Journey’s End
Chapter 20
Flight to Helm’s Deep
We stood amongst the people of Edoras just outside the city walls. The mood of sorrow and loss was infectious, and I found myself fighting back a tear as the body of Théodred, the king’s son, was carried past. Aragorn slipped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a comforting squeeze as Eówyn, the niece of Théoden and the blond woman we had encountered in the throne room, began to chant in the Ancestral language of the Rohirrim.
Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended
giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende on Meduselde
þat heo mano arer his þruc ne deores
on meagorinc deorcas, belu
I knew little of this language, but enough to know that she spoke of her cousin, and his unfortunate death.
As the tomb of the young man was sealed, the crowd began to drift away and Aragorn began to lead me back to the city. We walked into the Hall of Meduseld, where the afternoon meal was being served. I sat down at one of the long tables and put my head in my hands.
“I hate death.” I murmured as Aragorn sat down beside me.
“It is an unavoidable part of life, and a path that we all must take.” He sighed, resting one hand on my shoulder. I slumped against him with a sigh and closed my eyes, only to reopen them as a bowl of soup was set in front of me. I thanked the servant who had left it and began to stir it absentmindedly.
“You will feel better if you eat.” Aragorn advised me as he began his meal. I nodded and started eating.
I had just cleared my bowl, when the doors of the hall burst open and Théoden and Gandalf walked in, each carrying a child in their arms. I sprang to my feet and dashed towards them.
“What happened?” I cried.
“I don’t know.” Gandalf sighed, setting a frightened-looking little girl down at the table. “They appeared on a horse, the boy was unconscious.” I looked over at Aragorn as he tried to rouse the boy in Théoden’s arms. He awoke looking weak.
“They need food.” Aragorn stated as the boy was seated beside the girl, I could see now that they were siblings. Two bowls of steaming soup were set before the children, and I took a seat opposite them. They ate hungrily, and soon the bowls were empty. I asked a servant to bring them more food and then turned back to the children, just as Eówyn entered the room.
“Who are these children?” She asked, taking a seat beside me, sounding concerned.
“I don’t know.” I replied. “What are your names?” I asked the children. The little girl looked up.
“My name is Freda, and my brother is Eothain.” She said.
“Where are you from?” I murmured.
“Our village is in the Westfold.” Eothain said, taking control of the conversation. He was older than his sister by at least five years. “We were forced to flee and leave our mother when the Uruk-Hai and Wildmen attacked.”
“Uruk-Hai?” Eówyn asked.
“An elite form of Orc that follow Saruman.” I explained briefly.
“Why did they attack you?” I asked, pushing for more information.
“I don’t know.” Eothain sighed. “But they killed many people, and burned our homes.” Eówyn stood, and turned to Théoden, who sat in his throne.
