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The spoon went flying and clattered across the stone floor, leaving a splatter of gruel along its course. Théoden was flailing on his throne and sputtering an incomprehensible flow of groans and screams.
‘I can't do this anymore,’ roared Éowyn. ‘I can't.’
Éomer leaned over the doorstep and waited for a lull in the commotion.
‘Hey sister, what is going on?’
She sank into a chair, heaving. ‘Lately he has been everyday like this. It's getting worse. Something is wrong. Or I'm doing it all wrong. I hate this. I can’t.’
Éomer walked up to her and pressed his hands on her shoulders. He wished he could soothe her sobs as intuitively as he knew how to calm a young horse, with a steady presence, gentle touches and low, slow sounds. But his sister’s distress was beyond the reach of these familiar remedies; he fought a creeping feeling of inadequacy.
‘You're doing your best, I'm sure he will be fine.’
He felt at once how weak his words were. She shook her head and her frustration seemed to grow again. He sighed and looked around.
‘Where is Gríma?’
The king perked up at the name, and called for his advisor in garbled cries.
‘Oh perfect,’ wailed Éowyn, ‘am I supposed to be keeping track of Gríma along with all of this?’
‘No, no, forget it. Don't worry about that vile worm. Sorry.’ He pressed his chin on the crown of her head. ‘Perhaps you need to take a break.’
‘But he didn't eat anything yet, his health—’
The king yelled louder still. She covered her ears and leaned over her knees, hiding behind curtains of hair.
‘Go have some rest,’ Éomer insisted. ‘I am here, I can take charge for once. My men have their orders already, I am as free as I will ever get.’
‘But you don’t know how he—’
‘I'm sure I can manage. Come on, go have a bath, or a nap, or a ride, or something. Go!’ Éomer waved her out of the hall.
Éowyn stormed away in a huff. The king’s screams decreased and faltered into a moan.
‘Well, uncle,’ exhaled Éomer, ‘it's only you and I, now.’
He found a clean spoon and took the bowl, still full of a lukewarm, runny gruel. Leaning away, Théoden looked at him defiantly. He was growling like a cornered beast.
‘Come on, we need to get something inside of you! Open your mouth, and let’s get this over with!’
The king scowled at him savagely. Éomer became aware of his own scowl, the scowl he wore everywhere in these troubled days. He strove to unknot his brow, and forced a wide smile. He spoke softer.
‘Come on, old man, it will do you good!’
The king’s lips parted hesitantly. Éomer spotted the opening like a breach in an enemy's defense and shoved the spoon into his mouth, but Théoden jerked away, spilling gruel all over his beard and bleating his discontent.
‘Oh, sorry... I am sorry my lord, this was not the gentlest. I will do better.’
A string of horrible expletives emerged of the muttering, along with repeated calls for Gríma’s assistance. Éomer sighed. He felt a drop of the immense frustration in which his sister soaked daily, with barely any respite. He felt cool strands of guilt, helplessness and despair begin to choke the love he had for the man who his uncle used to be.
But he collected himself. Like in battle, despair was a sure way towards defeat. And like with a nervous horse, trust had to be built slowly, little by little, with careful attention. Could he not use the seemingly infinite patience he could muster with horses, to care for his own kin? Perhaps he could try something else. Perhaps the same instincts that allowed him to appease an agitated, helpless soul in the pen would reveal to him how to soothe and comfort his wary and confused uncle.
With a new resolve in mind, Éomer shrugged at the king's continued snarl, and he sat on the steps before the throne. He swished around the contents of the bowl and smiled.
‘It's a good thing that I'm quite hungry, if you aren't, my lord. Indeed, I've always had quite the appetite. At the éored, they say that I would eat my own horse, if I didn't need him to get around and, you know, fight and all that.’
Théoden kept growling, and bark-like eructations shook his frail frame. Éomer paid him no mind and carried on.
‘On the other hand, I wonder if Fýrfot would eat me if he could. Oh, did I tell you? The other day, as I bent over to pick his front left hoof - yes, exactly, the one where he had an abscess, but it's all set now, thanks for asking, my lord - as I bent over then, I know not what seized him, but suddenly he turned and he bit me in the... Heh! I was glad to have my chain mail on.’
The king went silent. He looked at him with more curiosity than defiance.
