To the King

Chapter Eleven

Bergfinn

“Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story.

For thirty-nine years the people of Rohan, noble Horse-lords of the plains, had not seen the likes of such pomp and splendor as was prepared for this day, for it had been that many years since last a proud King of Rohan had been laid to rest. Fresh still was the mound which held the beloved remains of Théodred, son of Théoden, and now a mirror hillock was hollowed and prepared to receive the body of Théoden, son of Thengel. Thus ended the second line of kings and began the third with the reign of Éomer, son of Éomund.

Bergfinn was one who remembered the death and burial of Thengel, son of Fengel. He had been the smithy at Edoras for over forty five years. Born the same year as Théoden, he had apprenticed to his father, taking over the family business in III 2974, when he was just 26 years old. With a young wife, and now his mother and four younger sisters to support, Bergfinn was kept too busy to spend much time mourning his father.

As a child, Bergfinn had played with Théoden, and the two had become fast friends. As young men, however, they were separated by station and responsibility…Bergfinn to the smithy, and Théoden - as heir to the throne - to an éored. Eight short years after the death of Bergfinn’s own father, Thengel had been felled in battle, cut down by Orcs intent upon stealing a merth stallion kept for breeding horses for the line of Kings, and Théoden had become the Lord of the Mark.

After returning to Edoras with his young son, for his wife Elfhild had died in childbirth, Théoden had renewed his easy friendship with Bergfinn. Oh, not that Bergfinn would receive invitations to dine at the Meduseld, for that would not have been proper, but Théoden had often found reason to make his way down to the old barn where Bergfinn worked. One errand or the other would draw the king down the hill to sit in companionable silence and watch the man work while Théodred played with Bergfinn’s own son, Féalgar. Théoden was a lonely man, but still too grief and guilt stricken over the loss of his beloved wife to even consider marriage again, even to gain the proverbial “spare” to the throne (Théodred being the heir). Théoden was content knowing that his sister Théodwyn had a son and, should the unthinkable happen, the line of Eorl could continue on the throne through Éomer.

Now seventy and one, and ready to hand over his smithy to his son Féalgar, Bergfinn looked upon this day as his last of “active duty” for Théoden King, for he had lovingly crafted not only the caisson and bier which had born his friend and Lord’s body home, but he had worked long hours with the armorer to create the armor in which his King would be laid to rest. Bergfinn sighed as he stood in the doorway of his barn and watched the sun rise over the mountains, entranced as the scarlet fingers warmed the peaks and painted the valley with the inviting hues of a golden morning. He truly loved this place with the smell of leather and hay, of horses and the fire of the forge. It was hard work, but it was rewarding work. Bergfinn sighed, and with one last glance at the dawn, returned to anvil.

Somehow he was not surprised, this morning of all mornings, to see Éomer come walking through his door as he had done so often as a boy. After being brought to Edoras with Éowyn, Éomer had spent many happy hours here learning all there was to learn. His childhood cut short by the deaths of his parents, Éomer had no interest in playing with the other children. His only interest was in learning all that it would take to be a horse lord so that he could kill orcs.

Bergfinn smiled as he remembered the earnest lad working so diligently on the sword he made for Éowyn’s eighth birth day and how his serious young face had been creased by a frown of concentration as he struggled to make it just right. The man always treasured the times that he could bring a smile to that young face, for it was not an easy thing to do. It grieved him that the boy could not run and play in carefree joy like he and Théoden had been able to do, but such were the times in which they lived. He prayed to Béma that Éomer’s children, and his own grandchildren would live in such times. Picking up his heaviest mallet, he began to hammer at the metal piece on which he’d been working, leaning over the anvil as he labored.

“Well come, my King. I pray this day finds you well.”

“Well met and thank you, Bergfinn, though I had hoped I would just be Éomer here, of all places.” Éomer stepped over to the rack of tools, fingering the familiar array. “Vise, rounding hammers, hot fitting tongs, rasp, hoof knives – left and right sided, nail nippers…everything is laid out just as I remember it,” mused the king. He turned back to face his old mentor, leaning casually against the shelving and crossing his ankles as he watched the older man work. To his eyes, and with the exception of a shock of white hair, Bergfinn still looked as he had for all the years Éomer had known him, even down to the sleeves rolled back revealing massively muscular arms and the worn leather apron that protected the man from the fires of the forge and the sparks and gledes flying from the hammered metal.

