A Red Sun Rises

Éomer opened his eyes to the by now familiar flickering twilight. Despite the shirt Gríma had given him and the thin woollen blanket he had wrapped tightly around his body, he felt frozen, and an icy draft passed right over his face from a fissure in the rock. Unconsciously moving away as soon as he became aware of it, Éomer – out of the corner of his eye - suddenly noticed movement… and found himself face to face with a fat rat that had feasted on the breadcrumbs he had left on the tablet. He recoiled, and the rat fled with a frightened squeak and disappeared through the iron bars. Following its path with his eyes, Éomer wished he could do the same. His chances seemed slim, though.

Today… was the last day of his life.

The sudden thought hit him in the gut like a battering ram and knocked the air from his lungs. Panic started to rise from the depths of his subconscious, spread its dark wings to sweep him away in a black maelstrom, and only with supreme effort, Éomer succeeded in pushing it back to where it had come from. With a deep, soundless sigh, the son of Éomund turned on his back and stared at the ceiling. Was this indeed it? The point where his life ended? Twenty-four hours left to come to grips with what his life had meant and what he would leave behind?

Would they really execute him? Somehow, even after these last two days in the dungeon, he could not believe it. If there was a shred of the old Théoden left inside his uncle's body, wasn't it impossible that he would sentence his nephew to die? But then again, he had not even come to see him in his cell, had not even tried to speak with him. Why? Because he was too ill to navigate the stairs? Or because he did not care? Éomer feared that it was the latter. And it was not only the result of Gríma's poison, no. He had fallen out of his uncle's favour long ago. The realisation left a bitter taste in his mouth.

And where were Aragorn and his companions? Éomer's frown deepened. Unconsciously, he rubbed his arms. His hands felt like ice, no matter what he did. He blew air over his frozen fingers, and then stuck them beneath his armpits as his memory returned to the meeting on the plains. Had he misjudged, after all? Had his instincts, which had never lied to him before, failed him at the most critical time? Had he been too exhausted, too tired to see what kind of people those three travellers had been in truth? Had despair and fear to return to Edoras caused him to project all his hopes onto random strangers, who couldn't have been luckier than to receive unexpected help in their unknown – and potentially dangerous - quest in the form of an overwrought marshal who failed to do his duty? Did he actually deserve to be hanged?

Éomer heaved a sigh and massaged his hurting brow. No. It could not be. His instincts could not have been so grossly wrong. All his life he had depended on them – in battle, in the judgment of character… He was known among his riders for being almost eerily able to see right through people. And never before had the voice in his head been so strong. It had almost been as if Béma himself had urged him to aid those warriors. He refused to believe that exhaustion had let him into committing a mistake. If they killed him for his actions, it was them who were wrong, not he. Which didn't make his situation any better.

And still the fact remained that the three had not arrived in Edoras. Éomer was certain that his adversary would have gleefully told him if they had been apprehended. So what other explanations were there for their continued absence? Were they still looking for their friends at the northern border? Or had they had, after all, met with a gruesome end at the hands of an orc-horde, or a troupe of the Worm's thugs, even if that was the option the son of Éomund believed in least. Had the weather deteriorated to the point where travelling across the plains was rendered impossible? Éomer seemed to remember faintly that his scouts had hinted at the possibility of a blizzard shortly before they had entered Edoras, and the icy draft in his cell indeed seemed to hint at a storm outside.

In the end, it was irrelevant. They had not come. By trusting those strangers with his life, Éomer had risked everything… and lost. Tomorrow, he would pay the ultimate price for his gamble.

It was not that he was afraid to die. One could not rise through the ranks from recruit to marshal as fast as he had done if fear directed one's steps. Death was a possibility all members of the Armed Forces accepted readily. But it had been a different kind of death he had always had in mind for himself: the heroic end that ensured life for his loved ones and for the Mark. An ascent to the halls of his ancestors on the Pale Stallion's back, and a joyous welcome at their gates. The comforting knowledge that his memory would be revered and honoured.

