Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I am only playing with the fandom for the enjoyment of myself as well as others.
Author's note: Take care that a spew warning might apply and be cautious when handling food and liquids while reading this.
Chapter 65
Hearing the sound of someone scraping the mud off their boats on the board outside the door, Lytain looked up from her bread dough. There were only two men who would do that, her own son, Éothain, and their king, Éomer. They had been dragged back out by their ears or the scruff of their neck as children until they learned, both of them. Want to forget themselves in their games she had never hesitated to take either one to task, until finally they would remember to halt their game long enough.
Though it had delighted her how they in their hurry when called in for bread and milk they came so fast they were unable to stop in time but piled themselves against the rough planks of her wall. Aye, it had been a delight to have them come tearing into the house, for all the mud they trailed in after them.
Such she did not see again after Éomer was orphaned. Though their king Théoden had taken him in and given a good home to him and his sister he had never once after played the same way. He came to be quiet and sullen, full of anger with nary any joy.
The habit remained though, and even as a young man and a full rider he had not hesitated to call on her when he wished. He knew her kitchen was one place he would never be turned out, though he also knew better than to track any mud in with him as he came.
She had taught them well, both boys, and even now, he had an armful of wood with him as he entered. Nodding a greeting to her as he dropped a bundle of cloth on her table before kneeling by the stove to place the wood in her basket. She had insisted on that, arguing that if they always stopped to bring an armful in when they came, they would never have to take the time for the many trips needed to fill it all at once.
It had certainly been useful, and now they were still both in the habit. Their king he might be, but to her, Éomer was still the blonde scrap of a boy who had come tearing into her yard with wooden sword brandished, tripping over her broom as he sought to slay Orcs and other foul beasts. He was the same little scrapper whom had tumbled around in the dirt with her own son as their argument had turned into a fight, and she had dunked them both in the rain barrel more than once for it!
She had made one wait his turn while the other one got a taste of her switch, and she had tended bloody noses and black eyes when they had been bested by the older boys. Éomer was not hers, but she had still a claim on him from many years watching him grow and she had always been glad for it.
Glancing at the cloth she found it was a fine almost silken weave, a soft green with faded if still visible dark stains on it.
"Éothain was supposed to fetch me more wood," she mused as she shaped the dough into a loaf to go into the oven.
"I wager he shall be a while," Éomer mused, a soft and rare smile on his face. "That new mare of his is not yielding to his will."
"If she did, he would not like it anymore than you would," Lytain snorted. "Though he shall come back home all black and blue, complaining about her."
"Aye," Éomer laughed, knowing it for the truth, and knowing it would have been the truth for him as well. "She is a fine horse, a good mare, she shall serve him well. She would not if it was too easy."
"At least that mare is not as ornery as that brute of your's was," she snorted. "I was never certain if he would have killed you before it was over."
"Firefoot would never have hurt me…" Éomer instantly and instinctively defended his horse.
"Your grey beast not only bit you and kicked you, but I seem to recall any number of time you came in here, limping and dripping blood on my floor…." she snorted. "I still have not got the stains out of the floor…"
"That was not from Firefoot," Éomer defended himself. "That was the time Eartworm stole Éothain's dagger. 'Tis was not a thing we could allow to pass."
"It was one too many times the both of you came in here giving me the scare of my life," she snorted. "And if you are here now for my bread, it is not ready."
"Nay, though indeed I am here because I wish to ask a favour from you," Éomer shrugged as he leaned against the table.
"You know you only need ask, dear boy," she softened her look, for indeed there was naught she would not do for him. The two boys, her son and her now King had ever fought and ever stood side by side against the greater force. She had no claim on him but the one her heart had made long ago, though that was indeed a strong one.
"Lothíriel sowed that for me," he nodded to the fabric. "I know she spent weeks on it, and though she claims no anger for having to mend them, this one I do not wish to ask her to."
"What have you done?" wiping her hands on her apron, Lytain made certain there was no flour on them before she picked up the garment. It was badly stained, though someone had made a futile attempt to remove them. Most likely Éomer himself and he knew naught of the matter. The tears were bad, it would take a skilled needle and a fine stitch to save it. "Éomer, how did you tear it so badly?"
"Blade got through my armour," he shrugged. "Last time we drew swords with Aragorn. I do not wish for Lothíriel to see it, she would fret so for it. 'Tis was not such a bad injury, but it would worry her regardless, I do not wish to cause her any distress. Yet she laboured so long on it, I would feel a buffon if I did naught but cast it away."
"If you did, I would cuff you over the ear and turn you over my knee," she snorted. "A woman who takes such care on something like this deserves far better. You fool boy…!" gently, almost fondly she cuffed him over the ear.
