Sword and Arrow

Chapter 33

A funeral party was gathered on one of the hills beside the Golden Hall, and the grass was dotted with tiny white simbelmynë that flowered only on the graves of Rohan's horse-lords. The king and his lords in all their somber finery stood still, gazing with glassy eyes at the body, carried on a bier made of shields and spears to an open tomb underneath the hill.

The company of five was standing beside the king. Gandalf, in his white robes, struck a stark contrast against the dark cloaks and robes of the Rohirrim, and Aragorn, though less dirty and bloody than usual, looked rather out of place among the nobility.

Eowyn, who turned out to be the king's niece, stood with her hands clasped in front of her, wearing a beautiful black dress, heavily embroidered with gold around the waist and the neckline. Her hair was coiled in an elaborate bun and a single tear traced down her cheek as she sang a funeral song.

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended

giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende

on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære,

Þæt he ma nowere is, þurh niedig rest.

And mægen deorost.

Bealo...

Beruthiel shivered. It was a haunting song, filled with sorrow from one that had known the dead prince well. As Eowyn sang, the knights carrying Théodred's bier set it down into the tomb. Gifts for the dead were laid inside the tomb, and it was shut by the knights. Women came forward and laid flowers of simbelmynë on Théodred's tomb.

Éowyn came forward and laid a sprig of simbelmynë on Théodred's grave. Her eyes were glassy as she tried to not let her tears fall, and she held her head high, looking far away toward the West where her cousin's spirit now dwelled.

Beruthiel awkwardly stood by Aragorn's side. This was the first funeral she had attended, that was not one of a person she knew well. She supposed she should be thankful for it, thankful that it had not been her cousin, but it was not easy to dismiss the sorrow that came from a prince dying, even though she had never seen the prince in life.

Sauron and Saruman's noose was indeed tightening. Who was next? The Steward's son was dead, and now the King of Rohan's. Would Legolas be next, or Elladan and Elrohir? Or would it be the dwarves targeted this time?

Beruthiel lowered her head, giving Théodred's spirit a silent prayer to ease his journey to the halls of his fathers.

Haven't the free peoples lost enough already?

🗡️👑🏹

After the funeral, late in the afternoon, Aragorn took Beruthiel to the room that had been set aside for her - Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were sharing a room, while Gandalf, as a special advisor-wizard-something, got his own room - and closed the door behind them.

"Take off your shirt," Aragorn said as he laid out the contents of a largish pouch on the sparse but comfortable bed.

Beruthiel squinted at his back. "Excuse me?"

He turned around for a second, motioning with his hand. "Take off your shirt. I need to take a look at your back." Aragorn turned back to the pouch - his medical kit that he had carried with him since they had left Rivendell. Unfortunately the herbs inside had not made it, save the ones that could be dried, but he had been continuously adding new leaves and flowers to it - he now had dried leaves from a plant that only grew along the shores of the Anduin, ground root from a next-to-extinct plant that somehow thrived near the Pass of Caradhras, and some simbelmynë flowers.