Chapter Two
Bells and Hoofbeats
When I awoke the next morning, it took me a long time to realize where I was. Half asleep, my eyes still closed, I wondered why the ground beneath me felt so hard. I squinted at the ceiling, which seemed closer than usual. I must be high up… but how? Cadwyn!
Suddenly I remembered the night before, and the crowded main room. Cadwyn and I had slept in the dining room, on the table. Finally, I mustered my energy and sat up, wincing at the soreness in my back. Sleeping on wood was even worse than sleeping on the ground. I fervently envied Haleth and his down mattress.
A cock crowed, far away and faint. There was no point in trying to sleep any longer. I wriggled out of my bedroll and hopped down onto the floor, my legs stiff and painful from the ride the day before, and put on my shoes. I had to hobble like an old man to the front door. When I had slipped outside, I took a long shuddering breath, letting the fresh, cold air wake me up.
The sky, so clear the day before, was covered over with a thick gray layer of cloud. There was one patch of clear sky, far away above the White Mountains, so that I could see the sun's uppermost edge cresting the peaks and gilding their snow yellow. The sun's warmth did not penetrate the clouds, and I shivered in the chill wind.
As I took a step to the side to shelter against the building, my foot knocked against the large wooden water-bucket. I may as well, I thought. It must be done soon anyway. I scooped up the bucket, closed the front door behind me, and limped to the community well, in an open space shielded by the houses arranged around it.
Once I reached the well, I tied the bucket to the well rope and drew slowly, shivering and wishing I had thought to wear my cloak.
I filled the bucket and hefted it down from the well stones. It never seemed to grow any lighter, though from years of drawing water I should have grown stronger. I headed back round the side of the orphanage, the bucket swinging awkwardly and me trying to keep it from hitting my legs.
When I rounded the corner of the orphanage, I happened upon a sight that drove the weight of the bucket from my mind: horsemen were galloping at full tilt into the city, upwards along the main path. Horsemen normally mitigated their speed within the city for the safety of the citizens, but these must have been on an errand of supreme urgency.
But what was it? As they swept up the path past the orphanage, I shrank from them, even though I was well back from the road. Lord Eomer was at the group's head, carrying before him in the saddle a sleeping man, who swayed and shook with every movement of the horse.
Suddenly his head lolled towards me, so that I saw his face. Prince Theodred. It had to be. Had I not seen those features hundreds of times as he and his friends or his father rode out of the city? My breath caught for a shocked moment. The prince had left some months ago for the marshes to drive out the Orcs there. Eomer likewise had not been seen in the city for weeks. Theodred did not look well; in the brief glimpse I'd gotten of his face, it had been pale, sickly. Was he dead? No, he couldn't be.
Theodred had always been popular among the citizens of Edoras. The king's only son, the child of his age, it was obvious he would make a great king one day. And now- would he still? Was he dead or dying? There was no way of knowing.
Vaguely, I remembered my errand and felt again the weight of the bucket in my hands, and I wondered how to tell the nurses, how to make sense of what I had seen. I trudged back round the side of the orphanage to see Anawyn, her head turning back and forth.
When she saw me, she said, "Ah, thank you." She reached out an arm and took the bucket from me. We went back inside to find everyone awake, yawning but startled, a completely different scene from the one I had left.
"Did you see the horsemen?" Gwethawyn asked as Anawyn squeezed past her with the water bucket. "Who were they?"
"There was Lord Eomer," I said. "He was carrying Theodred in the saddle."
"What was the matter?"
"Theodred looked… pale and sick," I said. "He was asleep… I think."
Gwethawyn rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "Who else was there?"
I shook my head helplessly. "I didn't recognize any others," I said.
Cadwyn, who had been passing out apples to the children, caught my eye with a significant look. As soon as she had passed out apples to all of the children, she tossed one to me and we sat together in front of the small fire. I set my apple in my lap and clenched and unclenched my hands, watching my knuckles go from white to pink, white to pink again.
"What happened?" she asked.
I recounted what I had seen.
"And you say Theodred was definitely alive?" Cadwyn's lips were pursed thoughtfully.
"I thought he was," I said. "I mean, he had… color left."
"And- hold on- he had to have been alive," Cadwyn said decisively. "Or else they wouldn't have been in such a hurry."