"I may not have been meant for this, and I am very well aware there are things I do not know, but I do not think that had Théodred been king, you would have treated him so."
"Théodred did not track mud through my kitchen," she shook her head. "You may be my King and Lord, and so I will gladly call you when it suits me. But do not think it shall ever be enough to keep me from getting the switch if I felt it was needed."
"Lytain, for all that I love, never change," laughing, he kissed her cheek.
"Foolish boy, you need not speak such flattery, you know you are welcome when the bread is out of the oven, see if you can find something to keep yourself out of trouble until then," she shook her head as she returned to the dough on her table.
"I shall see if Éothain need any help," he shrugged as he left the kitchen.
When he was gone she sat the bread aside to rise and turned the tunic over in her hands. The fabric must indeed have come from Dol Amroth, for she had rarely seen such a fine one in Edoras. The threads were so thin they seemed her like a veil. Silken under her touch, and yet so badly torn and bloodied. It was just like the men to think only of one thing, he had certainly tried to wash out the blood, though in doing so he had torn it worse.
Sighing she took her sewing box, what needles and thread she had. It would need the finest needle she owned, a silver one, a rare thing for a farmer's wife. With her husband and son riders though, and with the sister son of the king running wild in her house it had been gifted her and she had treasured it.
She had a clumsily worked cord-fork and a matching nalbinding needle, presented her by two blonde boys. She treasured them, though the yarn was won't to snag here and there on patches not smooth enough. Aye, they had been delightful boys, always up to mischief, no adventure too dangerous for the two of them. Èothain had dragged his friend by the scruff of his neck to her to have bleeding scrapes tended to, and Éomer had stood shame faced and with hitched breath as he brought Éothain in in no better condition.
The two of them were dear to her heart, though only one was really hers to claim, she viewed Lothíriel with no less devotion, for she had brought such joy to their king.
A lady, unlike any seen in the memory of man she was, and yet she had walked into the city and let them all into her heart. She was a worthy lady, and one who had earned the right to their liege and lord.
The tear in the fabric was bad, she let her fingers examine it. Rough as they were from years of hard work and labour. The fine thread running over them, the silken feel and delicate yet warm and firm fabric.
Though it was not the one Éomer had pointed her to, there was a tear on the sleeve, a short but clear one, the fabric on it stained badly where the delicate threads had been sliced.
It was with a roar of rage that Éomer pressed his heels to Firefoot's side, and the mighty grey stallion needed no more to shoot forward. Forelegs thrashing in the air as he was brought up short against the enemy, crushing the skull of one even as Éomer swung his sword. The battle was harsh and it was hard to get a clean kill, but he swung again, and Firefoot lurched to the side to clear himself of another blade.
Éomer, not one to be unbalanced followed in the saddle, leaving the man with an arm half-hacked off for the time being. Firefoot had swung around, presenting him with another target and he did not hesitate. Around him the fight was a meele where one man was lucky to be granted the time to tell friend from foe. Already he had ducked a spear from a man with a Gondorian helmet, and swung his own blade hastily aside as a Rohir came beside him. There was no finesse, there was only butchering and the vain hope of living through it.
There was no time to search for Aragorn, no time to find Éothain in the chaos. He could only trust Firefoot to act if an enemy came behind him, as he did, swerving and rearing up just as the razor sharp edge of a lance cut through the chainmail on his arm. Drawing naught but a grunt from him, where he felt the impact, but not the burn from the cut. Only after, when the warm wetness spread down his arm did he know he had been cut.
She shook her head, sadly as she closed the tear with the finest stitch she was able. Her needle picking up the threads as she held it close to her eyes. Such fabric should have been handled by a gentler hand than hers, but it was Éomer whom had brought it to her. Éomer, the same boy whom had stood shoulder to shoulder with her own son in any number of scrapes when they were boys. Éomer whom had red faced and stammering drawn her up to dance when she had been seated alone at the summer festival. The blonde boy whom had come shuffling his feet into her kitchen to tell her he had broken her clay pitcher when he had filled it full of water and it had been too heavy. It was the warrior for whom she searched for the very second her eyes had found her own husband and son amidst the riders.
There was a tear in the right side of the tunic, low down, not a clean one, for the fabric had lain in folds and the cut had been superficial.
Firefoot lunged forward, hastily, not quite able to keep from stumbling as his eyes were wide with terror. He knew the right side of his rider was just a little weaker, the little one took a split second to see the danger, and this time he was not fast enough. Oft he was able to move out of the way, but there was nowhere for him to go, no space to throw himself into where he would not be impaled by a spear. Crying with rage he snapped his teeth, reared up searching for a way out, and with no other option he vaulted over the fallen body of one of his kin. It was with remorse fighting the rage he saw the mutilated body of the roan under him, though he had no choice. The mare would not rise, but his rider was still on his back, the little one was still in his care and he could not risk him for one already lost.
