Post-ROTK: The threat of Mordor is gone forever, but it still casts shadows upon the land. The men of the East mass once again, determined to conquer the lands they so nearly claimed. Harad, Khand and Rhûn march towards the West in a renewed call for war. King Elessar musters his people, but he suspects that it will not be enough to prevail against this one last remnant of the great darkness. It seems as though his reign in Gondor will fail before it ever really began, but hope has a tendency to come from unexpected places.
Mail-shirt did not serve
The young spear-man; and shield was withered
Back to the boss by the billow of fire;
But when the blazing had burnt up his own,
The youngest stepped smartly to take the cover of his kinsman's. Then did that kingly warrior
Remember his deeds again and dealt out a sword-blow
With his full strength; it struck into the head with annihilating weight. But Nægling snapped,
Failed in the battle, Beowulf's sword of ancient grey steel.
Fate had not granted that the iron sword would help.
-The Saga of Beowulf
Motes of wretched grey ash dusted the air, cloying and choking as they drifted through the pallid night sky. The particles were nearly imperceptible against the backdrop of the burning pyre, from which heat radiated so strongly that it elicited pinpricks of perspiration on the faces and necks of all those who lingered too closely. The biting flames licked at the piled wood with great ardor, twisting in lugubrious wreaths of fire as they consumed the figures on the apex of the pyre. The two bodies were difficult to ascertain, looking like little more than splotchy black outlines against the midnight blue sky that evening had wrought.
The assemblage that gathered at its base was a small one, filled mainly with women, both the old and the maidenly, and children who were yet too young to speak. The faces of the mourners were grey and drawn, filled with the same featureless tight-lipped mouths and weary eyes. Too many burials, too many burnings. These were the mothers, sisters, wives and daughters of the men who died on the blood-soaked Pelennor Fields. These were the widows, the forlorn, the fatherless, the brotherless.
Not a single woman present wailed against the fate of the two dead soldiers, not a single woman tore at her hair or her garments in grief, or even offered a comforting word. There had simply been too much death to feel much of anything, their heartstrings having long ago ripped callously away and left to bleed out on in the sun. Every one of those women had suffered a loss felt more keenly than the pain of a knife to the heart ever would.
A song of mourning rose from their throats all the same, ancient rites adhered to and tales of glory and heroes intermingling with the rising smoke of the pyre. Both bardic saga and undulating flame united in a chorus of death and sorrow. One woman among those gathered did not sing, however. She stood apart from the others, wrapped in a threadbare black shawl that she pulled tighter around her shoulders, feeling chilled despite the palpable heat of the fire. She stared emptily, unseeing, at the deceased soldiers whose doublets and cloaks smoldered and singed. Water pricked the corners of her eyes, but she could not tell whether it was from grief or from pain of the smoke which billowed around them all in a lofty plume.
At her breast, a babe suckled. Not yet two months old, the infant had never known its father and elder brother before the two had ridden off at the call of war. The woman glanced down at her sole remaining child, cradling its head and body as if no gift could be more precious…or transient. She could not bring herself to look upon the pyre again, for doing so would be as to looking upon the shattered remnants of a life that seemed lost so long ago. If not for the unnamed sweetling who nestled his head against the soft curve of her breast, she would have been utterly alone in the world, a widowed woman with an empty house.
She was not an uncomely creature, not yet too matronly to be considered unattractive. She bore the pale wheat hair so common to the people of the Riddermark, just as the wispy strands of hair that stretched thinly over the scalp of her infant was the very same color of chaff. She held claim through marriage to an old house of the Horselords, a family line as ancient as West Emnet itself, even though the lordly title and manse were all that remained of the hollow legacy. She knew that suitors may soon linger of her threshold (whatever males may have been fortunate enough to survive, at least). Indeed, she had little doubt of it, for even though she was no longer a maiden, she was not yet too old to bear fruit. Her son was example enough of that. The woman held him tighter against her chest, as if to ward away ill thoughts.
And yet...she had seriously considered the concept of accepting propositions all the same. A practical, pragmatic woman, she knew she would do well in a home filled with an able husband and more children at her feet, especially if the man should come with horse and plow and food enough to lay on the table. But she could not think of such things, not so soon after Éogarn and Éohilm languished on a bed of charcoal and wood.
