Ch. 36 – And He Wept Tears of Joy Only…

Éowyn awoke.  She looked around the battlefield.  It seemed that she was looking through a haze.  It was not battlefield smoke; she was somehow displaced from where she had previously been.  She looked and saw her uncle's lifeless form under Snowmane and the horror renewed in her.  She screamed “No!” or at least she felt herself scream but there was no sound attached.  She looked around again and she saw her brother as an orc came up behind him.  She tried to move; she tried to warn him, to protect him but she was seemingly immobile and mute and could only watch as the orc embedded an axe in Éomer’s back.  She watched her brother fall and saw the anguish on his face, he was repeating “Why?  How?”  This she could hear and the pain in his voice ripped her heart asunder.  She screamed “Éomer!” She stopped and tried to think, which was becoming increasingly difficult.  She started shouting over and over, “It is a dream.  It is not real,” as if by repetition she could make it untrue.  

Aragorn then appeared by her side.  She stumbled out, “But you are dead.  You took the paths of the dead…”

Aragorn looked at her, uncomprehendingly, “Hmmm!  No, I only said that to depart from you.  You were becoming a nuisance.  I had to leave.”  Her heart shredding, she heard, “You sought the world of the warrior and deserted your people.  How could I love someone like you!”  He raked her with a scathing look.

She continued to mumble, “This is a dream, it is not real.  This is a dream.” but with far less conviction than a few moments ago.  Then a voice to harrow her soul sounded.  

Grima stood right by her side. “Is it? Is it really?” he asked softly, his words dropping with malice upon her heart.  “My lady,”  Éowyn’s ears heard an emphasis on “My” and panic set into her heart.  She felt herself being lifted.  She screamed in panic as horrific images appeared before her eyes but no one seemed to hear.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Imrahil stopped near the ruined gates of the city and saw pass before him knights of Rohan carrying a bier.  Tragedy wrapped in the tragedy of this day not yet won, salting the wounds of this day he needed to know who of such renown had fallen.

“Théoden King.  He is dead.  But Éomer King now rides in battle.”

The news of Théoden’s death struck him to the heart.  Imrahil’s father, Adrahil had always spoken well of Théoden.  Lengthy reign and great renown was how he would be remembered.  He dismounted his horse to bid good-bye from both he and his father.  He wept as he kissed the brow of the fallen king.

Rising from his farewell to Théoden the Prince chanced to look to his right and was taken aback at the sight of a fair young woman clad in mail, lying still, besmirched in battle gore. “Your women came to battle to aid us as well?  He looked to the Rider who stood closest.  He noted how young the rider was to have such a war-weary stricken look on his face. 

The rider answered in a voice strangled yet striving for control over his clearly overwrung emotions, “Nay! One only. The Lady Éowyn is she, sister of Éomer; and,” here the young voice broke, the rider cleared his throat, “We knew naught of her riding until this hour.  And greatly we rue it.”  

Imrahil stared at the young rider, eyes shining with tears he was fighting desperately to hold back.  It struck him to the heart.  A private hurt amid so much death.  Sometimes that was the way it happened in war, humanity in the midst of destruction.  “I’m so sorry.  Did you know her?”

“Aye!” the young riders spoke in heartfelt affirmation, “She was beautiful and valiant and kind hearted, all loved her.  She changed my life when I was only eleven years old.”

Intrigued, Imrahil asked, “How?”

The young rider sniffed and then straightened his shoulder as he continued to stare at Éowyn.  “I had just been accepted into the youth Éored, a high honor for the son of a potter,” Imrahil watched the quiet tears slip the slight boundaries of his eyes as the young rider spoke, “The cart I was pushing, because my papa has a bad back, slipped a wheel and that side came crashing down on my leg.  Lady Éowyn was there.  She always called on our families to see how we were doing.  She made sure that my leg was healed properly.  She even got the King’s healer to tend me so it would heal properly.  Without her help I would never have become a Rider.”  The young rider stood there staring at his lady, the tears falling unimpeded and unnoticed.  

Prince Imrahil looked at him, moved by his grief and the story of the Lady Éowyn’s kindness that clearly shaped the young man’s life.  He placed a gloved hand on his shoulder.  “What is your name, son?”

