Though the Forest was a shiver of white and the stars felt more distant in the coldness of winter, sunset came in the kind of lilac and orange, and rose that brings warmth to eyes and soul. Mearhe was sitting by one of the windows holding a book. The cold out there could only come as far as the window pane, inside the home-fire kept her warm.
Books are the most precious treasure one can hold. They have the power to engulf and enchant with words. Between those pages was a wonderful place to be, yet out of reach to her, as many of her people, Mearhe was wise but unlearned. This book was a gift from the Elves of Lothlorien, and its pages were blank, as if they were waiting to be filled with a tale yet to be told.
" Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story." Tales are light, and light is precious in a world of darkness. Mearhe had to start from somewhere, from a 'beginning' and make some light. Those blank pages where waiting for her. She felt a great desire, a need to lose herself into a tale.
Woman of the Mark, mother, weaver, friend, and unlikely story-teller. Mearhe was not a Bard, yet felt that even her own small world, her own simple tale, was somehow important and relevant in the much greater story of her land. Maps would be a good start, she still had some from her days in Aldburg. Here was a new challenge for her, and one she felt most close to her heart.
In time she would learn how to use and read runes, and she would be taught how to read and write by her son's Tutor, and become proficient in the written use of Westron, and some Sindar, and she would also discover her love for story-telling and poetry, and above all, for the history of her people.
Mearhe knew not how to write those words yet, but they were imprinted in her heart as a woman of the Mark . These were the words that were forged in the earth, air, fire, and water of Rohan, and the words are: Love. Courage. Honor. Truth. Words that defined her and the Eorlingas.
The idea that her people were ‘part’ of the earth they cherished, not just on top of it, and the idea that everything had a song, a sound, a tale. If you sing the song, if you tell the tale, they will be passed on to the children and their children and so on, and the tales and deeds of the Rohirrim will live forevermore.
The gentle sound of Earendel’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. It was time for his evening bath and the last feed before bedtime. His bright blue eyes found those of his mother and he laughed sweetly, as only a baby can laugh. His little face glowed from a light within.
He knew! Somehow Mearhe felt like he knew she needed comfort in the dead silence of night, he knew she needed joy in the midst of her pain.She picked him up and held him close to her chest, whispering gentle words he could not understand but that made him and her happy.
I see her walking
On a path through a pathless forest
Or a maze, a labyrinth.
As she walks, she spins
And the fine threads fall behind her
following her way,
where she is going
where she has gone.
telling the story.
the line, the thread of voice,
the sentences saying the way.
Poem by Ursula K. Le Guin