Then glory in battle to Hrothgar was given,

Waxing of war-fame, that willingly kinsmen

Obeyed his bidding, till the boys grew to manhood,

A numerous band. It burned in his spirit

To urge his folk to found a great building,

A mead-hall grander than men of the era

He is eager to build a great hall in which he may feast his retainers

Ever had heard of, and in it to share

With young and old all of the blessings

The lord had allowed him, save life and retainers.

Then the work I find afar was assigned

To many races in middle-earth's regions,

To adorn the great folk-hall.

-The Saga of Beowulf

The next few days passed much same as the days preceding, bitterly cold and bitterly wearying. All too quickly, however, came the morn when Solweig must ride to Edoras and take her place at the king's council. From landholders of minor properties to lords of fiefdoms in the Riddermark, all would bring their concerns to the new king, and petitions and disputes would be dealt with. Or not. But it was the only day for representation, and she had a special request to make before the former Marshall of the Mark.

She awoke early in the morning, not long after the sun began its long, slow march towards its zenith. She brushed her long hair, ridding it of snags and tangles. Thoughts of Éogarn came to mind, unbidden. She recalled the touch of his hand on her bare flesh as though he were still there, still next to her. She had loved the look of his hands, tanned and calloused. A working man's hands, she had said then. An honest man's hands, like her father Fastred had been. Éogarn had smiled and ran his fingers through her hair, smooth from the ministrations given by the bristles of her comb. He kissed the pale yellow strands on her head. This is my treasure, he had murmured in her ear. This is my golden hoard of riches.

Solweig slammed her brush upon the table and left it there.


After finishing her morning routine, she went outside and saddled her horse, a stout bay mare that whickered as Solweig approached. The old girl was fair-humored and had a smooth gait, although her spine and haunches had become more noticeably bony in later years. Éogarn's charger had fallen in battle. It was customary for the Rohirrim to be sent to their Fathers' halls with their horse as well, but Éogarn's steed had been lost on the battlefield, separated far from its master. Éogarn would just have to make due walking to the Great Hall. Solweig almost smiled at the thought.

Mounting her horse with Fastred safely in place, she urged the mare into a trot, one hand gripping the reins and the other holding fast to the leads of the pony that trailed behind, laden with her pack and supplies. Edoras was not more than a few hours steady ride, but she had a plan in mind and the will to see it through.

The discordant murmur of a hundred voices filled the pilastered Golden Hall of Meduseld, a cacophonous mix of rugged rumblings and the chink of tankards. The King had not yet granted an audience to the multitudinous collection gathered there. The air was thick with acrid smoke from pipes and the torchlight was hazy. Through the murk, halos of orange-red light bloomed around each sconce. Despite the high afternoon sun that peaked overhead outside, no such natural light reached the inside of the hall beyond the small slitted square in the roof through which the smoke lazily wafted. Although the atmosphere was rank with their raucous merriment, an underlying sense of grief flowed beneath the pretense of joviality. The lords who gathered today were too few in number, too old or too young. Many bore the first scars of battle, but many more now carried scars afresh, new wounds torn open over old hurts that had never fully healed.

A dozen serfs waited outside, eager for news detailing those men on whose behalf they toiled in the lands. Horses stamped and whinnied in the stables affixed to the hall, filled almost to capacity given the abundance of the equine lords who visited from their sundry lands. A pair of thin, ragged mutts squabbled in the yard, splashing through a muddy puddle, contesting ownership of a meatless chicken bone, picked clean already by the birds. The dogs tussled and snapped, biting at each other's flank and muzzle. A dirty child squatted next to a tenement and watched the altercation with age-old eyes. Food was scarce in the lands of Rohan after the war, for the women who did not attend to the dead, dying or injured had children to look after and could do little more than to tend the few crops that survived the parching, arid heat of summer. The effects of the war lasted well beyond March, leading to an autumn lacking the kind of abundance needed to sustain even a reduced population. The feeble pickings were barely enough to last through the winter, which had fallen upon the people of Rohan like a roaring white-crested wave, washing over them and dragging them into the briny deep. They struggled to stay afloat in the wake of this tide, struggled to live through the black, howling nights.

