Post by Admin on Sept 12, 2022 20:20:30 GMT
Author: WindSurfBabe
Rating: K+ (mention of death but nothing explicit)
Summary: The war changes those it spits out; it’s a test for those who love them, a trial of their determination.
Characters: Théoden (mentioned)
Today, I buried the man I love.
He would have liked the place, I know it. Under a beech that spreads her arms out to hold him in death, sheltering his last bed as I would have sheltered him in life. The hillock overlooks the Fold and, to the east, glimmers the delta of the Entwash, crimson-gold in the sunset, like the gleam of my beloved’s armor when he came back from the war.
The war. It took its share of good men, spewing back those it could not chew, returning them mangled in body and soul. I heard from Eahild that Grimhere now cries out in the night like a babe, so that she must rise and tend to the two of them, her husband and her newborn son. The circles under her eyes grow darker every morning and soon, I expect, she will come knocking on my door to ask for a potion to lull his troubled mind into sleep.
She wouldn’t be the first, either, nor the last to beg for relief from a duty she never thought she’d incur. Before the war, before Grimhere followed our good Théoden King into battle, he could lift two little ones on each arm and spin them around, his laughter carrying through the village and to the threshold of my hut. Now his arms hang low, and so does his head.
My beloved, too, had returned a changed man.
I kneel at his grave as the night falls around us, a wary silence that sets on as the sun disappears under over the White Mountains. The shadows creep into the valley, stilling the
hearts of little creatures before they find the courage to face it, entering the night bravely to make their living off the earth. I smooth the surface of the soil I troubled in my evening’s efforts, the mound now little but a blot on an otherwise thriving expanse of green grass. Reaching into the pouch that hangs from my belt, I spray the soil with seeds.
My beloved was no king, but simbelmynë shall flower his grave just the same.
They make no difference between rich and poor, and grow where they are planted. So did our love, rooting into my heart at the first sight of my beloved, two years ago, at Midsummer’s Eve. He’d danced with me twice in a row, spinning me ‘round as we raced around the pole, leaving me breathless. The taste of mead was sweet on my lips, but his smile had made me merrier than the drink.
Soon, he knew the path to my hut better than that of his own, waking me up at night with a lopsided grin, begging for forgiveness as he stammered about a stallion taken by a colic, or a mare in need of relief during her foaling. I would smile knowingly and fetch a potion for his beasts, pretending I didn’t see the way his eyes caressed my bare shoulders, kissing my skin the way he could not.
Not yet.
My beloved was a simple man, breeding horses for the kings of Rohan, working hard in his father’s stables, but he was proud of his trade, and straight in his honor. He would not declare himself until he could provide for me and our future children; we both knew this, while he hovered by the door of my hut, sharing in my silent longing and the long, impatient wait until the time came for me to be his and he, mine.
Then came the war, and my beloved left – the best of all the good men in our village – to defend our land, our freedom and our love from the darkness that threatened our future. I
remember watching from afar as they rode off, the sobs of Fastred’s ill-tuned violin following them down the road. I hadn’t had the strength to bid him farewell, nor had I wished to shame him with my tears. I’d leaned against the beech that now witnessed our final parting, clutching the trunk until, at last, he was gone from my sight.
Only then had I watered her roots with my sorrow. Now my eyes are as dry as the Wold, with not a drop left to water the simbelmynë. No matter; they thrive on death and grief, and before long, the grave will be lush with their silvery blooms – a place where I can rest and think of my beloved as I once knew him.
I only wish we hadn’t parted with such cruel words.
I have no desire to think about what happened last night, as the long-promised joy of our wedding was denied to me so harshly. My memory of him shall remained untouched, familiar
and soft as was his face in the flame of the candle I used to light whenever he’d visit, bewitched, yet too stubborn, too proud to admit it. Yet the war breaks even the noblest of
men, and so my beloved also has fallen.
At first, I’d counted us lucky. He’d returned unscathed, better – a victor, his golden hair grown out long and his eyes shining under his helm. At his side, a bejeweled sword, gifted by some foreign noble whose life he’d saved on a distant battlefield.
I’d always known he would do great deeds, and I’d rejoiced for him, only hiding my relief in the face of those less fortunate, whose wives now came to offer their meagre possessions in exchange for my wares: pots and combs for a dreamless sleep, and the numbing of the pain in the limbs they’d lost. I never took their payment, yet offered my potions anyway, for I was one of the lucky ones, if not the luckiest. My love had returned to me, unharmed, unspoiled…or so I thought.
