Chapter 8. Wormtongue

Éowyn did not weep.

Not when Elfhild was borne back. Not when she beheld her face—once bright and radiant as the sun, now dimmed and veiled beneath the shadow of death. Not when she sat in Elfhelm’s house, in Elfhild’s chamber, where the light no longer seemed to reach. Not when she removed her armour, piece by piece—the very same she had shaped and fitted over the years—now dented and stained. Not when she unfastened the mail, ripped through at the flank, or peeled away the blood-soaked linen beneath. Not when she washed the blood from her face and limbs, slowly, with water grown cold. Not even when she saw the wounds—gaping, red, and cruel—where her foe had struck, again and again, with anger and fear, until—and even after—the life had fled from her.

She had been feared by the wild men, it was said—and bitterly hated. “The witch who bore a sword,” they had called her. And so they had not been content to cut her down. They meant to bear her broken body back as a spoil for all to see—had not Elfhelm’s éored overtaken them.

But she was not what they believed her to be. She was the sister Éowyn had never known; a companion such as she would seldom find again; a friend, dear beyond telling—a presence that had shown her what might be possible, if one only dared and persisted.

It was only when the task was done—her body cleansed and clothed anew in her Rider’s attire, then wrapped in the decorated cloak befitting a captain of the Mark—that Éowyn rose and stepped out. Elfhelm sat nearby in silence, one hand pressed to his brow. At her approach, he spoke at last, his voice rough and unsteady.

“Had she not chosen this,” he said, looking away, “she would yet be alive.”

“Perhaps—for now,” Éowyn answered, her voice calm, dry, yet not without warmth. “But she would not have been happy. Nor free.”

The pyre was raised that evening, beyond the city, past the barrowfield, on a high clearing where the wind ran unbound. Around it, the grass rippled like the sea, and the flowers—few and fading in autumn’s wane—bowed low before the wind.

All Edoras knew by then, and the folk gathered in solemn ranks: Riders and townsmen, elders and kin. Elfhelm stood by, silent as stone. Théodred came, and Éomer behind him. Éowyn saw her brother bearing a bruised eye and a split lip, and other hurts besides, if the stiffness in his step spoke true. But she did not ask—for she had already guessed the cause, piecing it together from what she had heard.

They laid Elfhild upon the bier with honour—her sword upon her breast, her helm at her side, her hair unbound.

And Gléowine sang.

His voice rose—low and strong—across the field, carrying old words in the tongue of the Mark, heavy with sorrow. He sang of her birth beneath the blossoming boughs of spring; of her laughter that rang bright through the stone-paved ways of the city; of long toil unhonoured, and of the ride that first earned her renown—the path of a warrior, unveiled at last, revealed in battle and blood.

“No bloom may brave the frost for long,
No sword may cleave the doom once drawn.
Yet light once kindled is not gone—
She rides the wind, and still rides on.”

And Éowyn stood unmoving, watching as the flame took hold. She saw the wind scatter the smoke across the plains of Rohan, bearing her friend’s spirit beyond all sight and song.

Éomer found her after the funeral, when the embers were cooling and the folk had begun to drift away. Elfhelm held back, and Théodred had gone to speak with him—the Marshal who had just lost his only sister.

“It was my fault,” Éomer said, his voice low and dry. “She sent for aid, and when Elfhelm asked me, I… hesitated. I delayed.”

Éowyn turned to him slowly. “Why?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“Was it doubt?” she pressed, her voice quieter, but no gentler. “Did you doubt her?”

“No,” he said at last. “I… was troubled by the order. There was one—sealed by the King—forbidding any Riders of the garrison of Edoras to leave the Folde.” He paused, as if bracing himself. “I feared what might be said—how it might be perceived—if I gave command against it.”

She looked away then, for she saw the pain, regret, and shame in his eyes—and turned toward the smouldering ash where the flame had died. For she knew well whence that order had come, and how she and Théodred had failed to catch it in time—or to stay it.

Anger flared in her then—hot and white—yet with no outlet. Whose fault was it? The King’s? The Prince’s? Her own? Her brother’s? Or the pale, cunning shadow that had already slipped deep into the Hall?

For a moment, she considered it—telling her brother what she had seen, what she had heard. The footsteps behind her in the halls. The words, the looks, the subtle shifts that no one else would name aloud. Gríma. The change in the King’s eyes. The chill that settled like frost through the air of Meduseld. The orders, sealed and sent without counsel. And the fear—the fear that some spell had already been laid, not by chant or charm, but by whisper, silence, and slow decay.

