Eomer stood at the foot of his uncle's grave and the wind whipped his cloak and tunic and spilled his hair into his stinging eyes. Next to Theoden's grave was the freshly turned mound of his only son, Theodred, the one who should have been King of Rohan. The customary frown appeared between Eomer's eyes as he considered the events that had taken Theodred from him and his people.
Imrahil stood back a little and allowed Eomer his privacy. As they had traveled to Edoras, Imrahil had begun to see some of what troubled the young king and his heart ached for him. Newly budded white flowers sprouted on the grave nearest to Theoden's and Imrahil wondered what secrets the prince had taken with him to his mound. Glancing towards the wooden gates, the prince saw Gandalf standing outlined in the fading sun.
"My lord?" He moved closer to Eomer, though he did not touch the volatile man. "The feast cannot begin until you are in the Golden Hall."
Eomer looked up from the tilled earth and unshed tears sparkled on his lashes. He nodded once to show his understanding and then turned towards the city with bent shoulders and bowed head.
Imrahil longed to comfort the young king, but did not know how or, even if, the proud man would allow it. He saw the sorrow of too many heartaches and wondered at the pride of Rohirrim that would not allow them even a moment to give in to their grief.]] They climbed the steep road together and, with Gandalf at Eomer's side, entered the Golden Hall of Rohan's kings to loud cheers.
Trestle tables lined both sides of the long room with a brazier in the center.
Over the brazier roasted a whole oxen and women moved among the tables setting
down pitchers of foaming ale and loaves freshly baked bread. The people rose
as their king entered and moved to take his place at the head of the room,
where a low dais bore the carved wooden chair of the Eorlingas' Kings.
Eomer straightened his shoulders and wiped the deep frown from his face. His full lips curved behind his mustache as he his brown eyes surveyed the survivors of Helm's Deep and the Battle of the Pelennor Fields and even the last stand before the Black Gates. Too few, he thought, there are too few of you now. But he did not allow his worries to show in his eyes. Gandalf waited at the table to his right, along with his sister, and much of the fellowship who’d traveled so far from Rivendell on that fateful Autumn eve.
A mug was placed in his hand and he raised it aloft, in salute to those in the hall. "To the many great heroes," he said and then drank deeply from the cup. The hall shared in the toast and cheers erupted again.
Staring around at the smiling faces, Eomer felt a surge of pride. His people, he thought, fondly, weathered whatever storms blew across their path. They buried their dead with the same ceremony and eagerness that they toasted their victories. "Many changes have fallen on the us in the past few months, but we have come through them. Now is the time to lay aside our mourning and begin rebuilding our lands and our homes. Now is the time to set aside our grief for the fallen and celebrate, instead, the living."
All raised their mugs in salute and shouted. "Hail, King Eomer!"
He made a small motion with his hand and platters were distributed among the tables to loud cheers and the banging of mugs on wooden tables. The king stepped down from his dais and approached the table of his friends. When they made to rise, he motioned them back into their seats. "Nay, let us not have any more formality among us, those who have survived the worst and come out the stronger for it." So saying, he seated himself on the bench beside Aragorn and across from his sister.
The feast was followed by bards reciting the deeds of their heroes, both ancient and recent. Music followed the bards and dancing accompanied the music. Food and drink never ceased flowing and even the hobbits, insatiable as they seemed, found the food too plentiful for even their bellies. At last, Eomer was able to again slip away from the merry makers and walked through the dark streets alone, making his way to the road leading into Edoras. The wind blew his brown cloak about his legs as he walked unerringly towards the grave of his cousin. In a niche cut into the side of the cliff, small jars of incense burned and sent their thin, acrid smoke drifting on the breeze.
He sat down, among the tall grasses and starred for a long time at the night sky. He counted the stars, seeking familiar constellations as he used to do when he was a child. Then, he had companions with whom to share his stargazing. Eowyn would come, sometimes, in defiance of nurses. Mostly, his time was spent with Theodred. As they grew older, they would share secrets and tell each other of the valorous deeds they planned to do in the name of Rohan. Under the velvet canopy of stars, they shared their first kiss.
"So here lies the answer to my question."
Eomer returned to the present and half rose to his feet at the sound of the unwelcome voice. "And what question was that?" He bristled both at the intrusion and at the slightly superior tone.
Imrahil stood at the head of Theodred's mound and his dark blue robes clung to his thighs and calves. "Do you not remember when we spoke of my nephew's refusal of your sister's suit upon the walls of Minas Tirith? Do you not recall that I asked you if you had never lain next to another warrior and wondered if there lay your soul mate?"
Eomer's dark eyes scanned the ground, seeking some appropriate answer that would send Dol Amroth's prince scurrying back up the hill. Yet, he had witnessed the prince's prowess in battle, and he knew it would take much to ward off the cagey warrior.
"Indeed, so I do, Prince Imrahil. What has that to do with my sitting beneath the stars and mourning the loss of my kin?"
"Is that all that you mourn?" Imrahil stepped away from the mound and moved on silent feet towards the niche.
Eomer struggled with his temper even as his heart cried out at the fresh wounds caused by the prince's words. "Whatever it is you mean to say, say it and be gone," Eomer spat, at last out of patience and cornered.
Imrahil knelt before the incense burners and laid a small, carved statue among them. "Peace, Eomer, Rohan King. I have not come to torment you more than your memories all ready do. I came to offer a token to the deceased. I did not mean to intrude."
Curiosity and frustration warred within Eomer. Curiosity won out. "What is it?"
"It is a soap stone horse." Imrahil smiled in the darkness. "I thought it an appropriate gift for a horse lord."
A smile touched Eomer's face. Theodred, he knew, would have delighted in such an object. "He would have liked that."
Imrahil moved away from the niche and came to stand beside Eomer. He was drawn to the strong-willed blond warrior and he couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the boisterous refusal to compromise. Perhaps it was the self-confidence born of years of commanding men far older than he was. Lightly he touched Eomer's shoulder and felt the muscles bunch beneath his palm. "Theodred has made his way to the halls of your forefathers, my lord. You, on the other hand, have many years to go before you can join him. Will you sit by his grave, like an old man, bent before your time and longing for death? Is this what he would have wanted for you, his cousin and lover?"
Eomer stared in wonder at Imrahil, amazed at how the older man had so easily struck at the truth. "I have never had the chance to mourn him."
"Mourn him, by all means, my lord, but do not mourn so much that you join him. The people of Rohan need you; they need your broad shoulders to carry them through the aftermath of war. Fear not the love of others, for they are the strength to carry you through these dark hours." Imrahil gave Eomer's shoulder a final squeeze and then turned and made his way up the hill.
Eomer sat back down next to Theodred's grave
and allowed his tears to flow freely for the first time since the marshal's
death.
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