This story contains some descriptions of violence and self-harm that may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion advised.
EASTEMNET, ROHAN - September T.A. 3011
They had left some of the orcs' carcasses as food for the crows, others were burning on a great flaming pyre. Her only regret was the good soil thus fouled. A heavy blow struck some of the enemy - but it was not enough. It would probably never be enough for Mearhe. She was twenty-five winters old, and she had lived to the face the end of days. Her softness was replaced by a hard core of steel and sharp edges, and yet, Wulf could still see glimpses of the 'old' Mearhe. Every now and then she would let her guard down, mostly when she thought no one was watching her. It was in those rare moments, he was reminded of who she was, or used to be - a kind and beautiful woman of the Mark.
She didn't even know he was there, her heart and mind were sealed to anyone, and her days were consumed by a strong desire for revenge and a glorious end of life. Mearhe was ready to die. On this night even the moon hid her face as they waited in the dark but let the orcs in their camp see their torches and know that their deaths would come with the dawn of the new day. There was no comfort in darkness for these vile creatures, they knew the Riders blades and arrows would come at first light. The pale dawn signaled the beginning of the battle and then victory. These were not the orcs Mearhe was looking for, but they were the enemy nevertheless.
Was there ever a time when Mearhe had no fear? Was there ever a time when the people of Rohan did not know how to build mounds for their dead and pyres for the enemy? Yes, there was a time when her people knew no fear and had no master - those days were now just stories, legends, and songs. The enemy was around, and there was a growing shadow moving in from the East. Orcs had begun to kill people and horses for food. It was an unimaginable horror to think of it.This was too much for her. She could not think about her child's fate. Wulf had seen her more than once been physically sick at the edge of their camp, her body shaken, her mind broken by horrific images in her nightmares.
Day followed day, and night followed night - nightmares kept coming, until Mearhe knew she could not go on any longer. She would kill herself rather than go on, she decided one night. Yet sleep came, and with it, dreams. Her son was not in the dream this time. There was only her and the wolf. Its fur was dark as the night, soft and warm. Its eyes were pools of blue and grey water, calm and kind. A quiet peace was all around the wolf, it came gently forward. She opened her arms to this peace, and embraced it, letting it swallow her whole, cleansing and tempering her soul, cleaning her mind. Mearhe soul felt the softness and warmth of a touch, and there was no pain, no more fear. She was strong and new. And the next day, strangely, she did not seem to hurt quite as much.
Mearhe shall fight. The men and women of Rohan shall fight. So long as they breathe, so long as they have homes and loved ones to defend or avenge. They fight, but alas, the victories Mearhe carries back will be bitter. Revenge and hate will bring no comfort or joy to her. Her hope lies in ashes, even as she watches the orcs corpses burn on the fires of war.
Mearhe turned to the man, whose tired, still face mirrored her own.
"Come, Mearhe. We must ride east."
She nodded, once, and said wearily, "To whatever awaits us there."
Artscreen by me
