"You are now a true squire of Rohan, Merry."
Inside one of the tents of the Rohirrim camp, Éowyn personally placed a helmet on Merry's head.
"Wonderful!"
Merry looked overjoyed. He excitedly drew his sword, so hastily that he almost cut Éowyn, making her gasp in alarm.
"Oh, sorry!"
He quickly sheathed his sword again.
Éowyn glanced at the short blade, which seemed to glimmer faintly, and said, "That sword looks sharp, but it hasn't yet struck down an enemy, has it?"
Merry's expression dimmed a little.
"Yes, it is sharp, for it was blessed by Garrett, and there's magic flowing within it. But wherever it may be, I suppose it could be called a fine sword, a precious, sharp blade. Yet I couldn't use it to protect my friends. It's gathered dust in my hands. I've let down Garrett, and I've let down my companions."
"No one is asking you to do anything, Merry," Éowyn said softly.
"Yes... no one is asking. No one..." Merry murmured, lowering his head.
"But I feel I must do something. I can fight too. I can bear a part of the burden for my friends."
Éowyn was touched by his words. In truth, wasn't she just the same?
Only that...
"You can, Merry."
---
"You shouldn't be encouraging him to go to battle."
Moments later, outside the tent, a voice called out to Éowyn. She turned around and saw a familiar face.
"Brother, you're back!"
She looked surprised and glad.
Her brother was none other than Éomer, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, who had been stationed in Eastfold to guard the hills near the falls against orc incursions.
"I received the messenger's word and only arrived this evening," Éomer explained. "Ten companies of riders came with me."
Seeing her brother filled Éowyn with joy, but soon that joy gave way to worry.
"But what about Eastfold? Are the garrisons there sufficient?"
"There's no need to worry. The situation there has changed."
Éomer thought for a moment before continuing, "Our enemies suddenly went mad and abandoned the Eastfold borders, gathering instead upon the Brown Lands, casting covetous eyes toward the Free Cities. But don't worry. I feared it might be some trick of theirs, so I left enough men to hold the line. Otherwise, I wouldn't have brought only ten companies."
"That's good," Éowyn sighed in relief.
"But back to what I said before, you shouldn't encourage that Hobbit to go to war."
"I think you shouldn't doubt him," Éowyn retorted.
"I don't doubt his sincerity," Éomer said, turning his gaze toward the direction Merry had gone. Shaking his head, he added, "I only doubt the length of his arm."
A Hobbit's arms were short to begin with, and he wielded a short sword. Truly...
Pfft.
Someone nearby stifled a laugh.
Éowyn turned and saw it was Théodred. He had clearly caught Éomer's meaning. Indeed, a Hobbit was ill-suited for the battlefield.
"Why?" Éowyn demanded. "Why must Merry stay behind? He has as much reason to fight as you do. Why can't he fight for the one he loves?"
Yes, fight for the one he loves. Even if that love is unreturned, a fragile, illusory love.
"You're just like that Hobbit. You don't understand what war truly is," Éomer said, his tone sharpening as if he'd caught some hidden meaning in her words.
"You've never experienced it. You wouldn't understand. War is no child's game. When flesh and blood, screams, and the horrors of battle take over, do you think he'll still stand and fight? Will that burning courage not be doused by the sight of cold corpses and pitiless eyes? He'll run, and that would be the right choice. War is a man's realm, Éowyn."
After he left, Théodred also stood and looked at his strong-willed cousin.
"Those who haven't seen battle don't understand its terror," he said. "All he may have is hot blood, but only those who've faced war's fire and still do not flinch are true warriors."
Éowyn fell silent, saying nothing more.
The army prepared in tense urgency.
---
By dawn, everyone was ready to depart.
At that time, Théoden came to see her again.
"Éowyn, I have left my instructions. For now, you shall lead our people in my stead. Go to Meduseld, sit upon my throne. I know that you have the strength to see all things well tended."
"Why me?" Éowyn asked, puzzled.
