Hooves pounded quickly upon the fields of Rohan. Rolling clouds of dust behind the hoard of the Horse-Lords as they left flattened earth in their wake.
The purple sky above reminded the Riders that night comes quickly in the dry season.
The sun was setting and the Wild Men had been a day ahead of the Horse Lords, though with the power of their steeds that distance quickly shortened. The Wild Men had been easy to track. They were sloppy, leaving their trail easy to follow as they pillaged a small village and the homes of farmers.
The Riders of the Mark, the armies of Rohan, had been called east near the fingers of the Entwash, where Wild Men and Orcs were spotted frequently in the past months. Thengel, the King of Rohan, sent an army of his best men as it worried him that so many invaders travel freely into his kingdom under the watchful eye of Isengaurd and past the broad shoulders of Gondor.
Throughout the day, the army chased Wild Men but as night approached, the chance of meeting hordes of Orcs increased as the vile creatures detested the light of day.
The setting sun did not deter the Riders. The hooves of their horses never slowed as darkness creeped over the mountains. It was at this time that their goal came into view - a large group of Wild Men, mostly without horses, ran towards the White Mountains, perhaps hoping to lose the Riders as they continued West - a far cry from their mountainous home in the East.
The King did not join his men, as the birth of his second child was near. The pregnancy had been hard on the Queen, leading midwives to think the baby a boy, a son. A strong child. A willful child.
Thus King Thengel allowed for a wandering man to lead his soldiers. A foreigner, though of what country, he did not know. The man went by Thorongil, and had met the King some ten or so years prior, a sell-sword who only worked toward the good of Men. Thorongil's appearance differed from the Men of Rohan, his features dark in comparison to the blonde peoples of the Rohirrim.
Thorongil was young, but incredibly skilled in both the art of the sword and of war tactics. His insight and perspective had been of great help to the Rohirrim king and his advisors.
He was even kind enough to give Théoden, the boy prince, a few lessons in footwork with the sword. Théoden had been all legs when he was young, tangled up in his feet as he walked, tripping hazardously like a newborn foal. It took the patience of a martyr to teach the lad, and Thorongil had taken him under his wing when he could.
Thorongil was now reaching the dawn of his thirty-second birthday and he would make it many years past that. But now the Riders, through his leadership, were the only things blocking the Wild Men from crossing the Entwash and reaching deeper into Rohan.
"Rohirrim!" Thorongil bellowed as the Riders pushed the horses harder, catching the heels of the Wild Men.
Raising his arm, he shouted again before waving it forward. The charge of the spearmen beside him rushed past as he grabbed for his sword.
May the battle be swift and their losses few.
–
"Fægre, flanc!"
The noise of the television woke her up - a war drama or documentary. She must have fallen asleep on the couch again. She knew better than to do so - the couch always gave her a stiff neck that would plague her for the following day.
But what she felt was more than a crick in her neck. A throbbing pain consumed her head. It made the rest of her body feel sore and tired.
She couldn't think, the unbearable ache throbbed her skull like a pulse. She squinted her eyes further closed as she reached to rub her temples. The television was too loud. She didn't even remember leaving it on last night. Her bed moved as it thundered - had there been a call for a storm today?
And did she forget to close the curtain? Why was it so bright? She felt as if the sun would blind her if she fully opened her eyes.
Propping herself up on her elbow as she rubbed her head, she noticed how hard it was beneath her. Did she fall out of bed? Slowly, the woman opened her eyes, fighting the pain and finally taking notice of her surroundings.
Her head continued to pulse as she noticed that the noise was not her television, but some terrible, awful dream. Her eyes squinted as she struggled to take in the area around her.
She lay on the ground - the hard, rocky, ground - the earth upturned under her as men with and without horses. And swords. And spears. They shouted at each other in a language she could not understand.
Her brain couldn't process what was happening. This dream was too vivid. Dirt crumbled in her hands as she pushed herself up and backwards, a feeble attempt. Her legs wobbled, unable to keep her balance, and she stumbled forward, instinctively placing her hands in front to catch herself.
Her hands were covered in a wet, red paint.
Why was her hand red? What was-? Where-? It's wet. The wet is sticky and thick. Not water. Punch? Juice? Maybe the girls had left a soda can on the table..?
But there was no table. Right. No couch. No living room with old wooden floors that creaked in the entryway.
She felt for her temple again, this time taking note of the sticky, red substance on her fingers.
Her fingers? These weren't her hands. The fingers were long and slender and without wrinkles and age spots. Her nails were short, bloody, and filled with dirt. A tremble took over her entire body. Panic set in as her brain processed the connection of the blood on the hands before her and the headache that continued to pulsate.
What - what was going on? This dream-? How could she wake up?
She took no notice of the man marching toward her, dagger drawn and ready to strike. It was only when the spear of a horse rider rammed into the man's back and propelled him to fall before her did she finally take heed of him.
During his collapse, the man's arms reached for her, grabbing her leg as he gasped a final, eerie breath.
