...His...

…His…
Chapter 07


We rose at the earliest of dawn and made love again. I relit the braziers, praying for time to slow, for the room to warm. He was dressed in his under tunic and trousers when I returned with breakfast. We ate silently, before the camp truly began to rouse. I dressed him, put every piece of armor on him, double-checking the lacings and the buckles.

“I have instructions for you.” It was if last evening had not happened, his voice was clipped and matter of fact and he adjusted his gloves and gauntlets. “If we fail and Gondor falls, you must ride and make haste to escape.”

“Where would you have me go, my lord?”

If he caught my slip, he ignored it. “Imladris first if possible. Go to Rivendell. You will wear the hair clip. Elrond will recognize my insignia.”

I started to ask if everyone knew about us, but I bit my tongue and nodded affirmatively.

“If the Elves are not there, travel to Lindon, to the west. Go to Mithlond; the Grey Havens. The ships will not bear you to their Valinor, but perhaps they will bear you somewhere. Take Fléotigu. She is hearty and powerful. She is yours if you need to run.” He went to his trunk and opened it, pulling out a short sword and scabbard. “If you do not know how to use this,” he handed it to me, “learn. It could mean your life.”

I held the sword with shaking hands. Carefully, I pulled it a few inches from the scabbard; it’s sharpness, obvious. “You would have me run?”

Suddenly, his face was mere inches from mine. “I would have you live. You are Rohan.”

~~~...~~~

I stood at the top of the ridge, watching the muster of Rohan ride out. Éomer was at the head, with his uncle, his standard flying. I could not make out his plumed helmet, just his standard. I turned to go back to his tent and collect my things, only to bump into Ábiterian. She opened her mouth as if to speak, her features already twisted.

“Do not. I will slap the spit out of your mouth.” She took a step back, in shock. “I do not know what I did to earn your hatred, but I do not care. Sleep with your bitterness and leave me be.”


~~~...~~~


We spent the day packing, reloading, slept in the fortress again that evening, with just our bedrolls. I looked for Lady Éowyn, to say goodbye, but I could not find her. We made our way home, planning the planting season. Ábiterian stayed away from me, gossiping still, but at least, at a distance.

Áblysian was glad to see me. What few men stayed, milked and fed the animals left behind, but I dare say none of them spoke to her or used a very gentle hand.

We listened for news, waited. For some days, I slept fully clothed, with Éomer’s small sword, by my side. Eventually, we began to work our land, plow and tend. For the second spring, I was again grateful for the loan of the sturdy Fléotigu, who needed little prodding to do what was needed. I quickly plowed both of my fields, tilling the soil and grinding the stable waste into the top to nourish it. I pretended we were not at war, so I allowed the hens to sit their first batch of eggs and bought a few sheep, two sows and a hog for my little stable. I could use the wool next spring and if the sows gave birth, there would be a little pork on my table for the winter. Even with the majority of the men gone to war, feed and tidbits from the manor continued to find their way into my cold box and feeding bins. I gave up trying to catch whoever was doing it. I would have liked to thank them, however.

Several days later, a single rider flew into Aldburg. He smelled of battle and blood; his features filthy of war and riding. We came from our fields, our cottages, to hear him in the square, standing on the fountain.

“We won!” he exclaimed. “We won!” He told us how the Orcs had surrounded the White City of Minas Tirith, only to be surprised by the Rohirrim, singing into battle. He told of giant Mûmakil, their evil barbed tusks and cruel riders, how they tore through the Rohirrim line, injuring, killing. I held my breath, who were the dead? Where were the lists of the dead?

He continued, after someone brought him ale, how the Ranger, Aragorn was the lost King of Gondor, how he arrived on the Corsairs ships with the Army of the Dead. He told of the Ring Wraiths, the beasts they rode, how the Witch King slung Théoden King and his horse to their doom and how a single Rider stood up to keep the beast from killing the Rohirrim King.

“A Rider?” Ábiterian exclaimed derisively. “”Tis said by the great Glorfindel himself that no man would kill the Witch King.”

“A man did not!” The Rider was now warmed up to his tale. “It was the Lady Éowyn! The Lady Éowyn dressed as a Rider with the Hobbit Merry and killed the Witch King.” We cheered, but he was not done. “Alas, she could not save Théoden. King Théoden has died, succumbed to his injuries.”

There was a stunned silence; sadness gripped each and every one of us. I cleared my throat, staring at the dirt, already knowing what the horrible answer would be. “If Théoden is dead, who is king?” I looked up. “What of Éomer? Who is king?”

He looked me straight in the eye. “He is a hero, woman. Éomer is king. Long live Éomer King!”

The rider continued on, but I could not bear to listen to any more so I wandered off, returning to my field, to finish the fertilizing. I remembered what Éomer said, what he wished, but the horrifying truth was I was not high born. I was not aristocracy. I had no idea how to run a manor, much less a noble hall. If dignitaries came from other lands – and they would – I would be an embarrassment, a liability. I was not the woman Éomer needed to be his queen.

I was just Wudurose. His lover; his mistress.

~~~...~~~

Not a day after the Rider came through, there was an earthquake. I checked the house and the stable, but there appeared to be no damage. Áblysian moo’d her displeasure and Fléotigu was quite skittish. I gave up trying to take her to the fields and spent the day planting flowers by my front walk. I scrubbed my floors and kept busy. My cycle started precisely when it was supposed to. That same morning, I found extra hay and feed in the feeding trough and a small skin of new wine in my cold box.

My heart was breaking.

~~~...~~~