"Of course," I said, wishing I'd thought of it first. There was hope, then.
That was how it had always seemed to be, throughout my entire life. No matter how bad things were, how many ribs I could count simply by looking down the front of my dress, there was always hope. When Gwethawyn grew frosty, as she often did now that we were older and no longer children she could coddle, Haleth was always there, him and Hama and Hanawyn, living up there on Edoras' grand plateau, their house like a beacon of warmth and love. There were always ready to lay one or two extra places at their table. Cadwyn and I tried to eat there more often than not. We tended to avoid the orphanage when we could - we, or at least I, had a sense, deep down, that the orphanage was not our home. No one could tell us where we had been born, or our parents' names. The thought that our parents had been friends or comrades made us feel that our friendship had been fated.
Gwethawyn passed us, carrying the little girl on her hip. "Bread, please, girls," she said as she sailed by. "Three loaves today, one for Baldor."
I breathed out in a huff. I had forgotten it was a baking day. Cadwyn and I got up from the warmth of the hearth, which melted away to a frosty chill as we crossed the room to the pantry in a corner.
Cadwyn, who was taller than I, stood on tiptoes to pull down flour and yeast from a high shelf and pass them to me. The flour sack was still quite heavy, which was a good sign. How long it would last, I did not want to think about.
We had baked the bread for years, ever since we were ten and Gwethawyn had taught us in order to lighten the nurses' load. We had a comfortable routine. I took cupfuls of water from the bucket and poured them into one of our two large mixing bowls, then stirred with my hands as Cadwyn added flour. Then she tossed in the barest pinch of salt and the yeast. I stirred and kneaded, working everything together. The motions were familiar and took my mind off of the dull gnaw of worry in my stomach- or was it hunger? I looked forward to the bread.
Once the mixture had become a mass of dough, I rubbed flour over it, pulled it in half, and gave half to Cadwyn to work with. We kneaded side by side, me not able to think of anything to say.
"Right," said Cadwyn finally, when she had punched her ball of dough into submission. She snatched the other bowl from the pantry, put her dough into it, and covered it with a cloth. I did the same. Now all we had to do was wait.
Cadwyn and I sat against the back wall of the orphanage, feeling the cold of the wood slowly seeping through our dresses into our backs. I picked stray morsels of dough off of my fingers and flicked them onto the floor.
Suddenly I sighed fitfully and turned to face Cadwyn. "Is he going to die?"
She shrugged. "How should I know?" she said wearily. "I didn't even see him."
"Do you remember when we met him?"
Cadwyn nodded. "He was so kind to us."
"He thought we were amusing," I said. "How I envy Haleth! He can sit up at the top of the city and talk to anyone he likes! Even Neomer the messenger; he told me so last night."
"That's what I meant to ask you," said Cadwyn suddenly, putting her chin in her hands. "What happened last night?"
"Absolutely nothing," I said. "I wasn't there long."
"Did you ask him about the rumors?" she asked quietly, looking around the see that all the children in the room were out of earshot.
"Yes," I said.
"And?"
"And he said that everyone up there says the shadow is growing in the east."
Cadwyn sucked in a breath.
"But he doesn't know why, or what's happening. He just- told me an old story about a dark lord who lived in Mordor."
"Who?" She whispered excitedly. "When?"
"He didn't know his name, but it was in the Second Age… maybe. He almost conquered Middle-earth."
"Really?" Cadwyn asked. "Are you sure?"
I shrugged, shook my head. "I don't know," I said. "Haleth didn't, either."
"But this dark lord didn't rule Middle-earth," Cadwyn said.
"No, the men and Elves stopped him. And he fell, but he might not have truly died."
"Might not have?"
"What did Haleth say? 'People whispered that he barely survived…' Something like that."
A feverish gleam shone in Cadwyn's eyes and she bit her lower lip in excitement. "That would explain everything!" she exclaimed. "The black horses, the attacks, everything!"
Suddenly Gwethawyn approached us, looking like a formidable statue towering over us where she sat.
"What is this about attacks?" she asked quietly.
"Haleth has been telling ghost stories," I said. "There's nothing to worry about," I added, when Gwethawyn looked unconvinced.