“Háláf, son of Deor.”  He finally looked at the Prince and took some comfort in the compassion in the kindly blue eyes.

“Well, Háláf, son of Deor,  we will do all honors for your lady,”  Imrahil moved to stroke the matted reddish blond braid that lay atop the mail shirt.  As he placed the braid closer to her face he thought he saw a misting on his shining vambrace.  He looked sharply at her still form and then clasped her wrist.  It was there, a beat and then another.  “Men of Rohan!’ he cried. ‘Are there no leeches among you? She is hurt, to the death maybe, but I deem that she yet lives.”

Háláf looked up and hope surged in his heart. “What is this?  Does my lady yet live?”

Imrahil looked upon young eyes now filled with hope and not unbearable grief, “Yes!  Haste now is needed.”  Even as he voiced the need Háláf had mounted the nearest horse.  “Sixth level, Houses of Healing!”  Imrahil shouted as the young rider sped away.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Éomer had stormed through Orcs, hacking and slashing, with all the Rohirrim that he called to his side.  He did not recall very many specifics of what had happened after he found his sister dead on the battlefield.  He closed his eyes not sure if he would ever be strong enough to recall much of what transpired.  The memories of Éowyn’s blood-stained body lived in front of his eyes and he could not assuage his grief and pain with enough enemy blood to release the image.  The orcs had been driven into the river, but the Haradrim and the Southrons, though they stained his sword with much of their blood, still held the forces of Rohan and Gondor apart.  Then his last hope died for he set eyes upon the black sails of Corsair ships, which could only mean that Belafas was taken and the Lebennin was gone.  The loss of hope cleared his mind, released from grief, released from fear, he knew he would soon join his sister and his uncle, in fact he would welcome it. That clarity of vision caused him to seek a last stand; he would die, but he would die fighting as the last King of a fell people defending what was right and true.  Regardless of the surety of the outcome he would die fighting as the King of his people.   

“Elfhelm!”  He called, for his stalwart marshall was still at his side.

“Aye My King!” Elfhelm affirmed.

“Let the horns sound!  We will make our stand here!”  He did not say “last stand” for it was plain that all understood the obvious.

“Aye, My King!” Elfhelm stated, fist on heart.  “Let the horns of gathering sound!  We stand here!” Rohirrim horns sounded with both desperation and resolve. So different than the hope that had reverberated through the field earlier, or perhaps it is just me, Elfhelm thought,  So much loss this day!

Éomer then took the standard of the Mark from its temporary holder, Guthláf had been slain by his lord’s side. In a moment of unusual clarity amid battle he remembered the bearer; his name was Haling, one of his sister’s youth Éored.  That knowledge bolstered his determination to fight with honor to the last.  He rode up a green hillock and there planted the banner of the Mark firmly in the soil.  The White Horse rippled in the wind for all to see.  He was still King of the Mark, king to a fell and fine people; the battle lust filled his heart.  He proclaimed for all to hear,

Out of doubt, out of dark to the day’s rising

I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.

To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking:

Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!

He looked upon the Black Corsair ships and unsheathed his sword, Lifting it up in defiance, he laughed.  At that moment he saw something that he would remember to the end of his days.  Approaching Harlond the lead ship let fly a standard.  The sable and silver shone in the light of day.  But not only did the tree fly but it was a flowering tree whose leaves glittered like gems and seven stars in an arc.  Above the tree was a crown.  Joy burst in his heart.  It was Gondor, somehow; some way the King had come.  He looked at his Riders and to a man they looked joyful. His heart sang with wonder and the return of hope.

Not all hearts were gladdened; the enemy shifted nervously, confounded by this twist in fortunes. Dread sprouted within their hearts and grew into fear.  They knew their doom was at hand.  Éomer’s sword drunk deep of Orc blood.  All fled before his face full of battle rage.  He saw Legolas and Gimli fight as those possessed and they kept shouting out numbers in the air.  He saw two elves with stars bound upon their brows battling with such precision and grace.  Their deadly strokes fell upon Orcs, Haradrim and all the enemies of the West with such a poetic beauty.  Éomer was almost mesmerized by it until an Orc tried to separate his head from his shoulders and he returned to dealing death to all who had the misfortune to cross his path. But among of all of the West there was Aragorn, inexplicably and joyfully alive wielding the sword of legends, the sword re-forged and upon his brow was the Star of Elendil. 