"Your brothers will ride with me to war. Of all our house, only you can free my heart from worry."
Théoden's answer should have brought comfort, but Éowyn felt her heart sink.
"What duty do you still ask of me, my king?"
"Duty?"
Théoden shook his head and smiled faintly. "No, Éowyn. I ask no more of you, nor should you linger over one whose time is ending. I only wish that you may... live in peace and joy."
Éowyn watched his back as he departed, silent for a long while.
After he was gone, she suddenly took up a sword, fastened her armor, and set a helmet upon her head, covering her face from all who might know her. That day, among the ranks of Rohan's host, there appeared one more unknown rider.
"You cannot ride with us, my dear squire of Rohan."
Elsewhere, as the army was making ready to depart, Merry came before King Théoden, pleading to march beside them.
But Théoden refused him, again and again, without mercy. Then the horns of departure sounded. The host of Rohan set forth, riding eastward.
As Merry stood there, filled with anxious sorrow that he could not go to battle with his friends, suddenly a passing rider leaned down and swept him up onto the saddle before them.
"Shh."
---
The final act was about to begin.
Across the plains of Rohan, tens of thousands of horsemen thundered eastward, riding day and night.
Meanwhile, deep within Gondor, a small company emerged from the Paths of the Dead, racing east as well, sending word to the nearby cities and fiefs, calling their forces to gather and ride to the aid of Minas Tirith. And along the way, with the aid of the Dead, they swept their enemies from the road.
Out upon the sea, the vast fleet of the City of Waters sailed silently toward Pelargir, none knowing how much turmoil those great ships would soon stir.
Within Gondor, the city gates opened wide, and the White Wizard rode swiftly up to the high court of the Citadel, to bring counsel to the Steward. This time, the Steward did not greet him with his usual obstinacy or despair.
"All that you have spoken of, Mithrandir, I already know," Denethor said. "The White Tower is not yet veiled in shadow. Through the seeing-stone I have beheld Garrett's return, and I have discerned his design."
"What did you see?" Gandalf's brow furrowed. Something was amiss. He had been gone only a few days, and already there were happenings even he had not foreseen.
"I saw Garrett, and the Hobbit beside him. They are drawing the Enemy's gaze away, buying us time, and giving those two Hobbits at the front a chance to turn back. Those two foolish ones, who would bear the weapon back to the Enemy..."
"How do you know this?" Gandalf demanded.
"How do I know?" Denethor gave a bitter laugh. "Because I have a son who thinks himself noble and wise. He let those two Hobbits go, believing it a wise choice, never seeing that the Enemy was laughing all the while!"
"I said it long ago. If anyone were to go into that valley, it should have been him, not Boromir."
At the mention of Boromir, Denethor's face softened slightly. Suddenly, he asked, "I've heard that Boromir traveled with you for a time. Tell me, Mithrandir, how is he?"
Gandalf looked steadily at Denethor, seeing the feverish light in the man's eyes, and replied coolly, "He is well, better than you. Both your sons have escaped the spell of Isildur's Bane. Only you still cling to it. Be wise, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the Realm."
"I am wise," Denethor cried. "Wiser than ever! I know your plans, you and Aragorn. You've joined hands to use me, to use Gondor to hold back Mordor, and then you'll cast me aside to take my place."
"You're the only one who ever thought that way," Gandalf said bluntly. "You've grown too stubborn. Once, long ago, the Steward I knew was wise, strong, and discerning. Even when we disagreed, he could still see the greater good. But now his mind is filled only with greed, and hardened beyond reason."
"Truth is not determined by your tongue alone," Denethor retorted.
Gandalf narrowed his eyes. "You'll learn your lesson soon enough."
"Out! I will not hear your madness!" Denethor barked, driving him from the hall.
Gandalf stood at the great doors, calm, untroubled.
Thrown out? So be it.
As he had just said, when a certain person arrived, if Denethor still held that attitude, he would surely suffer for it. As for that person's movements...