Tolkien Fan Fiction
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| "The child of Irmö may know great joy in this life." Every time he woke up after a dream, that was the first thought that entered his conscious mind, swift as an arrow. Morwën had said that to him, upon finding out he sometimes sensed things other people did not. He could almost hear his mother's nervous laugh after such a pronouncement, but he could still see his father's wide, undisguised stare, trained on himself. That morning, he had awoken to a memory that he had been unable to vanquish through the course of the day. As unsettling as it was for him to wake up to a thought of his father, Éomer was bothered further by that irksome sensation that comes with the uncertainty of whether he had dreamed or lived this particular memory. In his dream, if dream it was, his father had taken him on his inspection of the herds to the easternmost part of Eastfold, far enough that he could see the mountains ahead to the East of Riddermark. He must have been 7 years old, give or take a year, because that was around the time his father hired Alsfred to do the inspections for him. In the dream, he saw himself shooting arrows with Éomund when, suddenly, his father scooped him up and carried him to some sort of whole in the ground-- a hideout. "This had been bothering me all day," he remembered Éomund saying, "and Shadow too, but I did not listen." Éomer then saw a fight, the remains of a fight. That was the day Shadow had been killed. Or maybe he had had to be put down? That he woke up this morning nestled in a burrow in the ground did not help matters. Today, they had traveled far into the heart of Eastfold, and beyond, as part of their duty to assist the herdsmen who pastured horses all through the plain. Locating the herdsmen was difficult enough, as they moved according to weather and environmental conditions, and they did not really have a clear idea how many herds there actually were, though the elders would not admit it if it killed them. But, as Éomer had found during his time in the company, helping them once found was the harder part of the job. Many of them had lacked basic necessities, and procuring them was a long, drawn-out negotiation process. They--the company he had been assigned to-- had spent the better part of a year just making a count of the herds, but Yule was fast approaching and everyone was anxious to be home. The Captain of their éored, if it could be called that, had split the men in three groups so as to conduct the inspections faster, hoping to have everybody safely back for the holiday. Éomer's group consisted of twenty-five people in all, fifteen full-fledged riders, four trainees, three scouts, and three herdsmen they had found along the way who were recovering from injuries and had been left behind by their clans-- hardly an adequate number to meet the needs they faced out in the wild, as late in the year as it was. That hole in the ground he had picked for a makeshift bed was his attempt at drawing warmth from the earth, but he would pay for the ill choice, as the feeling of being buried in that hideout would not be shaken off afterwards. By the time his small company stopped for lunch, the sense of foreboding had grown to such extent that it took his appetite away. It was then that the men started to notice. "I have never seen you say no to a meal," Éothain said, "and I have known you for longer than anyone else here." "Hardly true, Éothain," Léof chided, seeking Éomer's gaze and holding it for a mere flicker of a moment before shifting his attention to Éothain. "I am almost half a year older than you are, almost a full year older than Éomer, and there are men here who knew him before he could even walk who would remember better than either of us could." The hint of a smile was there, for all of Léof's gravity, but even that was gone by the time his eyes had settled on Éomer again. "What bothers you, brother?" he asked, unable to let that note of anxiety--fear--seep into his tone, for all Éomer knew how hard he fought to conceal any sign of distress. It bothered him, in a way that it had never bothered him before, but he did not know it until Léof had to repeat the question and he realized that he had no answer to give. By then, he had pulled out the corded silver necklace he kept close to his chest and was fingering the shell he held there-- some sort of elvish, Gondorian talisman that he had inherited from his grandfather, Thengel-- and that other, cooler metal disc held fast beside it. He had never seen the sea, but his mother had. Her own mother had been born to the south in Belfalas, though she did not grow up there, but the sea made enough of an impression that she went through the trouble of taking all her children thence once a year. From their stories, Éomer knew all there was to know about the sea without having ever seen it. He knew that if he put a shell to his ear he could hear the echo of the waves swaying back and forth, could imagine the gulls calling to him. Pressing the shell tightly within his palm he looked up, slowly, felt himself bite the inside of his cheek though he had tried to break that ridiculous habit since joining the éored. "Something's afoot," he finally heard himself say, though what, or how he knew it, he could not tell. Éothain and Léof looked at each other, then back at him for a moment before Éothain broke into a torrent of questions which Éomer did not really hear. He focused on Léof, who eyed him gravely, silent. "You know this..." Léof finally asked when Éothain stopped to breathe, "like you know the sun will rise tomorrow?" That was the question Léof always asked, his way of helping him sort misgiving from premonition, but this time Éomer could not properly separate the two. "Can you not feel it in the air?" he asked in turn. "How it almost thrums with anticipation? This morning I had hoped to be able to dismiss it because the horses were not feeling anything. I thought it was this dream I had, making me uneasy. But the horses are starting to feel it, too." "But there is a storm brewing, and you know how the horses get during storms," said Éothain, "Could it be that?" The expectation in his voice was almost heartbreaking, but he had learned early on never to lie, especially not to his cousin. He shook his head. "It's not the storm." Putting the shell to his ear, he listened for the rhythmic lull of the waves. Now grown-up, he recognized it was not really the sea he listened to, but it calmed him all the same. Only, this time it was not there. That sent a chill to his heart. Not once had he put the sea shell to his ear and failed to hear its noise. He shook the shell, tried again. Nothing. "Could it be a tornado?" Éothain asked, almost hopeful. "Horses hate those." "So do we," said Léof, now looking at him with positive worry in his expression, as he continued to shake the shell and put it to his ear. "It's not a tornado," he said, letting go of the necklace with such force that he almost yanked it off his neck. Repentant, he grabbed it again, caressed the smooth sea shell's surface before replacing it inside his shirt, next to his heart, where it always hung. "It's almost as