Midsummer’s Eve came again. Gárling had felled a young birch and the pole had stood higher than ever, adorned with the ribbons of those village girls hoping for a husband; but whether the size of it or the lesser number of ribbons, it had appeared plucked, its grey bark peeling away under the knots. Fastred played away on his fiddle, oblivious of the tune, and the couples-to-be spun around in a circle, their hands entwined good-naturedly before a handfasting united them forever. I had come – a little late and a little shy, smoothing down the wrinkles on my best dress, glowing with happiness yet loath to boast in front of those other maidens condemned to make their choice amongst the men that remained. Holdwine would never ride again; the wound in his back had welded his spine into a single bone. Léofred was dancing on one leg, laughing as though he could not see the looks of pity the women gave him, wondering if a one-legged husband was better than no husband at all.
My beloved, my kind and true love, had stepped into the circle, and reached out his hand…
…Towards Cynewyn, who took it with a smile of delight and disbelief. Pretty, foolish Cynewyn, who’d mocked me so mercilessly for my bashfulness.
He’d danced with her the whole night long and well after I’d gone, slinking away into the shadows to hide my tears once more. Their laughter had burst forth like pus from a wound,
piercing my ears as I’d hid in the dark, a shaking hand on the bark of my friend-tree, my best dress marred by the soil under my knees.
My knees, which grow numb under my weight as I keep watch over his grave, remembering what came next. The pain in my joints is nothing compared to the agony I’ve already endured, and the memory of it is enough to make me falter in my duty. My hands burn with broken welts, the skin ripped time and time again by the wooden shaft of the shovel that lays nearby.
Sunrise is nigh, I tell myself. As light comes to chase away the night, time will heal my wounds and bring me some form of peace. I expect nothing, just as I never asked for my heart to be stolen from me.
Not even an apology.
He came to my hut the morning after. The grass had been moist with dew, the woods as fresh as a bride adorned for her betrothed; he’d hesitated before stepping over the threshold of my door thrown wide open, after I’d somehow managed to stumble back to my bed, blinded by shame and misery.
He’d called out my name, then, and it had given me the strength to rise.
I’d been wrong. Some wounds run deeper than the flesh, and thus darkness now held sway over my beloved’s mind, stealing his memory of our love and of his wordless promise to me; but he’d come to beseech my help, the small part of his mind that recalled what we’d had fighting against the madness that now possessed him. My name on his lips was the elixir I’d needed to come back to life, and his smile had warmed me more surely than the dawn.
He’d asked me for a potion to cure the ache of his hangover.
And then he’d laughed.
He’d laughed when I’d told him how I felt – before the war, whenever he came to seek me out under small, innocent pretenses. He’d laughed when I’d begged him to remember his old ways; a coarse, foreign sound as the evil within mocked me through his eyes. His laughter had then turned into contempt in the face of my wrath, as Cynewyn’s poison tumbled from his lips.
The beech leaves rustle overhead, as though trying to console me through their whispers. Her arms are outstretched in an embrace that shall never hold me, but at least shall it watch over my beloved until I come to join him. They call it the Crone Tree, and never come beneath the shadows of her crown; to me, she is a friend, a confidante, a home. Only to her can I speak of the rest of my story.
My hands shook but slightly when I reached out for the vial and handed it to him, watching him down it in a gulp. The war changes those it spits out; it’s a test for those who love them, a trial of their determination. Their will against the corruption, until they emerge, victorious, or sink into the depths. My own heart had turned to stone before even my beloved fell, released at last from the rule of darkness. To save him had cost me my soul.
I stand and wipe my cheeks, turning to watch as the sun rises over the mountains in the West, glimmering in the waters of the Mering, combing through the tall grass of the pastures. A new day has come, free from the shadows of the past; a vessel for renewal. The birds awake as well, unafraid to nest in the gnarled, moss-covered branches. As a gust of chill, morning wind shakes the canopy they take off in a flurry, the beating of their winds mingling with the murmurs of the Crone Tree, and the muffled screams of the man buried beneath her roots.
For his betrayal I had forgiven him; for the lies and the shame, and the unnumbered sleepless nights when I’d lain awake, praying for his survival. My love had kept him alive throughout the darkness of this long year, and I’d forgiven him his weakness, and the error of his ways.
I could have forgotten, and spared him the terror of the burlap sack over his head, the rope that bound his wrists and the weight of the earth upon his chest. For the sake of the love that once bound us, I could have killed him with mercy.
Today, I buried the man I love. Buried him alive, so that he can die with my name on his lips, pleading for my forgiveness. The leaves rustle once more, reminding me of his last words.
