To the King

Chapter Twelve

The Funeral

I'm not going to die,
I'm going home
Like a shooting star.--Sojourner Truth

To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.--Thomas Campbell

As Éomer was making his way up the hill from Bergfinn’s barn, Éowyn was attempting to cope with her hair. Throwing down her brush in annoyance, she burst into tears. Immediately a tap on the door sounded, embarrassing her that her frustration had been overheard. Composing her face, she rose from her position on the bed, picked up the broken brush and walked over and opened the door.

Berga had been walking down the hallway after taking some freshly laundered clothes to the children’s rooms when she heard the faint crash inside the adjoining chamber. She smiled as Éowyn opened the door, for she wore a stunning royal blue and silver brocade dressing gown.

Éowyn blushed slightly as she saw the reaction of the woman to her gown. “It is rather grand isn’t it?” admitted the embarrassed woman. “It was a gift from Queen Arwen,” she said by way of explanation, not even sure why she was so defensive all of a sudden.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” admitted Berga. Then she remembered why she had knocked in the first place. “Are you all right, mistress?”

“Yes, but I’m not so sure about my brush.” Éowyn grimaced as she held up the broken handle.

“Here now,” offered Berga, “let me help you. I’ve always admired your hair.” She skillfully maneuvered Éowyn over to the edge of the bed, keeping up a running commentary as she went. “It must be nigh on to impossible to weave your hair up in such a difficult braid around the crown all by yourself. Sit here on the side of the bed and let me help.” Berga sat down behind Éowyn and began cording her fingers through the long tresses. When she had them tangle free, she began braiding them in four sections, which she expertly wound through and around the copper and brass crown worn by the princess for formal occasions.

“How do you do that so quickly and easily” exclaimed Éowyn as she felt herself relaxing to the rhythmic magic of Berga’s fingers working though her hair.

“I had three little sisters,” laughed the woman. “Our mother was kept busy tending the cooking and animals, not to mention my four younger brothers, so I always cared for the little ones. I had great fun playing with their hair and creating new braid styles. I had hoped to one day use those same styles on my own little girl, but Béma has not blessed Gamling and me with a child.” She sighed and fell silent for a few moments as she worked on Éowyn’s hair.

Éowyn closed her eyes as she thought about what Berga had said. She had been so pleased when Faramir had made the comment he did about making lots of babies and never even considered that it might not come to pass. She thought about how devastated she would feel if she could not bear children with Faramir.

Berga could feel the sudden tension in Éowyn’s shoulders and realized the cause. “Now don’t you go fretting about me, mistress. Gamling has made me quite happy and our lives are full. Besides, there are little ones aplenty for all of us running around the Meduseld right now aren’t there?”

Éowyn laughed in spite of herself. “Yes, and there may well be more soon. Éomer is going to have the entire Mark searched for orphans. Until good homes can be found for them all, they’ll be staying here.”

Berga smiled at the thought. It had been hectic these last few days, but having the children in the Meduseld had helped to dispel the grief of the war and its losses and spoke of a brighter future for them all. “It’s a good thing your brother is doing. He’s going to make a fine king. There now, all finished. Can I help you with your dress?”

“Yes, please,” said Éowyn, as she stood up and began unfastening the closures of the dressing gown. “It’s the one hanging on the door just inside the wardrobe.”

Berga opened the door and gasped slightly when she saw the dark green velvet gown hanging there, for she had expected Éowyn to wear the same mourning gown she had chosen for Prince Théodred’s funeral, Béma rest his soul. She had been impressed with Éowyn’s dressing gown, but this one took away her breath with its simple beauty. Adorned with a thin golden cord and tiny white seed pearls, this gown was stunningly elegant and yet, somehow perfect for the funeral of Théoden King, for it was made of the colors of his house.

Éowyn had been watching Berga to gauge the woman’s reaction to her choice, acutely aware that it was not exactly standard issue funeral wear. She had made the decision to wear this color eschewing the traditional black for a very specific reason. She smiled when Berga turned to her with tears in her eyes. “Your uncle would be pleased and proud to see you so honor him, Éowyn.”

Sudden tears stung her own eyes at Berga’s words, and she walked over to stand by the woman, her hand reaching out to smooth the soft material of the dress in Berga’s arms. “He did not expect to return from the Pelennor. Before he led the men from Dunharrow, he told me that he wanted me to have ‘no more despair,’ and to smile again.”

