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The Saga of Erik of Rohan, Chapter Three

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vison
Post subject: The Saga of Erik of Rohan, Chapter Three
Posted: Sun 20 Mar , 2005 5:26 pm
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Erik of Rohan, Chapter Three:

Here was another ride that Erik long remembered. Soaked and shivering, behind the Eored he rode; no cloak had he, but an old horse blanket tied anyhow about him, one corner serving as a hood. First the right hand on the reins, then the left. He saw that both hands were blue with cold, and after a time he simply tied the reins together and let them rest unheld on Ruadh’s neck. The roan horse walked on, keeping to the quick pace of a troop horse, never gaining on his fellows, never falling farther behind.

Midday came and went, unbrightened with sun, still gloomy with low cloud and icy rain. Erik wondered how long he could keep his seat; he was now so cold he knew that only the careful stepping of Ruadh kept him astride. Could the horse sense his misery? Almost Erik began to believe he did. Yet he thought too that the tall beast must also be weary, and longing for warmth and rest. He spoke to the horse, naming him. Ruadh’s ears flicked, and he lifted his head a little.

The road was straight here, leading to Edoras, the country open and untreed. There were mountains ahead, Erik knew, but they were hidden this day, looming unseen both South and East. Yet the road did rise and fall somewhat and so it was that Erik came over a low hill and found that two horsemen waited, and he saw that they waited for him. Ruadh quickened his pace and then Erik saw Rolf and Olaf, their faces pale and grim beneath their hooded helms.

“Fool of a boy,” Rolf growled. “Were it up to me, I would bid you return to that miserable place.”

Erik looked pleadingly at them, and said at last, “I won’t go back. You can’t stop me from following.”

Olaf laughed harshly. “No, we cannot. But we could leave you to drown or freeze, whichever comes first on this fine day.”

Naught else was said at that time. They turned their horses and rode on, Erik in the rear. Some time later they came upon a signpost, and it had two arms, one pointing to the Southeast, and one due South. Erik could not read what the signpost said, and he did not ask. They did not turn aside, but carried on to the Southeast and when it was growing very dark they came upon a cluster of buildings and saw lamplit windows. Erik followed the two men into a stable and with stiff, cold hands he tended to Ruadh. Someone gave him a bit of corn in a basin and he managed to get some water into a bucket for the horse. He took up a handful of straw and began to rub the horse down, and the work warmed him and by the time Ruadh was done his corn his coat was dry and smooth and Erik was thinking he wasn’t frozen after all.

Rolf and Olaf had been engaged on the same labour, watching Erik as they curried and brushed their mounts. The boy seemed to have the making of a horseman, no great wonder in a youth of Rohan. It was not anger at Erik that made them speak harshly to him, it was the heartsickness of loss, and cold and weariness. Grima Sigurdson, in command after Theodred’s fall, had allowed them to wait for the boy, but he had not said what he intended to do with him. Horses fed and watered and settled clean and dry, they looked to their gear. Erik helped as he might, taking a rag to wet leather and undoing lacings that might dry stiff and tangled. The troopers set their tack aside in an orderly fashion, saddle blankets shaken and spread out on straw, reins pulled smooth.

Going into a barracks, they then looked to themselves and their armour, damp metal was dried and rubbed with oil; leather jerkins and leggings scoured with rags and straw until supple. They were stripped to their shirts and drawers, and now they washed their hands and faces in cold water, and combed out and rebraided their long hair. Erik saw that Olaf’s hair was as much silver as gold, and he saw that Rolf had little hair at all on the top of his head, yet both were hale and strong men in the thirties, no more.

“Too many years under a helm,” Rolf laughed, rubbing his bald pate. “Mayhap I ought to tie it over the top, that the maidens might think me as hairy as old Olaf here.”

Olaf snorted and thumped Rolf’s shoulder. “The maidens! And you with a wife and four daughters at home.” The wound in Olaf’s arm was bleeding sluggishly, blood staining the bandage, but he made nothing of it.

A shadow flickered in Rolf’s eyes at this reminder of loved ones at home, but he laughed again. “And you with four wives and no daughters at all, you old scoundrel.”

They unrolled woolen shirts and trousers from their packs and pulled them on. But in the loose clothing they still bore themselves as soldiers, none could mistake their calling no matter what they wore.

Other men were in the room, and now stepped forward a younger trooper. He looked Erik up and down and said, “We must find this wretch something fit to wear. We cannot take him about with us in those rags.” But his voice was kind, and he grinned at Erik in a comradely fashion.

“Doubtless there will be somewhat in store here,” Olaf said. “The quartermaster will know.”

“By thunder,” another man said. “I am hungry enough to eat the south end of a north bound cow. Let us go to our meat. Come, lad, we can spare a plateful for you.”

