To The King

Chapter Six

The Long Goodbye

"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal." Albert Pike

It was early afternoon and the sun was just past its zenith, shining today with a brilliance that dazzled the eye and made the landscape appear to shimmer in the afternoon rays. Squinting up at the fiery ball, Éomer wiped his brow. It was much warmer than usual for this time of year, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Béma for the good fortune. Not only would the warmer weather facilitate the travel of the citizens of Rohan to Edoras for the funeral, but more importantly, the king realized, each day of good weather bought them more time to prepare provisions for the harsh winter to come. Every additional day of preparation would buy more lives of his people before springtime breathed her fresh breath and once again graced their lands with new life. Éomer meant to see that every life that could possibly be snatched from death’s cold jaws would be saved.

The gloomy company was finally nearing its final destination after the long, sorrowful journey home, and it was none too soon, for Éomer was chaffing at the slow progress. Three days previously, he had sent Éowyn and Faramir riding ahead to Edoras to insure that all the preparations for Théoden’s funeral were in place. The couple, accompanied by the guards from Gondor for protection, could travel the distance much faster than the slower procession, which stopped or slowed in every village. There was much for Éowyn to prepare, and Faramir would be a wonderful aid to her due to his administrative knowledge and experience. Edoras would be crowded with people, and arrangements needed to be made for their accommodations and safety. Those fortunate enough to have relatives in the city would, of course, stay with family, but all the others would be camping outside the gates. Additional guards would need to be posted, for although no attack was expected, wild animals still roamed the grassy plain searching for prey. Éowyn planned to have breakfast porridge prepared for the people, and the Meduseld would also be providing additional pots of stew or soup to supplement the meager provisions that would be the lot of most of those arriving. She hoped to insure that all would have two hot meals per day.

Éomer would have preferred to send part of his Éored with Éowyn, but did not want to risk offending Faramir or the soldiers from Gondor, so he had set aside his better judgment this time and allowed them to ride off without any of the riders of Rohan in attendance. Éowyn, of course, had easily read the look on her brother’s face and assured him that she was not five years old any longer and could take care of herself before galloping off with her future husband and the Gondorian guards hot in pursuit. Éomer had merely shaken his head as Gamling, riding beside the king, chuckled.

“She is going to set Gondor on its ear before all is said and done,” predicted the lieutenant.

“I fear for her, Gamling,” sighed Éomer.

“Sire?’

“I fear for her spirit, old friend,” corrected the king. “Éowyn was not made for a rock city; I believe it will stifle her.”

“Éomer, my king, will you listen to some advice from an old friend?”

Éomer looked at Gamling and nodded his head. “Always,” he promised.

“You carry much responsibility on your shoulders. Do not look for more. Faramir is a good man and will make Éowyn a good husband. He will see to her needs and her spirit.”

The pair rode in silence for a while as Éomer pondered the words of his lieutenant. He recognized the wisdom of the words, but knowing and doing are often worlds apart. For so long he had borne responsibility for those he loved, beginning with Éowyn and continuing on to his people when he had become Third Marshal of the Mark. It almost seemed he had carried that burden for his whole life, but never more than these last few months.

O-o-O-o-O

It was raining as Éomer and his éored approached the Fords of Isen. They had expected to rendezvous with Théodred that morning as the Second Marshal’s troop returned from a patrol of the Gap of Rohan. Reports had come to them of unusual activity in this area and Théodred had entreated permission from Théoden to investigate. Gríma had persuaded the king to deny the request and Théodred had stormed from the Meduseld, frustrated with impotent rage at the advisor and his father’s inability to act without him. Meeting up with Éomer outside, he had confided to his cousin that he was going to patrol through the Gap of Rohan, Gríma be damned. Éomer had nodded his assent and cautioned Theo to be careful, promising to meet him in three days at the border of the Westemnet.

When they failed to appear, Éomer had taken his Éored in this direction expecting to meet up with the missing company. With each mile they crossed, dread grew strong in the young Marshal’s heart, wrapping cold tendrils of doubt around him. Squinting through rain splattered eyes, his heart fell at the sight of vultures circling above the Ford, for where vultures gathered, carrion was close by.

