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Fréaláf knows better than to toy with death. His Gondorian guests had expressed an interest in going hunting and his wife had agreed to arrange it. Hunting boar, even on horseback is a particularly stupid way to die for a king.
Halloth had enouraged him to humor his guests, after all what better sport could be had than felling fearsome beasts that would adorn their table later? Their guests needed a show of horsemanship, courage and Rohan’s hospitality.
His marriage to Halloth had been of great benefit to Rohan. Her dowry had been ample and had gone far in securing their future, and her family’s wealth and connections had allowed enough trade to slowly bolster Rohan’s coffers. They did not export much, but Gondor would always need sheep, cattle and grain for it’s cities and armies.
For now they needed to remind Gondor that Rohan is indeed it’s friend, and even after it’s sacking would still be a friend worth having.
This was in part a test, Halloth had seen it first. Hunting is a test of character, and Fréaláf’s is under scrutiny. He is young for a king, and youth often coincides with recklessness in young men.
There is no need for him to risk himself or his horse by pushing to the front in an attempt to gain glory by spearing the beast. He takes no joy in killing and has heard enough songs of his victory at the Hornburg not to long for more.
Instead he rides beside his wife, close enough to watch but far enough behind to evade flying spears and tusks.
Haleth would have wanted to be at the front and Fréaláf would have followed in an attempt to keep him from harm.
Halloth has brought her gray stallion, Wídfara, despite her husband’s pleas to leave him home and find a more biddable mount. The beast has a short thick neck and cannot be turned nor stopped once he has set his mind to bolting, a habit of his that makes Fréaláf want to slay him on the spot each time it happens. His wife dotes on the animal, and while it sires strong and swift foals, Fréaláf is convinced it should not be trusted with his wife’s safety. Unfortunately he knows better than to come between a woman and her favorite horse.
The horse annoys him to no end, his mare Swiftryne isn’t even in heat and yet his wife’s stallion has arched his neck and pushed in on her. She pins her ears in response and squeals, lifting one hind hoof in warning.
Fréaláf gives his wife a look that she ignores and sidesteps his mare to give her more space, “Poor Swiftryne.”
Halloth is unmoved, as she had said in the stables, she trusts the little stallion to keep her safe. Her husband has opinions on this but keeps them to himself for now.
The horses may annoy one another, but aside from that it is a fine day.
Ahead of them the hounds strike scent and run with their noses to the ground, baying in excitement. The huntsmen and riders follow, spears and bows ready.
Halloth smiles and her gray steed cavorts under her in excitement, “Well husband, shall I let him have one run at least?”
He nods, “Perhaps it will tire him into behaving.”
The horses leap away and Swiftryne follows the shorter horse with ease. He does not tire, he never does. Though he is short of leg, the creature has endless wind.
Fréaláf is good humored enough to forgive his wife and his wife’s horse and follows them easily. Swiftryne is sure footed and has a comfortable gait, the day is warm but not so much as to be hot, and ahead of them the Gondorian ambassadors appear to be enjoying themselves. He could not ask for more.
They track their quarry into higher ground as the boar is old and clever enough to know horsemen struggle when the footing gets steep and rough. Fréaláf carries a bow but has no intention of using it unless there is great need. There are better archers and more skilled huntsman better suited to make the kill, so he and Halloth hang back to watch.
The boar leads them up to higher country and the hounds and horses leap after him. The going is steep and the way crowded, so Fréaláf bids Halloth to rein in Wídfara and follow him a different way, their party is loud enough to follow from some distance. They let the horses climb and watch the hunt corner the boar in a rocky pass. The kill is quick and the beast dressed in the field, then lifted aloft between two riders. The hunt field moves slower now, and looks for easier footing as they make their way back down to lower country.
Halloth leaves her husband’s side to bring her horse alongside one of their Gondorian guests to speak of the hunt on the way home. She is a fine statesman in her own right, able to curry favor and judge the right moment to switch from smalltalk to matters of state. Fréaláf has his own assignment in that regard, there are reports of orcs from the Misty Mountains moving south into Rohan. His riders are more than capable of defending their holdings for now, but he would not see their defenses stretched thin again.