The two women were interrupted by the sound of childish laughter followed by the slam of a door. They both grimaced for a moment and then laughed.

“Well, I’d best be rounding them up,” said Berga. “Would you like me to call another to assist you with your gown?”

“No, Berga, but thank you. I will be fine. I could actually use a few minutes alone to ready myself for the ceremony.”

O-o-O-o-O

“Come,” said Éomer in answer to the knock on his door. Struggling to fasten his vambrace one handed, he looked up to see Gamling enter.

“Let me help you with that, Sire.” He took up the vambrace Éomer was holding and began to fastening it onto the warrior’s arm. “I remember doing this for Théoden King before the battle at Helm’s Deep. We thought that all of Middle Earth had forsaken us. So outnumbered were we that the King had instructed the old men and strong lads armed for the defense.”

Éomer, fascinated by what Gamling was telling him, could easily picture the fear and desperation that must have been felt by those who were not trained warriors. “It was an overwhelming army you faced.”

“Aye, we did not know that the elves were even then marching to aid us. I am shamed to say that we had almost lost hope.”

“Even Uncle?” asked Éomer.

“Aye. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the West, behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?’”

Éomer frowned as he imagined his uncle saying those words…imagined the despair that he must have felt facing such an army with so few men, knowing that the women and children would be slaughtered once the men had fallen.

“It was not long after he spoke that we heard the Elven horns blowing, and when we had lost hope, you, sire, were the horse and the rider. You all came.”

Éomer’s mind conjured the scene that had burnt itself into his memory.

Gandalf had reached him near midnight a day past, and informed him of the dire situation facing those at Helm’s Deep. They had ridden hard for almost 36 hours, stopping only to rest the horses and men at need. Each time they had been forced to stop, Éomer had paced the ground, impatient to be off again, fearing for Éowyn, his uncle, and all the people, until Gandalf had forced him to sleep for just a bit. He could still hardly dare hope to believe that his uncle had been well and truly broken from Gríma’s spell, as Gandalf had said. How long had it been since he had seen his uncle clear-headed and strong of limb?

Éomer had tried everything he knew how to do to reach his uncle, but the spell had been too powerful. It seemed that nothing he could say would reach though the gloom of his manacled mind as he grew weaker each day until he could not even feed himself. Even when he had presented the king with evidence that it was the orcs of the white hand that struck down Théodred, his uncle had been unmoved.

Théodred. Even the thought of his cousin’s name brought a lump to his throat. Éomer had known the moment he saw the ugly wound to Theo’s body that it was mortal. He had hoped to be by his cousin’s side bringing what comfort he could to the man who had been like a brother to him, and to ease Theo’s passing from this world to the next, but that had been taken from him when Gríma’s henchmen had dragged him from the Meduseld. He would not forget their faces and vowed to take his revenge on them. He did not even know yet whether or not, by some miracle, his cousin still lived, or whether he had died a slow agonizing death.

And then there was Éowyn… Éomer clenched his fists as he thought about how that worm had leered at his sister. Now she was barricaded within Helms Deep, waiting for the Uruks to break though and hack the women and children to death. He could not bear to think of his beautiful little sister at the mercy of those evil perversions. Oh, he knew that she would fight to the end, protecting the children, but it would only be a matter of time before the brutes would overcome her efforts. He closed his eyes, fighting to banish the image of Éowyn being struck down and slaughtered.

Gríma had stolen so much from him…had much for which to answer!

As the troop of riders neared the rise, Gandalf shot ahead of the éoreds, for he was upon Shadowfax, and no horse could hope to keep up with the Lord of the Mearas. Nearing the summit, Éomer’s blood ran cold as he heard the horn of Helm Hammerhand echoing across the valley. The sound and tumult of many voices in battle also assaulted his ears.

Gandalf turned back to look at him. “Théoden King stands alone.”

Éomer had ridden up beside Gandalf and looked down upon the valley to see his darkest nightmare come to life. Like thousands of writhing snakes, the ground swarmed with the black armored orcs of Saruman. Like a plague of locust they covered every conceivable surface below and their numbers were like nothing Éomer had ever faced. Worse yet, the deeping wall had been breeched and the horde was pouring into the keep. His eyes then fell upon Snowmane. Unbelievably his uncle was riding out proud and strong, leading only a few riders, his beautiful white horse standing out like a beacon upon the dark sea.