Bergfinn laughed at the scrutiny as he worked over the metal piece, carefully eyeballing the shape. Laying down the hammer, he stepped away from the anvil and crossed over to the king. Placing a large, meaty hand on the man’s shoulder, he turned serious and met the eyes of the one who now led his people. Bergfinn always had a way of looking into a man’s eye that seemed to pierce right to the soul. Éomer welcomed the inspection unflinchingly, as only the clear of conscience can do. A slow smile graced the weathered face of the blacksmith and he nodded his head approvingly, to which Éomer raised both eyebrows in question.

“Just making sure you were still the man I thought you to be, that’s all,” explained the smithy. “War can change a man, Éomer. I’ve seen it too many times. Sometimes it makes cowards out of the brave and sometimes it warps the kindest soul into the sort of man that takes pleasure in inflicting pain.” He paused, apparently thinking back on the different men he’d known in his lifetime and then shook off the memory, chasing away the gloomy seedling thoughts before they could take root and ruin what looked to be a beautiful day like weeds choking the life from the tender blooms of a spring garden. “I am glad to see that you are not so scarred as to have lost the gentle heart I have known these long years.”

Éomer snorted, “More than a few enemies of mine would argue the gentleness of my heart.”

“Of that I have no doubt, my young friend, but it is not battle of which I speak. I know of your brave deeds, your valor. Those are strengths you wield for the protection of your family, your warriors and your country.” The old man placed his hand over the king’s heart. “Here,” he said softly patting Éomer’s chest to emphasize the word, “here is where your true strength lies, in the loyalty, the love, and the honor of your being. Do not ever lose that, Éomer, and you will be a great king.”

Éomer was momentarily rendered speechless by the sincerity of Bergfinn’s declaration, causing the old man to chuckle fondly, stepping back to his anvil to further inspect the glowing metal before casting it into a bucket of water. Steam sizzled up as the metal cooled.

“You never were much of a talker, so don’t fret about starting now. I’m still just old Bergfinn.”

“You will never be “just old Bergfinn” to me,” objected Éomer. “I spent many happy hours here in this barn watching you work and learning from you.” He paused looking around the familiar room. “I always felt at peace here.”

“Peace?” teased Bergfinn, smiling when he caught the king’s eye. “You worked as hard as any apprentice I’ve ever had, and frankly you were as talented as any. Many’s the eve I’ve watched you trudge home bone weary. I half expected to find Théoden on my doorstep the next morning berating me for child abuse.”

Éomer savored the memory. He had loved working here until ready to drop, for it was easy to stay his grief while laboring with the blacksmith. Too young to ride with the éoreds, here he could exercise muscles while forcing his mind to concentrate on all the new skills he was being taught. Had he not been born of the royal line, Éomer could easily have spent his life doing this very thing.

As though reading his thoughts, Bergfinn walked over and clasped his king around the shoulder. “Come, let us have some tea and enjoy the sunrise as we used to do. Féalgar and Hammok will be here soon and I would like to share this time with you before they arrive.”

“Hammok?” inquired Éomer. “I am not familiar with him. Is he another apprentice?”

Bergfinn busied himself making the tea while Éomer settled on a nearby bale of hay. One of the luxuries of a forge, besides the added warmth during the bitter winters, was the ease and availability of hot water for tea. “Alas I have trained my last apprentice. Féalgar has taken over most all my responsibilities as blacksmith now. Hammok has become the farrier. He is quite good with the horses and with more and more éoreds in Edoras the past few years we’ve had great need for a full time man to work with them.”

Éomer frowned slightly at the news. “It shall seem strange to me not to have a man of your household giving attention to the shoes of my Firefoot. I’m not so sure he or I shall be comfortable with another tending him.”

Bergfinn laughed out loud, pleased and proud to so have his king’s confidence. “Then rest easy, my friend, for Hammok is my sister son, so the blood of my house runs in his veins. Beyond that, he is exceptionally good at what he does. Almost as good a farrier as you would have made.”

Éomer accepted the steaming metal mug from Bergfinn, wrapping his large hands around the cup to welcome the warmth. Coldness hung in the air, a portent of the coming winter and Éomer frowned as he contemplated what that would mean for his country. There was still much to be done if he were to avoid starvation for his people and the herds they depended upon for so much. Once the spring came they could begin mating the mares for next year and tilling the lands. By summer there would be foals from last year’s yield, ranks to be broken and sold, and crops to harvest. But first came the winter.

Bergfinn shivered as he sat down beside Éomer. “Burrrr, I thought the autumn mildness would last longer this year. The chill seems to have crept upon us unawares.” He sat his mug aside and reached up to brush away a cob’s web just over the king’s head.

Éomer glanced up and unconsciously shivered, causing Bergfinn to guffaw and slap his knee. “You can ride the most powerful stallion in the herd at full gallop using no hands and yet you still shiver at the thought of simple cob.”