‘He's got teeth like a war dog, that boy! Well I had to ensure that the grooms feed him enough - I am fully aware that my derriere is uncommonly alluring, at least if the stares of the girls of Aldburg are to be believed, but I doubt that Fýrfot has these kinds of tastes when he is in his right mind and health - so then I inquired as to whether they feed him enough, and it turns out that... What is it my lord, are you feeling peckish too?’
Théoden stared at him. Éomer scooted closer and heaped a dollop of gruel on the spoon.
‘You can have a taste if you want, my lord.’
The old man's confused eyes went from the spoon to his face.
‘Or I eat it all myself, we can do that too, if you prefer.’
He squatted at his feet and took a few mouthfuls as the king watched him. He burst into enthusiastic exclamations of delight.
‘Hmm, it's not that bad, really! Are you quite sure you don't want any of it, my lord?’
The king slowly shifted towards him. His eyes were a little more reassured, and he opened his mouth expectantly. Éomer presented him with a half-full spoon; this time, he would be patient. The stiff, crooked fingers touched and followed his hand as he brought it to his mouth.
When the king’s lips sealed over the bite, Éomer realized that he had opened and closed his own mouth along with his, just like he had seen women and wet nurses do when feeding small children. As the bowl emptied, bite after bite, he wondered at how naturally the words of encouragement and the gentle gestures had come to him. He had never fancied himself a particularly caring and attentive person, at least not unless horses were involved, and above all he had not imagined himself taking over this kind of task. At last he put the empty dishes aside, moved a chair closer to the throne, and sat to wipe his uncle’s beard.
Éomer observed that Théoden’s mouth quivered as if he wanted to speak. His eyes were now alive with thoughts and questions. Éomer watched him calmly, rubbing the fur that covered his hunched shoulders. At last words took shape, in a slow, hoarse whisper.
‘Who are you?’
Éomer’s throat tightened. ‘Uncle, do you not know me?’
Théoden’s wrinkles tightened with incomprehension. Guilt sank in Éomer’s stomach: in the midst of all he had to handle lately in Aldburg, he had not come in Edoras often enough. He should have expected that, between too rare visits, he would have slipped from his uncle’s wispy memory. He had only himself to blame for it. But then, being forgotten was perhaps less painful than to hear repeated the bitter, slanderous words that Gríma had planted for him in the king’s sick mind. He took a deep breath, smiled and bowed.
‘I am Éomer Éomund’s son, at your service.’ The king hummed vaguely and closed his eyes. Éomer felt the need to fill the silence, to avoid letting him slip away into anxious fog again. He straightened and took on a cheerful attitude. ‘Do you happen to like horses, sir?’
‘Horses?’ The old man squinted. ‘Yes, I like horses. I had… a horse.’ He cleared his throat and nodded slowly. ‘Yes… when I was a boy… The summer, I rode… Pssh, to the river. Yes… I rode horses. Mine was a good horse. Black and white. A good mare. Pssh, in the water. She loved the water, yes…’
He swayed in hazy remembrance, but soon he turned again to Éomer.
‘Are you a rider yourself, son?’
‘Aah, I dabble. But I hear that you sir were quite the horseman in your younger years.’
‘Yes… A horseman, yes, I was. Oh, I had a mare as a boy. Beautiful, beautiful mare. In the summer… When it was hot, I ran from my masters. I said, pssh, too hot, too hot for lessons. I rode her, psssh, down to the river. She liked to walk in the water. She would…’ He moved his arm up and down, mimicking a horse’s forelimb. ‘Splash, splash!’
‘That is what I call a good bit of fun!’
‘Higera, her name. I never forgot that.’ He got lost in a daydream for an instant. Then he blinked and tapped Éomer’s arm, searching for threads of thought. ‘You… You are a strong chap, you must be a rider yourself?’
Éomer chuckled. ‘I have been known to enjoy a good gallop.’
‘So did I, as a boy. I had a mare, her name was Higera. That, I never forgot.’ He tapped his temple with a knowing smirk. Éomer nodded encouragingly.
‘A beautiful creature… Higera, a piebald. When it was hot, I told my masters, too hot! Pssh, no lessons, too hot! And she took me down to the river. All the way… pssh, down to the river, by the little path, you know yourself? And… uh…’
‘She splashed?’
‘Oh yes! Splash! The water. She walked in the water. A good horse, she loved it. Pssh, she soaked us.’
‘Oh would she! With her hooves? Then she was not afraid of water?’