The babe, having drank his fill, unlatched from her engorged teat and lolled back, content. He drifted off, dozing peacefully.
She touched her forehead to her sleeping child's, praying for her lost son and husband to join their forefathers in the Great Hall. Praying was all she could do for them now. Although she grieved deeply, as she gazed upon her babe, she knew that she couldn't linger among thoughts of the dead.
Not when she had the living to live for.
Seven months later
The women still gossiped. They milled about beneath windowsills, clicking their tongues and casting furtive glances at the ancient longhall that stood upon the golden plains of West Emnet. The banner of her husband's clan snapped and rolled in the wind, golden sparrowhawk soaring over a field of green.
"Her manse and fields will surely fall into disrepair come autumn. She'll have no one to collect the harvest, and then she'll starve to death. Her and her child."
"She was always a burden on the House of Gallgoídil, a whey-faced daughter of a freed thrall. Did you know that? And then, the hubris of marrying into a noble family!"
"She was always no good; I knew it plain as day when I first laid eyes on her."
"I doubt that son of hers is the legitimate heir at all. She likely cuckolded her husband even as the poor man died in battle."
The words were flung disparately back and forth, each new round generating a mass of renewed theories and muttered invectives. The women were matronly but not old, bodies stooped prematurely from a life burdened with hardships and too many children borne of their loins. They were the offspring and wives of noble Thanes, and they misliked the widowed mother who toiled on the steppes of her fields, bent over the crops with her babe in a sling across her back. Few – if any – among their insular number knew the woman personally. None wished to. These proud daughters of Rohan could not comprehend that the child of a thrall counted among their ranks. Their hushed whispers had long been exchanged in secrecy. Now, however, with the lord Éogarn departed from this land of the living, their repressed resentment exploded into outright hatred. The child of a freeman they could abide, but the child of a released slave made their stomachs churn. They remembered well the union of Éogarn, scion of House Gallgoídil and Solweig, she who was sired by parents with not so much as a scrap of fabric to swaddle her in. And so, with shrewd eyes as sharp as a crow's, the women looked out across the flaxen fields to the manse of House Gallgoídil, waiting for the moment that it would fall into ruin.
Water sloughed out of the bucket and splashed against the hem of her dress, eliciting a piquant curse from the Lady Solweig. The water quickly soaked her from ankle to thigh, and not enough liquid remained for a trip back inside the house to cook or drink or wash with. She turned round, frustrated with herself for the generation of more work. It was a cold day, wind whistling across the plains like some howling beast. Fastred, although a healthy, red-cheeked babe, was growing quickly and his added plumpness weighed upon her heavily. Barely seven months of age and already with a full head of hair, he was a sweet-faced little one, golden peachfuzz replaced by the russet brown curls of his father. It nearly made Solweig weep to see it.
With the wind nipping at her hair and face, the labors of her tedious work and the baby she carried on her back exhausted her. She had an ache deep down to the marrow, and she felt like an old woman. All the same, the familiar monotony of her tasks gave her a small pit of warmth in her chest. The simple nature of her mundane chores made life regain some of its normalcy, even though her struggles increased.
Solweig refilled the buckets carefully with water from the well and readjusted the shoulder yoke from which the two wooden pails dangled. It was no small feat to carry its load, especially with Fastred's added weight. She planted one slipper ahead of the other carefully, finding sure purchase on the uneven ground as she made her way back to the longhall. This journey was short, not even ten-dozen paces from the manse, but each step was an endeavor. Solweig grit her teeth, her jaw clamped tight in concentration. Her feet shuffled forward without pause, but every motion caused her pain. Her neck felt ready to snap, and her shoulders quivered under all that which needed bearing.
She missed her strong Éohilm, her gentle, strong Éohilm who sang as he helped his father around the house, who still kissed his mother lightly on the cheek although he was already a man. He would oft be the one to carry the buckets to the hall on his steady shoulders. How like his father he had been, with a bright, gleaming smile and infinite patience. Éohilm was so much like Éogarn in that respect – never quick to anger or to bring in sharp words. The men of her family were of a much sweeter temperament than Solweig ever had been.
