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.
Sorry I've been so slow to write this chapter. Here's more of chapter 41. @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras there's mention of your favorite of my characters in here for you.
Fréaláf shakes his head, “No, my mother would not hold that against you even if she had. I’ve spoken well of you to her. She will adore you like a daughter…a daughter she actually likes.”
“Aren’t all mothers resentful of the woman who steals their son away?”
“I can hardly count as stolen away when she left me at court all those years ago. She will be glad someone wanted me enough to marry.”
Halloth scoffs and moves a step closer, “I’m certain there are plenty of women who have wanted you. Men too from what you’ve told me.”
“To bed perhaps, but not to marry. I do not think that many like the idea of me siring dark haired children who look as though they belong in Dunland.”
“Not even Ethelwine? There would have been no worry of children from that coupling.”
“In another life perhaps, where I could give myself to him fully and not pull him away from all that he loves in Harrowdale. He stayed with me in Edoras for a time, before the coronation, and he was miserable there.” Fréaláf admits, wondering if he should have told her sooner.
“He sounds like a good man,” Halloth says. There is a question there, but Fréaláf isn’t quite sure what it is.
“He stood by me and held me against the darkness of that winter when no one else could. I owe him a debt I can never hope to repay.” Fréaláf tells her as he reaches for her hand.
“Why me and not him?”
“Because you love the king, he loved the man I was before I was any of this. I can make you happy in Meduseld and keep you at my side in public and in private. I could not offer him that.” He explains gently. “You can love someone and know in your heart you are not meant to belong to one another forever.”
She nods, “I am afraid to give myself to you fully. I still worry that there are parts of me that are too ugly for you to truly love.”
His hand settles on the small of her back, “I do not think that will be the case. Most people would have found a way to at least hint at their worst qualities by now.”
“And since you are so wise, what are mine?” Halloth asks.
He pauses, for that question seems dangerous. Still he will not back down from a challenge so easily, “You’re reckless, stubborn and you refuse to let anyone see what you’re thinking. Which I could argue are some of your best qualities as well.”
“How so?”
“You were reckless enough to climb into bed with the king of Rohan on only your second night in Edoras.”
That draws a smile from Halloth, “Well, I was invited and he happened to be the prettiest man I’d ever met. How could I refuse? Besides, he was infuriatingly chaste.”
“You were stubborn enough to pursue me all winter, even when I was too thick headed to see your interest was sincere.”
“As I said, the prettiest man I’d ever met. I couldn’t let you slip away that easily now could I?”
“I only take issue with the last one, I wish you would let me see more of what you think and feel. Sometimes I worry you hide even more from me than I think.”
She leans into him, “I don’t mean to do it, not to you at least. You’ve met my family now, I’m certain you can see why I learned to be so guarded.”
I'm sorry Ethelwine fans, here's the story of when Fréaláf and Ethelwine break up for the final time before Fréaláf is crowned king. I am so sorry @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras
(mentions of sex but no actual sexual content)
Ethelwine had taken to standing behind Fréaláf during meetings, if it could be helped. He did not enjoy guard duty, but Fréaláf had asked it of him and in such a dark time as this it was difficult to refuse his friend anything. Fréaláf had asked much of him of late.
After they had left the Súthberg he had watched the burden of leadership settle more heavily on his friend’s shoulders. He had kept the title of First Marshall, but many had taken to calling him their king after he had broken the siege in his uncle’s armor. Fréaláf would not be crowned until the spring had warmed enough to allow the lords of the Riddermark to ride for Edoras and confirm this at a proper witan, but most had written and pledged their support.
It made sense for him to be their king, for he was the last of the line of Eorl. His cousin might have been crowned Rohan’s first ruling queen, but the girl had refused any talk of that. She was more shaken by what had happened then she let on and Ethelwine had heard her crying in her cousin’s room more than once. It had briefly been suggested that Fréaláf should wed his cousin, thereby preventing any conflicting claims to the throne in the following generation, but he had dismissed that proposal out of hand. First cousins were far too close to be wed, even Gondorians would balk at that. There had been talk of other brides for their new king, to bolster his goodwill and support from lords of the Eastemnet who had been largely untouched by the Dunlending invasion. He had refused to entertain that thought either, which hadn’t helped the current situation, or rather Ethelwine’s current situation.
Ethelwine had been warming Fréaláf’s bed since before the first snow had fallen that winter. They had been together once, before Fréaláf had been elevated to lead their éored. It was improper for such relations to exist between a commander and one who followed him to battle, and yet, the winter had been cold, the men kept at arms instead of home with their families, and the dread of not knowing what had befallen their friends and kin in Edoras had weighed heavily on all of them. If any objected to Ethelwine and Fréaláf finding comfort in one another’s company, none found reason to speak such thoughts aloud.
Once Fréaláf had learned of the fall of his uncle and two of his cousins his grief and the increased responsibility weighed heavily on him. He bore it well in public, but behind closed doors he was frantic with grief and worry. Ethelwine had done his best to comfort him, coax him to eat more, and hold him tightly at night when sleep refused to come to him. He is worried for him, and each day Fréaláf seems to lean more heavily on Ethelwine. At each counsel meeting he could feel Fréaláf look to him for some sort of approval or insight when asked to make a decision. It is not Ethelwine’s place to give such opinions, not publicly at least. He had taken up duties in Fréaláf’s personal guard, which Hildred had insisted on founding. When Ethelwine had volunteered Hildred had given him a skeptical look but had not refused. Hildred had his qualms about their relationship but had admitted he slept easier knowing Ethelwine was with him at night.
