Chapter Text
Another four years had passed since Théoden’s funeral, and King Éomer Éadig was riding through fair Ithilien, the shadows of the leaves dancing upon his face. Rarely had he seen lands so green, bathing in the sunlight filtering through the lofty branches of mighty trees. It was a much welcome respite from the dim setting of his court.
Amidst the draining grind of his early days as a monarch, the signing of decrees and documents, the councils, the enunciation of edicts, the royal visits, the grievances, and other emergency measures, he found some reward in knowing that his people were cared for. He had reimagined the traditional ruling system, dissolved the titles of Second and Third Marshals, instead appointing Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Elfhelm as Marshals of the West- and East-marks. Things were changing for the better, and only few had opposed his decisions. But Éomer was a king willing to compromise — a quality that stubborn Théoden did not possess.
As he had once been foretold, he was a king loved by most and celebrated as a remarkable monarch. Life made a habit of keeping him on his toes, but he did not dislike it. Not even when, at the end of particularly hefty days, he would crash onto his bed, still dressed and with sore limbs, only to fall asleep the second his head would hit the pillow. Most of his role, albeit nerve-wracking at times, was something that he felt that he was born to do. It surpassed the duties of a prince, which he would never want to be burdened with again.
It was at the pinnacle of a new reform project that he had received a letter from Éowyn, inviting him to celebrate his nephew’s birthday at the prince’s court in Ithilien. At first, he had been hesitant to leave Edoras behind without a ruler, but when Elfhelm had offered to oversee the realm in his stead during his absence, he had accepted his sister’s summoning.
And so, he had ridden all the way from the capital on horseback. As a skilled rider, the prospect of being granted a luxury carriage to journey abroad was an offense to his person. If tragedy was to strike him then, then he would have a soldier’s death, as he had always willed it. It had been a long expedition, but as soon as the prince’s court was in sight, nestled among the trees and with ivy snaking up its columns, he felt relief that he could finally walk.
No sooner had he steered Firefoot onto the paved path to the modest palace, lined up with wildflowers and blue daisies, than a shrill voice resounded throughout the forest.
‘Mother! Uncle is here!’
Éomer lit up and advanced towards the porch, where he hopped off his steed to greet the little blond child darting towards him. His nephew threw himself into his arms and he picked him up effortlessly to embrace him, before emitting idiotic grunts and twirling the boy around, holding him upside down and tossing him onto his shoulder. All the while, the boy roared with laughter, more than delighted to see his uncle.
‘Happy birthday, little rascal!’ he cheered, gently rubbing his knuckles against the child’s scalp. ‘It has been far too long, how you have grown! Soon enough you will be towering over me!’
‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Elboron chuckled, while he was being adjusted to sit on Éomer’s shoulders instead.
Éowyn appeared on the doorstep, her long golden hair framing her shoulders even more gracefully than ever before. Being a mother and a healer had done her well — he had never seen his sister as merry as since she and Faramir had married and come to live in Gondor.
‘Elboron, give your uncle a moment to breathe,’ she called out. ‘Your auntie needs to descend from her horse, too.’
‘Listen to your mother,’ Éomer advised the boy, giving him a playful wink, ‘she is always right. Auntie will not be able to carry you this time, but fear not, I have all my strength to spare.’
‘Deal.’
Elboron clambered down from his uncle’s shoulders and ran up to his mother, clinging to the skirt of her dress and pressing his head to her thigh. Éomer watched him with a fond smile and turned his attention to the other horse that had been trailing behind his own. His eyes softened as he beheld its rider and felt butterflies in his stomach as though it had been their first encounter. He extended his hands towards her, letting the sunlight reflect upon the ornate golden band around his finger.
‘Come, beloved, let me help you,’ he murmured.
The woman atop the black mare — gifted by him on their wedding day — grinned down at him, her cheeks still flushed from the ride. Lothíriel slipped her delicate hands into his, trusting him to lift her off the saddle. His strong arms steadied her as she dismounted, and he held her longer than was necessary, solely to gaze into her eyes and savour the closeness.