"Very well," said the nurse finally. "But remember, you may talk about these vile happenings as much as you please amongst yourselves, but you are not to breathe a word of it around the other children. If they come to me frightened out of their minds by talk of battle and death, I shall know who has told them."
With that she swept away. We both sighed, grim smiles on our faces.
"Whoops," said Cadwyn. "I forgot about Gwethawyn the peace-monger."
"I don't understand," I said. "I really don't know why she won't tell the children anything."
"She doesn't want them to be afraid, "Cadwyn said.
"Yes, but she shouldn't have to lie to them to make them feel safe!" We had had this conversation many times in recent months; it, like the bread, had a familiar routine.
"So you would have her telling them all about the Orcs and about how the prince went to spear walking piles of horse dung and got speared himself? You forget that children too can imagine how it would feel to have a sword put through-"
I put a hand to my stomach. I was myself imagining being stabbed through the middle, and I writhed and shuddered. "We can stop now," I said.
Cadwyn laughed. "Excitable girl," she said, only half chiding. "But really. It might not be that dangerous to tell the children the truth. There's so little of it about."
That much was true. Edoras, and therefore we, had lived for the past months with a certain insubstantial feeling of dread running beneath all of our daily goings-on. Hama had often told us that the only real fear was the fear of the unknown. No one in Edoras knew exactly what was going on, why the Orcs were so many and so bloodthirsty, or if they did know, they would not tell us. Cadwyn and I maintained that if we only knew why things were happening, we would at least know what to fear.
"Exactly," I said, getting up restlessly and checking on the dough, "If I am to die, I would rather know exactly how."
Cadwyn got up and joined me at the flour-covered counter. "I wonder how many people are that fortunate," she said. "Was Theodred?"
"He's not dead," I said.
"It may only be a matter of time," said Cadwyn. She dusted off part of the counter and leaned against it. "Who will take the throne after Théoden, then, if Theodred dies?"
"Eomer," we said in unison.
I crossed to the small window set in the front wall of the orphanage. From it, I could see the main path, and coming down it with a look of grim worry-
"Haleth!" I ran to the front door and threw it open, Cadwyn following me.
"Where?" she said, and then saw him striding down the path and waved.
We ran out onto the trampled grass to meet him, then properly saw the expression on his face.
"Haleth?" I said, at the same time Cadwyn said, "What's wrong?"
Haleth merely shook his head and came inside with us. We sat down in front of the small morning fire. Haleth turned to us. "Theodred is dying," he said without preamble. "I thought you ought to know."
"But- I thought you were on duty today," I said. "How did you come down here?"
"Grima dismissed us boys," Haleth said gravely. "He said there was nothing we could do."
"Does everybody know?" Cadwyn asked.
Haleth shook his head. "Word will get around soon from the pages."
"Is there no hope of him getting better?" I asked. My throat was getting tighter, and I swallowed fiercely and tried to ignore the small burning feeling in the corners of my eyes. This was a person I actually knew, if vaguely, someone I had talked to and liked. Theodred had been the darling of Edoras, praised by all and well deserving of their admiration.
"I doubt it," said Haleth. "He looked awful when they carried him into Meduseld."
We all sighed together without meaning to.
There was an uncertain sort of clattering behind us. I turned around to see little Gonwyn standing on tiptoes, trying to tip one of the bread-bowls down to look inside of it. I sprang up and across the room almost before I could think and caught the bowl, steadying it between my hands. The swollen puff of dough wobbled dangerously, but did not fall out of the bowl. I set the bowl back on the counter with a relieved breath.
Gonwyn was looking at me, hurt. I crouched down to her level.
"You mustn't upset the dough while it's rising," I said.
"I only wanted to look." Her voice was small and timid.
"I know, dear, I know," I said. "Here." I wiped away some more flour from a section of the counter, took Gonwyn under the arms and lifted her to sit on the counter. "Now look." I peeled back the cloth from the dough. Haleth and Cadwyn came over to join us, and Cadwyn examined the other ball of dough and tipped it out onto the counter.
Gonwyn poked at the dough, then went to punch it down. Her small face shone with delight. I tipped the dough onto the counter and broke off a piece for her to play with, warning her that it was not to leave the counter.
Meanwhile, Cadwyn had broken her dough into two masses and given one to Haleth. He rolled up his sleeves and stared uncertainly at the dough sitting before him.