They found each other together in a lull of battle though swords clashed around them. Éomer said in a tired voice of wonder, “Should I not trust my eyes, so much sorrow has crossed my eyes this day.  Aragorn?  It is you, is it not.  So much misery has befallen this day I am wary to trust to hope!”

Aragorn smiled a weary smile, “I feel I am a shadow of my former self, but it is me, brother!”

Éomer, emotions raw, heard the word “Brother” and paused to let that one word salve his worn and pierced heart.  “We do meet again as you foretold in the Hornburg.  It seems a year since, and too much loss within the span of a day.”

“Then let us avenge it, ‘ere we speak of it!” said Aragorn, and they rode back to battle together.  And after long toil and many lives lost the battle was won.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun slipped behind Mt. Mindolluin as Éomer along with Aragorn and Imrahil rode back to the gates of the city.  All unharmed due both skill and luck, which plays a part in all battles.  No measurable hurts to the body, but without the distraction of battle Éomer felt the loss of this day and every memory sliced through a bit of his heart leaving it bloody and wounded.  He was not sure how he could continue, but continue he must.  For his people; he was now their king.

As they approached the gates Aragorn slowed.  “I will not enter as yet.  I wish to cause no strife, yet that upon our enemy.”

Éomer was roused by these words, “Already you have raised the banner of the Kings and gave me hope beyond death.”

Aragorn looked at his friend and uncrowned king of Rohan and smiled that he should have given hope to such a good man. “The time is unripe, I wait until I am bid welcome by the Lord of the City.”

Imrahil nodded ruefully, “It is wise, Denethor's mood has been strange since news of Boromir’s untimely demise.”

Aragorn nodded his agreement, “I will encamp with the Rangers, many are my kin.” he thought of Halbarad, who had met his death in front of the walls of the White City and of his uncle, Erthain who had as yet blissfully escaped serious injury.  He saluted Éomer and Imrahil and he rode off in the direction of the ruin of the Rammas Echor.

Éomer looked at Imrahil, “Let us proceed.” he stated stoically though inside he almost cringed.  His future held only duty to his people, all else he had lost. 

They ascended through the levels, the first and second levels having sustained the most damage, but no level had escaped without harm.

Entering the Citadel Éomer saw Théoden laying in state, his elevated bier covered in the green and white of their people, but cloth of gold covered his uncle.  A Guard of Honor, half from Rohan half from Gondor, stood attendance upon him.  Éomer, tears clouding his eyes, could have assumed that his dear uncle was asleep only grasping his unsheathed sword.  He nodded and fist on heart, he said in a tortured whisper, “We won the day, My Uncle and My King!” as tears unnoticed fell upon his bearded cheek.  I will try to lead our people with honor and dignity, as I learned at my father’s knee and at yours.  Help me always!”  He kissed his uncle’s forehead and unbent.  He looked around to say another farewell though he did not know if he would be equal to the task.  “Where is my sister?  Surely she commanded the same honour.”  He looked to Imrahil for explanation, eyes growing in fury at this affront.

“Your sister?” Imrahil inquired, genuinely confused.

“Aye, my sister!”  Éomer’s eyes became wild, “I in my fury left her to be tended as was my uncle!  Tell me she is not still out there, where the carrion crows might have their feasting.  Where is my sister?” He almost roared.

Imrahil stated quickly, “The living do not share quarters with the dead!”  Éomer looked at him, uncomprehending his meaning.  “She is in the Houses of Healing…”

Imrahil watched as the meaning broke across Éomer’s countenance, “Healing?  You mean she is not dead?”  Bewilderment and then joy broke across his face.

“They had thought so, but in looking at her I noticed she was breathing but only just.  She was taken to the Houses of Healing on the sixth level.”

“Take me there at once!” Éomer commanded as he felt his heart once again begin to beat.  With all haste they left the Citadel to head down to the next level.