The smaller, mangier dog was finally chased away by the larger bitch, who nipped at its heels as it fled. She let loose a few short, ragged barks of warning before settling down to gnaw on the bone. She had white around her muzzle, and her grey coat lost its lustrous sheen of health. The people of the Riddermark were not the only ones who starved.

The child watched as the bitch worried at the chicken's remains and licked at his chapped lips. He toyed with the idea of throwing rocks at the dog to chase her away, giving himself a chance, perhaps, to bite into the bone and suck out the marrow, but there wouldn't be enough to sustain him. Even the child knew that. He remained in his crouch, eyes hooded with hunger.

It was up this steep slope that Solweig bade her horse mount; urging the mare up until they reached the steps of Meduseld. She dismounted, giving both horse and pony to a groom that led them away to the already overcrowded stables. The ground was kicked up and torn, clods of earth scattered by the hooves of so many animals. She chanced a glance at the filthy boy and was shocked to see him squatting in the nude. He returned her stare with a grim, fearless look, challenging her to say something about his poverty. Solweig tore her gaze away, disturbed.

She carried Fastred in her arms as she mounted the steps to the king's palais. She nearly choked when she entered, the bitter smoke being the first stench that made itself apparent. The second was the odor of dozens of men cramped together in an ill-lit hall. It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the muddled gloom, but soon she espied other women beyond herself. Many were wives who had accompanied their lordly husbands, but many more were little more than girls, garbed in fine samite robes with lovely silken cords tied about their slender waists. Solweig looked upon them haughtily. As fair as their supple bodies may be, they had breasts too pink and small for babes to sup at, and hips too narrow to easily bear children. And yet Solweig quenched a feeling of envy.

She wove through the messy din, seeking shelter from the chaotic movement that had overtaken the usually quiet hall. When finally she reached the end, Solweig was pleased to see that the grand seat was still unoccupied. She still had time. Solweig found a column against which she could lean and nurse Fastred without being jostled too much by the crowd as she waited – as they all waited – for the king's appearance.

But time crawlingly passed. It seemed that after an hour in this wretched madhouse, the new lord of Rohan was not wont to be timely. Her spot, carefully chosen though it was, offered few benefits of a haven in this roaring din. Her toes had been stepped on countless times, she had been bumped against and shoved and deafened when a man's bellowing shout rang in her ears. She had become practically blinded by the smoke, which was, by now, a steamy haze that rose up out of the single open cut in the roof, for just such occasions. While the Golden Hall was magnificent and seemingly boundless in grandeur, it was still but a common building that could not magically expand at its master's whims. It was simply not meant to be host to so many thanes – and their pipes – at once.

The athelings were not intentionally so mindless of space and property, but the teeming masses and the chalices of ale, mead and cider that were being passed freely around made their blood boil and dulled the wits of those that downed a glass too many.

For all of Solweig's discomfort, she was amazed by the docility of Fastred. She expected him to squall the moment she passed beyond the mantle of the hall, but the babe slept soundly, thumb in mouth. She was overcome with affection and nuzzled his soft neck with her nose. He certainly smelled far better than did the slabs of meat and leather that permeated everything else.

There was a sudden, loud bang that resounded in the far entrance of the hall. Solweig's head shot up. The commotion died quickly, for that sound had been hard to miss, even when competing with the cacophonous racket. She turned around, peering around the edge of the column and over the heads of the men, but she could not see who it was that entered. She did not need to.

"Make way!" shouted a rider from the Éored. It seemed that this man was from the king's own company. "Make way for Éomer King!" The crowd parted reluctantly. The troop pushed past the bewildered earls, clustered so tightly that Solweig could not even seen the King in their midst. She had never made any formal introductions to the nephew of Théoden, Lord of the House of Eorl, but she had glimpsed the young Marshall on many occasions. The last time she had seen him, she realized with a clenched knot in her stomach, was when Éogarn and Éohilm rode off under his command. She edged closer to the chair, eager for a look.

