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The first time Théoden said goodbye to his little sister she was just a babe squirming in their mother’s arms. He was to ride out with an éothed – under the command of a man of Rohan, for he was only fifteen – and on the steps of the Golden Hall Morwen and Thengel stood to say goodbye, looking regal and noble, even though Thengel’s heritage made him look older and their smiling faces at the small sounds coming from the bundle in Morwen’s arms. Behind them his sisters stood, Rían and Lalaith dark-haired like the Gondorians south and Théodwil golden-haired, much like their new little sister, who was only a few days old.
Had Théoden not been so joyful over Théodwyn – for something made him smile broader at her, want to play with her more, and hold her more, than he had with his other sisters – he would have been embarrassed at how his whole family had come to see him off, as if he was going to war and not a week of patrol.
But before he was to mount his horse – a normal horse called Arodwine, though Thengel had promised his son to take him out to the fields soon, to have him meet the mearas and see if any wished to carry him – he walked up the few steps to the Hall and held out his hands. Morwen raised an eyebrow but handed Théodwyn over without a word but with a smile.
He corrected his hold a little and then looked down. Logically, he knew that the babe did not look different from other babies, it was hard to see any trace of the face that would soon start to grow more pronounced, but Théoden imagined that he would always recognise that face. She was awake, but quiet as she often was in his arms, and her blue eyes gazed at him. Théoden smiled.
“Goodbye, little sister. I’ll be back soon, but don’t you forget me until then”, he said and Morwen snorted quietly. Thengel chuckled. His son’s fondness for their youngest was clearly different from what he had for his other siblings, and it was amusing to see a gangly fifteen-year-old so careful and heartfelt in his love.
Théoden did not remember much of the patrol – probably because nothing special happened, except the usual embarrassment that followed with a boy surrounded by more experienced men – but that moment before he left, on the steps of Meduseld, looking down at Théodwyn with the rest of his family close by, would stay with him until his last days and even when he was old and sick in his Hall, his thoughts would turn to that memory and his mind would brighten, for just a moment.
There were many other patrols after that and therefore many other goodbyes, but on the eve of Théoden’s wedding to Elfhild, a woman of Riddermark, they once again said their goodbyes. The morning after Théoden and his bride would travel through Rohan and visit Elfhild’s relatives, among other things. Thengel had given his son a few tasks, but the greatest of them was to meet his people and build up a respect and love for him, their future king. Both Théoden and Thengel – and Morwen, for she did not allow herself to be left out of this matter, when she was, in a way, responsible for it – were aware of the grumblings in the Mark about their king; how he rejected his native language and still used the Sindarin from Gondor. Morwen Steelsheen was certainly a respected woman and no Eorling would disrespect her or their allies in the South by voicing their displeasure over the Gondorian customs, but Thengel, wise as he was, knew that such a thing could spark more discontentment if it was allowed.
Therefore, Théoden and Elfhild’s household was packed and ready for the journey the next day and Théodwyn – only a gangly ten-year-old – waited outside Meduseld, where the feast was still going, to say goodbye. She was not spoiled, Théoden’s sister, but she disliked early mornings and would not get out of bed before the sun unless an army of Orcs were waiting outside.
“Did you pack your spear and sword, brother?” she asked with a teasing grin. “The Eastfold has a lot of adventures waiting for you, I am sure.”
The sons of the First Marshal of the Mark and Lord of Aldburg had been named possible suitors for her hand – though no official betrothal had been arranged, as Morwen still found her daughter too young – and Théodwyn listened to news from their land out of childish curiosity. Compared to Edoras, where no invaders of raiders made it, Eastfold was filled with news. Théoden obviously knew it was normal and nothing more than the usual, but he indulged her.
“I have, and I even brought my harp, so I can sing them away”, he said, knowing what reaction he would get.
Théodwyn groaned and made a grimace. Elfhild snickered behind him and Théoden felt his lips twitch in a smile. Théodwyn was the only one of Thengel and Morwen’s children who had mastered both harp and song beautifully. Rían and Lalaith had dutifully worked themselves to adequate quality, but both Théoden and Théodwil had given up early on.
