The Eastern Woman

The Marshal of the Mark

"I don't understand. He should have already returned." said Éomer, looking at the view beneath the leaden sky.

His cousin had left two days before with a handful of soldiers. Théodred was worried about their subjects living outside Edoras, in those isolated boroughs that were completely vulnerable to attacks. Rohan's soldiers had told him that they had surprised a group of Uruk-Hais right on the borders of the kingdom. Spies sent ahead, probably.

He had warned his father Théoden, who, however, seemed to have sunk into a state of catatonia: the young prince and the king's two grandnephews, Éomer and Éowyn, could not understand what was happening to him.

Alarmed, they had witnessed how the passing of days had covered with an invisible veil of death their King.
His face looked like a funerary mask, withered and pale. His beard had grown to the point of curling up to his lap, and his hair had become white and matted; his blue eyes were always half-closed and lost in some strange vision.

The worst, the most painful aspect of the matter, was that he had stopped talking to them. Théoden seemed to no longer recognize his relatives, he communicated in monosyllables only with Grima, an obnoxious sycophant who had begun to assist the King as his counselor.

Théodred suffered for the situation of Théoden. He certainly could not have known that the negative force that was consuming his father was exercised at a distance from Saruman the White, the leader of the Istari.

Grima, who in the past had been one of the many, simple inhabitants of Rohan, was also subjected to the powerful Wizard. Through the latter's mouth, Saruman exerted a very strong influence on Théoden, practically replacing him in the government of Rohan.

Theodred only knew that trying a dialogue with his father was useless, and that asking him for permission to leave with the soldiers would be like asking a wall. He had to take the initiative and, as the Prince of a kingdom whose King seemed to be the victim of a spell, he was now completely free to decide.

So one morning, with six soldiers, he had taken the direction towards the southern border.
But he had not come back. He had not come back and Éomer was worried.
Théodred was a good, valiant soldier, but he was young. Younger and less experienced than his cousin.

"I should have followed him." mumbled Éomer. "He went up to the Fords of the Isen, I'm sure."

"Don't be afraid, the boy is a good fighter. Some Orc will not be a great trouble to him." Gamling, the vice-captain of Rohan, reassured him.

"It is not the Orcs that worry me. Saruman is creating with his arts an army of more dangerous creatures, he has already sent several in exploration through the Mark. If Théodred came across those beings, he would be in great difficulty." replied the Marshal. "I'm going to look for him. Alert the Rohirrim."

"However ..." a voice suddenly spoke. Both turned their faces.
Grima appeared behind one of the columns at the entrance.
"... our Gamling is right. You cannot venture out of Edoras, with our soldiers, without the King's authorization."

Éomer hardly believed his ears. "... would you dare to tell me what I can or can't do?" he asked threateningly, moving slowly towards him. "I could throw you down this staircase, worm."

"Do it. I encourage you." Grima provoked. "We'll see how crazy you'll get in that cell, when your uncle will lock you up."

At that point, Éomer grabbed the little man by the arm, much more strongly than would have been necessary. Grima opened his mouth, squealing with surprise and pain.

"No. Stop, Eomer. He is right. The king will punish you if you hurt him." Gamling intervened, putting a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Unfortunately this ... rat has a lot of influence on him. He manipulates his mind."