Chapter Text
51. Horse-master and Horse-Breaker
Éomer king squirmed uncomfortably in his chair while he watched his "guest" with a sullen gaze.
At his express request, the servants had put up two chairs right next to the fireplace – because rather than having the king look and speak down from his throne towards the wild man, Éomer had thought it best to at least maintain a pretence of equality between both men. After all, the king would not be surprised to find that under all those rags and unkempt hair there lay hidden a man of much pride and self-importance. Surely, such a man – armed with a mighty broadsword and two wild daughters armed to the teeth – not even a king would have liked to offend.
Besides, he had not thought it wise to have this encounter appear any more like an official meeting between two statesmen than it already did. The councilmen had been affronted enough that a wild man had been allowed to enter into the very heart of their capital, and being asked to leave Meduselde after the council meeting had been postponed had surely been enough to have them chafing at the bits. He didn't need to put further oil into the fire.
No, indeed, it was better to act as though they were only two simple men; one who had lost his wife, and the other who had helped bring her back. No more, no less. Or at least that had been the idea. Which is also why the servants had not only set up two chairs right next to the fireplace but also brought out ale and bread as a treat for the weary travellers. However, neither the chair nor the food had been shown any consideration so far by the wild man that called himself the Horse-Breaker.
Instead, rather than sitting down like any civilised "guest" would do, the Dunland man had taken to slowly walking up and down the Golden Hall, eyeing his surroundings with an apt attention, like a person who had never truly seen or been to a place such as this one – or so it would seem. The king who grew increasingly impatient with this waiting forced upon him suspected that this was little more than power play; and yet, his ow pride simply would not allow him to clear his throat and demand an end to this stalling technique – because he did not want to be the first one to show weakness by breaking this stalemate of silence.
And so, Éomer king was caught in an endless vicious cycle of frustration.
And because he did not know what else to do, the king watched the wild man with eyes that followed his every move. A mere precaution, surely, given the fact that he was an enemy right here in the very heart of Meduselde, and also considering that besides the wild man's two daughters keeping watch in front of the royal chambers, and Déor in his disguise as Master Gwathren having sneaked back in after everybody else had been told to leave, king and knave were all alone. Surely in such a situation every warrior would keep a close watch on his foe – to look for any signs of danger … and to learn what he could about an enemy he had so far faced only on the battlefield or in nightmare-fuelled legends.
He was a tall man, and yet built stocky, almost like a bear. He had black hair, as was common among the Wild Folk, that went past his shoulders, unkempt, and a black beard, braided in knots. Tattoos had been carved all across his face: hissing snakes and arrows, and on his left cheek a scar reminiscent of an encounter with an especially ill-tempered bear – and perhaps it was even that same bear's hide he now wore as a cloak around his broad shoulders. Withered and dusty it seemed, and it must have seen many years go by … much like the man who wore it. And lastly, that large broadsword that hung over his right shoulder, and by the looks of his black eyes, there could be no doubt that the wild man knew very well how to handle it.
Almost right away, Éomer had been determined not to like this man. And it was not only the fact that he was an enemy that fuelled the king's antipathy towards the wild man, but even more so the personality of the man that he had already had the great displeasure of facing during their first meeting at the capital's gates. A personality seemingly made up of blatant arrogance and smugness, a man who paraded around with a head held so high that he could not see the stares of hatred and distrust thrown his way.
Or at least, that's how Éomer chose to see him – because, as of yet, the wild fucker had apparently not deemed it necessary to pick up on the fact that he was very much leaving a king waiting here and that said king was very much looking daggers at him from his chair next to the fireplace. Instead, the Horse-Breaker had taken to studying the various different tapestries and banners that were hung on every wall all around them – and one in particular seemed to have caught the wild man's attention.
Éomer didn't have to look at the tapestry to know what it showed. Every Northerner knew the tale of Helm Hammerhand, a mighty king whose mighty fist had struck down a mighty foe … and as a result, had started a war. The Long Winter was a cautionary tale, used to scare children into humility; but the tale of the Hammerhand was a legend meant to glorify deeds long past – and this was what the tapestry showed. The moment a king became a legend – with a single blow from his mighty fist. Of his foe the legend also spoke, but only in passing, and with as little sympathy as the tapestry that depicted the moment the warrior-king smote down his enemy.
So, given that he already knew the tale by heart, Éomer king, indeed, did not look at the tapestry but rather at the wild man who studied it – and what he saw filled with him even more fury and frustration. The Horse-Breaker was leaning forward a little – age, it would seem, had not been kind to the wild man's eyes – and gazed at it with a mixture of fascination and disgust, and if the king had wondered whether or not the wild man actually knew what scenery the tapestry depicted, he would soon learn that Gunnar Garthson was not a man easily underestimated.
The wild man smiled; a glint of recognition in his eyes, a hint of amusement on his lips.
And the king had his answer, though not a satisfying one.
Éomer was pretty sure that the wild tribesmen did not record their history through writing, but rather through the spoken word, through songs and stories (much like the Rohirrim, though the king was too stubborn to acknowledge that similarity), so, naturally, he wondered how the tale of Helm Hammerhand and the Long Winter had been passed down from generation to generation in their culture. Who was the hero in their version, and who was the fiend? Who was it that started the war, and whose ass rightfully sat in the Golden Hall?
The reaction of the Horse-Breaker was answer enough for the king. As the wild man first snorted contemptuously at the heroic scenery depicted on the tapestry before him, and then leaned back again, only to shake his head in mild laughter, Éomer felt his own reaction run hotly through him. As he gritted his teeth and gripped the ends of his chair's armrests with a force that had his nails dig into the wood, he had to physically restrain himself from anything more than that.
But the wild man wasn't done yet.