“If you want to be allowed to visit Aldburg again, you should never touch that harp while you are there, and Béma forbid you sing”, she said, and Théoden laughed.
“I might just do that, to keep the two sons away from here.”
“Don’t”, his sister whined. “If they are so bad, I can do it myself. There is no need to embarrass yourself and, more importantly, me.”
“Perhaps I’ll do it anyway”, he teased.
“Well”, Théodwyn then said, irritated but beaten, “at least you will keep the Orcs away, that’s for sure.”
They both smiled at each other at that.
“I wish you a good journey, brother mine”, she said, and he embraced her and kissed the top of her head.
“Thank you, sister mine”, he said. “I’ll be back in a year, and don’t you forget me until then.”
Théodwyn was ten years old and reached to his ribcage. Her hair was golden and soft. She had the colours of their father’s people but would grow tall and strong like their mother’s kin. But then, she was only a child, and Théoden loved her like his little sister, who ran fastest of all the children in Edoras and laughed as if it was a dare, and could not imagine ever taking leave of Meduseld without her in it.
Of course, eventually it would come to that. But Théodwyn stayed long in Meduseld and by Théoden’s side. She was there when Théodred was born and Elfhild succumbed to birth fever; she was there when Thengel began to grow old and frail and Théoden took up more and more of his duties, all the while his own motherless son rested in a room just beside his; she was there when Thengel finally died and their whole family, except for Elfhild, was gathered for the last time by his mound; she was there when he was crowned.
Their mother had stayed by their father’s side, but even when he lay dead, she looked young, for she was of númenorian blood and seventeen years younger than her husband besides and was still strong. She stood tall, but she had told her only son and youngest daughter that she would travel back to her homeland Lossarnach in Gondor as soon as Théoden was settled. Her two oldest daughters, Rían and Lalaith, dark-haired and Gondorian in speech and manner despite all the long years in the Mark, would go with her. Her third daughter, Théodwil, had begun learning under the tutelage of the healers in Minas Tirith and was to leave with her mother and sisters, but said that she would return to her homeland when she was done. Théoden doubted that, thinking she might find a husband or something else to make her stay among their kin in the South.
Thus, Théoden, Théodwyn and Théodred were the only ones of the House of Eorl to remain in Meduseld after Thengel’s death, though their siblings often came to visit and Théodwyn travelled south a few times to their mother, who often wrote of her longing for her youngest daughter; the joy she and her husband had been given in older age. But she always came back, for even though she had inherited much from their mother, she loved Riddermark and Edoras and its people.
“I belong here, as much as Théodwil belongs in the Halls of Healing or Rían in the flower fields of Lossarnach”, she had said once, when she, Théoden and Théodred had taken a walk down the hill in Edoras, with a wistful glint in her eyes.
They were alone in the Golden Hall their family had once filled, but they pulled through. Théodwyn was the Lady of Meduseld for many years and did her duties, even though Théoden sometimes longed for when she was a scrawny child competing who could run the fastest up the hill of Edoras. But they had both grown. And Théodred, child as he was, sometimes laughed so loudly that Théoden was brought back ten years.
The two sons of the late First Marshal of the Mark, who had also died, often came to visit. They were very distant descendants of Eorl – loyal and strong. Both Thengel and Morwen had, when Thengel still lived, thought the oldest one worthy of any of their daughters, but Rían, Lalaith and Théodwil had never been interested. The oldest son was closer to Théodwil in age and that was perhaps the only thing which spoke against his marrying Théodwyn. The second son, a bold man who was the best rider Théoden had ever met, was younger and often found in Théodwyn’s company when he and his brother visited, though everyone knew he kept it appropriate, for his brother was the better candidate and Théodwyn was so well-loved, that she might as well have been worth as much as an oldest daughter and not a youngest.
But so it came to pass, that nearly seven years after Thengel died, the Lord of Aldburg and best candidate for Théodwyn’s hand died in an Orc-raid – a foul affair, where they had cornered him and slayed him most cruelly. The second son, Éomund, took up his brother’s title and lands, and was not seen in Meduseld for a while. Théoden was told he hunted and slayed Orcs in anger of his brother’s death and could not say he was surprised. But Théodwyn looked sad and was quiet when it was mentioned during his councils, which she often attended.
