LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 18
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martasficTitle: The Lady of Gondor Ch 18
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 2484
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
------
26 Feb-01 March 3018; Edoras
"Open the gates! Open the gates!" Mellamir yelled, as Éomer quickly approached the threshold. "Háma, take the men to the tents. Find them a bed, and give them a good meal and ale, as much as we can spare. I'll come down as soon as I can."
Háma ran out the side door and directed the men to the field, but Éomer rode gently through the opening gates. Mellamir ran down the stairs toward them. "What happened, Éomer?" she asked.
"Take him," he said, lowering Théodred into Mellamir's strong arms. He dismounted himself. "You, boy," he shouted at a messenger-boy not far away. "Take Firefoot to the stables, and tell them to rub him down good; he's had a hard ride." He turned to Mellamir, helping her hold up Théodred's wounded body. "Where's Éowyn?"
"She's nursing your uncle," Mellamir replied, her look of concern growing to panic as Éomer put off answering her questions.
"Théoden? What's wrong with him?"
"He's been sick all winter. Nothing life-threatening."
"Get her, and meet me at the healer's house, as soon as you can."
Éomer walked off to the healer's house, slowly, so as not to jostle Théodred, while Mellamir ran to Meduseld. Ten minutes later, she and Éowyn came running out again, and within minutes they stood outside the healer's house.
"Éomer, what's wrong?" Éowyn asked, running up to her brother.
He led them inside. "We were ambushed by orcsy men."
"Uruks," said Mellamir. "Go on."
"My men and I had been riding for months, trying to find how the orcs -- uruks as you call them -- were getting past all our guards to the western towns, or why for that matter. We'd been looking for any hidden forts, trails -- anything that might give us a clue how they'd gotten past our scouts for months now. We were exploring the area around Isen when behind us we heard a deafening roar, horses' hooves. It was Théodred and all his men. There were twelve companies of horsemen, and some archers among them. But then on the other side of the ford, another great force appeared. Uruks, and wild men on foot with axes, and goblins riding wargs. We held them off as long as we could, and did a right good job, I daresay. But they outnumbered us badly and finally we were overrun. We were circled, and Théodred was struck down.
"But then a strange thing happened. As soon as they saw Théodred was wounded, they drew back and ran away. And he was wounded badly. Look." He pulled back the sheet covering his cousin to reveal where one of the axe-men had struck his shoulder. Éomer had wrapped it in cloth torn from his own tunic, and the dirt-caked cloth was soaked through with blood. Éowyn now removed the cloth and replaced it with a clean white bandage.
"He'll have to lose the arm, but he'll live," she said weakly.
"Aye, but you haven't seen the worst of it. Look." And Éomer gently lifted up Théodred's tunic to reveal where seven arrows had pierced him. Five had caught him in the gut and, while painful, weren't life-threatening. But one had hit under his armpit and had left a black welt that was spreading and had swollen so that Théodred's arm wouldn't lay flat by his side.
"Orc-poison," Éomer explained. Many have already died from it, on the ride back."
Éowyn, Éomer, and Mellamir set off immediately for Meduseld, leaving Théodred in the hands of the healer. They were almost up the steps when Háma came running up. "Lady Mellamir," he said, huffing for breath. "I hoped I would catch you. The men, they are too many. We have no more bread on hand."
She thought for a moment, then said, almost to herself, "Let them eat cake."
"My lady?" Háma asked.
"Whatever it takes. There's a fresh fruitcake in my own cupboard. You can start there. Go to all the townspeople. Ask them for any food they can spare. Do the best you can; I'll talk to Wormtongue, though I doubt he'll be over-generous." Then Mellamir, Éomer, and Éowyn all took off their rings and gave them to Háma so the townspeople would know the collection was on their orders.
"Yes, my lady," Háma said, and he went to get men to help him collect the food.
The three entered Meduseld, Éomer, Éowyn, and Mellamir. Éomer looked into the throne room and saw that it was empty. Théoden will be in bed," Éowyn replied to his unasked question; "he's not feeling well. Let's go." They walked down one hall and up another until at last they were outside the king's private quarters. Éowyn knocked, and Wormtongue came out.
