The Last Sunrise
By Blodeuedd
What remains of the village's men assemble outside the great hall before dawn. Some of them are mounted, but most of them are on foot. But it doesn't make much difference who rides and who walks; the last of the village's horses are only the weak nags left behind from the first mustering, the knobby-kneed ones deemed too scrawny or elderly for battle. They are nothing in compare to the proud, bright-eyed beauties who galloped forth onto the plain only days earlier--they are frightened and uneasy, either too young or too old to see war.
The same could be said for the meager force of men that is gathering in the gray light. Some are hobbling along at the pace of a gray-snouted old cur, bent over by the weight of their dusty, ill-kept weapons; others are rubbing their wide, childish eyes that are too young to witness death with chubby fingers that are too small to bear a sword. Their pride is flagging in the earth behind them, frayed with lassitude and despair.
There are golden lights in the windows of some of the thatched-roof homes, and the women who woke to see the last of their menfolk leave stand silhouetted in the yellow-lit doorways and weep.
Birdlike little girls cling to their mothers' woolen skirts, stirred to alertness from dreams of warm dinners and happy summer days by the attempts to muffle the sad clangor of the departure. They watch their fathers and brothers go without a sound. Childish questions rise to their tongues, but the little girls swallow them back down, knowing their mothers will mutter only incomprehensible, anguished responses that are too old for them to understand.
Hild is the oldest girl in the village, being fourteen and considered a young woman by all but the staunchest of the stubbornly forgetful elders, who insist she is still somewhere between seven and eight. Her eyes are a clear, wise blue, and her long hair is a sunlight-like shade of yellow, as is common of her people. She has a fragile cast to her body, which makes strangers think she would crumple after only an hour or so of hard work, but she has a firm inner strength to balance her delicate features. She isn't particularly lovely, but in the days when she was happy, Hild's smile and laughter lit up her face in a way no superficial beauty could.
The skirmishes with Isengard have taken much of her family in some way or another--her father died in the ill-fated defense of the village's fields from an Orc raid two years ago; her mother perished of the famine that came after the sacking of those same fields. Her older sister died of grief only three months past, and then it was only Hild left to stand and grieve in the grimy shadows of their decrepit hovel.
She is--or was; maybe the blighting harm Isengard has done has taken even this from her--betrothed to Widfara, son of the village leader. Widfara had been judged too young for the first muster of warriors, but this time, the assembly of men takes him as well. He is the closest thing to family she has left, unfamiliar though he still is to her, and it makes her heart blench to think of even his small comfort leaving her.
He stands nearby in the dark, beside a small knot of old men. Hild can hardly make out his still-youthful face beneath the fearsome helm he wears. That helmet had been Widfara's father's, before the hapless man was spitted on an Orc's blade, and is worn from much use from many years before Widfara's birth.
Hild feels the knot of foreboding in her belly clench even tighter when she looks at the boy she is to marry.
Why must you go, Hild asks him again.
It is my duty to this village, he whispers back with the unshakable resolution of the boy he still is.
What if you die?
Don't be so low-spirited, Hild. Have you no faith in your people?
Why should I, when the king of Rohan himself has no faith in us, Hild says in her mind. What she says aloud is, Of course I do.
Then don't be frightened. We'll drive the Orcs back to their leader this time, I promise you.
Hild looks at the shuffling assemblage of old men and frightened boys, but says nothing in reply.
Seemingly on an impulse, Widfara gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, hoping to give her solace as he has seen the grown men try to comfort their wives. It is a chaste, inexpert gesture coming from the fifteen-year-old boy, and Hild hopes in vain the tender little worry in her heart is the true love that some of the village women speak of. But both of them are young, and still do not understand the depth of such a strong emotion.
While the village's men limp or totter into a raggedly unrecognizable formation, Hild looks away to the rising sun, preferring to watch the ever-aloof splendor of the sunrise than to witness the wretched last march of the town's pitiable warriors.
As the day dawns, the women try to go about their chores as usual in the village, baking bread and gathering wood for the night's cookfires. But with the darkness of the time comes scarcity and despair. The bread the women make is weak-flavored and scantily scattered with herbs, for the year's harvest was weakened by the trampling forays of Orc-hordes. The young girls who gather firewood dare not go far from the village's bounds, for many of their number have been disappearing without a trace throughout the dismal year. The paths they travel are timeworn, and there are few sticks to be found.
Hild lives with her aunt now, and helps the elderly woman in what tasks she can. She gathers eggs from the chicken coop, and picks what apples she finds in her aunt's small orchard, though most of the fruit the five trees bear these days is wormy or bitter. As she passes the now-empty stable, Hild's face grows sorrowful, remembering the horses that once were stabled there
Sometimes in her bustling morning, she finds the scarce time to remember the days before the threat of Isengard cast its shadow over the West Emnet. A faint ghost of a smile comes to her lips as she rests her head in one hand and gazes out the window, remembering how she and her sister used to wait for her father to return home from his work as the village's blacksmith. The happy laughter and music of an autumn harvest dance comes to her mind, and Hild remembers how awkward it had been when she and Widfara had tried to dance together with the other young couples. Most of all, she can still hear the lilting lullaby her mother used to sing about a little foal that was so swift that he ran all the way up to the sky and lived among the stars.
Mother, Hild used to ask sometimes when her mother finished the song, didn't the foal get lonely up in the sky?