Éogarn, her loving mate, her noble husband, always had laughter in his eyes and joy in his heart. He was her rock, lifting her up when her own spirits dropped low with despair. They supported one another throughout their marriage, even through her miscarriage when they lost their first child before it had ever been born. Then, when their daughter Asta had died in infancy, not a few months after birth, Solweig had given up hope on ever seeing a child grow to adulthood. She could not abide by the thought of losing a third babe. Éogarn had been the one to encourage her, to ease her wounded soul. When finally Éohilm was born, she knew joy again and raised him at her breast, disdaining of nursemaids who offered to take her place. If Éogarn ever thought Solweig's ways queer for this, he never showed it, accepting her needs without comment or complaint.
As time passed, Éohilm grew into a strong, lusty child who toddled about anywhere and everywhere he could. Yet, when no seed quickened in her womb once again, Solweig's old worries returned. Had she gone barren? She was young yet, and had been quite fertile before. There were still many years left to bear children – so why was it that her belly did not grow? Why did her courses remain stable? She would have loved more than anything to find it interrupted, to feel the sickness of early pregnancy. They tried for fourteen years after Éohilm's birth, lucklessly. Solweig gave up hope once again, despite her husband's soft protestations. But one day, not long before Éogarn's safe return from the battle of the Hornburg, she realized that she was with child. He later used the battle as an example to never fall into anguish and disconsolate torment.
Even in the darkest times, against the strongest odds, as long as we yet breathe, there is still hope.
Solweig dropped to the ground, heedless that Fastred began to stir at the movement. She covered her face in her hands and sobbed in great, wracking heaves, letting out the emotions that she hadn't yet bared since word of her husband's death had reached her. To think of Éogarn brought her too much pain to bear. Her face glistened wetly with the sheen of smeared tears; floodgates of her carefully guarded sentiments let loose for the first time after so long a wait.
Fastred grew fussy at the disturbance and began to wail. Solweig, sniffling, unhooked the yoke, placing the buckets carefully upright as she unslung Fastred and put him to her breast. His protestations finally abated, little fist curling around his mother's finger as he relaxed. Solweig ruminated on her husband's words, feeling calmed by the placid face of her youngest and only living child. She was struck with a fierce love and a sensation of maternal protectiveness so strong that she was almost taken aback by the candor of her feelings.
She stroked the fine, downy curls of his smooth little head and hummed tunelessly. She knew she would need to travel to Edoras by the end of the week, where King Éomer of House Eorl held council. Solweig would stand in her husband's place and bear his duties as best she could. It was not a lady's task to do, but there were no menfolk left in Éogarn's line, and all her own kin were of the peasantry.
Solweig sighed, bone-weary and displeased at the prospect of facing talk in the town. She was a popular subject among conversation these days, even though she would prefer to leave them – and be left – well enough alone.
When her boy was done, she put Fastred back in the sling, she picked up the yoke and carried on with her day. She wasted enough idle time thinking already.
The tears dried, forgotten, on her cheeks. Work had to be done.
A/N
First of all, although this is categorized as 'bookverse', I may mix between the movie and books alternately, such as how Glorfindel saved Frodo when he was stabbed by the Morgul blade, but the people of Gondor were not evacuated given lack of leadership in the movie. This is done for no reason other than to adjust to my needs in expanding upon the ending events of ROTK.
You must pardon the similarities between the names Éogarn and Éohilm – I simply thought it appropriate, given how half the people introduced in LOTR are (for example) 'Hamil, son of Hama' or 'George, son of Georg', right? So, to clarify – Éohilm is the dead son, and Éogarn is Solweig's husband. Yes, she's an OC. We'll see how she develops over the next few chapters. Given that this is only the prologue, I expect the next installments will be longer and less abstract in thematic quality.
Wait, you say! Where's Aragorn, you ask? Well, he'll be around, but not for some time. He'll have his moments, don't fret. You may see many of the canon characters in unexpected places. Just keep a weather eye on the horizon, love.
