Five years later…
The messenger rode full tilt through the grasslands, his horse lathered and snorting. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, he raced westward with the mountains, sweat pouring down his face, soaking his clothes and hair. He changed mounts at Aldburg along the West Road to lend him speed before the final push toward the great hill of the Golden Hall.
He would not rest until he carried his message from Gondor to Riddermark. There were precious few settlements between Firienwood and Edoras, but he had seen each one — splashing through muddy town squares, climbing stockades, crying from the rain barrels beside their wattled houses — now the rays of sunlight licked the Eastfold, gliding before the rider on golden wings.
The messenger leaned into the last leg of his journey. He kicked the gelding's sides and loosed his grip on the reins, giving the horse its head. The hollow tattoo of hooves on the clay kept his heart going. He would not fall out of the saddle from exhaustion or for any other reason. He would deliver his message.
An ancient stone pile under a gold-thatched roof rose above the humble huts winding up the hill-fort. Meduseld, at last. He halloo'd and hollered until one-by-one faces appeared at all the windows, on thresholds, on the stone stair. Sleepy-eyed children stumbled out of doorways with spoons dripping oatmeal to meet the rider.
The door wardens ushered the rider into the hall, past the banked fire waiting to be rebuilt, past the empty dais, down a little-used corridor to a corner room.
The rider entered, head bowed with reverence. An old man leaned heavily against the window facing east. He had seen the rider during his vigil over a far-flung family.
The rider shifted nervously in his boots. "My lord?"
"What news?" asked the old man in a hoarse voice.
"The princess has delivered a son," the rider announced between gasps. "All is well."
The old man sank deeply into his chair beside the window. "The child's name?"
"Rochírion," the rider answered. "Eh, Théoden Rochírion."
The people's lord. A promise.
"Go. Tell the King."
When the messenger left him, the old man wept into his beard.
"Westu Thengelson hal," Oswin murmured.
AN: I mean, I have a soft spot for Oswin. He had to find out before the king. Thank you for reading! It's been three years, almost to the day, that I started scribbling this story. So many thanks to you all for reading it.
Thengel and Morwen had five children in total, of which Theoden was the second born and only son. The first three of the children were born in Gondor, with the final two born after Thengel was recalled to Rohan ten years after their marriage. The only daughter who received a name from Tolkien was the youngest, Theodwyn, mother of Eomer and Eowyn.
Rochírion: (sind) son of the horse lord