He seemed…tired. It was clear that the King had been riding. His horsehair helmet still in hand, he stood before the throne dressed not in robes of the state, but in armor. This was a King that would defend their lands, as the last had done. This was a King that would not sit idle on the throne as his soldiers patrolled his lands. In concert, the thanes and their ladies paid obeisance to their leader. Solweig dipped into a curtsy, which inadvertently roused Fastred.

Éomer was dirty and sweaty from his ride, covered in the same dust as all his legionnaires. He had clearly not wholly abandoned his former calling as a Marshall, that much was certain. After the bows and curtsies straightened, Éomer nodded and took his seat. He began his address.

"My lords!" His voice carried effortlessly to the end of his hall for all to hear. "I come to you now from the Eastfold with grave news." The quietude in the hall, which had previously been respectful, now deepened to a deadened silence. "According to reports of Gondorian sentries from the Crossing of Poros, it would seem that the Southrons are restless."

Fastred, awakened from his nap, grew fussy and restless. "Hush, child." Solweig shushed him, straining to hear the report. "Hush, shhhshhh." She only managed to catch but a few snatches of the King's words between Fastred's mewling and the vapid giggles of a minor earl's woman who stood at her side. Solweig spared a glance at the couple and noted with disgust that he had her pressed up against the wall, fondling her breasts and plump buttocks as they listened – sparingly – to the King.

"—May remember that our own King Folcwine of Rohan fought alongside Steward Túrin II of Gondor against the onslaught of—"

Fastred squirmed, fists beating against anything he could. He cried helplessly, distracting Solweig further. The earl's wife (although she was not even that much, perhaps) sniffed at Fastred's disturbance, but at least her asinine squeals of pleasure and delight had stopped.

"Keep your brat quiet," hissed the earl with rancid breath.

"So long as you keep your whore quiet," Solweig shot back in a furious whisper. Drunk the man may be, he was still beneath the roof of the King, and could do her no violence. He drew back, scowling. He would sober eventually, and then he would be ashamed.

Or so Solweig hoped.

Giving Fastred her forefinger on which to suck, she tried to hear the last of the King's words, but it seemed that the information he had gathered from his ride had already passed. At least Fastred was mollified now, for the infant's cries had ceased.

"Let all who now wish to come before the Lord of the Golden Hall present themselves!" announced the Éored rider.

A tall lord several paces in front of Solweig began to advance, poised to speak. Solweig rushed forward, literally pushing past a landholder and an earl in her haste to be the first to address the King. "Here, my lord!" she cried, one arm raised high above her head.

"Come forward," said the King.

She was nearly breathless from adrenaline. She knew that what she had to say must be done before others claimed their turn. She curtsied deeply before the massive throne, head inclined in respect.

"My lord, I am Solweig of House Gallgoídil, made husbandless by the War of the Ring." She felt, rather than saw, the murmur of the women she had passed on her way in. They knew what she had to say, and they disliked it. "I seek to announce before your authority my great need in finding a new lord to claim the title to my lands and estate. I have neither servants nor plow, and but one mare and pony. I am not the only woman widowed, this I realize." By the sound of the angrily rustling gowns, she was all too aware of that. "May I address the company, my lord?"

The King dipped his head slightly, golden crown winking when it caught the light of the torches.

She faced the council assemblage.

"There may be fairer girls, sweeter girls, girls whose lithe bodies have yet to be deflowered. They may have voices of a lark or softer hands, but I am a wife, my lord thanes. I can mend. I can cook. I can unlace your doublet and boots and hang your buckler upon the wall when you are tired, or give you comfort and warmth when the night is cold and dark. My husband's legacy may not be much, but you'll be granted a title, if you do not yet have one, and a healthy son that you may raise as your own. These things I can give you." Her voice fell. "Nothing more have I to offer than that."