Spurring on his steed, Éomer rushed forward, followed closely by his troop. Rounding the last sharp corner and descending into the Ford, Éomer’s heart sank. There, before him, lay a ghastly sight…Théodred’s Éored. They had obviously put up a tremendous fight, but it seemed obvious that none survived.

“Théodred,” breathed Éomer, as much to himself as any other. “Find the king’s son!” he commanded as the rest of his troop gathered at the site. Dismounting from Firefoot, Éomer joined his men in searching through the bodies. Unbelievably, even the magnificent Rohirric steeds had been slaughtered, a loss that was almost as devastating to the Horse lords as that of their riders.

From were he was kneeling by his fallen brother’s side, Bregond looked up at Éomer with hate filled eyes. “Mordor will pay for this.”

“These orcs aren’t from Mordor,” replied Éomer kicking over a dead orc to reveal the white painted handprint. It was as he and Théo had suspected; Saruman was somehow in league with Mordor or breeding orcs for his own foul agenda. As if their situation weren’t dire enough, Rohan now faced a new threat from their western side. A deep frown marred the handsome face. ‘How in Béma’s name was he to fight a war on two fronts as beleaguered as they were and with the king bewitched by Wormtongue?’ wondered the young Marshal. ‘There had to be a way to reach his uncle before it was too late for all of them.’

“My Lord Éomer, over here,” called one of his men, from the water’s edge, interrupting the Marshal’s thoughts.

Éomer raced over to where the man knelt expecting to see Thoédred’s lifeless body, but instead he saw Théo still tenuously clung to life. “He’s alive,” Éomer breathed as hope flared within his soul. Picking up his cousin, Eomer moved as quickly as he could to his stallion, making his way over and around the butchered bodies of his friends. Gently, Éomer handed Théo to Bregond while he mounted and then took his cousin back into his arms. “Bregond,” he called from horseback, “take four men and bury our brothers.”

Éomer paused when he saw the stricken look on Bregand’s face. “It is the best that we can do for now, my friend. I give you my word their sacrifice will not be forgotten and they shall be honored.”

Bregond nodded sadly. Coming to attention, he placed his clenched fist over his heart in salute to his Marshal. “It will be as you say, my Lord.”

Éomer could not return the salute because he held Théodred, but his eyes spoke of his devotion to his men, devotion that none of them ever questioned and returned in full measure. He held the man’s eyes for a moment longer before looking around to his men. “The rest of you follow me!”

They rode hard to reach Edoras. Thankfully the rain stopped and Éomer prayed it was a good omen, for Théodred still lived as they entered the city. As Éomer galloped up the hill, the villagers, alerted by the call of the guards at the gate, came from their doors to see what was happening. A great cry went up as the people beheld the king’s heir in such a state. Éomer could hear the grief of the people and it pained him to be the bearer of more ill tidings.

Despair clung to Edoras in a palpable mantle. Hope seemed far away from this people who had endured bad times for so long and with such courage. Try as they might, the king’s guard could not keep secret the bewitchment of Théoden from the city. News like that could never hope to be kept quiet in a city as compact and family oriented as Edoras. Nearly everyone in town was related to someone who worked in the Golden Hall or the Royal stables in one capacity or the other, and the loss was a grievous one to bear. It was as though the much beloved and gentle man that so often walked the streets of his city inquiring as to the condition and well being of his people had ceased to exist. The people, fearing for their future and the future of Rohan, had placed their faith in Théodred. In another cruel stroke of fate, that faith now seemed dashed.

What little hope was left now fell squarely on Éomer. The people of Edoras had watched the son of Éomund grow into the capable and much admired man that he was, but what hope was there for this young one if both the king and Théodred had been lost to the dark forces? Indeed, what hope was there for Rohan itself?

Éomer took the steps to the Golden Hall two at a time. Both guards came to attention as the Third Marshal approached and were horrified to see who it was he carried. Pausing only briefly, Éomer called to the stricken doorward. “Háma, send for the healer!”