She froze. His hand was dirty, sweaty, and warm.
Blood seeped from his body and into the earth. She attempted to stand and retreat but again her legs failed, collapsing underneath her. Kicking the dead man away, she scooted across the ground until her back hit an unmoving wall and she could go no further. It was then she noticed her bare feet, dirty and bloody like her hands. A ragged skirt barely covered for long legs, showcasing their scrapes and bruises.
What a terrible nightmare. When was the last time she had a nightmare? Had she ever had one like this?
Bringing her knees to her chest, she looked again at her hands. The hands that were and weren't hers.
Touching her head again, she finally noticed that there was a large gash on her temple. Bits of hair were matted in the blood, though the strands fell away as she tried to pull them out of the wound. Gently grasping the rest of her head, she felt she had little to no hair. It had been roughly cut or shaven, the nicks on her scalp still stung.
Her left ear throbbed as her fingers brushed against it. Part of her ear was missing and the tender wound only recently scabbed over.
What was all this?
Bile rose up her throat, but only made it to the back of her tongue.
The woman's chest tightened and tears formed in her eyes. Her throat clenched as she let out a panicked yell, spitting up whatever had made its way up from her stomach. Her body trembled and shook uncontrollably, it was getting harder to breathe.
A spearhead, sharp and bloodied now pointed in her face. In shock she threw her head back to get away, only to hit it on the wall - a large stone - behind her, causing her to cry out in pain and hold her head in a feeble attempt of protecting herself.
Blackness surrounded her vision and faded all noise around her. Perhaps she was waking up now. Back in her soft bed and cotton linens.
–
The next time she awoke, her body ached. Pain throbbed throughout her body, so much so that it felt impossible to move. Attempting to move her hands forced a whimper to escape her lips.
"Posto, posto." A large warm and calloused hand gently touched her forehead. It brushed gently across her eyelids, a motion she did to her own children when she attempted to get them to sleep.
Pasta? No, she couldn't eat anything at the moment. She felt as if she was in fog, her thoughts were jumbled and cluttered as she attempted to fight drowsiness.
Finally opening her eyes, she could only witness everything spinning around her as she tried to focus on the source of the hand that had left her face.
"Boe achin loro."
She squinted. A wooden ceiling greeted her, held by large wooden beams. No longer was she outside or even in the dirt, but a thin mattress on the floor. The room continued to spin as she turned her head.
A man sat at her side, a wet cloth in his hand and a bowl of steaming water next to him.
The man was young, unshaven but clean. "Boe achin posto." His voice was a breezy whisper. She couldn't place the language - some romantic language? Spanish? The room spun above her.
He wore leather and linen clothing, as if he was part of a historic play or film. Worn and well-fitted, he must wear the costume a lot, she thought. She couldn't process what he was doing or why he wore a costume. Her head still throbbed and her entire body felt like she had been hit by a bus.
"Wh-?" She coughed, her throat hoarse and dry. Her chapped lips stretched in pain as she attempted to open her mouth.
The woman felt a hand, again warm and calloused, against the base of her neck, lifting up her head towards a small cup of water, which she tried to drink, though most of it trailed down her chin and neck.
He laid her head back down. She was more awake now, able to focus more.
Attempting to clear her throat, she let out a small cough before continuing her question, hoping that the strange man spoke English as well as whatever language he had been speaking to her.
"Where…where am I?"
The young man smiled softly, perhaps pitifully, as he placed the cup down beside her.
"You are in the Healing House of Edoras, north of the White Mountains. You were found with a battalion of Wild Men who ventured West. That was four days ago."
Again, her brain failed to process what was being said. It came through her ears as gibberish. Edoris? White Mountains? What was he talking about?
He closed his eyes and briefly nodded his head in greeting. His shoulder-length dark hair fell in front of his face. "I am Thorongil, a soldier for King Thengel of Rohan."
Thorongil, again, took the cloth out of the bowl of warm water and squeezed out any excess. Looking her in the eye for approval, he reached for hand, turning her palm outwards as he wiped it gently with the cloth. He put her right hand down and did the same with her left hand.
The pain she had felt still remained though the throbbing throughout her body had dulled. It now felt as if her body was one entire bruise.
She watched him, from the corner of her eye, place the cloth again in the bowl and wring it out, now wiping her face and lips.
"May I have your name, my lady?"
The woman hesitated, clenching and unclenching her hands into fists, the pain of doing so acting as a reminder that this all felt too real to be a dream. The pain of her body, the mattress beneath her and the blanket on top of her, the wet washcloth.
It was too real for her liking. Her mind couldn't process what was going on, where she was, or how she got there. Why wasn't she home? Why wasn't she…herself?
She turned her head, looking away from the soldier and towards the ceiling. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and down her neck. Her voice remained hoarse, but she finally replied in a whisper. The silence between felt like an eternity to her until she gathered enough strength to respond to him with a raspy whisper.
"Ophelia."
Comments and critiques are appreciated :) This is my first fic in many, many years and it's been so healing to get back into writing!