if the air crackles with some sort of energy." "A lightning storm?" Was it? He dipped his head, shrugged. That was, exactly, why he had been sent to this particular company: because he was a freak, and dumb enough to let people know about it. Still... "Something is going to happen and I cannot shake the feeling away. We need to do something, though what, or even how much time we have to do it--" They were interrupted by the horn that announced the end of their rest. Those in the company were so used to being together that, out of habit, men began to pack up and ready themselves without any other command. Éomer looked around himself as he went about dousing the fires, and obliterating any trace of them. He did not have seniority but the duty was his by rank, though Herubrand was in charge of the company in place of the Captain, and that appointment had almost started a division between the ranks-- yet one more symptom to add to the long list of complaints of their ailing country. The thought alone made him wince. He loved the Riddermark with everything he had, and he loved these me who had bled with him for some ten years. For them, he would do anything-- even swallow his pride and expose himself to ridicule. "Blast it all," he muttered to himself, ashamed of having had a moment's hesitation as to what his course of action should be. There was but one thing to do, and he would do it if it meant the end of his hopes for a future in the King's own éored. He found Herubrand in conference with the scouts. As he approached, Wídfara must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because he turned to look at him full in the face, holding his gaze with such intensity that Éomer felt tired when the contact was broken. No words were said, but Éomer knew. He feels it too! Éomer thought, encouraged. If someone else feels it, it may not be so difficult to convince them I am not crazy. They had all stopped talking as soon as they realized he was near, but Baldwald gestured wildly for him to come closer. "The horses are spooked," he said, placing his heavy hand on Éomer's shoulder-- a feat, by all accounts, for Éomer had almost three heads on him. "Wulfgar doesn't see reason to trouble over it, but Wídfara does." " 'Tis the storm, brewing eastward," said Wulfgar, pointing toward a darkening of the sky ahead of them. "It's still too far to have made the horses spook," said Baldwald in thick, hurried tones. He was a son of the Wold and he spoke like one, for all that he had traveled all over Riddermark and even beyond. "What say you, lad?" he asked Éomer, squeezing hard where his hand rested. "Have you an opinion as to why?" "Any opinion he may have would be based on folklore," said Wulfgar. "But I am looking at the storm ahead with my own eyes. There's cause enough for the horses to get spooked, without you fabricating one." "We have all seen him talk to the Meara!" cried Baldwald. "Can he ask the Meara now, then, and have this dispute settled once and for all?" "You know that is not how it works!" cried Baldwald. "The Horse Lords are not diviners to consult at will!" "Then what good is the lad's talent if it cannot be called on when we actually could use the help?" By then, the argument had drawn a small crowd, and whoever was not nearby had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at them. Meanwhile, Baldwald was squeezing fast right on the spot where that Orc knife had almost severed his tendon five years prior, and Éomer was feeling the pain of it, though it hurt even more to have to acknowledge that he had come that close to losing his arm. "Remember who you speak of," Herubrand finally said, hands outstretched in a placating though forceful gesture, calling everyone to stop. "The lad outranks every one of us here, and has saved your hide more than once. Maybe his talent is not as useless as one might think." All eyes turned to Éomer at that, but it was Wídfara who spoke. "I have been listening to the wind all day," he said, "but there has been nothing to listen to. I have been watching you, too," he said, fixing that keen gaze on him again. "What you're feeling--I know what it is. I cannot feel it coming from inside like you can, but I believe the earth can speak to you if you have the guts to listen to her voice. If you think we should be doing something, just say the word and I will get going at once." That stilled everyone's murmurs. Éomer had been in this position many times in the past, but never when he really did not know what to do, or where to go. Where they running toward danger, or from it? And how many lives would his indecision cost them this time? His throat suddenly felt dry, his hands cold, and, once again, he felt the weight of his father's eyes on him, wild, and scared. Irmö... he thought, or called, or prayed, he did not know for sure, but had only ever been more fervent about anything once in his whole life. If there is something I should know, I need you to be a little more clear about it. Sometimes this gift feels more like a curse... The murmurs began again. He made himself stay calm by breathing the pattern he always breathed, by forcing himself to feel the coldness of the golden medallion against his chest, as he always did-- his reminder that he could do whatever needed to be done, and do it well. How he hated to be placed in such a position! And yet, meting Herubrand's expectant look head on, feeling the weight of Wídfara's and Baldwald's expectations collide upon himself, sensing Éothain's and Léof's utter confidence, he knew with a certainty he had never experienced that the choices fell on him because he pushed through his fear to make them. It was then that he heard the familiar call. "Blackbirds don't fly so far away from the forest," he said, searching for the little bird who was singing to him. "What?" came a small chorus of voices. "The blackbird," he repeated, more forcefully than he had hoped, "don't you hear it?" "Aye," Wulfgar said, "but what does it matter?" "That blackbird," he began, realizing that he was becoming frantic and still he could not find the origin of the sound. "That blackbird..." he tried again, making himself stop, cracking his knuckles, running hands through his short hair, certain he had made it stand on end. How could he tell them, how could he even begin to explain what the blackbird meant in that bizarre code that only he seemed to understand? And yet, he knew now that what he had felt was not nonsense and he would be forever grateful to that small bird and its song for making that known to him. That certainty released him to take the next step, if only he could figure out what the next step was... The thought had not finished forming in his mind when a deafening sound pierced the stillness around them. Hundreds-- no, thousands of ravens were coming toward them from the north, cawing incessantly, flying so vigorously that black feathers were dropping like flakes of snow all around. Some men cried, others crouched, but Éomer could not stop staring, strangely fascinated by the sight. Suddenly, he knew. "It's North!" he cried, running as best he could through the tumult and toward his horse, Flame. "They are flying to escape it. Whatever it