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Éothain had survived the Battle of Pelennor Fields, but he wished he had not.
Every day began with pain and ended with pain.
Some of the pain was bizarre. After all, how exactly was it that he had lost his leg, yet he still felt the length and breadth of it, burning as if suspended in boiling water?
And yet the healers said this was expected. They even had a name for it: phantom leg.
His real leg was somewhere in Pelennor fields, and they never found it. Instead, he had a fleshy stump just below the knee, and someday, he would have a wooden peg. The healers promised he would walk and even ride again.
They said it like it was meant to be a comfort, and perhaps it was. But the healers knew, and Éothain knew that his days in the éored were over. He would walk someday, and maybe even ride, but fighting on horseback was out of the question. The éored needed whole, able-bodied men.
And then there was the other pain: not of the body, but it seared just as much.
Éothain despised the man in the next room. Well, room was a charitable word. Several Riders, all with missing of damaged limbs, were housed in a large, stately hall divided by sheets of suspended canvas. The man in the “room” next to his was called Heruwine, and he hailed from Aldburg and rode with Elfhelm, the Second Marshall.
Heruwine was everything Éothain was not. He was dark where Éothain was fair, and tall and broad where Éothain was lightly built. Heruwine was also a poet as well as a Rider, and he was charismatic and popular. His room was chock-full of visitors nearly every day, who came to share the news and listen to his compositions.
Heruwine even carried on a flirtation – and likely more – with one of the assistant healers, a quiet, lovely woman with fair hair and serene features. Her name was Tawarien.
She cared for Éothain as well, but she never lingered in his room like she did in Heruwine’s. She never laughed at his attempts at jokes. Even when he told her point blank that he was lonely, she lowered her eyes, made empathetic hums, and made herself scarce.
And it stood to reason. No woman had ever paid attention to Éothain, except for women paid to do so. He was not handsome, nor an engaging conversationalist, and his rank and armor did nothing for him. Nor did his erudition. For instance, he knew how to read and write, which in Rohan was rare, and he read every book he could get his hands on. But his knowledge got lost somewhere between his mind and his lips, and if by some miracle it formed into words, they emerged ponderous and pedantic.
Yes, some people truly had it all while some had none. Éothain rued that simple, unforgiving truth as he glared at his ceiling day by day.
Come to think of it, that son of a bitch Heruwine could make even fishing sound engaging. He had entire ballads about it, which gathered listeners from every wing of the Houses.
But that was not even the worst thing. The worst thing was, Heruwine got his arm nearly ripped off, but nearly was the crucial word. The healers repaired it with tendons from his fallen horse, and now, Heruwine was in a stiff, uncomfortable cast, but he had every chance of wielding a sword again.
Yes, Heruwine had a chance, whereas Éothain had none. He was living proof that “nearly” was the gulf between everything and nothing at all.
It was enough to weep over, but Éothain never did. Instead, he imagined stealing into Heruwine’s room and strangling him with a pillow.
Yes, that would have been a fine thing. To take away everything Heruwine had, and had so undeservedly.
But then again… With his luck, he would be caught and charged with murder. Or Heruwine would overpower him even with a cast, and he would be charged with attempted murder, which was almost worse, for the penalty was exile rather than death.
And so Éothain stewed and tossed in his narrow bed, trying not to listen to Heruwine’s voice speak of his favorite things: love, hunting and war, and racing on horseback across the plains.
Éothain had no friends here, and so nobody to talk to. War was an ugly thing, while hunting was dull, and love? He might have laughed.
But then one day, chance came knocking.
Chance, we are told, comes in many forms. Sometimes legends spring out of the grass, things you never knew existed except in books. Sometimes, it is the death of a kinsman you barely know who leaves you a modest fortune. Sometimes, it is an older, retired Rider who sees something in you that you do not.
That day, chance came in the form of Lady Éowyn.
She knocked on the pole that fixed the canvas dividers in place, and strode in almost immediately, her leg swingling from her hip.
Lady Éowyn had a way of moving that was less like woman-like than most women. None of the willow-like swaying and downcast eyes like Tawarien, for instance.
She crossed the room in two steps, her movements fluid and matter-of-fact.
“Well, hello there, friend Éothain.” Her smile was warm, and she sat on the three-legged stool that healers used. “How goes it?”
