Chapter 2
Aldburg
[Summer 3002, T.A.]
The death of my father left me feeling a strange sense of emptiness, like a faithful pond that suddenly dried up one day, without warning. The way one feels when one is walking up a stairway and not looking down, thinking there is one more stair than there actually is and so one's foot falls, expecting a sturdy step beneath it. But there was no step now that Papa was gone.
The day he died was a hazy summer one, thick with humidity and the whisper of rain. As I stood near the main road,I saw a small party of bedraggled men, some on horses and others on foot, approach the small Eastfold town where I lived. All looked weary with sadness and battle, each step seeming to cost them much energy. I saw Engel, the man with the flame-red beard, with whom my father always drank and laughed with in the evenings. Normally he would greet me with a great smile and ruffle my hair, saying And how fares the lovely lass o' the family? But as he and his party passed, he seemed not to see me, and the only words I caught were moans of pain. My heart turned a somersault as I noticed his side, wrapped in a length of blood-drenched cloth.
I ran quickly home, panting in the hot air. I found my brother hunched over, sitting on a stump and carefully chiseling at a small block of wood. He looked up when I came to him, breathing heavily as if I had just run the length and breadth of the Mark.
Papa's party has come home, I explained, pulling him up by the hand and practically dragging him up so he could see the main road where the men were still straggling in. There were very few, shockingly few, I noticed with a jolt to my stomach. I searched for my father's face among them, but did not see it. I forced myself to check again, but still no Papa. At the end of the line I saw a horse, limping pathetically, patches of blood staining its once pure-white coat. I saw the grey mark below its forelock. Papa's horse. Riderless.
Éomer, it seemed, had realized it the same moment I had, and began running down the parched slope towards the main road. I bounded after him, waves of shock crashing down on me with each step I took. Where was Papa? Not dead, surely not dead. I knew too well the meaning of death--I had seen old women collapse with weariness and never rise, seen men ride out to throw back the Orcs on our fields and come back a fewer number than when they set out. I saw the piles of burning carcasses of horses, the masses of my people stretched out on miles of burnt land, their ashen faces twisted in expressions denoting the terror of their last moments living.
As we arrived at the road, Papa's horse suddenly swooned in exhaustion and its legs crumpled, heaving its beautiful body to a last rest on the ground. I ran and threw my arms around its neck. Mealc-hwit, white as milk, gave a last blink at me as if to say, I stood by your father as long as I could. Forgive me. After a minute of lying beside the dead horse, embracing it tightly, I felt myself pried away and picked up by an unknown stranger. I bit and kicked as viciously as I could, rage surging inside me at the death of my father. How dare they take me away from the last part of my father I would ever see? For the bracelet of his own hair braided with Mealc-hwit's was stuck to the blood-encrusted coat by burrs. My father had cut off the bracelet as a mark of his last goodbye to such a faithful companion...to be burned at the Releasing ceremony.
My captor threw me over his shoulder, while I tore at his hair unrelentingly. I was finally deposited at the dusty side of the road. Tears began to flow silently, try though I might to stop them. My Papa was gone. Never again would I hear his deep voice laugh at my antics. I remembered the time when Éomer and I had crept out at night, on a secret quest to snatch as much gundy as we could from the kitchens. Papa, awake for a quick snack, walked in on the two of us, our faces coated with the stickiness of the candy. I hastily tried to lick the cinnamon from my fingers to hide the evidence, but instead of punishing us, Éomund had just laughed and helped himself to some gundy as well.
The memory did not help to stem the torrents of tears that came out of my now bloodshot eyes, stinging from a cloud of something smelly. Smoke. The heralder of fire, meaning death and last partings of the souls of the departed. I turned gingerly and saw Mealc-hwit's body curling into the blackness of the flames. I felt a cold hand come to a rest on my heaving shoulder, withered with age and brown from the sun. I flinched and turned my head quickly away.
Do not grieve, child. The voice was that of an old crone, whispery and crackling. I stalked away a few steps. I would not have her see me cry! Your father would not wish for you to grieve.
Abandoning my pride, I whipped around to face her, blazing with hatred, though I had never seen her before in my life.
How dare you pretend to know what my father would have wanted! My voice came out raspy and trembling, not the effect I had hoped for, but I was almost too angry to notice. You don't know him! You're just old and stupid, wanting to sound wise and knowledgeable. And he's lost now, he's lost, I'll never see him again...! I flung myself back to the ground in a childish tantrum. The woman clicked her tongue and shh'ed me, creakily bringing herself down to the ground beside me.
In such a life you must expect loss, she said. I cannot see what tomorrow will bring, only more losses of good Rohirrim, young and old. The Riddermark is fighting a battle that is already lost, Éowyn Éomundsdohtar. I see for you a life filled with loss, for the days of glory are passed now--but do not despair, she lifted my little tearstained face in her hands. I can also see in you the power to overcome these losses with grace and to get up again and fight til your body runs out of breath. That power your father possessed, my dear. That is the power Rohan needs.
I did not like her words, and wanted to get away from this peculiar stranger as soon as possible. I wriggled away from her bony grasp and ran again towards home.
I found Éomer next to his own horse, Berhtberie, gazing out at the settlement from our small hill. I noticed his hand gripped the bracelet on his sword-arm's wrist, identical to my father's, a braid of white and gold hair. Without ceremony I ran to him and buried my face in his chest, my tears gone but a horrible aching in my stomach for my Papa I would never see again. Never, ever, in a thousand ages...