be, it is that way." "Then which way do we go?" came the next question, though he was not sure from whom. North, he knew. But how could he take his company, small though it was, through the awful peril just because he had a hunch? Would any of them even follow him? The ravens kept flying around them, and he somehow reached Flame, clutched to him tightly. And waited. Waited an age while all his hopes and fears concentrated into a knot that settled right behind his sternum. It was odd, how his tension always hid there first, almost ready for release. He thought of that feeling he had had and felt, strangely, encouraged. He thought of Éowyn, and waited some more. When the cacophony was finally over, the stillness that surrounded the company after the birds had passed was even more frightful than the noise had been. Léof reached him first, looked a question at him. Éomer saw him nod before Herubrand approached him with an, "Are you certain? Then we go back the way we came." Here it goes, he thought, turning to address the man who had taught him how to properly pack his saddlebag when he first joined the éored. "We go North," he said, aware of his bluntness and unable, or reluctant, to address it. Herubrand did not reply at once. His eyes lifted and traced the birds' path, meaningfully resting here and there where the signs of their passing lay scattered on the ground, thence toward the way the company had traveled. When they finally met his, Éomer could see coldness there, more than any other emotion. "You want me to tell my men to go headlong into the path of danger-- why should they, Éomer?" The many possible answers swirled through his mind in rapid motion, but which one to latch on to, which one to give? "Herubrand, I cannot answer that," he finally said, "I cannot tell you how I know what I know, but I can tell you that my way, at least, lies North, and I know this with such certainty that I am forced to think that someone out there needs my help." "Do you think it may be the herds?" asked Wídfara, somewhere to his left. "We had been tracking them this way, maybe it is the herds who are in danger, which would make sense given how you can talk to the Meara!" "There is no way to know for certain." Wulfgar. "And he cannot talk to the Meara-- the Meara understand him. There's a difference." "Would you risk the herds?" asked Baldwald, "Would you risk the herds, and eorling lives, just because you did not know for sure?" "And if we get all the soldiers killed, who then can protect the shepherds?" "When all the soldiers get killed, the shepherds would have been long dead," said Léof, effectively silencing all murmurs. By then Éothain had also reached him, and Aldfred, and Harn. And the rest of the company across from them, behind Herubrand, forming a very real wall that blocked his path forward. "Our oath was not to protect people when things were safe. Our oath was to stand for what was right and protect the helpless wherever they may be, in whatever danger." "We can't even be sure there are people needing help out there!" cried Dudda. "That is precisely why we must go!" from Harn. A big discussion broke out after that, each man arguing the merits of his choice, wasting precious time. Across from him, Herubrand shook his head. "This is no way to keep an éored united," he said, to nobody, so Éomer chose to let it go though it rattled him to the core. "I am going North," he finally said, surprising himself, aware that what he had really said was that he was willing to desert for the strength of his conviction. "Whatever lay ahead, I know that's where I am supposed to be." He had never felt more certain of anything. A few choruses of "Aye," rippled throughout the company, while someone else whispered the word "Treason." Herubrand's jaw went slack for a moment, but he recovered quickly. "Dissension is not the way of the warrior," he said. "Would you leave your brethren to follow this... this hunch?" "And what are the rest of us supposed to do?" asked Dudda. "No wonder the Captain bypassed you and did not put you in charge..." "The Captain is jealous of Éomer, which is why he humiliates him whenever he can find the opportunity..." "Éothain!" he whispered, raising his palm upwards. "Frankly," he said, "I do not much care if I am humiliated by the Captain, or by anyone else. At the end of the day, the opinion I have to live with is my own, and I could never forgive myself if I walk away from this now. I would not be deserting if you would be willing to come with me, but I realize I have no proof to sway you and cannot expect you to follow me otherwise. I am prepared to face any consequences you would like to place upon me, but we are wasting time, and I have to go." "I'll go with you," cried Baldwald. "Those shepherds out there are my people." "And we'll go with you also," said Léof, clapping a hand on Éothain's shoulder. "We are brothers, and brothers cannot be separated." "We are all of us supposed to be brothers," said Aldfred, "and here we are, arguing amongst ourselves." Éomer pitied Herubrand, cursed himself for his haste in speaking of dissension, thus undermining his friend's authority. If he lived to see another day, he would have to work more on his diplomatic skills, but for now he had to make haste. He quickly mounted Flame, but found he could not go, not like this. "If you would send someone with me, they can return and alert you should the herds be in danger," he said. "Would you consent to that?" "You say that as though you were doing me a favor," Herubrand said. "You are leaving the éored, and asking me to send other men with you, to excuse your disobedience--" "Herubrand, please," he said. "If I put any of you in danger for no reason, I will tie the ropes around myself for you to send me back to the King in Edoras but, for now, all I can do is ask you to trust me," and, without waiting for approval, he spurred Flame into a trot. Before he could order a gallop, he heard the clapping of hooves behind him. He knew who they were without turning to look, and his heart swelled within him at the thought that these, his brothers, would trust him enough to follow him into unknown danger. It was not long before the horses began to show signs of distress. Someone behind him began a battle song that was soon taken up by many voices-- so many of the men had followed! "Forth, Eorlingas!" he called as he went. "This is what we were born to do! Let no citizen of Riddermark, be it man or beast, have to fear or suffer while we have a breath left." Their battle song grew louder after that. *** When they finally saw smoke in the distance, Éomer was almost relieved to have that awful anticipation come to an end. As bad as things could get, at least they were now here to do what needed to be done. "That smell is not just grass," said Baldwald riding level with him. That thought had already crossed his mind, but he had stopped it before it could settle there. His focus had to be in reaching the fire, whatever was burning, though it was hard to ignore the implications. "Éomer," someone else cried, was it Wídfara? "That is not just horseflesh!" The horses were tired, but they somehow found it in them to give one last spurt. That