I don't know, Hild, her mother would reply, would you?
Hild hadn't known how to answer that question then. Now, she thinks to herself, what wouldn't I give to run away into the sky and live far away from the sorrows and cares of this world! I wouldn't be lonely for a moment.
Hild, her aunt calls from the doorway in an old woman's crackle of a voice, stop dreaming and come help me with dinner.
Hild obeys her kinswoman's request, brushing her memories hastily aside like unwanted troubles.
Only on the darkest, coldest nights, when she can hear the eerie howls of Wargs prowling frighteningly near the village, does Hild try to remember her one memory of the King, when he had come to visit Widfara's father one cool day in autumn many years ago.
Hild had been seven years old, on the eastern outskirts of her village, digging for succulent tubers for the night's stew, when she had seen the great band of horsemen making for the town's direction. Their mighty banners fluttered gallantly in the breeze, embroidered with the grand sigil of the royalty of Rohan. Hild had dropped her trowel and basket of food without pause, and had run into the village to tell the others of what she had seen.
That night, the King Théoden himself had supped with them in the great hall, talking and laughing with the other men just like any other visitor to the village would. Hild had begged her mother for the opportunity to serve the dinner that night, promising she would not stumble or spill the food, as she was wont to do. In the end, Hild won, and used her duty as an excuse to gape at the King and his men each time she came near to gather up plates or pour wine.
At first glance, he appeared no different than any of the farmers in her village. His hair was the same burnished gold, his face composed of the same angles and planes, his eyes the same blue, flecked with cold shades of steel. Hild had to suppress a giggle as she laid out a basket of bread; why, he could have passed for a commoner!
But later on, when he murmured his preoccupied thanks to her as she moved to take his empty plate, Hild saw the nobility that set him a level above the other people of Rohan. He had been born and raised to represent the essence of his people, trained to lead and govern since his youth. There was a majesty to him that belied his ordinary appearance, that set him apart from his people, as a nightingale is set apart from sparrows because of its song. After that, Hild had regarded him with reverence and respect until he left the next morning--she was confident such a wise-seeming and noble man would keep her people safe and happy until the end of his days.
Now, Hild no longer trusts the King. The villagers are dying on an almost daily basis of disease, starvation, and Orc raids, and he does nothing. Indeed, it seems he is entirely ignorant of their plight. At this dark time, they need him more than ever, and no help comes from Edoras.
The second day since the last muster of men dawns foggy and cold. Insubstantial rain falls like soft pinpricks on the thatched roofs and on the dusty earth.
Bundle up before you go, Hild's aunt orders sternly, I won't have you catch your death in this weather.
Hild obediently dons a stout woolen shawl before shouldering her basket and walking out into the biting cold. Icy, minute droplets of moisture dampen her clothes and hair and once, clinging to the weave of her clothes and the yellow filaments of her hair like clusters of diamonds.
The indistinct forms of other women trudging through the fog are mere shadows in the blanket of white mist. Hild takes a bitter draft of the cold air and moves to the chicken coop.
The familiar cackle of hens is strangely muffled in the haze as Hild goes about her work. At first, the hens flap in resistance as she bereaves them of their eggs, but then they settle down in their empty nests, as if the theft has already been forgotten.
They are like us in that, Hild realizes as she moves on to the fifth hen, We resisted Isengard at first. But now, it seems, we accept our fate. Our nests are empty of our treasures--our families, our food, our safety--but we, too, do nothing.
Sullenly, she finishes gathering the speckled eggs. It is then she hears the first cry of alarm. Hild's heart stops as the savage roar of an Uruk-hai answers the scream in brutish echo.
No, she mumbles aloud, as if this is a dream she has a hope of waking from: no, not them.
She straightens and flees from the coop, looking about wildly in the fog for safety. Someone has set the great hall afire, the red flames rising up to hungrily devour the thatching of the roof. The all-too-familiar guttural growls and snarls of the Isengard Orcs echo bewilderingly in the misty white air, mingling with the crying of small children and the terrified screams of the women.
Hild's skin seems to go cold and tight over her bones, and blood pounds in her ears. She has to escape, she needs to escape. An Orc looms up out of the fog like a nightmarish apparition, its slitted, inhuman eyes falling on her. For a moment, the two regard each other. The Orc is surprised, Hild is terrified. Swallowing a scream and coming to her senses, Hild hurls the basket of eggs with all her faltering strength at the beast, and runs off into the fog.
She runs aimlessly, not realizing where she is going, gasping for breath. Behind her, she can hear the pealing ring of steel striking wood--the Orcs are pillaging the houses, having already taken their share of slaughter, she realizes numbly.
It is only when she comes to a halt that she realizes where she is. Three small mounds of earth, one fresh-turned, the other two weathered with age, rise out of the ground before her. The graves of her family. At the serene, silent sight of the enduring tombs, Hild feels a sob rise in her throat, and soon she is weeping so hard she can barely breathe.
Why, she groans through her tears, Why must we all perish in this dark world?
She looks to the north, where Isengard can be seen on clear days, then to the south, where Edoras lies. Why will Rohan do nothing to save her people from this fate?
Hild hears the thudding footsteps of Orcs behind her, but now she hardly cares. She would have died anyhow, some ill-fated day in this ill-fated kingdom.
Why Rohan? She asks the world aloud before a cruel blade falls upon her.
The world does not answer.
The End