Erik was as hungry as that man, but he held back, waiting until they were all at table. The long bare trestles held pitchers of ale, and trays of bread. Lamps hung on wall brackets provided a golden light. The food was plain, but to Erik it was a feast. He was used to being fed as if he were a dog, some slop tossed grudgingly to him. The clean orderly room, and the low rumble of the men’s voices made him content. Warm, and with a belly fuller than common, he leaned on his elbows and listened.

They spoke of Theodred, and the strange mischance that felled him. They did not weep, such was not their way. They talked of his bravery, and the power of his arms, his skill with weaponry. They were sober, wondering how the old King would take the tidings

Erik understood that a swift rider had gone on, and that the news of Theodred’s death would reach the King long before the Eored. “But it is our duty,” Grima Sigurdson said, “to tell the old man how his son fell.” He sighed. “A duty I have done too often. Even this time I have three new widows to visit. There will be a scarcity of black gowns to buy, methinks, before the next year or so is out.”

They fell to talking of the War they knew was coming. The affair at the Fords, they held, was a feint only, a finger of a mighty hand testing the waters of Rohan’s chivalry. Erik heard the name Saruman, heard the contempt in the voice that named him traitor and false friend.

“Took you notice,” Olaf said, leaning back and scowling, “that the enemy rode our own horses? Have we not heard how they steal only the black ones?”

“’Tis true,” another man said. “In my home village there are no black horses left, neither mare nor foal.” He struck the table hard with his fist and the mugs jumped and one spilled.

“There is no need to waste good beer, just because we are going to War,” Rolf said. “We must remember what is important.”

Erik listened as they jested. He was very tired, and yet he wished to sit as long as they did. Harald Haraldson spoke. “Tomorrow we will doubtless meet the new garrison riding West. Methinks none too soon.”

“And who will go in command, now that Theodred has fallen? The whole of the West Emnet was in his charge,” Harald said.

“It must surely fall to Eomer Eomundson,” Grima said. “A valiant man, so I have heard, although I have never been under his command.”

“A valiant man indeed, but his hands are full already, with the charge of the East Emnet. And the King….” Rolf stopped. “Well, the King is not like to come out of his Hall and ride to war.”

Harald Haraldson nodded. “True. Well, as Theoden’s sister’s son, Eomer is now heir to the Mark, maybe he will be kept in Meduseld, not sent afield. Should he fall, Rohan would be in a sorry state.”

“No other is there but Eomer?” Erik asked. “Did the Prince have no brothers?”

“No, lad, he did not. Nor does Eomer, there is only his sister the Lady Eowyn,” Olaf said. “I have seen her, a beautiful maiden, very like to her brother and cousin. Ever were they close, Theodred and those two. She will weep sorely to hear of his death.”

“He had gloves,” Erik said, his voice a little thick, “that she made for him. He told me.”

“Aye, lad. It is a sad business, all told. Who would have thought it? That he would fall, in a little affair like that?” Olaf said.

Rolf shrugged. “No man knows the hour of his death. Nor the manner. Come, set that pitcher moving, you fellows. I am still dry.”

In his heart Erik was a little sore, that these troopers jested over their beer while the Prince lay dead in a pile of dirt far from his home and kin. What it was he thought they ought to do, he did not know. He looked at the weathered faces along the table. Many bore scars. One man had only two fingers on his right hand, another he had seen walked with a dreadful limp. These were hard men who lived hard lives; even in grief they were hard and dry like tree roots or stones.

Then came in a man who put a bundle before Erik. He unwrapped it and there was a pair of woolen trousers and a woolen shirt, and a cloak. Nothing was new, but all was clean and well tended. He stammered his thanks.

Some of the men left the table and went into the long room lined with bunks. Erik was shown to one near the door and he put on his new clothes and lay down, pulling his new cloak over himself as an extra blanket. He was so weary his hands trembled, but he did not sleep for a time. He heard voices, but not words, laughter, benches scraping along the floor.

Then someone began a song, and other men joined in. Erik’s tears flowed in the dark, hearing the slow, sonorous lament that the troopers sang, an old song from days of Eorl the Young. Erik saw, in his mind’s eye, the tall Prince on his horse, like a hero of olden days. Like the warrior in the song, Theodred would ride no more.

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Eltirwen
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Posted: Sun 20 Mar , 2005 7:12 pm
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Oh, wow, you wrote this? :bow: :bow: :bow: I read this ages ago on TORn, and it was really the best thing on that pathetic excuse of a Tolkien site. I've always admired it. You make it all seem so real.

My admiration for your writing skills only grows with leaps and bounds. I'll try not to spoil the ending for anyone.

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vison
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Posted: Sun 20 Mar , 2005 7:15 pm
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Woohoo!!! Legions of fans!!!

Well, one anyway. :hug:

Yes, I wrote it. Yes, it appeared on TORN, and I had not one bit of feedback except from the person who said, "I really like this and will post it," whoever that person was. The person in charge of fanfic, anyway.

Yes, I love Erik. Erik is a real boy to me. I'm very proud of him.

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