Chapter 4 : Dreams and Realizations
The door closed firmly behind Gorhend, leaving Myrhil alone at the table. She had not moved during the entire argument, afraid that she would not be able to stay on her feet if she was unsupported under the brunt of her father's wrath. She wanted to maintain a strong front in the face of his anger. She would not yield to him. He could refuse to allow her to ride tonight, but the next time she had the opportunity to take the night watch, she would ask again. And when he refused, she would argue. Of the stories he had told her and Larhend when they were children, many were recounts of battles where sheer will and persistent assaults conquered the enemy and turned the tide. She did not merely hear the stories. She listened to them and learned a basic strategy that he had employed in the deafening world of combat.
Laenilas found her still rigid and motionless when she appeared from the kitchen, apron dangling from her hand by the strings. "Myrhil, stop sulking," she sighed, tossing the greasy garment onto the table. She walked to the hearth and stirred the coals with a heavy poker. "I heard everything. There is very little you can do. It is not your place yet."
"With Larhend dead, it is my place," Myrhil insisted. "Now is the time when I can take what should be mine."
Laenilas straightened in alarm and looked upon her daughter with an ill- concealed expression of shock. "'Take what should be mine,' did you say? Your father is not dead yet, my girl! When he is gone and if you are not wed by that unhappy day" -- she pointed the poker at her in emphasis -- "then you can take what is yours, but not a day sooner!" She returned to the fire and grasped the mantle in one hand and stabbed at the glowing embers with the other.
"'What should be mine,'" she repeated, muttering sharply under her breath. "You never talked like this until that wretched creature Belaród came here." She tossed the poker onto the hearth with a resounding clang and turned around, clapping her hands free of ash from the handle. "Belaród. . .Belaród. . ." she chanted, drawing near the table. The name rolled on her tongue like a spell as every syllable was given great emphasis, her tone reproachful. She settled onto the bench opposite Myrhil and cupped her chin in her hand. Her gaze was level, unwavering. . .and Myrhil soon was discomfited by it. Her mother had always had that effect on her. Those pale blue looking at her so intently, so.piercing.
"Do not call him wretched," Myrhil managed. "He talks sense and it is a balm to my wounded pride that someone esteems my abilities to the degree that I hold them myself."
Laenilas chuckled. "Girl. . .girl. . . I do not deny that you have talent for a great many things. Larhend's sword fits well in your hands and the shoes are nailed on the horses' hooves as straight and tight as they ever were. But what you can do has no bearing on what you should do." She reached across the table and seized Myrhil's hands between her own work- worn ones. "At least not now," she whispered, stroking her daughter's callused fingers with her thumbs. "Just wait for it to come to you. It will be yours someday if you are prudent, rest assured of that."
"Should I have a husband, it will be mine in name only," Myrhil retorted.
"And is that so terrible? Do you want to toil all day as your father does?" Laenilas demanded. "If so, then you can expect these hands of yours to worsen with every winter's day as the cold bites through leather and wool during the long hours spent outside in the elements." She grasped Myrhil's hands and shook them in emphasis. "There is very little of my Rohirric blood visible in you, and should you follow your father's path, you will look even less so. 'A descendant of a king's daughter?' people will say. 'Nay! A mean soldier's daughter and naught else!'"
"My hands can be weathered on the plains or they can be submerged in a tub of hot water, washing dishes and clothes," Myrhil replied levelly. "Year in and out, scrubbing and washing. I would rather they were burned in the forge or frozen around a set of reins, than dried and chapped from mean kitchen work."
Laenilas surprised her daughter by not getting angry at this insult. She only smiled ruefully and shook her head. "Perhaps it will be for the best if you never find a husband, girl," she said, bringing a hand to her brow and smoothing back the loose strands of hair that fell about her face. "If my line ends with you, then there will be no more bull-headed fools."
"You are including yourself as one?" Myrhil asked, unable to hide a smile.
"Without hesitation," she sighed. "Willfulness is a Rohirric trait, but especially so in our blighted little family. That is how we are here."