‘You spoil me,’ she teased, her voice as light as the sea breeze.
‘Always,’ he responded, before capturing her lips with his, his fingers cupping her chin.
When they parted, Lothíriel’s mirth chimed along the rustling of the tall grass around the estate and the soft nickering of the horses in a harmony unlike anything Éomer had ever witnessed. He brushed a strand of her raven black hair behind her ear and placed a kiss onto her temple. Elboron rushed back towards them, followed by his mother, and the king released his queen from his embrace, although he laced a protective arm around her waist. After a brief greeting for his aunt, the boy began to spin around in circles around them with his arms outstretched, as though he was trying to hold the whole world.
The sight filled Éomer’s chest with an indescribable contentment that he had once thought beyond his reach. For all the trials and sacrifices that had marked his journey, moments like these reminded him why he endured them. His kingdom, his family, and the woman by his side — these were the treasures that made every burden worth bearing.
And in the warmth of her smile, Éomer found a peace that even the weight of the crown could not diminish.
Éowyn greeted them in turn, giving her older brother a tight hug, burying her face into his chest.
‘I have missed you terribly, Mer…’
‘And I you, Wyn.’
As she pulled away, he beheld his little sister and gave her cheek a loving stroke.
‘You look like Mother,’ he said. ‘You seem well, and happy; it warms my heart to see you this way.’
‘And you do not eat nearly enough!’
Lothíriel snorted behind the back of her hand.
‘If you have any recommendations on how I could shove a meal down his throat once or twice a day, I will never thank you enough,’ she jested.
His sister’s playful retort died on her lips as her eyes fell upon his wife. The queen stood poised and radiant, clad in her lavender gown and sapphire blue cloak. But it was not her beauty, nor her impeccable taste in garments that held her attention. Between the parted folds of the richly embroidered fabric, was a gentle curve that was unmistakable to her knowing eye. The Lady of Ithilien’s breath hitched as her hands flew to cover her mouth, her heart leaping with joy.
‘By the Valar!’
Lothíriel blushed, her elation more than apparent, and she instinctively cradled her belly.
‘The healer said that it should be a little over three months until I deliver.’
Éowyn lowered her hands, her smile breaking free like a dawn through the hills. She closed the distance between the expectant mother and herself to give her a warm embrace. As soon as she pulled away, still grinning at Lothíriel’s pregnancy, her surprise shifted into indignation. She slapped Éomer’s shoulder with the reverse of her hand, with no small amount of force, her lips pursed at her brother.
‘How dare you make your pregnant wife travel all the way from Edoras on horseback!’
Another slap thudded against the leather of his light armour.
‘And how dare you not send a letter to announce that she is with child!’
‘ Ow! Wyn, ow !’ he winced, rubbing the spot, despite the snorts he could not conceal. ‘I thought that it was a matter deserving more respect than to be announced by an unknown messenger.’
‘More respect? Really?’ his sister protested with a tilt of her hip. ‘Had I not sent you an invitation for my son’s birthday, would you have bothered to come to Ithilien at all to announce it?’
‘Perhaps not, my duties have occupied most of my thoughts and time, through no fault but my own, I will admit. But I intended to invite you and your family to visit us.’
‘Mh. But, at least, you should have allowed Lothíriel to take a carriage to travel. Queen of the Rohirrim she might be, but this bairn will not fare well if its mother is subjected to such exhausting travelling. No arguing — when you return to Edoras, I shall arrange transportation for her. You are free to ride if you so wish.’
The king and the queen shared a knowing look and reluctantly accepted their host’s help. A few servants, both from Ithilien and Edoras, rushed to their side to take away the horses to the stables and carry their luggage inside. Éowyn overlooked the helpers as they bustled around and furrowed her brow.
‘Did Théodil not accompany you? Eithriel was looking forward to bake with her again.’
