To the King

Chapter Two

The Price of Victory

My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story.

Éomer squinted against the morning brightness as he emerged from the darkened building. Every direction he turned, the light reflected off of the white stone with a glare that he found blinding. He turned to look at the wiry man by his side, a man he had known most all of his life. Gamling had been a young lieutenant in Marshal Erkenbrand’s éored on the day that Éomer had last “stowed away” with the Rohirrim. After several years of faithful service in the Westfold he had been chosen to move to Edoras and entered the Royal Guard, personal éored of the king. Now he served Éomer. More careworn now, Gamling was everything his King could want as an ally, an advisor, and as a friend. It was Gamling that Éomer had sent back to Rohan with most of the surviving riders, and it was Gamling to whom Éomer had entrusted the preparations for King Théoden’s final journey.

Éomer had longed to oversee the preparations himself, but besides the sorties he and his personal éored had been doing over the last few months, Éomer simply would not leave Éowyn until she was completely healed and could accompany them home. It would be many long years before he would completely free himself of the shock he had experienced when he found her on the battlefield, seemingly dead. Finding Théoden dead had been a blow, but an honorable death in battle was something that every Horse-lord accepted and embraced. It was not something that he would ever accept for his sister however, no matter how adept she was with a sword. Bema’s blood, his heart nearly stopped whenever he even thought of it!

Walking over to retrieve his mount, Éomer took in the sights and sounds of the awakening city. Minas Tirith, the crown jewel of Gondor, the city of Kings. Seemingly hewed from the very rock of the mountains, her white battlements rose seven levels from the ground. Each circular level was ringed by a wall and built in such a way that the gate of each faced a different direction from the one beneath it. At the upper most level, facing the East stood the Great Gate. Behind that towered a seven hundred foot cliff upon which sat the Citadel and the White Tower of Ecthelion with its banner fluttering a thousand feet above the plain. The most outstanding feature to the warrior was the precipice of the cliff jutting outward like the keel of a giant ship. Taking it all in, Éomer felt as though he’d been buried in stone.

Minas Tirith was considered the most cosmopolitan city in all middle earth, and Éomer had hated every moment spent here. Even though hosted as graciously and luxuriously as possible by his friend, King Elessar, Éomer detested the noises, the stench, and the crowds, concluding that most of the formal events he’d attended were little more than a cacophony of confusion. Many of the upper crust of Gondor looked at him and his men as though they were something to be scraped off the bottom of their shoes, little better than oafs incapable of conversing about anything other than horses. He took great pleasure in the way the people of Gondor steered clear of his éored. Maidens had been known to scream in terror and seek out their fathers when the Rohirrim scowled at them, a fact that the men recounted gleefully over campfires in the evening. In truth, they were proud of their fierce reputation among the good people of Gondor. If the people of Gondor didn’t want the Rohirrim in their city, the sentiment was certainly shared by the Horse-lords. To a man, they were ready to return home to Rohan and leave the confining city behind. A beautiful sight to most people of Middle Earth, she was no jewel to the Rohirrim. The rolling grasslands of the Riddermark, which stretched like a great green sea, were where they found their beauty and their peace. Éomer reveled in the open sky with the sun and wind on his face. He felt stifled in this city of stone.

Nodding to Gamling, Éomer mounted his gray dappled steed and the two men made their way to the first level, where King Elessar and the official city delegation were awaiting them by the rebuilt great gates. It was here that they would meet the Royal Guard and the caisson that had been specially made for this journey by the loving hands of the finest craftsmen in Rohan. The two Kings would lead the procession to the upper level where Théoden’s body would be secured to the caisson for the journey home.

Wearing the black and silver colors of Gondor, the White Tree emblazoned on his chest, Aragorn, now King Elessar waited patiently for Éomer to join him on the first level. The winged crown graced his head, and Andúril hung by his side. Most dear to him though were Boromir’s vambraces, which he still wore to honor the pledge made to his fallen comrade in arms. A fine black cloak hung on Aragorn’s back and even down the back of Brego, the king’s mount, a Rohirric steed that had once belonged to Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark and son of Théoden. That both had now been lost to the long struggle with Mordor saddened the King greatly.

