To the King

Chapter Seven

Prison of Doubt

It was not only the brightness of Anor shining down upon them in fiery glory that caused Éomer to blink furiously at the moisture threatening to fall from his eyes. The heat, the weariness of the long journey, the weight of worries that had burdened him all fell away from his shoulders, at least for a while, as his gaze took in the hundreds of riders formed in two lines of honor and his heart swelled in pride.

“They honor Théoden,” he breathed softly as he watched the green and white banners fluttering in the ever present winds sweeping from the White Mountains.

“As they honor you, my Lord,” added Gamling rejoining his king after placing Herugrim, Théoden’s sword, upon his banner draped coffin. If he noticed Éomer’s struggle he did not acknowledge it.

“Me?” frowned Éomer, looking at his lieutenant in genuine puzzlement. “I have done naught for which to be honored.”

“Tis not true, my Lord,” asserted Gamling emphatically. “It was you that kept the exiled éoreds together when Gríma had bewitched the King. You turned the tide at Helm’s Deep and led the Rohirrim to the king’s side. Many songs are already being sung about that brave charge. You were by our king as we rode down the enemy on the Pelennor, and you led what was left of us into the very teeth of Sauron’s stronghold.

“It was Aragorn that led us to the Morannon,” corrected Éomer embarrassed to be the object of such accolades.

“No sire,” affirmed the lieutenant. “Aragorn may have been at the head of the army, but no man commands the Horse Lords but the one who has won their loyalty, and that man is you, our King. We were proud to follow you that day, even if it meant riding to our deaths.”

So moved was Éomer by Gamling’s impassioned pronouncement, he could only shake his head in reply. “It is I who am proud to be before you,” he added softly looking back at the lines of warriors, while silently cursing his lack of control. He didn’t know what had happened to him to so threaten his composure these past weeks, but he was most uncomfortable with the rush of emotions he had been experiencing since finding Éowyn seemingly dead on the Pelennor. It was as though a dam had broken and the years of pent up, forbidden feelings had burst forth, finally freed from the prison to which he had banished them.

As the procession began to wind its way through the waiting warriors, each riders would place his right fist across his heart in tribute to the two kings. Occasionally a voice could be heard calling out a quiet affirmation of loyalty to the king.

“My Lord.”

“We are honored, Sire.”

“We follow Éomer!”

As the King, followed by the caisson, entered the gates of Edoras a great cry rang out from the ranks. “Hail Éomer King! Hail Théoden King!”

Standing outside the Meduseld, waiting for the procession to snake its way “home” to the Golden Hall, Éowyn was deeply moved by the tributes echoing across the windy plains. Sensing Éowyn’s battle to contain her emotions, Faramir moved a bit closer, so that their shoulders were touching, and wrapped his hand around hers in a quiet gesture of support. His eyes never left the procession, and neither did those of Éowyn, but he felt her squeeze his hand in appreciation for the encouragement he offered her. Secure in the Faramir’s unconditional love, Éowyn had blossomed like the first fragile flowers of springtime, elusive and delicate, but so sweet of fragrance as to steal the breath of a winter weary soul.

As the son of the Steward of Gondor, Faramir had been raised by the strict code of conduct required of the members of ruling families. It was the most difficult at such times as these, when one could not even grieve in private, but must appear strong and resolute before the people lest they become fearful or worse yet disaffected. His sire, Denethor, had ruled with an iron fist, ever mindful of court protocol and that the welfare of Gondor rested upon the Steward, until the time that a King would return to claim the throne. Faramir knew what it was to have to maintain a “public” face when your heart was breaking, and spared a quick glance at Éowyn. He was so very proud of his brave and beautiful lady, and longed for the day when she would be his wife.

In the three days since they had arrived here, Éowyn had worked almost non-stop to see that all was in readiness for the funeral of the King. In addition, she had already tackled the charge placed on her by Éomer, the daunting task of accounting for every orphaned child in the Mark. After just these few days a half a dozen young children were residing in the Meduseld. Within hours of her arrival these children had been located from within the city of Edoras. Several others from the city had already been taken in and given loving homes by family members. Éowyn had decided to use Théodred’s room for the children, moving in small beds for them. She felt that Théo would be pleased to see his room used as a place of comfort for the hurting innocents.