"The king is sleeping --"
"Then wake him up," Éomer demanded, "or he may sleep through his son's death."
"His son's…?"
"Yes, his son's death. Théodred was waylaid by orcs at the Fords of Isen, Master Wormtongue," Mellamir said with a scowl. A thought popped into her head: Which you undoubtedly already know. Did he know? It wouldn't surprise her. "He lays with a deadly wound in the healer's house as we speak," she continued. "If you let the king sleep, Théodred may not be the only one buried today."
"As you insist," Gríma said at last. The four walked into the king's parlour. "Wait here," Wormtongue said, and he went into the king's bedroom. A moment passed, then five and then fifteen, before Wormtongue finally returned with Théoden. The king was wrapped in his velvet dressing robe, yawning. "What's wrong? Why did you wake me?" He looked around at his visitors. "Éomer? Is that you?"
"Yes, my lord," Éomer said. "It's your son, Théodred. He has been injured by… orcsy men. They came out of the west and bore the white hand of Saruman."
"Lies!" Wormtongue hissed. "Saruman has always --"
But Éomer did not let Wormtongue finish. "I fear Théodred has a fatal wound. He's in the healer's house now, but I doubt the healer will be able to do much."
The king looked at Éomer, then back to Wormtongue. "He is… ill. He may die. But the doctors… they say I cannot leave this building. Éowyn, you will look after him…"
"My lord, my uncle!" she cried. "Will you not come to him? He needs you."
The king looked again at Wormtongue. "No; I cannot. But go! Watch after him. Théodred should not die alone."
Éowyn looked for a long time into her uncle's eyes, but she saw only ice, and shadows of a glory that hid in the recesses of this once-great man. She tried to hide the tears, but one lone drop rolled down her fair cheek, and she ran from the room.
"My lord, there is other news," Mellamir said at last. "Théodred and Éomer brought many men with them. We have fed as many as our allotted stores allow, but we are now out of bread. I've sent Háma to the townspeople to ask for more, but you cannot feed your armies on crumbs forever. What shall I do?"
"My king," Wormtongue said, "you see what comes of this army. They eat our bread; they kill your son! Let them go on their way. Find their own bread."
"Uncle!" Éomer shouted. "This is just not true. Your armies fought bravely! It was the orcs, they were too many --"
"Orcs! Not one orc could get to the west without your knowing it. Let alone a great host."
"These orcs did not come from Mordor, but from Isengard!"
"Lies and more lies!" Gríma answered. "This is foolishness, my lord, to even listen to these wild accusations."
"Saruman…?" Théoden asked.
"Has ever been our friend and ally. Why should now be different?"
"Disband the army," Théoden said at last. We have no need of their foolishness."
"Foolishness? Why, I would feed them myself rather than see them disband!"
"This, this warmonger nephew… "
"Gríma speaks well. You forget, sister's son, that I am still king and my heir yet lives. Your head grows too big. Disband the army." Éomer bowed curtly and began to leave. Wormtongue and Mellamir did similarly and followed him.
Théoden returned to his bedroom and Éomer walked toward the door. Gríma placed his hand across the handle. "You say much, Éomer," Gríma hissed. "Too much. I give you your freedom. Run whichever way the wind blows. Keep your guard on the city, if you like. Take this - army of yours, and feed them yourself, if you are so determined. But if you should ever again approach Edoras, you shall not cross through the city gate a free man."
Wormtongue clapped his hand. The door opened and guards entered to escort Éomer to the stables.
As Éomer and his riders rode out to find proof of the Isengard orcs Mellamir returned to the healer's house. Outside stood Éowyn, her dress drenched with tears, sweat, and blood, ripping in half a flag bearing a white stallion on a green field. "Théodred is dead."
