The little wooden horse
A birthday present for Tommy Ginger.
Théoden King looked at the girl, sitting perched on the steps of the Golden hall, knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped round her shins. In appearance she was poised on the cusp: she still had the round, chubby cheeks of early childhood, but was starting to shoot upwards, long gangly limbs on the brink of late childhood. For all the round cheeks, though, her face was solemn and sad.
Sighing, Théoden ran a hand through his hair. What did he know of girl children? Or indeed of children? His own son was now a grown man, the first Marshal of his cavalry. His wife was long dead, and he presided over a male household. Of course he had women servants, his housekeeper, and visits from the high born ladies married to his advisers and the rest of his Marshals. And until recently, he had on occasion visited his sister at Aldburg. But no more. His mouth set in a firm line, his lips narrowing as he swallowed and fought back the emotions that threatened to rise and engulf him. His beloved sister, Theodwyn. Dead for two months now, a mere four months after being widowed. And the cause of his finding himself in sole charge of a small girl. Not to mention her elder brother. But the brother, though he clearly missed his mother desperately, was a boy, and he had raised a boy. That, at least, was familiar ground. But a girl child...
What did he know of bringing up girls, or indeed, since his wife's death, of women in general? Nodding politely in agreement with his housekeeper's decisions, or occasional social small talk with the wives of his nobles was one thing, a seven – nearly eight – year old girl an entirely different matter. Nearly eight... aye, there was the thing. A little girl, recently orphaned, entirely reliant on him. What did one give an eight year old girl on her birthday?
He only knew that it was her birthday because he had overheard the boy, his sister-son, asking one of the master carpenters who looked after the hall if he could come to the man's workshop, to make a present for his sister. The master carpenters, creators of the wood carvings which graced the hall, carvings that were so much more than mere images. They were the story of the cycle of life and the gods that oversaw that cycle, placed around the household to protect and support it.
He looked at the little girl once more. By some strange sympathy of minds, it seemed that she had sensed his train of thought, for she was gazing intently at the elaborate carvings on one of the doorposts. At the base, a carved dragon wound his way round the pillar, clawed feet crushing the skeletons of men. The beast symbolised winter, mortality, death. Above him, defying the dragon, rose the goddess Ëostre, bringer of spring and fertility. She stood, tall and graceful, a basket of seeds cradled in her arm, her hand broadcasting them to fall to earth, warmed by the sun which rose, carved rays spreading behind her head, gilded with gold leaf. Round her feet the first flowers of spring rose from the wastes of winter below. The other doorpost, Théoden knew, carried images of summer and autumn, growth, harvest and plenty. But it was this set of carvings which had captivated the little girl. And suddenly he knew what he would get her. She loved the beautiful carving of the goddess, as would any little girl, he imagined – he would get her a beautiful doll.
~o~O~o~
Théoden watched as the housekeeper, Hildegard, presented the little girl with a plate of honey cakes. Then her elder brother came forward, and handed her an object, swathed in cloth. Impatiently, the little girl untied the ribbons holding the cloth in place to reveal... well, Théoden presumed it was meant to be an animal of some sort. He wasn't entirely sure which end was which. In all honesty, insofar as it looked like anything, it most resembled the unholy bastard offspring of a sheep and an ox. The girl looked at it, her smooth brow furrowed with concentration. Then she looked at her brother.
"A horse," she said.
The boy beamed with delight. "Not any horse, a Meara!" he said with pride.
"I shall call him Felarof," said the little girl with great solemnity.
The little girl trotted the horse to and fro across the floor, making neighing noises. Théoden watched, feeling a huge wave of affection. She looked so similar to Theodwyn at that age. How had he not noticed before? Smiling, he stepped forward.
"Shut your eyes, sister-daughter," he said. The little girl dutifully closed her eyes and held her hands out. Carefully, Théoden placed the doll into her hands. The girl opened her eyes and studied the doll intently. Limbs and head carved from wood, with a cloth body, wearing a dress of fine brocade with yellow wool for hair. Again, the brow furrowed in concentration. Then she gave just the faintest hint of a shy smile.
"Thank you, Mor-Bror."
Then the girl picked up the bits of ribbon which had held the cloth wrapping of her brother's present. Théoden expected her to tie one in the doll's hair, perhaps, but to his surprise, she took the first and fashioned it into a bridle for the "horse". Then, after solemnly tying the horse to the table leg and instructing it not to stray, she tucked the doll under her arm and walked to the wood store beside the fire pit. With a look of intent concentration, she selected two pieces of kindling, one slight shorter than the other, which she then brought back to the table. Very carefully, she took the other ribbon and bound the two pieces across one another to form a crude sword, the, with equal attention, bound the sword to the doll's right hand.
"Come on, dolly, meet Felaraf," she said, and carefully placed the doll astride the little wooden horse. Then she smiled, another of her tiny, hesitant smiles, at Théoden and her brother, and took the doll and horse in her hands. Making galloping noises, she led them in a charge to the entrance of the hall, where the doll dismounted, and to Théoden's surprise, engaged in a vigorous attack on the carved dragon.
Once the dragon had been slain to her satisfaction, she turned and spoke.
"I like my birthday presents. This is my Meara, Felarof, father of all Mearas, and my shieldmaiden, Edyð." And for the first time since she was sent to Edoras, Éowyn gave a brilliant smile.