familiar heat that always settled at the pit of his stomach whenever orcs were involved had been growing within him for some time. By now, he knew that fighting the sensation was useless; he had learned to embrace it and let it fuel his focus before battle, however unpleasant it was, and however alike it made him to Éomund. But there was something else there too, growing alongside until he could not deny its name-- dread. And horror, because more columns of smoke began to appear in the horizon and he realized that they were not approaching a mere camp of shepherds. "A village?" asked Éothain, slowing down. "There should not have been a village this far out without our knowledge." "And yet there it is before our eyes," said Wídfara. "Someone needs to go back and bring the others, we could not take this on on our own." "But how can we spare even one of us?" cried Baldwald. "And who would go?" More columns of smoke began to streak the sky--some twenty to twenty-five. Were those houses? Were all of those people dying today? "Quickly!" he called behind him. "Baldwald, you begin riding for Herubrand at once. Tell him we have found the village, some thirty or so houses. Go!" The next decisions had to be carefully considered, because there were only eight of them left and who knew how many orcs. "Wídfara, you and Wigstan find whomever you can and assist them in fleeing the town. Léof and Éothain-- cover their backs and save as many people as you can. Osbeorn, Aldfred, Harn, and I will-- well, we will see how to lure the orcs away until Herubrand gets here. And, stay alive!" His companions' implicit obedience touched him to the core, for never had they attempted a more foolhardy rescue. Cries and growls began to reach them, and that strong, nauseating scent of burning flesh became stronger and stronger. When the village finally came in full view, he called the last orders before separating from his men, then rode on ahead in an attempt to better asses their options; for now, he refused to consider there might be none. Experience had taught him to try to make for higher ground, be it a hill or a mound of rubble, for he could break through ranks with his horse to begin attack, rather than risk remaining in the periphery for the rest of the battle. But, when he finally got close enough to the village to take a look, what he found made his hold on the reins slacken. In his five-and-twenty years, Éomer had never seen such carnage. The screams rent the air in pitiful bursts, chilling his blood and making him shudder. For a moment he stopped, confused, beside a mound where a cart had overturned and caught fire. It was here that he almost got his arm cut off by a warg rider. Quick reflexes saved his arm, but did not prevent him from getting an ugly gash down past his elbow. That the warg got worse was his only consolation, and a poor one at that. "Listen to me, rohirrim!" he cried, breaking through toward a heap pile in what appeared to be the town square. "Women and children, stay close to each other and make your way eastward out of town, my riders will lead you there and show you where to go! If there be any men who can still fight among you, you don't need a sword to have a weapon! Let the scum crawl back to the hole they came from! Let no one, no one, forget what a child of Eorl can do when roused!" Afterwards, he would find it difficult to recall exactly how the eight of them and a handful of shepherds managed to keep the orcs at bay until Herubrand came, but manage it they did. Herubrand's arrival created enough of a surprise as to allow Éomer to ride toward the pyre closest to him--the remains of what appeared to have been a barn of some kind. Without dwelling on whether the animals had managed to escape or not, the thought struck him that the only way they could expect to vanquish such a host of orcs as they faced was to burn them alive. And, for that to happen, he had to lure them all into a sizable group, but how? "Make your way out of here!" he called. "Retreat toward the refugees, all of you, right now!" "Retreat?" someone cried. "Who's giving the orders now?" "Just listen," he cried, "I have a plan, but I need you all out of the way!" "Herubrand?" somebody else called, a call which he echoed. "Herubrand, would you allow me to end this right now?" he asked. "And how do you purpose to do that?" "As quickly as I can," he said, "but, if you would help, get everyone out. The town is already burning, and I intend to finish it off." "Burn the town?" "Burn the orcs!" he said, "Now, hurry, get everyone out so we can get on with it! And give me your spear!" He turned once more toward the pyre, grabbing whatever pieces of wood were long enough to use as javelins, throwing them at the orcs to get their attention. Tearing up the sleeve of his shirt, he wrapped it around the spear tip and let it catch flame, hoping the fire would take its time eating up the fabric. The shirt was wet with sweat, and it took several tries for it to catch, all the while he had to worry about dodging arrows and stones. When the spear finally ignited, it was a fast, quick blaze that almost reached his forearms, though he had no time to worry about that at present. Taking a quick breath, he ran toward the Orcs, hoping to lure as many of them to follow after him, away from the refugees. Help me Béma, or we all die today... He swallowed hard, the sweat beading on his brow from the torch he carried. By then, the fabric was almost totally consumed, but not all the orcs had followed--he only had one chance to carry out his plan, and he needed as many Orcs together as he could get. Tearing out his other sleeve, he wrapped it around the fire as best he could to keep it from consuming the spear before he had had a chance to throw it out. Thinking to charge against the Orcs, to try to distract them before letting go of the torch, he suddenly remembered something he had heard from his father. "Mirdrautas vras!*" he cried, both disgusted to have used such black speech, and oddly fascinated at the Orcs' astonishment. "Mirdrautas vras!" He repeated, over and over again, as he lured them toward the western edge of town. He let go of the spear, prepared to jump across the fence there, but a burning rooftop collapsed in front of him, cutting him off from his exit, and safety. Trapped! With fire on both sides, and wargs and Orcs fast approaching on the other two, the only available exit to him would have been flying. "Flame," he whispered, "we've been through so much, you and I... once more, once more I need your help. If you would jump like you used to jump when we were younger... Just jump with all your might-- we can make it, boy!" But which way to go? Through the warg riders was out of the question; it was either fire, or Orcs. No, it's whichever affords more room to gain momentum... but there was no room, no way to back up for the leap. Was he going to die today? His heart was ready to burst out of his chest yet he did not feel panic seize him like he had heard happened to some people when they stared death in the face. Was this how his father had died? How ironic, that he had spent most of his life trying to put distance between himself and his father's