Sword Maiden of Rohan | Of Every Race Saga Book IV

Chapter 3: Saga of Sorrow

Dedicated to  Harpist_Tindomerel, a harpist.

A few weeks later, Déorhild was fully healed from her wounds and was often seen wandering the palace. On one of these days, Éomer was walking down the long corridor and saw Déorhild standing at the railing watching the activity in the courtyard below. It had started raining and a chill wind was blowing. Éomer stopped next to her and then spoke. "It is good to see that you are healed now."

Déorhild turned to look at him, her face as usual never showing any sign of emotion except a grave seriousness. "Yes, I suppose so." She studied the courtyard again. "I just wish," she began, but stopped.

Éomer spoke quietly. "What is that that you wish?"

She replied slowly, as if embarrased. "That I could go back home, and see what's left; if anybody has survived, and if so, help them. But I suppose that's too much to ask."

"No, it isn't," Éomer replied. "I can ask the King if you want. Would you like me too?"

Déorhild looked at him and nodded, "Yes, please. Sir."

He smiled, "Just call me Éomer."

Just then, someone called up from the courtyard, "Éomer, come down here, I need you!"

Éomer looked annoyed, but said, "I'm coming down."

A few hours later, Déorhild was walking quietly through one of the ajoining halls to the great hall when she came upon a golden harp. It was wrought with golden flowers and leaves which framed the many horses carved into the harp. Déorhild reached out and touched one of the strings. The sound vibrated through the empty hall. But then a voice startled her: "You may have the harp."

Déorhild whirled around to see Éowyn standing a few feet away from her. "I- I'm sorry!" Déorhild exclaimed.

"No, you may," Éowyn stated. "The owner of the harp, a blind poet of great renown, Gléobeam, once lived at our hall. When he died, his last wish was that the harp would belong only to one who like him, suffered great sorrow in their life but through music and perhaps other things, could find joy in life again; as well as the skill to play the harp. Are you skilled?" She finished, looking questionly at Déorhild.

She answered, "Yes, I often played on feast days." She looked down, before continuing, "May I really own it?"

Éowyn smiled, "Yes, you may. I should like to hear you play."

Déorhild responded, "Perhaps you shall."

Later, after many were in bed and those awake prefered to stay in the great hall, Déorhild walked out onto a inner wall, close to the palace, but inside the great outer wall which ran the length of the city. The air was cold and damp; she pulled her cloak close around her and looked up at the sky. The moon, blurry behind clouds, slowly faded from view as a darker cloud moved over it. She looked at the outer wall. Torches lit every tower and she could see soldiers on guard.

She sat down on the step. It was chill to her touch. Déorhild sighed and took out the harp that Éowyn had given her. King Théoden gave his permission for Déorhild to own it. She ran her fingers lightly over the strings producing notes that rang in the clear air. Then she started plucking softly a sad, solemn melody and began to sing.

Several yards away, Éomer heard the sound of a harp. He turned and peered into the dark, but could not see who it was that played so sweetly, so beautifully, and so very sadly. He heard words that sounded strange to his ears. They sounded like Rohan's lament for the dead, but stranger. The words sounded more ancient, like what Rohan's language must have sounded like many years before his father's time. Over and over, he heard the melody until the night was almost gone and his watch was over. Fasthelm, a fellow member of the Rohirrim, came to replace him at the wall.

Éomer walked to the inner wall and came upon Déorhild sitting still, staring into the far away distance, her hands clasped atop the harp.

"Was it you that was singing?" he asked. She nodded in reply. "It sounded beautiful," he said before asking, "Why did you sing it over and over, and why did it sound so strange -- the words, I mean?"

Déorhild looked up. "I was singing the lament of Rohan. I was singing in the dialect of the people of my village." She stared into the distance, as if seeing things that he had no part of. "It is the custom of my village that when one would die we would sing the lament over them. To die unsung, was to die abandoned and unloved. I was singing for all of the villagers who most assuredly died." Her voice faded away into the distance.

Éomer was looking at her intently. Thoughts that he didn't quite understand flooded his brain. He longed to hold her in his arms, to tell her that even though all that she ever knew and loved had passed away, he was still there and cared for her...

Déorhild shook her head as if shaking away bitter memories. She changed the subject, "Have you asked the King yet if I may go?"

Éomer looked at her guiltily. "No, I haven't, but I will."