Aragorn, along with Legolas, Gandalf, Gimli, Pippin, and Merry, had been present at the burial of Théodred on that windy day shortly before the battle of Helm’s Deep. The King of Rohan had only just been freed from Saruman’s evil spell by Gandalf and had had Grima Wormtongue literally thrown from the Golden Hall. Aragorn could still remember the puzzled look on Théoden’s face when he had looked around and questioned, “Where is Théodred? Where is my son?” The utter sadness and grief that had gripped the king and the people of Edoras had been palpable. While Théoden had been under the spell of Saruman, Grima had taken over much of the running of Rohan, if you could call it that. What he had done was to exile as many of the warriors of the Mark as he could, including Éomer, Third Marshal. His intent was to so weaken Rohan that Saruman would be able to easily take it over and aid Sauron in the destruction of Gondor. During these dark days the people had obviously turned their hopes more and more to Théodred, and his death had been a great blow to them. Even with Théoden seemingly himself again, it would take some time to restore hope to this beleaguered people whom had lost so much. It was only after the victory at Helms Deep that the people of Rohan had truly begun to hope again.

King Elessar turned to look at Queen Arwen, mounted by his side. Called the Evenstar of her people, she was considered the most beautiful of all the elves. This day she wore a sapphire blue gown, which was edged with silver, and the vision she made was still enough to steal the King’s breath. Slightly behind the King and Queen, also mounted, were Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, and Lady Éowyn. Lord Faramir was now betrothed to the lady and would accompany the procession home as the official representative of Gondor. It was not prudent for both the King and the Steward to be absent from Gondor for the amount of time it would take to reach Rohan and journey back, so Aragorn had decided to send a contingent of Gondor’s finest guardsmen as an honor guard for Théoden and as an added protection for the Steward on his return journey. Standing behind the king and his party stood the council members and the representatives of the most prominent houses of Gondor. While they cared not to socialize with the rough Rohirrim, most acknowledged, albeit grudgingly, the great sacrifices Rohan had made in riding to their aid and whether they wished to be here or not, King Elessar had insisted on their appearance.

“Open the gates,” called the sentry from above, causing a murmuring to be heard among the gathered people. The assembled throng watched in anticipation as the giant gates swung inward to reveal the first view of the Royal Guard. The regular people of Gondor found the Rohirrim to be fascinating and larger than life, if somewhat intimidating. No one who had witnessed their heroic charge into the hordes from Mordor on the Pelennor Fields would ever forget the sight, and they sincerely wished to show their gratitude to the King of the Riddermark. A gasp went up from the crowd as the Royal Guard entered the city pulling a golden caisson whose splendor would rival anything Gondor could produce.

The wooden cart had been intricately carved and exquisitely fitted with bronze horse symbols by Bergfinn, the best blacksmith in all of the Mark. Aging and near the time when he would pass on his trade to his son, Féalgar, he considered this his greatest privilege and had outdone himself in the design and outfitting. Even the wheels were fitted with bronze and designed to resemble sunbursts. Adorning the sides, matching the cloaks worn by the King’s Éored, was red and gold edged dark green material. Six great white stallions pulled the cart, with members of the Royal Guard riding the three horses on the right side. Behind, riding in pairs, were fifty Royal Guardsmen, all seemingly over six feet tall and resplendent in full golden armor, their spears held on top of their booted right feet. On each spear fluttered the green and gold banner of Eorl. Backs ramrod straight, they looked neither left nor right.

The procession halted only long enough for the two kings to take the lead, followed by Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn. The other dignitaries would wait here. Slowly the group made their way up through the circles of the city to the upper level. A squadron of Citadel Guards stood at attention on either side of the gates to the Hallows. Their mithril helmets were dazzling in the morning light. At the approach of the two kings, they drew their swords as one and placed the pommels across their breastbones in salute. The great white gull feather adornments looked rather ridiculous to the Rohirrim, but they appreciated the pageantry and the salute as fitting tribute to Théoden-King. Six of the Rohirric Royal Guard disappeared inside the Hallows.

Éomer kept his eyes glued to the doorway through which the guard had entered. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes and his neck was stiff from the long night’s vigil. He refused the urge to rub it and maintained his bearing, remaining at attention. Firefoot danced in agitation, as ready as his master to be back on the open plains, but Éomer automatically brought the feisty horse under control and let his mind wander. During the solitary night a door had been opened to his past and he found himself once again reliving a moment that he’d long forgotten.

