7 - Rohan Years - Like Raven Wings

(Intro: Rómeniêl went to Rohan with Aragorn and met a honorable Rohirrim Captain, named Harold. He took her heart and tales of their deeds and doings still are told in Rohan. She bore a son to Harold and named him in the way of her ancestors, Anorsul. Aragorn was known as Thorongil at that time. Thengel ruled in Rohan.)

Rómeniêl lay in the tent that the armies of Rohan had built to keep out the cold of winter that was slowly approaching. It was night time and the tent was filled with dim light of a single torch, the smell of smoke and the cold that slowly crept in like an unseen enemy.

She had forgotten how long she had lain there clutching a bloodstained cloak, staring at the ceiling, unmoved. Her face was white and had not shown signs of emotion for days.
 

An old man sat beside her, his face too was pale and sorrowful; his bushy, bristly eyebrows moving up and down as he frowned. He smoked a pipe and from time to time he stood up wandering through the tent.

The wind rustled and shook the tent, a storm was coming up. "A storm," thought Rómeniêl. "Let the storm carry all this away. Let it carry me away." The old man looked up and thoughtfully stroked his long grey beard, then he stepped over to where Rómeniêl lay and put his hand upon her forehead. He started to mumble a few words in an ancient tongue; even Rómeniêl didn’t understand what he said.

"Ah, damn it - don’t be so stubborn woman!" A sudden burst of anger darkened the face of the old man and he seemed to grow and fill the room. "Don’t be so stubborn! I know you can hear me!" He turned around and crossed the tent in long fast strides in a way that he seemed much younger than his appearance. "Stubborn children – all of them! You will not follow them! You cannot follow them!" The man clad in grey garments grabbed a staff and knocked some cups from a nearby table. They fell noisily to the ground, but still she gave neither sign nor sound.

The old man turned around. His features smoothened and there was a sudden concern and softness in his bright eyes. He came over to her bed, sat down upon it and stroked her forehead again. "Children you are all - his Secondborn. Don’t you lose hope my dear child. Remember your strength, your duty, let me kindle your fire again. Don’t let them be gone for naught. There is still hope – there always is hope."

The curtains at the entrance of the tent were drawn aside. Thorongil clad in armour came in; he was dirty, tired and cold. He looked at Rómeniêl and then at the old man and sorrow could be seen in his face even bigger than his tiredness. "We couldn’t find any sign of him, Gandalf. How is she?"

"She will be alright, Thorongil. She will be alright." The last sentence sounded like the reinsurance to himself. “Alright as a woman who lost husband and son in one night can be.”

"Greyhame, I need to talk to you on urgent matters and your presence is needed at the meeting with King Thengel."

The young Dúnedan, later known as Aragorn, bowed slightly with respect for the wizard. Gandalf sighed and grabbed his staff, suddenly he looked much older and as if he was carrying a heavy burden. He bowed over Rómeniêl again and whispered: "If all hope fails, go to the Shire - the Shire, yes. Find some peace and quiet there." He smiled. As he turned to Hama he mumbled to himself still smiling: "Yes the Shire, I will have to go there myself. Yes, the Shire." He turned to Aragorn beaming: "Now show me the way to King Thengel’s tent."  Thorongil smiled broadly back at him and all his tiredness and dread seemed to be wiped away by the wizard’s smile.

The tent was empty now. The wind, which had swept in when the wizard and Thorongil had left the tent, blew out the last flame of the torch. It was pitch-black now. Rómeniêl felt the cold of winter creep in even more. When the wizard had left it seemed that the last warmth in this tent had left with him. Winter threatened to choke all life on these plains, but she didn’t care. She cared no more.

She lay still on the bed her eyes still wide open. But slowly her hand began to stroke the cloak she was clutching. Even slower she moved it in front of her face and drew a deep breath. A familiar, beloved smell filled her nose, but it was mixed with a horrid, awful smell she knew too well - orcs. She tried to focus on the smell she had loved so much for so many years. She had known that he would have to go before her. "But not both of them," she thought to herself.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. Quickly tears filled her eyes, tears she had feared so much to cry. Silently her tears ran down her face and mingled with the blood on the cloak. After a while she began humming quietly and her humming changed into a soft lament. Her words were in Elvish and this is what they said:

"Again night spreads raven wings over the plains,

While the wind cries and battles with my voice.

In an ocean of tears I look for shelter.

But my bed remains cold without the warmth of the other,

Still heartbeat and breath fill the silence of my room.

Drowning I hear beating and pounding like echoes long lost.

My reaching hand finds a cold pillow, white like a burial shroud in the moonshine,

My eyes blinded by darkness that has fallen black around me.

Only sounds like raven wings reinsure me that I am still alive."

She repeated the words several times very silently. Carefully she sat up in her bed still clutching the cloak. She pressed the cloak to her chest drawing its smell in for a last time. Then she carefully folded it, kissed it and laid it aside. She stood up and had to get hold of a tent post. Her knees gave way from her long rest.

Rómeniêl steadied herself and tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness. "The Shire!" The way the wizard had said these words drew pictures in her mind. Pictures, that bore no comfort yet, of sunlight, laughter and the warmth of spring. Painful pictured, but Rómeniêl knew he was right – he always was right.

With what strength still left in her she packed silently and swiftly without lighting a fire or torch. Before she left the tent she turned to her bed again looking at the bloodstained bundle. One moment her eyes rested there and she seemed uncertain what to do. Her hand reached out to touch the delicately embroidered cloth, but then she pulled back her hand turned and crept out of the backside of the tent.

Rómeniêl knew how to get to the horses quickly and at a whisper a beautiful spotted mare came to her. She stroked its mane and saddled it quickly. She turned her horse northwards.

"The Shire," was all she thought as the moon broke through the clouds and the storm came to a rest. "To the Shire!" Rómeniêl looked up at the full moon and the stars that shone through the wisps of clouds. "To the Shire!"