As he sauntered on through the hall, walking up all the way to the dais, he eventually stopped in front of the throne, and there he halted for a moment, gazing at it. It was hard to tell at first what the wild man was thinking as he looked at the Rohirrim seat of power – because the Dunland man had his back turned towards him – but it became clear soon enough. As the man had the audacity to snort contemptuously once more, only to chuckle quietly while shaking his head, it was clear that as much as he might marvel at the rustic beauty of it all, he also sneered at it – much like the king had once sneered at the decadence of the South, though he was in no mood to see that similarity now.
Seething with rage, Éomer was just about ready to jump up from his chair next to the fireplace, to grab this wild man by his cloak and then to kick him out of his forebears' halls and out of his life for good measure, when –
'I heard stories 'bout these halls. Stories by the fathers o' my fathers. Stories told around the campfires.', the Horse-Breaker spoke then, and in the gravel of his voice indeed true wonder was laid bare, 'Built o' trees, they said, an' as tall as 'em, but with floors made o' stone. I'd never even dreamed o' such a thing: a house made o' wood an' stone.'
And as the wild man turned around to take in the sheer marvel of it all around him, one of his large paws actually stroked one of the wooden beams, to feel the smooth hardness of the material that had withstood centuries of strife and strain, and had seen centuries of kings come and go, and surprisingly enough, there was true awe in his words as he went on, 'For as long as I can remember, I'd wanted t' see that for myself. I just ne'er imagined I'd enter these halls by bringin' my enemy home.'
'Yeah, I can imagine how you imagined yourself entering these halls.', Éomer quipped then, unable to hold back his frustration any longer, and it broke through with eyes tightened in malice and a small smile that had little to do with any mirth or friendliness. And the malicious glee the king felt, at being able to let loose at least some of the stress and frustration he had been forced to push down for so long, was only heightened when he saw that he had actually managed to shut the wild man up – though not for very long.
The Horse-Breaker, admittedly, was for a moment too stunned to speak, because, apparently, he had not expected for the king to actually go there – and they both knew very well what the king was hinting at here, as they both had been thinking about the bloody history between both their people that was tied to this place – but he recovered quickly enough. With a quickly broadening smile the mask of shock on the wild man's face was broken, and as he took another step towards the fireplace and the man sitting next to it, he could not help but take another dig at his Rohirrim opponent.
'Well, whate'er I imagined, I ended up here all the same, didn' I?'
'Yes, bringing your enemy home – my queen. How did that come to be, I wonder?', Éomer shot back then while folding his arms before his chest in a gesture of defiance, unwilling to admit defeat in this burgeoning battle of wits. And the wild man who understood very well what he was implying here, reacted like he did before, calm as cold ice, and with a smile beneath that black beard he shook his head once more.
'Wasn' my people that attacked her, Horse-master, if that's what ye're thinkin'.'
'You just said she was your enemy. How else could it have been?', the king shot back, and he could barely keep the frustration out of his voice as he squirmed in his seat next to the fireplace – though the exact source of his frustration remained unclear even to him. Of course, Éomer already knew that the Dunlendings had no part in the attack itself (although, their role in her disappearance still wasn't entirely clear to him yet), but he had wanted further proof – even if the word of a wild man would not count for much in any trial he could seek. So, perhaps, what truly frustrated him here was the fact that the wild man before him simply would not allow himself to be outwitted so easily in this power play between them – and with a smug smile at that.
A smug smile that only widened as the wild man took another step towards him.
'I've seen the golden wolves that attacked yer woman. An' if ye're even half the warrior I've been told 'bout, then I'm sure ye did too … or at least, what I've left o' 'em.', the Horse-Breaker answered then, and there was no small amount of satisfaction in that ursine grin he showed the king. And Éomer, gritting his teeth in frustration, held the wild man's gaze until he could no longer bear it. In him there was the old frustration now, the roaring longing of the warrior whose hands still itched with the wish that it could have been he himself who had exacted bloody revenge on the men who had attacked his queen. Perhaps that was the reason for his innate annoyance with the man opposite him – or perhaps it was the fact that the wild fucker just wouldn't stop rubbing it in his face that he seemed lacking in his black eyes?
'In any way, she was no threat, there was no reason t' kill her. Ye don' teach yer women how t' fight.', the Horse-Breaker continued then while smiling sardonically, and when he threw a glance at his own wild daughters standing guard before the entrance to the royal chambers, the king understood what he was insinuating. Gritting his teeth, Éomer was seething inwardly, and begrudging the round the wild man had just won, he could not help but think of his sister Éowyn, and he knew the shield-maiden surely would have a thing or two to say about the wild man's superficial opinion.
The king was determined not to allow his opponent to win yet another around.
'That's never stopped you before.', Éomer pointed out then, and it was with no small amount of satisfaction that he watched the smug smile on the wild man's face wither into gloom beneath that black beard of his. They both understood very well what the king was hinting at here, and it served the king well to remind his "guest" that they were not friends exchanging harmless banter here. And as Éomer held the wild man's gaze, he was content to watch the older man lower his eyes in a sign of concession.
'Aye, true.', the Horse-Breaker admitted then with a sigh so heavy it felt as though the world itself was weighing him down – and a part of Éomer was surprised just how easily the wild man admitted to a fault of his own here, with no false sense of bravado or bravery to mask the brutality behind it. A part of him had half expected the Dunland man to brag about the bestial victories they had won, but instead of pride, there was pain – the pain of a man looking back at his life and finding it lacking, ashamed at the things he had once taken pride in.
(There was a part of the king that was almost tempted to sympathy here.)
Now, there was nothing smug about him as he quietly sat down in the empty chair next to the fireplace – opposite the king who was his enemy still – and for a while both men sat in silence, staring into the brightly flickering flames. And in the light of the fire, that silence seemed comfortable, almost peaceful even, as it stretched out between them – and it was a long while before either man chose to break it.
