Chapter 10. Estel, Necestel

But it did not come to that.

Not to the unjust and unauthorized spilling of blood, as Éowyn had feared yet steeled herself to commit, should the need arise. Rather, it ended—at least for a time—not in ruin, but in something she had never thought to find again: a flicker of hope, kindled amid the ashes of despair.

Since that darkest day, she had kept watch with a stillness like frost. The last sheen of warmth in her gaze had been extinguished. It was cool now—detached, unshaken, even in the face of cruelty cloaked in courtesy. A shadow had passed through her soul, and left it tempered.

She delivered the sorrowful news to the King—there was no way around it, and she could not bear the thought of leaving it to Wormtongue. He listened, but after a long silence, he only nodded and turned away, indifferent, as if it were but a passing wind at his ear. Yet she, observing all with a resolve-honed keenness, caught a flicker of pain in the depths of those fogged blue eyes—once so bright, so piercing, so full of vigour.

Then understanding came upon her. He knew it. But he could not bear it—so he would not accept it. Better, perhaps, to slip deeper into the oblivion born of grief and age. And when she saw this, she had no heart left to force his eyes open, no will remaining to rouse him back to care. Her agitation cooled into pity. For it would be kinder thus—for the one she loved as a father—to suffer less.

Fortunately, the dread she bore for her brother came to nothing—no fresh blow fell, no new name to mourn. Éomer was alive, and seemed never to have learned of the peril at the Fords—not yet. Indeed, a report reached Edoras the next morning: the Third Marshal had ridden out from Eastfold around midnight, in pursuit of an Orc-band that had come down from Emyn Muil—in open defiance of the King’s command.

“Ever seeking to rise higher,” she heard the whisper—the sort of comment that had grown more frequent of late, sly and quiet as worm-sign beneath the floorboards. And the voice that had once answered such slanders with firm, unfaltering clarity—her cousin’s voice—was heard no more.

She swallowed the loss that had wounded her to the core, and deemed it not yet the time to act. With Éomer away, any move she made would be reckless, desperate—or worse, deemed treasonous. One misstep, and both she and her brother might be accused of conspiring against the King and his Heir. For the worm was not alone; he had sown ambition and greed in more than a few hearts. She could not risk bringing ruin not only upon herself, but upon the House of Eorl—not now—even if it meant ridding them of the serpent at last. So she would wait. She was patient, after all. How could she not be, after so many years of practice—willing or no?

Only a few more days, till her brother’s return.

It proved to be three—merely three days, and yet they felt as long as a lifetime.

And in that span, ill luck found her—for she was taken unwell the day after the tidings: a dull ache low in her back, a faint chill, and a weariness that needed no name. Her courses had come—sudden and unbidden, as though summoned by grief and strain—and by the third day, the worst of it was upon her. She was forced to leave the King’s side, even during the customary hours, and withdraw to her chamber to bathe and change her linens and garments. It did not take long—perhaps an hour—but when she returned, she was told that the King had gone to the Hall, Wormtongue beside him, for Éomer had returned, and had asked audience at once.

She heard raised voices, and then the clash of struggle, as she hastened toward the Hall. But when she entered, it was already done: her brother stood held fast by Háma and the guards, disarmed, stripped of his weapons—unconscious.

Her breath caught; her heart stuttered. “Éomer,” was all she could utter.

At the sound of her voice, Wormtongue cast her a glance, and turned to the King. In his ever humble, ever honeyed tone, he said: “My life is given wholly to your service, my lord, and it grieves me more than I can say when the Third Marshal believes himself entitled to take it, despite your decree. Yet I know the King’s heart is ever kind, even toward those who have not earned such trust or mercy. For his own good—and for the good of the realm—perhaps Lord Éomer should remain under guard, until his fire is cooled.”

So it was settled. Éowyn followed Háma to the guard-houses, and Háma—who had never faltered in his loyalty—was stern, yet not without a trace of sympathy. “We will care for him,” he said, offering her what reassurance he could. “And we will send for you when he wakes. I regret what passed in the Hall, but your brother drew sword first—and swore to kill Wormtongue.”

Then she heard from Háma what Éomer had reported to the King: the Orc-hunt, and the strange encounter with a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf—who claimed to have been received with honour by the Lady of the Wood, and, stranger still, had come forth alive. “Sounds like fancies and dreams, even from your brother, my lady,” Háma said at last.

She was greatly relieved to see her brother returned safe and sound—but no less puzzled than Háma, and more than a little troubled. Later, when she returned at Háma’s summons, Éomer had already stirred and come back to wakefulness. The moment their eyes met, she knew: he had heard. And he, in turn, saw the pallor in her face, and a flicker of sorrow and regret passed over his own. “I should have refrained,” he said, his voice rough with weariness. “But I could not. That snake—he schemed to—”

“I know.” She took his hands and looked into his eyes, long and searching. And in them, he read the question she had not spoken.

