Author's Note: This AU story was inspired by a line in Evendim's wonderful fic "Shield Brothers":
"…I have always known there are two things I never shall do. Scratch a grey head…"
"and hold my first born."
I've always hated it that Theodred (in both the book and movie-verses) seemed doomed to a lonely and short life. I can't do much about the shortness of His highness' span but I wanted to give him a time of love and happiness that wasn't just male-bonding. This is my attempt to do that.
Dedicated to my dearest "Jay".
Disclaimer: The characters, events and places you recognize are copyright to J.R.R. Tolkien, his estate and heirs, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema, and their licensees. Any characters, events or places you don't recognize are my own creation and copyrighted to me.
A Hidden Hope – Chapter One
By Dancingkatz
Edoras, Prince Theodred's bedroom – Late February T.A. 3019
Eowyn knew at the first glance that the wound was mortal. Her cousin was already at the doors of Bema's meadhall, his foot over the threshold. Even so, she glared at the Healer who threw up his hands and said his skills were better spent elsewhere when he saw the gut wound.
"Then I will nurse him since you are too incompetent to even try. Get out!" She saw the Healer's back out the door of the room and turned back to her uncle's son.
"Oh, Theodred," she whispered as she began removing his blood and gore covered armor. "How has it come to this?"
Helm's Deep -- thirteen months previously:
Winter in Helm's Deep was no different than winter anywhere else in Rohan. When not on patrol, a task which was made no less bitter or difficult even when the Dunlendings and orcs chose to stay mostly by their own fires instead of actively raiding the villages and herds of the Westfold, the hours were spent tending to the gravid mares that carried the next spring's crop of foals. As the days slowly turned towards spring, the conversations in the Hall turned more and more to bets on whether Idesgrǽg, the fourteen year-old rose-grey mare, would extend her nine-year record of dropping twins, and discussions on whether or not to increase the size of the stallion herd.
Of course, this didn't mean that Prince Theodred or the men he led as Second Marshal of the Mark didn't discuss skirmish tactics or leave off practicing arms. In times like these, that would be suicide. But even so, the promise of new life raised the spirits of every man, woman and child who sheltered in the Hammerhand's fortress and surrounding villages.
Prince Theodred was no different than anyone else. It had been a difficult winter. The eóred had lost men to battle and dependents to illness. The funeral fires had burned far too many times since the first snow fell unexpectedly early as the year had turned to November. The burdens of command, the ongoing war against Rohan's enemies, and the much more bitter, private war between himself and his sire, King Theoden, heavy as they were, lightened each time he stroked the flank of one of the expectant mares.
No matter what else happened, he was guaranteed this one miracle, that one not-too distant morning a bright-eyed, inquisitive foal would scramble to its too-long, spindly legs and look upon the awakening fields of the Mark for the first time; a promise that Rohan was not dying, that life as they'd known it since Eorl rode down from the North would continue.
He pulled his cloak tighter about himself as he walked among the placid mares. They knew him, and save for nickers of greeting or a turn of a head, or a soft nose momentarily pressed against his neck, ignored him. He was looking for the rose-grey, Erkenbrand had bet that her foals—of course, she was going to drop twins again, it was something as dependable as Anor rising in the east!—would be the first born of the year's crop.
Now that would be a good omen!
He found that he wasn't the only person braving the cold to visit the mares when he finally located the grey.
A young woman was standing next to the mare, her arms round the proudly arching neck, her forehead touching the white star that sat between the huge dark eyes. Her own eyes were closed and she was singing softly.
Not wishing to interrupt and startle either the horse or woman, Theodred stayed back, listening, scratching the poll of one of the other mares who'd come to investigate him in hopes of some extra attention.
He hadn't paid much attention to the women of the Deeping Coomb and surrounding villages, or even the women of Erkenbrand's household, but the slender golden-haired form looked vaguely familiar. Between knowing that his destiny lay in an early death, and that likely to be in battle, and the sour knowledge that he was held in disdain by his father when the King was free of the influence of Grima Wormtongue long enough to remember he had a son, he'd not considered it necessary to find a bride. His cousin Eomer, though young, would make a good king in time—assuming that there was still a Rohan to rule after the War.
The War. His shield brother, Boromir of Mundburg, was already on the front lines of it. Gondor alone stood between Mordor and Rohan but only a fool would think that the Eye would stop his conquest at the border of the Eastemnet. Unfortunately, Theodred's father was becoming more and more of a fool each time the prince rode to Edoras. It had been nearly two months since he was last in the Golden Hall, and it would likely be at least another four before he entered its doors again.
The last argument he'd had with his father had been like talking with a puppeteer's marionette. It was obvious—to him, at least—that Grima pulled Theoden's strings and put the words in the Royal mouth. He had long suspected that Wormtongue was in the pay of agents of Sauron, as one sure way to cripple Gondor was to prevent the fulfillment of the Oath of Eorl. But the latest intelligence he'd uncovered seemed to show that Grima's strings ran north instead of east. The 'advisor'/puppetmaster was only a puppet himself, dancing to the tune of the wizard Saruman.
Saruman. Much was wrong on Arda these days but the latest actions of the Wizard seemed the worst betrayal of all. Many of the orc bands they'd slain in the past season bore not the Eye but a White S-rune or the sigil of a white hand. And all had come from the north, from the direction of Isengard.
He might be able to forgive his father denying him the right of investiture as the First Marshal which would officially make him the heir to the crown, but he couldn't forgive him the weakness that permitted Rohan's enemies free rein to burn, loot, and destroy the people and herds that Theodred held so dear.
He sighed, and the hand that had moved down the mare's neck to her withers stopped its scratching. His thoughts were growing dark again, and he had come out here to try to regain a fading hope, to remind himself that there were still miracles in the world.
TBC
Glossary:
Idesgrǽg – "Lady Grey"