Mellamir stood stunned for a moment, then turned around and started walking back the way she'd come. Almost as an afterthought, she turned and said, "See to your cousin's body. I will go tell the king and light the fire," and she disappeared down a side street. Éowyn went back inside and began the sad work she had been fortunate enough never to have to do before. She pulled off the topsheets and threw them into the fire. Then she took off Théodred's black boots, his mud-stained socks, and his worn pants and replaced them with fine silk socks, white linen pants, and fur-lined bootlets made of the white leather that came from a fawn. She took his sword and sheath from his old pants and tied it around his waist with a strip of fine velvet. She tried to take the tunic off but found that the dried blood had made it stick to his chest, so she cut off what she could, then pulled off the rest, taking with it a good bit of Théodred's skin. She burned the shirt, but the pants and the boots she saved for Théoden. She took a white linen strip and tied it around Théodred's chest so that his arm would lay flat. But that pushed all the air out of his chest, making him look weak, so she loosened the bandage a little, leaned down, and kissed her cousin, blowing air into him and inflating his chest a little. She stood up and turned around to get the white linen tunic out of the chest but bumped right into the man standing behind her.
He put his hand behind her back and pulled them closer together, their lips touching, before she finally recognized the greasy hair and the long, bony fingers. "Arrggh!" she yelled as she pushed Gríma Wormtongue away, out through the open door, and into the mud puddle in the street outside.
"My dear little princess," he said. "Am I really that much worse than a corpse? My, you look pale; all of this weeping isn't good for your complexion. What you need is a bit of color." Gríma brushed his hand across the mud, then got up, walked over to Éowyn, and slapped her squarely across the cheek. "There, that's better. Now, shall we try it again?"
"Never, Snake!" she snapped.
"Ah, Snake is it now?" he asked mockingly.
"Go ahead, banish me. I don't care."
"But don't you? Your cousin is dead, and your brother is banished. Yes, banished. And if the king should die -- these are, after all, dangerous days, accidents can be arranged, and he has been sick all winter -- then who would be left to take his throne? With no living family. I, of course, as his chief and dearest advisor, would humbly take the crown. You, being a woman, could never be King yourself. But Queen! You know that the woman's hand calms the savage heart." He approached. "Just one little kiss. Or shall we see what happens when the savage becomes the king?"
Éowyn saw she didn't have any choice. She closed her eyes and stood still. Wormtongue walked over to her and kissed her, again pulling her into his arms. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" But the look on Éowyn's face, drained of what little colour it had had, told Wormtongue otherwise. "Fool! Useless wench! What is the house of Éorl but a thatched barn where bandits drink in the stench, and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs?" He tore off his mud-covered cloak and threw it at her, covering her in its mud. "You'll want to clean that properly." And with that, he stalked out.
------
Mellamir stood far away, in the courtyard in front of Meduseld overlooking Edoras. It was three days later. She had ordered a great brass brazier to be brought into the courtyard, and in it, she had kindled a fire of hickory wood. Whenever a member of the royal house died, someone had to light the flame of memorial and watch it for a fortnight, day and night, starting as soon after the death as possible. Háma watched her tend the fire every day as he guarded the door to Meduseld, and every night, he would watch the flame for six hours while she slept. He wanted to do more, but she wouldn't let him. What is the world coming to? she thought. The king, whose mind was controlled by the snake. The prince, who died fighting an enemy that didn't exist. Éomer, exiled just when his country needed him most. And Éowyn, all alone to keep her nightly vigil over her cousin's body. Mellamir could see Éowyn standing by Théodred's grave and Wormtongue coming over and talking to her as the sun set. Ah, a lonely vigil would be so sweet! But the Worm wouldn't leave her alone; he harassed her through even those silent hours.
Suddenly a speck of a figure raced across the field. It was a horse -- Éomer! He shouldn't be here; Gríma would lock him away for sure. But Éomer didn't care. He had seen Éowyn's long blonde hair in the setting sun as she stood by one of the crypts, and guessed that Théodred must have died. And beside her, he saw a man he couldn't recognize from that distance. He assumed it was Théoden and rode forward to pay his final respects to his cousin. But then he saw who it really was. Éomer jumped off his horse and ran toward the two, but before he could even reach the Snake, Wormtongue's guards had grabbed him by his shoulders and were dragging him off to the lock-houses.