'Truth is, I didn' really do much. O' the three golden wolves, I only gutted one o' 'em. I watched her take care o' the first two beasts before I stepped in – an', mind ye, I didn' do that out o' the goodness o' my heart neither.', the Horse-Breaker spoke quietly then, and he did not look at the king as he admitted to a version of events that was a lot less heroic than what he'd initially let on, 'At first, I thought she was a fuckin' Rider, but that black hair … '
Here, the Horse-Breaker stopped dead in his tracks, sentence unfinished and words lost in a silence that was only disturbed by the heavy sigh he heaved off his chest – there was a darker meaning hidden beneath that silence. Éomer, who so far had avoided looking at the wild man who was sitting next to him, chanced a glance at him, careful not to have the Dunland man catch him looking – but there was no risk of that. Rather than smile a smug smile or wink at him with his mischievous black eyes, the king found the wild man looking at his wild daughters standing guard before the royal chambers – and once more he was reminded of the strange way in which the Dunland man seemed to view this enemy queen that he had brought home.
Because that was not the gaze one enemy might throw at another foe.
This was very much the look of a father watching with concern over his lost child.
Éomer turned away, all of the sudden no longer able to look at the wild man sitting next to him.
'She was already half-dead when I found her. Buried in the snows, ye would've been fooled t' think she was dead already.', the Horse-Breaker went on to say then, and the king felt a shudder go through him at the image his mind conjured up before his inner eye – another part of him vividly recalled another time when he had looked upon his wife right upon the threshold of death, and back then, ice and snow had been all around them too. But the wild man didn't notice any of that, and when he continued the sombre memory seemed to be replaced by something almost like respect, 'But no, there was still some fight left in her, she wasn' ready t' die yet. That's what she mumbled anyway when I approached her. Don' kill me. I can' die yet. I made a promise.'
Closing his eyes as another shudder went through him, Éomer could not help the memories that came over him. Of the days and nights in that Southern pit of snakes, snakes that were hissing around their ankles, ready to strike at any given moment. Of the single-minded wish that had burned in him to protect the woman he loved, even at the expense of his own honour, even at the expense of all things reasonable. Of the moment she had bid him stay his hand, so he would not bloody his sword with vengeance for her sake. Of the moment he had given in. (How he regretted that moment now.) Of the vow she had made, that he would never lose her. The vow that had been broken when he had thought her lost in the snows. Of the fool's hope he had clung to when all things had seemed darkest and each and every voice had whispered in his hear to give up. Of the moment he had been able to breath again when she had returned to him.
Why have you returned to me now, my love?, the voice in his heart screamed, the voice of a man who loved with abandon, why have you not returned to me sooner?
'That … that must have sounded confusing to you.', Éomer brought himself to say then, after he had swallowed the lump in his throat, after trying to swallow all the conflicting emotions down along with it. And squirming in his seat, he hoped against hope that the wild man had missed the wave of emotions that had washed the king away just a moment ago – but as he turned to look at the Horse-Breaker, he found the Dunland man staring right at him, with a peculiar gleam in his black eyes that certainly did not miss a fucking thing.
'Aye, it did. But it intrigued me too.', was all Gunnar Garthson said, but the wry smile beneath that fearsome black beard told Éomer that the wild man had taken one good look at him and seen right through him. But rather than exploit that obvious weakness of this enemy-king, the king was surprised to find that the wild man instead chose to focus on recounting the first fateful meeting between him and the queen (although, Éomer refused to read too much into it), 'An' a black-haired Rider? I had ne'er heard o' such a thing neither, an' that intrigued me too. I'm a curious man.'
'So, is that why you kidnapped her? Curiosity?', Éomer snapped back then, and if his questioning came off as too rude and harsh, it was easily explained with his need to divert attention off of him. The Horse-Breaker was a bit too attentive for his taste, the king concluded, and deciding that he'd had enough of the wild man's piercing insight and his piercing gaze, he decided to simply turn the tables on the Dunland man.
'Kidnapped her? I saved her, didn' I?', the wild man exclaimed then with an almost theatrical level of mock shock, but after the initial mask had fallen off to show a sarcastic smile, the Horse-Breaker only shook his head in that small, smug movement that told the king that he would have to work a lot harder to faze him, 'She chose t' come back t' ye when she did, Rider, an' not before. Ye'd do well t' remember that.'
Cursing under his breath, Éomer tried to recover from this low blow by averting his gaze and looking into the flickering flames of the fireplace next to them. He wasn't sure what upset him more: the confirmation that the question (Why have you not returned to me sooner?), that had been gnawing at him ever since his wife and queen had revealed herself by taking off her hood, had been a valid one, or, the fact that the wild man next to him seemed to know the very answer to that question?
It was an uncomfortable mix of emotions that had the king grind his teeth, and had his hands claw at the ends of his chair's armrests with a white-knuckle grip – but Éomer son of Éomund had never been a man who backed down from a challenge, and he wouldn't start now. Turning to the Horse-Breaker once more, the king fixed him with a vicious glare, ready to trade bloody barbs with the wild man, 'And I'm supposed to believe you would have let her go?'
Now, Éomer had expected for the wild man to quip something back, or even to dodge the question, but rather than the usual smug smirk, the Horse-Breaker remained strangely silent, and instead simply stared at the king, and the dark-brown eyes that had held such a challenge before, had now turned to black stone. And as the silence stretched out between them, like a living, breathing thing, the king knew that he had struck a nerve – even though he could not know just how close to the truth his words had come.
It took indeed a long moment before the wild man seemed to have regained his composure enough for him to give an answer, and yet, despite the calculated calm of his voice, there was still thunder and lightning rumbling under his words as he spoke, 'She was my guest, Rider, o' her own free will. If she had wanted t' crawl out into the snows – if she had truly wanted it – t' bleed out on her way back t' ye an' yer hall, all she would've had t' do was say so, an' I would' stepped aside an' watched the blood trail t' see how far she would've made it, an' cheered her on all the way. But I wouldn' have held her back.'
Quiet.
A breath, then another, and then another one.