These orcs did not march in armies but rather lived in tribes in the mountains in the dark places men rarely went. If they stayed there and fed only on what wild things went there Fréaláf would allow them to do so, but orcs are foul and treacherous creatures with a taste for the flesh of man. Rohan’s people did not live in walled cities as they do in Gondor. There are keeps capable of fending off foes, but for most of the year many of it’s people live on the plains. Their wealth is in their horses, cattle and sheep which must be moved with the seasons to be fed. Some settled in villages and cut hay for winter, but many would spend most of the year afield and then seek the protection of their liege lord when winter fell.
Dunlendings would raid and steal, but if left unopposed would rarely shed blood. Rohan rarely left them unopposed, but that was another matter.
Orcs were more dangerous, more predatory.
Small groups would find easier targets and Rohan’s king had heard stories of wandering children stolen away and their charred and split bones found with what remained of their clothes.
If the orcs continued to move south into his lands, they would find themselves hunted.
It is with this on his mind that he approaches the ambassador. He lets their horses fall in stride before speaking, “You have a fine horse.”
In truth he is not particularly fond of Gondor’s horses, most of Rohan are not, but for what it is the horse is well built and it’s rider appears skilled in it’s handling.
The other man pats the horse on the crest of it’s mane and grins, “Aye, he bears me well enough, though this sort of rough country is a challenge for him.”
Fréaláf nods knowingly, “This sort of country is a challenge for all. Have you heard the reports of orcs moving south? Three reports of them stealing livestock have reached me in the past fortnight.”
“They have grown bold and desperate as of late, though nothing Rohan can’t handle on it’s own I trust?” He says.
“Of course, though they seem to be trying to cross over into the White Mountains. If that should come to pass and they are well established there they will be your problem as well.” Fréaláf reminds him.
The ambassador considers, “Have you had reports of them in the White Mountains?”
Fréaláf nods, “I have, not twenty miles from Edoras.”
“Ah.”
“I would not have my people fear their children snatched away by monsters.”
“You would ask Gondor’s aid in removing them?”
He shakes his head, “No, but Rohan does not have ties to the dwarves who have been settling those mountains and displacing said orcs. I would not have them cease their efforts but if there was some way to know what they have seen and what we may expect I might sleep easier.”
“I see, that is not so great an ask. I will write to a merchant who has contacts within the dwarves halls, he may be able to put that question before those who would be able to answer it.”
“That would be most helpful.”
Fréaláf’s wife has been hard at work attempting to discuss a matter of trade. Gondor’s trade is conducted almost entirely by ship or barge on the Anduin with little coming to or from Rohan. In all fairness the Great West Road was long and rough and transporting goods by cart expensive.
She speaks of far away ports she has visited and of the goods brought up the Anduin to Minas Tirtith. Rohan sees little of it and she would like to change that if possible. Her king thinks that is a vain hope but will entertain her ideas. Rohan is slow in it’s ways and it’s people mostly content with what they can produce themselves.
Even so, his efforts to preserve Rohan through the long winter had shown him just how far Gondor was when needed. They may not have use for Gondorian finery, but improving their ability to move men and cargo might be of use one day. Gondor had sent aid in the form of grain for bread and for sowing crops after Edoras had burned. The sacking of the Folde had been brutal and the refugees fleeing to Harrowdale had seen it’s own stores drop dangerously low.
He rides behind Halloth by a few strides to listen, she is clever and her love for her new home and people easy to see. She would bring them the best of Gondor if she could.
Halloth’s stallion pauses, his nostrils flaring like a dragon as his head shoots up to examine his surroundings. His rider only pats his neck and urges him forward again. He will not go.