‘I have allowed her to take a leave of absence,’ Éomer responded. ‘She and Fréagar are travelling to his family’s farm in Dunfast to celebrate their wedding.’
‘Their—?’
For the briefest of moments, her features froze in startled disbelief, her brows arching as though caught between astonishment and doubt. Then, as brightly at the sun shone beyond the trees above their heads, her expression softened into a beaming smile, her pride unfurling with unrestrained warmth.
‘Good for them,’ she intoned with the utmost sincerity. ‘What a comforting change for Meduseld, that all may now thrive as equals.’
Éomer shrugged with a bashful grin. Indeed, many things had evolved under his reign. Oaths to be sworn by new servants had been abolished, and both maids and manservants enjoyed identical privileges and rights. All were free to take lovers and marry, although the matter of liaisons between diverging social ranks remained a delicate question, especially among courtiers. Temporary leaves were allocated to them so they could visit distant families, without having to worry about replacing them. Orphans from a house in Edoras were given the opportunity to step in until their return and a generous salary for their hard work. Those who desired to continue to serve the royal household were evaluated by Edelmer, who would then decide which position to assign them.
A year into his reign, Éomer had visited one of his lords and former brother in arms on his deathbed at his manor in Aldburg. When sitting by his side until his dying hour, he had recognised Théodil, his former chambermaid exiled by Théoden, among the maids. Since her master had no heir, she was fated to lose her livelihood once more. Éomer had approached her when she was alone to present a heartfelt apology for the harshness of her punishment under her uncle’s rule and offered her to follow him back to the capital to occupy a stable position at the Golden Hall. She had hesitated at first, then gave her own condition; Fréagar, the guard with whom she had entertained the affair that had resulted in their banishment, would have to be reinstated as a palace guard. Éomer had not hesitated — the wrong had to be righted for them both.
Now reunited, the whole family entered the Gondorian palace and enjoyed some well-earned rest after such a heavy journey. On the following day, they celebrated Elboron’s fourth birthday and spoiled the little boy. Wooden shields decorated with the arms of the House of Eorl, a pony, and a Rohirric rider’s helm brought by Éomer and Lothíriel had elated the child beyond compare.
In the late afternoon, when most of the cake had already been savoured, Elboron placed a small slice onto a plate and tugged at his uncle’s sleeve while the others were talking and Lothíriel was taking a nap, exhausted by her dizziness.
‘Come with me bring cake to Hillie?’
‘Hillie?’ his uncle repeated with an eyebrow arched. ‘Who is Hillie?’
‘My friend! She loves cake!’
Éomer glanced around for any indication of whether his sister or brother-in-law approved. Since Éowyn and Faramir were in a deep conversation with Prince Imrahil and Beregond about the reconstruction of Osgiliath, he eclipsed himself from the table with his nephew. The boy led him by holding his fingertips, holding the plate in his other hand, guiding him through the corridors of his father’s court.
‘So, who is Hillie, ‘Ron?’
‘My friend, I told you.’
‘Why did she not come to celebrate with us? She could have had cake then.’
‘Mother said that she was ill, and she was sleeping.’
‘Are we not going to disturb her rest, then, Elboron?’
‘No. We leave the cake, and she can eat later.’
Éomer chuckled and kept following his nephew until they exited the palace from the western wing. Before them stretched a green garden, adorned with a multitude of colourful flowers, which he knew Éowyn and Faramir had arranged themselves. Birds chirped from the branches, fluttered their wings between them, and butterflies passed along the neat rows of purple blossoms. In its centre, a marble fountain, enclosed in an arched gazebo bearing the arms of the couple’s lineage and realms, spouted water, its gurgling sounds adding to the serene atmosphere of the terrace.
Elboron stepped down the short stone staircase leading down to the garden and sauntered onto the gravel. His uncle followed him, admiring the magnificence of the place. What a shame that the soil of Edoras does not allow for such a display , he thought to himself, I would make a neat bed of flowers for Lothíriel .