Rather than enter through the great hall, Éomer went around the outside of the building to enter Théodred’s room through the outer door. As gently as he could, he laid his cousin onto his bed and began to remove his armor so that his wounds could be better assessed. “Hold on, Théo,” he crooned as he worked quickly. “I’m going to get these wet things off of you and then warm you up. You’ll be fine, you’ll see.” Éomer kept up a running dialogue as he worked, needing to hear the reassuring words almost as much as his cousin did.

Éomer was no healer, but he had tended plenty of battle wounds, and what was revealed to his eyes when he removed Theo’s cuirass told him all he needed to know. Hope was lost; his beloved Théo was lost. No one could survive with such a wound. Choking back a sob, Éomer covered Théodred with a blanket, tenderly taking Théo’s hand in his own to hold as he prayed silently for his cousin’s spirit to find peace.

The crash of the door interrupted Éomer as Éowyn rushed into the room, having been alerted by the call of the guards. Unknowingly, Éomer began to rock slightly back and forth as he fought with his emotions. Éowyn looked at him questioningly, but he could only nod at the blanket covering Théodred.

Steeling herself, Éowyn pulled back the blanket to see the wound to Theo’s lower abdomen. It was an ugly wound that had punctured his organs…very clearly mortal. The sight stole her breath away. Reflexively she looked back to Éomer as though he could make things better like he always did, but what she saw was a dagger to her heart. The eyes that met hers were as haunted and broken as she had ever seen, and Éowyn realized a truth that she had only imagined before, that her brother, her rock, needed her as much as she needed him. That realization was empowering. As heartbroken as she was, Éowyn found a new purpose and strength. She would be the strength her brother needed now.

The thought was halted by the arrival of the healer and two of his helpers. Éomer and Éowyn excused themselves and stepped into the hallway.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“It was an ambush, by the looks of it, at the Fords of Isen.”

“Isen?” questioned Éowyn. “Dunlendings that far?”

“They weren’t Dunlendings; they were orcs, from Isengard”

Éowyn digested the information. “Do you have proof of this?”

“Oh yes,” Éomer said slowly. “Come with me.”

They walked together down the hall to the outer doorway leading to the terrace running the length of the Meduseld. They continued out and around to the front, where Éomer’s Éored waited for him. Stopping at the top of the stairs, Éomer motioned for Liam, his second in command, to bring the helmet.

Liam jumped down from his horse and ascended the steps. “My Lord,” declared the Horse Lord, handing the hated helmet to Eomer.

“Thank you, Liam,” answered Eomer softly.

“I will see to Firefoot, my Lord,” offered the man.

Eomer looked away briefly to regain his composure, hating himself for this sudden weakness, and then nodded his thanks to Liam.

Taking the proffered helmet, Eomer showed it to Éowyn. “We’ve seen this image before,” he told her. “It is the white hand of Saruman.”

O-o-O-o-O

A soft murmuring behind him pulled Éomer’s attention back to the present and the king turned to look back to the source. He and Gamling were riding at the very front of the procession followed by the Honor Guard and the Caisson bearing Théoden’s body. Behind the Caisson rode Éomer’s personal Éored followed by the supply wains. The exclamation he’d heard had come from Liam, for none of the Honor Guard would have spoken.

“My Lord,” whispered Gamling with a smile, nodding his head forward.

So deep in though had Éomer been that he had not even realized they were less than a league from the city and he now looked in that direction. Lining both sides of the road leading into the city were hundreds of the Rohirrim waiting at attention for their two kings to pass. Each rider wore the green cloaks of Rohan and each spear was adorned with the king’s own banner. The women of Rohan must have worked tirelessly to produce so many, and Éomer was deeply touched by this display of devotion to Théoden.

Unconsciously, every man in the procession sat a bit straighter, proud to be a part of this moment and of this people.

Éomer turned to Gamling. “Retrieve Herugrim from the wagons and place it upon the Caisson. Théoden King will not enter his city without his sword.”

TBC

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