KNOW THY PLACE – Part 4

The pleasant smell of tea woke him. It was the first thing he noticed together with the realisation of daylight when he opened his eyes. The next sensation was the stiffness of his body and the discovery that there was no feeling in his left arm. Yet a brief glance down brought back the memory and a sleepy smile to Éomer's face. The boy still lay propped against his side where he had fallen asleep, exhaustion having claimed him after the horrors of the night, and his weight was cutting off the circulation of blood to his limb. Carefully pulling his arm out from underneath Halad's body and rubbing it, Éomer suddenly saw a cup of steaming contents appear in his line of vision. Gratefully, he took it.

"Thank you." A quick glance brought his orientation back. Tolgor was standing by the window, overlooking the distance to the barn, while Féonwar and Elfhelm were sleeping further back, where he could only see their feet. The smaller children, he knew, were in their beds, where Frey and he had laid them to rest once the immediate danger had passed. His eyes briefly came to rest on the dead warg, and he realised that the puddle of blood around it was gone.

"I wanted to clean that up before they wake," Freya whispered as she sat down next to him, following his gaze. Despite her youth, she looked tired. The night had taken its toll on all of them. "They do not need to see that."

"Aye. They went through much already last night." Emptying the cup with a few long swigs, Éomer handed it back to her and cautiously stood up, his joints and muscles creaking after the long hours of half sitting, half lying in an awkward position. Not wanting to leave Halad on the hard ground, he bent down and lifted the boy up to carry him over to where his siblings were sleeping in their room. Giving a low groan in his sleep without waking, the lad at first seemed reluctant of letting go when he was laid down on his cot, but then huddled into the blanket nonetheless, oblivious to his adult caretaker. For a moment, Éomer paused, and his gaze wandered over the sleeping children, softening. It seemed wrong that their young ones had to endure so much. All that fear the past night. His own experiences with the orcs. Having to constantly live in fear of being killed or losing loved ones... it was not fair. They had done no evil in their young lives; why then had the children of the Mark to suffer so much? The thought angered him, and as he turned away to leave, Éomer realised for the first time how important the service his éored provided really was.

The Rohirrim had been his heroes for as long as he could think back. Joining them had been his greatest wish ever since he had barely been able to hold himself alone on a horse. To the child he had been then, being a rider of the Mark had been all about adventure. To boldly charge against their foes, against orcs and Dunlendings and all the other fell creatures that assaulted their lands, and to throw them back. To sleep under the open skies and prove oneself in battle, to be famed for one's deeds, all that had seemed most desirable to him in his youth. That phase of enthusiastic admiration, however, had abruptly ended with the death of his father. The eleven-year-old boy he had been then had no longer cared for adventure or the respect the warriors were being treated with. At age eleven, joining the Rohirrim to Éomer had been all about wrath. An all-consuming, deeply burning desire for vengeance, an urge to repay the Dark Lord's foul brood in blood for what they had done to him and his family. He had literally counted the days until his sixteenth birthday, until he would be allowed to join, and he had prepared himself with a seriousness and passion which had even made his friends uncomfortable.

And now, while he was looking down onto the sleeping children, it slowly dawned on Éomer that he was entering a new phase. The Rohirrim were no force called into existence for personal vengeance. They were protectors. Whenever they rode out in search for the enemy, it was to protect people like these, people who stood no chance fighting on their own in this harsh world, like Freya, her father and her siblings. The realisation of the noble cause he was serving struck him forcefully, and a new, strong sense of purpose filled him.

A strange prickling feeling between his shoulder blades told him that he was no longer alone, and when he turned around, he saw her standing in the doorframe with an expression of wonder on her face.

"You are good with children. Halad has been difficult since mother died. He no longer accepts embraces from me, or lets me comfort him. That he came to you last night really means something. You should be proud of yourself."

Feeling awkward about Freya's high praise when all he had been doing was what caring for the people who meant something to him, Éomer slowly shook his head.

"It doesn't mean that he no longer loves you as much. He only wants to show you that he can take care of himself now. He wants to prove himself. He no longer wants to be treated like a child."