Faramir, especially, had been drawn to the children and connected with them almost immediately, telling them stories and teaching them games that he and Boromir had played as children. The little girls especially had thrived under his caring attention, unused as they were to being fussed over as a son would be. It wasn’t that Rohan did not cherish its daughters, but sons were what kept the land safe, the ones who raised and protected the magnificent Rohirric herds. Éowyn watched with delight as Faramir had held a little girl on his lap and showed her how to hold a buttercup flower under her chin to see if the magic was there! The little girl had squealed in glee when the other children assured her that the yellow was, indeed, reflected on her chin. The seven children – four boys and three girls – were now standing in a line behind Faramir and Éowyn.

Éomer drew Firefoot to a halt at the foot of the steps of the Golden Hall. He looked up at Éowyn and his heart clenched at the pain reflected in her lovely face.

Following his king’s gaze, Gamling dismounted and took Firefoot’s reins. “Go to your sister, Sire, I shall see to the horses, and the honor guard will see that Théoden King is laid to rest on his bier.”

Éomer dismounted Firefoot and took the steps two at a time. Éowyn went to him immediately and was enfolded in his arms. The king placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head as he spoke softly in her ear, where only she could hear. He knew her feelings for he shared them. This was the last time their beloved uncle would enter the Meduseld with them and their hearts and minds had gone back to the first time he had brought them here to live after the deaths of their parents. He had filled their lives with love and laughter for so many years that they could not even envision a world bereft of both Théodred and Théoden.

Éowyn looked up at Éomer and smiled with such tenderness that it warmed him as though Anor had broken through a storm clouded sky and shined on him with a brightness that brought renewal of hope and a reaffirmation of all good things to a barren land.

No one, save those two, would ever know what words passed between them; what memory evoked buoyed them through the next few days and gave strength of purpose to the two orphans who had been cursed with loss and yet blessed with so much love in their lives.

Éowyn stepped back to stand beside Faramir and motioned for the children to step forward. They had practiced diligently to perfect their greeting for the king, but now that the moment had arrived their little hearts were pounding with dread. Shyly, but with great decorum, the seven moppets stepped before this giant of a man and bowed. Once they had completed their group bow they solemnly pronounced, “Westu Éomer Hal!” Deeply affected, Éomer frowned as he fought to contain his emotions, an effort at which he had already been sorely tested in the past few minutes. The youngest child, a three year old little girl named Thela, mistaking the fierceness of the look for disapproval burst into tears and fled behind Faramir’s legs, where she clung as though the wolves of Isengard were nipping at her heels.

Éomer, devastated that he should so frighten the child the first time she even met him, went to a knee and gently coaxed the girl from her protective perch behind the Steward of Gondor. In a very few minutes he had the children completely charmed and totally at ease around him. Once he was sure that they did not fear him, he stood and bade them to stand beside him as the Honor Guard brought the casket up the steps with great ceremony. Éomer felt a small hand take hold of his finger and glanced down to see Thela glancing up at him with tearful eyes. Without even thinking he swept up the child to hold in his arms, rubbing small circles in her back to soothe her as he remembered his father doing for him. He felt her arms move around his neck as she relaxed, secure in king’s grasp.

Éowyn and Faramir shared an amused look as they watched the children vying for Éomer’s attention, each scrambling to be the closest to him. Gently he showed them how to stand at attention as the Honor Guard approached.

The door warden’s pulled open the great doors and bowed as Théoden’s casket was carried through to the prepared bier, where it would lay for the next two days as the people of Rohan filed past to pay their final respects to Théoden and swear fealty to their new king.

Éomer, the children, Éowyn and Faramir followed the honor guard into the shadowed hall. None others, save Gamling, once he had seen to the stabling of his own mount and Firefoot, would enter the great hall this night. Following Rohirric tradition, this was a night for the family to make their goodbyes and to rejoice at the passing of a good life to the hallowed presence of their forefathers. It was a time of joy as well as mourning as the people of Rohan prepared to farewell a life well lived and heroically given in battle for his people. For a Rohirrim there was no better death than a heroic death.

O-o-O-o-O

Late in the night, when long shadows were cast on the wall by the flickering torches and the earth had fallen into the silence of a night kissed softly by starlight, Éomer and Gamling stood contentedly in the great hall beside the bier bearing Théoden. Mellowed by ale, they were content to relax in each other’s company as they passed the night in contemplation and appreciation for the man they both loved and admired.

