A/N: Finally I find more time to write! My plot bunnies are tenacious and resilient. They really want this story to be finished! :-))

Ch. 20 - Once Again to See Through the Darkness

Words rang out, “Now Théoden, son of Théngel, will you hearken to me?” As the darkness retreated and light filtered into the hall, Gandalf continued, “I bid you before your doors and look abroad. Too long have you sat in shadows and trusted to twisted tales.” Éowyn saw her uncle slowly rise from the throne. At his first faltering step she ran up the dais to steady him. Gandalf’s words filled her heart, and she prayed to Béma that her uncle would heed the wise words. She looked at his wizened face hoping against hope. And then she saw it. The strain around his eyes was lessened somehow.

“I know your face,” he whispered. “Éowyn!”

Éowyn’s eyes misted as her heart, long shrouded in despair, began beating again. Her voice, though thick with tears, sounded, “Aye, uncle!”

He smiled kindly and for the moment it seemed as if the last five years had never happened. They strode toward the outer door of the Great Hall. Théoden grasping Éowyn’s hand, less out of physical need than emotional attachment.

As they approached the great oak door Gandalf proclaimed, “Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!” Éowyn felt rather than saw the king stand tall, shoulders thrown back. She looked up at Théoden and she was beginning to see her uncle of old. The same man who burst down the steps when she was eight years old and clutching Éomer’s hand. At least that is what her heart looked upon.

A gust of wind from off the plains blew in through the door and emotion met reality. Théoden was indeed standing tall. Éowyn looked to the shouldering mountains and closed her eyes. As the wind blew through her hair she savored this moment of unexpected joy; it was so rare. “Lady, leave him awhile. I will care for him.” Éowyn opened her eyes to Gandalf’s words.

She stood not quite ready to heed the kindly wizard and might have stayed through force of habit till Théoden ever-so-gently chided, “Go Éowyn sister-daughter.” He patted her hand that resided on his arm. “The time for fear is past.”

Éowyn looked at his hand upon her arm and perhaps it was her own heart’s wish, but it did not seem as frail as had been. She then looked up into her beloved uncle’s eyes and her spirit soared. She saw life in clear blue eyes and he gave her a slight smile. She ventured against experience to hope and nodded. With a slight bow she left them and stepped back toward the Great Hall. She turned back to see the Wizard on his staff and her uncle standing tall. Inside her heart seated small within her joy a pocket of loss, a sense of pity but for whom she did not know.

Entering the Great Hall proper there was a perceivable change among those who had witnessed the King’s rising. A spell of wonder hung in the air. And with it a buoyancy of spirit. All the murmurings amongst the people spoke to it and gone was the dread. She looked at the spot where Grima had crumpled and she saw nothing, not even a grease stain to mark where he had lay, she thought uncharitably and felt no guilt for the thought. Grima brought only misery. He was gone. She did not care where he had gotten to so long as he was gone.

“My lady?”

Startled out her musings, she turned at the voice and was held rapt by ageless grey eyes that had seen much. She stared into Aragorn’s eyes and saw hope. A brightness that had been missing from her life in Meduseld. And just as quickly she realised that she was staring. A blush violently swept across her face, and turning, she fled.

Her feet found her way to an alcove she would slip into as a child when she was hiding from Guthhild and yet another dreaded needlework lesson. She curled her legs up into the little space as she had as a girl; she still just about fit. Her heart pounded. She leaned her head back on the worn and aged oak and breathed deeply in a near futile effort to calm the rush of warmth upon her cheek and storms in her soul; too much had happened within the space of so short a time. Her brain tried to sort through it all; her emotions were in a jumble. Two images kept floating before her mind’s eye, recurring as she tried to work through the miracle of happenings just unfolded. Her uncle’s clear blue eyes that held a smile for her, warming her heart and grey eyes full of latent power and surpassing gentleness. In those eyes she saw beyond this life of duty and despair to one she had dreamed of and worked for; one of valor and renown denied even in her dreams these last long years. She sat basking in that dream that allowed her to escape her life feeling that she was more than she was allowed to be until she heard voices along the hall passage.

“Do you think this will last, Hama?”

Then the voice of her favorite doorwarden, “I do not know, Hereogar! But I will act upon the King’s word as it stands. We will go!”

She pulled open the alcove curtaining to find Hama and Hereogar rushing past on a seemingly urgent errand. Curious, she called out, “Hama! Where do you go?”

Hama paused in his steps less surprised than one might expect to answer his lady’s summons from an unobtrusive alcove, “To the cells, my lady! The King commands that Éomer is to be brought before him.”

A flare of warning born of too many years of grief and misfortune lit her heart, “To what purpose?” she anxiously decried. “Surely he cannot think my brother any harm to his lordship!”

Hama, seeing her anxiety grow beyond bounds, “Nay, My lady! I beg pardon for my choice of words! It is not that sort of summons. He and the Wizard have spoken, and I feel it is not a summons of doom and dark tidings.” He dropped his tone and spoke of his own mind. “I feel a change has come over the King and all for the better. I do not think this is ill, but all the same we best not tarry. Come with us if you wish. You would be most welcome!”