"Er…" he said very quietly.
Cadwyn, kneading away, looked over at him, took her hands out of the dough, and showed him the kneading motions. "Flip it over and punch in. Harder. Go on. Really press it; it's got to be well gone-over."
Haleth punched and flipped awkwardly, tongue between teeth. He looked up at us watching him and trying not to laugh.
"You do this every day?" he asked incredulously.
"Every week," I said.
Haleth shoved and turned, shoved and turned the dough. He was picking it up quickly. I traded my large ball of dough for his half-ball. Gonwyn stuck her dough back into the mass, hopped down off the counter, and went to play outside.
"It's so nice to have extra help," I said. "We need to start teaching the twins to bake so we won't have to."
"I don't trust them with my food," said Cadwyn darkly. "Better to slave away than eat what they'll most likely cook up."
I laughed. "But we thought Haleth couldn't bake, and look at him! It's hard to believe he is not Gleddan's apprentice."
Haleth gave me a mock sneer.
"We should have taught him ages ago," Cadwyn said.
Presently we all looked at each other and agreed that the dough had been kneaded enough. We lumped it back into two balls and into the bowls.
Just as Cadwyn laid the cloths over the dough, the front door burst open and the twins, Geollyn and Deollyn, tumbled in, red-faced and out of breath.
"I didn't!" Deollyn shouted.
"You did," Geollyn roared back. "You kept fighting after we'd already killed you, I saw you!"
"Boys!" I said in my most authoritative voice. They ignored me and went on arguing. The door stood wide open, forgotten.
Haleth walked calmly over to them and took them by the scruffs of their necks. They immediately froze and looked up at him. Their angry expressions melted into grins of glee.
"Haleth!" Deollyn exclaimed.
"Finally," said Geollyn.
But they fell silent when they got a proper look at Haleth's face. His back was to me, but I imagined he had put on a fearsome expression.
"Squabbling," he intoned, "Is most ignoble. I am disappointed in you."
They hung their heads. The twins hero-worshipped Haleth, and could not understand why he should want the company of two girls like us, whose heads were filled with air and other girlish things.
"Now," Haleth continued, sounding exactly like his father Hama when he had caught his son at some mischief, "Any fight, any argument, is a very serious thing. I expect you, as noble Rohirrim, to choose your fights wisely, and let small matters pass. Now go back to your game and be at peace!" He gave the boys an exuberant little shove towards the open door. They turned back to him.
"What's going on?" Deollyn demanded.
"You never come down here!" Geollyn gave Haleth a punch on the arm. "Go on, tell us. Why have you come?"
Haleth rubbed his arm in mock discomfort. "Prince Theodred is injured and very ill," he said simply.
Geollyn looked puzzled. "We haven't got any medicine," he said bluntly. "We've hardly got enough food for-"
"Geollyn," came Gwethawyn's voice from the doorway of the dining room. She was eyeing the boy severely.
The head nurse approached Haleth, and the twins slid off out the door and shut it behind them. It was suddenly dim in the entryway. Cadwyn and I came to stand beside Haleth.
"What are these tidings?" she asked. "Is it possible that I misheard?"
"Theodred is dying, ma'am." Haleth suddenly seemed much older, more respectful. "He is woefully wounded and has not much strength left. He…" he swallowed. "He may be dead by nightfall."
Gwethawyn closed her eyes, her face inscrutable. Finally she opened them to reveal an expression of very quiet pain. It was the expression she wore whenever new orphans arrived on our doorstep; it was the face that epitomized the last few months of refugees and missing kings and dead men.
"Another casualty," she said almost in a whisper. "And he would be just another slain in battle, had he not happened to be the king's son."
None of us knew what to say to this. Thankfully, Gwethawyn did not require a reply; she thanked Haleth for the news and returned to the dining room. We looked at each other awkwardly.
Finally Haleth broke the tension. "I should go," he said, turning to the door. "And that reminds me…" he bent down and shouldered his bag, pulling something out of it. He held out a package wrapped in light cloth.
"Go on," he said when we hesitated. "I promised."
I finally remember last night's conversation and Haleth's offer of bread. I took the package and threw the cloth off the top. Two loaves of bread sat in my arms. They still had vestiges of warmth about them, and they smelled heavenly.
Cadwyn was looking at Haleth in gleeful wonder.