Mother and daughter shared a smile over unspoken thoughts and memories. Myrhil had often heard the tale from her mother of Thengel's decision to leave Rohan when he came of age, fleeing a tyrannical, greedy, and mean- spirited father, Fengel King, who sat upon the throne. Following behind Thengel was his sister Théda, likewise eager to flee a hateful home and arranged marriage. Both found spouses and contented futures in Lossernach. Thengel took Morwen to wife and Théda bound herself to Irendir, a local lord. Twin sons were born to them, Thédan and Thédor. The youngest, Thédor, grew to manhood and was offered a post at the royal court of Meduseld in Edoras by his uncle Thengel. The bitter old king was now dead and his heir had reluctantly ended his self-imposed exile to become King of the Rohirrim.
But Thédor refused his uncle's generous gesture, preferring to remain in the only land he knew. He had taken the fair Laedilas to wife and their household already had increased by one with the arrival of the babe Laenilas. So this branch of Rohirric royal blood had chosen to live out its life in the flat terrain of the south and in the seaward-facing foothills of the White Mountains.
"I have not spoken of this to anyone, but many thoughts keep me company throughout the long days," Laenilas began, rubbing her hands together in a meditative way. The dry palms hissed against each other as she did so. "I should greatly desire to look upon Rohan for once in my life." She bit her lip and tried to smile, but her reddening eyes and a slight quiver of the nostrils bespoke of other emotions. "You are not the only one with unrealized dreams, daughter. . ."
"To Rohan?" Myrhil asked, astonished at this confession. "You could not possibly. . ."
"Did I not say it was an unrealized dream?" her mother reminded her. "Half of my life has been spent here on this land, a wife and mother. I have endured the long, agonizing wait of a soldier's wife after every battle. Battles that I knew not took place. Whenever he was gone, he could likely be dead. That is what I lived with for more years than I care to remember." She swallowed and continued, her voice low. "Before Larhend was born, your father left me for three whole years with no word of his safety. We had not horses then. This was nothing but a small farm. But I remained, waiting until he came back." She tapped the table with a finger in thought. "It was a happy day when he returned, but all that empty time had been filled with worries and fears, thoughts and dreams. I dreamed of Rohan, the land of my grandmother, the land of my father's uncle, the King." Her eyes glittered in the lantern and firelight as she spoke of her kin. Those pale blue eyes were complemented by reddish gold hair that her husband had often affectionately referred to as his copper treasure none could steal. At this moment, had she known, she looked every inch the kin that she yearned to know. Laenilas had never seen Rohan, never known her ancestress Théda, yet the lure of the rolling plains and hills to the north sang in her veins, filling her heart that loved it, her mind that imagined it, her body that could bring her there and sense all its riches.
"I remember those long evenings of the endless months and years when I waited for his return," Laenilas continued, her voice lowering to a dazed reverie. "I would feed the few men we had here, but eat little myself. Then I left this small place and walked about the plains, uncaring of what might stumble across me. I looked eastward first. Always eastward, sending a murmured plea to Gorhend to remain safe. Then I looked north and saw those mountains. Those tall, forbidding mountains. . ."
Myrhil listened to her mother, awed at this long-held secret unfolding before her. Laenilas stared at the flames leaping in the fireplace, her mouth parted in rapture at distant memory that had been vividly brought back to life through the power of words.
"Those beautiful mountains. . ." Laenilas breathed. "The autumn moonlight on the snowy peaks was a sight so peaceful that the treacherous journey through them seemed like the foolish warnings of a coward." She closed her eyes, her transport to the memory complete. "A gateway to the land of my kindred, unknown to me and so mysterious, but praised for its beauty. Those mountains and Rohan begged to have me discover them. So I walked and walked, all the while seeing these sentries loom ever closer. Every night I walked farther than the evening before, until. . ."
Myrhil leaned forward expectantly, her gaze fixed on her mother. Laenilas had raised her hand in her reverie, holding it out in front of her, the chapped fingers with rough, uneven nails stretched in imprecation to the unswerving force of the mountains. "Until, Mother?"
"They were no sentries! It was no gate!" Laenilas cried, opening her eyes and staring upwards at the ceiling as though the glacial summits hovered above her. "It was a wall, a barrier!" Her face twisted in anger. "I could not walk through them, yet they had tempted me so, knowing I could do nothing once I reached them," she spat. She looked back at Myrhil and her eyes no longer glittered as they had during her recollection. Once more they were a pale blue, but soft and. . .dull. "So I returned here, to live out my life," she finished with a wry smile.