Fréaláf may be skeptical of the Wídfara but he trusts his nose. He stands in his stirrups to survey the area and Swiftryne sidles beneath him. His wife’s horse prances, tail raised like a white banner behind him. She sits tall and shortens her reins, hoping to get the better of him if he bolts. Fréaláf sighs and rides forward to take the horse’s reins and lead him from Swiftryne. He will not have Halloth’s neck broken by a downhill gallop in this terrain just because her horse spooked at a shadow.
She glares at him when he reaches over to hold the reins just below the bit but says nothing. Once again he follows the stallion’s gaze to a nearby crack in the rocks on the ridge above him.
There are yellow eyes looking back at him from a dark figure.
He does not have time to call a warning before the arrow strikes him.
It lands just under his arm and pierces deep. He lets go of the stallion’s reins and is relieved for once when the horse does what he does best, bolt away, bearing his rider away from the threat.
Halloth yells and tries to turn the horse but he is strong of neck and will and will not be slowed. His own huntsmen and guards charge the ridge, circling from both sides and filling each crevice with spearheads and arrows, then riding down those that attempt to flee.
The arrow is barbed, and Fréaláf cannot pull it free himself, so he breaks the shaft short and draws his sword, the effort paining him greatly.
His guards know better than to keep him from the fight. They follow the orcs back to what is left of their camp and slay what they find there.
Orcs live rougher than men can, and the creatures have nothing with them that is not an implement for killing. Their clothes are all course hide and metal armor and they carry only weapons. These creatures do not even cook their meat except to aid in cracking bones for marrow. They are little more than animals with a crude knowledge of the tools of more civilized beings.
Still Fréaláf wonders if they have killed she orcs in this endeavor. They must exist and he looks to one of his captains, “Do you know if they had women or children amongst them?”
The man balks, “Does it matter? They eat their own dead and kill for sport. Would you spare them?”
Fréaláf does not know. He shakes his head and calls his men away. His wife seems to have managed to turn her horse about at last and gallops back to him as soon as they appear on the plains. Her horse is wet with foam but both are unharmed. She looks over him and sees the blood seeping out from around the arrow, “You’re hurt.”
“It is not deep, it will need to be cut out and some tending, but I am not in any danger.” He tells her this with all the warmth he can muster.
Several years ago now he had spoken to a captive Dunlending general who had told him of his own father, and the manner of his death. Fréaláf cannot call to memory any image of his father, though Targg and his own mother said he has his look about him.
Halloth remains unaware of this story, and he is grateful he had left out the detail when he had told her of his Dunlending blood. She worries already but seems comforted by his words. Her family has warred with corsairs, risked storms at sea and the sea beasts. They have not fought orcs and she knows little of their ways.
In Edoras the boar, recovered from where his men had dropped it in their rush to battle, is skinned and set to roast in the great hall. Fréaláf calls for a healer and retreats to his chambers, instructing his wife to entertain in his absence.
The arrow requires some cutting to come free. It’s head is barbed and when the healer examines it the shaft around the head is sticky with a dark substance. She does not say much but lays it carefully aside. Olwyn slips into the room and regards him with concern, “Should I send for Héra?”
Olwyn has seen orcs before and the devastation the wounds they inflict can bring. She does not care for any sense of propriety at seeing him shirtless and moves in on him to examine the wound herself. Fréaláf does not protest that but takes a moment to consider her question.
If something were to happen his family would be in a strange position as he had only gotten Halloth with child the once so far, leaving Rohan with a princess and no clear heir. Female rulers were not unheard of, but their rule would not go unchallenged. Héra at least has her father’s name to lend her credibility.
Héra could be anywhere, and the girl had experienced so much grief that he was loathe to add worry to already troubled heart. He looks up at Olwyn, “Wait, with luck it will heal and we need never tell her.”
“If it festers?”
“Send for her at once and with all urgency.” He orders.
She nods and offers him a hand to hold while the healer cleans the wound and stitches it shut with boiled horse hair. He bears it well but does not mind the comfort, Olwyn has known him since his childhood and held his hand through many such hurts, though this is by far the worst wound ever dealt him. It is a small relief Haleth isn’t here to see, he would have made a greater fuss and be out on the moors hunting orcs with his axe in retribution.