He grimaced. “Do not, sister,” he said, with a quiet urgency she had never seen in him before. “I feel it in my bones—change is coming. When I dealt with those strangers, I did not act in haste, nor without thought, whatever others may judge.”

“Are you certain?” she asked after a pause. “In a time such as this, you truly believe they… they will keep faith—and stand by their word?”

“Aye,” he said. “And when they come, you shall see it with your own eyes.”

And she did see it, with her own eyes.

It was the strangest company she had ever beheld: Gandalf Greyhame—now revealed in raiment of white—with a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf beside him, just as Éomer had foretold.

They came to the Golden Hall in the early morning, and with their coming, the shadow that had long lain upon it was lifted. The splendour of Meduseld was restored—not only of the house, but of the spirit of its lord.

“The time for fear is past,” the King told her. And she turned as he bade, holding all turmoil within, for she could not yet fully believe what had just come to pass. But there was more. Something stirred at the edge of memory—something that felt as though she had seen it before, somewhere, long ago.

As she slowly approached the Hall, she paused at the doors and looked back—at the King, and at the newcomers—once more. And then it struck her: where she had seen the likeness of this Man before—tall and wise, grey-cloaked.

For a moment she stood still as stone, then turned swiftly and passed through the doors.

She hastened to her chamber, almost at a run. Bursting into the room, she flung open the wardrobe and began to search—and in no time, she found it: the letters, and the journal of her grandmother.

With unsteady hands she opened one of the letters—the one that held the portraits of the lords of the Mark… and a stranger: Thorongil.

It was he. She stared at the likeness, and the features—the bearing—shone forth, clear as crystal.

How many years had passed since then? If the man had stood in his prime during her grandfather’s rule, he would now be over sixty—perhaps even eighty. Yet his face bore not the marks of such years. He looked older, yes—or rather, more seasoned—but still he remained a man in the height of his strength, not one fading into the twilight of age and waning days.

He must be of the High Blood—one of the Númenóreans, the Kings of Men—whose ancient homeland lay beyond the mortal shores, far across the vast waters of the world.

With one hand holding his image, she opened the journal—as if guided by an unseen hand—and turned to its final pages.

The writing was Morwen’s—decisive, elegant, as ever. Yet now Éowyn discerned in it a resolve she had not seen before: quiet, but unyielding. The date marked the year 2980—the year her grandfather passed, and the year her grandmother faded from memory, and, as long presumed, from the world of Men.

Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

“I knew this day would come—that you would depart before me.

“You have walked long beside me, and now your steps are ended. I watched you fade, like autumn into winter—slowly, with dignity, as golden leaves fall, never to return.

“There is no bitterness in me. Only sorrow—and a quiet release.

“I have done all that was asked of me. I stood beside you in court and in counsel, in war and in waiting. I bore the burden of silence when words might have betrayed my place—not for honour, but for love.

“I wed you ere I loved you. I forsook my homeland and my kin. I raised your children, and I learned to live as your people live. I do not repent of any of it—no. But the fire abides in me still: the longing for my roots, for the mountains and the sea, and for the freedom I have long desired, yet cannot claim freely—for the love I have borne.

“With you gone, I will not be a queen of ghosts. Farewell, my beloved. As we long spoke among my people—a people you are well acquainted with—may we meet again beyond the circles of the world. For now, for a little longer, I shall go where my heart is bound.”

With a trembling hand, she turned the page.

“And with the aid of Captain Thorongil, who returned unlooked for—and who, it seemed, had at last achieved much of what he had long laboured toward—my journey home shall be made in safety.”

She did not pass that year! Éowyn’s eyes widened in shock and wonder. Her grandmother—after a life lived in a land not her own, and a love that had grown slowly, truly—had departed of her own will, to the vales of flowers where she came, when her duties were ended. And the King—he must have granted it, though never spoken of it; and Thorongil—no, Aragorn, son of Arathorn—had aided her, too.

Éowyn broke into tears then, and wept hard—not with constraint, nor with fear, but with a freedom long withheld. And hope, for the first time in many long months, rose up within her—like rain falling on withered grass, like frost retreating before the first light of spring.