“Not alone,” Éomer had said, almost to himself as much as to Gandalf. “Rohirrim!” he had shouted, so loud that the horde below had paused and looked up. “To the King!”

With that shout two thousand enraged riders had ridden down the impossibly steep incline to battle the enemy which threatened their people.

Were he possessed with the immortality of the elves, Éomer knew that he would never forget that moment: the thrill of seeing his uncle broken from the spell and leading in battle, the terror of seeing the wall breached, and the overpowering anger at the Uruk hai attacking his people. Éomer had fought like a mad man, exorcising all the demons of the past weeks of exile. He had been chased from Edoras like a criminal, banished from Rohan upon pain of death, and yet he would gladly trade his life for the chance to fight by the side of his king…his beloved uncle.

“It is time, sire,” said Gamling, breaking Éomer’s train of thought.

“Gamling, wait. You are my most trusted friend and have been by my side since the Pelennor. Today I would like to officially make you Chief Knight of the Royal Guard. Would you serve me thus, friend?” Éomer offered his arm for a warrior’s grasp.

Gamling, surprised by the offer and momentarily choked up, took his king’s proffered arm. “It would be my greatest honor, my lord. I will protect you and your family all the days of my life and with my life.”

Éomer smiled and squeezed Gamling’s elbow. “Let us both hope that it never comes to that, shall we?”

O-o-O-o-O

The Royal Guard, fifty strong, lined each side of the great hall, from the throne to the front door. Outside, the line of guards continued down each side of the steps. Where the Royal Guard stopped, warriors of the éoreds, led by Marshal’s Erkenbrand of the Westfold and Ceorl of the Eastemnet, had taken up position so that the line of warriors stretched all the way down the hill to the burial mounds of the royals. As on the day the funeral procession first entered Edoras, each warrior held a spear adorned with a green or red standard, bordered in gold and bearing the white horse symbol of the royal house of Eorl. The standards snapped and popped in the ever present winds funneling from the surrounding mountains and buffeting Edoras most days of the year.

Behind the warriors stood the crowds of people both local and from all the surrounding lands of the Mark. By the hundreds they had journeyed here to pay their respects to Théoden and to pledge their loyalty to Éomer King.

Inside the hall, Éowyn entered escorted by Faramir. The steward, wearing the same silver armor and royal blue robes he had worn for the coronation of Aragorn, led Éowyn to the side of the throne. Following them were the children. The boys came first, Bergoff, Felor, Tredin and Gandafin, followed by Márta and Meela. Hálith brought up the rear carrying Thela, for the little girl was frightened by the spectacle and the sadness marring the countenance of the people. For once the little chatterbox was completely quiet, with her head buried in Hálith’s hair.

As Éomer entered the room, the guards snapped to attention. Followed by Gamling, Éomer crossed the hall to stand before the throne.

At a nod of his head those of the Royal Guard appointed as the Royal Bearers hoisted the banner draped casket. Herugrim, the king’s sword, had been removed and stored safely away to await its presentation to another of the line of Eorl. Should Éomer die young, his sword, Guthwine would go to his eldest son, but should he live a long life, his son would be presented Herugrim on the day he became a warrior. It was a warrior’s highest honor to be gifted with a sword from his father’s house, and swords were routinely passed down for generations.

A nomadic people, the Rohirrim were, for the most part, unlearned. They had no tradition of writing, and books or scrolls would have been a hindrance in their way of life. Their history and their rich culture were handed down orally through the generations by the tales of valor passed from parent to child.

Their culture revolved around their magnificent horses, and they placed value on each other and their horses rather than on material wealth. They found it vastly confounding that the people of Minas Tirith could be happy trapped and living within walls of stone. The people of Rohan farmed their land and hunted for their food. Theirs was a simple, happy life. Their clothes were hand crafted from animal hides, wool or sometimes harvested flax.