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 2484
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
------
26 Feb-01 March 3018; Edoras
"Open the gates! Open the gates!" Mellamir yelled, as Éomer quickly approached the threshold. "Háma, take the men to the tents. Find them a bed, and give them a good meal and ale, as much as we can spare. I'll come down as soon as I can."
Háma ran out the side door and directed the men to the field, but Éomer rode gently through the opening gates. Mellamir ran down the stairs toward them. "What happened, Éomer?" she asked.
"Take him," he said, lowering Théodred into Mellamir's strong arms. He dismounted himself. "You, boy," he shouted at a messenger-boy not far away. "Take Firefoot to the stables, and tell them to rub him down good; he's had a hard ride." He turned to Mellamir, helping her hold up Théodred's wounded body. "Where's Éowyn?"
"She's nursing your uncle," Mellamir replied, her look of concern growing to panic as Éomer put off answering her questions.
"Théoden? What's wrong with him?"
"He's been sick all winter. Nothing life-threatening."
"Get her, and meet me at the healer's house, as soon as you can."
Éomer walked off to the healer's house, slowly, so as not to jostle Théodred, while Mellamir ran to Meduseld. Ten minutes later, she and Éowyn came running out again, and within minutes they stood outside the healer's house.
"Éomer, what's wrong?" Éowyn asked, running up to her brother.
He led them inside. "We were ambushed by orcsy men."
"Uruks," said Mellamir. "Go on."
"My men and I had been riding for months, trying to find how the orcs -- uruks as you call them -- were getting past all our guards to the western towns, or why for that matter. We'd been looking for any hidden forts, trails -- anything that might give us a clue how they'd gotten past our scouts for months now. We were exploring the area around Isen when behind us we heard a deafening roar, horses' hooves. It was Théodred and all his men. There were twelve companies of horsemen, and some archers among them. But then on the other side of the ford, another great force appeared. Uruks, and wild men on foot with axes, and goblins riding wargs. We held them off as long as we could, and did a right good job, I daresay. But they outnumbered us badly and finally we were overrun. We were circled, and Théodred was struck down.
"But then a strange thing happened. As soon as they saw Théodred was wounded, they drew back and ran away. And he was wounded badly. Look." He pulled back the sheet covering his cousin to reveal where one of the axe-men had struck his shoulder. Éomer had wrapped it in cloth torn from his own tunic, and the dirt-caked cloth was soaked through with blood. Éowyn now removed the cloth and replaced it with a clean white bandage.
"He'll have to lose the arm, but he'll live," she said weakly.
"Aye, but you haven't seen the worst of it. Look." And Éomer gently lifted up Théodred's tunic to reveal where seven arrows had pierced him. Five had caught him in the gut and, while painful, weren't life-threatening. But one had hit under his armpit and had left a black welt that was spreading and had swollen so that Théodred's arm wouldn't lay flat by his side.
"Orc-poison," Éomer explained. Many have already died from it, on the ride back."
Éowyn, Éomer, and Mellamir set off immediately for Meduseld, leaving Théodred in the hands of the healer. They were almost up the steps when Háma came running up. "Lady Mellamir," he said, huffing for breath. "I hoped I would catch you. The men, they are too many. We have no more bread on hand."
She thought for a moment, then said, almost to herself, "Let them eat cake."
"My lady?" Háma asked.
"Whatever it takes. There's a fresh fruitcake in my own cupboard. You can start there. Go to all the townspeople. Ask them for any food they can spare. Do the best you can; I'll talk to Wormtongue, though I doubt he'll be over-generous." Then Mellamir, Éomer, and Éowyn all took off their rings and gave them to Háma so the townspeople would know the collection was on their orders.
"Yes, my lady," Háma said, and he went to get men to help him collect the food.
The three entered Meduseld, Éomer, Éowyn, and Mellamir. Éomer looked into the throne room and saw that it was empty. Théoden will be in bed," Éowyn replied to his unasked question; "he's not feeling well. Let's go." They walked down one hall and up another until at last they were outside the king's private quarters. Éowyn knocked, and Wormtongue came out.