But she had seen Éomer’s face—her dear brother, ever striving to take more upon himself, even when it was not his to bear; still seeking to shield her in all ways he could, yet only finding himself called away more and more. And she had seen Théodred’s face, no less strained—perhaps more so—as the King now seemed to drift toward a most unfortunate state: well enough to sit in council, yet ever more wilful in judgment.

It was the ageing, Théodred had said—for such was the word of the healers in Gondor, when he had described to them what had passed: alas, the doom of mortality, against which no art may long contend. So long as we love him, and hold fast in our loyalty to him—our father, our King—we are bound to endure the serpent, she thought, until another healer—equal or greater in craft—can be found. And if that be so, what good would there be in speaking of these things now? 

She saw what her cousin and her brother bore—duty, burden, and now guilt—and she could not bring herself to lay more weight upon their shoulders.

“There is no shame in tears, sister,” came Théodred’s voice then from behind—soft and low, gentle as a hand laid over the heart.

At those words, her grief gave way at last—and Éomer silently drew her close against his breast, while Théodred rested a steady hand upon her back.

When they returned to Meduseld and had Éomer’s bruises seen to, it was already late into the night. After bidding goodnight to her brother and her cousin, she found herself alone in the hush of darkness. Loath to sit idle, and with no thought for sleep, she began to sort through the things in her chamber. Since the King had taken ill, she had scarcely spent time within. Now, she meant to find a dagger—a gift from Théodred on one of her birthdays—for she felt the need more keenly than ever to carry a concealed blade.

“What is it you seek? For what end have you trained these many years?” Elfhild had once asked her. At the time, she had found no answer—but she knew now, and perhaps had always known: to protect. To protect herself, that she need not be protected; to guard those she loved from peril, with whatever strength was hers to wield; and to shield the helpless from the evil that now revealed itself more boldly with each passing day. She must be ready—ready to act, to strike, should the need arise.

Her wardrobe had never been overflowing; her tastes were simple, even plain, for one of her rank and standing. But now she was glad of it—for it would have been far harder to hide a blade beneath gowns of finer make or more delicate cut.

She found the dagger soon enough—lying atop a bundle of old letters, with a journal beneath, her grandmother’s own. She had set them both aside long ago, saving the final pages and the letters for another day. And now, for reasons she could not name, it seemed that day had come.

She picked up the letters, still bound by their old ribbon, and regarded them.

The ribbon, once silver, had faded to a hue of steel-grey, and the envelopes and parchment bore the creases and wear of long keeping. With care she unbound them and began to sort through the contents. There were five in all. One was a missive, written in the script of High Elvish and in an official hand—clearly from Gondor; another, penned in a hand unknown to her, seemed by its opening to be from her grandmother’s kin—a family letter, most likely. But it was the third that drew her breath: within were a few sheets of finer, firmer parchment, upon which were rendered drawings of people.

These portraits had been rendered in ink and soft colour. The first was plainly King Thengel in his prime—she could now see the likeness to her uncle in the shaping of the brow and the cast of the gaze. She knew the second and third at once: her uncle as a youth—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—proud, golden-haired, his smile wide and unguarded, so like Théodred, though her cousin was said to take more after his late mother; and her father, the later First Marshal of the Mark—bold and brash—and with it, memory stirred. Her childhood recollections, long faded, came suddenly clear beneath the vivid hand of the artist: Éomer was his very image. And for the first time that day, a faint smile touched her lips.

But the fourth was a man unknown to her: dark-haired, with grey eyes like storm-lit stone. He was beardless—whether from youth or by choice, she could not tell. His attire was that of a Rider, yet he was not one of the Rohirrim. Beneath his likeness, in a steady hand, was written a name: Thorongil.

Éowyn frowned slightly, puzzled. Thorongil—the name was surely of one whose folk were well-versed in Elvish, likely of Gondor. In Sindarin, it meant “Eagle of the Star.”

Vaguely, she recalled a tale the King had once half-told: of a man from without, who had served King Thengel in Rohan and won great renown—but who had not lingered for rank or office, and had departed instead for Gondor, or so some had said. A stranger… and yet, the Queen of Rohan had kept his likeness among those of the lords of the Mark?

At last, weariness overtook her. She set the pages aside and tucked the rest of the letters away, then made ready for sleep. When she sank into dreams, her heart was full of strange minglings: sorrow, wonder, and the ache of names half-remembered.

The world was changing. Some felt it in the water, some in the earth—and those who dwelt in the wide plains of Rohan smelled it in the wind.