Éomer had dismissed the Honor Guard until morning so that he and Gamling could spend this time alone with Théoden. It was certainly within the purview for a family and in no way breeched protocol, for in Rohan, family rights were deeply held and deeply respected.

“I failed him,” said Gamling sadly as the inevitable winds buffeted past the Golden Hell wailing through small breaches around the doors and windows and causing the flaming sconces to flickers furiously.

Surprised, Éomer cut his eyes over to look his friend. Here in the Meduseld he realized that he had not seen the changes in Gamling that seemed so clear to him now. The man was thinner and his clothing hung loose about him. His eyes were haunted with resignation and despair, and an overwhelming feeling of loss seemed to emanate from his being. Shocked as much for what he was seeing as for what he had failed to see in the past weeks, Éomer sought to reassure the man who he had come to rely upon. “No, Gamling, you were ever by his side. I cannot remember a time when you were not beside him, as loyal as any I’ve known.”

Gamling blushed and looked miserably down at the bier. “In body, perhaps, but I did fail him.” He turned to look at his young king, the bravest man he’d ever known, and his own weakness and failure seemed all the more pronounced. “It was at Dunharrow…the night Lord Aragorn rode out to take the Dimholt. My heart failed me because so few men had come. I openly questioned Théoden King and said that there was no hope.” His shoulders slumped in shame. “Worse yet, I declared before the men that we could not defeat Mordor.”

“I don’t remember that,” stammered the King, stunned and shaking his head in confusion.

“You were not there, Sire. You had gone to the smithy.” Gamling smiled wryly at his King. “You likely would have run me through had you heard me speaking of defeat before the men, and on the very eve of battle.”

“What did he do?” questioned Éomer, truly intrigued, for he had never heard of Gamling’s outburst. “How did Théoden react?”

“He was magnificent,” recalled Gamling fondly. “He stood there looking every bit the king he was and calmly told me and every other man there that we would meet Mordor in battle none the less.”

Both men were silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts of the man and the events that would follow.

“I was ashamed and proud all at the same time. It was then I realized that I would gladly follow the King of Rohan for however many days Béma would bless me with life. I pray every day that I may be worthy of the faith you place in me, my lord.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself, my friend,” admonished Éomer. “We all have a moment in time when our hearts fail us and we lose faith. We are blessed if it is only one moment,” he added deliberately

“Surely not you, my lord. . .”

Éomer looked at the bier. “Surely not me,” he repeated softly…

“You see much Éomer son of Éomund, too much. You are banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan,” sneered Gríma.

Éomer fought the men holding him, these miscreants who had come from Isengard with the worm. They were nothing more than hired thugs. “You have no authority here,” Éomer spat.

Victorious, Gríma had held up the damning document. Unbelievably, there it was, Théoden’s signature. “No!” his mind screamed, and he fought even harder until one of the henchmen hit him over the head, stunning him.

He had been dragged from the Golden Hall and thrown upon Firefoot. A few of his men, still close to the Meduseld to await his orders, had tried to intervene, and Gríma had banished them as well. The rest of his éored had followed him of their own volition, refusing to remain in the city when their marshal was banished.

Éomer closed his eyes forcing the memory from his mind. How knew those feelings of shame and pride of which Gamling had spoken. He knew them intimately. He had felt them that day. He had been deeply shamed to be driven from his own city as though a common criminal and also incredibly proud of the brave men who followed him into exile. It was their sacrifice which had heartened him, and it was for them and for Rohan that he had continued to fight the darkness, even while his heart lay broken in pieces as the image of his uncle’s signature upon that paper continued to flash before his eyes, mocking him with its finality.

“Yes, Gamling, I lost heart and worse yet, I blamed my uncle for failing me. Failing me! Can you imagine? He who gave me a home and love, who taught me how to be a warrior and the very meaning of the word honor.”

Seeing the depth of passion the memory had evoked in his young king, Gamling remained still, supporting Éomer with his presence.

Éomer mastered his recalcitrant emotions and smiled at Gamling. “You did not fail him, my friend, and he would have been the first to tell you so. He would caution us both not to look backwards, not to let doubts place us in a prison of our own making. We can honor him best by taking that lesson to heart.

Gamling nodded his head slowly, considering the words spoken by his king. They were good words, wise words, and he silently cheered the future he hoped to see for Rohan with this man as her leader. Hefting his mug he held it out for Éomer to match.

“For the honored dead,” offered Gamling.

“For the honored dead,” echoed Éomer.

TBC