O-o-O-o-O

The family was celebrating the honor day of Éowyn’s birth. The eight year old was positively quivering with excitement over the family attention. Her smile brought warmth to Éomer’s heart, for he did not see his little sister smile often enough. Too much joy had been robbed from her too short life.

To honor the occasion even more, Théoden had arranged for an intimate family meal to be served in the anteroom off of his own bedchamber. It was seldom that there was not some official meeting or meal that required the use of the great hall or one of the slightly less grand meeting rooms. There was very little privacy at the Meduseld, though the family was used to it and understood well the obligations that required so much of Théoden’s time. Éomer and Éowyn cherished the rare occasions when it could be just the four of them for the evening respite, reminding them of the quiet meals shared at home with their parents.

Candlelight gave a soft glow to the table spread with venison, freshly baked bread, cheese, mushrooms, grapes, and Éowyn’s favorite honey cakes. Her blonde hair had been brushed until it shined, using the tortoise shell brush gifted to her by her uncle Théoden, and then plaited into two long braids. Each braid was now adorned with a beautiful green velvet ribbon edged in gold, a gift from Théodred. Éomer’s gift had been the most wonderful of all to the little girl, though she had tried hard not to show it, a small sword scaled especially for her size.

Éowyn knew that her brother had made the sword himself, working long hours beside Bergfinn, the smithy, who loved having the boy’s companionship. Éowyn too reveled in following Éomer to Bergfinn’s huge barn where all types of fascinating work took place, from the forging of the magnificent Rohirric swords to shoeing of plow horses. Bergfinn, like most everyone else in Edoras, had taken to the two newest additions to Edoras. Éomer, usually shadowed by Éowyn, was curious about everything and everyone in the city. He had a love for horses and begged Bergfinn to teach him the skills needed to forge the shoes and actually shoe the steeds. Théoden had quietly questioned Bergfinn as to whether or not the two were a bother, but Bergfinn had assured his king that the pair were no trouble. On the contrary, he had added, Éomer, were he not a member of the Royal family, had the makings of a fine blacksmith of his own. What was most astounding to the blacksmith was the empathy the boy seemed to share with all horses. He’d seen him calm the most agitated mount.

Throughout the meal Théodred had been assailing the family with humorous stories. Each story featured a different family member as its victim, as Théo took great pleasure in relating numerous embarrassing moments for each of them, much to the delight of the others. Taking a deep breath and pausing after yet another round of laughter, Théodred launched into yet another tale. “Father, do you remember Battleaxe?”

Éomer perked up at the name. Éowyn had no memory of Battleaxe, but knew that had been the name of her father’s legendary stallion.

“Remember him,” Théoden snorted, “I still bear scars from him!”

Éowyn giggled at her uncle’s pained expression and slapped her hand over her mouth to keep the milk from squirting out. “Tell me more, Uncle,” she begged after swallowing the mouthful of milk she’d successfully held in.

Théoden smiled tenderly at his niece. After all, who could resist that angelic face? “All right, it is your day, so I will tell you a story of the biggest, meanest, most contrary horse that ever roamed the Mark.” Pouring himself a mug of ale, he began to relate his favorite Battleaxe tale. “He was also the most beautiful thing I’ve even seen, a magnificent black, but he absolutely did not know his place and would attempt to bite me whenever I got near.”

Théodred sniggered, “It wasn’t just you, Father. As I remember it, he would bite anyone that wasn’t Éomund.”

Éomer propped his elbows on the table and settled his chin on the clasped hands, his face a picture of contentment. He could never hear enough stories of his father, and his memories of Battleaxe were vivid. “Someday I’ll have a horse just like Battleaxe,” he sighed, “and he’ll be the greatest horse ever.”

“Tell me the story,” Éowyn insisted.

“Very well,” nodded Théoden, settling back and continuing. “The queen and I had taken Théodred to visit your home. Éomer was about two and a half, I should think, and your father decided it was time for the honor of his horse seating.” Théoden smiled at the fond remembrance and noticed three pairs of eyes intently watching him. It fascinated him to behold a different emotion on each face. Théodred’s eyes contained mirth, for he had heard the story before. Éowyn’s look was one of happy anticipation mixed with the sleepiness that marked the late hour. Éomer…Éomer’s eyes gave him pause, for in his visage Théoden could see all the pride and longing that came into his countenance whenever his father’s name was mentioned.