"Does Father know of this?" Myrhil asked. "Does he know how you desire to look upon Rohan?"
"Nay, not at all. And what could it accomplish if he did?" Laenilas replied. "He loves Gondor as much as I. This is the land of our birth, our life. We have duties here and this wish of mine to see Rohan is akin to a person standing at the edge of the sea and wondering what lies across the water. It is a call, nothing more. And we will not die if it is not obeyed."
Myrhil tried to hide the skepticism she felt at those words. This reverie had been a blow to her heart, seeing her strong-willed mother realize she lived in a virtual prison. To the south lay the sea and Harad, an exotic land with folk equally mysterious, the east held Mordor, and the jagged peaks of the Ered Nimrais to the north formed a three-sided room of gigantic proportions. To the west lay army outposts and a vast sea. But just over the mountains, a bird's flight away, laid Laenilas' unrealized dream.
"It will come to you someday," Myrhil said, repeating her mother. She was at a loss as to what she could say. Never had Laenilas spoken so openly to her about anything. She stood up and looked down at the older woman.
Laenilas was starting thoughtfully into the flames, her chin cupped in one hand again. "My family never understood why I married Gorhend," she said slowly. "'A sergeant?'' my father yelled. 'He will never improve his rank with that blood, and you will regret hitching your cart to such a horse.'" She laughed. "He actually said that. I do not know if his opinion changed when my husband's unworthy blood was rarely shed on the battlefield while other, finer men fell under the enemy host." She shrugged and straightened. "No matter. Your father is a good man, Myrhil, and he has lived through much. Do not make the end of his days be another battle. A victory over his own child is still a defeat. He has already been defeated once."
Myrhil turned around when she felt the tears begin to sting her eyes. No weakness, she told herself. Larhend had never been weak. Larhend had never wept over anything. Larhend had known what he wanted and fought for it. . .and had died not yet having gained it. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of her dear brother lying on the ground in a lifeless heap, his head at an unnatural angle. His pale blue eyes, inherited from Laenilas, staring sightlessly into the sun and the crown of reddish-gold locks marred by the stain of blood. . .
"He looked so much like you," Myrhil heard herself saying. "And I. . .I am the image of Father." She turned after wiping away the traitorous tears that escaped her control. "Does he regret that? That the son should be so like the mother and the daughter be like him?" She walked over to Gorhend's chair and slowly sank into it. "He looks at me and I see so many thoughts flit across his face, emotions in his eyes. He sometimes looks upon me and smiles or slaps me on the back as he did with Larhend. I am happiest then, for I see him in myself and myself in him."
"You are just as I imagine him to have looked long before I met him," Laenilas told her. "War is never kind on a man and he has aged much, not completely at the hands of Time. But you are the female likeness of that youth who eventually became my husband."
Myrhil took little comfort in these words for her thoughts continued to trouble her. "Then there are times when I try to do a task that Larhend did and Father's expression tells me I have no business to even consider it. That somehow I am incapable." She took a deep breath and her fingers gripped the arms of the chair so tightly the joints creaked in alarm. "And then the times I hate most of all. . .when I practice with Larhend's sword." She exhaled sharply, emitting a strangled cry. "I see his face and he is thinking that the wrong person is holding that sword!" Her face contorted when she was unable to keep the agony contained within her. "And I wonder that if he had control of which child had to die, he would sacrifice me!"
Laenilas looked at her surviving child, speechless. She could find no words, not because Myrhil's confession surprised her, but that her daughter's fears were true. For months after Larhend's death, she had seen Gorhend struggle with his feelings of the injustice done him. Finally he had confessed to her and it had been she who suggested that Myrhil was not utterly lacking in the skill and strength he required of an heir. The shortage of men for hired work made this suggestion sensible. That Myrhil had proven herself an able successor had been a source of pride for her, although she did not dispense her praise freely. That would have created a prideful creature, but Belaród's appearance had brought that about regardless.
