To the King
Chapter Thirteen
A Looming Threat
“Let us behold the light while we may, for darkness ever encroaches.” Anon
“Give love, and love to your life will flow,
A strength in your utmost need;
Have faith, and a score of hearts will show
Their faith in your work and deed.”
From Life’s Mirror, by M. Bridges
Garoth hurled his mug of ale across the shadowy hall and barreled to his feet. Masked in fury, his gruff, scarred features were made even fiercer as he glowered at the man before him. “Barech! You dare to state that any from Snowbourne should have attended the funeral of Théoden?”
The elderly man flinched slightly at the malice in his Marshal’s voice, but bravely held his ground. “My lord, he was our king…”
“Silence!” roared the Marshal, interrupting the man before he could even complete his sentence. “I will hear no more of this.” He gestured to two grim faced men beside him. “Lock him up with the others. I will hear no more of this treason.”
As the ruffians seized the man brutally by the arms, an older woman burst from among the spectators and threw herself onto the stone floor, begging at Garoth’s feet. “My lord, please…my husband meant no disrespect to you. We have learned our lesson. Mercy!”
Garoth considered the weeping woman for a moment before responding. “Halt,” he called to the pair dragging the old man from the hall. “Release him, Gilmóod.”
“But uncle,” argued dark man. Dressed all in black and with dark hair and eyes…that is what the people of Snowbourne called him in private. It fit in more ways than just his appearance, for the darkness he’d brought to their lives since his arrival was rivaled only by the darkness of his soul.
“I said release him!” Garoth’s face was beet colored and a vein throbbed across his forehead. For a moment, the man literally looked as though he could wring his nephew’s neck without a second thought. He staggered somewhat over to a table and sank down on the bench, cradling his aching head in his hands.
Gilmóod frowned but complied, nodding at the bully by his side, who shoved the old man roughly to the floor, kicking at him as he attempted to crawl over to his wife. “You were lucky this time, Barech,” hissed the man. “Next time you will not be so fortunate.”
Barech got shakily to his feet and, wrapping an arm around his wife, helped her to her feet. The elderly couple left the hall as quickly as they could. Only the soft sobs of the woman could be heard as all fell deathly quiet within the room.
“Uncle,” cooed Gilmóod silkily, “let me fix you a potion for your head. It grieves me that you should suffer so.”
“Ah, you are too good to me,” replied Garoth tiredly, as he rubbed his temples. “Why do these people continue to vex me so? Do they think I take this action lightly?”
“Of course not,” crooned Gilmóod. “They are soft, Garoth. Too many years they have followed blindly the lead from Edoras. While the king sat in luxury, they have lived in poverty, yet they held to some outmoded notion of loyalty. They kneel to lick the boot of the one who would keep them enslaved! What did Rohan care for them? Nothing! Théoden grew rich off of the people and became corrupted by the ranger from the North. And now a pretender sits on the throne of Rohan”
“Still, I can hardly believe it,” moaned Garoth, as his head pounded even stronger than before, “Grimbold and Dúnhere both dead. Had you and your men not come here to bear witness of it personally I would never have known of his treachery.”
“It is as I have said, Uncle,” vowed Gilmóod, as he kneaded Garoth’s neck muscles with practiced hands. “Snowbourne shall be its own nation, and soon enough the others will clamor to fall into line with us, forsaking Rohan forever.”
“Umm,” moaned Garoth, “your hands are like magic to my muscles. Grimbold, my old friend, I shall avenge you.” he murmured as his head dropped onto the table.
“I shall always be here to help you, uncle. Now wait here. Have some more ale while I go prepare a potion to ease your head.”
“Thank you, my boy; thank you.”
O-o-O-o-O
Erkenbrand and Gamling set out at dawn on the morning following Théoden’s funeral, not even waiting for the four days of official mourning period to end. The Marshal and the Chief of the King’s Knights were accompanied by six of Erkenbrand’s éored to make the journey to Snowbourne. Though puzzled by the failure of Garoth’s éoreds to appear at Dunharrow, Erkenbrand had no expectation of anything amiss. After all, the call that went out was a hurried one, and though unusual that not one rider from Snowbourne had come, there could be a valid reason. He felt sure that once Éomer King and Garoth were able to speak face to face the matter would be resolved quickly. Still, it was going to be a touchy situation requesting Garoth to accompany them back to Edoras.