And as the seconds flew by, their eyes remained locked in a battle of silence and stares, and once more it seemed like a contest between two warriors testing their opponent's strength, unwilling to yield even an inch, unwilling even to blink or flinch. And Éomer – a part of the king could not help but feel a begrudging kind of respect for the man opposite him, even if every sensible thought in his head bristled at the very idea of it. This man was a savage by definition after all, and his enemy no less, and yet, he was also the presumed saviour of the woman he loved, and a man who would not allow himself to be intimidated by his enemy even on enemy turf. All of this led to a potent mix of conflicting emotions that had the warrior inside the king struggle with how to handle him, leading him, more often than not, to lash out in defiance of the more disturbing feelings swirling under the surface of his showcased dislike for the man – just like he did then.
'Is that what hospitality amounts to, where you're from?', Éomer snarled then, an instinctual low blow under a sardonic cover, meant to push down the morbid fascination this enemy seemed to incite in him, making him wonder, again and again, what exactly his wife and queen seemed to have seen in that wild man, while at the same time reacting with visceral rejection at the mere thought that he might start to see that too.
'It's what freedom comes down t' where I'm from, Rider.', the wild man threw back at him then in a predictable show of frustration, because even if the man opposite was far from civilised, he knew when he was being looked down upon and made fun of. In a way, it was a reaction Éomer could sympathise with, as, more often than not, he himself and his people had been the object of such derision in "more civilised" Southern circles – though he fought hard to ignore that connection. But whatever points of sympathy the wild man opposite might have scored before, were destroyed as soon as the Dunland man decided to return the favour in kind and to make yet another snide remark, 'Not that ye Kneelers would know much 'bout that, eh?'
And Éomer?
The king only laughed – not a laugh of mirth or humour, mind you, but a laugh nonetheless. And he laughed then because it was easier than to let slip just how much that snide remark might have hit home – or, rather, because it was easier than to acknowledge that fact to himself. Because freedom was not something any true king was every really granted, was it? Because if he still had the freedom he'd once craved, the warrior in him would take his horse and his éored, to patrol the kingdom he served, a simple life, with his honour untarnished and his pride intact. Because if he still had the freedom he'd once craved, the man in him would leave behind the crown and the throne and the kingdom even, to take the hand of the woman he loved, no matter the consequences – honour and pride be damned.
But that was just the thing, wasn't it?
It was a freedom he had once craved – long before the weight of the crown had become the shackles around his wrists … and the voice of reason in the back of his head. Long before love itself had become a dungeon made up of sweet torture and even sweeter release. And, tragically, inevitably, fatefully, his longing for love and his sense of duty had long since turned that innate craving for freedom into an almost shameful wish he had buried deep down and hidden even from himself.
So, for the wild man to go around and to really rub it in his face – well, that's not something Éomer could have ever forgiven lightly, even if he had been no king or a warrior, as he was not a man to simply forgive or forget, and he had decided that he had heard enough. And thus, as the mirthless laughter slowly ebbed away, and the warrior king turned to the Dunland man once more, his eyes zeroed in on his opponent, determined to turn the tables on him now.
'So, what is it you want, Gunnar Garthson?', the king asked then, seemingly out of the blue, refusing to give the wild man next to him the satisfaction of acknowledging that he got under his skin, and as his lips curled into that thin line that was not quite a grim smile, the poison behind it was no less lethal, even if there was no taste or smell or look to betray it. And he could see that the wild man had not expected him to push back like that, by going down that road – the black bushy brows pulled together while storm clouds seemed to gather on his forehead.
'Come now, Master Garthson. We both know that nothing is free in this world. So, what promises did my queen make to you for returning her … freedom back to her, and for escorting her back home?', Éomer added then when the Dunland seemed too stunned to speak, ready to jump in like a predator that'd spotted a lonely, wounded prey, and he was quite aware of the dangerous line he was walking here with his constant provocations, but he didn't care – and not just because his opponent wasn't one to shy away from provoking him either. But even as he watched confusion turn to anger, the king was surprised to find that the lightning of that thunderstorm did not strike him as he was sure the wild man would have wanted to do. Instead, the wild man reverted to a mask of dispassionate calculation – and somehow that was even more provocative.
'She made no promises t' me, Rider.'
My lord, I believe I have no idea what you're talking about, his queen had evaded his question once with one of her usual tricks.
Do you really want to insult me further by lying to me?, her king had answered then, refusing to be tricked ever again.
'Am I supposed to believe you brought her back out of the goodness of your fucking heart then?!', the king snorted contemptuously, re-phrasing the wild man's words from earlier, turning the man's honest admission of weakness into a jest, and Éomer could see the reaction of the Horse-Breaker, the vein throbbing dangerously in his forehead – and yet the Dunland man would not give in, his anger a cold mask of calm, an attitude that sought to shout at him that he was a lot more patient and controlled … and possibly stronger than him.
'It take a bitter heart an' a crooked mind t' see only cunning in – '
'Just answer the fucking question!', Éomer pressed out through clenched teeth then, effectively shutting up the Dunland man, before he could have tried to use the line again that had not even worked on the queen. The king for his part, though unaware of it, still felt the same patronising sting of those words, and he reacted most violently to it. Leaning forward, so much so that the wild man was forced to retreat back into his seat, and baring his teeth, much like a wolf before the pounce, Éomer snarled his next words with barely veiled fury, 'I heard you two whispering earlier. I know you two made a deal. And I want to know what it is.'
Gunnar Garthson for his part did not respond at first – or at least, not with words. Instead, his black eyes gazed at him with a quiet intensity, studying his features full of anger – from the burning eyes to the gritted teeth and the hands balled to fists. And Éomer wondered then, whether the Dunland man was wise enough to fear him now – whether the man knew how to fear at all. But most of all, the king wondered what his queen might have told this savage about him. From the wild man's reserved behaviour so far, he could tell that the man knew at least something about the king's temper – although, as it would seem, based on the information he had, the conclusion the Horse-Breaker had drawn, did not so much concern the health and safety of his own self, but rather that of the queen.