"Your father is proud of you, girl," she finally ventured, "but you have become too insistent of late. That Belaród had been using you to force his hand and the real master of this place naturally balks. In a way, you yourself have undone much that you toiled to build."
"No. . ." Myrhil whispered. "I could not have. . ." Laenilas' sympathetic expression made her unable to finish. "No!" she cried desperately. "Why did you never say to me that I was being foolish?"
Laenilas' gaze was unwavering. "Would you have believed me if I had?" she asked. "Or would you have instead heeded whatever Belaród told you? When a girl reaches a certain age, her mother, who was once so wise, becomes ignorant and blind. Others are deemed more knowledgeable, whether they are or not."
"I never thought you ignorant," Myrhil said in defense, voice low. "Only reluctant."
She rose from the chair and grabbed Larhend's sword and her cloak from their places beside the door. The leather belt that held the scabbard was hung up on the peg and Myrhil jerked at it impatiently when it caught briefly.
"Where are you going?" Laenilas asked, suddenly afraid. "Why are you taking a sword?"
"Protection," she responded curtly, cinching the belt around her waist. She fastened the heavy cloak around her neck and lifted the latch on the heavy oaken door. "I need to think, Mother," she sighed. "I need to plan how to rebuild what I have stupidly torn down." She looked over her shoulder and smiled bitterly. "I thank you for informing me of what I was doing before I found myself under a pile of rubble." Without another word, she left.
Laenilas walked over to the door and quietly opened it. The pale moonlight did not illuminate the landscape clearly, but the sound of several greeting nickers from the stable told her where her daughter had gone. She should not ride in such a fury, she told herself. Disaster will come of this.
She took a step, then hesitated. No, I will not stop her this time, she decided. I will let her have free rein to redeem herself. Then we shall all know of what she is made.
She retreated inside and latched the door, leaning against it in exhaustion. But she could not rest. Too much of the evening had passed already. Bricks had to be heated for the beds, more wood brought to the hearth for tomorrow's cooking, and the kitchen made ready for breakfast.
"Myrhil," she whispered, "what will your fate be, I wonder? If there is any justice, may it never be like mine."
To be continued...
Notes: Thengel's sister Théda and all of her descendants are of my imagination.
The door closed firmly behind Gorhend, leaving Myrhil alone at the table. She had not moved during the entire argument, afraid that she would not be able to stay on her feet if she was unsupported under the brunt of her father's wrath. She wanted to maintain a strong front in the face of his anger. She would not yield to him. He could refuse to allow her to ride tonight, but the next time she had the opportunity to take the night watch, she would ask again. And when he refused, she would argue. Of the stories he had told her and Larhend when they were children, many were recounts of battles where sheer will and persistent assaults conquered the enemy and turned the tide. She did not merely hear the stories. She listened to them and learned a basic strategy that he had employed in the deafening world of combat.
Laenilas found her still rigid and motionless when she appeared from the kitchen, apron dangling from her hand by the strings. "Myrhil, stop sulking," she sighed, tossing the greasy garment onto the table. She walked to the hearth and stirred the coals with a heavy poker. "I heard everything. There is very little you can do. It is not your place yet."
"With Larhend dead, it is my place," Myrhil insisted. "Now is the time when I can take what should be mine."
Laenilas straightened in alarm and looked upon her daughter with an ill- concealed expression of shock. "'Take what should be mine,' did you say? Your father is not dead yet, my girl! When he is gone and if you are not wed by that unhappy day" -- she pointed the poker at her in emphasis -- "then you can take what is yours, but not a day sooner!" She returned to the fire and grasped the mantle in one hand and stabbed at the glowing embers with the other.
"'What should be mine,'" she repeated, muttering sharply under her breath. "You never talked like this until that wretched creature Belaród came here." She tossed the poker onto the hearth with a resounding clang and turned around, clapping her hands free of ash from the handle. "Belaród. . .Belaród. . ." she chanted, drawing near the table. The name rolled on her tongue like a spell as every syllable was given great emphasis, her tone reproachful. She settled onto the bench opposite Myrhil and cupped her chin in her hand. Her gaze was level, unwavering. . .and Myrhil soon was discomfited by it. Her mother had always had that effect on her. Those pale blue looking at her so intently, so.piercing.