“You spoke to Garoth yourself?” questioned Erkenbrand, as the two rode side by side. The troop was allowing the horses to walk at a comfortable pace to start with, so conversation was easy. Man and beast seemed to be waking slowly.
Gamling resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing them on the lengthening shadows cast by Anor kissing the tops of the White Mountains. The morning was cool and dew still clung to the grasses swaying in the morning breeze, making Gamling glad to be wrapped in his heavier green travel cloak. As they rode higher into the mountains its added warmth would definitely be welcome. He sighed audibly, growing a little weary of being asked that question repeatedly. “Yes, I spoke to him myself.”
“Did he say anything?” persisted the Marshal, still trying to grapple with the possible reason for Garoth’s failure to appear.
Gamling fixed Erkenbrand with a look that promised violence in the near future, before he caught himself and shook off the irritation, reminding himself that they were undertaking a difficult mission and that the Marshal was only trying to understand the circumstances. So he sighed again and composed his answer. “I spoke to the Marshal and relayed the king’s summons. As I remember, he did not respond.” Gamling hesitated, forcing his mind back those months to the scene. “But I did not wait for an answer,” he admitted. “My charge was to ride across the Mark to announce the muster. Once I delivered the message, I rode on. It never occurred to me that a Marshal would refuse the call.”
“Why would it,” snorted Erkenbrand. “He should have come,” he concluded finally. “Why did he not come?” he asked no one in particular. The Marshal just shook his head, trying to fathom what piece of information could be eluding him that would solve the puzzle.
Gamling did not answer because he knew one was not required.
O-o-O-o-O
Faramir and Éowyn sat on a huge overstuffed chair situated along one wall of in the sitting room of the king’s apartment in the Meduseld. Faramir was leaning back into the corner of the chair, with his bride-to-be reclining against him, her feet tucked up beside her. They were watching the sight before them with pleasure. Surrounded by seven children, Éomer sat in the floor on one of the soft pelts situated in front of the huge fire place. Hálith had joined the group tonight as the king told the children their nightly story. He sat now with his back against the wall, Thela snuggled on his lap. The little girl had all but attached herself to Hálith, preferring his lap to even that of her “Farmeer” when he was in the room. The three-year-old’s eyes drooped as she grew drowsy cuddled by the warmth of the fire.
Éomer sat crossed legged with his back to the fireplace. Márta and Meela were on either side of him, their little elbows resting on the king’s knees as they looked up at him in rapt attention. Bergoff, Felord, Tredin were sprawled in front of him. Gandafin, the youngest boy, who had decided his goal in life was to be an Ithilien Ranger, was leaning back against Faramir’s legs. The flickering wall sconces cast comforting shadows that joined the flames in the fireplace as the only light illuminating the cozy room.
In another stuffed chair sat Elena, who had recovered enough to join the group this evening. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, she sipped some warm tea and smiled at the children arrayed around the king. She had discovered earlier in the day that the little ones loved hearing stories, and she had many that she was looking forward to telling them, but for now she was just enjoying watching Éomer’s face become animated as he regaled the children with his tale.
Sated from their supper, bathed and ready for their beds, the children nodded contentedly as they listened to their king telling them the story. It had become a much anticipated ritual, and the children had grown as familiar with Éomer as they were with Faramir and Éowyn. Tonight the king was telling them of the first time he had gone on a boar hunt with Théoden and Théodred. He had ventured out into the woods on his own and had become separated from the group and attacked by one of the enraged beasts.
Éomer was careful to tone down the actual events so as not to frighten the children, who had all seen enough traumas in their short lives. In truth, he had been gored by the boar, his leg badly mangled. He likely would have been killed had not Théodred found him first and slain the beast before it could finish the job.
Théodred had bound Éomer’s leg to staunch the flow of blood and carried the boy back to the campsite. A messenger was dispatched to notify the other search parties that Éomer had been found while Théodred and Erkenbrand had worked feverishly to repair the damaged leg before Éomer bled to death. Éomer could still remember the pain of having his leg worked on without anything more than a few gulps of ale for deadening. The blood loss was severe and Éomer slipped in and out of consciousness as the more painful procedures were accomplished.
As soon as the messenger had informed him that Éomer had been found injured and brought to camp, Théoden had rushed back. He blanched when he saw the amount of blood despoiling Éomer and the ground around him.