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She held that hope high, with a passion she had never known before, her eyes ever fixed upon the one she deemed had wrought the change and rekindled the flame. Nor did her heart falter, even when she was bidden to lead the people to Dunharrow in the mountains, while the King rode forth with the Riders to Helm’s Deep—sent once more to abide, to endure. For she loved her people, and was dearly loved in turn. In those first days of unrest, when the King was enfeebled and her kindred away, it was she who had gone among the folk: speaking with farmers driven from their homes, herdsmen bereft of flocks, and mourners of kin lost—father or mother, husband or wife, daughter or son. It was she who had hearkened to their grief, who had given grain and goods with her own hands, and who had spoken comfort: that the King would be told, and the lords of the Mark kept watch, against foes both old and newly risen.

But it failed her.

It failed her—not in the ill turns of battle, nor in the fall of those she held most dear, but in a calm and honourable refusal, veiled in flawless courtesy and born of true concern. A gentleness that cut more keenly than cruelty, and left no wound to show. In speaking with him, she came to understand: he did not truly see her—not what she had witnessed, nor what she had endured; not the fears that clung to her, nor the longing that stirred deep within. He mistook her fire for restlessness, her frustration for heedlessness, her resolve to go forth for a hunger after renown. Yet what she sought was not glory—not glory alone—but freedom: the freedom to choose, to follow where her heart was drawn, and to guard what she loved, rather than wait to be guarded.

And so the flame he had rekindled guttered—not for want of wind, but for want of air.

She remembered the ghostly hush beneath the stones, the way the wind itself held breath when Aragorn spoke of the road he would take—the Door under the Haunted Mountain, the path from which none returned. Awe had fallen upon the faces of the men, and fear as well. But in her, a cry rose—silent, fierce, unyielding—not for safety, but for a place among them. Not for a deed remembered, nor the songs of later years, but to stand where her sword might serve. That was the right she asked for. She did not fear that road. She feared only being left behind—to endure once more, to wonder, to wait in silence while others went forth and chose the fate of her, and of all she loved.

As she watched the man she thought she loved vanish with the Grey Company, and turned to stumble back to her lodging, a question trailed her like a shadow: Why had she asked for leave—and placed her hope in another’s hands? She had knelt in her tent, silent, head bowed, the ache in her chest as sharp as the thought that pierced it. In her hands lay the journal. There, the woman who had crossed mountains for love and stood unflinching before a foreign court had written: “When you speak, daughter, do not ask for space—claim it.” And Éowyn—who bore steel at her side, who had stood by the dying and led the living—had asked: for a place, for a purpose, for a heart never hers. That, she saw now, had been her error.

Her heart had mistaken him—not in honour, nor in stature, but in what he gave, and what he could not. She had seen in him the light that once touched Morwen’s face—in the likeness of Thorongil, remembered in portrait and in word—one she had believed would understand. But she had misread the tale. Morwen Steelsheen had endured, yet never wished to be a blade. But Éowyn—Éowyn desired more.

What love she bore for him had changed its shape: not broken, but dimmed. Not for any fault in him, nor in herself—but because the hope she had wrapped about him like a banner no longer fit, no longer held. It was simply no longer true. Yet she had learned from it. Not all aid will come. Not all doors open. Hope may falter—but even in the waning of hope, one may still act.

And soon she came to see that, by acting, she might yet aid another—the little Halfling, who also wished not to be left behind.

So, when the day came, when darkness gathered and no sun arose, she buckled on her armour. It fit her now, adjusted and reforged with the aid of the smith who had once served her friend. She gathered her few possessions—the letters, the journal, the comb—and stowed them in her saddlepack, beneath her cloak. Then she stepped into the cold air, the wind from the East stirring the grass about the stones.

She went to the horse-lines and found Windfola waiting—the great grey stallion who had once borne Elfhild through battle and fire. Since her death, no one had dared ride him—none but Éowyn, who had tended him faithfully ever since.

She bridled him herself. The morning was dark, and even the horns were hushed. Then she went straight to Elfhelm, who stood apart, watching as his Riders made ready.

“I need your help, Marshal,” she said, helm in hand, her braid bound tight and perfect. “I shall ride in your éored.”

Elfhelm looked at her—looked truly—and his eyes widened with recognition. Not in surprise, nor in confusion, but with the slow dawning of something long foreseen: a thing he had feared, and yet known would come.

“My lady, I cannot—”

“Do it,” she said quietly. “For Hild. For those who had no choice. And for me.”

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Notes

Necestel: Quenya, “Without hope, despair”.

In LotR (Book V, Chapter 5), it is said: “There seemed to be some understanding between Dernhelm and Elfhelm, the Marshal who commanded the éored in which they were riding.” This, then, is how I have come to imagine the reason why.

In the year 2980, Aragorn and Arwen plighted their troth in Lórien; in that same year, Thengel passed, and Théoden became King of Rohan.