Entering the Houses of Healing was a humbling experience for Éomer.  So many wounded.  So many of his own people here in the Houses.  He felt ashamed that he had acted so in the Citadel, concerned only for one injured amid so much loss.  He turned eyes of shame to Prince Imrahil, “My Lord, please allow me to apologise for my inexcusable behaviour early in the Citadel.”

Imrahil looked with compassion at this young man upon whom so much had been foisted.  “Éomer King,” He saw Éomer wince at the honorific given, “much is forgiven in time of war.  Do not think upon it.  Go and seek your sister.” He motioned one of the healers to come near, “Can you take this man,”  Imrahil did not risk the honorific the second time when Éomer’s emotions were still so raw, “to his sister, the Lady Éowyn?”

“At once, My Lord!” Looking at Éomer with wonder, “The lady is your sister?” Éomer nodded mutely.  “Come this way!”  

Éomer looked at the rows of the injured, Riders and men of Gondor and he felt such weight upon him.  He looked on each and tried to smile and give hope to his men.  He knew he should stop and visit with each one, some of whom may not have realised that Théoden King had fallen, but his heart only wanted one thing. To see his sister. Béma, forgive me for I must see her before any. He rounded a corner and saw her prone form shed from her armor covered by a sheet, one arm wrapped and in a sling and the other laying atop the sheet.  She looked as if death hovered near.  His soul was harrowed to see her in such a state.  The healer spoke.

“She is either still as this or she is muttering something.  We’ve tried to write down her words so that the master healers can have them to refer to.”

Éomer broke his stare to acknowledge the words, “Thank you,” he spoke tonelessly, he asked her name out of the good grace that had been drilled into him growing up.

“Alyrin, my lord.” Alyrin answered, surprised that one in such obvious distress should think to ask.

“Thank you for guiding me here, Alyrin.”  Éomer bowed his head and fist on heart

She nodded, struck by the man’s kindness, “You are most welcome, my lord.  I will send the Master Healer to you.”

“Aye, thank you.  That would be most kind.” She was almost mesmerized by the pain and gentleness she saw in his earnest blue eyes. She bobbed a curtsey, pulled the curtain closed and set about her errand.

Éomer looked back at his sister, “Éowyn, why?  Why were you here?  I thought you safe in Dunharrow…”  He stroked her cheek and was frightened at how cold it seemed.  “Éowyn, don’t leave me!  Please!” At this his restraint broke and he sobbed, the tears finally falling in earnest.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Éowyn looked around and she could only see dark grey shapes.  She could not discern who or what they were.  Only whispers of “deserter”  “You left and we all died!”  “Deserter.”  “You sought the warrior's path and we are all dead now.”  “Deserter”  Grima stood by her, the only clear image in her mind’s eye.  “MY lady…”  and he held out a hand that she batted away. “Leave me alone!” “Oh but you are alone…” “Come with me…”  she screamed to be left alone and then the whole chant began again.  She pulled her knees up to her chin and put her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to drown out at least Grima’s voice.  She rocked back and forth begging to be released from this nightmare.  Before the chant started up again, she could hear Éomer’s tortured sobs.  Which made no sense because she had seen him die.  Hadn’t she?  She could not know anything in this dark mocking greyness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Master Warden upon hearing the summons from Alyrin rushed to the bed of Éowyn but he paused momentarily hearing Éomer, at his sister’s side, sobbing.  He tapped upon the frame of the curtain, which had been pulled shut, to allow Éomer to compose himself should he wish to.  The Warden heard some shuffling and then a “Come!” issued by an emotional strained voice.  He drew back the curtain and saw Éomer holding Éowyn’s hand.  Stricken blue eyes met his and the voice striving for some form of equanimity made inquiry. “What can you tell me, Master Healer?  What can be done?”

“Well my lord, her wounds have been tended and they will heal but yet she slumbers and will not be roused.”  Éomer sat there encompassed by his personal nightmare, heard Éowyn mutter, “Éomer, NO!!”  and then, “This isn’t real; this is a dream.  It must be!”  Still she would not be roused and Éomer was struck to the heart with the torment she was clearly enduring, torment that he could not protect her from.  