Éomer closed his eyes a moment remembering the look on Théoden’s face as he had returned to camp and seen his nephew’s condition. Up until this point it had been a great day. The air that afternoon was so clear it almost hurt your eyes to look at it, it was so beautiful. Autumn, it was…cool and crisp, and the kind of day you bank away to remember during the long, cold winters. Théoden had smiled at him, but the fear in his eyes was plain enough for Éomer to see.
“Uncle?”
Théoden swallowed his fear and, taking the boy’s outstretched hand, knelt beside Éomer. “I am here, Éomer. What have you managed to do, my boy?” he smiled, squeezing Éomer’s hand in encouragement.
Éomer always took strange comfort in the way his uncle’s eyes seemed to crinkle at the edges when he smiled. It always reminded the boy of his mother, whose eyes did the same thing.
“I let the boar take me by surprise, uncle. He was much faster than I imagined him to be.” Éomer gasped in pain as Théodred and Erkenbrand continued trying to staunch the blood flow. He felt as though his head was beginning to spin.
“Was he now?” soothed Théoden, attempting to distract his nephew from the pain. He stroked the dampened tendrils of blonde hair back from Éomer’s forehead.
“He was actually a she,” said Théodred. “You stumbled onto her litter and set her off.” He kept his voice light, attempting to buoy his cousin’s spirits, but Éomer’s eyes were closed and he seemed to have lost consciousness. Théodred turned troubled eyes to his father and lowered his voice so that Éomer could not hear. “We need to start heating an iron. I cannot stop the bleeding.”
Théoden’s blood ran cold at the thought of what they were going to be required to do. He’d seen grown men scream in agony when cauterization was necessary, but there was no choice. Without it, the boy would bleed to death before they could get him back to Edoras. The hot iron would seal the wound. Théoden nodded his head to Erkenbrand to begin the process while he moved into the Marshal’s spot to take up holding pressure on Éomer’s leg.
Éomer’s eyes opened and blinked rapidly several times as he fought for consciousness. He desperately wanted to be brave before his uncle, Theo and the other men, but he was in horrible pain. He had a flash of a man that he often saw when he would go down to Bergfinn’s smithy. The man, named Felor, had only one leg and hobbled around with the aid of a crutch. He often came to the smithy to sit on the bales of hay and chat with Bergfinn as he worked. The blacksmith told Éomer that the man was once a great rider who, while fighting orcs, had been badly wounded to the point that it was necessary to remove his leg to save his life. Éomer had shuddered, vowing – as the young will - that he would rather die than live a life so restricted. Bergfinn had chuckled and reminded the boy that it was easy to say such things when you were outside the situation and that, Béma willing, he hoped Éomer would never have to make such a decision. A cold sweat of dread broke out on the boy’s forehead as he remembered that conversation.
“Éomer, listen to me,” urged Théoden. “I am going to have to use the iron on your leg.”
Horror filled Éomer’s eyes as he looked from his uncle to the fire where Erkenbrand was heating the iron. “No!” Momentarily panicked, the boy began trying to pull away from Théoden and Théodred.
“No, Éomer,” demanded Théoden in his most commanding tone. “Listen to me. If we do not do this you will never ride again.”
The camp was deathly quiet save for Éomer’s panting as he absorbed that news. “Never ride…”
“It will hurt, Éomer; I will not lie to you, but then it will be past.”
“And I will ride again? Promise me I will ride again!” begged Éomer, tears streaming down his face as he fought down the panic threatening to overtake him.
“You have my word,” Théoden vowed softly, lifting a blood covered hand to grasp the boy’s shoulder and guide him back down onto his back. “Rest now and gather yourself. Teddy and I are right here with you, Éomer; we will not leave your side.
As Erkenbrand walked over to them with the iron, Théoden motioned for Teddy to move behind Éomer’s head. He would make sure that it was he and Teddy holding the boy while Erkenbrand sealed the damaged artery. He waited until the last moment to move his hands away, holding the pressure on the bleeding leg as long as possible.
Théoden fought the urge to gag when the iron met flesh and sizzled sickeningly. Éomer screamed and spasmed in agony, but did not fight back against him. Mercifully, the boy passed out quickly from the shock and pain. Erkenbrand and Théodred quickly spread a salve across the burn and bandaged the leg while Théoden cradled the boy in his arms, rocking slowly back and forth as he whispered encouragement and praise.