The boy came to a halt on the opposite side of the fountain, by the edge of the garden, and crouched to place the piece of cake on a stone slab there. His curiosity piqued, Éomer approached and observed the surroundings for a silhouette, but he and his nephew were alone.
‘Where is she? You said she was sleeping. Is Hillie a hound?’
‘No, silly! She is here, Father said.’
He came closer and noticed that the plate had been set down at the foot of a tombstone covered in ivy. His heart ached for Elboron, whose innocence had been preserved from the reality of death by his parents. He crouched beside the boy and grinned at him.
‘This friend of yours, is she kind to you?’
‘Very! She tells me stories sometimes. And she sings lullabies when Mother and Father cannot.’
‘Then she sounds like a beautiful person within.’
‘Yes… But I have not seen her in months. Her nap is long.’
Éomer patted the boy’s back and turned to the headstone. He bowed to it to pay respect to the deceased and reached out towards the stone to free it from the invasive plant. As he did so, brushing his fingers against the engravings, his heart stopped. With a frown, he frantically scraped away the thin layer of moss that had grown since the burial, and, the name offered itself to his view, in full clarity.
Éorhild .
Stumbling back, he withdrew his trembling hand from the marker at once. Everything rushed back to seize him then. The swarms of butterflies in his stomach whenever he would find her waiting for him on the bench inside the hall. The long conversations where both she and he dared to bare their hearts for once, without fear of judgement. The scent of her hair caressing his senses when the wind blew through it on the hillside. The two of them huddled under his cloak when she shivered from the cold. Their first kiss and first tears. The morning that he woke up to find her working as his chambermaid despite her reluctance to accept. When he carried her back to Meduseld on Firefoot’s back when he had seen her collapse on the pavement. Their lovesick pleas to each other. Their single night between the sheets. Their burning skins against each other. The laughs and the embraces.
Inevitably, the heartbreak of losing her. The years spent chasing her across the kingdom for a chance to tell her that he loved her. The obligation to abandon all hopes of ever beholding her again. His unconsolable state on the morning of his wedding, when he had hidden from his servants to weep, biting into a rolled-up towel to muffle his anguish. His soft cries stifled by the pillow, which he knew Lothíriel pretended to not have noticed, as he lay with her on their wedding night.
Having not uttered a word after his startled fall, his silence worried Elboron, who gently shook his arm to pull him out of his reverie.
‘Uncle?’
Éomer covered his little hand with his own and placed a kiss into his blond curls. He wrapped a protective arm around the child’s small frame and pressed him to his side, as if to anchor herself as much as he did his nephew.
He could be misconstrued — Éorhild was a name from the Westfold, and she most likely was not the only woman to bear this name. Yet the presence of a Rohir, other than Éowyn herself, at Faramir’s court was unsettling. None of the maids that he knew there hailed from their land, all were Gondorian in origin, whether from Minas Tirith or other regions.
‘Tell me, Elboron, what sort of songs does Hillie sing to you?’
Reassured at last, the boy nestled further against him, twiddling with the folds on his uncle’s sleeve.
‘Many songs,’ he exclaimed. ‘She sings about horses, about the stars, and the moon… My favourite is the happy song.’
‘The happy song?’
The child nodded and hummed a tune, tilting his head from side to side and tapping his foot onto the gravel to mark the rhythm. Its haunting familiarity confirmed his suspicions. The woman buried under this stone, on the edge of the regal gardens, was his Éorhild. And she had taught his nephew his mother’s lullaby as well.
Éomer’s eyes filled with tears, but he forced himself to shield Elboron from them. Instead, he forced a brief smile, rubbing the child’s arm.
‘Is she good to you?’ he muttered, fighting against the tremor in his voice.
‘The best! She bakes nice pastries, and she is funny — we laugh a lot . When I am sad, she comes to hold me and sing to me, when Mother and Father are busy or absent.’
‘Elboron?’ a feminine voice rang out.