"Do not call him wretched," Myrhil managed. "He talks sense and it is a balm to my wounded pride that someone esteems my abilities to the degree that I hold them myself."
Laenilas chuckled. "Girl. . .girl. . . I do not deny that you have talent for a great many things. Larhend's sword fits well in your hands and the shoes are nailed on the horses' hooves as straight and tight as they ever were. But what you can do has no bearing on what you should do." She reached across the table and seized Myrhil's hands between her own work- worn ones. "At least not now," she whispered, stroking her daughter's callused fingers with her thumbs. "Just wait for it to come to you. It will be yours someday if you are prudent, rest assured of that."
"Should I have a husband, it will be mine in name only," Myrhil retorted.
"And is that so terrible? Do you want to toil all day as your father does?" Laenilas demanded. "If so, then you can expect these hands of yours to worsen with every winter's day as the cold bites through leather and wool during the long hours spent outside in the elements." She grasped Myrhil's hands and shook them in emphasis. "There is very little of my Rohirric blood visible in you, and should you follow your father's path, you will look even less so. 'A descendant of a king's daughter?' people will say. 'Nay! A mean soldier's daughter and naught else!'"
"My hands can be weathered on the plains or they can be submerged in a tub of hot water, washing dishes and clothes," Myrhil replied levelly. "Year in and out, scrubbing and washing. I would rather they were burned in the forge or frozen around a set of reins, than dried and chapped from mean kitchen work."
Laenilas surprised her daughter by not getting angry at this insult. She only smiled ruefully and shook her head. "Perhaps it will be for the best if you never find a husband, girl," she said, bringing a hand to her brow and smoothing back the loose strands of hair that fell about her face. "If my line ends with you, then there will be no more bull-headed fools."
"You are including yourself as one?" Myrhil asked, unable to hide a smile.
"Without hesitation," she sighed. "Willfulness is a Rohirric trait, but especially so in our blighted little family. That is how we are here."
Mother and daughter shared a smile over unspoken thoughts and memories. Myrhil had often heard the tale from her mother of Thengel's decision to leave Rohan when he came of age, fleeing a tyrannical, greedy, and mean- spirited father, Fengel King, who sat upon the throne. Following behind Thengel was his sister Théda, likewise eager to flee a hateful home and arranged marriage. Both found spouses and contented futures in Lossernach. Thengel took Morwen to wife and Théda bound herself to Irendir, a local lord. Twin sons were born to them, Thédan and Thédor. The youngest, Thédor, grew to manhood and was offered a post at the royal court of Meduseld in Edoras by his uncle Thengel. The bitter old king was now dead and his heir had reluctantly ended his self-imposed exile to become King of the Rohirrim.
But Thédor refused his uncle's generous gesture, preferring to remain in the only land he knew. He had taken the fair Laedilas to wife and their household already had increased by one with the arrival of the babe Laenilas. So this branch of Rohirric royal blood had chosen to live out its life in the flat terrain of the south and in the seaward-facing foothills of the White Mountains.
"I have not spoken of this to anyone, but many thoughts keep me company throughout the long days," Laenilas began, rubbing her hands together in a meditative way. The dry palms hissed against each other as she did so. "I should greatly desire to look upon Rohan for once in my life." She bit her lip and tried to smile, but her reddening eyes and a slight quiver of the nostrils bespoke of other emotions. "You are not the only one with unrealized dreams, daughter. . ."
"To Rohan?" Myrhil asked, astonished at this confession. "You could not possibly. . ."
"Did I not say it was an unrealized dream?" her mother reminded her. "Half of my life has been spent here on this land, a wife and mother. I have endured the long, agonizing wait of a soldier's wife after every battle. Battles that I knew not took place. Whenever he was gone, he could likely be dead. That is what I lived with for more years than I care to remember." She swallowed and continued, her voice low. "Before Larhend was born, your father left me for three whole years with no word of his safety. We had not horses then. This was nothing but a small farm. But I remained, waiting until he came back." She tapped the table with a finger in thought. "It was a happy day when he returned, but all that empty time had been filled with worries and fears, thoughts and dreams. I dreamed of Rohan, the land of my grandmother, the land of my father's uncle, the King." Her eyes glittered in the lantern and firelight as she spoke of her kin. Those pale blue eyes were complemented by reddish gold hair that her husband had often affectionately referred to as his copper treasure none could steal. At this moment, had she known, she looked every inch the kin that she yearned to know. Laenilas had never seen Rohan, never known her ancestress Théda, yet the lure of the rolling plains and hills to the north sang in her veins, filling her heart that loved it, her mind that imagined it, her body that could bring her there and sense all its riches.
