Chapter 390: Setting Out
"You're a true Rohan squire now, Merry."
Inside a tent in the Rohirrim camp, Éowyn fastened a helmet onto Merry's head with her own hands.
"This is wonderful!"
Merry looked blissfully happy. He drew his sword in excitement and nearly nicked Éowyn, making her gasp.
"Oh, sorry!" Merry hurriedly sheathed it again.
Éowyn glanced at the short sword, which seemed to gleam faintly, and said, "It looks razor-sharp, but it hasn't yet struck down an enemy."
Merry's excitement dimmed.
"Yes. It really is sharp. Levi blessed it, and there's magic running through it." He lowered his eyes. "Anywhere else, I suppose it would be a fine sword. A precious, sharp blade. But I couldn't protect my companions with it. It just gathered dust in my hand."
"I let Levi down, and I let my friends down."
"No one ever asked you to be anything you're not, Merry," Éowyn said softly, trying to comfort him.
"Yes. No one asked. No one..." Merry repeated, head bowed.
"But I feel like I have to do something. I can fight. I can carry some of the weight for my friends."
Éowyn listened, and something in her chest stirred.
Was she any different, really?
She hesitated only a moment, then said, "You can, Merry."
If only I were allowed to prove it.
...
"You shouldn't have encouraged him to go to war."
A short while later, outside the tent, a voice called out to Éowyn.
She turned and saw a familiar face.
"Brother, you're back!" Éowyn's surprise flared into genuine joy.
Her brother, Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, had been holding the East-mark, guarding the hills near the falls to keep Orcs from raiding their land.
Éomer explained, "I got the messenger's word and arrived this evening. I brought ten éoreds with me."
Seeing him brought Éowyn relief, and then immediately worry.
"But what of the East-mark? Are there enough Riders left to hold it?"
"You don't need to fear for that. Something has changed." Éomer's expression tightened as he recalled it. "Our enemies suddenly went mad. They all pulled away from the East-mark border and gathered in the Brown Lands, watching the Free City-States like wolves."
"But I didn't trust it either," he added. "I worried it was another trick, so I left what garrison was necessary. That's why I only brought ten companies here."
"That's good." Éowyn finally breathed easier.
Éomer's gaze slid toward the direction Merry had gone, and he returned to the earlier point.
"Still, Éowyn, you shouldn't have encouraged that hobbit to go to the battlefield."
Éowyn shot back, "I think you shouldn't doubt him."
"I don't doubt his sincerity," Éomer said.
He shook his head, then continued, dryly, "I'm doubting his reach."
A hobbit already had short arms, and he carried a short sword besides. It was a grim sort of joke.
Someone nearby let out a brief laugh.
Éowyn looked and saw Théodred, who had clearly caught Éomer's meaning.
Hobbits truly were not suited to war.
"Why not?" Éowyn demanded. "Why should Merry be forced to stay behind? He has no fewer reasons than you do to go."
"Why... can't he fight for the one he loves?"
Yes. Fight for the one he loved.
Even if that love was refused, unreal, nothing but a longing.
"You're the same as that hobbit," Éomer said, and there was something stern in his voice now. "You don't understand what war is."
As if he had heard something beneath her words, Éomer straightened and spoke with hard seriousness.
"You haven't lived through it. You can't know."
"War doesn't just kill. It ruins what's best in a man, and leaves what's worst."
"War isn't a game. When blood and screaming and the horror of the field take hold, do you still think he'll stand and keep fighting?"
"Will that hot courage survive cold corpses and eyes that have stopped seeing people as people?"
"He'll run. And it would be the correct choice."
Then he said, with meaning that cut deeper than the words alone, "War is a man's world, Éowyn."
After Éomer left, Théodred rose as well. He looked at his steadfast cousin and said quietly, "Those who haven't stood on a battlefield can't imagine it. Maybe all he has is a burst of brave blood."
"Only those who walk through war and still do not fear it are true warriors."
Éowyn fell silent. She did not answer.
The host prepared in urgent haste.
By dawn, everything was ready.
At that moment, Théoden came to her again.
"Éowyn, I've left instructions. For now, you will lead our people in my place. Go to the Golden Hall, sit upon my seat. I know you have the strength to hold things together."
