The First Sorrow
TA 3001
Éomer is 10, Éowyn is 6, Théodred is 23.
“The Riders of the Mark return!”
The herald’s call echoed across the hill. Éowyn sprang up from where she sat weaving in her family’s house, and Éomer scrambled down the ladder from the loft. Together they ran to the door, only to find the way blocked by Théodwyn.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
“Fæder’s back, Modor!” Éomer cried. Éowyn was trembling with excitement.
“Yes, I know, Eafora. I also know that you are not going out like that.” Laying a hand on each shoulder, Théodwyn steered her children back inside. “But Modor…” Éomer protested.
“But what?” his mother inquired. “Your father and his éored are still at least a league away, and what a sight you are! Éomer grumbled a bit at this but fell silent at a look from his mother. Théodwyn brushed threads from Éowyn’s weaving off her daughter’s skirt and combed the little girl’s hair back; Éomer’s hair was summarily dealt with, and his tunic was straightened. After what seemed an eternity to the impatient children, their mother stood back up and offered a hand to each of them.
“Come along, now--" she began, but Éowyn and Éomer, suddenly released, dashed past her and out the door, racing each other up the road towards Meduseld. Théodwyn ducked out of the doorway after them, and groaned to see Éomer run through the stream that sparkled alongside the path, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. The two children careened up the steps to the Hall’s terrace and skittered to a halt at the top to look out over the encircling plains. Théodwyn joined them a few moments later, having approached at a more dignified pace.
Other members of the King’s household also spilled out of the Hall, for the approaching éored had been gone for many weeks. Théoden King himself came, and set a giggling Éowyn on his shoulders so that the little girl could see better. Éowyn clung tightly to the yoke of her uncle’s surcoat: she knew that Théoden would never let her fall, but she was awfully high off of the ground.
At this new height, Éowyn could see the approaching riders easily, for though they were now half a league distant the plains of Rohan were flat and the terrace of Meduseld high. But as she watched the Riders approach, the merry chatter died around her. Even to her young eyes, something seemed wrong. People looked anxiously at the Riders, who rode silently with banners half-furled.
When the éored was a half-mile from Edoras, a single Rider broke away from the group and cantered swiftly ahead of the column. Squinting, Eowyn saw that he held a furled banner in one hand-- Éomund’s banner.
Within moments the Rider reached Edoras, riding like fire through the gates and clattering up the road. Théoden set Éowyn back down and moved to the head of the stairs, ignoring or unhearing of Eowyn’s bewildered cry, “Uncle?”
The banner-bearer reached the foot of the stairs and stopped, stumbling in his haste as he swung off his horse. Regaining his feet he stood upright, banner-staff clutched in one hand, eyes raking the crowd now gathered there. He seemed to find what he sought, and, his eyes fixed on some point, sprang up the steps. He stopped in front of Théodwyn.
For all his haste the man now seemed unable to move. Théodwyn stood erect, but her eyes were wide and fearful. Éowyn’s own heart flip-flopped. Something was dreadfully wrong. But what?
Mutely, the Rider held out the banner, and Théodwyn took it automatically and unthinkingly, her eyes still locked with the Rider’s.
“My Lady…” he began. He swallowed and began again, his voice stronger. “My Lady, the Lord Éomund…he has fallen.”
There was a collective gasp from all those assembled; Éowyn’s breath hitched in her throat. But Théodwyn stood unmoving as a figure of stone, her hands clutching the banner-staff a deathly white, her eyes unseeing. The Rider bowed his head.
‘I am sorry, my Lady. He fought bravely, but we were overcome. He died valiantly. I am sorry.” Thèodwyn nodded mutely, as one in a dream. Théoden nodded to the Rider, dismissing him, and moved to comfort his sister. The Rider bowed and turned away down the steps.
Éowyn’s hitching breath became sobs, and she clung to the person standing nearest her-- her cousin Théodred. He picked her up gently and held her as she sobbed into his shoulder, weaving his way carefully through the press of people and into the Golden Hall. There he found his father’s oldest sister, Thengelwyn, hurrying towards the commotion on the terrace. She stopped short at the sight of Théodred and the weeping Eowyn.
“What is it?” she asked fearfully.
Théodred replied softly, not wanting to further upset the little girl. “Éomund is dead”.
Thengelwyn sighed heavily. "I feared as much, when I heard the noise. Here, let me take the poor child. You should be with your father and Théodwyn now.” Théodred tried to hand his small cousin over to their aunt, but she squirmed in his arms. “I want to get down!” she pleaded.
When Théodred had set her gently on her feet and turned to leave, Éowyn tugged at his sleeve. “Fæder’s gone, isn’t he?” Théodred sighed and knelt so that he could look the little girl in the eye.
“Yes, Éowyn,” he said as gently as he could, “he’s gone to his long home.”
“Is that far away?”
“Yes, very far.” Why did Éowyn have to ask him these questions?
“Is he going to come back?”
“No, Éowyn, he will not.”
“I’m going to go there someday, too. I want to see Fæder again!”
“Oh, Éowyn” Théodred took the little girl into his arms. “Don’t go there yet, child. Don’t go there yet.”