She turned back to the King and curtsied one final time before departing. She brushed apologetically past the tall man she had interrupted, but Solweig glowed. The competition for husbands who were able to care for widowed women and their children would be fierce after winter's chills melted into spring, and she had placed her name at the top of the list. However treacherous it seemed to Éogarn's memory, she ached with need to lie in a warm bed again, to be the support for a husband who could bring fresh servants, horses, tools and protection to her household. It was all she could do for Fastred's safety.

As she exited Meduseld, Solweig blinked at the brightness of the outside sun, blinding her after the gloom of the hall.

"My lady!" One of the serfs that had lingered in the yard outside approached her as she descended the steps. "My lady, pray tell repeat what the King had to say?" Seeing their comrade approach a noblewoman, his companions joined him in a knot around her, peppering Solweig with a good measure of questions before she ever had a chance to so much as answer one. They tugged at her sleeves and grabbed at her arms.

"What news?"

"Please tell us, mum, we've got to know!"

"Will Rohan be attacked?"

"What's to be done with the stockpiles of food?"

A guard on the palace steps, seeing this, held his spear aloft threateningly. "Get back from her, you lot, before I run you through!" They departed at his words, unenthusiastically.

Solweig was grateful for the intervention, for she would have been unable to provide any accurate information anyway. It seemed that all of Rohan was agitated by news of a possible Eastern horde massing to the southeast. It did not bode well. Solweig felt a sudden chill, and was glad for the sun. She basked in it for a spell, head uplifted, eyes closed. It seemed, in that precious moment, that Rohan was whole again, and the end of the Great Eye meant the end of his dark armies, but it seemed that the troubles of the Western lands had not yet ended. She hoped they hadn't only just begun.

Solweig retrieved her horse and pony from the stable, tossing the groom a small piece of silver for his trouble, and carefully walked her mounts down the hill. She had a mind to pay a visit to Holgier, a widower who had lost his wife to illness two winters past. He was younger than Solweig and recently remarried. She heard tell that his wife was with child and due by the end of the month. If these rumors held any credence, her luck of the day might just hold through.

Upon reaching Holgier's fair estate on the slope, Solweig raised a hand to knock upon his door when the man himself called out, raising a hand in greeting. She smiled, relieved, and picked up her skirts as she made her way to him. Holgier's pretty wife kept a garden behind the manse, where the couple now lounged, waving out to her. Solweig had seen the garden when she had last visited Holgier and his bride on the day of their union. It was the previous spring, and the vegetables had been so large and ripe that Solweig marveled. The barren, rocky soil of Edoras seemed utterly unable to support any life, but Dagna had somehow coaxed the plants into bearing sweet gifts, but the ground was touched by frost now, and not even Dagna's able hands could bring life to it…not until the next bloom, at least.

"Look at you," Solweig breathed. "Look at you, my lovely girl!" Dagna rose unsteadily, supported on the arm of her blushing husband. Her belly was voluminous and round. The first-time mother was flushed with radiance. Solweig and Dagna embraced. "You must not have long now," Solweig remarked after they broke apart.

Dagna blushed as red as her husband. "But come; let me see your son, Solweig." Dagna pressed gently. Solweig removed him from her sling and trusted him to Dagna's soft arms.

"He's the image of your husband." Said Holgier in amazement.

"Yes," murmured Solweig, smiling. "Down to the hair and the nose. Even his ears, I think."

Fastred looked about himself alertly.

"He has your eyes, though." Dagna said as she held the boy. "So wide and blue, and even a little stubborn looking."

Solweig laughed. "Yes, he has my eyes. And he makes as much of a fuss about things as I do when he is roused too early from his slumber."

"So come, Solweig. What brings you to our home? As much as I appreciate your visit, I cannot think that it is without cause." Holgier noted.

"I'm afraid that's true. Since the death of Éogarn, it has been a great struggle to till and sow the fields, to carry the water, to maintain the estate. ..these are not tasks I can do alone with a child so young. I need help, but I haven't the servants or children to aid me."

Dagna looked up, her exquisite doe-like eyes worried but patently understanding.