Simultaneously, they turned their heads towards the side of the palace, where they saw a distressed Éowyn, wrapped up into a shawl, calling out for her son. She had paused in the doorway, her hand still heavy on the iron latch. From the moment that she caught sight of them, a loud sigh rolled off her lip and her shoulders relaxed. However, when she saw where they were sitting and what they had been paying attention to, her concern re-emerged, and Éomer could perceive it even from where he sat.
‘Elboron, come inside, my love,’ she chimed towards her son. ‘Ask your Father to give you another slice of cake, mh?’
‘Yes, Mother!’
The child ran back to his mother and disappeared inside the house, eager to feast on another piece of the lemon cake that the maids had baked for him. Before Éowyn could close the door, Éomer’s deep voice thundered across the garden.
‘Éowyn, here. Right now,’ he commanded her with an icy glare.
‘One moment, Mer.’
His sister upheld a collected composure as she shut the door and descended the stairs. When she reached her brother, he had already risen from the ground, clenching his fists with his nostrils flaring with fury and the veins of his forearms taut. The mere sight of his cherished sister, who had dared keep such a secret from him, was beyond devastating.
‘You lied to me,’ he seethed, restraining himself from pointing an accusatory finger at her. ‘You, my own flesh and blood! How long was she in Ithilien?’
Éowyn met his fiery glare with a patience that only battle, heartbreak, and the building of a new life could have instilled.
‘Let me start from the beginning,’ she responded.
But he was not ready to listen. Not yet. His emotions, unfurling within him deafened him to any word of reason.
‘For years, you watched me rot into insanity over her absence,’ he screamed, his grief too great to mask. ‘You were the only one I confided in — about her, about everything. And that is how you treat me? By concealing Éorhild and her death from me?’
Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks as sobs wracked through his guts. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he attempted in some way to contain this bereavement, but it was much greater than he. By casting a mere glance towards the grave, he felt his strength wane and found himself sinking to his knees onto the hard stone, his eyes reading the name over and over in hopes that it would eventually spell another.
‘You let me mourn a ghost for so long, and now she is gone. And you did not allow me to bid her farewell,’ he cried.
She raised a hand to silence him with the same authority that he used to still men on the battlefield. Her voice was steady, but it softened when her gaze landed onto the lone grave between them that, unbeknownst to him, she had dug herself.
‘Before you cast your judgement, brother, I bid you to listen,’ she said while fixing the tomb, as though it, too, deserved a confession. ‘You are not alone in your mourning, for I held her hand in her final moments. I bore witness to her last words, keeping them secured within my own heart and carrying the burden for her. Do you think it has cost me nothing to keep this truth from you? To shield you from a truth that I knew would break you and prompt you to act harshly?’
Éomer’s jaw tightened as he stared at the headstone.
‘How could you do this to me? Why, Éowyn? Why let me believe that she might still be out here, somewhere? Living a life I knew nothing about?’
‘Because you needed hope ,’ she retorted, ‘and you had a duty at hand that you were ready to forsake altogether! You confessed to me that you would abandon the throne if you would find her, yet you thought not about the consequences of such an act. Who else would have ascended? We have no family left; it has been only you and me for the past four years. And Rohan would not accept a queen, let alone a Gondorian king. You would have ended an entire bloodline for a forbidden affair, and you would have broken Lothíriel’s heart in the process. Let us not mention the diplomatic crisis that it would have entailed!’
‘You robbed me of the chance to properly say goodbye!’
‘Éorhild had begged me to!’
The siblings held each other’s gaze in an eerie silence, as Éomer’s animosity vanished within a second. Why would Éorhild demand such a thing from his sister? Had she not loved him as much as he had loved her?
‘She would never have done such a thing,’ he muttered.
‘And yet, she did. She understood as well as I did that you were setting yourself for failure if you pursued her after your coronation. She did not want to see you shackled by guilt or haunted by her memory. She firmly believed that your reign would be a blessing from Béma himself.’
Éowyn stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm.