“Oh, can’t complain, my lady.”
He tried for a nonchalant smile, but the burning was back, so the smile turned out sardonic.
Éowyn bowed her head.
“Ah, well, it could always be worse, is that not so? You might have lost your life instead of your limb.”
“Yes, so everyone says.”
There was a silence as she glanced over his blanket: the place where it lay flat when it should have made a hill.
She ran one hand over the other, blinking.
“Well, in any event,” she said, “I come with a message from my brother. He would have come himself, but he was detained by the Steward. He says – well, now that your days as a Rider are likely at an end, he is looking for a man to aid him with his correspondence, as well as other matters of state. Keeping accounts and records, drafting royal decrees and bills, that manner of thing. And we thought that with your learning and keen mind, there is much to recommend you for such a task.”
Éothain stared at her dumbly.
“Me?”
Éowyn nodded, her smile growing wider. She placed her palms on her thighs.
“Truly, Éothain” – she smiled – “you must say yes. There is none better suited for the task, I can say that with absolute certainty. And were you not seeking to be a scholar, before you became a Rider? You must be clever enough with a quill already.”
She paused, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
“Truly, Éothain, you must say yes. There is none better suited for the task, I can say that with absolute certainty. And were you not seeking to be a scholar, before you became a Rider? You must be clever enough with a quill already.”
Éothain nodded, meditative and slow, and fixed his eyes on his legs under the blanket.
How odd, he thought. His heart ought to have been glad, but all he felt was dizzy – like his head would separate from his shoulders and float away.
“Well, then, if it is His Majesty’s will…”
Éowyn straightened where she sat, and clasped her long white hands before her.
“Why, of course it is his will! My brother will be overjoyed to hear it. And you can start as soon as the healers give you leave. For there is much to be done, and time does not wait for any man, especially a king.”
After Éowyn left, Éothain rested quietly and watched the flicker of sun across the floor. It was the hour of midday rest, but still, there was plenty of coughing, clinking of silverware, and shuffling of chairs and feet.
Him, a royal secretary?
Éomer, he supposed, had always been a friend to him, but he was a friend to everyone. As a result, he quickly climbed in the ranks – though being the King’s nephew and capable with a spear was no hindrance. But to think he might distinguish a man like him?
It made him giddy in an embarrassing way, so he closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing.
But he was not destined to rest for long.
“Well-well, my friend, have we got us a promotion?”
That voice.
That cheerful, vigorous voice that had grated his ears a hundred times a day from the moment he arrived.
Éothain opened his eyes, and sure enough, there was Heruwine. Or rather his head, poking around the canvas and smiling wide.
Éothain made no answer, and the corners of his mouth drooped.
“Ah, but where are my manners? Well met!” The rest of Heruwine appeared from beyond the curtain: broad shoulders, broad chest, and a white, angled cast with a sling over his shoulder.
He shuffled in, and immediately filled the room. His movements were like his voice: vigorous and sweeping.
“Well-well, I say, a King’s secretary!” He grinned. “You lucky bastard. What say you? How about a drink?”
For a moment, Éothain raised eyebrows, but he dropped them just as soon.
“Hm, but aren’t you not supposed to?” he replied. “I heard the healers say so, and Lord Elfhelm too. Something about a national treasure of a brain?”
A scoff stole into his voice, and Heruwine sat gingerly on the chair.
“Ah, yes, that may be so,” he said. “But one drink won’t steal too many verses. And we can bribe the porter easily enough.”
The sun danced on his coal-dark eyes, and his face, fair and eager, was like a boy’s, running home with good news.
Heruwine crossed his legs, and looked about the room with a proprietary air.
“Hmm, well, this here is an odd thing,” he said. “I haven’t been here much before. But it seems your room is at least a hand’s breadth wider… That is unjust to say the least.”
Éothain bit his lips, shifting upward on the pillows. His leg was still giving him pain, but the burning had grown dull.
“Well, yes, that it may be,” he said. “But you have your healer’s heart, and I think that puts the score in your favor.”
“Ah, yes, well, that I do.” Heruwine smiled, his eyes growing soft.
“Which is why you’re buying,” Éothain insisted, folding his arms over his chest. “Take it or leave it. After all, I haven’t come into my position yet, and I’m hardly made of coin – though even if I were, I would hardly wish to lose much more of myself.”