"I'm afraid we have little to offer you in the way of servants or beasts of burden, but we will help you as best we can." Holgier said, taking Solweig's hands in his own.

"I thank you, Holgier." Solweig replied. She gave his hands a squeeze but withdrew her own, clasping them together in white-knuckled anxiety. "It is not easy to part from him…but I cannot care for Fastred, my son. Not now. Not until after the winter, when my affairs are settled and I can take into account all the purchases that must needs be made. I hope to find myself a husband as well, which was my purpose in coming here today."

"Not your only purpose." Holgier said with a bob of his head. "You wish us to care for Fastred until you are able yourself?"

"I do." Solweig raised herself erect.

"You need only ask."

"I will raise him with my own child, I promise you this." Dagna adjoined.

Solweig exhaled the breath she did not realize she had been holding. "Thank you. Thank you both. This means more to me than you know."

"We understand, Solweig," said Holgier. "We will care for him as long as you need us to. We are in Edoras, not the far reaches of West Emnet, and so all our comforts will be availed to him."

Tears pricked at Solweig's eyes. "Here—" she jerked on the reins, bringing forth the pony. She unlatched one of the saddlebags and offered it to Holgier. "His belongings. There should be clothes, his blanket, sundry items and…oh, by Béma!" She clapped a hand to her head. "I should have carried along his bassinet, but I knew not whether you would be home, or whether Dagna should be with child, or perhaps you would not take him in, and so I would have carried it along for nothing…I'll go fetch it, I should be back by nightfall!"

Holgier chuckled. "We will manage, I should think. We have room enough to keep him safe and happy. All you need is to send us word when you wish to reclaim him."

"But perhaps we won't give him back!" Dagna laughed as she played with the baby.

"Thank you both once again. This is…this is a great gift." Solweig said in admiration, her hand on her chest.

"It is the least we can do to ease the hardships of your life. We grieve for your loss. Éogarn was a good man and a good husband. And Éohilm…was taken from you too soon. It's as my lovely wife says. We will care for Fastred as our own." Holgier said, and he and Dagna embraced Solweig in turn.

Mounting her horse, she exchanged more farewells. As she kicked her mare forward, her heart broke to leave her son behind, but she knew it was the best thing that could be done for him now. Someday soon she would reclaim him, she swore it.

As the mare picked her way down the hill, Solweig noticed a blur dart past in her peripheral vision. She looked to the right, surprised to see the wild-eyed, unclothed boy crouching in the shadow of a longhall. This time he was not alone, however. An ancient man with spotted, papery skin bent over the boy like a willow. He said something unintelligible and then the child, after one final baleful glare at Solweig, ran off. The old man spared her no attention and limped away after the boy.

Feeling perturbed, Solweig clucked her tongue and quickened the speed of the trot. She had no sooner reached the gate leading out of Edoras and face the Snowbourn river when a desperate cry of, "My lady!" arose from behind her.

She whirled in her seat, thinking that it was one of the serfs come again to harass her, but it was only a dark-haired man dressed in the clothes of a courier. The insignia sewn into the breast of his garment was too dark to see, but Solweig wondered at this new curiosity. "I don't think I'm the right pers—" she began.

"The lady Solweig of House Gallgoídil?"

She sucked in a breath. "Aye, that would be me."

The courier offered a short bow. "My lady bade me give you this letter."

She took the proffered missive in hand, looking at it wonderingly. "Thank you," she said, when she had regained her wits. "A safe journey home."

"And you, good lady."

She left with a sharp trotting gait, confused and concerned. She could not ascertain the sigil on his vestments, obscured as it was by his dark brown hair.

…Come to think of it, he looked like a man of Gondor.

She kicked her horse to a gallop.


A/N

So, bonus points to anyone who can find the relation of this chapter's title to the name of this fanfic.

Also, I would like to mention that Béma is a Vala (essentially a god figure to the people of Arda). He is the Huntsman of the Valar, also known as the Great Rider, and his connection to his steed Nahar made him a beloved figure of the Rohirrim.