"Why me?" Éowyn asked, confused.
"Your brothers will ride with me to war," Théoden said. "The only one at home who can let me ride without looking back is you."
It was an answer, but it made Éowyn's heart sink.
"What burden must I carry now, my king?" she asked softly.
"Burden?" Théoden shook his head and smiled, gentle as he could be. "No, Éowyn."
"Do not take more upon yourself. Do not cling to one whose end may be near. I only wish that you may be safe, and find joy."
Éowyn watched his back for a long time, wordless.
When Théoden was gone, she suddenly seized a keen blade, donned armor, and pulled on a helmet that hid her face.
That day, one more nameless soldier appeared among the Riders of Rohan.
"You cannot ride with us, my dear Rohan squire."
Elsewhere, as the host was about to depart, Merry hurried to Théoden and asked to ride with him.
Théoden refused him, more than once, without yielding.
Then the horns sounded. The army began to move, riding east.
Merry stood there, burning with panic that he could not go to the front and fight beside his companions, when suddenly a passing Rider leaned down, snatched him up with one arm, and set him in front.
"Shh," the Rider whispered.
...
Everything was rushing toward its final chapter.
Across the plains of Rohan, more than ten thousand Riders drove east, day and night, without pause.
At the same time, deep in Gondor, a small company emerged from the Paths of the Dead and rode hard east as well. They carried word to nearby towns and fiefs, calling them to gather their forces and march to the aid of Minas Tirith.
Along the way, they also used the army of the Dead to sweep aside the enemy in their path.
On the sea, the vast fleet of the Water City cut across the waves, steady and calm as it sailed for Pelargir. No one could yet see how many hidden currents those great ships would stir.
In Gondor, the gates of the White City opened. The White Wizard rode in, straight up toward the highest level of the Citadel, bringing counsel to the Steward.
This time, the Steward showed neither stubbornness nor despair.
"Everything you speak of, Mithrandir, I already know," Denethor said. "The White Tower has not been covered in darkness. In the stone, I foresaw Levi's return, and I sensed his design."
"What did you see?" Gandalf's brow furrowed. Something felt off. Only a few days away, and events had moved beyond even his knowledge.
"I saw Levi, and the hobbit beside him," Denethor said. "They drew the Enemy's gaze away, buying us time, and buying the two hobbits at the front a chance to turn back."
"Those two fools," Denethor added, voice sharpening, "who mean to hand a weapon back to the Enemy..."
"How do you know that?" Gandalf demanded.
"How do I know?" Denethor gave a cold laugh. "Because I have a son who thinks himself noble. He let those two hobbits go. He believes it was wise, not understanding that the Enemy is laughing."
"I said it long ago. If anyone was to go to Rivendell, it should have been him, not Boromir..."
At the name, Denethor's face eased slightly. He asked abruptly, "I heard Boromir traveled with you for a time. Tell me, Mithrandir. How is he?"
Gandalf looked at Denethor, at the strained, half-fevered edge in him, and answered flatly, "He's well. Far better than you."
"Your two sons have already slipped free of Isildur's bane. You're the only one still clinging to it in your heart."
"Wake up, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the realm."
"I am awake," Denethor snapped, voice rising. "Awake as never before. I know what you intend. You and Aragorn, working together, mean to use me, use Gondor to hold back Mordor, and then cast me aside so he can take my place..."
"The only one who thinks like that is you," Gandalf said bluntly. "You've grown too stubborn."
"Years ago, the Steward I knew was wise, strong, and clear-eyed. Even when there were disagreements, he could still tell what mattered."
"Now there's only greed left in his mind, and it has made him rigid."
"Right and wrong aren't decided by your mouth," Denethor said, unmoved.
Gandalf narrowed his eyes. "Sooner or later, you're going to be struck down for that."
"Out," Denethor said harshly. "I won't listen to your nonsense."
He drove Gandalf from the chamber.
Gandalf stood at the great doors, calm, not angry at all.
Out was out.
Just as he had said, when a certain someone arrived, if Denethor still held this attitude, he would learn what pain tasted like.
And as for that person's movements...