“Hama! I shall!” Éowyn stated as she made the slight jump down from her erstwhile hidden perch. Her heart wheeling at this rapid tale of wonder seen in the light of day.

They headed in the opposite direction. Éowyn stopped and touched Hama’s arm. “This is not the way to the cells, Hama. Where do we go?”

“Beg pardon, My Lady!” Hama said, stopping at her touch. “Perhaps I presume too much but I now go to the armory to retrieve my lord’s sword, if he should want it! It is held under lock and key.”

“Of course, Hama! Lead on!” Éowyn stated quickly. They entered the armory and Éowyn’s senses were assailed with the sights, sounds and smells of her childhood. A sense of melancholy borne of dreams denied dimmed her heart briefly. Hours not spent training or in the stables or dodging lessons were spent here learning anything the Master Armorer and his men were willing to teach an eager young girl who was niece to the king. Curiously they never questioned her presence even though they may have thought it odd. She could only speculate that all knew how the king doted on his niece and would not take kindly to any perceived criticism of her.

Deordred, the Master Armorer looked up from teaching an armorer’s apprentice on how to work repair on an old helm. With surprise in his voice he called out from across the workroom, “My lady, so good it is to see you. How come you to the armory?” He laid down his hammer and quickly cleaned his hands on a rag at his workbench and came over to them. She grasped his callused hands warmly and smiled, “Master Deordred!” He gave her a look of fatherly affection. “You are always welcome. Your visits have been missed.”

Éowyn smiled, “Thank you, Deordred I miss my visits as well. But life does not permit them any longer.” she finished regretfully. “But our business today is a joyful one!”

Hama spoke up at that point, “We are come for Lord Éomer’s sword. The King has commanded his release.”

Deordred looked stunned. “Has he now?” his eye then darkened, “But what has Grima to say of this!”

Hama stated fiercely, “Grima’s word no longer holds sway. The king is now once again himself and wishes Éomer by his side.”

Deordred looked as if a lightning bolt had struck him. “So you say! These are welcome tidings.” as he pulled up on the tab of leather at his belt that held his ring of keys to unlock the cage where hung Éomer’s sword and sheath.

Watching the beautiful lady and the doorwarden depart, Deordred walked back over to his workbench and murmured “Wondrous tidings indeed!” to his new apprentice and his hammer sang with joy as he returned to the instruction of the young boy.

~*~*~*~*~

Éomer sat exhausted in his cell having spent the night pacing. His head leaning against the stone of the basement cell deep under the Golden Hall, arms around his knees. His thoughts, however, would not stop racing. He played out one bad scenario to its completion only to create another equally dire when he heard the creaking of the wooden door leading to the cells. Immediately his heart started beating a rapid tattoo, he jumped up and reached for his sword only to find empty air at his side. Just then Hama came into view of his cell. “Hama!” he barked, “Don’t taunt a desperate man without a sword to defend himself!”

“Peace, Brother!”

Éomer looked to his sister’s voice. There upon her face he saw dried tear tracks but incongruously she was smiling. “Sister, what means this? What has happened?”

Éowyn’s heart splintered at the thought of what her brother must have endured during the night’s captivity, “I am not entirely sure brother. But I do know one thing. It is good. Gandalf has come. Grima cast out and Uncle has sent for you!”

Éomer’s eyes held refracted emotions from bewilderment to joy. One thing resonated within his heart. Grima had been cast out. At those words a shadow lifted from Éomer’s heart, one that had come upon him so slowly that he had not recognised its coming. He whispered, “Grima has been cast out?” in a voice choked with emotion.

Éowyn nodded, a smile and tears sharing residence upon her face. Éomer grabbed the bars of his cell. “Béma be praised!” a relief so palpable crossing his face. In a mercurial change of emotion, he looked upon Hama fervently demanding, “Get me out of here!”

Hama bit back a smile, “That was the idea, My lord.” he replied, to both his lord and friend of many years, “The King has sent for your release.” Hama, a fierce smile on his face, turned the key on the lock of the cell door swinging it open.

Éomer stepped forth and hugged his sister and turned to Hama, saying in fervent, heartfelt words, “I pray your pardon Hama, for my harsh words!”

Hama replied to his friend, “Nay, none taken, my lord. And you will be wanting this.” He unbuckled the sword at his side. Kneeling he presented the sword sheathed and held it up to Éomer with both hands. “It is my honor to restore this to its rightful possessor, My Lord. May it ever protect the Mark and its people.”

Éomer looked upon his sword and grasped the sheath and hilt, unsheathing the sword. Éowyn noticed a glint of firelight from the wall sconce lit the blade throwing a slash of light upon Éomer’s face and a flare of hope was kindled in her heart.

Éomer looked the length of the blade. He took a deep breath expelling it slowly, “Béma be praised!” He whispered. He felt whole again. He looked at Hama, his friend of long years and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Always!” as he and Hama locked eyes, a brotherhood shared. He sheathed the sword again and buckled the sword at his waist.

