On the road between ALDBURG and EDORAS, ROHAN June T.A. 3011
After the morning meal Mearhe began to pack her belongings and stomped out the last embers of the fire. Just before dawn she had watched the sky slowly turn lighter. Dark blue at first, until the stars faded and a dim sun rose above the eastern horizon. A misty glow of paleness covered the land, creating a soft and magical landscape.
As soon as it was fully light, she was ready to ride again. Her horse well rested and fed from the moist, dewy grass about him. The plains were covered in mist, thinning in the rising sun. Horse and rider sped westward, as the wind blew in her ears. In the distance, caught between the rising sun and the mountains, filled with tall grass and budding flowers, was the Golden Hall of Meduseld, seat of the Kings of Rohan. Never ending fields surrounded Mark's heart. The land itself was beautiful and calm. In times of peace, crops grew in soil once watered with blood of orcs and men. Children of Rohan played in the meadows and along the borders, in the place where Léofwine drew his last breath, unaware of the great danger they faced.
Mearhe needed no reminder of what occurred in that place. In her mind, the East border remains forever stained with blood as they were the day Léofwine lay dying on the shores of Nen Hithoel. Time passed, and she continued on, through an endless sea of green and gold, tall grass waving in the winds, past great hills, crossing rivers. Rushing waters cut through the land, white foam crushing against the riverbank in rapid swirls.
By the middle of the afternoon Mearhe could see the golden roof of Meduseld, shining far over the land. The sun in the western sky would soon descend behind the mountains , heralding the slow arrival of evening. Still, night was some time away. Mearhe followed the road, weaving along with every bend and curve of the river-shore. From here she could see the high fence encircling the city and green banners fluttering in the wind.
The road led her forward, passing by the mounds of ancient kings and warriors of the Mark. Mearhe lowered her head in solemn greeting. There was a new stone now that marked the resting place of Léofwine among the greatest men of Rohan not far from Edoras. She reined in her horse and dismounted. The weathered rune carving on the stone reads:
Léofwine son of Léofdag
Mearhe's grief was still raw. It stirred inside her heart, summoning images at will: Léofwine's smile, his touch, the warmth of his embrace, his deep and gentle voice, his joy at the birth of a son, and then Léofwine carried into his tomb. The memories came rolling like clouds in a storm, one on another, until the tears and pain forced her on her knees. Holding to the past, not wanting to let go, while a patient horse stands quietly grazing nearby. Mearhe leaned forward against Léofwine's stone, weeping, head buried in her hands.
The day and the world were indifferent to her sadness. The air was crisp but not bitter, seasoned with a hint of the warmth to come. Simbelmynë grew ever-green on the burial mounts, blooming among the tall grasses. If only she could speak to him once more, take counsel, feel his presence. A fresh wind blew among the ancient burials, carrying ancient songs, and a distant voice.
Do not weep, woman, I am here, you must not think otherwise. The Valar honor me. Rest easy Mearhe, be happy if you can, for there is nothing certain except that I will be here, waiting for you.
"Léofwine, son of Léofdag, you were a worthy man. Friend, lover, father of my son and I claim my right to sit next to you one day in the Halls of our Ancestors." She whispered in return.
All her love, all her longing, all her pride in the man she knew. In the wind his voice echoed back to her. The stars began to appear in the evening sky above Edoras. Mearhe passed under the great gate. Edoras' sounds welcomed her - voices, songs and laughter from the tavern. The constant beat of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil, and the creaking and clanking of carts. A child wailing, and dogs barking.
Something ahead caught her gaze.
By the stables an elderly man clad in green. Behind him guards stood at a distance. Tall spears shimmered in the light of thorches - with green and golden tabards pulled over chainmail, and helmets crowned with horse-tails on their heads. The man raised a hand in greeting. A soft breeze clutched Mearhe's cloak, blowing loose strands of hair into her face. Mearhe bowed her head and smiled as Léofwine's golden circlet shimmered on her brow.
Art by me