In the early months of the year, two years after his brother’s death, the young Lord of Aldburg and First Marshal of the Mark, came to visit. Théodred, now one-and-twenty, received him with Théodwyn behind him, who would usually do the honour, but had stepped down to let her nephew practice. When Théoden thought back, he could not remember picking up anything strange during that visit, except that Èomund seemed older and more mature though still wilful and merry, but he knew afterwards that Théodwyn must have spoken with him and something crucial must have occurred those few weeks.
They asked for his blessing the day before his leaving and Théoden was nearly too surprised to say no. But Théodwyn could not be the Lady of Meduseld forever, this he knew, and at least she would remain within the Mark and not far in the South with the rest of their family.
He gave them his blessing and thus, he said goodbye to his little sister that same year, when she married Éomund of the Eastfold in a great feast in autumn in the Golden Hall.
She had flowers in her golden hair like a maiden from the songs and she laughed and danced as if nothing could take her. Éomund was clothed in the colours of the Eastfold and joined her for every song and dance and his voice carried every word he said to her, even the ones Théoden did not wish to hear. Théodred had turned red a few times, but his aunt and uncle had only smiled and not even Théoden’s glare had silenced them.
“Goodbye, little sister”, he told her the next day as she rode out of Edoras with her new husband, headed for Aldburg. “I’ll come visit in autumn, but don’t you forget me until then.”
She embraced him and laughed. “Never, brother mine. You are always welcome and don’t you forget that.”
He tried to be there for her like she had been there for him. He was there when her son Éomer was born and four years later for her daughter Éowyn; he was there for the feasts celebrating their births; and the funerals held for important men under Éomund who died in the increasing raids; he himself travelled to Aldburg for official matters when he could have sent Théodred; and he was there for his nephew and niece’s birthdays. Many said that there had never been so many riders travelling between Aldburg and Edoras as in those years.
They said many goodbyes to each other, but just as many greetings as well. Théodwyn was content and even though Théoden could feel age coming nearer he was not worried but happy. His son Théodred was grown and strong and able to meet the threat which seemed to grow but not so fast that it would emerge during Théoden’s time. His nephew was strong as well, laughing and daring like his father, and seemed to grow taller and taller each time he saw him. His brother-in-law’s boldness now disturbed him when he saw how much his sister’s happiness depended upon that man being alive, but just as Éomund he could not imagine him defeated and only asked him to do his duty, but do it with care, a few times. His sister was not worried and neither were Éomer or Éowyn - brave like they were.
Théoden tried to be there, and for everything he was.
Except for when the message came to Aldburg, telling them of the death of Éomund of Eastfold.
He had never hated the boldness of Éomund as much as he did then. He cursed his temper and hot-headedness and fate, which had put his sister in his path and joined them.
Théodred was put in charge of Meduseld and Théoden rode with Snowmane and a small company of his guards to Aldburg. He reached his sister’s hall two days after Éomund’s death.
Éomer greeted him at the entrance, eleven years old, and behind him Éowyn, seven years old. Golden haired and blue-eyed, and scared. The hall was dark, darker than he had ever seen it, and he asked where their mother was. In her bedroom, Éowyn answered, holding Éomer’s hand. Théoden would later embrace them and kiss the top of their heads, comfort them, but in that moment he could only hurry to Théodwyn.
She was sick and frail, and her room was dark and still. She had never been weak; she used to run fast up Edoras like Snowmane as a foal. She was tall like Morwen and the flower simbelmynë which had endured and grown on the mounds of the Kings of Rohan since its beginning. She was his little sister, but now he could barely recognise her.
“What will happen to my children?” she whispered one night, when Théoden sat by her side and would not leave. Her eyes were bright and scared.
“They will grow”, he said, because he would not even consider telling her what would happen if she- if she-
“Éowyn wants to become a Shieldmaiden”, she whispered, and despite the pale and taut skin, her smile made her look healthy again.
“You did, too”, he said and smiled back. “For a while, at least.”