‘And if you had been there when she passed, would you not have taken her death as your own failure? Would you not have cursed yourself for not protecting her, though her fate was never in your hands?’ She paused, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Her final wish, Éomer, was for you to live as a king and as a man who could carry her love with him, not her loss. As one who knew duty from folly, who would remain faithful to his wife, no matter his contempt for her. Honour her memory as a selfless woman who forsook her happiness for your own, who preserved my family and yours from afar.’
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and shared pain. Éomer traced the letters of her name, aching to call it out and see her return to him. For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the wind, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the faint echo of distant songbirds.
‘She loved you, Mer,’ she said softly. ‘Enough to let go, so that you might pave your own path.’
Éomer closed his eyes, bowing his head as the weight of her words settled within him.
‘Tell me how you came across her. How she came to join you in Ithilien. I cannot wrap my head around it.’
She crouched beside him, wrapping her shawl tighter around her arms as the breeze rose.
‘Faramir and I were returning from Edoras after Elboron’s first visit when he was a baby, and I had decided to guide him through the Eastfold and the Rohirric towns I had visited in the past to teach him about our traditions, our language, and our culture.
‘One morning, as we ventured towards the market of Beaconwatch, we came across this feeble baker’s apprentice, with her hands bruised and burnt. I had a vague memory of her face, and she revealed to me that she had worked as a maid at Meduseld. When I asked her about the state of her hands, which I instantly tried to heal, she admitted that the baker she worked under showed little patience towards his apprentices, and he did not refrain from beating them if the pastries or the bread were not prepared exactly like he demanded.
‘So, knowing that our home in Ithilien would soon be finished, I offered her a position as my chambermaid. She refused at first; naturally, she expected the same restrictions as in Edoras, but I decided against upholding the same unreasonable standards imposed in Rohan. After negotiating her tasks and rights — which required nigh on no concession on our part, since I knew the quality of her work already — she followed us to Ithilien and helped us build our home here.
‘Éorhild was at the centre of our household as much as we are. When I could not find rest because of Elboron’s crying and teething and Faramir was not home, she would stay up with the baby and soothe him to sleep. She never complained. Not even once. She learnt to make our favourite meals and treats, and we would let her introduce us to new dishes in return. She became acquainted with Gondorian delicacies, and she would cook the best feasts when we did not yet have cooks here.
‘Faramir taught her to read in his free time. The ballads from every corner of Arda that she could decipher, she would sing to Elboron or to herself when washing the laundry. Sometimes, she and I would sing Rohirric chants while Faramir accompanied us on various instruments, when he was not frantically writing down the lyrics to save them for future generations. Truly, she was a delight to be around. She was family.’
Éomer listened attentively about his sister’s account of Éorhild’s life, which he had not been allowed to witness himself, not even from afar. It seemed that in the years they had been apart, she had found some joy in her life, and he could not help but rejoice at the idea.
‘Elboron said that she fell ill,’ he responded, prompting his sister to explain how his beloved Éorhild had come to pass.
‘Indeed,’ Éowyn sighed. ‘In the winter, she was coughing much more than usual, and the sounds of it began to worry me. As a trained healer, I tried my best to ease her pain and find the source of her ailment. When I found myself at a loss, I sent for one of the best healers in Minas Tirith to come urgently. But her lungs were beyond saving. There was nothing that either he or I could do. Sometimes, no matter how much effort and research you put into a patient’s case, it is simply not enough.’
He sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.
‘When did she die?’
‘In early spring.’
‘Did she suffer?’
Éowyn placed another loving hand upon his shoulder.
‘She did, but I did all I could to ease her pain.’
She turned to the grave as well, and smiled joylessly at the name inscribed into the stone.
‘Faramir called me urgently one afternoon, telling me that the end was near. I rushed into her chamber, and I sat by her side until the moment came.’
‘You mentioned her last words,’ he hiccuped. ‘What were they?’
‘First, she confessed her affair with you, apologising to me for having offended the House of Eorl with her affront. She was inconsolable, she would not listen to my saying that there had been no harm done, besides your anguish, which I thought gone.’