“Uncle!”

“I’m sorry, Éowyn, now where was I? Oh yes, your father and I had taken Éomer outside and were preparing to put him on a horse alone for the first time. As you know, little one, it is a great honor the first time one of the Eorlingas is placed on horseback. An honor passed down from father to son. Your father had a brand new saddle made just for the occasion too. Knowing Battleaxe, I stood well back. I’d already received one nip from him that day. I have to admit that I was rather apprehensive to see Battleaxe lower his head to look at your father. He was skittish and not a bit happy to see Éomer in your father’s arms.”

“Did he bite Éomer?” Éowyn asked in awe.

“Good gracious, no,” Théoden was quick to answer. “In fact, he settled right down, almost as though he understood the gravity of the occasion. Well, Éomund had just placed Éomer upon the horse’s back when Théodwyn walked out the front door of the house. It gave her such a fright to see her babe on the back of that black monster, as she called him, that she went to wailing in fright. Her wails so upset Éomer that he went to wailing himself and proceeded to wet himself and Battleaxe.”

Théodred was holding his sides he was laughing so much, and Éowyn shrieked with delight. Éomer turned scarlet with mortification, his eyes wide in horror.

Théoden took pity on the boy and cuffed him good-naturedly. “Don’t fret, Éomer, you’re not the first lad to so anoint a horse on his first sitting, nor will you be the last. At least you didn’t soil poor Battleaxe as Théo did his first mount!”

“Father,” Théodred cried out in mock dismay, “you wound me.”

“Ah,” laughed Théoden, “but not nearly so much as you wounded Archer! The horse was leery of you ever after.”

By now they were all laughing. Éomer was over his earlier embarrassment and Éowyn had to fight to stifle a yawn. She wasn’t fast enough, however, and the king called an end to the evening.

Éowyn face clouded over at the prospect of the end of this most wonderful of nights. “I’m not sleepy, Uncle, I promise.”

Théodred chortled and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Then why are your eyes red, little one? Come, climb on my back and I shall give you a pony ride to bed. That is if you’re not too old now to play with your cousin!”

“Oh Theo, I’ll never be too old to play with you,” Éowyn promised as she hiked up her skirt and climbed onto his back. “Giddy up,” she squealed as he dashed from the room with the bouncing girl on his back.

“She was very pleased with your gift, Éomer,” Théoden said when the two were alone.

“Do you actually mean to teach her swordplay?”

“I already have, Uncle,” Éomer replied. “We have been practicing with wooden swords that I’ve made to fit her. She shows promise,” he added proudly.

“I see,” Théoden mused. “And who has been teaching you?” Théoden’s preferred method of instruction with all three of the young ones was to ask a variety of questions on the subject at hand, allowing them to work their way through whatever lesson he was trying to impart. Besides increasing their self-confidence, it demonstrated to them the consequences of actions and forced them to look at problems from many different angles.

“Well,” Éomer began a bit unsurely, “Théodred usually, but really any of the guards that I can talk into it.” Too late he realized where his uncle might be going with the questions.

“I don’t bother them, Uncle, truly. I watch the guards practice with each other and when there is an odd number they have allowed me to join in.”

“Very well, Éomer,” Théoden replied. “I am just surprised that you do not spend more time with the boys your age.”

Now it was Éomer’s face that clouded.

“Tell me,” the King urged. “What is it that bothers you? Have they been unkind?”

“No, they are just not serious. I… I don’t want to play games, Uncle. I want to learn to fight, to defend the Mark, and to kill Orcs. And I will someday; I’ll kill every Orc I can find.”

“I see,” the King replied after a long pause, “then perhaps it is time I take a more active role in your training.”

“Truly?” Éomer breathed, hardly daring to believe it was possible.

Théoden nodded, “Truly. We shall begin tomorrow.”

A shadowy movement in doorway alerted Éomer to the returning Royal Guard. The men bore the banner-draped box containing their fallen king shoulder high. As it was being secured to the caisson, King Elessar placed his right hand over his heart and lowered his head. Éomer’s eyes never left the caisson.

TBC