Dreaming of Grief
Feb. 15th, 2005 08:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
horseboykarlIt has been over two weeks and there has been no contact from him. I haven’t tried to call him other than that first day after I ran into Gareth. I’ve come to accept that my long nightmare is over finally, that the shifts are gone.
My sleep is peaceful, the windows open, letting in the soft night air. Until I begin to dream . . .
He is in chains again. But this time he is not in my room, he is a small dark rock-cut cave, his chains bolted to the wall and shackles around his wrists and ankles. He is not wearing his armor, he has on breeches and a linen shirt. He is sitting on the floor, his knees bent, his arms crossed over them and his head bowed, his hair a tangle covering his face. A barred gate covers the entrance to his cell.
Did I do this to him? I am puzzled, because my anger at him had left me long ago, when I finally accepted that he wasn’t some twisted part of my own mind. And now that the shifting has stopped . . . I have spent too much of my life in useless hate and I have let it all go, even the hate I felt for his cousin that last time.
But the dream changes and torch light approaches him. He doesn’t raise his head to look at the person speaking to him through the bars.
“I was just checking that your accommodations are suitable, Third Marshal. Are you enjoying your stay?”
The voice sounds like a snake and I realize it must be Wormtongue, and I understand what I am seeing. Pete changed this to exile, but Tolkien said he was imprisoned. I can’t remember the timing of this . . .
But the malicious voice continues. “I want to reassure you that, even though you threatened my life, I will take good care of your lovely sister during your incarceration and after your execution. Your death as a traitor shall be enough to satisfy my vengeance. It will be my pleasure to look after her and since she will be last remaining heir to this kingdom, I shall delight to rule in her name.”
He does look up at that last statement, and I bite back a cry. His face is devastated, wrecked . . . his eyes old and grief-stricken. When he speaks, it is a defeated, matter-of-fact sort of calm. “My sister? Why don’t you test her, Worm? Éowyn will slice off your testicles if you so much as touch her. As for the Riddermark, she will kill you slowly before she lets you rule.”
Wormtongue snickered. “Then why the rage, why the anguish when I pronounced your sentence? If it is not fear for your sister’s questionable virtue, nor fear for the future of this vermin-infested kingdom . . . then what drives you to this despair?”
He tapped his fingers on the bars, his face thoughtful. “Do you present me with a puzzle after all this time? Is it your own death that you fear? Surely you are not that much of a coward?” But Éomer held his gaze steadily, his eyes blank.
“Then what else have you lost . . . “ And Wormtongue’s face grew crafty and I felt afraid for some reason. “Ah, your cousin. His early demise was indeed sad.”
Éomer lowered his head again, but not before both pairs of eyes watching him saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face.
Wormtongue’s laugh was evil and my skin crawled. “That is it!” he crowed. “You mourn the despicable Théodred!”
With that, Éomer surged to his feet and lunged at this tormentor, but the chains would not let him get more than a yard from the dungeon wall. “If his name ever crosses your lips again, I will kill you, Worm! I swear it!”
But the other laughed again. “Such passion! To think that the prince of the barnyard could rouse you so.”
Éomer struggled with his chains, twisting his hands, and I saw blood smears on his wrists. “He was the best man on life and you will not demean him!”
“But, Third Marshal, he is not on life any longer. This is indeed wonderful, I had no idea that the two of you had indulged in such perversions. I am quite impressed that you managed to conceal this affair from me. I knew, of course, that you both took your entire éoreds to bed, but to descend to such disgusting acts with your own blood . . . “
Wormtongue’s face was gleeful, as he gazed malevolently at Éomer’s struggles. “If I had but known, then I could have succeeded in my master’s plans so much earlier and avoided so much bloodshed. I can just see the horrified expression on your dear uncle’s face as I tell him that the foundling child that he took in and cared for has repaid him by fucking his heir. Your death would have come swiftly and the prince would have been discredited. And would he mourn you thus? Or were you just another body to warm his bed?”
Éomer stopped fighting and stood staring at his persecutor, his emotions raw for all to see and I wanted to shout at him to not give Wormtongue that much power over him.
“You speak about that which you have no concept, of that which you are not capable.”
“How romantic! You actually believe that you loved him!”
But Éomer sat back down and turned his head away, and at last Wormtongue grew tired of the sport and left him there in the dark. I could no longer see his face, but the faint light reflected off the metal of his chains and the slow ooze of water down the back wall. Somehow I knew though, that he was sunk into his misery. And finally the scene faded.
I bolt upright in bed, my chest aching and my throat tight. I run a shaking hand through my hair. What the bloody hell was that?
Tolkien never wrote that . . . and the link is gone, so I couldn’t have shifted to see it. Had to come from my own imagination . . . but it seemed so vivid. I throw back the covers and hunt around for a torch. I know I’m not going to get any more sleep tonight. I pad out to the barn, speaking softly to Smokey as he wickers at me. The boxes are in the loft and I sort through them finally finding what I want. The appendices at the end of The Return of the King. The Tale of Years. I run my finger along the dates, but they aren’t specific enough. I find the rest of my Tolkien books, purchased when I got the part, hunting through them for clues.