memory yet, at the last, they were both going to fall into the same fate... "No!" he cried. He could not die today, if only to make sure that today did not repeat itself for some other poor eorling village. "Flame, are you ready to give it your all?" Without waiting for the familiar neigh, he jumped off and gave Flame a slap on its haunches. His horse reared and kicked the nearest thing, a goblin who fell on to the ground, seemingly unconscious. Éomer slapped Flame again, who quickly reared. Some of the Orcs took a step back and, seeing this as an opportunity, Éomer whistled, sending Flame out through the newly opened path. Éomer was not so fortunate. He had tried to run toward the fallen Orc and use him as a springboard to propel his jump, but the ranks quickly closed around him, cutting him off once more. The stench was overwhelming, and he forced himself to think of something happy, to block off the leers and growls. If he was meeting his end now, at least he would not be thinking of Orc filth when he went. Surprisingly, the first thought that came to him was of the waves, as he heard them through the seashell his grandmother had given him, and the fresh scent of the sea breeze that he had never smelled but had heard described so many times it was just as well. It was then that he heard it-- the song of the blackbird. As soon as he looked up to spot his little friend, he also saw a beam sticking out of the collapsed building. Amazingly, the beam had not caught fire yet. It would be a stretch to jump through the fire wall once he was up, but he could see no other way out. Better a bier of fire than have one's flesh torn up by Orc teeth. Pulling out the knife from the sheath at his waist, he threw it toward the largest Orc he could see, taking advantage of the distraction to kick the nearest one, then using him to propel himself upwards. He only had one shot at it. When he still lived in Aldburg as a boy, his friends played an obstacle-jumping game, using each other as hurdles. They crouched on the ground and rose ever so slightly with each turn. If he thought he was a boy again, playing with Éothain and Léof, he was sure he could make it. All he had to do was not get slashed by any Orc knives or teeth. Irmö... This is it... He crouched, let out a cry and jumped with all he had in him. *** "Éomer! Éomer, hold on!" He had been able to climb atop the beam, and then the next thing that offered some sort of hold; his grasp was precarious, but he had managed to grab on. One last effort would send him atop the structure his beam sat on, or would make it crumble beneath him and send him straight to a horrific death. To the other side of the fire wall, he heard Léof's voice. Below him, the orcs growled, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the wargs getting ready to jump. He had to get past that fire wall to the other side, but how? And had Flame made it out safely? "Léof?" He called. "Léof, are you there?" "Here brother, we are trying to find a way to climb to you!" “Is Flame with you?” he asked, shouting as loud as he could. “Is Flame with you? Is everybody out? Do you see everybody where you are?” “What do you mean do I see everybody? What are you going to do?” What was he going to do? The desperation in Léof's voice barely registered with him. Only one possibility occurred, and it was not a pretty one. Was this right? By Béma, why was it always his blasted choice that set things into motion? But— this was all he had and he needed to act quickly if he hoped to make it out of there alive to fight another day. “I need you to start a fire here below me!” For a few moments he heard nothing in return. Then, the most blessed sound he had ever heard, "What do you want me to do?" "Find whatever you can ignite and start throwing it here to the other side, that will buy me some time to figure out what to do next. And hurry, the wargs are starting to flee from the fire, but their riders may press them. Have all exits cut off and burn the whole town!" A rain of fire quickly began all around him. He had to duck to avoid being hit, though he got singed many times, and his hold on the pole he had grabbed on to was fast slipping. A warg managed to latch on to his boot and would have cut off his foot if it had not, at that moment, been snatched away, and that so violently that Éomer almost went down with it. He fought to hold on, but when the loud, familiar scream reached him, it startled him into letting go of the pole. He fell on to the ground once more and, entirely on reflex, he turned around and whistled once. Twice. His own brave Flame was fighting off a warg to get him free. The sight undid him for a moment, long enough that a hideous orc had time to jump on him, hands outstretched trying to find some hold on him. Not for the first time, he was glad that he did not grow his hair long. "Get out of here, Flame!" He cried, using the time Flame was buying him in his fight with the warg to find something with which to hurt the beast. Everything around him was fast catching on fire, but he had to find a way to save his horse. Somehow he still heard voices calling to him in despair from the other side but, surprisingly, the frantic impulses that he knew assailed most men when faced with certain death had not gripped him yet. The orc tried to launch himself at him once more, and once again he ducked, was able to seize a knife that dangled from the orc’s waist and stabbed with all his might, just as soon letting go of the wretched weapon. Had he really touched an orc knife? Had he killed with it? An orc knife had likely killed his father, and now he had done the same thing with one. The thought was as horrifying as the thought of dying right then, and still he felt the impulse to fight as if he was not in control of himself. He thought it odd—why was he still fighting? They would all die anyway now, either under a knife or burned by the fire, yet it somehow felt foul to let the orcs get him before the flames did. The thought came unbidden of a day when he had made Éowyn promise to carry a small knife he had bought for her hidden at all times. She said she would gladly do so, and she would use it too, but she would only keep it secret if he promised to do the same, and so the image flashed in front of him of the small knife strapped to his left calf, concealed under his boot. In a swift, practiced motion, he produced his weapon, quite inadequate against the odds he faced, but it renewed his strength to fight on. Flame kept biting and rearing and kicking and he kept slashing at whatever came within his view. After a fight that sapped every ounce of strength he had, there was only one giant orc between him and Flame. One. What now? The orc leered at him and he was torn between laughter, exhaustion, and rage. Son of Éomund, he kept hearing in his head, over and over. He was his father, even if he had never wanted to accept it. That fueled his resolve. He would kill this one last orc, before he let the fire claim him. Summoning every ounce of energy he possessed, he whistled one more time— the whistle that told Flame that everything was all right, that they would soon both be walking the hunting pastures together when, suddenly, he