My mother, Théodwyn Princess of the Mark, closed her chamber door and allowed none to enter. Throughout the night I heard her grief-ridden sobs and occasional soft cries for her husband. She had always told him he would come to his end on a ride for Orcs, dying to protect some undeserving nomad. Constantly fearing his death, especially recently in the days when raids became more frequent, she began to waste away in her worry.
I loved her but feared her, for she was stern in her punishments and seemed to always disapprove of my romping around with Éomer like a lad. She was horrorstruck when Papa suggested I be trained as a warrior along with my brother, for he noticed how enthusiastically I questioned about his rides, his sword, his horse. A lump rose in my throat as I realized I would never be trained. My father was dead.
Hours became days. Days became weeks. And still my mother would not emerge from her solitude in her chamber. The crying had not stopped, and she would scream oaths if a servant tried to persuade her to come forth. Her meals were brought to her by the maids, but she barely picked at her favorite dishes. As the fresh pain of my father's death began to subside, I worried anew about my mother.
What happens when people don't eat? I asked Éomer timidly one day in the stables. I honestly did not know, but I judged that since the maids made such a fuss about my finishing my supper, it must be important.
They starve, he answered shortly, obviously trying to avoid talking about Mother. He changed the subject rapidly. Would you like to go for a ride on the back of Berhtberie this morning? I'll lead her.
What's starving?
Well, eventually you need to eat, and...well, starving is when you don't, or you can't, and...if you don't for a long time, then you...die, he finished awkwardly. So is it a yes or a no about Berhtberie, eh?
Death is always the consequence! I said, annoyed that yet another parent was in danger of dying. Why can't it be that she will get boils all over, or her toes will swell up, or... why death?
I don't know. Mother won't die, she'll come to her senses and become herself again. He spoke with such complete certainty that I couldn't help but trust him. Éomer wouldn't say such a thing without knowing its total truth. I breathed a sigh of relief.
I'm glad. I shivered. I don't want Mother to die.
Neither do I.
I'll come for a ride on Berhtberie, then. Can you let her run? Please? I begged, forgetting my recent worries.
You know Mother would have a fit if she saw you riding straddle-ways on a horse like a man, gallopping... he trailed off. Maybe she needs to be good and angry to become herself again. A slow grin spread across his face. Get yourself up, then.
I laughed out loud, the first time since before father's death weeks before, as I grasped the horse's mane and my own golden locks flew back from my face and whipped around in the wind. Éomer had let go of the lead rope quite soon after the horse began to move, allowing me my fun. If only Mother would look out of her window right now and see me riding like a lad on my brother's fine horse, my skirts flying up in my face, perhaps she would be startled enough to realize how silly she was acting. That was it, I convinced myself. Mother was only being silly, and would soon run out to the field in a frenzy, screaming shrilly at me to come down from the horse immediately and act like a proper lady. I would almost be glad to hear that familiar command if it meant my mother would be herself again.
But she did not see me. The next day I was summoned to her chamber, for she had called out for me. As I tiptoed nervously to the door, I heard not the voice of my mother, but some soothing words from the nurse, Bircwine.
Ye may come in, Éowyn, Bircwine said in a louder tone. She sensed me outside the door--an unnerving talent she seemed to possess. My slipper-clad feet tread softly on the floor to her bed, where I received quite a shock. This was not the mother I had known--this was nothing more than a skeleton, skin as white as bone, and eyes sunken in their sockets. Her hair was tangled and strewn about on the pillows, not at all its usual shining curtain of gold. Horrified, I sat on a stool beside her.
I asked nervously, wondering if she even knew I was there. She had not looked at me as I came in; her eyes stared blankly ahead of her as if there were great volumes written in air before her. I...have brought you some flowers, Mother. I reached for her hand, wrenched it open, and clamped her fingers one by one around the stems. Her skin was clammy to the touch. She did not react, just looked straight ahead. I glanced at Bircwine, but she had gone about setting up a tray for Théodwyn's midday meal. With her back turned to me, she answered my queries automatically.
Tell ye ma of ye doings. Her Highness is very curious as to what her beloved daughter has amused herself with. She then turned and shot me an almost accusing glare, as if she had known about my ride on Berhtberie. I turned toward my mother again.
I...have been out with Éomer. Very much, Mother. We go riding out in the fields to dig up ancient spearheads. We think we found one that belonged to Eorl himself. We had absolutely no foundation for our guess as to the spearhead's owner, but it sounded impressive to say so. And it was allowed for us to take it, if it was true, for Eorl was our ancestor. I was immensely proud of being a member of the House of Eorl and was always happy to present this fact in any way possible.
After a few minutes of awkward silence in which I stared at my mother's face, silently willing her to speak up, to say anything, I began to grow tired of this hopeless game.
Bircwine, she won't say anything.
O' course she will, child. So impatient, so like her father. If I thought the wound of my father's loss had healed into a scab from the days of silence, right then it was ripped open and bled freely. And as the memory of my father's riderless horse came floating back, taunting me, it dawned on me that Mother was not being silly. She could not bear the weight of life now that Éomund was gone. She could not pull through like the old woman said I could. Mother was not being silly. I would lose both my parents in the same month.