Fréaláf has hope the arrow is not poisoned. He manages to dress in a clean tunic and make small talk well enough that even is wife is mostly put at ease.
The Gondorians are shaken enough by the incident to speak of sending men to Isengard to hunt orcs fleeing the Misty Mountains, wether they intend to do it is another matter entirely.
It is not until late that night that he starts to feel the effects of the poison. The wound throbs and his stomach heaves. He wakes Halloth with his wrenching and she sits beside him, holding his hair back and stroking his back. They do not speak of it, there is no need. He can see the worry in her eyes, even when they return to their bed.
“You’re shaking.” She says, tucking her chin against his black hair. He lays against her with his head rested on her chest, trying to press as close to the warmth of her body as possible.
He feels deathly cold, the kind that comes with a bad fever, that the warmth of another body in bed, piles of furs and a roaring hearth barely offer relief against. Halloth does not let him see her fear, though he knows her well enough to know it is there. Even so, all he can do is let her hold him and hope it passes.
When Halloth slips away to check on their child she returns with Olwyn, “He’s so much worse.”
Olwyn disregards any formality she usually observes towards her king and lays a hand on his head as she did when he was a child, “You should have woken me sooner.”
“Is it that bad?”
Olwyn pushes away the furs and pulls Fréaláf’s shirt over his head before he has time to protest, “Get something to cut the bandages with.”
Halloth returns moments later with a pair of shears and holds the candle for Olwyn to see by. He does not like the look on his wife’s face when she sees it, “It’s black.”
Olwyn nods gravely, “Orcs dip their arrows in poison or filth. Even a wound like this can be fatal. I will send out a rider at first light to find Héra.”
The healer is sent for again, though all she can do is offer something to ease the pain and the nausea.
Fréaláf can feel himself weaken by the hour. Halloth looks as though she wants to panic and pace, but she does not leave his side. When dawn breaks he asks her to bring the baby to their bed. She does as asked and looks on with worry as he struggles to sit up enough to hold the child.
“I don’t remember my father’s face.” He says quietly.
Halloth goes still and somber, “Don’t say that.”
“If the throne is contested, I think the Lords of the Mark will accept Héra as a queen but not unwed. There is no clear line of succession.” He tells her, “I do not think any here would harm a woman or child, but it may be safer to return to your family.”
She takes his free hand, “You aren’t going anywhere and neither are we, don’t say such things!”
“Halloth, my own father was killed in this manner. Struck down by a poisoned orc arrow. My mother said he was deathly ill by the time they brought him home and was beyond help. He lingered a week and then died in her arms. I would not leave you as he left us.” He says more firmly, “There is one other option and I doubt it’s viability.”
“I will not hear it.”
“Do not make me ask as your king.”
She quiets at this and lets him speak, “You could marry Héra. There is a law in Rohan that allows two women to marry in a way if one or both have children and a husband that has passed. Mostly it is used by grieving widows to join households. It has never been done in a royal marriage but it might buy time and allow Héra to rule until our Haleth comes of age. You would have to arrange an engagement for her prematurely.”
Halloth stills, “Do not ask this of me.”
“Would you rather return to your family?”
She shakes her head, “You had said your father was beyond help. Does this mean his people have means to treat this?”
“I don’t know.”
“May I write to them?
“Halloth, you don’t even know who they are. I have not seen them since…I cannot recall when I last saw any kin from Dunland I recognized.” He tells her, “Besides, I drove them back from the siege, they have no reason to wish me alive.”
She stares back at him unwavering, “I will do whatever you ask if you humor me in this. Where do I send a rider?”
He considers, “You will not go yourself?”
“I would not leave you in this state.” She assures him.
He watches her carefully, “When I die, have them raise my barrow beside Haleth’s grave.”
“Everyone in the city knows exactly where you should be buried, we will not put you there until your proper time has come. Do not give up hope.” She tells him.