saw his horse, his beautiful horse, run straight at the orc between them and send him flying. That was the last thing he saw before everything went black. *** "...help could be days away if you go through the usual channel." "You are right, but what choice do we have?" "It's a man's choice, and your hesitation means delayed relief for these people." "I know all this, but what good will it do to act rashly and then find we have mobilized them for nothing? Where would they go then?" "Do you think the people in Edoras would not take them in? Would not help them?" A brief pause. Then, more subdued, ”I think you may find that things in Edoras are not all what they used to be." "Would you leave them here, then?" There was a long pause after that, which Éomer used to try and open his eyes. Everything hurt, but most of all his head felt like it was going to split open. He tried to rise up on to a sitting position, but all he managed was an awkward shuffle under the bed covers. In a moment, Éothain and Léof were by his side. A blink of an eye later, Herubrand joined them. "Are you all right?" Cried Éothain. "Do you feel all your body parts?" "Excuse me?" "He means--can you feel your arms, your legs? We feared you may have had a concussion when you fell, but we have no physician with us to confirm; we were frightened... Do you-- can you remember what happened?" Yes, yes, he could, or so he thought. "Flame?" He asked, trying to sit up again, remembering the awful fear that seized him before he lost consciousness. The uneasy glance that passed between Éothain and Léof told him everything he needed to know, and he let himself sink back on to the bed, closing his eyes. That horse had been everything to him. That horse was his life. And he had done it. "I'm sorry, brother," Éothain said slowly, almost reverently. “He may have saved your life, it was incredible. Somehow, you were blown out of that fire hole, but that was all we saw. The town burned to ashes. There are embers still smoking that not even the storm could quench.” The implications of that were too obvious to ignore. His horse, his brother, had gone up in smoke. “Flame was a war horse, and he died a worthy death,” Léof said. “As a warrior, I know that you will find comfort in that, if nothing else.” He made an effort to nod his agreement. Yes, of course he would. Better die of his own accord than trampled upon by some foul beast, or something such. Yes, it all made sense, but it still felt like some ugly hand had reached into his chest and scooped his heart out of him, leaving him to bleed out of a gaping hole. If he had known what the fire would do, would he have gone through with it? Shame filled him with the momentary hesitation. There had been people dying, people he had sworn to protect! Surely his horse’s life, his own life, would not—should not—be too big a sacrifice. "The town?" He asked, forcing his heart to resume beating, forcing his agitation aside, ashamed of his momentary lapse. "You saved them," said Éothain, still using that soft, reverent tone that Éomer was not used to hearing, "You saved them all. The rest of the orcs and wargs burned up according to your plan, and we killed those who tried to escape. There's one less band of orcs to kill and ravage, because of you and Flame." It hurt even to grimace. “Those people have no homes now,” he said. “Their gratitude for their lives will soon be drowned in the grief and worry of being alone and homeless in the world.” "I would not say that," said Léof. "Most of them have been by at different times inquiring after you. Their elder brought herbs to speed your healing, and their wise woman has kept your burns free of infection. How are you feeling? Can you move?" "Aye." He heard the gasp of relief, which did something to lighten his grief. "We feared the worst..." Said Éothain. "Funny you should think the worse to be paralysis and not death." "You would too, and you know it." Yes. Yes, of course he would, and the knowledge shamed him. He hoped to change the subject with, "How long have I been asleep?" "Nigh on three days," said Éothain. "Three days!" he cried, the movement to sit up so abrupt that he had to sink further back onto his pillow when his head exploded into millions of tiny pieces. "Where am I? Three days? What have all those people been doing meanwhile?" He noticed Léof's glare toward Éothain, before his friend moved to sit closer to him on the ground. "They are all sitting outside this tent, in various stages of recovery. We put up however many tents we had among us and have used these for the sick, women, and children. After it was all over, there were thirty six persons left, but it seems like all of them will make it." "What about our own men?" "Eldwald. And Dudda." That hand of panic clutched at his heart again. Why did it never get easier, having to say goodbye? He had done it so many times, it was almost a matter of course-- why could he not do it better? "Baldwald is hurt. So are Osbeorn, Harn, and Widfric. And you. But everyone else is practically unharmed. I'd say it's a good tally, all things considered. Somebody will have to go to Eldwald's parents. And Dudda's wife. We were just debating whether to go ourselves or wait until reaching Edoras to do so, after taking care of things here." “Aldfric? Theowald?” He asked, panic rising anew. “Theowald was unharmed, though badly shaken. Aldfric got a minor cut on his upper thigh, nothing more,” Léof said, unable to keep the relief entirely out of his voice. Theowald was Éomer and Théodred’s young cousin, who had begged and begged and threatened until his father moved heaven and earth to have him assigned to an éored. Éomer had always been surprised at how easily the order came from Edoras to let the boy begin training though he was a full year too young. Aldfric was as dear to Éomer as he imagined one’s own child would be, though he was not old enough to be the boy’s father. That they had both survived the day did much to soothe his wounded heart. "But where are they sleeping? What have you been feeding everyone?" An uneasy silence followed his question. He could almost hear something snap in Herubrand, and Éothain's gaze would have withered one of the legendary mellyrn if there had been one nearby. "The scouts have been hunting," Herubrand finally said in a clipped tone. "You mean the townspeople have been searching through the carrion?" The gruesome image that Éothain's words had conjured lodged itself firmly on his mind, and he dared not pursue his enquiries further. "What now?" he limited himself to asking. "That's just it," Éothain said. "What can we do?" There is no way for us to help these people here, and every day we remain in this wretched place we increase our chances of being attacked again. Not to mention the awful wailings at night every time they look at the smoke coming from the village." "There isn't a village anymore, just a wretched heap of burning wreckage," said Herubrand, looking up for the first time since the conversation began. "Have any other Orc bands been sighted?" Éomer asked "No, but can we risk it, being so far out of reach?" Éothain asked. "Our land is, clearly, not as safe as it once was, and until