She gave him a weak smile.

"I see. You understand him so well because you were the same when you were his age, I would wager."

He nodded thoughtfully.

"Aye. I wanted to protect my family. After my parents' death, there seemed to be little point in playing. From that day on, all I ever wanted was to be taught how to fight so that I could avenge them."

"Isn't it sad though?" Exhaling, Freya took a step into the room and came to a halt before him, and her blue eyes held his captive. "That our children have to grow up so fast? That most of them will know about the existence of death before they are five years old? That they grow up under conditions that fill them with rage to the point where all they want is to learn how to wield a sword and kill their enemies? That is not what an eleven-year-old boy should be wishing for, is it?"

He remained silent at that. It was almost frightening how their thoughts were so much alike. A strange tension seemed to fill the room all of a sudden, and he asked himself whether she was feeling it, too. Brusquely and not knowing why he was feeling that way, he turned to leave, muttering:

"I must go and see where I am needed. I assume there will be much to do after last night."

It sounded trite even to his own ears, as he awkwardly stepped passed her, hating himself for his sudden insecurity. She took his hand, stopping him. The unexpected touch sent a hot wave travelling through his body, and his heart suddenly beat furiously in his chest, torn between the urge to flee and anticipation of what would happen if he stayed. The two battling impulses rooted him to the ground.

"Éomer…" Freya took his other hand, too, and he gave it willingly, his stomach full of ants as he looked into the pools of blue, inwardly cringing at the earnestness and depth of her gaze, but not wanting her to stop, either. No one had ever looked at him like this. "Thank you. For risking your life for us, and for what you did for Halad. He needed that, and desperately so. Ever since mother died, he had withdrawn from me. But he seems to trust you. He seems to see something like an older brother in you, someone who makes him come out of his isolation… and I am grateful for that. Even if I don't see you as an older brother."

He still couldn't say anything. His throat had tightened to the point where speaking was impossible, but that was well, because his head felt empty, too, and nothing of sense would have come out. Freya's closeness took his breath away. By Béma, where was this leading them?

"I… I—" He never got to finish his sentence, because even as he fought for the right words, she suddenly rose to the tips of her toes and gently, shyly, brushed a butterfly's kiss onto his cheek. Even though her lips barely touched his skin, it left him thunderstruck nonetheless, and when she pulled back, a nervous smile spread over her face as she regarded him anxiously in expectation of his reaction.

"I… I hope I wasn't untoward. If I was, please forgive me. I didn't mean to—"

He was only sixteen summers old. He was inexperienced, but he had never felt like this, anxious and jubilant at the same time, light-headed as if he was about to faint, and he knew the meaning of this storm of contradicting emotions. His grasp intensifying, he pulled her close and just before he closed his eyes, saw her nervous expression light up in sudden joy. Their lips met. Cautiously at first, tentatively. Uncertain. Afraid that she would shrink back once she realised what was happening. But she didn't, her lips remained soft underneath his touch, and they responded. Slowly, but then with growing conviction as the urge became greater. Letting go of her hands, he pulled her close, capturing her in a fierce embrace under the onslaught of his emotions while her hands glided over his back.

For the eternity of a dozen heartbeats, time stopped, and their surroundings ceased to exist. It mattered not that Freya's siblings were sleeping close by; it mattered not that in the next room, her father was talking with Tolgor. The knock at the door was not important, nor was Arnhelm's voice from outside reporting that the wargs were gone and the danger over, if not the storm. All that mattered was the feeling of her in his arms, and the taste of her lips. The smell of her hair, and the softness of her body underneath his fingers.

"Freya? Freya, are you in here?"

It was Féonwar's voice which finally cut through the moment of bliss and caused her to pull back, still heavily breathing. For another moment, their gaze remained interlocked, and the same sense of wonder and exhilaration stood written in blue and brown eyes alike as it dawned on both of them that something had begun they had not in their wildest dreams hope to find out here in the middle of the storm.