"The king is sleeping --"
"Then wake him up," Éomer demanded, "or he may sleep through his son's death."
"His son's…?"
"Yes, his son's death. Théodred was waylaid by orcs at the Fords of Isen, Master Wormtongue," Mellamir said with a scowl. A thought popped into her head: Which you undoubtedly already know. Did he know? It wouldn't surprise her. "He lays with a deadly wound in the healer's house as we speak," she continued. "If you let the king sleep, Théodred may not be the only one buried today."
"As you insist," Gríma said at last. The four walked into the king's parlour. "Wait here," Wormtongue said, and he went into the king's bedroom. A moment passed, then five and then fifteen, before Wormtongue finally returned with Théoden. The king was wrapped in his velvet dressing robe, yawning. "What's wrong? Why did you wake me?" He looked around at his visitors. "Éomer? Is that you?"
"Yes, my lord," Éomer said. "It's your son, Théodred. He has been injured by… orcsy men. They came out of the west and bore the white hand of Saruman."
"Lies!" Wormtongue hissed. "Saruman has always --"
But Éomer did not let Wormtongue finish. "I fear Théodred has a fatal wound. He's in the healer's house now, but I doubt the healer will be able to do much."
The king looked at Éomer, then back to Wormtongue. "He is… ill. He may die. But the doctors… they say I cannot leave this building. Éowyn, you will look after him…"
"My lord, my uncle!" she cried. "Will you not come to him? He needs you."
The king looked again at Wormtongue. "No; I cannot. But go! Watch after him. Théodred should not die alone."
Éowyn looked for a long time into her uncle's eyes, but she saw only ice, and shadows of a glory that hid in the recesses of this once-great man. She tried to hide the tears, but one lone drop rolled down her fair cheek, and she ran from the room.
"My lord, there is other news," Mellamir said at last. "Théodred and Éomer brought many men with them. We have fed as many as our allotted stores allow, but we are now out of bread. I've sent Háma to the townspeople to ask for more, but you cannot feed your armies on crumbs forever. What shall I do?"
"My king," Wormtongue said, "you see what comes of this army. They eat our bread; they kill your son! Let them go on their way. Find their own bread."
"Uncle!" Éomer shouted. "This is just not true. Your armies fought bravely! It was the orcs, they were too many --"
"Orcs! Not one orc could get to the west without your knowing it. Let alone a great host."
"These orcs did not come from Mordor, but from Isengard!"
"Lies and more lies!" Gríma answered. "This is foolishness, my lord, to even listen to these wild accusations."
"Saruman…?" Théoden asked.
"Has ever been our friend and ally. Why should now be different?"
"Disband the army," Théoden said at last. We have no need of their foolishness."
"Foolishness? Why, I would feed them myself rather than see them disband!"
"This, this warmonger nephew… "
"Gríma speaks well. You forget, sister's son, that I am still king and my heir yet lives. Your head grows too big. Disband the army." Éomer bowed curtly and began to leave. Wormtongue and Mellamir did similarly and followed him.
Théoden returned to his bedroom and Éomer walked toward the door. Gríma placed his hand across the handle. "You say much, Éomer," Gríma hissed. "Too much. I give you your freedom. Run whichever way the wind blows. Keep your guard on the city, if you like. Take this - army of yours, and feed them yourself, if you are so determined. But if you should ever again approach Edoras, you shall not cross through the city gate a free man."
Wormtongue clapped his hand. The door opened and guards entered to escort Éomer to the stables.
As Éomer and his riders rode out to find proof of the Isengard orcs Mellamir returned to the healer's house. Outside stood Éowyn, her dress drenched with tears, sweat, and blood, ripping in half a flag bearing a white stallion on a green field. "Théodred is dead."