To have it linked to treason and shame instead was a thought Éomer found utterly unacceptable. He could not even remember when, in his lifetime, a man of the Mark had ever been sentenced for treason. They had all fought together, for the same side, for as long as he could think back. He had given his blood for the Mark many times. How could they even begin to think him a traitor now?

"You did nothing wrong, Cousin."

It was Théodred's voice he heard in his head again, and it painted the ghost of a bitter smirk upon Éomer's face.

"Unfortunately, you seem to be the only one who thinks that way, Théodred," he replied with a derogatory snort. "And Éowyn, of course. The rest of them appear rather content with seeing me dangle from the gallows tomorrow."

"I doubt that your éored sees things like that…or any of the Armed Forces."

"Well, at least one of them betrayed me, or I would not sit in this hole. And if you ask Erkenbrand or any of the Westfold éoreds, I am afraid that you might also get a different answer."

"Yet I am the one you supposedly put into his grave, and I do not share the Court's view," Théodred commentated dryly.

This time, Éomer could not help but smile.

"But since you are only in my head, I fear that your opinion does not count, dearest cousin… unless you could somehow manage to sneak into your father's thoughts, as well, and change his mind. Can you?"

Silence answered him. Which was well, since Éomer already knew the answer. Théodred's voice was his own creation, his thoughts expressed in a different way. Probably prompted by loneliness and desperation.

'Or I am on the way to losing my mind…'

Which would be all right, too, if that meant that their people's betrayal stopped hurting him to his core. There was only one positive thought for him to cling to right now, and that was that Éowyn had not returned the past night. Which was good, because of course, the Worm had realised his oversight and stationed a guard at the tunnel's mouth. He had no way of knowing whether his sister had sensed the danger and turned back, or whether she had actually heeded his words and was by now well on the way to Aldburg, out of the Worm's direct reach. After the words with which they had parted, Éomer had not expected her to do that… but at least, he could hope now. If they truly hanged him, – 'Strangulated! He said 'strangulated'!' - he prayed that Éowyn would not be forced to witness it.

Of course, with what little Wormtongue had supplied him the afternoon or evening before – a small cup of lukewarm, watery soup and a crust of bread – Éowyn's non-appearance also meant that thirst and hunger had returned to the forefront of his many aches. It seemed that his adversary meant to keep him weak to thwart any chances of a miracle rescue by any means possible. If he could barely stand, fighting and running was out of the question, no matter what happened once they fetched him from his cell. The cunning filth…

Grimacing with reluctant respect, Éomer cast an eye on the leftovers of his precious water. Heeding Gríma's words, he had rationed it to the point where he had only allowed himself a swallow once he felt no longer able to do without. There was only enough left in the glass for one tiny sip now, and alone by looking at it, Éomer could barely restrain himself. He did not know when Gríma would be back, or what his disposition would be once he came. It was, after all, very possible that he had decided otherwise in the meantime, to make his prisoner's last day even more miserable by again withholding urgently needed sustenance from him.

With a suppressed groan, Éomer forced himself to sit up and take stock of his condition. The throbbing from the beating had somewhat subsided over night, although he still felt sore all over. Cautiously, he raised his arms into the air for a tentative stretch. His shoulder joints complained, but their protest seemed not as sharp as it had been. And his head… the lump was barely sensible anymore, even if there still seemed to be a tiny orc horde in his skull pounding at his grey matter with their fists. Which left the question of his sense of balance.

'Only one way to find out…'

Éomer scrambled to his feet, precautionarily holding on to the rock wall… and sure enough, the world lurched around him… until it finally stumbled into place. For a moment, he held on, his breath coming in hard, strained bursts. It would not do if he tottered to his death like this. If there was at least one thing left to him, it was making sure that he exited this realm with dignity.

With another deep breath, Éomer straightened… and removed his hold. One step at a time…

OOO

Bodily not far away from her brother, but seemingly in an altogether different realm, Éowyn still lay in her bed and listened to the howling storm. After all the energy she had put into her fight against the evil powers within their hall, last night's misadventure and the grim prospects of the coming days had left her feeling depleted and close to despair. Was there anything left she could still do to help Éomer? Which approach had she not tried yet?