He shouldn’t have called me a witch.
Rating: K+ (mention of death but nothing explicit)
Summary: The war changes those it spits out; it’s a test for those who love them, a trial of their determination.
Characters: Théoden (mentioned)
Today, I buried the man I love.
He would have liked the place, I know it. Under a beech that spreads her arms out to hold him in death, sheltering his last bed as I would have sheltered him in life. The hillock overlooks the Fold and, to the east, glimmers the delta of the Entwash, crimson-gold in the sunset, like the gleam of my beloved’s armor when he came back from the war.
The war. It took its share of good men, spewing back those it could not chew, returning them mangled in body and soul. I heard from Eahild that Grimhere now cries out in the night like a babe, so that she must rise and tend to the two of them, her husband and her newborn son. The circles under her eyes grow darker every morning and soon, I expect, she will come knocking on my door to ask for a potion to lull his troubled mind into sleep.
She wouldn’t be the first, either, nor the last to beg for relief from a duty she never thought she’d incur. Before the war, before Grimhere followed our good Théoden King into battle, he could lift two little ones on each arm and spin them around, his laughter carrying through the village and to the threshold of my hut. Now his arms hang low, and so does his head.
My beloved, too, had returned a changed man.
I kneel at his grave as the night falls around us, a wary silence that sets on as the sun disappears under over the White Mountains. The shadows creep into the valley, stilling the
hearts of little creatures before they find the courage to face it, entering the night bravely to make their living off the earth. I smooth the surface of the soil I troubled in my evening’s efforts, the mound now little but a blot on an otherwise thriving expanse of green grass. Reaching into the pouch that hangs from my belt, I spray the soil with seeds.
My beloved was no king, but simbelmynë shall flower his grave just the same.
They make no difference between rich and poor, and grow where they are planted. So did our love, rooting into my heart at the first sight of my beloved, two years ago, at Midsummer’s Eve. He’d danced with me twice in a row, spinning me ‘round as we raced around the pole, leaving me breathless. The taste of mead was sweet on my lips, but his smile had made me merrier than the drink.
Soon, he knew the path to my hut better than that of his own, waking me up at night with a lopsided grin, begging for forgiveness as he stammered about a stallion taken by a colic, or a mare in need of relief during her foaling. I would smile knowingly and fetch a potion for his beasts, pretending I didn’t see the way his eyes caressed my bare shoulders, kissing my skin the way he could not.
Not yet.
My beloved was a simple man, breeding horses for the kings of Rohan, working hard in his father’s stables, but he was proud of his trade, and straight in his honor. He would not declare himself until he could provide for me and our future children; we both knew this, while he hovered by the door of my hut, sharing in my silent longing and the long, impatient wait until the time came for me to be his and he, mine.
Then came the war, and my beloved left – the best of all the good men in our village – to defend our land, our freedom and our love from the darkness that threatened our future. I
remember watching from afar as they rode off, the sobs of Fastred’s ill-tuned violin following them down the road. I hadn’t had the strength to bid him farewell, nor had I wished to shame him with my tears. I’d leaned against the beech that now witnessed our final parting, clutching the trunk until, at last, he was gone from my sight.
Only then had I watered her roots with my sorrow. Now my eyes are as dry as the Wold, with not a drop left to water the simbelmynë. No matter; they thrive on death and grief, and before long, the grave will be lush with their silvery blooms – a place where I can rest and think of my beloved as I once knew him.
I only wish we hadn’t parted with such cruel words.
I have no desire to think about what happened last night, as the long-promised joy of our wedding was denied to me so harshly. My memory of him shall remained untouched, familiar
and soft as was his face in the flame of the candle I used to light whenever he’d visit, bewitched, yet too stubborn, too proud to admit it. Yet the war breaks even the noblest of
men, and so my beloved also has fallen.
At first, I’d counted us lucky. He’d returned unscathed, better – a victor, his golden hair grown out long and his eyes shining under his helm. At his side, a bejeweled sword, gifted by some foreign noble whose life he’d saved on a distant battlefield.
I’d always known he would do great deeds, and I’d rejoiced for him, only hiding my relief in the face of those less fortunate, whose wives now came to offer their meagre possessions in exchange for my wares: pots and combs for a dreamless sleep, and the numbing of the pain in the limbs they’d lost. I never took their payment, yet offered my potions anyway, for I was one of the lucky ones, if not the luckiest. My love had returned to me, unharmed, unspoiled…or so I thought.