The king smiled sheepishly at the old man. “I never could abide those creatures. They’re just creepy.”

“Rest easy, mighty king,” grinned Bergfinn, “your secret is safe with me!”

Éomer frowned as he looked back out at the rapid brightening of the sky. “It is an ill wind that blows this day, for I would far rather feel the sweet caress of the summer’s breeze to this harbinger of winter. Many will begin to journey home after the funeral. Is it not enough that their hearts are laden with grief? Must they endure more hardship?”

“Are you asking me or Béma?”

“Neither, I suppose” grumbled Éomer gloomily as he swirled the tea around the mug, idly watching the leaves as they resettled to the bottom.

“Lay the dust of these worries for now then,” counseled Bergfinn. “Your uncle’s funeral is today and that is enough burden for you to carry without the added weight of all Rohan.”

“You and he were the only two people in the world to which I could always talk,” confessed Éomer. “His loss is grievous.”

“Do you remember when you worked here making the sword for Éowyn’s birth day celebration?

“Yes, of course. I was thinking of it earlier in fact.”

“You worked many long hours on that sword.” Bergfinn paused as he pulled an worn pipe from a pocket affixed to the inside of his leather apron. He walked over to the forge and used a smaller set of tongs to retrieve a cinder with which he lit the weed. The man made several quick puffs as he walked back over to sit down beside his ever impatient pupil. He could not help but smile as he thought back on all the times he’d forced Éomer to sit patiently as he waited for Bergfinn to continue a story. The boy never realized that patience was part of the lesson the lore master wished to impart. Settling himself comfortably he continued. “Now where was I? Oh, yes, the sword… It took many days and many steps to forge that sword. You worked longer and harder on that one piece than I ever remember you working on anything else. Why was that?”

Falling easily into the old pattern, Éomer took his time to consider the question before answering. “The sword was to be a very special present. Not only did it need to be beautiful so that it would please Éowyn, but it needed to be sound and well built to withstand the many hours of practice. It was also required to be small enough to fit her young hand and light enough of weight so that her arm might lift it.”

“Took a bit of figuring on your part too, did it not?” prodded the man.

“Yes,” recalled Éomer, “it did.” The king leaned forward placing his elbows on top of his knees and cradling his chin on his grasped fists, something he often did when deep in thought. “I ruined three before I got the heft and strength just right.”

“I remember. You spent one whole week on the first one. Why didn’t you quit once you had failed?”

Éomer sat up and gave Bergfinn an incredulous look. “It was too important. I could not stop until I had Éowyn’s gift. Besides, I learned much from that first sword. I discovered how thin I could hammer the metal and determined just how hot it could be made before it became too malleable.”

Bergfinn keep puffing his pipe for a moment and then smiled at his pupil. “Éomer, it is no different now. We learn by doing. You will make some mistakes, but so long as you keep learning and keep trying, that is all any of us would ask of you.”

Éomer’s eyes widened as he realized what his old friend had accomplished. “You remind me of Uncle. The two of you always taught me by asking questions.”

Bergfinn laughed and puffed at the same time, causing himself to be thrown into a coughing fit.

Éomer slapped the old man on the back as Bergfinn got his breath back and wiped the tears from his face, and the two of them settled down in quiet contemplation of the morning light. Bergfinn wisely kept to himself that the cob was busily spinning herself a new web just above the king’s head. If need be, he’d make sure Éomer didn’t get into it when he rose. After all, the little cob was just doing what nature ordained her to do.

After a bit, Bergfinn yawned and stretched. “It was my father that taught us both to do that, for that is how he schooled us.”

“You both learned the lesson well; I can avow that,” chuckled Éomer. “I can only hope that I’ll be half as wise as the two of you when my own time comes.”

“You will, my king. You are already far wiser than you know.”

With dawn past and morning in full bloom the city was beginning to come to life. Chickens clucked as morning grains were scattered before them by housewives across the city. Cows were milked and horses were savoring their morning hay. From the top of the hill smoke could be seen pouring from the chimney of the Meduseld kitchens, reminding Éomer of his duties. Soon people would begin pouring into the city to find themselves places to observe the funeral, whether it be along the procession route or on the hillside near the burial mounds of the kings.

“Aye, well, the day is here and I must make ready.” Éomer stood up, deftly avoiding the cob’s new web, which he’d caught sight of earlier, and turned an amused glance down to his teacher. “A warrior is trained to take note of his surroundings.”

Bergfinn just chuckled and nodded his head sagely. “That he is, my king; that he is.”

TBC