He naps beside the baby as she writes at table nearby. Halloth sits down beside him and shakes him gently, “May I see the mark?”
Fréaláf is confused for a moment only, “If you must.”
Even with her he prefers to keep the mark of his Dunlending kin inked upon his neck hidden. A lineage mark of a family he has never known and yet everyone sees upon his face. She gently pushes back his hair and copies the marks onto the paper before leaning in to kiss him there. Under better circumstances he might have protested, but now he can only lay there and accept it.
“Where do I send the rider husband?”
It is a race between the two message riders, Fréalaf jokes weakly a day later. Halloth does not find it funny. She knows the rider galloping off to Dunland will likely return empty handed, and that with some luck Héra may return in time to say farewell to her cousin.
She keeps a grim vigil, hardly leaving the bed and standing close when she does. Her husband grows weaker and by the end of the third day since the arrow struck him he has faded enough to truly scare her. If she asks it of him he can rouse himself enough to talk. He has not been able to keep food down, and only a little drink.
Halloth has let him sleep with his head in her lap for several hours now, petting his hair and watching the shallow movement of his chest. She knows he will not live but her heart cannot accept it. He has been hers for scarcely three years. They had been meant to have a lifetime together.
She will look after Héra for him as best she can. The girl will have none of her own blood left living save little Haleth and will need them.
Olwyn appears late in the afternoon trying to coax her queen to take a meal.
“I will watch him for a while, go stretch your legs, change your clothes and eat something. You will feel better for it and be better fit to aid him.” The older woman coaxes.
Halloth has not seen her horse in days.
She had meant only to check his feet and bring him an apple, but instead finds herself crying into his neck. The beast does not understand but nuzzles her and licks her outstretched palms anyways.
Halloth does not know why she rides down to the graves outside the city. Her husband is known to walk from Meduseld to the city gate each morning. He has done this for as long as she has known him and his people line the streets to watch her horse pass. They look up at her questioning but quiet. Fréaláf does not think his subjects love him, but she thinks differently. They may have been wary of him once but he has been good to them and his devotion to his fallen kin who should have been their king does not go unnoticed.
Fréaláf had brought her here once, to the place the earth dips slightly in the shadow of the Western gate. It was a silent introduction of sorts. He had brought their child who bore his name as well and often let her play amongst the flowers that grow there.
This Haleth had protected her husband in life, and though she doubted there was much he could do in death it could not hurt to ask. She slides off of her horse’s bare back and leaves him to graze while she sits beside the hollow in the earth.
“Haleth, I know we haven’t spoken much before, but I would ask your help if there's any way you could give it. I’m sure you have noticed my lord husband’s absence.” She says to the earth. Her father’s people burn their dead on pyres and send the ashes out to sea on the river. They have no graves to visit, no words for their dead. The wind sways the simblemynë on the ground before her but there is no response. It is good to say these things aloud she thinks, if only for her own peace.
“I have sent word to Héra, and his other kin, they may know how to save him. He is so weak Haleth, I’ve never seen him lain low like this. I worry he will not live out the week.” She tells the ghost of her husband’s cousin.
“I’m certain you miss him, but I beg you leave him with me a while longer if you can. He is needed here and greatly loved.” Halloth says with tears finally coming to her eyes. She will come here next dressed in black to instruct the raising of her husband’s barrow she thinks. What a terrible thing it will be to lay him in the ground beside his beloved Haleth and seal the way behind him.
“My lady?”
The rider on a tired horse had somehow managed to come upon her unnoticed. Her own horse had been too busy eating to bother greeting the tired gelding who stands on the road. It is the man they sent to Dunland.
She stands, brushing the dirt and grass from her tunic, “What word from Dunland?”
The rider, a tall man barely out of his boyhood smiles at her, “I bear good tidings my lady. I was able to reach them and did not stop to take rest.”
“Oh?”