"I remember those long evenings of the endless months and years when I waited for his return," Laenilas continued, her voice lowering to a dazed reverie. "I would feed the few men we had here, but eat little myself. Then I left this small place and walked about the plains, uncaring of what might stumble across me. I looked eastward first. Always eastward, sending a murmured plea to Gorhend to remain safe. Then I looked north and saw those mountains. Those tall, forbidding mountains. . ."
Myrhil listened to her mother, awed at this long-held secret unfolding before her. Laenilas stared at the flames leaping in the fireplace, her mouth parted in rapture at distant memory that had been vividly brought back to life through the power of words.
"Those beautiful mountains. . ." Laenilas breathed. "The autumn moonlight on the snowy peaks was a sight so peaceful that the treacherous journey through them seemed like the foolish warnings of a coward." She closed her eyes, her transport to the memory complete. "A gateway to the land of my kindred, unknown to me and so mysterious, but praised for its beauty. Those mountains and Rohan begged to have me discover them. So I walked and walked, all the while seeing these sentries loom ever closer. Every night I walked farther than the evening before, until. . ."
Myrhil leaned forward expectantly, her gaze fixed on her mother. Laenilas had raised her hand in her reverie, holding it out in front of her, the chapped fingers with rough, uneven nails stretched in imprecation to the unswerving force of the mountains. "Until, Mother?"
"They were no sentries! It was no gate!" Laenilas cried, opening her eyes and staring upwards at the ceiling as though the glacial summits hovered above her. "It was a wall, a barrier!" Her face twisted in anger. "I could not walk through them, yet they had tempted me so, knowing I could do nothing once I reached them," she spat. She looked back at Myrhil and her eyes no longer glittered as they had during her recollection. Once more they were a pale blue, but soft and. . .dull. "So I returned here, to live out my life," she finished with a wry smile.
"Does Father know of this?" Myrhil asked. "Does he know how you desire to look upon Rohan?"
"Nay, not at all. And what could it accomplish if he did?" Laenilas replied. "He loves Gondor as much as I. This is the land of our birth, our life. We have duties here and this wish of mine to see Rohan is akin to a person standing at the edge of the sea and wondering what lies across the water. It is a call, nothing more. And we will not die if it is not obeyed."
Myrhil tried to hide the skepticism she felt at those words. This reverie had been a blow to her heart, seeing her strong-willed mother realize she lived in a virtual prison. To the south lay the sea and Harad, an exotic land with folk equally mysterious, the east held Mordor, and the jagged peaks of the Ered Nimrais to the north formed a three-sided room of gigantic proportions. To the west lay army outposts and a vast sea. But just over the mountains, a bird's flight away, laid Laenilas' unrealized dream.
"It will come to you someday," Myrhil said, repeating her mother. She was at a loss as to what she could say. Never had Laenilas spoken so openly to her about anything. She stood up and looked down at the older woman.
Laenilas was starting thoughtfully into the flames, her chin cupped in one hand again. "My family never understood why I married Gorhend," she said slowly. "'A sergeant?'' my father yelled. 'He will never improve his rank with that blood, and you will regret hitching your cart to such a horse.'" She laughed. "He actually said that. I do not know if his opinion changed when my husband's unworthy blood was rarely shed on the battlefield while other, finer men fell under the enemy host." She shrugged and straightened. "No matter. Your father is a good man, Myrhil, and he has lived through much. Do not make the end of his days be another battle. A victory over his own child is still a defeat. He has already been defeated once."
Myrhil turned around when she felt the tears begin to sting her eyes. No weakness, she told herself. Larhend had never been weak. Larhend had never wept over anything. Larhend had known what he wanted and fought for it. . .and had died not yet having gained it. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory of her dear brother lying on the ground in a lifeless heap, his head at an unnatural angle. His pale blue eyes, inherited from Laenilas, staring sightlessly into the sun and the crown of reddish-gold locks marred by the stain of blood. . .