"Freya, why are you not—"

"Shh!" She put a finger on her lips as she turned toward her father just as his head appeared in the doorframe. "We were just putting Halad to sleep. I am coming. Éomer, are you coming, too?" Looking back over her shoulder, she gave him a little mischievous twinkle as she motioned him to follow her. They had a secret now, a sweet, wonderful secret, and nothing, not even the memory of the terrible night that lay behind them, could touch them.

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"Do you always keep a hayfork in the house? I must admit, it was a sight I did not expect." Éomer wondered aloud, smiling teasingly. He was leading Stormwing on a rope behind him, with little Willa and Wyndra proudly sitting on the mare's back and beaming down, while Freya had the smallest one in her arms and Halad was walking alongside, content with being in his presence. Ever since the lad had woken, he had been around Éomer, at first shyly asking the young warrior about his life as a rider of the Mark, and then gratefully accepting the little errands the men trusted him with by and by, once they had noticed how much Halad was awed by their presence. From helping taking care of their horses to polishing tack, the youth had enthusiastically accepted each task, and again Éomer had seen himself in the lad. Like Halad, he had always been around the warriors whenever his father's éored had been home, eager to listen to the tales of their courageous deeds. He still vividly remembered the day when one of the younger soldiers had entrusted him with his sword, showing him a few parries and blocks and explaining to him how one had to take care of such an artfully crafted item. Steel was rare in the Mark, it was not something they made themselves, but had to trade with Gondor in exchange for their precious horses. Éomer had felt excited over being allowed to handle such a valuable token, but then his father had seen them and berated the soldier for lending a sharp blade to a lad of only six summers.

"Of course I do. This was not the first time the wargs attacked us. We often have to fend them off in this part of the Mark, especially during hard winters. I have no shiny sword like you," Freya spoke into his memories, waking him. Teasing back, she slightly tilted her head. "I must take whatever weapon is available. But the fork is good, as efficient as any sword. I discouraged many wargs and wolves from eating us with it. I may not look as elegant as you in the fight, but in the end, they run from me just the same. Isn't that all that counts?"

"In the end, yes." Looking over to where his comrades were still busy with the disposure of the three predators they had killed last night, Éomer shook his head. "I still won't believe it though that you want to keep their meat. I would never think of eating a warg." He knotted his eyebrows in disgust at the thought.

"I agree that it is not the best-tasting meat I've ever eaten," she agreed, following his gaze. "But there is certainly worse, and it fills your stomach. Out here, we cannot afford to choose. We can only rarely slaughter one of our cattle or sheep, and we even have to be careful with the geese and the chicken. So when a great piece of meat falls onto our plates from out of nowhere, we eat it, as long as it can be eaten. Where have you lived so far, that it would be different there?" From where they were, it was impossible to determine what grizzly task the men back at the barn were carrying out, and she was grateful that the captain had ordered Éomer to take them for a walk for the duration of the slaughter, since his injured arm prevented him from partaking in any of the activities the warriors were filling their day with. Not only would it spare her siblings the gruesome sight of the wargs being cut to pieces, but it also presented her with an unexpected occasion to be together with Éomer, even if they were not entirely alone. And the good news had not stopped there: With the snow still falling and the pathways through the mountains blocked, Elfhelm had asked her permission to stay for two more days, a request she had granted more than gladly, as it meant that Éomer would be here for Yule. It all sounded too good to be true.

"I was raised in Aldburg and then moved to Edoras when my uncle took us in his household. So, aye, things were different there. Except for the year of the great draught when I was but a child myself, we always had enough to eat, and no shortage of meat, either."

"I see." She blinked. "Life spoiled you! Well, young rider, then prepare to experience your first true Rohirric Yule feast, as your kinsmen in the outer reaches of Rohan celebrate it! What an appropriate time to taste your first warg. I promise that I will try to make this a pleasant experience." His indignant expression made her break into laughter, and her siblings along with her. Finally, Éomer could not help but laugh with them, and it felt good. He was still smiling when they returned to the farm, and the nervous feeling in his stomach had by then changed into a pleasant warm glow. Heads turned as they passed the working Rohirrim, but Éomer did not notice their unusual attention.