Éothain and Céorl feared open rebellion – yet – and their reasoning had been sound. Éowyn understood that the two captains wanted to ensure that the people of the Mark would not be forced to initiate their own downfall, but they were losing so much time… As far as she understood, the council meeting that decided Éomer's fate had already taken place, although Éothain's father had assured her that there first had to be a trial. She feared that he was wrong with that assumption.

With the éoreds out of the picture… what could she do? Plead with Gríma? She snorted, disgusted by the thought… and already knowing the outcome. Perhaps, if she found the Worm in a particularly good mood, he would accept and spare Éomer's life. But of course, he would never agree to set him free, knowing full well that his life would be in danger for as long as his opponent lived. That meant her brother would be condemned to spending the rest of his days in his cell. To a man used to having the wide-open skies above his head and the endless plains at his disposal, it would be nothing short of torture. Add to that the horrible conditions in the dungeon, 'the rest of his days' would perhaps only be another few sennights, with Éomer additionally being at Gríma's disposal for punishment whenever she did something the Worm did not agree with. It was a horrible thought.

And at what price? Éowyn knew what their adversary would ask… and it was something she just could not give. Not even to save her brother's life, for she knew that Gríma would be eager to share his complete triumph with his prisoner as quickly as possible. The knowledge that his sister shared the filth's bed to keep him alive would utterly destroy Éomer. It was not an option. So… what else could she do? What reason was there to get up, get dressed and start the day with renewed purpose?

A noise from the adjourning room suddenly woke her from her dark contemplations. With a frown, the daughter of Éomund sat up and placed her feet upon the woollen rug. Despite the fire, it was unusually cold in her chamber, a tell-tale sign of how fiercely the elements were battering the exposed hall of kings. She did not want to imagine of how the temperatures had to be down in the dungeon…

Now voices talked in the other room, and Éowyn rose from the bed and slipped into her morning robe on the way to the door to check what the unusual commotion was. It turned out to be her handmaiden, busy with directing other servants of the Royal Household as they placed tablets with plates, mugs, cutlery and food upon her table by the window. Éowyn frowned.

"Good morning, Maelwyn," she greeted the young woman, who froze when she became aware of her mistresses' presence. With a nod, Éowyn pointed at the table. "What is this?"

With a quick curtsy, Maelwyn cast down her eyes.

"Good morning, my Lady. The King ordered us to arrange everything for his breakfast in your room. He intends to have it together with you." The handmaiden fell silent for a moment. "Would you like me to tell him that you are indisposed?"

Was that the impression she made? Subconsciously, Éowyn tightened the fabric of her robe around herself. What was the meaning of this? She could not remember when her uncle had last had his breakfast only with her. Or would he come, too? But she saw only two plates. Obviously, Théoden wanted to talk with her in private. About the sentence he had decreed for Éomer?

"No… No." She straightened in the doorframe and absent-mindedly brushed a strand of her golden tresses out of her face. "Please, do as you were told. Did the King say when he would honour me with his presence?"

"As soon as you are decent, my Lady. The food is being prepared right now, and I assume that everything could be ready in about half an hour. Should I tell Théoden-King this?"

Éowyn nodded.

"Please, do so, Maelwyn. And please have some warm water brought to me for my morning wash. Thank you." She closed the door behind herself and walked slowly over to the window, lost in thought. If they were truly alone during breakfast… it would be the perfect opportunity to try and change her uncle's mind. There would never be a better chance, so she had to make it count!

OOO

A good half an hour later, the knock Éowyn had expected reached her ears, and she stood up.

"Enter!"

Her uncle looked considerably better than the past days when he stuck his head into her room, and her heartbeat accelerated. If Théoden was himself this morning, surely her chance to help her brother improved greatly!

"Good morning, dear," the old man said, and a little smile played around his lips and also lit up his eyes. "I hope you do not feel pressured by my spontaneous suggestion." He stepped further into her champers and closed the door behind himself.

"Good morning, Uncle." Éowyn chose to remain where she was, not knowing what to expect.