Midsummer’s Eve came again. Gárling had felled a young birch and the pole had stood higher than ever, adorned with the ribbons of those village girls hoping for a husband; but whether the size of it or the lesser number of ribbons, it had appeared plucked, its grey bark peeling away under the knots. Fastred played away on his fiddle, oblivious of the tune, and the couples-to-be spun around in a circle, their hands entwined good-naturedly before a handfasting united them forever. I had come – a little late and a little shy, smoothing down the wrinkles on my best dress, glowing with happiness yet loath to boast in front of those other maidens condemned to make their choice amongst the men that remained. Holdwine would never ride again; the wound in his back had welded his spine into a single bone. Léofred was dancing on one leg, laughing as though he could not see the looks of pity the women gave him, wondering if a one-legged husband was better than no husband at all.
My beloved, my kind and true love, had stepped into the circle, and reached out his hand…
…Towards Cynewyn, who took it with a smile of delight and disbelief. Pretty, foolish Cynewyn, who’d mocked me so mercilessly for my bashfulness.
He’d danced with her the whole night long and well after I’d gone, slinking away into the shadows to hide my tears once more. Their laughter had burst forth like pus from a wound,
piercing my ears as I’d hid in the dark, a shaking hand on the bark of my friend-tree, my best dress marred by the soil under my knees.
My knees, which grow numb under my weight as I keep watch over his grave, remembering what came next. The pain in my joints is nothing compared to the agony I’ve already endured, and the memory of it is enough to make me falter in my duty. My hands burn with broken welts, the skin ripped time and time again by the wooden shaft of the shovel that lays nearby.
Sunrise is nigh, I tell myself. As light comes to chase away the night, time will heal my wounds and bring me some form of peace. I expect nothing, just as I never asked for my heart to be stolen from me.
Not even an apology.
He came to my hut the morning after. The grass had been moist with dew, the woods as fresh as a bride adorned for her betrothed; he’d hesitated before stepping over the threshold of my door thrown wide open, after I’d somehow managed to stumble back to my bed, blinded by shame and misery.
He’d called out my name, then, and it had given me the strength to rise.
I’d been wrong. Some wounds run deeper than the flesh, and thus darkness now held sway over my beloved’s mind, stealing his memory of our love and of his wordless promise to me; but he’d come to beseech my help, the small part of his mind that recalled what we’d had fighting against the madness that now possessed him. My name on his lips was the elixir I’d needed to come back to life, and his smile had warmed me more surely than the dawn.
He’d asked me for a potion to cure the ache of his hangover.
And then he’d laughed.
He’d laughed when I’d told him how I felt – before the war, whenever he came to seek me out under small, innocent pretenses. He’d laughed when I’d begged him to remember his old ways; a coarse, foreign sound as the evil within mocked me through his eyes. His laughter had then turned into contempt in the face of my wrath, as Cynewyn’s poison tumbled from his lips.
The beech leaves rustle overhead, as though trying to console me through their whispers. Her arms are outstretched in an embrace that shall never hold me, but at least shall it watch over my beloved until I come to join him. They call it the Crone Tree, and never come beneath the shadows of her crown; to me, she is a friend, a confidante, a home. Only to her can I speak of the rest of my story.
My hands shook but slightly when I reached out for the vial and handed it to him, watching him down it in a gulp. The war changes those it spits out; it’s a test for those who love them, a trial of their determination. Their will against the corruption, until they emerge, victorious, or sink into the depths. My own heart had turned to stone before even my beloved fell, released at last from the rule of darkness. To save him had cost me my soul.
I stand and wipe my cheeks, turning to watch as the sun rises over the mountains in the West, glimmering in the waters of the Mering, combing through the tall grass of the pastures. A new day has come, free from the shadows of the past; a vessel for renewal. The birds awake as well, unafraid to nest in the gnarled, moss-covered branches. As a gust of chill, morning wind shakes the canopy they take off in a flurry, the beating of their winds mingling with the murmurs of the Crone Tree, and the muffled screams of the man buried beneath her roots.
For his betrayal I had forgiven him; for the lies and the shame, and the unnumbered sleepless nights when I’d lain awake, praying for his survival. My love had kept him alive throughout the darkness of this long year, and I’d forgiven him his weakness, and the error of his ways.
I could have forgotten, and spared him the terror of the burlap sack over his head, the rope that bound his wrists and the weight of the earth upon his chest. For the sake of the love that once bound us, I could have killed him with mercy.
Today, I buried the man I love. Buried him alive, so that he can die with my name on his lips, pleading for my forgiveness. The leaves rustle once more, reminding me of his last words.
He shouldn’t have called me a witch.