Besides their mearas herds, ore was the second most coveted need for the people of Rohan. They mined none of their own, but instead traded for it with Gondor. Their smithies then turned it into everything from cooking pots to the beautifully crafted swords that protected them. Thus, swords and armor were handed down from father to son. They would be cleaned and, if necessary, patched and then presented to the son or nephew with great ceremony, for the history of the sword, particularly, was tied to the history of each individual family. Upon receiving the sword, the young warrior, who had undoubtedly been raised listening to his family history, would recite the saga of his newly earned prize. It was the unwritten belief then that he was the bearer of a sacred trust to pass on this story to his children with the passing of his sword. Each young, new warrior rode forth into battle secure in the knowledge that he continued the proud tradition of his ancestors and that his actions would be known to them.

Also removed from the casket was the oval Shield of the Kings. It was the one piece of Théoden’s armor which would not be buried with him, but rather would be passed to the new king to carry. It was larger than most of the shields carried by the éoreds, to provide greater protection for the king. Covered in green leather, the shield was decorated in bronze with the image of the sun. Surrounding the sun were scenes of a boar hunt.

The ceremonial head of the honor guard carried the shield to Éomer, who placed his hand upon it signifying his acceptance of the rule. It was then taken by Gamling, as the new Chief of Knights, to be placed “at ready” with Guthwine should the king be required to ride into battle.

Once Gamling had returned to Éomer’s side, he signaled the honor guard to begin carrying the casket bearing the body of the king - who had ruled from this hall for 39 years - from the Meduseld for the last time. Slowly and with precision the guard half stepped through the assembled warriors and citizens. For many of them, Théoden was the only king they had ever known, and even as they mourned Théoden, they wondered what the rule of Éomer would bring.

Immediately after the honor guard walked Éomer, followed by Faramir and Éowyn, Gamling, the children, and the others of the king’s household. Hildegard, who had secretly loved Théoden for many years, did not attend. She had slipped into the hall during the night to say a private good bye to the king. Even now she was working in the kitchen with a few volunteers so that she would be able to provide a hot, nourishing lunch to the Royal family after the service. Hildegard would show her love and devotion to Théoden the same way she always had, by providing for his family and seeing to their needs.

The meal she was supervising for after the funeral consisted of roasted boar, sweet yams baked in their skins, a variety of vegetables from the garden, loaves of fresh dark bread, ale, milk for the children, and apple cobbler as a special treat for the King. Éomer had loved Hildegard’s apple cobbler since he was a young boy, and she loved being able to fix it for him. She was as tough and crusty an old bird as they come, but she had a soft spot for all of the king’s family. They were, in essence, her family as this was her home, and she was pouring all the love she had into this meal - burying her grief in her work and hoping to provide what comfort she could for the ones she loved.

Outside, Théoden’s coffin was being placed into the burial mound beside Théodred’s as the women of Edoras intoned the traditional burial song.

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære
his dryhtne dyrest and mæga deorost.
(An evil death has set forth the noble warrior
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels
in Meduseld that he is no more,
to his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved.)

Éowyn closed her eyes as she felt her hand enclosed by Faramir’s larger one. She needed his strength as the memory of singing these same words for her sweet Theo echoed in her mind. How cruel that they should have to be sung again so soon.

She jumped slightly as she felt Éomer take her elbow and realized that the stone had already been moved to seal the tomb and it was time for the two of them to lay the flowers and light the incense. The flowers symbolized the rebirth of the departed as one who would now walk with his fathers, and the rising smoke from the incense pot was to aid his spirit on his journey to the hallowed halls of his ancestors.

Éomer led Éowyn to the tomb where they placed fresh picked simbelmynë in specially made ceramic pots and lit the wicks on two identical copper incense urns. Éowyn knelt before the closest urn and moved both her hands through the rising smoke, breathing deeply of the incense. Éomer repeated the movements on the urn nearest him. This was the family assertion that they would carry part of the spirit of Théoden with them for the rest of their lives.

From the Meduseld above them the great iron bell began to ring 39 times, one gong for each year that Théoden King reigned. When the last peal of the bell had echoed across the plain, the funeral was officially over, and Éomer led Éowyn up the hill, followed by the rest of the funeral party.

Traditionally the Royal Family would spend the next four days in seclusion, after which a banquet would be served for all the Marshals of the Mark and a city wide celebration would be held in Edoras featuring games, merchandise booths, and much feasting. All of this was to honor the life of Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel, seventeenth King of Rohan.

TBC