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Date Posted: 22:52:25 03/10/03 Mon
Author: ~delle
Subject: Re: Song of �owyn: The Advent of the King (corrected repost)
In reply to: ~delle 's message, "Song of �owyn: The Advent of the King" on 22:02:20 03/05/03 Wed

Song of �owyn: The Advent of the King

Riding her horse might be forbidden her, but that didn�t require her to stay closed up in the Hall from sunrise to sunset. Even in the dead of winter, it was always warm in the stables; surrounded by the massive horses of the Mark, �owyn found both safety and comfort.

�owyn spent hours every day in the stables, brushing and caring for Windfola. The love between the Rohirrim and their mounts was celebrated in songs spanning back the centuries. �owyn had been barely out of leading strings before she was given her first pony; at twelve she gone out to the fields with her uncle-King and her brother to find her first horse. It was tradition within the Mark that the horse chose the rider as much as the rider the horse.

It was a memory she treasured her entire life. Walking among the herd of horses, surrounded by their large warm bodies, to touch and stroke and talk to the beautiful creatures was one of the most momentous experiences of her life. She had lost all sense of time as she wandered in the midst of them, chestnut and bay, the occasional black or gray. Some would not let her draw near, others followed her around, nuzzling her hair and shoulders.

�You stood apart, did you not, Windfola?� she whispered as she brushed him. �You waited for me to come to you.� The horse snorted and tossed his head; understanding him, she moved to his head and stroked his white nose. He lowered his head until they were eye to eye. �So you looked at me, those years ago.�

He had held her gaze for a long time, till her eyes burned with the desire to blink. Yet she had stared back, waiting for his response. Finally he had nickered, broke their locked stares and butted her with his massive head, knocking her straight to the ground.

So he did again now, dropping his head still lower and nudging her powerfully beneath her arm. Older, wiser, and stronger now, she didn�t fall, but still had to take a step back from the push.

The rumble of horses� hooves, ridden with great speed through the streets of Edoras - even to the entrance of Meduseld itself - reached her ears. Gathering her heavy wool skirts, she ran out, internally cursing herself for not wearing her sword. If this was an attack on her uncle-King, she was helpless to help protect him. Fool! Fool!

As she approached the hall, she could see men dismounting from their horses. It was a troop of Rohirrim, not an invading force of Orcs. Several of the men had removed their intricate helmets and were staring up at the Golden Hall itself. Although she was still too far away to see them clearly, something in the turn of their bodies told her to continue up to Meduseld. Dashing up the stairs into the hall, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the small group of men entering one of the side chambers. Her stomach clenched; someone had been badly hurt, then. Which friend might I lose tonight?

She pushed her way through the throng of large armored male bodies until she reached the bedside. Her breath caught as she saw the pale face on the cot.

�Th�odred!�

Her cousin slowly turned his head to her; his lips parted but no words were forthcoming. �omer was on his other side, gently removing Th�odred�s helm. Blood caked one side of Th�odred�s face, streaking his blond hair black and glinting wetly in the flickering torch light.

�owyn turned to the man nearest her. �Go to the hall. Tell the women to fetch my healing bag. Hurry!�

As she turned back, she met �omer�s grave stare. Her breath caught in her throat at the grief in his blue eyes. He glanced down and nodded at Th�odred�s body, carefully hidden by a blanket.

She extended a hand to the coverlet, then paused and looked up again at �omer. His face twisted in grief and she could barely restrain the answering sob that caught in her chest. It was physically painful to turn back the blanket. She knew what she would find: Th�odred had taken a spear to the belly, up and under his left ribcage. This was a wound beyond her ability to heal.

Gently, she covered her cousin again, then closed her eyes and bit back the cry welling within her. He needed her care, not her grief.

�L�od, get the Lord �omer a chair. Sit you, brother, and stay with our lord cousin. Wold�, get you to the kitchen and ask Mistress Cook for as much hot water as she can spare. The rest of you...� she paused and took a deep breath, looking at the men. They had ridden hard after a grueling battle; she saw that several of them were nursing small wounds and they all looked ready to fall. Only their duty to Lord Th�odred had compelled them to continue standing. �The rest of you may go to the hall. I will have food and drink sent to you as soon as I can command it. Are there any injuries that cannot wait until after I see to the Lord?�

�No, Lady.�

�You are all dismissed. Thank you for your good care of my lord cousin.� As they quietly left the sickroom, �owyn pressed a trembling hand to her lips.

A maid quietly entered the room and presented �owyn with her healing bag. Behind her, Mistress Cook and her assistants were carrying pots of heated water and placing them by the bed. Rummaging in her supplies, �owyn found her willow-bark and began to brew a tea to ease her cousin�s pain. Valarian and yarrow were set in one pot to steep, comfrey root in another while she soaked cloths in a third pan to bathe Th�odred�s head injury. Her cousin�s eyes were vague and unfocused; he had not yet spoken.

When the wound was cleansed to her satisfaction, she carefully lifted his head and wrapped a long cloth bandage about his temples. More clothes were lowered into the purifying steep of valarian and yarrow as she prepared to cleanse the abdominal wound. She closed her eyes and took several small breaths to prepare herself for this; then folded back the blanket and began to carefully cleanse the gaping wound. As she feared, Th�odred moaned softly in pain to her ministrations. She folded dry cloths into a pad and carefully pressed them into place. The comfrey roots would have to stew longer before a poultice could be made.

She knelt next to the bed and stroked Th�odred�s forehead gently. He was more than a cousin; he was a much-loved older brother to her and �omer. Th�odred moaned again, more a sigh than a cry. A tear trickled down her cheek and she impatiently wiped it aside. There would be time to mourn later.

��omer,� she said softly. Her brother startled awake from his seat where he had been dozing. �Please pour some willow-bark tea in the goblet for our cousin?� She watched �omer closely as he crossed the room; it would be typical of her brother to ignore his own injuries in consideration to his cousin�s needs. �omer moved with the grace of an active man, with no stiffness or favoring one side over another. At least he had taken no physical hurt.

�I thank you,� she said as he handed her the cup. �Let me ease our cousin into a rest and then you will tell me what happened?�

�I will tell,� he said, �and then I must tell Th�oden King.�

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