As soon as the leg was bandaged, Théoden wrapped him in his own cloak and carried him to the horses. He handed Éomer to Erkenbrand long enough to mount up and then took the boy back into his arms, intent upon carrying his nephew himself. Théoden shot off, closely followed by Théodred, as his guard hustled to mount up and give chase.
Éomer had developed a high fever by the time Théoden got him back to Edoras. For several days he lingered on the brink of the abyss as Théoden remained by his side, beseeching Béma to spare his life. Théodred kept Éowyn occupied by taking her riding and playing dolls with her. Twice he slept on the foot of her bed because the little girl would wake up crying in the night, afraid that she’d lost her brother like she had her parents.
Late one night, Théodred had come into Éomer’s room to relieve Théoden, and asked him a question that he’d been pondering since the day of the accident. “Why did you not tell Éomer that he could die if we did not use the iron on his leg?”
Théoden gently laid a dampened cool cloth across Éomer’s feverish forehead and raised weary eyes to his son. Even in his worried and fatigued state, he could not keep the small smile from lighting his face and crinkling his eyes. “Because, Théodred,” he began slowly, once more dipping the cloth into the cool water and wringing it out before continuing, “Éomer’s fear might have convinced him it would be better to die than to endure the iron. The one thing I knew he could endure anything for was the ability to ride. Riding is his life.” He smiled gently down at the sleeping boy. “I dare say that one day his skill shall rival even yours.”
Éowyn watched the play of emotion on her brother’s face as he glossed over the more painful parts of the story. Even though she had been young, she remembered the nights of terror where she clung crying to Theo, terrified that Éomer was being taken away from her. She also remembered the long often painful months of recuperation that Éomer had been forced to endure…the nights when Théoden would massage oil into the scar on Éomer’s leg while gently stretching the limb to regain mobility...or when Theo would work the leg, strengthening the muscle to its previous state. She smiled as she noticed that even now Éomer was unconsciously rubbing the scarred leg, something he often did without even realizing it. Those long and difficult months had cemented the little family together. Even Éowyn had gotten into the act by making up stories to entertain her brother while he endured the more painful parts of the therapy.
That Éomer had regained his full strength and ability to ride was a testament to the love of a family that refused to give up on him…that fought back the darkness which threatened to overtake him, and never let him give up on his dream to ride again. That was the kind of love he intended to instill in these children. Every child deserved to grow up with a full belly, knowing he or she was loved and protected.
A yawn from Meela drew Éomer’s attention, and he gathered the sleeping child into his arms. “Let us go, little ones. It is time for sleep.”
Faramir and Éowyn rose to accompany Éomer and the rest of the children to Theo’s room where their beds were located. Faramir chuckled and reached down to pick up Gandafin, who had fallen asleep draped across his feet. Thela was asleep in Hálith’s lap so the boy rose awkwardly while still holding the sleeping child. Even Elena was nodding in her chair, only rousing up a bit as the other adults rose to take the children to bed.
“Would you need my help, my lord?” asked the woman hopefully.
“Certainly, Mother,” assured Éomer. “Could you help us tuck these little ones into bed?”
“Oh yes, my lord,” beamed Elena. She’d never had babes of her own and helping with the children made her feel useful again.
After the children were tucked into bed and kissed good-night the adults went back to the sitting room where they would enjoy quiet conversation and, perhaps, a pot or two of tea. Tomorrow would end the formal mourning period and they would be expected to host the banquet for the Marshals.
Foregoing the tea, Éomer sipped a mug of ale and stared into the fire, his mind wandering far from the small talk of the other three. His mind was on the meeting tomorrow with the Marshals, on the reports they would bring regarding the conditions of the herds and on what food stuffs had survived the war. He felt sure as well that there were more orphans like the eight living here with him now. He knew that he could provide for these, but all the children needed parents, someone to love and guide them. Then there were the widows, like Elena, alone and vulnerable, and tonight his memory had reminded him of the disabled, like Felor, who could no longer ride or serve the Mark in the ways they had always done, but who could serve in other ways if given the chance and made to feel their self worth again. Lastly, his mind was with Erkenbrand and Gamling. What would they find in Snowbourne? For what reason would a Marshal of the Mark have forsaken a call from his king? There was a mystery here, and Éomer was determined to get it uncovered. There was a long winter coming which could prove to be as great a threat to his people as the war had been. He needed his mind clear to deal with these problems, yet the mystery remained…like a looming cloud threatening to cover Anor and sink them all into darkness…
TBC