Chapter 4: Mourning

As the winter progressed, Meduseld welcomed and provided refuge for about thirty orphans. The oldest child was fifteen summers old and the youngest, was still an infant. How they were about to manage thirty children and settle them into their new life at Meduseld was a concerning dilemma for both Mathilde and Ithílwyn. For they had the foresight to realise that the children would indeed get up to all sorts of mischief if they had naught to do but twiddle their thumbs. With that in mind, they decided to assign the children with chores around Meduseld, and such tutors as can be found were brought in to educate the children from morning till noon. The children were also victims of the war, and Aethelwyn astutely pointed out that they needed special care. Some boys had also seen battle at Helm's Deep, and they were assigned to care for the horses. She noticed that Éomer was especially caring towards them, and allowed them to ride Firefoot when he had time to entertain them.

The staggered arrivals of the children provided some time for the matron to prepare their living arrangements as well as inventing tasks for which they could be useful, which was actually not difficult when considering that many of the men had gone to War and not returned. The children were segregrated by their age, and a nursery was set up for the six young children below the age of six. Ithílwyn took charge of the younger ones, and Mathilde was deemed strict and sensible enough to manage the rowdy and unruly behaviour expected of the older children.

Burga had actually suggested to have some of the older children stay in the village with the rest of the new inhabitants as they needed more hands to aid the work that they had already started, She asked the group of older children a week after they had settled in Meduseld. She was glad they had formed their own cohort, and Mathilde had allowed them to carry out chores as a group, allowing friendships to bloom. They were receptive to the idea, and the whole group of adolescents decided to uproot themselves and begin anew at the new village. Here she was confronted with another possibility, that some of these children might have to find new families, and she wondered how she was to accomplish this.

Ithílwyn exchanged missives with Burga regularly as she sought to ensure the children's wellbeing, and received pleasant news when she was informed that the children were adapting well to their new environment and forming strong bonds with the new families they have chosen. In fact, some of the children have been informally adopted by some of the adults, although there have been issues in which the adolescents were still grieving for their families, and had difficulty opening up to their new families about their sorrows. From her letter, Burga sounded hopeful for the future, and conveyed that the children did support each other and cared for each other in ways the adults could not.

The younger children were also faring well, and were proving themselves hardier than they seemed. There was much to be done at Meduseld, and Ithílwyn was glad that there were additional hands available. The children seemed happy to assist with chores in the kitchen as they were often allowed to sample the fare on many an occasion since the cooks took great affection on them. Several boys volunteered to help out in the stables and the Riders took great care to treat them well, and toss them a coin or two along with a word of praise. Some of the girls were eager to learn embroidery and Aethelwyn began to mentor them. The kindly smith also took several children under his tutelage and Ithílwyn realised one afternoon as she was left with her own brood, that Mathilde had delegated the children exceptionally.

The children played as much as they liked once their chores were finished, wore decent clothes and had enough to eat. They were also beginning to make new friends in Meduseld amongst themselves and with the original inhabitants, and they were all very fond of Mathilde, who was reluctant to admit that she returned their affections in equal measure. They shared the evening meals with the rest of the king's household, as decreed by Éomer and made many evenings lively with their chatter and youthful gaiety.

But soon, Ithílwyn found herself in a bittersweet state. The youngest of all the children was a baby boy who quickly established himself as Ithílwyn's favourite, and the centre of the other children's affections. His mother was killed while her husband was away at war, and his mother's sister brought him with her to Meduseld, as she too was an orphan. She remained at Meduseld and grew close to Ithílwyn, rarely leaving her side. But the presence and closeness of the baby reminded her of the child that was lost to her. For they were both similar in age, should her baby had survived.

Éomer stirred in bed, listening to strange murmuring noises. He sat up and scratched his head, turning to face his wife, who was shaking and tossing her head left and right, all the while murmuring feverishly. Beads of sweat lay like dewdrops on her forehead, and she gripped at the furs tightly.

"No, no, please, stop" she muttered in her sleep as she writhed on the bed. Her hands moved to her middle and then she screamed and sat up straight in bed. Éomer was so startled by her loud outburst that he let out a string of curse words in rapid succession. Turning back to look at his wife, he saw that she was clawing at her stomach, her movements not unlike a caged animal who had been wounded. Her eyes were wide in horror and she seemed distraught.

"Ithíl," he called out to her softly but she did not appear to have escaped her horrible reverie. She turned to him and looked so horrified and devastated that his heart broke. "No!" she screamed, gripping the hair on her head as if she would tear it off. Éomer swiftly held her frame in both arms and sang to her in a soft, soothing voice as she wept bitterly, calling out for her baby. Her anguish was so deep, that her body shook with despair. Éomer clung onto her, weeping not only for their loss, but also her pain. He apologised to her repeatedly, feeling all the more guilty for her suffering.