"Oh Haleth, you didn't," she said.
Haleth scoffed. "Come now. Would my mother and father refuse to feed you? They love you. I told them about your food, and Father's going to speak to Grima and some other men about getting you some proper supplies."
I set the bread aside and we threw our arms around Haleth. As we broke apart, he said, "I really must go now and meet Wulfric. We're practicing swordplay."
"You have to teach us something soon, you know," said Cadwyn. "Our skills are lacking."
"Tomorrow- no, the next day," Haleth said. "I promise. Come up to my house in the afternoon and I'll teach you."
He swung his cloak about his shoulders and walked out through the door. "Tell us if you found out anything more!" I shouted at his retreating back. He looked around, nodded, and then disappeared into a crush of talking women on the main path.
Cadwyn and I went back inside and pulled out the tough old baking paddle and put one of our loaves on it. Cadwyn started a fire in the oven, running outside for grass to feed it. Soon she had it going well, and I stuck the paddle into the oven, sliding it in as far as possible. Then Cadwyn warned all the children in the room not to come near the oven. We sat as close to it as we dared, soaking in the heat, and broke off two hunks of bread from one of Haleth's loaves. We each took a giant bite and chewed hungrily. I closed my eyes. The bread was sweet and soft and heavenly.
"Why doesn't our bread ever taste like this?" Cadwyn asked around her second mouthful.
"Hanawyn has finer flour," I said, contemplating my share. "Besides, other people's food always tastes better."
"Girls?" came Gwethawyn's voice from above us.
I raised my eyes, my open mouth frozen halfway to another bite. I hoped my face did not look as guilty as I felt.
"Where did you get that?" Gwethawyn asked. "Surely you cannot have baked a loaf by now?"
"Haleth's mother made it," Cadwyn said, pointing to the bundle in my lap. I stood up and showed the bread to Gwethawyn.
She took it from me and examined it. "What a favor," she said, her eyes shining and face beaming.
"And he said Hama is going to talk to Grima about supplies for the orphanage," said Cadwyn.
Gwethawyn looked up from the bread. "Hama?" she repeated. We nodded.
She gazed heavenward. "Thank Eorl," she said. "Finally someone with influence is willing to speak for us! What supplies did he mention?"
"We don't know," I said. "He just said 'some proper supplies.'"
"Well, I shall have to talk with him," she said, "Or send one of you. If Grima is involved, he can get us any number of things."
"But will he?" It was out before I could stop myself.
Gwethawyn looked at me sharply. "You doubt that the king's chief advisor would want to help the citizens of Edoras?"
"Well…" I said, "I mean… he isn't very kind… if- if Haleth's right about him."
"You cannot judge a man by his looks," said Gwethawyn severely. "I have told you so many times."
"That's not it," Cadwyn said. "Haleth knows him personally, and he's always snapping at the pages and unpleasant to everyone."
Gwethawyn sniffed. "We shall see," she said. "He should not ignore Hama, particularly in this matter. After all my years of petitioning, perhaps we will finally get enough help."
Cadwyn and I looked at each other as the head nurse walked away. Why was Gwethawyn unwilling to hear a word against Grima? She could always see the good in everyone. From what Haleth had said, though, there didn't seem to be much good in Grima to see. I only hoped he would give us food. The bread rumbled in my stomach, and I ate the rest of my piece in one bite. I wasn't going to hope.
The rest of the day passed in a bored sort of haze. Cadwyn and I stayed inside, sitting as close to the oven as we could. We dozed in the warmth while the bread baked and children traipsed through and played, sometimes playing with them, sometimes letting them poke us as we feigned sleep. By the time the sun had sunk low over the White Mountains, we had two loaves baked and the last in the oven. Cadwyn delivered one of the loaves to Baldor, and by the time she got back, I had taken out the last loaf, doused the oven-fire, and was bent over the bread, fanning its aroma toward me.
My head filled with thoughts of supper, I checked our large potato basket that stood under the wooden counter. It was still halfway full. That was a good sign.
"Best start peeling those," came Anawyn's voice from behind me. "I'll need you two to make supper tonight. Boil the potatoes, won't you? That'll make a good supper, that and the bread. Remember, we'll need more than usual from now on."