Éomer sat by his sister’s side and was oblivious to all else until he heard the voice of hope.  He looked up and saw Aragorn and saw those behind him carrying small steaming cauldrons.  He nodded to Éomer, “…It seemed to me I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?”

Éomer looked at Aragorn uncomprehending his words at first and then stumbled forth with an answer, “I marvel that you should ask me, my lord,’ he answered. “Asking your pardon, I knew not that Éowyn, my sister, was touched by any frost, until she first looked on you. Care and dread she had, and shared with me, in the days of Wormtongue and the king’s bewitchment; and she tended the king in growing fear. But that did not bring her to this pass!”  He turned at Gandalf’s voice.

“My friend,’ said Gandalf, ‘you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on.”

Éomer heard the words and he felt their full import.  Tears were not enough; he had failed his sister. Always he tried to do right by her and yet here she lay close to death from an unknown malady.  He looked at his sister feeling desolate and helpless.  How could he help anyone if he could not see the signs in the one he loved most in the world.  Scenes of their lives ran through his head.  He had not seen.   He felt a hand on his shoulder; he looked up into grey compassionate eyes.  “I understand what you speak of.  I saw her love for me, so kind, so fair, so brave and yet I could not give her what she wanted as my heart belongs to another.”  He cast his eyes downward and then in pain he continued, “Sorrow and pity have followed me ever since I left her desperate in Dunharrow and rode to the Paths of the Dead; and no fear upon that way was so present as the fear for what might befall her.”  Éomer listened, stunned by everything that had befallen him.  He closed his eyes as his pain and failure washed over him.

“But know this, my brother.  I can heal her body but I cannot speak to healing her soul, for I am the cause for at least some of her pain.”  Aragorn paused in silence as he waited for Éomer to look at him which in long course the younger man did, soft accusation in his eyes.  “You Éomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me; for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan.  But you, you are her beloved brother.  You live in her heart, real and true.”

Éomer looked into the grey eyes of the King, of his friend for a few long moments and forgave him and forgave himself just enough to put recriminations aside to be there for his sister.  “I shall try, for I have failed her in so many ways. But I will try,” spoke a man whose faith in himself was dimming, so much had been lost this day.  “What must I do?”

Aragorn could feel the internal struggles being fought within the younger man and nodded his assent.  He took a deep breath to calm his heart. “First I shall crush some Athelas and wipe down her brow and then you shall hold her hand and simply speak to her.”  Éomer nodded his head.  Aragorn crushed the leaves into the steaming pot and immediately the air seemed to clear and grow sweet and Éomer was transported in his memory to a time when he and his father, Eomund were fishing in a stream near Aldburg.  It had been a good day, lots of fish had been caught and he was telling his papa about his first days of training and his mother told Cook to use one of the fish he had caught as supper.  He smiled at the memory.  Éowyn had tagged along and papa had shown her how to bait a hook.  He took Éowyn’s hand…

Éowyn sat with one of her arms curled around her knees slapping Grima’s hand back for, she could not count how many times when she noticed that the greyish shroud of darkness lightened just a little.  She looked in the direction of the lightening of the gloom and felt a nascent hope light in her heart as a response.  The voices intensified but now to her mind they sounded just a little desperate which they were not before in this timeless place of despair.  She heard a voice filled with love and hope.  She stood and started to walk towards the voice.  Grima shouted, “You must not.  That way lies death!”  

Éowyn turned around and said, “I was seeking death and if that is my fate I will count myself blessed because it will separate myself from you!  And she spat upon him and turned again toward the brightness and the words of safety and shelter.  In her heart she knew the voice would never cause her harm.  She ran to it and saw her brother who gathered her up in his arms…

Éomer spoke to her, “Come back to me.  Please Éowyn.  Forgive me”  He drew breath and calmed his heart, “Come back to where you are loved and needed, please!  Oh Éowyn! Éowyn!”

Éowyn awoke and smiled.  She looked into the earnest blue eyes of her brother who gathered her into his arms and wept tears of joy only.

~*~*~*~*~*~