Luckily Tolkien was an anal-retentive sort about dates. And finally I put the pieces together. Théodred was slain two days before Éomer set out after the band of Uruk-hai that had captured Merry and Pippin. But the word of his death didn’t reach Edoras until two days later, the same day that Éomer left Aldburg. So there was no way that Éomer could have known about it when he went after the Orcs. And when he returned to Edoras to report his encounter with Aragorn, he found out that Théodred had been killed and he was imprisoned for rebellion against Théoden, among other crimes. But Tolkien doesn’t say that he was to be executed, that must have been a special bit of baiting by Wormtongue.
I put the books away and turn off the torch. I walk to the window of the loft and stand staring out at the stars. Fuck. Those had to be the worst days of his life, his lover was dead, his uncle was failing and his country was in shambles.
I know I’ve read all that before, I read everything about the Rohirrim I could get my hands on when I got the word I was playing him. So my subconscious must have already filled in the gaps for me. But why now? Why would I dream of him in such despair? I wonder if he really felt that strongly about Théodred, if the face in my dream was the truth. I have never been in love like that, so desperately that you don’t care if your worst enemy sees the depth of your emotion. Is my subconscious trying to tell me that I misjudged him, that I misjudged them both? Perhaps . . . according to Tolkien, the last words Théodred ever spoke were about Éomer. You think this is about lust? . . . You know nothing.
But now it’s too fucking late. Would I help him if I could? I just don’t know. I want to reach out to him, to tell him that it would be all right, that Gandalf and Aragorn would show up, and everything would be fine . . . everything except Théodred. On an impulse, as I look at the stars, I picture those northern constellations, remembering the one time that I found him under strange stars . . . I try to draw his features in my head, searching for him, desperately trying to reach him, not casually like when I first learned that the shifts were gone, but harder than I’ve ever tried to find him. But he won’t come. I sag against the wall, sighing. It’s true, then. He’s gone.
That must have been no more than a dream brought on by my over-active imagination, his pain could not have been real. But I had a conversation with Hugo once about what was truth and what was fiction, and the lines have gotten so blurred here . . . he’s not part of me, but was he real? If he is fiction, does he know it? Did he ever exist? If fiction isn’t reality, why do I feel such sympathetic sorrow for someone I should never have known?
I am unable to shake off my sense of melancholy and I sit by the open window and watch the sun come up.
My sleep is peaceful, the windows open, letting in the soft night air. Until I begin to dream . . .
He is in chains again. But this time he is not in my room, he is a small dark rock-cut cave, his chains bolted to the wall and shackles around his wrists and ankles. He is not wearing his armor, he has on breeches and a linen shirt. He is sitting on the floor, his knees bent, his arms crossed over them and his head bowed, his hair a tangle covering his face. A barred gate covers the entrance to his cell.
Did I do this to him? I am puzzled, because my anger at him had left me long ago, when I finally accepted that he wasn’t some twisted part of my own mind. And now that the shifting has stopped . . . I have spent too much of my life in useless hate and I have let it all go, even the hate I felt for his cousin that last time.
But the dream changes and torch light approaches him. He doesn’t raise his head to look at the person speaking to him through the bars.
“I was just checking that your accommodations are suitable, Third Marshal. Are you enjoying your stay?”
The voice sounds like a snake and I realize it must be Wormtongue, and I understand what I am seeing. Pete changed this to exile, but Tolkien said he was imprisoned. I can’t remember the timing of this . . .
But the malicious voice continues. “I want to reassure you that, even though you threatened my life, I will take good care of your lovely sister during your incarceration and after your execution. Your death as a traitor shall be enough to satisfy my vengeance. It will be my pleasure to look after her and since she will be last remaining heir to this kingdom, I shall delight to rule in her name.”
He does look up at that last statement, and I bite back a cry. His face is devastated, wrecked . . . his eyes old and grief-stricken. When he speaks, it is a defeated, matter-of-fact sort of calm. “My sister? Why don’t you test her, Worm? Éowyn will slice off your testicles if you so much as touch her. As for the Riddermark, she will kill you slowly before she lets you rule.”
Wormtongue snickered. “Then why the rage, why the anguish when I pronounced your sentence? If it is not fear for your sister’s questionable virtue, nor fear for the future of this vermin-infested kingdom . . . then what drives you to this despair?”
He tapped his fingers on the bars, his face thoughtful. “Do you present me with a puzzle after all this time? Is it your own death that you fear? Surely you are not that much of a coward?” But Éomer held his gaze steadily, his eyes blank.
“Then what else have you lost . . . “ And Wormtongue’s face grew crafty and I felt afraid for some reason. “Ah, your cousin. His early demise was indeed sad.”