“I think she will be”, she said in a weak voice, and Théoden did not ask what made her so sure. There had been shieldmaidens in Rohan, but they belonged more and more in song than in real life. Every girl in the Mark dreamed of being one at least once during their life, but, just like Théodwyn, did not fulfil it or it changed into something else. Èowyn was strong and fierce, much like her brother and father, but so had Théodwyn been, and she had become the Lady of Meduseld and Aldburg and not a woman of war.
“I am sure she will be”, she now repeated with a small smile. “When Déor came and told us, she leaped up with Éomer and swore: I will hunt them down! I will kill them all!”
But her smile faded as soon as she had said it and it hurt Théoden’s heart like an arrow might have. Her face turned pale and sick again and she wore, once again, the heavy burden of grief.
“She was just like her father”, she whispered, and Théoden would not have heard her, had it not been for the utter silence of her chamber. “Éomer, too. Théoden, they are just like him, like Éomund.”
Her voice choke on the name and Théoden grasped her hand desperately.
“I know”, he whispered back, throat burning. “But they are just like you, too, sister mine. Strong and glad, and loved.”
They will not have the same fate, I swear, he promised himself and could not even muster another curse at his brother-in-law, not when Théodwyn lay before him dying, choking in grief and love at his name.
“He … “
“You are loved. You are needed. You are strong”, he said, trying to make her think of her children, of herself, of her worth, and not getting stuck in her grief for Éomund. She was more. She had been happy, once, without him. Théoden had also felt like he could not breath or say another word, after he had seen Elfhild lying pale and dead in their bed, but he had had Théodred in his arms and a kingdom and family outside his door, and eventually his grief had stopped choking him, only saddened him.
But Théodwyn’s hand did not feel stronger.
Éowyn looked at her sleeping mother with a blank face. Théodwyn’s golden hair was rather the colour of grey straw now and her face drawn forever in a grimace of pain. It was day, a week after Éomund’s death, and outside the Lady’s chamber her household could be heard, though especially quiet. Éowyn stood by her mother’s bed, holding a bowl of water. She was to clean her face, but with Théodwyn asleep it had to wait. The girl looked at her mother and said nothing.
Théoden wanted to ask the girl what she was thinking but was too tired to do so.
Perhaps she is growing up, he thought. Too fast, he then added.
Éomer was in the courtyard, sitting outside his father’s stable and staring at the big beasts while they munched on their food and snorted. Théoden saw him on the occasions he went out to breath some fresh air, but this day he decided to sit beside him. He thought of Éowyn’s blank stare by the bed.
The boy did not move or say anything. Déor, who had been Éomund’s closest command, had told him how Éomer had raged and cried and screamed the day before Théoden came. It was no surprise; Éomer had inherited his father’s temper and violent reactions. But it was also the way of grief; it could turn a man lame, or into a mindless beast, but either way, it was crushing.
“It will be alright, boy”, Théoden at last said and put an arm around his shoulders like he always did when he came to visit, only now that time felt distant. “It may not feel like it today or tomorrow or many days after, but eventually, it will be alright. Trust me. You and your sister; you will be alright.”
He dared not mention Théodwyn, that she would be alright, for his heart was heavy and he had begun to realise that it was cruel for the children to raise their hope.
But they already know, he realised as Éomer looked up at him with tears in his eyes, though he did not cry. They already know what will happen. It is I, who will not accept it.
“I think she will hate me”, Théodwyn whispered that night.
“Why would she hate you?” Théoden asked, tired. His sister was only awake at night and then she told him secrets and wishes and hopes, before she succumbed to choking grief just before dawn. “She loves you, sister mine.”
He knew that they were talking about Éowyn.
“She will hate to see me weak. Weakened by grief”, Théodwyn said and a tear ran down her cheek. She blinked and stared up in the ceiling. “Will she remember me? I fear she will forget.”
“She will remember”, he assured her.
“But what will she remember?” his sister asked and turned to look at him and he could only stay silent at the sight of her face, honest and sad. “Will she remember me laughing? Or singing to her? Or playing the harp to her?”
Her children had often enjoyed her voice, as had her husband. Théoden had, too, when she had lived in Edoras.
