A one shot!
I found myself thinking about @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras's favorite of my characters and realized I hadn't written anything about Ethelwine in a while. Here is a short fic about how he and Fréaláf coped in the immediate aftermath of the long winter.
Ethelwine’s family is still whole. His mother’s face looks a little more gaunt this winter, his new brother-in-law recovering from a wound dealt to him by a Dunlending arrow this fall, and his father exhausted from his efforts to help keep the valley of Harrowdale and its mountain fortress supplied with food and fuel. Still, he could picture them now in their beds by the hearth and know they were safe.
Fréaláf could not say the same.
His cousin Héra had come to him in a torn and bloodied wedding dress on the battlefield and after told a tale of death and woe. Haleth, the oldest and perhaps dearest of Fréaláf’s cousins, had fallen defending Meduseld. Háma, who had filled the hall with music and laughter and been like a little brother to him, had been captured and slaughtered on his knees before the Deeping Wall. His uncle had been driven to madness, stalking the Dunlending camps at night, killing at will and leaving the slain in such a state that many wondered if he had been eating them. Ethelwine had stood behind Fréaláf as he questioned several of the chieftains who had surrendered to him, and felt his blood run cold at their tales of Helm the Wraith and the fear in their eyes at the mention of his name alone. No wonder their men had broken before them at the sight of Fréaláf in his uncle’s armor.
Hild, Fréaláf’s mother, lived with her second husband in the Eastemnet, and news of how they had fared the long winter had not yet reached Edoras. The Entwash had flooded with the start of the snowmelt and no rider dared risk the waters. Ethelwine could only hope that their people there and in the Wold had not suffered as those in the Westfolde and Edoras had.
Now they wait in the ruins of Edoras, attempting to make contact with the remaining strongholds, divvying up what little provisions remain and awaiting news of the ships that had arrived from Gondor at the mouth of the Isen bringing supplies. At first that news had been a relief, until they had learned that this had not been aid sent by the steward, but rather an enterprising captain who had brought a hold of stale waybread and hard salted fish and sold it to the people of the Westfolde at a dear price. Fréaláf had a report arrive just this morning of families trading what precious heirlooms and ornaments they had left for meager rations after a dangerous trek across Adorn.
He had not been doing well before this but the additional news had unsettled him more than usual. Ethelwine had watched him pace, agreed when he had ranted about the senseless cruelty of someone seeing his people’s need as an opportunity to capitalize and gently tried to coax him to settle and eat something. Fréaláf had begrudgingly let Ethelwine take care of him, eating together and then helping one another out of the cloaks and armor they had worn that day. There had not been fighting for some time, but here in a ruined city with few friends and men still at arms it felt right to continue to dress for war. Fréaláf would likely be crowned king, but until then he commanded as the First Marshall of the Riddermark and would need to look the part.
Ethelwine watches him now, stripped of his armor and sitting on the edge of their shared bed. His shoulders slouch and his hands support his face. There is exhaustion in every line of his body and an endless grief that lingers in those beautiful gray eyes.
“What do you need?” Ethelwine asks carefully.
Fréaláf looks up at the fire burnt low in the hearth, “I wish I knew.”
“Still thinking about that report?”
Fréaláf only nods, “I know it’s the way of the world to get ahead where one can, but to race past any aid given freely to take what little our people have left is so bereft of honor. I can’t imagine the sort of man it would take to order such a thing.”
Ethelwine moves closer and slips an arm around him, “Not even a man like Wulf?”
Fréaláf leans into him, “Wulf was cruel and cunning, but at least he saw us as an enemy. My uncle slew his father after summoning him to a witan. No king should raise a hand against one of his subjects for petty insults alone. His offer for Héra was a good one, if she had been interested and he was a better man it might have been a blessing. Perhaps it would have worked out better than the last time a princess of the Riddermark rode west with a Dunlending husband. We sent Wulf away wounded and insulted, it is not unthinkable that he should come looking for a weir guild or justice. Whoever sent that ship thought only of lining their pockets, that feels more coldhearted from the sheer indifference.”
Ethelwine only nods, “It’s cold, get under the covers and we can talk about this more.” He waits until Fréaláf is settled to lay down on top of him. There is something about the weight and being effectively pinned that seems to calm him. The frantic look in his eyes fades a little and some of the tension leaves his body. Ethelwine shifts slightly, collecting his hands in his, “I know it's a lot. You’ve done well. I know how hard you have tried to do well by our people. You’re allowed to rest.”
The permission seems to help. Ethelwine releases his hands and feels Fréaláf wrap his arms around his back to hold him closer.
“I just feel numb.” Fréaláf whispers.
Ethelwine rolls off of him and shifts to hold Fréaláf when he comes looking for contact.
“Not like that. I mean I walk through the city and see the new graves and the burnt homes and feel nothing. I think I used it all up. It’s not that I don’t care, I do. I just don’t know if I can feel it anymore, if that makes sense.” Fréaláf explains.
“I think that is a very reasonable way to feel.”
Fréaláf shudders in his arms, “And yet I feel on the verge of tears so often now that I wish I had some left to cry. Instead I just feel empty and numb.”
“I do not think this is the sort of thing anyone is simply meant to bear well and get on with. Come back to Harrowdale with me to see my family. It would be good for you to rest and relieve your heart of the burden of living amongst such devastation, even for a little while. My cousin has a new baby I would like to meet.” Ethelwine offers.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” Ethelwine assures him.
“I’ll think about it.” Fréaláf finally relents.
Ethelwine knows he will probably find a reason to deny himself this, but for now that is enough.
