The Return of the Kings

Written for the ALECs Nov-Dec challenge, Memories. 

When Éomer and Éowyn return from Gondor, they find hope mingled with sorrow as they prepare for Théoden's funeral - and Éowyn's wedding.

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The rebuilding of Rohan began before Éomer king returned from Gondor with news that Aragorn was now king there and the enemy had been defeated forever. He came back in melancholy triumph, his banners flying in the jaunty breeze, at the head of his decimated army, to a land where crops were being re-sown and houses rebuilt.

Edoras perched proudly on its hill, its golden thatch reflecting the evening sunlight that bathed the land in a cosy glow as the Riders approached. Courtiers came out to greet them. Old Wymund brought a cup full of wine and tasted some. He held it out to Éomer.

“My lord Éomer,” he said, “beyond hope you have returned to us! I rejoice to see you hale and whole. We have kept the kingdom as best we could in your absence, and that of the lady Éowyn for she did not return to us after the muster, and we do not know where she is now.”

Éowyn threw back her hood. “I am here,” she said, and smiled wanly.

Éomer dismounted and took a sip from the cup. He passed it to his sister, who got down from her horse. “You have done well, Wymund,” he told the old man, then followed him into the hall.

***

Like a mother whose son's birthday falls on the anniversary of a stillborn child's arrival, the people found that sadness tainted their joy, so that laughter and tears flowed in equal measure. It seemed an affront to the fallen to celebrate being alive and able to enjoy the pleasures of life while they rotted in their graves – if they were lucky.

This feeling was as deep in Éomer as in anyone. He rejoiced in the hope of his sister's impending marriage to the Steward of Gondor. It was a good match, and advantageous to his realm. Éowyn herself often drifted into dreams of love – he could see her face go still, a smile playing on her lips as her eyes lost their focus and slowly closed. After years of misery fraught with the fear of being murdered or forced into an unwanted marriage with Gríma Wormtongue, Éomer believed she deserved to be happy.

But there was Théoden king's funeral to arrange. Edoras had to be made ready to receive her king in state, then bury him with all the pomp and ceremony she could provide.

The changes brought about by Éomer's assumption of the throne of Rohan hit him viscerally. He was expected to move into his uncle's room and sleep in a bed that still smelt of him. In a way, it made him feel that Théoden was still with him, but it felt strange and wrong, as if he was a thief and not the accepted successor. That should have been his kinsman Théodred, whom he had loved as a brother. Servants had removed Théoden's clothes from the cupboard and clothes chests, but Éomer knew they were probably being altered to fit him. The silks and other fine fabrics they were made from would not be simply cast aside or given away. They were too valuable.

A knock on the door caught his attention, and he said, “Come in.”

It was his sister. “Brother, you seem to feel the way I do,” she said.

“I do,” he replied. “It feels wrong to be here. I do not belong here, but I cannot say anything in case I offend someone.”

“Oh,” replied Éowyn. “I wanted to come in here so I could feel the presence of our uncle. This room still smells of him.”

“I would be glad to give it up to you,” her brother replied gallantly.

“Aye, but I will not be here for much longer. When I have aided you in setting this kingdom to rights, I will leave to become the bride of Faramir.”

“I feel...” he searched for the words to explain himself. “I feel haunted, as if I have done something wrong,” he admitted.

“Uncle wanted you to be the king of this land,” she said. “Why should you feel bad?”

“He had so little time to enjoy being in his right mind again,” he replied. “I did not expect any of us to survive, but I do wish he had more time to be happy.”

“His end was glorious, and his honour assured, not just here, but in all Middle-earth,” argued Éowyn. “He charged the banner-bearer and struck him down. His deeds on the Pelennor Fields will be celebrated in song. I have told the minstrel all about them, and he will praise him with great praise in a song all our people will take up. He might have had some happiness if he had stayed behind, but he was a warrior, and warriors do not wish to die as wrinkled old men in the comfort of their beds. They wish to do deeds that will never be forgotten.”

Éomer looked at her directly. She had left behind her despair and was full of hope, though sadness also sat on her gold-framed brow. “I should be saying this to you,” he said, a pink flush blooming on his cheeks.

“I am glad I am able to say it,” she replied. “I had to endure the dark days when Wormtongue ruled this land with our uncle as his puppet. If he had been spared the horrors of the Pelennor and allowed to sink into comfortable dotage, then topple from the throne, how would he have been remembered? He died as he desired to, and for that I am pleased.”

With a sigh, Éomer considered this, and found that he had to accept what she said. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to taste and smell the air of the room. His uncle's room. A flood of memories invaded his heart and mind.

Sitting on his uncle's lap as a little boy, with his sister. Théoden told them he loved them and promised to care for them as his own.

The first pony and his uncle's aid in learning to ride.

Théoden's pride at his growing skills with his sword.

The first real sword he had ever owned, presented to him by his uncle in front of the court.

His appointment as Third Marshall of the Mark.

Fighting side by side with the king.

The glory of Théoden's charge on the Pelennor Fields.

Cradling the dying king on the battlefield.

Standing before the gold-draped body of his liege lord. He looked like one of the effigies that lay on the stone tombs.
The dam broke. Tears cascaded down his bearded face and sobs choked him, clutching at his heart. Éowyn put her arm around his shoulder and joined him in grief.

***

Later on, after dinner, Éomer consulted with Éowyn, Wymund and the most senior courtiers about the arrangements for their uncle's funeral.

“We cannot bring him back yet,” said Wymund, “there is too much to do.”

“I agree,” replied Éomer. “When our land is completely at peace, the king shall return and we will lay him to rest.”

Wymund went quiet and bowed his hoary head.

“Wymund?” asked Éowyn.

“Never in all my long years have we taken any man from his place of rest and moved him elsewhere,” he replied. “I have picked up the bones of long-fallen men and buried them with due respect, not knowing whose they were for certain, but...”

“In Gondor, he is held in high regard and they have laid him with their kings,” said Éomer, “but he was our king and he belongs with his people as much in death as he did in life. This deed will be done with the greatest reverence, and Théoden will have such company on the road to Edoras as he never had in life. Would you begrudge him that?”

“No, my lord,” replied Wymund. “I shall do my utmost to make the return of our king as much a time of celebration as of sorrow, for his death was a noble one, and we have hope now as well as grief.”

The End.