Without warning, the joy in Théoden's eyes turned into sadness as he came to a halt before her.

"You did not come to see me yesterday. Not at all. I cannot think back to when this was last the case. You must be very angry with me… and I think I know the reason why."

Éowyn swallowed and braced herself. So he had noticed… Inside her breast, conflicting emotions began to fight. Part of her wanted to step up to the man who had been like a father to her for many years and embrace him, wanted to celebrate the fact that for the first time in weeks, he seemed hale and alert… but the other, stronger part held her back. This man had the power to turn her life's joy to ashes, and perhaps, he had already done so.

She could tell that Théoden was hurt by her unusual reservation, but he made no move to pressure her. With his chin, he pointed at the laden table.

"Shall we break our fast together? What do you say, Éowyn?"

´"Aye, Uncle. Let us do that." Éowyn pulled back her chair and sat down again. It was unclear to her how she was supposed to swallow any food, tense as she was, and so the first thing she grasped was a mug with steaming tea, even more to hold on to than to actually drink from it. Before her, Théoden filled his plate with a piece of fruit bread and chunks of apples and pears, before he poured himself tea.

Silence filled the room. The heavy, oppressive silence that ensues between two parties who need to discuss matters of consequence and are afraid to begin. When his plate was half-emptied, the King of Rohan began at last, hesitantly.

"You look wretched, dear," he stated, and there was an expression of deep love and concern in his eyes when he looked at his niece. It almost broke Éowyn's heart. "You should eat something."

Éowyn inhaled. So the moment had come when the subject could no longer be avoided. She tensed and returned the glance, a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Alas, I fear, uncle, that my condition cannot be improved merely by eating." She paused, waiting for his reaction. Was that guilt she saw in those watery blue eyes? "There is only one way to make me feel better. You know which."

Théoden's shoulders sagged, and he took a deep breath before he put the piece of bread in his fingers back onto his plate.

"Éowyn… I wish you understood me. You heard your brother's words with your own ears. You were there when he confessed his rebellion, and when he attempted to kill my counsellor. Do you not think that Éomer broke my heart with everything he did? Do you not think that I would have been overjoyed not having to incarcerate him? He left me no choice."

"You did have a choice, Uncle," Éowyn objected, and her gaze became piercing. "You still do; it is not too late yet. You are putting your trust in the wrong man."

Théoden sighed, and the furrows on his brow deepened.

"Éowyn… we have been leading this conversation for many years. I understand that you do not like Gríma… and I know that Éomer hated him from the first time they met. Alas, that irrational hate lead him onto a path that had to end in tragedy."

"Uncle, I do not 'dislike' Gríma." Éowyn sat up. "I, too, hate him from the very bottom of my heart, perhaps even more than Éomer! And with reason! That man does not have the welfare of our people in mind. All see it but you-"

"And still they followed me in my ruling!" Théoden's tone hardened with annoyance. "There was no objection from the council members whatsoever! In fact, they wanted an even harder verdict for your brother! What does that tell you?"

Éowyn froze, the mug she held in front of her mouth to take a sip all but forgotten.

"The verdict has already been spoken?"

Théoden leant back in his chair, for a moment avoiding his niece's horrified stare.

"It is not official yet… but it will be by tomorrow, when I publicly proclaim it."

"But… there was no trial!"

"Éomer confessed, Éowyn. You heard him yourself. There were no questions left unanswered. He planned a revolution together with those three warriors he met on the plains. And-"

"A revolution in order to restore you as the true ruler of the Mark, Uncle!" Éowyn raised her voice, and she set back the mug onto the table with such force that it shattered. For a moment, Éomund's daughter stared transfixed at the spreading pool of dark, red tea, distraught by the ominous sight. Béma, why could he not understand? "A revolution to cast out the man who wants our downfall!"

Théoden shook his head.

"The both of you have been saying this – without proof - for all these years, and the people of the Mark are still alive! If Gríma were truly an agent of our enemies, wouldn't that make him dreadfully incompetent?" He gave a little laugh to indicate how ridiculous that idea was, but Éowyn was far from amused.

