'You can be every little thing you want nobody to know
And you can try to drown out the street below
And you can call it love
If you want'
Wilder Mind - Mumford and Sons.
No stranger to sleeping in haylofts and street corners, Hedda was not bothered by the dust in her hair and the mud on her face as she strode into a dank inn west of the Misty Mountains. The town was nothing special, not present on most maps but she'd made fair coin there, and she tossed a few coppers across the bar for ale and stew, glad to spend it on her first good meal in days.
A man, half in his cups sighted her even with her hood up, dirt masking her freckled, fair skin and the reserve of a soldier. He complimented her dour leathers as if she would believe it, having to hide her rolling eyes at his obvious intention with her. She ignored him but he was not perturbed, leaning closer in the din to ask her her name. She gave him nothing but the flash of her smile and a brushed aside her cloak to show them the sword that hung at her hip. When they saw the glint of steel on her, most were wise enough to turn away, this one was no exception, turning back to his drink without another word or look her way. The truth of all things: men did not want their women armed.
Where the likes of Gondor and ancient, elven cities reigned high and esteemed above them all, Rohan remained a place of earth and dust, unwilling or unable to be entirely tamed. Here, forgotten on its border, there had been little effort to pull this insignificant town higher than the dead and dying dust of its streets, but in better parts, the grass grew long and gold, wild horses went unchained, free and stamping the ground beneath their unshod feet. And she loved the land for it. Rohan's yellow planes were too alive to contain every beast and tree that lived free on the land, and here in the hot, trodden town the only thing capable of stopping you was the dust burning your eyes.
Choosing her seat quietly she slipped onto the long wooden benches before the fire, throwing back her hood to reveal a wide smile, showing her teeth to the man in grey waiting for her as she threw down her stew and mug of ale. "I trust you have been making no mischief while you have waited for me," She teased him, spooning her stew into her mouth without care, stomach snarling with hunger, thrilling at the bland meal.
"Here and there," He hummed, voice merry and mysterious, eyes flashing blue as he met her eye. "You have travelled far, my friend, I am glad to see you safe, Hedda," The old man commented casually, pulling his lit pipe to his lips and blowing the unclear image of a horse galloping toward her, a trick she always enjoyed, watching it until it faded into shapeless curls. Her back straightened somewhat, slowing her eating to show some manners to her old friend, some respect for the grey wizard. He reached down a wrinkled hand, laying it on her broad shoulder to look upon her face. "And I did not expect to find you returned home again," the old man mused, sitting beside the quiet woman while she abandoned her meal. She did not answer him a moment, not meeting his eye, still staring at the grain of the table before her.
Here the Rohirrim farmed the land, loved it well, tamed some of its beasts and grew fat and famed. But they knew well enough there were some places men should not go, woods they should not fell and trees they should not name. It was in this land Hedda learned it was better to be wild in the world than tamed and penned the way too many women were. It was from this land that Hedda, barely out of her childhood ran, horse, pack and sword to hand.
"I am only travelling through, Old Man, I've not come to take a home and hearth and husband," She mocked him. "That's not in my stars. But you told me to come, so you must 'ave seen something in them for me." She laid her own hand, calloused and rough upon his wrinkled one, patting his hand with an affection born of long friendship.
"You may be right," he hummed in reply, still being coy as a maiden in a fairy tale with is secrets. "From where have you come, my friend, and where do you mean to go?" He asked, voice filled with a false lightness. Here he pretended to be an old man, an old friend hearing her tales, but she knew once she offered them he would have something better in mind for her.
"Why Gandalf," She said, a smile quirking her lips, taking a long drink of her ale, "Where I've been means little, but you know I look for somethin' more feral than a warm tavern and a soft bed." She said, teeth shining as she smiled, "When our paths cross you 'ave led me to such. Only tell me where next you mean to send me." Her words were the closest to devotion she would allow herself, the closest to obedience she would offer anyone. And only did she offer it because he did not ask for it. Kings and High lords on old thrones would not command her, too many had tried. Only now, with the world stretching before her, her pack light on her back and horse fed and watered would she take his direction.
She took another long drink of her ale until the tankard was done, her meal cold and forgotten. He could ask her to go in an instant and she would make for her horse. Her feet were rarely still, her heart rarely quiet, and her heel tapped the wooden timbers beneath her as if readying herself for his promised adventure. In days passed he'd sent her into dark forests, collecting the venom of giant spiders, high into the mountains to seek old treasures, he offered her quests when she had no contracts to fulfil and enough coin in her pocket. As he spoke, his voice stayed low, attracting no attention from the brash men around them.
"I go now to Minas Tirith, to the steward and his libraries. Though I hope my journey is wasted, and I find my concern unfounded I cannot be certain. Cross the gap of Rohan, Hedda, go north to Imladris and await me there. If what I fear is true, my friend, there will be more danger than even you could hope for." His voice, usually so kind darkened, and it was clear to even a stranger that his fears were more serious than those plaguing some weary traveller. There were the fears of magic, of evil, and the girl could not imagine much else able to frighten the wizard so.
