with their King’s words still looming in their minds.

“Marshal Éomer!” Garulf, one of Erkenbrand’s captains, stepped into his way and offered his hand with a big smile upon his hawkish face. “In the name of my riders, may I express how glad we are to see you alive; and that we will gladly follow you into battle. It is about time that snake in Meduseld gets his neck snapped!”

“Once we have disposed of his master in Isengard, he will be next,” Éomer growled with determination, and clapped the man’s shoulder. “I thank you, Garulf. It was hard to be doubted.”

“Nobody doubted you, Marshal, let me assure you of that. All knew that it was the Worm’s doing. Whoever saw the Prince and you together knew that each of you would have done all in his power to save the other. This time, it was not in your power. But you might be able to avenge him!”

“Count on it, Garulf!” The warrior stepped aside and cleared the way to where Aragorn, Gímli and Legolas expected him. The ranger seemed to be in a conversation with the older council member who had identified the Dúnadan the previous afternoon, exchanging fond memories of their time together. Éomer grinned. “As you see, our people have not forgotten you, Aragorn. It doesn’t matter under which name you choose to travel.” He felt the two lads by his side stiffen and, his injured thigh not yet allowing him to squat, bend down to them. “Here are two valiant warriors of the Mark who wanted to see the mighty warrior Thorongil from up close. – Go.” With an encouraging glance, he sent the two suddenly very shy lads forward, and Aragorn welcomed them with an big smile upon his kind face.

Amused Éomer observed the lads’, fondly remembering the many nights his own father had told him of the valiant deeds of the foreign warrior Thorongil. No, he would not have behaved differently than Déor and Gaerwyne upon meeting a living legend.

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, little lords,” the ranger said warmly and extended his hand. Hesitantly the older boy took it, afraid that this strong hand would squash his little fingers like a fly. “May I ask your names?”

“I am Déor, Grimbold’s son,” the smaller lad beamed with all the blessed directness of youth, and moment later, his brother introduced himself, too, not seeing why he shouldn’t dare to speak when Déor did not find it necessary to mind his manners.

“And I am his brother Gaerwyne.” Aragorn’s handshake was firm, but cautious, and the lad grew more courageous. “I – I mean we, we have heard so much about your great deeds, my Lord. Surely we will defeat our enemies now that you have returned to help us?”

“We will do whatever is in our power to ensure that,” the Dúnadan replied earnestly, and with a gesture, introduced the elf and the dwarf to the great amazement of the boys when the sound of distant horns from behind the city walls interrupted him. Beneath the clear sound, a mighty rumble now reached their ears, and the next moment, the bell at the top of the tower of the guard rang its alarm into the air. Aragorn’s eyes met Éomer’s in sudden excitement. “This sounds to me as if someone heard your summons, Marshal. Shall we take a look?”

“Are you jesting?” Éomer was already on his way over to the watchtower, only hesitating briefly upon setting foot upon the ladder when a warning pain raced through his injured thigh. “On second thought, I think I will meet them outside the gates.” He turned toward the stables, followed closely by the ranger while the crowd’s attention now focused on the proceedings outside.

“Open the gates!”

In the muffled twilight of the stables, Éomer found his borrowed steed quickly and mounted Dralíon, ignoring the disgruntled snort that came from the neighbouring stall as he buried his hands in the thick white mane.

“Stop behaving like a jealous wench, Firefoot! Why don’t you enjoy the respite while it lasts? It will be over soon enough.” Not bothering to look back, Éomer shifted his weight and kicked his heels into Dralions side to turn around, again quickly followed by Aragorn who had mounted Hasufel. Outside, the people had already wandered over to the open gate to await the arriving warriors. They passed through them, and from the corner of his eye Éomer beheld Erkenbrand’s tall silhouette as the Lord of Westfold stood on the terrace in front of his hall, his gaze directed east toward the rising din of the advancing army.

Éomer’s heart sang as he emerged from the gate to find himself in an already vast camp of Westfold éoreds who had arrived during the day, only to see a great number of Riders advance in a broad line on the road.

“They are still very much your men,” Aragorn said by his side. “They received your call and they follow it. You are still their leader. Do you see it now?”

“I do indeed. How could I ever doubt the great Thorongil?” An unbelieving smile played around Éomer’s lips while his eyes focused on the advancing forces. Béma, how many riders were they? The great group looked as if it consisted at least half of half the Eastfold’s éoreds. Banners rippled proudly on the wind as the horses approached the gates, the thunder of their hoofs reflected powerfully by the nearby mountains until the very air vibrated under their charge. Picking up their energy, Hasufel and Drálion shifted restlessly beneath their riders, bursting to join their kin and run, and with a few soothing words, Éomer calmed his stallion while he petted the muscled neck and watched in awe how his wildest hopes were coming to fulfilment. Behind him, Erkenbrand’s guard left the village, and the next moment, Grimbold halted to his left side, a pleased expression on his face.