Hama bowed his head, “Come! Let us to the King! He awaits!”

“Let us not tarry!” Éomer stated as he led the way out of the cells, “To the King.” Éowyn overheard in fervently whispered words, “Béma allow us time to make things right!”

Éowyn’s heart warmed to those words but hope, an infrequent visitor to Edoras in these last years, would need to be coaxed to stay awhile. She did not know if she was equal to the task.

As Éomer walked to the Great Hall the inhabitants of Meduseld having heard the rumours of his arrest stood in amazement that he was walking the halls, clad only in tunic, breeches and boots, no helm, no mail shirt and striding not with the step of the guilty but with the self-assured gait that all knew so well. A pall of despondency had meandered into the Golden Hall over the years of the king’s decline and none knew what to make of these rumoured joys. Hearts were willing but cautious, waiting.

Out of habit Éomer veered toward the entrance to the Great Hall used only by family and close retainers and Hama did not stop him. He was about to draw the curtain to enter the Hall proper when he was stopped by his uncle’s voice, “Alas! That these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned. The young perish and the old linger!” A dagger of pain shot through Éomer’s heart to hear his beloved uncle brought to such despair. A small movement to his left caught his eye. He looked to see Éowyn surreptitiously wiping a tear away.

Éowyn’s heart broke anew to hear such despair. She stole a glance at her brother and she could see in his eyes a pain mirroring her own. His hand touched the curtain when another voice stopped its motion. It was Gandalf, “Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped your sword.”

They heard a rustle of sleeve, then a muttered, “Where has Grima stowed it.”

At the mention of Grima’s name Éomer snapped out of the trance of spoken pain that had held him rapt. He drew his sword and stepped through the curtain. “Take this, dear Lord.” He descended the front steps, pausing to place the sword at the first step below Théoden’s feet. He knelt at the bottom step, head bowed, “It was ever at your service!”

Éowyn, still standing in the archway holding the curtain back, saw Théoden stand, proud and erect. “How comes this!” She heard Théoden demand and at his stern words she held her breath waiting for a blow, whether literal or metaphorical she did not know, to strike. What little hope she had was threatening to drain away awaiting anxiously for the next words to be spoken.

Hama quickly brushed past her to kneel at Éomer’s side. He answered in a tremulous voice, “It was my doing, lord! I understood that Éomer was to be set free. Such joy was in my heart that maybe I erred.” Hama continued quickly, eyes bent to the ground respectfully, “Yet, since he was free again, and he a Marshal of the Mark. I brought him his sword.” Hama ended humbly.

“To lay at your feet, my lord.” Éomer reaffirmed. Éowyn saw Éomer, still on his knees, look up at Théoden with eyes of such pain, love and supplication. The hall was silent. Éowyn saw that both men were still, eyes locked. Théoden still held his body rigid looking upon his nephew but she could not see his face. She stood waiting and hoping that Théoden could find forgiveness in his heart after all the evil distillments that had been poured into his ear by one who had only himself and his own agenda to work. She prayed he could once again see through the darkness to the love he had for his nephew.

“Will you not take the sword?” Gandalf broke the silence with his gentle prompting.

Éowyn’s heart was in her throat as she watched her uncle bend without aid to grasp the hilt of Éomer’s sword. She saw tears of happiness forming in Éomer’s eyes watching his uncle lift the sword. Théoden was tentative at first but as he tightened his grasp it was as if the last years simply fell away; the King swung the sword testing his strength. The whistling sound of the blade through the air sent joy through Éowyn and this moment and its joy never left her heart. Hope was once again a possibility.

The next moment was a clarion call to her people. Théoden called out in his voice of old, strong and proud.

“Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden!

Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward.

Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!

Forth Eorlingas!”

Guards rushed forth into the hall, thinking they were being summoned and Éowyn saw in their eyes the selfsame wonderment at the change in Théoden, no longer bent and leaning on his staff but upright and proud.

Tears running down his cheeks, Éomer exclaimed, “Westu Théoden hal! It is a joy to all to see you restored to yourself, My King!”

Théoden lifted Éomer from his knees, “Take back your sword, Éomer, Sister-son! You are blessed in my eyes!” He kissed his nephew’s forehead. A choked sob reached his ears. He looked to the archway and saw Éowyn, tears streaming down her face. He opened his arms wide and Éowyn ran to him. Enveloped in a bearhug that she had begun to think she would never again feel, she sobbed in earnest.

“Shhh! Shhh! Tears for me? No. Éowyn. No more tears. We have all cried enough!” Théoden spoke into her hair as he continued to hug her. Pulling away ever so slightly, Théoden said gently, “I would see you smile again!” he pulled her close once more. His eyes sought Gandalf, “Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief. Thank you.”

Gandalf bowed his head to his old friend and looked around the hall. He saw wonderment; he saw amazement but most of all he saw hope renewed.