"Rivendell? The elves would not have me there, I have nothing to offer them but a sword they do not need." She sighed, shaking out her hair, Gandalf was often foolish, half-mad and hard to follow, but to have a simple hired sword stride into Elven halls? That was sheer foolishness. Kind as they may be, they would not offer shelter to some rugged stranger for nought.
He shook his head, gesturing for her to follow him outside, away from the rabble and the noise. The warm, dry air was lit with the silver of the moon, and in the dark, his gaze was all the more serious now they need not fear being overheard,
"There assembles a council, Hedda, and I would have you sit upon it, but I regret you must do so falsely." He frowned, the expression carving lines into his wrinkled face and her own mouth soured and turned down. She knew now why he needed her. Perhaps this was the reason he had always truly needed her.
"You want the lady of Rohan upon your council, Gandalf," She spat out, voice a furious hiss. A rage, hot and dark boiled at the pit of her belly, teeth grit hard as she spoke through them. "You mean for me to be titled and simpering, Gandalf. This is not wildness, not adventure -" Her voice raised and she had to force herself to quiet her voice, lest they be overheard. But when she calmed her words carried no less venom, spitting out the truth like the viper she could have been "this is politics!"
As a child, she had seen the horses, uncaught or untameable, turned loose to the grasses and as a child she had dreamt of running with them. And so the child she had been had run, and the woman she was had not looked back. The woman was free of the bonds that had once chained her, the names and the history that held her. Gandalf stood before her, and the adventure he offered her was a pen and reins. Her voice came louder, taking a few steps from him and hands fisted tightly "Perhaps you mean to sell me off to help your newest cause? Offer the hand of Rohan to any lord that asks?"
"I ask that you take the call for what it could be, Hedda!" His voice rose now, and she bristled, squaring her shoulders and setting his jaw as he chided her. He called her Hedda then, and they both knew it was another lie, but it was a name she had chosen - he was letting her choose again now. "Go to Imladris, sit upon the council and see for yourself what help a daughter of Rohan could offer, I ask nothing more of you than the title you were given and the sword you chose." He said, and true to his word he did not demand this of her. The darkness on his face lifted and instead he looked very old and very sad. Wordless she looked at the planes of his face and wordless she nodded, eyes falling to the ground. She had acted poorly, willing to abandon the world because saving it did not suit her.
"I will go," she said stiffly, trying to beat the scowl from her features, knowing such was not fitting for a lady. She had much work to do to befit that title. She could not offer the grey wizard anything kinder than that, would not thank or pretend with him, he would not believe it.
The noise of the tavern did not hold any appeal now, not in light of the task ahead, and she said her goodbyes to her old friend, trying not to hold onto the anger he'd inspired in her. They parted with less kindness than they'd met, but with more purpose. She went to the stable, brushing down her mare to soothe her temper until she curled up in the hay beside her and slept. The coin in her purse would need to equip her for more than her own enjoyment now, and she'd not waste it on comforts.
Three days she gave herself in the town, sleeping in haylofts each night and enjoying drinks and flirtations with the Rohirrim soldiers and farmers boys by evening, smoke from her pipe sweet in her nose. She thought she deserved it now, taking some freedom and some fun before she shed her dirty leathers and her newest name on the road to Rivendell. By day she bartered silvers and coppers for more respectable riding leathers, quick needlework and a gown befitting the lady she had not been for thirteen long years. By day she bought herself a mask and some respectability.
On the third day as the sun rose before her, the whole world a blaze of golden fire she saw, more clearly than ever before the two paths she could take. Before her lay the path she'd turned from when she was young, gilded, straight and narrow, her sword an ornament with less violence in it than a sewing needle. A life she'd left at thirteen. Behind her lay the thrill she sought, the escape, the flash of swords, a new name and a new life each and every day. But when she looked behind her again her path, winding and wide was burned and shrivelled, her own freedom nothing compared to the fear Gandalf saw for Middle Earth.
She left Hedda wrapped in her stained and soft leathers, buried in her pack and replaced them with grander, hardy wool in red and soft browns, the mark of Rohan stitched upon her collar. She took up her old name. The name she had let die when she'd run on a half-wild mare of Rohan, hooves thundering behind her. Her journey was long and would be hard, the gap of Rohan becoming less safe day by day, so her sword hung by her hip, unhidden. She took the time on her long journey to straighten her back, bending her whole body into the role she'd shaken off.
A queen of Gondor she would not pass for, but a rough spun princess of Rohan they would believe, a shieldmaiden from a wild country they could see in her bearing. When she swept through the gates of Imladris, her horse shining with sweat and dust she presented herself as such, offering the lands and armies of Rohan up as Idis, the daughter of Théoden King.
So I read that 'In some earlier drafts of the story, Elfhild, wife of Théoden and mother of Théodred also had a daughter, Idis, before she died, but the girl was soon removed after her character was eclipsed by that of Eowyn' and then this happened yo. Would love feedback, positive or negative x