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A message [Jan. 28th, 2004|07:55 pm]
Éadayn stepped through her doorway into the streets of Edoras, pulling a shawl tightly around her. The wind was rushing through the capital as usual; she made her way down the hill and out of the city gates bent against it, seeking out the camp of the riders.

Worry had been growing in the city again lately, and she had decided at last to seek out her cousin Cyren and ask if he knew of plans for erasing the still-lingering threat of Orcs in Rohan, as well as to bring news of the unexpected visitors that had stumbled through the gates only hours earlier.

Perhaps she had thought that upon finding the camp, Cyren would simply be standing around and waiting for her. That was not the case, however, and Éadayn was at a loss for where to look; all the tents looked the same, and only a few of the men braved the wind to stand outside talking. She recognized none of them. She wandered helplessly around the edge of the encampment, wondering how on earth she was going to find her cousin.
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Flashback- As the Riders depart for the Fields of the Pelennor [Jan. 13th, 2005|10:15 pm]
Cyren sat on one of the steps on the slope of Edoras. He watched thoughtfully, and with sorrow, as the other men of Rohan walked about, shining helms beneath their chainmail arms. He noted, too, the women walking round, and the children scampering about; the rest of the injured were in Meduseld, save for a few sitting on the edge of the great stone well. A few who, like him, were direly in need of free air at least, if they could not have action.
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Flashback: After Helm's Deep [Jan. 13th, 2004|07:30 pm]
Éadayn stood, pulling the hair from her face, where it stuck fast. So many bodies filled the caverns of Helm's Deep that the heat was stifling, and the smell was becoming worse and worse. She had been stooping over a young boy, brought in from the fields hastily bandaged. He had awakened for a moment and cried out, for he must have felt for the first time the pain of having lost an entire arm. Éadayn had not the means to keep the blood from stemming from his arm, and so she had sat with him, only waiting out the time until his eyes closed forever.

It was perhaps the gravest day she had ever seen. The loss of men was tragic, but slowly she was becoming immune to death as men around her expired one after the other. They were tended as best possible before brought into the caverns, but there was still haste to be made, for Rohan had still to go to Gondor and aid them in vanquishing their foes. And so many lay around, dead or dying, or gravely wounded, and she had not the skill or means with which to save them, nor ease their sufferings.

Éadayn was moving to the delirious man next to the body of the young boy when she heard someone calling her name. She turned, and the seamstress who had lived in the house next to her family for all of Éadayn's life was calling to her. She stood near a group of men who had just brought in several bodies, living or dead they knew not. Éadayn made her way to them.

"What of these?" she asked the men who carried them.

"Two gone, we think," said the one nearest her. "This fellow's bleeding still. Don't mind him much. And here's another nearly gone, in some sort of fever, Miss."

Éadayn nodded, and the men left. She found that two of the men were indeed dead, and the third was shaking in his death throes. The fourth still wore his helm, and she had a hard labor trying to remove it and not injuring him further. Though it was she herself who nearly died when she saw his face finally; the fourth man, the one who the men had said was caught in a fever, was none but her cousin Cyren, of whom she was quite fond; quite probably one of the only surviving members of her family.

"Hast thou any water?" she asked her neighbor, who stood over her in concern.

"Nay, miss," said the woman. "But I might fetch thee some, for I've seen a smal store at the back of the caverns."

"Go then, and make haste," Éadayn said. "I tell thee, this man shall not die like the others. He I shall save, if fate permits. Go, woman!"

And the woman went quickly, for she heard the urgency in Éadayn's voice. And Éadayn would sit by no men but those who were near her cousin for the remainder of the day, waiting for him to awaken.
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A day's work [Jan. 11th, 2004|04:38 pm]
Éadayn sat at her loom, fingers slipping in and out of the fabric of the blanket she was weaving. The loom was old; it had been her mother's until she had passed on. Now it was Éadayn who wove for her bread. As a child, she had always enjoyed watching her mother's nimble fingers weave strands of yarn and wool in and out until a magnificent pattern formed. She enjoyed the creation still, but it was her hands now that bore the callouses of the work.

She glanced down at her work; it was a thick, deep green blanket--a saddle blanket, the old woman had said. Her son had become a rider, and her hands were too gnarled and shook too much to craft him the blanket herself. Éadayn had smiled and accepted the request: a small white horse on either corner, amid the field of green. The flag of Rohan, on a smaller scale, and fit for a horse. Beautiful as it might be in its simplicity, Éadayn found it extremely tiring to weave row after row of plain green wool.

She hummed as she wove, a song so old that its words had been forgotten. And even when she thought her mind was at breaking point, she felt that she heard a voice joining her--or many voices.

She glanced out the window at her right and saw children running past her tiny house, sitting on the hill of the capital. She heard the sound again--not voices but horns, she realized. She opened her door and stood just outside the threshold. A small gathering of children waited at the entrance of Edoras. The horns grew louder and louder, and then came the sound of pounding hooves. A moment later, hundreds of men on horseback were riding by, the first carrying the banner of the Mark. Éadayn smiled broadly; the riders had returned.
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