At long last Ithílwyn grew exhausted and slumped against him, unconscious. He wiped the mucus and tears away with a warm, damp cloth and kissed her forehead. Then he realised that he was also crying and tried to compose himself. He climbed into bed and curled up next to his wife, pressing her body close to his in hopes that he could absorb her pain, though it was all in vain. For how could he know her anguish, how could he understand the love she had for the child growing in her, a child borne out of love for him. She left the safety of Aldburg to slave for his aunt so that her child could be born within the pretence of a legitimate birth. He sighed deeply as he buried his face in her soft hair, inhaling the scent but there was no peace in his heart, and his thoughts were full of turmoil.

The next day, he passed by the nursery and peeked in, having slept late and missing the morning council, which he was glad to dismiss. He entered as stealthily as possible, worried that he might wake the napping children. His wife was rocking a baby in her arms, singing softly as children lay in cots around her, sound asleep. Hiding a sanguine smile at the sight of the motherless children and their childless mother, he approached her quietly and sneaked a kiss on her cheek.

"Éomer!" she cried, startled at his appearance and shut her mouth regretfully, turning to look if she had wakened anyone.

"You managed not to scream, how impressive," he teased, pulling her close to him. He looked down at the infant and noticed how well he fit in between them. She rolled her eyes at him but craned her neck upwards to kiss him.

"How are you?" she asked, a concerned expression on her face. "You look tired," she added.

Éomer stared at her, surprised that she was not aware of the nightmare. "You had a nightmare," he replied.

"Did I wake you up? I am sorry Éomer."

"Do you not remember?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No, I cannot remember, but I feel so tired, and my voice is more hoarse than usual. Oh no," a look of dread filled her face, "was I screaming?"

"Yes," he replied. "You seemed to be in a lot of distress. Come, let us find somewhere to sit." Ushering her to a nearby divan, she sat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"What did I dream about?" she asked, but Éomer could see that she already knew.

"That night," he replied, the rest of the words unspoken. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy and dull with the tragic memory, now brought to conscious thought.

"Oh," she replied softly, standing up and placing the sleeping baby in a cot. Éomer strode over to her and wrapped his arms around her. "It has been so long," she began in a small voice, "and ever since I have tried my hardest to push it out of my memories, but seeing this little one," she choked on a sob while caressing the baby's dewy cheek. Ithílwyn did not complete her sentence, but turned to bury her head in his chest as she wept.

"Ithíl," he murmured, trying to console her. "I should have protected you, it is my fault that such evil should have befallen you."

She stared up at him with red rimmed eyes. "No, you did not do this, and it is not your fault."

"And neither is it yours," he replied, cupping her face with both hands. "I hear you whispering in your sleep, and how worried you are about bearing me a child soon, but I do not care. And you should not worry, for it is not your guilt to bear. Should you bear ten thousand sons, or none at all, I shall still hold you in my deepest affections, and I plead that you do not forget this truth."

"It is my fault, for I knew that I was barren, and still chose to wed the king."

"At my insistence."

"Yes, but I could have left," she countered, looking at the sleeping children forlornly. "I should have left," she added to herself, and ran out of the library.

She did not dine with him, but fussed over the children at their tables. A resident of a nearby village who had lost an infant to illness had been asked to nurse the baby and had volunteered to help Ithílwyn with the younglings. She joined Mathilde in the hectic routine of preparing twenty young children for bed and left the hall, muttering not a word nor sparing a glance at him.

Elfhelm then met with him to discuss matters of the Eastfold, and shared more than a cup of ale with him as they talked.

"So my lord, when will little ones of your own be running around Meduseld? I remember the days when you were but a young lad visiting your uncle and the mischief you and Théodred managed to concoct." Éomer bristled at the subject after Ithílwyn's earlier outburst but hid his displeasure.

"It will happen, but I am not worried about this matter. The queen has enough children to deal with as is," he replied and he East Marshal chuckled.

"Yes, the queen has been very industrious, and she shows herself to be kind and merciful with sheltering these children. I have already written to my wife, for we have encountered many lost children through our sojourns on the Eastmark. There is much to mourn for, and a world of evil to make better."

The memory of Ithílwyn screaming as she clawed at her flat stomach haunted him as Elfhelm spoke and he sniffled, secretly wiping away his tears before clearing his throat and emptying his cup. How was he to make this evil better?

He entered quietly, noticing a familiar fragrance. Ithílwyn's silhouette hovered by the fire and she removed the kettle and set it down on a small table.

"I made you some tea," she said in a small voice, barely looking at him.

"Thank you," he replied, taking the cup that she offered him and drank.