From now on… I wondered what would happen in the future. It was true, autumn was still about, and the chill of winter had not yet reached the plains. But what about when winter did come? Could we support all these children? Perhaps other families could take them in. But few households needed extra mouths to feed, particularly not extra mouths that would not even carry on the family bloodline. Freyda had told us this ages ago, when we were feeling despondent over being the oldest children in the orphanage.
I began pulling out potatoes and throwing them on the counter. There were twenty of us now… no, more than that. I laid out eleven potatoes and surveyed them, hands on hips. They didn't look like much. Ah well. Half a one for each of us would have to do.
"Cadwyn, could you- oh. Thank you." For Cadwyn had just handed me one of the knives we kept on the very top shelf of the pantry.
I grabbed one of the mixing bowls and a rag, sloshed some water from the bucket into the bowl, and scrubbed it out, while Cadwyn took the humongous black pot and tottered out to the well.
I peeled the potatoes carefully, not wanting a single slice of anything good to eat to go to waste. Cadwyn presently came back in, her cheeks pink and her hair disheveled.
"Quite some wind out there," she panted as she stepped carefully between two children and hung the pot over the fire. She then took up the poker and began turning over embers, stoking the fire to greater heights.
"Branwen," I called to one of the girls by the fire. "Won't you come and help me with these potatoes?"
The young girl came up to me and I handed her two peeled vegetables. "These are for supper," I explained.
Branwen went to take a bite of one.
"No, no!" I cried, waving my hands about all too enthusiastically. "You can't eat them now; they're for supper. Look, go and give them to Cadwyn, and then come back for more. I'll peel these as fast as I can."
Soon Branwen grew bored of the game of walking back and forth with potatoes she wasn't allowed to eat. So, throwing away all manners, I began to toss them.
"Coming in from the corner!" I shouted.
"Wait, not yet, not yet!" cried Cadwyn frantically, laying aside the poker she'd been using. I flung the potato and she caught it in her outstretched had and dropped it into the pot with a resonant plunk. The fire was going merrily now, and it was only a matter of time before the water would be boiling.
Geollyn and Deollyn traipsed into the orphanage just as Cadwyn made a spectacular catch out of a very clumsy throw. As she straightened up, the twins, along with several new boys whom I was only beginning to recognize, surrounded her at once.
"Can we play?" asked Deollyn.
"No," said Cadwyn severely, despite her smile. "This is no game. This is supper."
She turned to me and I lobbed another potato. This one she caught easily.
"I suggest you run along now, boys," said Cadwyn serenely as she threw the potato in and stirred the vegetables with a long wooden spoon. "You wouldn't want to do anything so girlish as cooking."
The twins looked indignant. "Why can't we?" asked Geollyn. "Don't you trust us?"
"Not on your life," Cadwyn told them, still smiling.
"I used to help with supper at home," said one of the new boys, very quietly.
The room fell silent but for the blaze of the fire and the bubbling of the pot. Cadwyn and I were both tensed, waiting for the flood of tears, the collapse as the boy remembered all that he did not have and could never have again. But it did not come.
"Mother always needed extra hands," he said calmly, seemingly oblivious to our sudden unease. "I'm good at kitchen stuff. I can help."
I said, as gently as I could, "Well, then you can slice the bread. Have you done that before?"
The boy nodded mutely. I fetched the bread knife with difficulty from the top shelf of the pantry and handed it to him, setting Hanawyn's loaves on the counter in front of them. I supervised his first few slices, then left him on his own and went back to the potatoes while Cadwyn set the twins and their friends to setting the table. The boy hadn't been lying; he was quite handy with the knife, and just as I finished the last of the vegetables, he turned to me.
"What now?" he asked. The bread lay in even slices on the counter beside him.
I asked him to take the bread and breadboard and butter to the table. But before he could leave, I said, "What is your name?"
"Leodmund," he said, carrying the food into the dining room.
"Leodmund," I muttered to myself as I went to look in on the potatoes.
Presently the potatoes were boiled enough, and Cadwyn and I tipped them out onto our large serving platter and carried them out to the dining room. Then we rounded up the few children who were still playing outside in the chill afternoon and sat down to eat.