"He looked so much like you," Myrhil heard herself saying. "And I. . .I am the image of Father." She turned after wiping away the traitorous tears that escaped her control. "Does he regret that? That the son should be so like the mother and the daughter be like him?" She walked over to Gorhend's chair and slowly sank into it. "He looks at me and I see so many thoughts flit across his face, emotions in his eyes. He sometimes looks upon me and smiles or slaps me on the back as he did with Larhend. I am happiest then, for I see him in myself and myself in him."
"You are just as I imagine him to have looked long before I met him," Laenilas told her. "War is never kind on a man and he has aged much, not completely at the hands of Time. But you are the female likeness of that youth who eventually became my husband."
Myrhil took little comfort in these words for her thoughts continued to trouble her. "Then there are times when I try to do a task that Larhend did and Father's expression tells me I have no business to even consider it. That somehow I am incapable." She took a deep breath and her fingers gripped the arms of the chair so tightly the joints creaked in alarm. "And then the times I hate most of all. . .when I practice with Larhend's sword." She exhaled sharply, emitting a strangled cry. "I see his face and he is thinking that the wrong person is holding that sword!" Her face contorted when she was unable to keep the agony contained within her. "And I wonder that if he had control of which child had to die, he would sacrifice me!"
Laenilas looked at her surviving child, speechless. She could find no words, not because Myrhil's confession surprised her, but that her daughter's fears were true. For months after Larhend's death, she had seen Gorhend struggle with his feelings of the injustice done him. Finally he had confessed to her and it had been she who suggested that Myrhil was not utterly lacking in the skill and strength he required of an heir. The shortage of men for hired work made this suggestion sensible. That Myrhil had proven herself an able successor had been a source of pride for her, although she did not dispense her praise freely. That would have created a prideful creature, but Belaród's appearance had brought that about regardless.
"Your father is proud of you, girl," she finally ventured, "but you have become too insistent of late. That Belaród had been using you to force his hand and the real master of this place naturally balks. In a way, you yourself have undone much that you toiled to build."
"No. . ." Myrhil whispered. "I could not have. . ." Laenilas' sympathetic expression made her unable to finish. "No!" she cried desperately. "Why did you never say to me that I was being foolish?"
Laenilas' gaze was unwavering. "Would you have believed me if I had?" she asked. "Or would you have instead heeded whatever Belaród told you? When a girl reaches a certain age, her mother, who was once so wise, becomes ignorant and blind. Others are deemed more knowledgeable, whether they are or not."
"I never thought you ignorant," Myrhil said in defense, voice low. "Only reluctant."
She rose from the chair and grabbed Larhend's sword and her cloak from their places beside the door. The leather belt that held the scabbard was hung up on the peg and Myrhil jerked at it impatiently when it caught briefly.
"Where are you going?" Laenilas asked, suddenly afraid. "Why are you taking a sword?"
"Protection," she responded curtly, cinching the belt around her waist. She fastened the heavy cloak around her neck and lifted the latch on the heavy oaken door. "I need to think, Mother," she sighed. "I need to plan how to rebuild what I have stupidly torn down." She looked over her shoulder and smiled bitterly. "I thank you for informing me of what I was doing before I found myself under a pile of rubble." Without another word, she left.
Laenilas walked over to the door and quietly opened it. The pale moonlight did not illuminate the landscape clearly, but the sound of several greeting nickers from the stable told her where her daughter had gone. She should not ride in such a fury, she told herself. Disaster will come of this.
She took a step, then hesitated. No, I will not stop her this time, she decided. I will let her have free rein to redeem herself. Then we shall all know of what she is made.
She retreated inside and latched the door, leaning against it in exhaustion. But she could not rest. Too much of the evening had passed already. Bricks had to be heated for the beds, more wood brought to the hearth for tomorrow's cooking, and the kitchen made ready for breakfast.
"Myrhil," she whispered, "what will your fate be, I wonder? If there is any justice, may it never be like mine."
To be continued...
Notes: Thengel's sister Théda and all of her descendants are of my imagination.