"I put some herbs in the tea that should help one sleep," she added, rushing through her words before turning to the door.

"It is late, where are you going?" he questioned, taking her by the hand.

"I think you would have more rest if I slept elsewhere. Aethelwyn has kindly offered space in her bed, and she says she sleeps so soundly that though a horn may sound in her ear she will not wake. Goodnight," she bade rather brusquely and turned to leave.

His grip on her hand remained firm. "You are my wife, and you are sleeping in my bed." He could see her lips forming the beginning of a protest.

"You do not trust me, you do not believe I love you."

"No, Éomer, I..." she paused and realised that there was truth in what he said. Tears began forming in his eyes. "Éomer?" she called out tentatively. She walked over and pressed his head to her chest, stroking the sides of his face.

He pressed her hands where they were and looked up to her. "My poor Ithílwyn," he sighed. "I wish you could know how much I love you. If only you could understand the murmurs of my heart, and of the immense esteem it holds you in. No woman can compare to you, and yet you think so lowly of yourself, worse, you doubt that someone like me could love you when I think the same to myself, every time I glance upon your fair face and remember your goodness and kindness towards me. You have healed my body, and my soul. You alone rekindled this desire to love, and to be loved despite the cruel influence of war. I may be a king, but you are more than a queen to me. You will always be more than I deserve, but I can see that you do not believe. Even now you think of words to deny what I have spoken."

"I am afraid you are the only person who thinks so," she said and sighed sadly. "I cannot help but think that you will regret marrying me, it is a notion that plagues me. And seeing the children, oh how I yearn for that joy, the blessed gift of children, to indulge in the privilege of bearing your children and raising a family with you. I want it so much," she admitted, tears streaming down her face as she spoke. "This desire is consuming me, as is the hopes of the people placed on me to bear an heir."

"And you will. I know you will bear my children, perhaps not now, but you need time to heal from your wounds. We all need time to mourn for our loss."

"You do not know that it will happen."

"Yes, I do," he replied confidently, and kissed her softly on the lips. "For all your good deeds, you deserve all the yearnings of your heart, and the gods know that. Besides, we have not been married long. It is not uncommon that a man and his wife should have to wait several years before being blessed with children. Now, do not worry about this matter. Let me love you, and prove my affections for you in words and in deed for at least a few more years."

She nodded, acquiescing to his suggestion. "And you have my permission to swear at any foolish men who offend you. I would also recommend that you toss a mug of sour ale on their faces."

"Goodness, as if anyone would waste good ale and let it sour," she murmured and was delighted to hear her husband chuckle.

"Sour milk?" he suggested.

"Perhaps," she replied and laughed, falling into his warm embrace with a contented sigh.

"Ithílwyn, I think we also need to mourn for our son. Painful memories need to be reconciled with. And I have to grieve too, I was unwilling to claim him as my child, and look at where it has led our son to the grave."

"Tis not your ill-wishes that have caused his death," she protested. "Besides, you were not alone in wishing that he had not come to being. I was not ready, when I found out and denied that I was with child."

"You were unwed, and you knew that I did not love you. You were not wrong to think so, and it is not your carelessness that has harmed our son either. But we hold many regrets, and we should at least be reunited as a family."

She looked up at him in confusion. "My sister told me you went to see him, and I buried him in the rain, but we have not been there together. He should at least be in the presence of both his parents." She nodded, and wept silently on his shoulder, caressing the back of her grieving husband.

The next day they travelled to the brook and found the mound Éomer had made, and the rowan sapling she had planted many moons ago. They tied their horses to the tree and knelt by the mound.

"Hello, little one," Éomer spoke, his voice breaking as he desperately tried to rein in his emotions. "Your mother and I have come to visit. Not a day goes by where she does not think of you, and all that you could be. I should have protected you, both of you, but I was blinded by my pride. We could have been a family, and lived in peace, if I had been noble enough to do what was right, but I mistreated your mother, and still she tolerates me," he said, smiling at Ithílwyn. "I wish you could meet her, you would love her so much, and worship her because she deserved it."

Then Ithílwyn spoke, but mostly she wept and could no longer utter words but after she had grieved, she felt a deep peace settle in her heart. There were many regrets, but the grave of her son held so much wisdom, and she knew that naught could be changed.

"I think he is saying we should be happy," Éomer whispered beside her.

"Yes," she agreed. "That is what he wants for his parents," she added, taking her husband's hand in her own. Then turning to the mound, she bade goodbye and stood up. Éomer cast a loving glance down at her and kissed her deeply as the wind swirled around them, autumn leaves dancing in the breeze, whispering words of comfort in a language they did not know, yet they fathomed that it was the farewell they had long needed to hear.