‘Nooo, no! She would follow Théodwyn in the water.’ Éomer’s heart fluttered; he did not often hear his mother’s name. ‘Théodwyn jumped in the river. And Higera she… She…’ He vigorously imitated the splashes with both his arms and slashing sounds.
Éomer joined in. He pretended to get drenched by more than the spit with which his sputtering uncle was showering him, squealed in delight and retaliated with equally boisterous splashes. Laughing heartily, the king shielded himself and caught his nephew’s arm in its course. He panted, and Éomer felt the creaky fingers squeezing his wrist insistently.
‘And you, you must be a rider yourself, son?’
Éomer leaned back with a smile and gave up on reasoning. ‘To be true, I have never been near a horse in my entire life, my lord.’
‘Oooh, have you! Oh… Well they are amazing creatures. They have a way of… They see right through your heart. They teach you... You are a good strong lad, and kind. You could become quite the horseman in no time.’
Éomer amused himself with an effusion of falsely modest protestations.
‘No, I assure you,’ continued the king. ‘I am quite sure. I will ask, oh, what’s his name… That good chap from the East… Théodwyn’s sweetheart…’ He jiggled his fingers to call back his memory.
Éomer swallowed, hoping to keep his voice from trembling. ‘My lord, do you mean… Éomund?’
‘Ah! That’s the man! Éomund! We will ask Éomund to saddle a good schoolmaster for you. And then we should all go on a ride together, one of these days.’
‘It would be my greatest pleasure, my lord.’ He could not have been more sincere.
‘What is your name again, son?’
‘I am Éomer, son of Éomund.’
‘Oh, Éomund’s son! Oooh… Pardon me, boy, my memory… Sometimes, it is not what it used to be.’
‘No worries my lord, it happens to the best of us.’
Théoden fell again into a melancholic contemplation. Éomer, too, was tempted to ponder over the scenes that had just been evoked, but he thought it better to keep his uncle alert for the time being. He slapped his knees.
‘My lord, shall we sing a song?’
‘A song?’
‘I’m sure you know this one!’
It was a song they had sung together decades ago, when Éomer would wait for their ales to make spirits merry and slip from behind his father's chair to climb on his uncle's lap and beg for stories and rhymes. It was a silly, jolly song where a string of horse sounds grew longer and longer at each instance of the chorus. Éomer took charge of the fast-paced, tongue-twisting lyrics, but Théoden poured his whole heart into equine imitation. He snorted and nickered and neighed and clip-clopped. He squealed like a stallion and clacked his teeth like a foal.
The song was barely over, that he started it again, with redoubled excitement. His whinnies were particularly life-like. Éomer tried matching him, but he was soon overpowered by a debacle of neighs and screams that would have put to shame the whole of the king’s stables at meal time. He burst out laughing, which spurred Théoden even further in his mimicking spree, and soon he could only collapse in howling fits.
Éowyn walked in and cocked her head at the scene.
‘What by Helm's beard is going on in here?’
Théoden gave a booming neigh that died away in a crumbling chuckle.
‘Aaaah! Uh...’ said Éomer, wiping tears of laughter. ‘Well, he ate everything. I mean, I helped him…’
He gestured to the empty bowl, but a playful shove to his shoulder given with another hearty whinny made him nearly tip it over. He caught it in time, but the spoon flew and met the first one on the floor with a merry clang. Éowyn looked with amazement at Théoden who was bouncing his legs as if he were ready to get up and run after his colts.
‘Brother, perhaps you should be the one doing this. Not I.’
‘And I suppose that you would prefer to go out there and fight in my place?’ He had not intended such a stingy retort, but his pride had let nothing else come to him.
‘Perhaps I would.’
Éomer got to his feet, stern again, and stood before her. Her gaze was fierce. He took her in his arms and rubbed her back.
‘Éowyn… we each have our place in this world. War is not yours. Have strength, for our uncle’s sake, and for mine.’
She buried her face in his shoulder and said nothing. After a moment, she shrank away and sat back down next to her uncle, who was crooning with a smile and a raspy voice.
As Éomer headed down the hill to his men and horses, he wondered if truly, his only place was to command, to fight and to kill.
Perhaps his place was up there at home, holding an old man’s hand. Taking a spoon to a trembling mouth. Listening to broken stories. Twisting wrinkles into smiles with songs and nonsense.
At least sometimes.