we can afford to keep permanent patrols here, we have no choice but to withdraw. I know it rankles," he continued, with a hasty glance at Herubrand who sat a few paces away, head bowed, "but it is pride over people's safety, and I think all of us can agree which one should come first." There was a long silence after that, each one lost in his own thoughts. Either that, or they were waiting for someone to say something. Éomer leaned back on to his pillow and closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He knew what it was like to lose one's home. What made his situation unique was that his house still stood, and he was forced to look at it every time the éored returned after a mission, a painful memory of what once was that would never be again. When he opened his eyes, he looked straight at Herubrand who was, oddly, looking back at him with some kind of expectancy that Éomer found unnerving. "We ought to at least move them away," Éomer said when the other failed to speak. "It is rather inhumane to have them still here." "We all realize that, but how best to accomplish it, Éomer?" Éothain asked, an edge, an impatience to his voice that only surfaced when he had been pushed and pushed and pushed to the brink. Who had pushed him? "There are so many wounded and not enough of us to set up two camps for those who are able to travel at all. We have landed in quite the fix!" He rose and began pacing the small confines of the tent they were in--all two paces in each direction. Éomer then realized that they had put them in the lieutenant's tent, which was quite a thoughtful thing for them to do, since his own tent could barely accommodate one cot leaving little room for anybody to tend to him. "We have no tents, no carriages, no food, no medicines, and no men. No way I look at it can we satisfy every need we face right now, but worst of all is the inability we have to send word to anybody of our predicament. We are stuck through and through, and everybody is too scared to do what needs to be done." "You would have us march into Edoras with wagonloads of sick women and children, and for what?" Herubrand cried, woken into a fit of passion that Éomer had not seen from him in months. "What good would it do, even if we could physically move them all there? We are hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, Éoswine's son! How will you bring them? And what then?" "We need to make the capital see what their negligence has wrought!" "You would expose all these people to ridicule merely to carry a point?" Herubrand cried, raising his voice so that Albeorn, who must have been standing guard outside, poked his head in for a moment to ascertain everything was still all right. Éomer saw Albeorn widen his eyes when he saw him sitting up, and sent a smile and a wink his way, before retreating to safety outside the tent. "Edoras is in no position to help these people. No more than we are." "They are citizens of Riddermark and therefore deserving of our protection," Léof said, more an oath than a statement. "They should have abided by the law and reported their situation--" Herubrand began, but Éothain cut him abruptly, stalking until he stood inches away from his face. "Reported?" He asked. "The law?" Laughter escaped him, but it was almost maniacal. "Reported, to whom, pray? There is not a single officer in the whole army who has been entrusted with the duty of keeping reports of this sort. There is no one, in the whole chain of command who is equipped to have even a vague knowledge where all these people are. This whole year we have only been able to find two herds—two herds in the whole mark of the horselords! How many herds do you suppose there are in the whole of riddermark? How many villages? We happened to find this one, but doesn't it make you wonder what many hundreds of these there are scattered all through the Mark? Who will protect them?" "Protecting them is not our charge--" "It is every éorling's charge!" Éothain cried, but Léof rose to grip his shoulder before he could go on anymore. He clamped his mouth shut, and went to sit in the farthest corner he could find, two-and-a-half strides away from the bedroll Éomer was lying on. "All of this is true," Léof said, in that tone of voice that sought to be placating but was actually so commanding that it broke no argument, "yet it brings us no closer to finding a solution. He looked at Herubrand, but his eyes met Éomer's first, and Éomer was sorry that Herubrand had marked it. "Ask Éomer," Herubrand finally said, hunching his shoulders in unmistakable defeat. “You lot always do, anyway.” "You are in charge," Éomer said. "Though you outrank me and everyone who can set things into motion seeks your approval first," Herubrand said. "I know that I am not the leader you are, and I do not resent it, though I have tried my best to act in good conscience and as I believe the Captain would have acted." ”There's your problem,” Éothain whispered from the corner. "That sounds like treason and I will not accept it," Herubrand said, whipping his head so fiercely in Éothain's direction that the bones in his neck cracked. "I know the system is broken, but it is the system we have, and as long as we have it I will see to it that the men I’m supposed to lead will abide by it.” "What system?" Éothain asked. "We are a bunch of shepherds running from pasture to pasture without any rhyme or reason to it. While we are sitting here trying to mend this village together, we are probably losing three others." Éothain was right, and Éomer knew it. It was shameful, having so few recourses for help and so many dependents, but all shame they felt would be compounded tenfold if they lost those whom they had already saved. "First things first," Éomer said, hoping to prompt Herubrand into action, and failing. He had never given much thought to what it took to get things done until that moment, when everybody seemed to be waiting for him to tell them what that was. It had always been so clear to him what the next step should be, it was bewildering that the rest of them could not see what was needed. But, either they could not, or they deferred to him for some reason he could not fathom. In Edoras, he had enjoyed some respect and attention because they had known who he had been to the King. Here, one had to earn his own respect, and though nobody doubted his valor and skill, he knew they only saw his father whenever they looked at him. Many moments passed, and still no one spoke. He looked at Léof, who gave him a minute shrug; Éothain narrowed his eyes at him and looked away. With a small sigh, he moved as if to sit up, an action he decided against when his head began to throb with renewed fierceness at his attempt. He burrowed further into the pillow. "Herubrand is right," he finally said, earning a glare from Éothain and a raised eyebrow from Léof. "Edoras is too far for our purposes right now." Then he waited. Gratefully, Herubrand took the bait. "Luton should only be a day's ride, to the west," he cried, a spark of excitement making his speech faster. "We will send for help there. In two day's time, we should be in a better capacity to help. They can bring wains, and food." "If they