To the King

Chapter Sixteen

Thanksgiving

"It is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor."— George Washington, October 3, 1789

Stepping out onto the terrace of the manor house, the one known as dark man scowled as he looked around. He wouldn’t have considered it a scowl, for that was the look he always had on his face. The peasants who lived in the surrounding huts, the wives of the imprisoned horse lords…they all went about their assigned duties, which pleased him. How he enjoyed watching his own personal slave force.

Gilmóod watched as all was made ready for the “reception” of the contingent from Rohan. He observed the measures being taken to prepare the ambush. His men were experts at what they did. Squinting at the sunlight in his eyes, he pulled up short as an idea flitted into the corner of his mind. Gilmóod was not what one would call intelligent, but he was cunning and sly, both commodities well favored in a henchman. Smiling the smile that had chilled the hearts of many a decent man and woman, he gave a shrill whistle to catch Scaro’s attention.

The scarred man whose face fit his name turned from what he was doing when he heard the signal from Gilmóod. Motioning his men to continue their preparations, he sprinted over to where his leader was standing on the steps of the manor house.

Known to all as the Manor of Snowbourne, the house was constructed of rough hewn logs, some rounded, some cut in half lengthwise. Two stories tall, it was a handsome house, but built to withstand the fierce winters as well as offer protection from enemies. From the upper levels, deep slits were cut into the logs so that archers could rain down death on any approaching. Not as secure nor as strong as the Hornburg, it had proven adequate for the centuries it had served as Snowbourne’s fortress.

“We are almost ready. Fitch has the trail covered. Shall we attack them in the narrow or would it be your pleasure to witness the kill here?”

Gilmóod felt a rush of satisfaction as he considered the suggestion. It had been too long since he’d had the pleasure of a good kill. It was said among his men that he favored a kill to pleasuring a woman, a notion that none of them doubted.

He forced himself to close his eyes against the tingling in his loins and pushed back the red haze that sizzled just behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and gathered his wits back. No, he would delay that pleasure for now. He had a better plan.

“Scaro, call off the men. Allow the Marshals and their escort to approach. I do not want them harassed, is that clear?”

Scaro barely held back the growl that came to his throat. He and his men had been promised the chance to kill these horse riders and he wanted it. “You mean to let them come here? You promised…”

Before he could complete the words Gilmóod was off the steps and had him by the throat. Scaro could feel the cold metal of Gilmóod’s dagger beneath his chin.

“Do you question me,” breathed Gilmóod, his eyes not three inches from those of Scaro. For several seconds only his breathing could be heard. His breath was foul in Scaro’s face. All activity in the yard had ceased as the prospect of entertainment became available.

Scaro scarcely dared move so close was the blade, but he managed to shake his head enough to signal the man who literally held his life in his hands. He could barely breathe, but he managed to choke out an answer. “No, my lord, I do not question your orders.”

Gilmóod squeezed even tighter for a moment.

Scaro began to see stars as his vision blackened and then the pressure was gone and he gasped sweet lungs full of precious air. He had to lean over, his hands on his knees as he tried to still the spasming coughs racking him.

Gilmóod spun around to glare at those who had stopped their work to witness the scene. “What are you looking at? Get back to work or I’ll cut your rations even further.”

Scaro had finally regained his breath and stood facing his commander. “You will receive the horse lords?”

Gilmóod smiled almost indulgently at the man. His fit of anger dissipated, he nodded his head regally. “We shall not only receive them, we shall make them our guests.”

Clearly confused, Scaro narrowed his eyes as he considered his master’s words.

“We wish to be at peace with our neighbors, do we not?” asked Gilmóod pleasantly. “You are too angry, my friend. We will welcome the Horse Lords to Snowbourne and hear their petition.” He put his arm around Scaro’s shoulders conspiratorially. He spoke softly so that only Scaro could hear. “Keep the prisoners quiet and all else acting normally. No one is to get near the horse lords but us. Is that understood? I fear my uncle is indisposed and will need to remain in his quarters.”

Scaro was slow, but he was finally beginning to follow Gilmóod’s train of thought. “Perfectly, my lord. All shall be done as you say.” He bowed his head slightly and then remembered something his scout had reported. “Oh, one thing…Fitch reports that one of the riders is Gamling.”

“Gamling?” Gilmóod’s countenance darkened once more. “Well, well, this should be interesting.” He seemed to consider the situation as he slowly nodded his head, before fixing Scaro with a fierce look. “You will control your temper, Scaro. I am after bigger game than a Royal Guard”. Gilmóod was not even aware that he had begun to rub his hands together in anticipation.