The potatoes were good, though bland: Cadwyn hadn't added any salt. Whether she had forgotten or wanted to save it in case Grima did not agree to help us, I did not ask. Everyone exclaimed over Hanawyn's bread. The butter made it taste even better, if that was possible. I sat next to Leodmund on one side and Cadwyn on the other.
The dinner was just as quiet as last night. None of the new children had found their voices yet, but that was to be expected. It would be days at least until they had warmed to the orphanage and to us. I knew this from pushing Haldor too hard when he and Branwen first came. I had made the poor boy, then only five, huddle in a corner and cry for his mother, shrinking from me when I came over with peace offerings of prunes.
Once everyone had finished eating, Cadwyn and I gathered up the dishes as usual and washed them. This time, Leodmund silently helped us, so it took even less time than usual. I was far from full, so to take my mind off my stomach, I went outside and sat near the path, huddled in my cloak, watching people pass on their way home before dusk. None greeted me, but I was used to that.
Presently the sun sank below the mountains, and Cadwyn came to pull me back inside to send the children to bed. We oversaw the unrolling of bedrolls and then retired to the dining room. I felt strangely exhausted, though the day had not been taxing.
We were just unrolling our own bedrolls for another night on the table when a great clanging came echoing over the rooftops of Edoras. It was faint but distinct, and I was almost certain I hadn't imagined it. Yes, there it was again- the great bell near Meduseld was ringing.
Cadwyn and I dropped our bedrolls and hurried to the door. Children were already grouped around the open door, staring into the night. I peered over their heads. The bell stopped ringing, but its echoes lingered in my mind and chilled my spine when I realized what they must mean.
I looked at Cadwyn. "You don't think Theodred...?" I whispered.
"I think so," she said, biting her lip.
Gwethawyn came up behind us. "All right, the fuss is over, everyone to bed," she said, shutting the door.
"Gwethawyn," I said urgently. "Is he really dead?"
"They wouldn't ring the bell for any other reason," Cadwyn added, seeking agreement.
The head nurse pursed her lips. "I have not the faintest idea why the bell was rung. I would suggest, however, that you find out the truth before you start spreading rumors."
"We don't spread rumors-" Cadwyn began indignantly.
"Unless you are certain of something, it is hearsay," the nurse said sharply. "For once, rest your imaginations and do not frighten the children with your wild stories."
I opened my mouth but could find nothing to say. Gwethawyn was right. I took Cadwyn gently by the elbow and led her into the dining room.
Late that night, I dreamed I was standing alone on the plain. I looked around for a horse, or Haleth, but there was no one. Then with a great jolt, I realized that Edoras was not behind me, nor anywhere at all, no matter which way I turned. I was lost. I turned my face to the sky to try to tell the time, but saw vast, roiling towers of black clouds, thunder rumbling from their depths, shaking the ground, pounding. I cried out for help, but the thunder drowned me out. The blackness was oppressive; it advanced down towards me, bearing down, the thundering growing louder, overtaking me-
I woke up disoriented and sat up quickly before realizing that I was in the orphanage, safe, that it was only a nightmare. But the thunder continued and the ground under the table trembled. Confused, I rubbed my eyes, listening hard. Finally the thunder settled down into a recognizable rhythm. Hoof beats.
I flung off the top of the bedroll and ran to the door. Wrenching it open, I saw dozens of dark shapes, horses and riders, flashing down the path past me. Down through the city and out through the gate they pounded, the men bellowing. I caught "We ride for Rohan!" before the last of them rode past the orphanage and onto the plain. I could just see past the gate many dark shapes against the moon-pale grass.
I became dimly aware that there were people behind me, and I turned to find Cadwyn and the nurses already ushering a few groggy children (and the fiercely protesting Geollyn and Deollyn) back into the main room. With one last look at the men moving away now across the plain, I shut the door and steered the twins firmly into the main room.
I climbed into my bedroll but could not sleep until the first hint of dawn came creeping into the blackness of the sky. My last thought before I fell asleep was one I had thought a thousand times since I had seen the riders: who were they? Why had they left? And did their absence mean more trouble for Edoras?
A/N: At last, the second chapter. It seems even longer than the first, perhaps simply because so much of it seems unnecessary. If any parts felt unnecessary to you, please tell me, because I must get the story off the ground and moving. Things need to start happening. Thank you very much for reading! Reviews are much appreciated, and constructive criticism is likewise always welcome.