are not ruined themselves," he heard Éothain mutter. "It's better than nothing, brother," Léof said. Then, with another barely noticeable glance at Éomer, and a very slight curling of his lips, he turned to Herubrand. "I shall help you issue orders and ready everything," he said, as he steered the other man out of the tent. There was blessed silence for a while afterwards. Éomer slumped back on to his pillow and was nearly asleep when he felt the pressure to the side of his mattress. "Don't think I don't know what you did," his cousin said. Out of their own volition, Éomer's lips curled into a small smile. "Why? The Captain was trying to hurt you when he foisted Herubrand on you to be your superior for this mission. Why help him now—help them both?” “Herubrand’s teaching kept us alive when we were new recruits, remember? All that boring lecturing on and on about securing your gear and fastening your cloak properly and all that nonsense that we thought he was inflicting on us to torment us.” “He is only three years our senior, hardly a big enough age difference to be lording us over.” “That one time, when I got stuck in those caves… it was the gear he had taught me to pack that kept me alive.” Éothain sobered after that, but still said, “Herubrand is not ready to make all these decisions.” “Perhaps, but it was not Herubrand who placed himself in command.” "You are the one making all the decisions." "Not all of them." "All the ones that matter,” Éothain said, an odd expression in his eyes that Éomer had never seen before, at least not directed at himself. “You saved us all. They all know that, which is why there has been no further murmuring since. They feel the weight of what would have been if we had failed to follow after you. Thirty-six people does not seem like a big number on its own, but when you say thirty-six in a village of eighty, it is nothing short of a miracle that those people are alive to tell their tale. They would not have held long if it were not for you, and we would all of us certainly be dead if you had not thought of burning up the town." "I lost Flame." "Flame was a hero and he went down as one, but you saved a thirty six human lives, plus ours. What made you think of burning the town?" "Half a village." "Call it what you will. Those people will never forget you saved them from certain death. How? How did you know what to do?" How, indeed? Closing his eyes for a moment, Éomer bit on the inside of his cheek, like he always did when deep in thought. He reached for his seashell, put it to his ear, and smiled when he heard the waves to the other side. "You know... sometimes it's almost as if I see what needs to be done. All my life I have battled against this impulsive nature, and it's terribly befuddling to be so rational about these sort of life-and-death choices." "There was nothing rational about what you did," Éothain said in a clipped tone. "It was reckless and insane." "But it worked, in its own illogically... logical way." "Be quiet!" Éothain chided, jabbing him on the rib, which caused him to wince for the pain of it. "Oh, I'm sorry, brother! Hearing you speak like this made forget that you were hurt." "Did Flame really kick me to safety?" He asked, sad but strangely awed. "All we know is that suddenly you were falling from the other side." "How can that be? How could he possibly have kicked me hard enough to send me to out of harm's way, but soft enough to not have broken my bones?" Éothain thought about it for a few minutes. Éomer had almost fallen asleep again when he heard, "You know, Flame has had upwards on twelve years to think about it. He was with your father when the orcs got him, and now Flame has been revenged." Éomer could not explain how that thought unsettled him, but it did. "I wish he would have left his revenge to others." "For all your issues with your father and his death," Éothain said, leaning backwards just a bit and looking up at him, slightly, one eyebrow arched, head tilted, "you must admit that your desire to give your father back his honor stole your sleep more often than not, and you felt satisfied on that score, at least, once it was done. You need to be mature enough to allow Flame the same, respectfully. And he has made his own choice. Allow him that, and let him rest." Easier said than done but he had to acknowledge that what his cousin said had merit. He did not wish to talk about it anymore. "How bad are things out there, really?" He asked instead, nodding toward the door. Éothain's lips pursed into a grim line. "Awful. I have no idea how we are going to help these people. I keep hearing it's not our problem, but that's the attitude that has brought us to this mess. I don't know who we can foist them upon if we don't take care of them ourselves. They're far enough away from anybody for any lord to claim them as their own, and there's too many of them for the King to be able to help them effectively, if he can be roused to do so." "I don't think that's fair," Éomer said, strangely wounded. "All we have heard about the King are rumors, but we have not been to Edoras for some time." "I'm inclined to believe Éowyn's assessment of things." "Éowyn is overzealous where Uncle is concerned." "I know her to be truthful, also." "Truthful, but impressionable under stress. You know she idolizes him, and any way in which he could have fallen short would wound her deeply. All I'm saying is that we should give him the benefit of the doubt until he can defend himself." "Defend himself?" Éothain asked, leaning forward, closer to him to better look him in the face. "Do you mean you are going to call him into question?" It was strange that he should feel his resolve harden at the absurdity of the thought. He had marked the changes in his uncle also, though had shrugged them off like everyone else, too timid to speak his mind, too conscious of his debt to him to truly want to see what was going on, but he could be blind no more. What he had seen, what he had allowed to happen to this village, would repeat itself a thousand times over throughout The Mark if something was not done, and done quickly. He had sworn oaths to his King, but he could never live with himself if he allowed this evil to further spread against the dictates of his conscience. As a loving son he could excuse the negligence, but not as a warrior of The Mark. "Do you think..." he began to ask, lingering on the words. "Do you think he would refuse to hear me?" Éothain did not answer right away, and when he did, it was with a vague, "We have not been to Edoras in so long." "Time to correct that," Éomer said, sitting up in a swift motion that left him dizzy and clutching his head to keep it from bursting. "Time to return to bed!" Éothain cried, rushing to his side, pressing his body back onto the bed. Éomer was not sure how he summoned the strength to fight him. "No. It is high time that someone did something, and I cannot expect it of others if I am not willing to do it myself." "Sure enough, but how?" How indeed? He felt like smiling, though he did not quite manage it through the pain. "I get to Edoras," he said. "And once there, I make the King listen to a good story." |
* Today is a good day to kill |