I do not have a temper, the king had once defended himself against his youngest brother-in-law's teasing accusation, knowing full well that there was at least some truth to it, even if he felt too ashamed to admit it.
She chose t' come back t' ye when she did, Rider, an' not before. Ye'd do well t' remember that, the Dunland man had reminded him earlier, and the king could not help but think of the wild man's eyes that had looked a little too much like those of a father … concerned for a woman that was not his daughter.
All of this and more went through the king's mind as he withstood the appraising gaze of the wild man next to him. But above all was not the fear of what dreadful reputation his enemy might imagine for him, but rather the gnawing knowledge that, yet again, the truth was being withheld from him. Or at least, that was the truth of the matter as the king saw it, and the weight of it was a furious wind slowly chipping away at his patience. Even more so because the wild man seemed hell-bent on pushing the limits of his patience.
'Ye know, she said ye were a man o' honour – whate'er the fuck that is.', the Horse-Breaker spoke then, at last breaking the long silence that had stretched out between them. (The king could not but notice that the Dunland man still refused to answer his question.) And the wild man seemed to chew on the words as he spoke them, as though his tongue was unused to them, as though they were thoroughly strange to him – and as it turned out, they were. Although, as much as his confusion clouded his forehead with frowns, amusement seemed to curl the edges of his lips under that fierce black beard as he added, 'I'd ne'er heard the word before, ye know? Still don' know what the fuck it means, really.'
'Yeah, I can imagine savages have trouble understanding the concept of – ', the king moved to throw in then, chafing at the perceived belittling comment of the wild man, and reacting – as the man seemed particularly skilled in bringing it out in him – with a belittling comment of his own. But he never got the chance to even finish it before Gunnar Garthson cut him off – determined to continue as calm and collected as before, but the king could see effect the snide remark had had on the Dunland man, as anger slowly but surely left cracks in the calm mask he had put on.
'She also said ye were a good man, a man o' reason.', the wild man pressed out through gritted teeth then, before he took a deep breath and continued with a calmer, steadier voice, 'She said ye were a man who knew more than honour and killin'. She said ye were a man that knew he sometimes had to sacrifice small virtues for the greater good. She said that people can change, an' that a dream needn' be a dream if there were already two people dreamin' it. She said if I chose t' speak, ye would listen.'
At that Éomer fell silent, all momentum of another vicious comment lost.
The wind had literally been taking out of his sails, as the Southerners would say.
Of course, the king remembered the words he had spoken to his queen not so long ago, although it seemed a lifetime away to him now – words of courage at the beginning of their marriage, when love had compelled him to embolden her; but also words of denial, when reality had sobered his idealism and embittered him, compelling him to shake her out of her delusions … as he had seen it then. And the memory of it – the good as well as the bad – seemed to centre him somewhat; or at least, enough to allow his mind to process what the wild man was insinuating here.
'So, that's why you're here? To talk peace? And I'm supposed to believe that?', Éomer concluded then after a long while, and he was a lot calmer this time, although no less bitter in his choice of words as he continued, nor any less vicious, 'Your people used to attack mine all the time – never face to face, of course. Savages just don't have the guts to stand up to men of – '
'Ye know, yer women kept on sayin' what a good man ye are – she somehow failed t' mention what a stubborn son o' a bitch ye are!', Gunnar Garthson growled then as jumped up from his chair with such a force that it knocked the piece of furniture straight over. His voice boomed through the hallowed halls and echoed off the walls, a crack of lightning, thunder rolling – and then everything happened very fast.
With a movement that rivalled the speed of the fastest race horse, the king had jumped up as well, hand at the pommel of his sword, ready for the draw. And further away, before the door leading to the royal chambers, the two wild daughters had jumped up as well, weapons drawn; and Déor too had instinctively whipped out his dagger, alert, ready to defend his king – and forgotten was his role as the useless Southern herald.
In this tense situation, the silence that stretched out between all of them was like a living, breathing thing, a balancing act upon the edge of a knife – one wrong step, and they would all be doomed. They all knew it, they all felt it. And so, no one dared to move, no one dared to speak, no one even dared to breathe, lest that gust of air were to tip the scale over into catastrophe. And as they stood there, still and motionless like statues, lurking and ready like predators, the tension rose to a crescendo that had the air buzzing with the portents of calamity.
It was Gunnar Garthson, the one who had set this stalemate of life and death in motion, that was the first to actually snap out of it. Straining with the effort of withstanding the stare of the enemy king opposite him, the wild man blinked a few times before he became aware of his surroundings. With his blackened eyes wandering from the enemy king's adrenaline-dilated pupils to the hand on his horse-headed sword, the Horse-Breaker then caught sight of his two daughters tense and ready for battle – and the weapons in their hands were rivalled in their terrifying danger only by the dagger in the hand of the other man waiting by the door.
When Gunnar Garthson forced his eyes back on the king – still standing before him with his hand on his sword – there had come a new understanding into those blackened eyes, and a new-found resolve. Taking a deep breath and slowly lifting his hands in a motion of pacification, the wild man had taken one good look at the precarious nature of the situation and decided that there was only one sensible way forward: giving in.
'Aye, Horse-master, we made a deal.', the Horse-Breaker spoke then with a much calmer voice, choosing to relent and to answer the king's question at last, 'I got her home, an' she got me through the doors o' yer hall – so I could speak for my people an' ye for yers.'
And then it seemed as though the spell that had bound them all was broken.
When Éomer king slowly released the hilt of his sword, it seemed as though the air was let back into the room – and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Weapons were sheathed again, and an atmosphere of relative calm all around was resumed. The two wild daughters and Déor (who looked about sheepishly when he realised just how close he had come to blowing his own cover as a useless Southern herald) settled back into their previous positions and resumed their quiet observation.