The last tear was right over the chest, starting from the shoulder and running down, she was a warrior's wife, and a warrior's mother. She knew all she needed to know of the weapon that would cause such a tear….
She had seen it in other tunics, mended before they were passed on because no one had much and a tunic could not be cast away. Yet the widow of the baker had burned her son's tunic after just such a cut. She had thrust it in the fire, for she could not bear to pass it on. She would not see him laid to rest in it, but she would not see another man in it either, for it was the last thing she had ever clad her son in.
She had seen them mended, worn by young riders who knew not what the cause had been, and did not understand the grief of the women who watched them. Old men who saw the children of their sons doon them to ride out.
It was a sight that always seemed to cause her heart to freeze, and yet she threaded the eye of the needle once more, though several tries it took her. For her eyes seemed hazy and not as sharp as they should have been and her hand shook.
The blow came from nowhere, a force so powerful it stunned the rider and he lost his balance, losing his grip and losing the advantage of his steed as he crumbled to the ground. Dazed he lay on the ground, cold mud and hot blood soaking into his skin though he felt neither. Dazed he was, and yet by instinct his hand fumbled for his sword. How he had come to lose it he did not know, for he was not even certain of how he had come to be on the ground.
All he knew, all his entire world seemed to consist of was the glint of cruel steel above him as the halberd cleaved the air. He heard the laugh of a man who knew there will be no resistance, that his victim is helpless under his hand.
One who did not know the power of the mighty grey stallion, for Firefoot took not defeat gracefully. Having recovered his balance, and lost none of his fury he brought down on the foe. Hatred caused his eyes to show near all white as he reared up.
The razor sharp blade bit deep into the cuirass, cut through the mail underneath it as the stench of blood filled Firefoot's nostrils. A split second later a dull thud was heard as the body crumbled to the ground, a deceptively mild clang as the halberd landed beside him, blade glistening blade.
Firefoot would not budge, his little one was on the ground, gasping, and so he would not move until one came to lend aid. He would not be moved by anyone but the blonde or the dark haired. He trusted the dark haired who gave him apples and whom now rode Brego, his dear kin. He trusted the blonde whom had been with his little one for so many years, but none others would he trust to aid him.
Seeing the blonde he cried loudly, screaming his need for aid, rearing up to bring his front hooves down on the metal shell of the enemy so sparks flew. The deep clang to alert him of the need for aid, for there was little else he could do, so he cried again, striking another of the foul one done so he could not be the first by the little one's side. Only a friend he would trust to be so.
No, this was a serious matter, and he would not let anyone but the blonde or the dark haired near.
When they came, only then did he allow himself to step aside for he was bleeding himself and his leg was burning with pain. It was well now, the blonde was with the little one, he would see to him and for the time being Firefoot could step down.
Her husband had always claimed she sewed a fine stich, and Lytain had always been proud of the fact that her husband and son were well dressed if not in the finest of cloth. The stitches she put in the tunic now were the finest she was able. She would leave no trace of the tear in the fabric, for she knew all too well from what it would have come, and she would not let the young queen lay her eyes upon it. If she could do aught else, she could spare the poor girl that.
By the time the men had returned, there had been little enough to show of the injury, they had lost a few men, but the ones returning were all able to ride by themselves and to brag about glorious battle won. Her own son had lost his gelding, and it was with tears running down his face he had told her of the loss. The mare he trained now would earn her own place in his heart, but the gelding would always lay a claim to his own.
With Firefoot still limping, Éomer had been riding a gelding from Gondor, just as her son had, lamenting the horses' poor upbringing but claiming the poor creatures could not be held accountable for it. They had not spoken much of the rest, and she was not surprised by this fact. She knew well the way of the warriors and the bravery they would display for the world.
Yet as she held the tunic in her hands, closing the tear as she had been asked, it was not soap and water that washed the blood stains away….
It was her tears that soaked into the green fabric, tears for the one she had no right to claim but yet in her heart was no less than her own. The one she had nearly lost, she wept now in silence for she would not let him know it broke her heart. If she could do naught else to keep him safe, she could at least spare his wife those tears.
She wept now, for when he returned she could not let him see, this was the burden of the wives and the mothers, and not one she would wish them to know of. There was naught to be done about it, but to sit him at her table with warm bread and ale, chiselling the image of him into her heart, for she never knew which time she saw him would be the last.
She wept now, for there was nothing else she could do…
A Temporary End... Please review, the Cricket is hungry...
Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.