Scaro watched him for a moment before nodding his head again and leaving to deliver the message to his men to stay the ambush they had prepared.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer signaled Firefoot with his legs and the great mount slowed to a trot. Both were well lathered from their romp, pleased, invigorated, and satisfied at the same time. Éomer patted his steed’s neck and the pair turned back towards Edoras.

Both had needed this run, but Éomer especially had felt the desire to throw off the trappings of leadership and freely run the plain without guards, advisors, or responsibility. He never felt more alive than when he was riding.

The bedtime story he told the children had revived many memories for him. Some of them were good memories – the faithfulness of Théoden, Théodred, and Éowyn as they had all nursed him back to health, but most of them were not good. It was bad enough to have been gored by a boar, but that pain was eclipsed by the dread and horror of the iron. Éomer still shuddered when he thought about it. Never before or since had he feared any action such as that. The scarring from the injury was aggravated by the burns which drew as they healed and necessitated the nightly oiling and stretching by his uncle.

Éomer closed his eyes as he thought back to the agony of having those scars stretched and pulled each night, but his uncle had promised him that he would ride again once they were all healed. It was his absolute faith in Théoden that had seen him through the long winter.

The king slowed Firefoot once more and the pair continued at a slow, cooling walk. Éomer allowed his mind to continue its meandering down through the halls of his memory, accepting that Béma would show him what he should take with him.

For the first time in so many years his country faced peace, faced the opportunity to grow and prosper without having to fight for every scrap of victory they could gain. There were still great problems to be over come, possible privation and loss from a hard winter and scant foodstuffs, but Éomer had never been afraid of a challenge. No, what gave him pause was the question of how well he would be able to lead in peacetime.

Peace. The word was almost foreign to him, for he had never known it. So many had been lost through the years…so many sacrifices made for that one word, and yet Éomer was not sure he even knew what it meant.

One thing he did know was how very grateful he was to have his sister here with him, if even for a short time. Éowyn was all the family he had left and embodied all for which he had suffered and bled and fought.

Éomer’s breath still caught as he clearly recalled how all else in the world had stopped at moment he saw his sister seemingly dead on the Pelennor.

The battle all but finished, he and his warriors walked the field searching for their men. The riders would see to the burial of their own, and they never left one of their own behind. Éomer’s mind reeled with what he was seeing. So many lost…Marshal Grimbold, an arrow through his neck, Déorwine, cut down and hacked to pieces by orcs even after he’d died, faithful Guthláf, crushed beyond recognition by the huge feet of the Mûmakil – identifiable only by the King’s Banner still clutched proudly in his hand…so many others, so many.

Éomer saw Gamling and several of his men standing together and started in that direction. As he arrived at their location, his heart clutched as his eyes beheld Uncle. He lay penned beneath his beloved Snowmane. So they had died together. It was fitting, Éomer felt, for they had been devoted to each other in life.

He knelt by his uncle’s body, tenderly placing his hand on his Théoden’s head as he stroked the hair with his thumb. “We have prevailed, Uncle. You may rest easy. Bear my love to Théodred and tell him that his sacrifice was not in vain. Tell my parents…tell them I ever strive to make them proud.”

Gamling put his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “He died as he would have wished, my lord. See to your éored, and let us take care of him. We will see him laid to rest in Minas Tirith until we can take him home.”

Éomer bestowed a kiss to his uncle’s forehead and rose to continue the search for the men of his éored, for that is what the Horse Lords did.

He caught sight of blonde hair, which in and of itself was not unusual, but there was something else that caught his attention. It was the apparent softness of the hair and the familiar armor, but that was not possible… In horror his eyes kept affirming what his mind refused. Éowyn! No!

The raw rage and grief that surged through him came out in horrific cries that had chilled the blood of his warriors as he ran to her and sank to his knees. Éomer had believed that he’d seen too much death to ever cry again, but he was wrong. He cried, he screamed, he raged as he rocked back and forth holding Éowyn’s body.

Freezing at the sound of their commander’s grief, Éomer’s warriors could only stare in utter shock at the sight of Éomer unashamedly crying as he held his sister. If they had not seen it with their own eyes, none would have believed it, and rather than weakening him in their eyes, the gut wrenching cries only cemented their devotion to this man they all adored and served with honor.

Firefoot’s path across the field flushed out a covey of quail and their frantic flight startled Éomer back to the present. He was somewhat surprised to find his cheeks damp and blinked several times to clear his eyes. They were close to the city now and Éomer had a sudden need to be home…to see Éowyn and the children they had brought into their home, to see Faramir, the man who would be his brother, to see Elena, the woman who was now a treasured part of his family. He laughed as he realized that he even wanted to see Hildegard and do some verbal sparring with the feisty old woman.