And at last, Éomer, giving up his defensive stance, regarded the wild man with a look that was somewhat between surprise, relief and begrudging respect.
'Let's talk peace then.'
'Aye, let's talk peace.'
Éomer king stoked the fire in the hearth to a bright flame once more, and, immediately, the warmth of it hit him like a wave of life and energy, making him sigh in relief, to release a tension that had his joints stiff with stress and brooding thought – and, apparently, he was not alone in that sentiment. Behind him, in the king-size bed, his queen seemed to stir, her subconscious mind grasping for the life the warmth promised – and reflexively the king turned around, the light of hope burning dangerously bright in his gaze. But even as she tossed and turned under the heavy blankets she was wrapped in, even as she moaned as a reaction to the heat of the hearth – even then, she did not waken.
With another sigh – and this one held none of the relief from before, that had his heart soar with fleeting hope, but rather felt like a stone dropped into the sea, to sink down and down into the deep dark blue – Éomer king settled back into the chair between the fireplace and the bed, determined to resume his watch over his wife and queen. He felt as though he was damned to watch over that wife of his for all eternity, a bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered, but it was small enough for him to ignore it still. And other than the crackling of the fire behind his back, things soon enough quietened down again, as the queen fell back into a deep sleep once more and the black silence of night reclaimed what little sound had managed to disturb it before.
Leaving the king with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.
It had been hours ever since all of Edoras has gone to bed – all of Edoras, except for its king.
Before that, the handmaidens, Aida and Madlen, had tended to their mistress as best they could. From their frantic murmurings, in between washing the wounds and bandaging them, he had learned much and more of what he so far had only guessed about the queen's disappearance. According to the two maidservants, the queen must have been struck three times while she had been trying to defend herself: once, with a sword that had cut her left forearm almost straight down to the bone; secondly, with an arrow that had pierced her left shoulder all the way through; and thirdly, with a cut that had sliced her back open, diagonally, from her left shoulder all the way down to her lower back.
As the two women had put it: untreated, out there in the snowstorm, any one of these wounds could have been fatal.
But they weren't, Éomer thought grimly then, I owe you a debt of gratitude, Gunnar Garthson.
Of course, while the two handmaidens had marvelled with humble gratefulness at the fact that their mistress had survived her attack with the help of the wild man, they were less generous in their opinions regarding the wild folk's healing knowledge. Muttering about unclean surroundings and sloppy bandaging, the king would have almost smirked with amusement at the subconscious pride these two women took in applying their mistress' teachings to help save her now.
But, of course, there was nothing to smile about.
With her wounds still unhealed, his wife and queen had braced the wind-swept barrenness of the green steppes of the Mark in a march that would have stretched the mightiest of men to the limits – and she … she was neither a man nor of particular might. But you've always been a fighter, haven't you, my love?, the king thought then with grim respect, and even grimmer affection – and he remembered well the many times when that mere slip of a girl had proved herself a match to the mightiest warrior and man.
Fighting to grow up and survive in a world of snakes and spiderwebs – she had swallowed their poisons for years, and even spat it herself; and even if she had become entangled in their cobwebs, she had clawed herself free of it.
Fighting to stand up to her lord father, a man that had turned his own children into tools of his will – she had been made into a weapon of words and whispers, and even if she had found her voice after being silenced for so long, there were still words she could not say, truths she could not speak.
Fighting to overcome assassins and aristocrats with knives for smiles – and even if she had fallen prey to their plots and blunt blades, she had still stood her ground and tried to fight back, with patience and the prowess of a princess.
Fighting to confront a king that was also her husband, fighting to stand up to a man she had loved in all but the name, fighting to follow a conscience she had grown out of shame and setbacks, fighting with a resolve she had learned from a warrior of a hundred battles.
His queen was no warrior, and yet, she had been a fighter all her life, and indeed, had proved herself quite the formidable fighter in every battle that had been thrown her way. Of course, that was not to say that she had fought all of those battles fairly. Oh no, his queen knew how to fight dirty, and his own foolish heart aching for her still, after all the wrongs and hurts she had done, was proof enough of that.
But even if her methods had been questionable at times – and her morals and ethics muddled by her cunning and her own selfish desires – she had nonetheless come out victorious. Indeed, his queen had succeeded at what no other had managed to do before. Because thanks to her persistence, her endurance, her sheer power of will, she had managed to bring together two warriors fighting on opposite sides, enemies for all their lives, cursed to do battle even with no battlefield in sight, and with hate being passed down through generations of blood, their swords had become the pens for the words they did not know how to write – but the dark red ink had been spilled for centuries nonetheless –
– and yet, these two enemies had sat down together … though, as of yet, there could be no talk of … talk, really.
With another frustrated sigh, Éomer continued his watch over his queen, his sharp green eyes never letting her out of his sight, hoping against hope to find her stirring awake, and out of fear of missing the moment she would awaken. But even as he lounged about in his chair between the bed and the fire place, his focus entirely on his wife sleeping soundly in their bed once more, he could not help his thoughts wandering back to the conversation he'd had with the wild man.
Between the two men the big question had towered high and mighty, how peace between their two peoples could ever be possible, if not even the two of them could seem to see eye-to-eye – or at least, not enough to even get the fucking conversation started. Between them the silence had stretched out like a living, breathing thing once more, and hate and pride had been rearing their ugly heads. It had been a contest once again, to see who would break first, and their eyes holding each other's gazes with intent and intensity had never wavered in their mission to intimidate and interrogate without even a single word being spoken.
And yet, the silence had been broken – though, again, not by the king.
It had been the wild man who had relented and spoken first then, and perhaps he even thought himself the bigger man for doing so.
Yer land is our land, the wild fucker had simply stated then, and, judging by his small smile, he must have enjoyed the king's reaction quite a lot as he prolonged his pause on purpose there; his eyes feasting on the way the younger man opposite him had tensed at the provocation his words offered. But then he had continued, smile still playing around his bearded mouth. An' our land is yer land. This land doesn' belong t' just one people, it never has. It belongs t' all o' us.