He scoffed.
‘But,’ she continued, ignoring his brief intervention, ‘after a moment of unconsciousness — so weak was she — she became aware of her end.’
And in every detail, she reconstructed the event as it happened, as faithfully as she could.
When her maid had awoken with a start, Éowyn had placed a hand over Éorhild’s forehead and felt that her twilight was approaching faster than she had assumed. With bated breath, her patient had held out her hand.
‘Draw near to me, my lady, for I feel my strength waning ,’ she had pleaded. ‘ Receive my last words to ease my soul and let it soar .’
The Princess of Ithilien had sat by her side on the bed and squeezed her hand as she leant closer, supported by Faramir’s touch on her shoulder. Éorhild’s eyes had illuminated with a twinkle as she gathered the last bits of her energy to utter her final words in her lady and lord’s confidence.
‘ My lady, if ever there is need to cut me open once I have departed this unjust yet beautiful world, you shall find the name of Éomer Éadig engraved on my heart .’
And in a last rattling exhale, Éorhild was no more.
Tears streaked Éomer's face at the realisation that, even after nearly six years apart, his beloved Éorhild had borne him in her mind and soul until her very last breath. His sister held him, laying her golden head upon his shoulder for comfort. Her hand held his skull to hers as she let him express his grief, but there came a time when she pulled away and rose to her feet.
‘Cry for as long as you want, Mer. This grief is your own,’ she murmured. ‘But remember that a loving wife is waiting for you in your room, and that your heir is on their way. Do not lose sight of them. Embrace them like Éorhild wanted you to. Do not lose sight of what matters, Éomer. In your bed lies your expecting wife who loves you more than she does the sea — and that is quite telling, coming from her. Do not neglect her for a ghost that shall bring you nothing but grief. Rejoice that Éorhild passed surrounded by people who loved her like family, and not like yet another maid to replace, or worse, beaten to death by that damned baker. She never ceased to love you, and everything she did, even saving you from her own presence, was in your best interest. Do not throw away all she worked hard for in your name.’
And, she departed, leaving him to mourn alone by the grave.
Éomer pressed his forehead to the cold stone and bit his closed fist to stifle the howl that wracked him as he wept. His tears dripped onto the rim of the small, ornate plate that Elboron had brought for his Hillie.
What a sweet nickname for such a wonderful person.
One by one, all the reunion scenes that he had imagined along the years dissipated into smoke, wafting through the sky. In consolation, he found solace in the idea that, somewhere beyond the sparse clouds, her soul collected and nurtured them. Perhaps, when his day would come, she would welcome his own spirit in a way he had so long yearned for. And then, only then, could they love freely.
But Éowyn was right. He had a family to protect and raise, a realm to lead, and all the Rohirrim to provide for. His desolation could not be an obstacle. As much as he had loved her — and did —, Éorhild was to remain someone from his past, regardless of how much she still influenced his present. In order to ensure his own thriving and that of his people, it was Lothíriel he had to build a future with.
And, in truth, he was rather content with the prospect. His heart, although haunted by Éorhild, now beat for his goddess from Dol Amroth, the woman who had infused so much joy into his existence and never ceased to amaze him. Now, he had to concentrate on supporting her during her pregnancy and holding her hand while she would insufflate life into their child. He had much to look forward to — the countless stories she would recount to him at bedtime, the moments of complicity they would share, the celebrations of their love, the gatherings of their families, holding their newborn and watch it grow into both a gentle and kind person and a fierce and firm ruler who would do anything for the good of the land.
Even the hardships were something he would love to endure by her side. Arguments, fear, grief, tempests and famine, war and death — he could sustain it all with Lothíriel. He would let himself be pierced by all the arrows of fate to shield her from evil. If a single tear was to grace her cheek, he would defy anybody who had caused it to even form in her eye. He would read every manuscript in the realm and in her father’s archives to encourage her in her passion for them.
His kingdom for her hand.