Spurring Firefoot back into a trot, Éomer decided right then and there that they would have a fine dinner tonight…one in which all living within the Meduseld would be welcome. Hildegard would share their thanksgiving feast with them, the children, Faramir, Elena, Berga – since Gamling was away, and especially Éowyn. His sister would be leaving him soon enough to take up residence in Minas Tirith, but he would not think of that now. This night would be for thanksgiving, for celebrating the peace that would come and for just being together.

O-o-O-o-O

“You’re sure, mother?” asked Berga uncertainly. She had long ago given up hope.

“I am sure, Berga,” smiled Elena, as she patted the hand of the younger woman.

“Oh!” Berga was momentarily speechless. “Oh,” she repeated, her eyes tearing from sheer joy.

“Well is that all you can say?” laughed Elena. “Come we must speak to Hildegard. With your past troubles we must see that your duties are light. I am sure she will understand.”

“Oh,” said Berga, causing Elena to laugh again.

Taking the dreamy eyed Berga by the hand she started leading the woman from her rooms to the kitchen where they would find Hildegard overseeing the preparation for the evening meal.

Earlier in the day Faramir had taken Hálith hunting, and the pair had managed to bag a couple of wild turkeys, which were even now roasting over a spit in the kitchens. Potatoes boiled away in a kettle and Hildegard was experimenting with some new spices which Faramir had brought her. The spices were a fine gift, decided the wily cook, even if they had come from Harad. There was cinnamon, ginger, and something called cloves, and she was thinking that they would be quite tasty in a pie she was making from boiled and mashed pumpkin.

“Hildegard,” called Elena. “Come, my friend, we have wonderful news!”

Hildegard raised her head from her patient measuring of spices. “News, what news?”

Berga and Elena were both smiling and crying at the same time, which in Hildegard’s experience could only mean one thing.

O-o-O-o-O

The entire group was gathered in the great hall. The children were chattering with excitement at the prospect of a celebration dinner in the main hall rather than in the smaller king’s dining room where they normally ate.

Gathered around the table laden with bounty, the group paused before sitting. This night they were showing respect to the traditions of Faramir and Gondor by facing West and observing a moment of silence as Faramir explained the traditional Númenórean ritual. The group then faced Éomer at the head of the table as he touched his hands to his eyes and gave thanks to Béma for the blessings of the mearas, and to Eru Ilúvatar for His gift of all life.

The blessing complete, they took their seats. Éomer could not help but feel a deep contentment as he gazed at each beloved face. Éowyn to his right was literally glowing with happiness as she smiled across the table at Faramir, who was seated on the king’s left. Beside Faramir were the three little girls, with Thela, of course, right beside her Farmeer. Seated beside Éowyn was Elena. The three younger boys were situated between Elena, Hildegard, and Berga. Hálith sat at the far end of the table opposite Éomer. The boy beamed with pride at the honor, and Éomer raised his mug in toast to the boy.

As laughter and conversation filled the room, Éomer noticed that Berga seemed unusually animated and mentioned as much to Éowyn.

“Does Berga seem somewhat excited tonight?”

Éowyn glanced down the table to the woman and noticed the glow on her face. She looked back at Éomer and shrugged her shoulders slightly as she smiled her confusion to him.

“I know,” said Thela self importantly. “It is a secret, but I know.”

“What do you know, Thela,” asked Éowyn, expecting the child to launch into one of her many make believe stories of fairies and such.

“It is a miracle,” breathed Thela. “Someone made a baby with Berga. Was it you, Farmeer? I thought you were going to make a baby with Éowyn?”

That got everyone’s attention as silence fell at the table.

Faramir, of course, flushed scarlet and cleared his throat. “I assure you, Miss Thela, with respects to you ma’am, he nodded to Berga, that I did not make a baby with Mistress Berga. That honor, I am certain, belongs to Gamling,” he finished with a smile.

“So,” laughed the king, “is it true, Berga?”

Berga began to smile and cry at the same time…again…and nodded to the King. “Yes, m’lord, it is true.”

Éomer was overjoyed at the wonderful news for his friends.

“It is fitting that you share these joyous tidings with us tonight. We have all faced loss and pain these past years, yet we are here tonight blessed with bounty and tied by love and loyalty. Let us remember that the miracle of new life speaks of our future and reminds us for what we have sacrificed. It is a good day for miracles.”

He hefted his mug once more, “To life!”

TBC