Prince of The Mark - A Lord of the Rings Story

Prince of the Mark

The rustling grasses almost frustrated the efforts of the child as he drew his bow, the yet undeveloped muscles in his scrawny arm straining for release.

His tongue poked stubbornly out of the corner of his mouth, his blonde hair whipping about the ruddy cheeks and earnest blue eyes. Surprisingly, the arrow flew from the entrapped space and landed squarely in the heart of a wooden bear.

The boy crowed, his bow forgotten on the ground as he leapt backwards, his focus on the figure behind him. "See, fæder? I pierced its heart, truly as straight as any marksmen of our land."

The tall king chuckled and rose from the ground to embrace his son, the heavy cape on his shoulders almost enveloping them both. "How fine you shoot, Elfwine. I wish your byrðre had seen it. But pick up your bow, shame! No warrior forsakes his weapon."

"Mother sees me all the time," shrugged the boy, running to pick up his bow. After carefully wiping the bowstring and grip, he painstakingly slung it over his back, careful to keep his unruly locks far from his prized possession. "When may I ride out with you, father?" The boy asked again, surely for the thousandth time. He was so anxious to impress his father; Elfwine had to become a warrior.

The King Éomer, Eighteenth in the line of the Kings of Rohan watched his son silently, his face moody and contemplative. If Elfwine had been looking closely he would have seen his father's jaw tighten as he asked to go to battle. The child, a perceptive boy, knew something was on his father's mind. Yet he said nothing as they began walking back towards home — the royal city of Meduseld.

More than anything, the prince of Rohan wanted to be the commander of the hundreds of Eóreds in his father's services. He had heard the legends of glory around the feast tables and firesides on cold nights, though his father never spoke of such things around him. Father did not mention war, though Elfwine could not imagine why. It all seemed so grand.

"Tell me, son," the boy looked up, awaiting his father's voice. The king took a moment to think, struggling for words. Fighter and noble ruler he was, but orator, nay. "Why do you wish to ride with the Eóreds of Rohan?"

The boy skipped down the path, his childish zeal evident. "I want to fight evil!" He exclaimed, pretending to draw his bow. "Like you and faðu Eowyn," Éomer turned to him in astonishment as he continued, "You fought the Easterlings and brought down their beasts," the boy scowled and pronounced the name stutteringly, the emphasis foreign, "Mûm-ma-kil, and auntie destroyed the Witch King, piercing his skull with her mighty steel—"

Èomer grabbed his son with such a force that the child reeled back with in pain, and knelt down, his eyes searching his son's. "Where did you hear this?" He hissed quietly, his face wrathful. "Who told you of the battle on the Pelennor Fields?"

The child's eyes were wide, and his mind reeled, but he answered, wanting to obey his father more than anything else. "The stable boys talk to me, father. They tell me whatever I want to know," he whispered, ducking his head. "I'm sorry. I won't ever ask them again for stories. I promise, fæder."

Èomer saw a tear drip from his son's eye and his mind seemed to comprehend, and he pulled the boy in a crushing embrace. "Oh, my son. My son," he whispered as he rocked the boy until the tears had stopped. They sat silently, the boy huddled to his father's chest, drawing reassurance from the smell of horses and hay.

At last Èomer spoke, setting the boy upon his feet again. "Come, Elfwine. I have something to show you." As Elfwine reached for his father's hand, Èomer smiled and enveloped the tiny fingers in his large palm.