“These are the Westemnet’s forces, and some of the Eastemnet’s, as well. I see Brand’s banner. There!” He pointed his finger at the Golden Sun upon Green. “It looks like most of them have come. Well done, Éomer! If the Eastfold forces follow your summons as well, Saruman will have his hands full once we attack.”

“I fear that his hands are full, Captain,” Éomer gave back, and a shadow fell upon his face at the thought. “Full of tricks we cannot anticipate yet. I agree that it fills my heart with joy seeing that so many have come, but we will need every single man to defeat the Necromancer, and many will not return to their loved ones.”

Grimbold sighed.

“Alas, I fear you are right.” He inhaled deeply and then raised his chin. “But all see the necessity of this battle, and they are eager to follow you. Perhaps, if we defeat the filth, we will finally have peace.”

Éomer remained silent at that, avoiding the Captain’s gaze. What good would it do to tell Grimbold now that even if they emerged victorious, the battle against Saruman was only the smaller one of the conflicts they were caught in? During their council, he had concentrated on the war against Isengard because it already required all their attention, and any distraction from it could prove lethal. Sauron would have to wait until they had the time to concern themselves with him. Éomer did not look forward to the moment when he would have to disclose this particular bit of information to the two Westfold warriors. Remaining silent about it made him feel like a liar.

A familiar feeling told him that Aragorn had sensed the shift in his mood and was looking at him in an attempt to find out what had happened, when another din from the bell of the watchtower cast him back into the reality of the afternoon. Just as Éomer shifted in the saddle to find out what was happening, the éoreds before him performed a sudden turn to the left and accelerated.

“What in Éorl’s name--” He fell silent as he beheld the group of riders coming at them from the direction of the Fords. “Who is this?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Grimbold growled and kicked his heels into the flanks of his steed, preceding them as their group set itself into motion, following the éoreds. “Although I cannot believe that they are friends if they succeeded in travelling through the territory controlled by Isengard.”

With a meaningful glance at Aragorn, Éomer followed him. The host of riders was still distant, but even now he could see that there were at least thirty of them, and he had to agree with the Lord of Grimslade. Thirty riders were too many to have travelled unnoticed through Saruman’s territory; the wizard must taken notice of their passing… and apparently, he had allowed it. What did that mean? Suddenly very aware of the weight of Théodred’s sword on his hip, Éomer watched as the éoreds fanned out to encircle the strangers, their spears and swords ready to be used, and soon, their horses obstructed his view. What was happening within the circle? Would there be a fight, or did the foreigners understand that they would stand no chance against the battle-ready Rohirrim?

“Grimbold!” He urged Drálion on and brought his stallion alongside his brother-in-arms. “Let me handle this.” He could not tell why, but a strange feeling had befallen him, and he decided to follow his intuition as he turned around to Aragorn. “Come with me!” His order met with no protest from the Westfold warrior. Though doubtful what to make of the situation, Grimbold moved aside as Éomer and the Dúnadan cut their path through the circle of riders. Erkenbrand’s acknowledgment had effectively reinstated Éomer as their marshal, and as such, it was his call to make and his responsibility what ensued.

Many doubtful glances found Eomund’s son as he moved with Aragorn through the cluster of horses and battle-ready warriors toward the captured strangers, the atmosphere strained to the point where a single misunderstood gesture would result in a bloodbath.

“Marshal?” A warrior with an impressive red beard and fierce green eyes regarded him hesitantly. “I thought that Captain Erkenbrand--”

“Not now, Brand. Let us talk later.” With a nod, Éomer bade the man to stand aside, and at last, Brand cleared his path, allowing him for the first time an unobstructed view of the group of riders in their midst. Even from seeing only their horses, Éomer could tell that he was looking at strangers from afar, because their beasts looked stout and ragged with unusual thick, long fur, and were obviously not of Rohirric breed. Then his gaze found the men: none of them had drawn their swords and their hands were held out in a universal gesture of peace. Like the breed of their horses, their raiment, too, was uncommon with their heavy grey, hooded cloaks they unanimously wore, but at the same time, there was something familiar about them; a certain dignity and unspoken wisdom that reminded him of--

“We mean no harm to the Mark and its people,” their leader said, facing him, and his earnest grey eyes only intensified the feeling of familiarity. “Please, will you lay down your weapons and hear us out?” Then his gaze went over Éomer’s shoulder and his eyes widened. A joyous expression spread over his weathered, proud face. “Aragorn! What an unexpected joy to find you here! We were looking for you!”

Confused, Éomer turned around, but the ranger did not even seem to notice his questioning glance as he urged his steed into the circle, his features mirroring the joy of the man before him. And while realisation hit Éomer, he heard his friend’s glad shout: “Halbarad! Brother! Can it really be? What brought you to Rohan?”