"He is not incompetent, Uncle! He is careful… and subtle… and cunning. He is a master schemer. Gríma wants to keep his head upon his shoulders in a realm full of enemies. He is doing what he needs to do to emerge victorious: he is turning us against each other! He sees to it that we destroy those among us who have seen through him… and I am certain that he laughs at us whenever he is in the safety of his chambers!"

"Do you know what happens in other realms to people who violate their rulers' orders, Éowyn?" Théoden narrowed his eyes. He was angered now. "Do you know what happens to them in Gondor?"

"I do not care what they do in Gondor!" Too anxious to sit, Éowyn slid back with her chair and jumped to her feet. "This is the Mark, and Éomer is your own kin! And he did what he did for the best of our people! Our people, Uncle… who do not understand your orders anymore!"

For the longest moment, they stared at each other, breathing heavily, the food before them all but forgotten.

"Who said so?" Théoden asked at length, aghast. Éowyn lifted her chin.

"Many. But I will not tell you their names, for I fear that you might punish them the same way as you plan to punish Éomer. Just know that your own son was among them."

Her words struck the King like a sword strike; she saw it clearly in his widening eyes. It pained her that the morning had turned so ugly, but only the cold, hard truth could help her brother now.

Théoden's mouth worked, but for a moment, no words would come to him.

"I… I… this cannot be true."

"Unfortunately, it is the truth, Uncle. Or why, do you think, did I not visit you yesterday, although you have only just recuperated from a serious illness? An illness brought about by your counsellor with the help of his potions, by the way!"

"That is not true!"

"The man you still trust although he poisons you. He has been doing so for years, right before everyone's eyes… and with his poison, he forces you to make decisions to the ruin of the Mark… like the one to kill its protectors…" Éowyn swallowed. "No, I could not bear to see you yesterday, Uncle."

Béma, how he paled in result to her words! His clearly visible torment almost broke her heart, but this was the only chance left to her. She could not afford to be merciful.

"How can you still trust Gríma, Uncle? Why do you not see what he is really doing?"

Théoden took a deep breath. He looked almost fearful now.

"Because that would mean… that I failed you… that I failed our people. It would mean… that I made a mistake too great and grave to ever be forgiven. It cannot be true, Éowyn! I love you, and I want to believe you, but you are asking for too much. I am always feeling better after Gríma's draughts. They take the pain away and lend me strength. You are wrong about him." He saw her expression harden. "Do you… do you hate me now?" It was a mere whisper.

Éowyn paused. What was it that she felt? It was a question that was not easy to answer. She took a deep breath…

"No… No, Uncle. I do not hate you. Not yet, at least. I am disappointed… and dismayed… and sad. I am furious that you would believe that horrible man rather than your own kin. It is not hatred, yet. But if you proceed with your plan and order Éomer's execution… it will be. I will no longer be able to tolerate your presence. And I hope you remember what I swore that day in your chambers."

"I do." Théoden looked stunned. "But Éowyn—"

"That is good!" she interrupted him. "Because I will follow through with it, no matter in what golden cage you might put me to prevent it! I will find a way!"

Breathlessly, they stared at each other over the table, unable to believe the harsh words they had exchanged. Finally, Théoden slowly shook his head as he stood up. Their argument had exhausted him way beyond his limit. He felt not up to more of it.

"Éowyn…I cannot tell you the verdict yet. But it will not be a death sentence. That I can promise you… And now you must forgive me, I need to lie down. I did not expect to get into a fight when I came to see you."

She regarded him warily as he approached the door.

"What then? What is your verdict? A life in the dungeon for your nephew? Or will you have Éomer whipped and the skin flayed from his back for doing his duty?"

Théoden paused, his hand on the door handle. Éowyn's bitter tone made him turn.

"Éowyn, I cannot tell you. You will have to wait until tomorrow… but I will take your words into consideration. You certainly gave me a lot to think about."

Éowyn pressed her lips together. How she would have loved to allow herself the comfort of hope! But she could not believe in it anymore. Not really.

"Please, Uncle… don't do something that will make me hate you…"