“King’s foil, or Athelas, it is a weed here. They said it will aid in healing wounds blackened by dark things.” He offers her his saddle bag, “They did not send any with me as it is most potent when fresh, but they sent other medicines of their people that have been used to aid this sort of thing. I have written instruction but…”
The rider is a young man and hesitant as to how to comfort a sobbing queen. He dismounts and tentatively reaches for her arm, “My lady are you alright?”
She nods, tears streaming down her face as she holds the pack, “Yes, go up to the stables and tend your horse. If you ever have need of anything from my family you shall have it.”
He nods to her and remounts, leaving her to clutch the pack and look to her own horse. She had seen Athelas only a moment ago in a shaded spot near Haleth’s grave. Halloth sets the pack aside and kneels to look for it. It grows along the wall and she is able to cut plenty, stuffing it into the top of the saddlebags.
She pauses a moment to thank the inhabitant of the grave, as if even in death Haleth had found a way to save his cousin. Then she rides for Meduseld.
Fréaláf’s aunt who had not laid eyes on him since childhood had written. She had spoken of his father’s death and how the arrow had pierced his gut, rendering their usual treatments useless. Athelas was the finest thing for fighting poison from such dark creatures. The instructions has said to use it in the dressing of the wound, to offer him it steeped in water, let him breathe in the vapors of the crushed leaves in steam and to bathe him with water steeped in it. She had also sent herbs to bring back his appetite and offer comfort from the pain. Halloth weeps openly at this kindness and bids Olwyn help her prepare what has been sent.
She removes her horse soiled outer garments and gets back into bed, her husband wakes enough to offer her a little smile. “Where did you go?”
“Just to see your cousin.”
“Héra is here?” There is relief in his voice until she corrects him.
“Haleth. I think he misses your morning visits. I told him why you have not been to him these past few days.” She says, petting his hair back from his face.
“He may see all too much of me soon.”
“I think not. My rider returned, he had a full moon to ride under and is back from Dunland.” Halloth tells him, laying another kiss on the lineage mark. “They have the knowledge to save you and Haleth had the means.”
“I don’t understand, how could Haleth…”
“I received word from your kin, your father’s sister, and was told the best thing for such wounds is Athelas. King’s foil. I knew we had it near the household gardens but when I looked I found much of it growing beside him in the shadow of the gate.” She says, taking the shears from Olwyn again and cutting away the soiled bandages. The wound stinks with infection and poison and oozes pus when she gently cuts the stitches. Her husband winces but does not move away.
They clean the wound again with hot water steeped in the herb and then sew it shut. Fréaláf seems pained by this but knows better than to protest. Halloth does as she’s instructed by her husband’s kin, making him drink as much as he can of the herb, setting bowls of hot water beside the bed to perfume the air with it’s steam and bathing his upper body with a soft cloth and water steeped in Athelas.
Within hours there is a noticeable difference. He is still weak, but he holds himself differently and can be convinced to eat. There is more life in him than there had been that morning. Halloth tends him with renewed fervor and is relieved to see him revived enough to sit up by the following morning.
Héra arrives that afternoon and Fréaláf does his best to convince her it was nothing. When she finds Halloth later the exhausted queen cannot help but tell her the truth. The king’s cousin had not been pleased with him for downplaying the situation but forgives him quickly enough.
A few days later Halloth wakes to her husband getting ready to leave. Normally this would not startle her, often enough she wakes to him dressing to visit his cousin’s grave and is greeted with a kiss on his way out the door. This morning he comes back to her, shedding the cloak and gathering her into his arms.
“Your strength seems to have returned,” she says happily as he cradles her head with one hand and kisses her.
He smiles, “I think I have you to thank more than Haleth for that.”
“Is that where you are going?” She asks.
“Unless you have need of me here,” He kisses her again, this time on the temple.
“I always have need of you.”
“Oh?”
“While I expect you to remain with us for quite some time, there is still the matter of succession.” She says coyly.
He raises an eyebrow trying to figure out if this is the start of a serious conversation or an invitation to something else. When Halloth answers with another kiss it becomes all too apparent what is meant.
Haleth await’s his cousin’s visit until midday.