The King’s condition seemed to have settled into a steady state. Aged and faltering, seldom leaving the Hall, yet not wholly incapacitated, he ruled still—with his pale counsellor ever near, whispering and interfering. Orders were issued, through that mouthpiece, to Háma, Captain of the King’s Guard, and even to Elfhelm, the Marshal commanding the garrison of Edoras.

Gríma, son of Gálmód, had risen to become the most trusted and relied-upon among the King’s company, though he was held in contempt by many and openly distrusted by the King’s Heir, who strove ever to keep his influence bound within Edoras. Yet the shadows within Meduseld seemed only to deepen—as surely as those along the borders. Théodred had been riding often, answering the mounting needs of both the East-mark and the West-mark, and had begun, though with reluctance, to entrust more of the court’s affairs to Éowyn, loath as he was to lay further burdens upon her.

“I owe you my thanks, sister,” he once said. “To keep you thus occupied at your age—when you should live more freely, as the Lady of Rohan—is no light matter. One day we shall ride again, to lands your eyes have not yet beheld, and come to know those you may yet hold dear. Let us abide in patience, until all this lies behind us.”

“I only wish I could aid you more,” she had said—but both knew it well: her training in arms served her well enough as a warrior, yet it was not sufficient for the burden of command; and for now, the governance of the court was the charge laid upon her by duty—and also what she did best. “Take care, my brother.”

For I could not bear the thought of losing any of you—those were the words unspoken. In the unceasing warfare of recent years, they had received many sorrowful tidings: all their other close kin—the aunts who had wed lords of Westfold and Eastfold, and the cousins born of them—had either perished of sickness or fallen in battle. When word came from Erkenbrand that his lady wife had passed, it became plain: the King, his son, his nephew, and his niece were all that remained of the House of Eorl. She would do all that lay within her strength—for the three dearest to her in all the world.

As the high summer of the year 3018 waned, more grave tidings came from Gondor, their allies in the South: Osgiliath, the old capital, had come under renewed assault from the East, and the bridge over the Great River had been broken at last in desperate defence. Soon after, Boromir, elder son and heir of the Lord Steward, came to Edoras, seeking passage through the Gap of Rohan to go north—on an errand whose full purpose he was not at liberty to reveal.

Éowyn knew Boromir but slightly; though a great friend of Théodred, the Captain-General of Gondor had seldom ridden to Rohan in many years, his time and strength ever spent holding the eastern front. But the next visitor she knew better. In the turning of the season, when autumn came, Edoras received a guest—unexpected, or expected, as some might say: Gandalf Greyhame. He came first in rags and reeking foully, little better than a beggar, and was turned away at the gates. When at last—after no small labour of cleansing and preparation—he was granted audience with the King, he bore dark tidings: that Saruman the White, once hailed as ally and friend, had betrayed them, and now brewed war against the Mark. Turned away yet again, he departed—but not before borrowing Shadowfax, finest of the Mearas, unmatched in living memory, and leaving the King to grumble ever after.

The old wizard had visited Edoras more than once before—known to the children for his fireworks and curious marvels, though he came but seldom, and trouble was often in his wake. Éowyn had never spoken with him in private; but once, she had overheard him outside the King’s Hall, standing near the training yard where she and Elfhild, then still in the first bloom of maidenhood, were sparring. “The days of the shieldmaidens are not ended,” he had said, watching, a glint of certainty in his voice. “Nay—they are yet to come.”

Until now, Éowyn had not seen the days he had foretold—and now that she thought on it, she even wondered whether Elfhild’s unwavering resolve had been kindled by his counsel. But in this time of Saruman, his words were proven true. Riders came in haste from the west, bearing dire news: Saruman had at last shown his hand—outposts put to flame, villages laid waste, and worse besides. Orcs bearing the White Hand, his mark, now moved freely across the land.

This was war. Théodred took command at once, without waiting for word from the King; and when approached with concern, he named Gríma, in scorn, a title most fitting: Wormtongue.

“How many feeble, hollow decrees have we obeyed—neither my father’s nor mine, but hissed forth from the forked tongue of this snake?”

The name took root swiftly thereafter—even the King, long fickle in mood and mind, was heard to laugh softly—and that sealed it.

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Notes

According to LotR (Book III, Chapter 6), by the time Gandalf arrived, Théoden, Éomer, and Éowyn were the only ones left in the House of Eorl. I took the liberty of imagining that the King’s three sisters had been wed to lords of the Mark—his eldest, perhaps, to Erkenbrand—but by then, they and their children had all perished.

I also imagined that it was Théodred who first called Gríma “Wormtongue.”