Éomer had frowned then; his forehead clouded with scepticism and doubt.
For centuries our people have fought over this land, and now you expect me to believe that you want to share it in peace? How do you expect that to work?, the king had question, and the disbelief he felt had made it hard for him to keep the dry amusement out of his voice. The wild man, however, had not shared his amusement.
Because it has t'. Because my people are nearly gone – yer people saw t' that, the wild man had responded then with a biting tone, and his mouth had been a line so thin it had nearly vanished completely behind that fierce and fearsome black beard.
It is not just your people that suffered in this feud, you unwashed wretch of a beast, mine have suffered too, the king had spat back then, unwilling to yield even an inch, and, granted, Éomer might not have been a petty man, but he was definitely a man who did not take lightly to his pride being hurt, and his pride had most certainly been insulted by the insinuation that his own people were to blame for the escalation of this conflict, Your kind has terrorised my people for as long as we have been here. Not on any real battlefield. That's not your way, is it? But it the night, when the fighting men are gone, that's the hours of wolves and craven men.
It had been a calculated provocation, to see what the other man would do, to revel in the weakness his reaction would undoubtedly reveal about his character. But the wild man had not stooped low enough to respond. Instead, he had simply measured him with a look the king assumed he usually used to size up his opponents: to keep a look-out for strengths to be wary of, to sniff out any weaknesses he could exploit when the right moment came to strike – the gaze of a man of a hundred battles. And Éomer had wondered then if that wild fucker had ever been wrong about any of the men he had fought, and how many fools had underestimated the seasoned warrior that Gunnar Garthson undoubtedly was and had thus paid with their lives for their mistake.
Will I be a fool to make that very same mistake?, the king had wondered then silently.
We've all lost people in this war, Horse-master, the wild man had spoken then after a long while, and he had chosen his words carefully, choosing to overlook the king's slight in favour of making a very good point instead, When I buried what the men o' yer people so graciously left o' my daugh'er for me, I swore t' kill every man, woman an' child that e'er sat a horse. An' I had my fair share o' killin', as did we all.
And then the wild man had spoken of his daughter.
He had spoken of her wildness and her youth, her fierceness and her beauty – and of her death. The father had called her a free woman, but the Éored that had captured her had named her a thief and a murderess, and after they were done with her, she was a free woman no longer. Éomer had not wanted to listen to the tale the man across from him had spun – it had reminded him too much of another tale he had heard long ago, the tale of another black-haired woman beset on all sides by the evil lust of evil men. But the wild father had continued without mercy, talking about the things the Rohirrim men had presumably done after they were through with his daughter – swords that were used for sick purposes, their horses that rode her down, or what was it he had said they had let their horses do with her ruined body?
Éomer had not wanted to hear it all, but he heard it all the same, and in the back of his mind a sick feeling had grown, fed by a memory of a time long past. As Third Marshall of the Mark he had heard such stories before, but he had often chosen to dismiss them as mere slander and hear-say – even those stories he knew to be true. And with shame the king remembered that one settlement of Dunlendings on Rohirrim soil he had come across once in his time as a young recruit – long before he had become Third Marshall, long before he had led an éored himself, long before he could have called himself a knight even.
The illegal settlement had been put to the torch, and everything within – and everyone that did not escape – had been destroyed by the flames. He had been a young man back then – too young, in fact, to dare question his superiors, and when he had asked his uncle about it afterward, calling for a court-martial, the king had evaded his criticism and doubts, as Wormtongue's influence had already gnawed way at his common sense, or so Éomer had always chosen to see it. And thus, the young warrior had stayed quiet and chosen to compartmentalise the things he had seen and done – and the things he had failed to do – out of necessity, or else he surely would have gone mad with disgust for actions that spoke neither of honour nor of pride. War, after all, made people do terrible things to their enemies, he had told himself often enough when doubt had invaded his sleep in form of nightmares and night terrors.
But, of course, he hadn't told any of this to the wild man sitting opposite him – not about the supposed enemies he had helped put in the ground nor about the shame he had felt over it all nor about the justification he had consoled himself with in order to be able to keep going. It had been his pride that had rebelled against disclosing such sensitive information, unwilling to make himself vulnerable in his enemy's eyes, open to an attack from him, and even if the wild fucker would have been in the right to criticise him, his pride would simply not have accepted it, but perhaps it had not been so much his own pride but rather that innate drive to be able to live himself that had kept his mouth shut and his lips sealed.
So, when I found yer wife lying at my feet in that snowstorm – I won' deny it – I meant t' kill her, but she clutched that leg o' mine with that feeble rest o' her power … an' she stared at me with those eyes, the wild man had whispered then, continuing in his tale, lost in his own memory, oblivious to the king opposite who had just now been torn out of his own dark thoughts, and upon his awakening from his own memories the king had felt the words of the wild man go through him like a knife, My daugh'er had eyes like that.
In that moment Éomer had understood precisely what he had meant with "those eyes", as the king had experienced their mysterious power for himself time and time again. And he had also begun to understand that strange bond between his wife and queen and this wild man that seemingly had blossomed in so short a time and yet felt as old as time itself.
But be that as it may, he had interrupted the wild man then, just to get him to shut up about the carnage inflicted on either side of this conflict (and to stop him from reminding him of the time his wife had been closer to death than life), if your people suffered at our hands, and my people suffered at yours, then why the fuck would you ever want to make peace?
Because I was there, Horse-master, I was there that day at the Hornburg when yer people spared mine, the wild man had answered then without so much as blinking an eye at the tone that had just been thrown his way, and the gaze with which he fixed him, had the king swallow hard with an emotion he had never thought he would ever feel: respect for one he had named enemy all his life. And yet, that had been exactly what he had felt as he had tried to hold the wild man's gaze, the feral brown turned to burning black embers as he had continued, We fought ye, we wanted t' kill ye, but after ye had us bury the dead – yers an' ours – ye spared our lives an' let us go.