“Will she remember- Will she remember- her father?”
Tears ran down her cheeks and Théoden gripped her hand and listened to her shaky breaths. Dawn came.
“He will grow up too fast”, she whispered the next night and Théoden knew who she meant. He thought of how he had sat outside the stables, staring at the horses as if they could tell him why.
“Every child touched by death will”, he said. “He will never forget, but he will grow and be at peace with it, eventually.”
“But there are so many … I’ve seen them … “ Théodwyn whispered and he could barely make out her words. “How will he make it?”
“So many of what?” Théoden asked.
“Orcs. Enemies. The Enemy”, Théodwyn whispered and Théoden wondered if his sister’s sickness had taken a bit of her sanity already. The Enemy. He shuddered, even though it was summer, and his sister’s chamber was nearly stifling. There had not been one united enemy in many thousands of years. Only Orcs.
They are only orc-raids, Théoden thought.
“So many enemies, Théoden”, his sister continued. “How will he make it? To ‘eventually’?”
“He will”, he said, and he said it with the surety of the king he was. “Éomer will make it and Éowyn will make it, and no Shadow shall touch them. They are strong and will live.”
Théodwyn was silent for many long moments until Théoden wondered if she had fallen asleep. It was soon dawn and he could only see the outline of her face in the dark. In the dark, he could pretend that it was her hair shining like small tresses of gold in the weak moonlight and not the golden embroidery on her blanket. He could pretend that her even breathing meant she was asleep and that she had gone to sleep peacefully.
“Éomund said the same”, she then said, and Théoden felt his heart crack. He was losing her.
Dawn came.
Before Théoden had ridden to Aldburg he had sent word to Morwen and his sisters in Minas Tirith and Lossarnach. When he had found Théodwyn sick he had sent another messenger. Rían had married and lived close to their mother; Lalaith worked in court and Théodwil had also married and lived in Gondor’s capital, tending to the city’s wounded and her children. Ten days after Éomund’s death a rider came from Meduseld, from Théodred, telling him of their answer.
They would travel back to Rohan, but Rían had written a small message where she told her brother that their mother may be adamant, but she feared she might not make it. Even Morwen Steelsheen was old now and a journey to Rohan could be too taxing. The message came too late for Théoden to answer; they were more likely already on their way, and he could therefore not write to his sister, telling her to trust her own judgement.
He did not write that Théodwyn was growing frailer and that they might not make it in time.
On the fourteenth day Théodwyn was awake in the afternoon and asked for her children. Théoden was outside and was not told; he was tired and so were the servants. He only saw Éowyn suddenly run out of the hall later and down into the city and no one could stop her. He asked one of his soldiers to follow, for he knew he was needed inside, but he could see she made it out into the fields; the green fields of the Eastfold, and he could hear her cries – of anger, of grief, of so many emotions in one - from afar.
As he hurried inside, he saw Éomer sitting on a bench in the hall and his eyes were red-rimmed. They did not say a word but something in his eyes were hard underneath the tears. A truth had pierced him and made him older than eleven.
His sister lay in her bed and she was pale, so pale, and she whispered:
“I told them. I wanted to tell her more, but she ran away.”
He sat down beside her bed, heavy as his heart and did not ask what she had wanted to tell her children. Théodwyn’s eyes told him she would not answer.
“Promise me, brother mine”, she then said, and she said it clearly and with only small trembles, “promise me you will take care of them.”
“I will. I promise”, he could only say. “I will care for them as if they were my own.”
Théodwyn’s face spoke of relief.
“Then tell me goodbye.”
“No”, he said simply, and she did not press. She only held out her trembling hand and he took it and they looked at each other. Her hand was small and thin and weak in his, but still alive.
She looked into his eyes and he remembered that babe in his arms when he was fifteen years old and their whole family stood gathered on the stairs of Meduseld many, many years ago. He remembered the eyes of the babe, and the grinning ten-year-old and the former Lady of Meduseld and saw them now look back at him in the face of a fading woman. My little sister, he thought and his throat burned.
“Goodbye, big brother”, she said, and he could feel tears running down his cheeks. “We will meet again, but don’t you forget me until then.”