EDORAS, ROHAN - June T.A. 3011
She was what they would never be. Closing her eyes to a breeze that caressed her face like a warm hand, Mearhe could breathe is the fragrance of damp meadows and wildflowers and the scent of horses. Her heart still beats! Wife to a dead husband, a mother to a dead son. Not a woman anymore, not a man either. A storm raged inside her, as dark clouds began to roll in from the mountains, and the roar of thunder echoed over Edoras.
As the first rain began to fall, tapping furiously on the roof, Mearhe stood in front of an open window, holding a sharp sword in her hand, letting the rain in. The storm had come on the wings of a cold wind that made her shiver. The female wolf laying in her den, is never as hungry as the wolf that is trying to survive. A hungry wolf is bound to wage a harder battle. And words on the wind came to her and Mearhe remembered who she was.
'Remember your ancestors from the North, surrounded by wild horses and howling wolves. Better fight and fall, than live without honor. Be strong, and be ruthless. This path will be hard, but ride you must. You will travel far and endure many trials that will lead you to the greatest end of your journey. Be strong, and keep going...and do not look back! Your destiny is in your hands.'
The enemy had trod too long and too boldly upon the land- her land! It had taken away her man, her son, and her light. Mearhe was numb. Immune now to pain and suffering, and driven by a raging fire. She knew this was probably going to be her last ride, but there was no fear, or hesitation. Death would finally free her - she would join Léofwine and Léofara in the Halls of Béma.
She would hunt the enemy down like fleeing rats, and slay them as she found them. She knew their chieftain would await for her, and she would come and fight, and most likely die, but not before her sword is black with the blood of Undug The Cruel. Ah, let the bards of Rohan sing one day of the fallen daughter of the Riddermark, whose name means 'Noble Horse', for thus the people of the Mark must remember her. A proud song of sorrow and love, and let them remember who she was.
The man that had carried the news to Edoras was still there. He had refused food and shelter offered to him. Outside the long braying of war-horns rang their summons from roof and street, as Théoden King ordered his best Riders to ready themselves. They would accompany Mearhe back to the Eastfold and begin the search for the enemy. And the horns blew, crying down the long wind from the mountains, and echoing from house to meadow. And from the garrison rumbled the passage of many hooves, as horses were brought to saddle.
"Ride to Aldburg," Théoden King said strongly to the Riders. "And have no mercy on our enemy. Avenge our people and free our land!" All those present saw fury gathering in the King's eyes and heard it in his voice. "I want the head of the orc chieftain! For Rohan, ride now...ride Eorlingas!" His last words lingered like the echo of a mighty war drum. Clear was his gaze and steady his hand. He stood before his men, the great lord of the House of Eorl, when Mearhe appeared by him and kneeled in front of her King.
The messenger looked at her and was moved by her courage. She was finally free in her wildness. Her long hair was gone. Her softness was hidden from the eyes of men. Not a wife, not a mother, not a woman. The golden cage was beginning to open. She was in pain, but there was no weakness. Not afraid to be herself anymore. Expected to be a 'lamb', choosing instead to show her fangs, and became a wolf ready for the hunt.
She would ride out of the capital at great speed, together with her father, and the messenger. When she finally returned home, all that was left were reeking ashes and ruin. Men, women and children had been killed and laid under the good earth of Rohan, soiled now by the evil presence of the host of Mordor. Orcs corpses had been piled up and set on fire on a field outside the village's walls, but the stench of death lingered still, like a foul mist in the air.
We are all born to follow a star, be it bright and shining or dark and fated. Sometimes the paths of these stars will cross, bringing much love or unbearable sorrows. Mearhe looked at the sky on this clear night filled with beauty, and out of the countless stars one seemed to shine more brightly, like a blaze, burning a path of light across the deep blue, a comet. She took that as a sign from the Gods.
Art by me