I remember, Éomer had mumbled then, and bitterness had overtaken him at the memory of the many dead and dying that had lain in the Deeping-coomb; friends, enemies, beasts – a mound of bodies that had risen towards the sky to blot out even the light of the very sun that had ushered in their victory before. It had been this all-consuming image of utter death and destruction that had lost the Rohirrim their appetite for revenge-fuelled violence – or at least, long enough for them to send the Dunlendings from their sight rather than to slay them where they stood.
He had sometimes wondered whether that decision would come back to haunt them.
The Wild folk remember that too, the wild man had pointed out then, and his words were a promise and a threat all rolled into one, We don' forget so easily, neither slight nor kindness.
Neither do we, the king had agreed then, and as he had held the Dunland man's dark gaze, he had been surprised to find such familiar colours in the blackness of it. And yet, there it had been, and even if it had made him frown to acknowledge it, there had been a similarity between the two of them that even his pride and his hate could not deny to admit. And in the back of his mind a memory of old had tugged, of a face and a voice who had once tried to impress on him that very same truth: that there was not so great a difference between their people as their own pride and hate would have them believe.
Éomer had shifted then in his chair by the fire place, all of the sudden feeling very uncomfortable.
I'm not askin' ye t' forget yer dead, Horse-master, as I sure as hell won' e'er forget mine – but they are dead, an' we are not, Gunnar Garthson had emphasised then, and he had leaned forward to further make his point. The king had leaned back in return, taken aback by the words he had felt he had remembered someone else speaking to him not too long ago. And with his sharp green eyes tightened in thought, he had nodded then – a subconscious movement, not quite an agreement yet.
Then what is it you're proposing?
After that, the real talk had begun and it hadn't ended until an hour ago. They had talked about sowing and harvest, about settlements in the Westfold and field hands that were roughened by a feud of centuries. They had talked about reparations and compensations and the different meanings of the word justice. And although the words peace and betrayal had not been mentioned again, they had both understood the implications of what they were doing.
And when the talking had been done, and both men had shook hands – although an outsider would have been fooled to think of it as little more than arm wrestling – Éomer had been compelled to express his gratitude, unwilling as he maybe was to give it. The wild man had returned the queen to its king after all, and for that, honour demanded words and gestures of thanks. But Gunnar Garthson, the king had learned, was not like any man he had ever met. Because neither gold nor furs nor horses would pay off this debt of life in his eyes, and so the wild man had tightened his grip on the king's hand, leaned forward and whispered to him the words that haunted him still.
Nay, Horse-King, the only gift I accept is the promise yer wife made t' me. Aye, she did make promises t' me, after all, the Horse-breaker had emphasised then with a wide grin that showed his canines and with black embers that lit up his eyes, and Éomer, remembering the wild man's denial from earlier on, had cursed himself then for underestimating Gunnar Garthson and the old wiles of an old fox like him.
And, tense as a bow strung to be fired, the king had awaited the wish of the wild man, wondering what other promises his wife and queen had made in her desperate play for survival. And the wild man? Éomer had only had to take one look at that smirk to know that Gunnar Garthson had been deeply aware of the king's fears – but even if the wild man had seemed to revel in the knowledge of it, he had still managed to surprise the Rider by what he demanded.
When that filly in her belly is born, an' if it be a lass, she shall be called Gillain – after my eldest daugh'er, my lost child – an' so our people will forever be bound. Not by blood – by a promise for a hopeful future, the Horse-Breaker had spoken then, and the fervour with which he had uttered his words had let the king know that under that innocent demand there slept a more profound want for something not even a king could grant or guarantee. And yet, the king had nodded in agreement all the same, and upon the moment of parting of Gunnar Garthson and his three wild daughters, the challenging hand-grip between both men had turned to a true handshake at last.
But when Éomer had meant to let go of the Horse-Breaker's hand then – sure that all was said and done – the wild man had pulled in the king once more, and even though there had been no menace behind that strength, there had been urgency nonetheless. And thus, faced with the piercing black eyes of the Dunland man, Éomer had listened in silent stupor – too stunned to react – to the last piece of advice Gunnar Garthson had deigned to bestow on him. And the words –
– a noise from the bed tore Éomer out of his increasingly spiralling thoughts and memories and catapulted him back into the here and now. Shaking his head like a disagreeable horse and blinking rapidly, Éomer looked over to the bed to make out the source of the noise, and with a feeling somewhere between relief and dread he realised that the woman in the bed – the woman who held his whole heart in between her hands and legs and lips and teeth – was stirring.
And it was as if a lightning strike went through him then, and all his thoughts and all his reasoning was burnt down to ash and bone. The shock of the realisation was so profound that he forgot to breathe – even if only for a split second. His mind was a blank page, filled only with pictures of things that had been and things that could have been and things that might yet come to pass. But he was far too overwhelmed by his own conflicting emotions to make sense of them now.
How often had he dreamed of this moment?
During all those weeks, during all those nights when sleep was hard to come by …
How often had he dreamed of this moment?
Of the moment when they would be reunited once more.
Before, back there, down there at the gates of Edoras, when the gates had been opened and they had looked upon one another after so long a time – that didn't count; even if seeing her standing there, alive and (relatively) well, had him breathe easier after what felt like an agonising eternity in which he'd held his breath – but that didn't count. Hungry eyes had looked on all around them; hungry eyes that hid hungry tongues, sharper than the swords that had already been raised against her once before.
He didn't want to risk that ever happening again.
He couldn't.
He needed to get her to safety.
He needed to get her inside.
And so, their proper reunion had had to wait.
Until now.
Now the long wait had come to an end at long last.
And with a sigh, Éomer sat up straighter in his chair by the bed, readying himself to face the woman who had hurt him, manipulated him and betrayed him – the woman he loved still and that he would love forever more.