Éomer sat back on his heels to catch his breath and caressed the stone under his fingers. It was time for goodbyes. Final farewells.
‘Good day, Éorhild,’ he whispered, his eyes flickering between the headstone and the sky, unsure where to turn. ‘It is I, your Éomer.’
Another wave of tears seized him. He hastily halted their course with the back of his wrist.
‘This is not how I wished for our paths to cross again,’ he whimpered between sobs. ‘Oh, Béma, you have no idea how much I have missed you and miss you still.’
He shifted his knees closer to the marker and sat beside it, leaning his head onto it.
‘What to say… I am a married king, but you knew that already. Lothíriel is expecting our first child. The whole realm is blessing us with wishes for a boy, but truth be told — and you will be the only one to know, so do not tell —, I would much rather raise a daughter.’
He let out a chuckle and brushed a fragment of moss that had caught in the inscription of her name.
‘Back in the days, I would have wanted to raise one with you. On a beautiful estate, somewhere, far from Meduseld. A home we would have built together, as we once dared to dream. But life has separated us in a most cruel manner,’ he reflected, running his tongue inside his cheek, finding this monologue to soothe his nerves. ‘I have no doubt that Lothíriel will be a brilliant mother. You know, the beginning of our marriage was rough for the both of us. I was still aching for you, and I did not give her a chance to win me over. Yet she did, and ever since, she has been a beacon of light amidst the darkness I have settled in after you left. There are still times when I struggle with it, but she makes it easier by the day.’
A smile passed onto his lips at the recollection of the sweet moments he has experienced with his wife.
‘We fell in love, she and I. And I thank the Valar every day for her presence in my life, but there is still this part of me that belongs to you and always will.’
Above him, a dove fluttered its wings and circled into the air, before flying away.
‘When you left, I thought that my whole world had ended. I cared about nothing anymore, only about finding you again and marrying you despite it being forbidden. But that did not happen, now, did it? Now, when I find you at last, you are gone and interred. I resent Éowyn for never telling me that you were here all along. One day, I will forgive her, but for now, I need to feel. I need to feel you near again, no matter in what form.’
Emotions constricted his heart once more, and he placed a hand onto the bed of grass under which she lay, to both ground himself and reach out to her.
‘Were you happy, Éorhild? Did Gondor treat you better than Rohan ever did? Did you feel free at last?’
His fingers clutched some of the grass blades as a sob rose in his throat, but he forced himself to release them. Not her grave. Any grass but that growing on her grave.
‘As king, I do everything in my power to overturn the laws that have harmed you and I. All oaths have been repealed, and all servants are free to love and wed. Théodil and Fréagar both returned to Edoras, and now they are married. How I wish you were here to see these changes, beloved.’
Inside the house, voices rose as the maids wished Elboron a happy birthday in the kitchen and sang for him in turn.
‘I am sorry for not holding your hand as you passed. I would have come, you know? Had you or Éowyn said the word, I would have come to see you go in peace. I would have kissed you one last time and said a proper farewell, not one to a deaf stone. I would have sung you my mother’s lullaby in hopes that you would have found it as pacifying as I do. Now, it does not only bear my mother’s memory, but yours too.’
His forehead found the cool stone again.
‘Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, whether from the shadows or in plain sight. Thank you for having brightened up my life for evermore. But, also, thank you for attending to my sister and Faramir with such care, and for helping them raise Elboron. I am sure that he will grow more empathetic and kind thanks to your patience when comforting him. I truly owe you my life, Éorhild, and my life you will always have.’
Éomer pressed a kiss to her name and covered it with his hand before bringing it over his heart.
‘So be at peace, daughter of Rohan, and let your spirit soar, for your memory will be carried on for as long as I draw breath. All my efforts to improve our people’s lives, I shall carry in your name, so nobody will ever endure what you and I suffered. Know that my love for you is infinite and, when I too must die, your name will, in letters of gold, be engraved on my heart. Farewell, my Éorhild.’