To the King!

Chapter Three

Ever Shall I Stand Between You and Your Enemies

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based on the characters of J.R.R. Tolkien. This fiction is AU.

This work could never have been posted without the encouragement and beta reading of DJSparkles. Thank you, my friend, for giving me the courage I need to allow others to see my work.

Many thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Battleaxe and Bergfinn, which will be mentioned throughout the story.

Once all the preparations were complete, the procession began its sorrowful journey. As the body of Théoden King wound its way down through the city levels, led once again by the two Kings, the people of Gondor who had turned out as a show of respect threw flowers onto the path in front of the assembly. The silence was broken only by the sound of the horses hooves echoing on the stone path.

Éowyn had to choke back tears as this heartfelt display, but beside her, Faramir was having quite a different reaction. Feeling the tension emanating from Faramir, she turned to glace at him questioningly and was alarmed by the paleness of his face. A fine sheen of sweat shone on his forehead and the knuckles of his hands were white from the hold he had on the pommel of his saddle. But more than that, he bore such a look of pain that it nearly took away her breath. She immediately reached over and grasped his hand with her own.

“Are you well, love?” she inquired. The look that he turned to her was so haunted that it startled her in its intensity, and she only then realized that he must be reliving the horrific suicide charge ordered by his father.

With supreme effort he forced himself to will down the bile threatening to claw its way into this throat. Shaking the memory away before it could engulf him any further, Faramir smiled faintly at his lady love and took in a ragged breath. “I am well, Éowyn, do not fear.”

Éowyn doubted very much that he was in any way well, but for his sake she managed to stifle a snort and instead nodded acceptance of his statement. She knew in her heart that it would be a long time before her betrothed was any place close to well and silently pledged to do all within her power to see the demons exorcised from his heart. Éowyn smiled at Faramir and squeezed his hand in support. “The bad days are behind us. Let us look only to the future.”

King Elessar noticed the exchange between his Steward and Lady Éowyn, but Éomer did not. His eyes had never looked any place but straight ahead. Théoden had died a good death, a warrior’s death, but Éomer could not shake the deep feeling of regret that clung to him now like the dampness of a fog clings to tree and grass covering all in a swirl of mist. Like a fog shrouded plain, Éomer’s mind was veiled and darkened. He had vowed to stand between Théoden and his enemies and he had not.

Firefoot danced nervously as the crowds pressed in and children reached out to brush their hands against the gleaming coat. The great war horse was as anxious as his master to be out of the confines of the city. Éomer felt his steed’s tension as his knees signaled direction to the stallion. He reached down to pat the shining grey neck and further reassure his mount that soon they would both be free from the confining rock. The great dappled grey raised his head and gave it a shake reminding Éomer of the first horse he’d ever owned.

“Now, Éomer, now, let her go!”

Twelve-year-old Éomer stole a quick glance at the owner of the voice, his uncle Théoden. He was learning to ride like a warrior and it was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

“Give her full rein, Éomer, trust her!’ urged Théoden, easily keeping pace with the boy and his mount. “She is a war horse of Rohan; she knows what to do!”

And give her full rein Éomer did. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and willed himself to relax upon the horse’s back allowing her to gallop across the plain. As the powerful hooves thundered, Éomer felt a flush of pride in his beautiful mare, a birthday present from the King. Now he was learning to become one with her, to establish that trust and commitment so essential between Rohirrim and their horses. Relishing the cold bite of the wind whipping past his head, Éomer bellowed a war cry that elicited a laugh from the man galloping along beside him with such love and joy mirrored on his face.

“That’s it,” urged Theoden. “Ride now; Ride for Rohan!” shouted the exuberant King.

For hours the two had ridden and practiced the art of cavalry warfare. Ever patient, Théoden taught his young nephew in the same long practiced ways of his fathers, and the ever-serious child had learned quickly.

That evening, as the two camped alone, Éomer watched his uncle from across the campfire. It had been a long hard day and both of them were now well content to watch the embers drifting into the quiet darkness. Théoden himself had prepared the rabbit stew which they had just finished eating, a fact which had amazed and amused Éomer to no end.

“Did you think I’d always sat in the Meduseld as King?” Théoden had asked with a chuckle as they cleaned and packed away their plates. “I’ll have you know that I became quite adept at fending for myself when I rode the Westfold with my first éored. I was never happier than in those days of freedom when we rode the plains and the thunder of our hooves shook the ground.” Théoden sighed contentedly and leaned forward to place another log on the crackling fire. With a stick he stirred the flames and watched as, caught in the heated draft, more embers danced upward like fireflies. Settling back against his saddle the King stretched out his legs and felt himself relax in the warmth of the fire. In truth he realized he had been too long away from the saddle and the day’s workout was beginning to be felt in the muscles of his back and neck, but it was a good feeling all in all.

Looking up, Théoden enjoyed the vastness of space that was mirrored in the stars. The night was clear and cold and promised a frost before morning. He easily identified the constellations he’d learned from his father as a boy. For some time the pair sat in companionable silence. The fact that Éomer could sit for so long in silence was a trait that Théoden admired in the boy. Not all men, especially young men, were so comfortable with shared silence, but then Éomer had always had a tendency towards being a man of few words. No doubt his silence was as much a product of the wonderful exhaustion of a productive day as anything. Looking across the fire to see whether or not Éomer was still awake Théoden was surprised to see the expression on the child’s face.

“What is it, Éomer?”

Éomer rose, crossed the brief distance and knelt before Théoden. Surprised and a bit concerned, Théoden sat up. Thinking to feel the boy’s head for fever he reached up, but his hand paused as he sensed the emotions in his nephew. He quickly lowered his arm and bade Éomer to speak, masking the confusion he felt with what he hoped was a calm voice.

With all of the passion he possessed, Éomer spoke solemnly. “Uncle, ever have you had my love,” he began. “Today, this moment, I give you my life and my loyalty, my King. You are the Lord of the Mark, and you only do I serve. Ever shall I stand between you and your enemies.”

His eyes never wavered from his uncle’s, but now that he had given this spontaneous declaration he swallowed nervously…suddenly unsure. Had he displeased his uncle…spoken too rashly? Or worse, would his uncle laugh off his statement as that from a child?

Théoden stood and pulled the boy to his feet. Placing his hands on Éomer’s shoulders, Théoden looked at him with what Éomer thought was a bit of sadness.

“You do me a great honor, Éomer son of Éomund,” Théoden declared. “Ever have I loved you as a son, and now I receive your fealty with the love of a King.” With that, he pulled the lad into an embrace and kissed the fair hair, hiding the tears of pride that sprung to his eyes.

Much later, as the boy fought to stay awake memorizing every detail of this most wonderful of days, Éomer thought that this must surely be the happiest day of his life. As sleep wrapped its soft cloak around him he smiled and knew that this day was one he would never forget.

The memory of that day still shone bright in Éomer’s heart. It was a day that would always be dear to him. Turning back to glance at the banner draped coffin, Éomer sent a silent plea to Théoden.

“Forgive me, uncle, I failed you.”

TBC