Mellamir stood stunned for a moment, then turned around and started walking back the way she'd come. Almost as an afterthought, she turned and said, "See to your cousin's body. I will go tell the king and light the fire," and she disappeared down a side street. Éowyn went back inside and began the sad work she had been fortunate enough never to have to do before. She pulled off the topsheets and threw them into the fire. Then she took off Théodred's black boots, his mud-stained socks, and his worn pants and replaced them with fine silk socks, white linen pants, and fur-lined bootlets made of the white leather that came from a fawn. She took his sword and sheath from his old pants and tied it around his waist with a strip of fine velvet. She tried to take the tunic off but found that the dried blood had made it stick to his chest, so she cut off what she could, then pulled off the rest, taking with it a good bit of Théodred's skin. She burned the shirt, but the pants and the boots she saved for Théoden. She took a white linen strip and tied it around Théodred's chest so that his arm would lay flat. But that pushed all the air out of his chest, making him look weak, so she loosened the bandage a little, leaned down, and kissed her cousin, blowing air into him and inflating his chest a little. She stood up and turned around to get the white linen tunic out of the chest but bumped right into the man standing behind her.
He put his hand behind her back and pulled them closer together, their lips touching, before she finally recognized the greasy hair and the long, bony fingers. "Arrggh!" she yelled as she pushed Gríma Wormtongue away, out through the open door, and into the mud puddle in the street outside.
"My dear little princess," he said. "Am I really that much worse than a corpse? My, you look pale; all of this weeping isn't good for your complexion. What you need is a bit of color." Gríma brushed his hand across the mud, then got up, walked over to Éowyn, and slapped her squarely across the cheek. "There, that's better. Now, shall we try it again?"
"Never, Snake!" she snapped.
"Ah, Snake is it now?" he asked mockingly.
"Go ahead, banish me. I don't care."
"But don't you? Your cousin is dead, and your brother is banished. Yes, banished. And if the king should die -- these are, after all, dangerous days, accidents can be arranged, and he has been sick all winter -- then who would be left to take his throne? With no living family. I, of course, as his chief and dearest advisor, would humbly take the crown. You, being a woman, could never be King yourself. But Queen! You know that the woman's hand calms the savage heart." He approached. "Just one little kiss. Or shall we see what happens when the savage becomes the king?"
Éowyn saw she didn't have any choice. She closed her eyes and stood still. Wormtongue walked over to her and kissed her, again pulling her into his arms. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" But the look on Éowyn's face, drained of what little colour it had had, told Wormtongue otherwise. "Fool! Useless wench! What is the house of Éorl but a thatched barn where bandits drink in the stench, and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs?" He tore off his mud-covered cloak and threw it at her, covering her in its mud. "You'll want to clean that properly." And with that, he stalked out.
------
Mellamir stood far away, in the courtyard in front of Meduseld overlooking Edoras. It was three days later. She had ordered a great brass brazier to be brought into the courtyard, and in it, she had kindled a fire of hickory wood. Whenever a member of the royal house died, someone had to light the flame of memorial and watch it for a fortnight, day and night, starting as soon after the death as possible. Háma watched her tend the fire every day as he guarded the door to Meduseld, and every night, he would watch the flame for six hours while she slept. He wanted to do more, but she wouldn't let him. What is the world coming to? she thought. The king, whose mind was controlled by the snake. The prince, who died fighting an enemy that didn't exist. Éomer, exiled just when his country needed him most. And Éowyn, all alone to keep her nightly vigil over her cousin's body. Mellamir could see Éowyn standing by Théodred's grave and Wormtongue coming over and talking to her as the sun set. Ah, a lonely vigil would be so sweet! But the Worm wouldn't leave her alone; he harassed her through even those silent hours.
Suddenly a speck of a figure raced across the field. It was a horse -- Éomer! He shouldn't be here; Gríma would lock him away for sure. But Éomer didn't care. He had seen Éowyn's long blonde hair in the setting sun as she stood by one of the crypts, and guessed that Théodred must have died. And beside her, he saw a man he couldn't recognize from that distance. He assumed it was Théoden and rode forward to pay his final respects to his cousin. But then he saw who it really was. Éomer jumped off his horse and ran toward the two, but before he could even reach the Snake, Wormtongue's guards had grabbed him by his shoulders and were dragging him off to the lock-houses.