Éomer lowered his head again, but not before both pairs of eyes watching him saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face.
Wormtongue’s laugh was evil and my skin crawled. “That is it!” he crowed. “You mourn the despicable Théodred!”
With that, Éomer surged to his feet and lunged at this tormentor, but the chains would not let him get more than a yard from the dungeon wall. “If his name ever crosses your lips again, I will kill you, Worm! I swear it!”
But the other laughed again. “Such passion! To think that the prince of the barnyard could rouse you so.”
Éomer struggled with his chains, twisting his hands, and I saw blood smears on his wrists. “He was the best man on life and you will not demean him!”
“But, Third Marshal, he is not on life any longer. This is indeed wonderful, I had no idea that the two of you had indulged in such perversions. I am quite impressed that you managed to conceal this affair from me. I knew, of course, that you both took your entire éoreds to bed, but to descend to such disgusting acts with your own blood . . . “
Wormtongue’s face was gleeful, as he gazed malevolently at Éomer’s struggles. “If I had but known, then I could have succeeded in my master’s plans so much earlier and avoided so much bloodshed. I can just see the horrified expression on your dear uncle’s face as I tell him that the foundling child that he took in and cared for has repaid him by fucking his heir. Your death would have come swiftly and the prince would have been discredited. And would he mourn you thus? Or were you just another body to warm his bed?”
Éomer stopped fighting and stood staring at his persecutor, his emotions raw for all to see and I wanted to shout at him to not give Wormtongue that much power over him.
“You speak about that which you have no concept, of that which you are not capable.”
“How romantic! You actually believe that you loved him!”
But Éomer sat back down and turned his head away, and at last Wormtongue grew tired of the sport and left him there in the dark. I could no longer see his face, but the faint light reflected off the metal of his chains and the slow ooze of water down the back wall. Somehow I knew though, that he was sunk into his misery. And finally the scene faded.
I bolt upright in bed, my chest aching and my throat tight. I run a shaking hand through my hair. What the bloody hell was that?
Tolkien never wrote that . . . and the link is gone, so I couldn’t have shifted to see it. Had to come from my own imagination . . . but it seemed so vivid. I throw back the covers and hunt around for a torch. I know I’m not going to get any more sleep tonight. I pad out to the barn, speaking softly to Smokey as he wickers at me. The boxes are in the loft and I sort through them finally finding what I want. The appendices at the end of The Return of the King. The Tale of Years. I run my finger along the dates, but they aren’t specific enough. I find the rest of my Tolkien books, purchased when I got the part, hunting through them for clues.
Luckily Tolkien was an anal-retentive sort about dates. And finally I put the pieces together. Théodred was slain two days before Éomer set out after the band of Uruk-hai that had captured Merry and Pippin. But the word of his death didn’t reach Edoras until two days later, the same day that Éomer left Aldburg. So there was no way that Éomer could have known about it when he went after the Orcs. And when he returned to Edoras to report his encounter with Aragorn, he found out that Théodred had been killed and he was imprisoned for rebellion against Théoden, among other crimes. But Tolkien doesn’t say that he was to be executed, that must have been a special bit of baiting by Wormtongue.
I put the books away and turn off the torch. I walk to the window of the loft and stand staring out at the stars. Fuck. Those had to be the worst days of his life, his lover was dead, his uncle was failing and his country was in shambles.
I know I’ve read all that before, I read everything about the Rohirrim I could get my hands on when I got the word I was playing him. So my subconscious must have already filled in the gaps for me. But why now? Why would I dream of him in such despair? I wonder if he really felt that strongly about Théodred, if the face in my dream was the truth. I have never been in love like that, so desperately that you don’t care if your worst enemy sees the depth of your emotion. Is my subconscious trying to tell me that I misjudged him, that I misjudged them both? Perhaps . . . according to Tolkien, the last words Théodred ever spoke were about Éomer. You think this is about lust? . . . You know nothing.
But now it’s too fucking late. Would I help him if I could? I just don’t know. I want to reach out to him, to tell him that it would be all right, that Gandalf and Aragorn would show up, and everything would be fine . . . everything except Théodred. On an impulse, as I look at the stars, I picture those northern constellations, remembering the one time that I found him under strange stars . . . I try to draw his features in my head, searching for him, desperately trying to reach him, not casually like when I first learned that the shifts were gone, but harder than I’ve ever tried to find him. But he won’t come. I sag against the wall, sighing. It’s true, then. He’s gone.
That must have been no more than a dream brought on by my over-active imagination, his pain could not have been real. But I had a conversation with Hugo once about what was truth and what was fiction, and the lines have gotten so blurred here . . . he’s not part of me, but was he real? If he is fiction, does he know it? Did he ever exist? If fiction isn’t reality, why do I feel such sympathetic sorrow for someone I should never have known?
I am unable to shake off my sense of melancholy and I sit by the open window and watch the sun come up.
