Harwick is the largest town of the Wold, the northern region of the Eastemnet of Rohan. It is here that Seregrían arrives in the late afternoon, riding south from the ruins of Langhold and up to the gates - and once more must work her skill at diplomacy. The wardens at the gates deny her entry with cross words of warning, but the display of the emblems of Eorl once again fills all eyes with wonder. And to smooth things over even more, while in Stangard she learned a few phrases in the tongue of Rohan to greet the wardens with courtesy.
“Westu hál, Eorlingas! Seregrían is my name, come from Dwimordene to the north. I bring tidings from your kinsmen of Stangard and would have words with the Reeve of Harwick. Let me enter in, I bid you.”
“Dwimordene, say you?” asks the elder warden. ”None have dared to venture beneath the eaves of the Wood save in recent times, it is said. I see you, and you are an Elf? Even more that none of your kin have come this far to us.”
“All the same, I am here, and I would have words with your Reeve, the lord Harding,” Seregrían replies. “Will you allow me to pass, or at least send word to him? Time is no longer our friend, as the news I bear shall reveal!”
“Word shall be sent, Elf-maid,” the warden says as he signs to another guard to bear the news. The guard returns not long after, his face grim as he speaks in a low voice and in their own tongue to the warden, who turns back to Seregrían.
“The Aldor Harding is not here, nor is he expected to return until the morrow. With that in mind, I am asked to find you bed and sup for the night – though where in this crowded town is anyone’s guess. This I will offer you, that if shelter for the night within the walls cannot be found, then the camp of the Langholders must serve. The poor survivors of that place are camped outside the south gate, and they follow the House of Utdred still; the Lady Cillan, Utdred’s widow, leads them even now.”
“I shall spare you the trouble of searching, good warden,” Seregrían says, “and I shall prevail upon the Lady Cillan, for I bring her news as well. I thank you indeed for your welcome.” And she passes through the gate and through the paths of Harwick, her eyes taking in every sight to right and left.
Harwick, for all its being the chief town of the Wold, is a crowded and noisy place. Hovels of various sizes and states crowd around a small pond within the circle of the long palisade wall that protects the town. Smells and odors assault Seregrían’s nose and eyes, the stench of horse and human and the smokes from dozens of open fires. And everywhere around her are the stares and startled faces of folk who have never in their lives seen an Elf, but now one walks through their home. As fearful and hesitant the men and women are, the children look upon her with delighted awe, and soon a swarm of young girls and boys follows in her wake, chattering and talking, trying to catch her eye. Seregrían can’t help but be amused, and even looks over her shoulder with a sly grin as she moves through the south gate and toward the refugee camp.
The Langholders are clustered in a small encampment outside the Harwick walls, the tents patchwork, the fires few, the goods they have fewer still. Seregrían walks to where the Lady Cillan is camped with her son and daughter, Utmund and Hebruga. Cillan speaks with Seregrían while the children look on her with undisguised curiosity.
“I would never have thought in all my days that these things would come to pass,” Cillan says. “My home in ruin, my husband slain, my people in want – and yet in all this here is a wonder, that one of the Fair Folk should seek me out and I have words with her! You tell me that Stangard has been restored to wise rule and will prosper in time? That is good tidings, as far as they are. But I still stand in the place of the Thane of Langhold, for as long as my people need me, but what else can I do?”
“Surely there must be a way to improve the lot of your charges,” Seregrían muses out loud. “As I rode through the town, it seemed to me that several homes stand empty. Could not some of your folk find shelter therein? And what of provisions, cannot more be rendered by the folk of Harwick?”
“The enemies of Rohan are cunning, Elf-maid. They do not attack our Riders themselves, but rather the lands and crops and herds, driving us like cattle ourselves. Our stores are depleted by so many extra mouths. It is a grim device, to starve us out rather than throw themselves into battle. And with hunger comes despair, as you can plainly tell.”
“The same that I saw at Stangard. Well, the task that takes longest is the one that is never begun. So let us begin now. I shall cast around this town and see what the houses and their owners might reveal. After that, we shall solve the problems of stores for your folk. Help has arrived, Cillan, just not what you might expect!” And Seregrían arises and enters the town once more, and the same story repeats itself many times - she would approach the townsfolk, asking about the nature of a seemingly empty home; and the folk of Harwick, after their surprise of meeting an Elf for the first time, refuse any aid to the Langholders, some politely, some rudely.
After several encounters, Seregrían has had enough. Approaching a throng of people near a small market stand, she stands among the vendors, her upturned smile hiding an unspoken menace.
“Why, O people of Harwick, do you shut out your kinsmen in need?” she calls out in a strong voice. “Langhold is in ashes this day, but not as much as the ashes of your barren hearts, so it seems! The Elves would never turn aside those in want – not as it seems the sons of Men are often wont to do!”
“Then let the Elves provide for those in need, if they can spare from their magical largesse!” shouts a man from the path nearby.
“And so I shall,” Seregrían turns to face the man, her eyes now sparkling silver. “But first, show yourselves worthy of my aid – and worthy of the name, Eorlingas! A strong arm to shelter and save, a generous hand of bounty gave – or did I hear those words wrong?”
A great hush falls over the crowd. An old grandfather stands forth, looking long at Seregrían. “She knows, she quotes the Song of Eorl. Are our hearts as blighted as the lands outside? The magic of the Elves is in wisdom as well as strength – but what help can you give us, Elf-lass, that we have not already done?”
“Hearken to her, Hardingas! For I know her tale from Stangard!” All heads turn to see Caeorwulf, the errand-rider, just returned and leading his lathered mount. “Hail, Blodcwyn, savior of Stangard, mistress of lightning and bane of blackguards! I am bid to tell you that Aldor Harding has just now returned and has learned of your deeds on behalf of the men of Rohan. He desires greatly to meet you, if you will come.”
“And so I shall, good man Caeorwulf,” Seregrían replies. As she follows him toward the great mead hall at the top of the rise, she inwardly smiles amused at the broad and proud manner of speech the Rohirrim use, needing many words to say simple things.
She walks alongside Caeorwulf and can feel the eyes of everyone she passes on her, meeting a few for a second or two before they turn aside – but it seems that the older the eyes, the longer they hold her gaze. And now, on to Harding and what may befall…
