DEFINING MOMENT

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

TA 3018

Edoras

Éowyn heard the loud voices of men outside of the Meduseld. Théoden's eyes flickered towards the door. "What could that be, Éowyn?"

Éowyn gave him a smile. "Or rather, whom could that be?" Surely not Gandalf, for it would be muted, and there would be a sombre Háma opening the great doors to let the wizard in. The sounds of the men seemed excited and almost...happy.

If there was such a thing. Her uncle was ill, and he wasn't getting any better. Sometimes, he grew violent, as if he'd lost his mind. Then he'd collapse into his throne, weeping loudly. It made Éowyn's heart wrench, but what could she do? Everyone knew to get out of the way when the King flew into his rages.

Once, after a fit, Théoden had begged Gríma to take his sword and put it away for safe-keeping. Éowyn hated that command. For a king's glory was in his sword. Gríma, almost eagerly, snatched the sword away and transported it to somewhere hidden. The King's authority had yet been stripped to a lower level.

The great doors creaked open, and Éowyn quickly took her place beside Théoden's throne. Háma held the doors wide open, and Éomer and Théodred and a strange man stepped into the Meduseld.

He was a great man, tall with broad shoulders. She noted his proud face and stern look, but she forgave him as he looked around him at the Meduseld in wonder. She almost expected him to fasten his eyes on her and hold her gaze, and she braced herself for it. She hated it when men looked at her as if she were only a prize to be won. Yet this man only glanced at her before turning to Théoden.

He walked up to the throne as if he were a prince and bowed lowly. Was he a prince? His garments were undoubtedly rich, and the great horn on his baldric had been tipped in silver.

"My lord," he said, looking into Théoden's eyes without any hesitation. "I am Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor, and son of the Steward of Gondor, Denethor II."

"Oh?" Théoden asked weakly, then coughed into his sleeve. "Rohan welcomes you, Boromir son of Denethor. What brings you to the Meduseld in such times as these?"

A strange look crossed Boromir's eyes, and he now glanced at Gríma. "I have had a dream, Théoden King. My brother Faramir had it thrice, and I only once. Yet I, being the elder, took it upon myself to find answers to the dream. I cannot stay here long, for my travels take me to Imladris."

"I have never heard of the place," Théoden said, his voice sounding weak and gravelly.

Éowyn hadn't heard of the place Imladris, but wherever it was, if it even existed, it sounded beautiful.

Boromir smiled wryly. "'T is Rivendell. Mayhap you've heard of that?"

Théoden looked like an old man gasping with his lips open for more air. He breathed in a gulp before answering, "Aye, where the Homely House stands. I do not know if anyone lives there, but perhaps there are still Elves there."

"I know not," Boromir said honestly. "I do not know if I shall even survive the journey." His eyes turned hard. "But I must have answers to my dream."

"If fate sent the dream to you, sir, then I'm sure you will find the answers," Éowyn finally spoke. She didn't know why she spoke, but she felt something in her heart for this man. She wanted him to succeed.

Boromir finally looked towards Éowyn, and his face lost the hard stare. "'T is my greatest wish, fair lady."

"You will stay in a lodging house tonight, will you not, Lord Boromir?" Théoden asked. "The Meduseld is known for its hospitality."