There had been a time when it had been easy to be with Fréaláf. He can call to mind all the winter nights spent curled up under furs in the loft of his parent’s home, or languid summer days lying in the clover with his head in Fréaláf’s lap and the sound of bees flying overhead. Now they bed down together in the salvaged hall behind the ruins of Meduseld, where the household guard had been barracked in better days. Fréaláf comes to their bed looking worn thin and so tense that Ethelwine often spends a while trying to work the stiffness from his neck and shoulders before he falls asleep. He’s grown quiet too and won’t let Ethelwine touch him the way one might expect from a lover. All he seems to want is to be held and sheltered from all that he is expected to be outside the door to their shared chamber. Ethelwine isn’t sure how much longer he can stand to live like this.
He had tried to sneak him away for a week at Ethelwine’s family home. There he would not have to think about any of the worries that plagued him in Edoras, but he had refused. His people needed him, provisions were short and when more arrived from Gondor he needed to be there for their reception, not hiding in the mountains. So Ethelwine had waited, stood guard, listened in on counsel meetings, held him at night and tried to hold on to hope that this rather bleak existence would improve with the coming of spring.
Spring had come, and with it the first of the lords of the Riddermark. His Fréaláf would be crowned king soon. Ethelwine does not wish to be a guard forever, and yet where else is there room for him beside a king? He misses his bees, his family and the mountains.
It had been easier to explain to Hildred than he had thought it would be. The usually gruff man is sympathetic, and thanks him for all he has done. He too had wondered how Fréaláf planned to continue on with Ethelwine once crowned king. Telling Fréaláf will be more difficult. He puts it off for two nights, as the sight of Fréaláf and the way he tucks himself in against Ethelwine’s chest makes it difficult to speak words he knows will hurt him.
The words come out softly, so softly that at first Fréaláf does not catch their full meaning.
“I’m riding for Harrowdale tomorrow,” is all Ethelwine can bring himself to say.
“Hmmm?” Fréaláf asks, lifting his head from its spot on Ethelwine’s chest to meet his eyes.
“I’m leaving.”
“When will you be back?” Fréaláf asks, a growing worry in his voice.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you take leave from Hildred? You must know when you plan to return.”
“I don’t plan to return Fréaláf,” He says with a finality that almost startles him.
“You can’t.”
“Is that an order?”
“No, but--”
“Then I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Fréaláf withdraws, “Did I do something wrong?”
There is no way to kindly tell him that he is slowly sucking the life out of him. Ethelwine loves him, but he does not think he can love the king and all that it will entail.
Instead he carefully sits up and takes Fréaláf’s hands in his, “I’m going home to live with my parents for a while, I’ve been unhappy here.”
“Unhappy?” Fréaláf looks at him incredulously, “We are in the midst of recovering our country from invaders, living scantily between shipments of grain and smoked meat from Gondor, and dwelling in a ruined city Ethelwine. I don’t think any of us are happy about it.”
“I know, that is not what I am referring to,” He explains as gently as possible.
Fréaláf pulls his hands away, “No…”
“You and I know this can’t continue. It’s killing me. Standing guard at your side each day, unable to break decorum while watching you, then holding you behind closed doors while you try to put yourself together enough to continue on in the morning.” Ethelwine offers.
Fréaláf shakes his head, “You say that as if I have a choice in the matter, it’s a duty I can’t set aside.”
“You have always chosen duty over me Fréaláf, I do not resent you for it.”
“It was never a choice!”
“Perhaps it wasn’t, but have you considered how it has felt to be me? I don’t want to live in your shadow, only allowed close when no one is looking. I want you as I had you when we were younger, when I could have all of you. Not like this. I’m so tired and homesick Fréalaf, I don’t think I can carry on like this much longer.”
“Niether can I. If you leave I’ll be alone,” Fréaláf says quietly.
“I know, but you’re stronger than you think. You’ll find a way, and you will not be alone forever.”
He reaches for Ethelwine’s hands again, “Please Ethelwine, I cannot do this without you. I already dread walking out that door each day to face everything they expect of me, the only thing keeping me sane is knowing I can come back to you at night.”
“I’m so sorry Fréaláf,” Ethelwine tells him. “Perhaps you should humor the talk of finding you a bride?”
Fréaláf shakes his head, “I don’t want someone else, I want you…please don’t go. I will do whatever you want, give you whatever you want, so long as you stay.”
“It’s too late for that. You will need a bride eventually. I’m afraid no matter how many times I bed you there’s no chance it will ever result in continuing the line of Eorl.”
“You haven’t been bedding me,” Fréaláf reminds him.
“I’ve tried to initiate, you never responded in a way that made me think you wanted more than to be held at night.” Ethelwine says.
Fréaláf moves in closer, “Would it change things if I did?”
Ethelwine pauses, “I want to be your partner, not a secret shoved into a role I hate so I’m readily available when you want me. I know you will not abandon your duties as king, if I were to stay how would you ensure my happiness?”
“It is not illegal or shameful for two men to be together, I could acknowledge you as a prince consort or something of that nature.”
“And how will you come by an heir?”
Fréaláf moves over and lays on his back to think this over, “I will have to marry a Gondorian woman most likely, for the resources that would bring to Edoras. I have heard that in Gondor the nobility do not share a bed with their spouse unless they are trying for a child. Perhaps I could find a woman who would agree to a marriage for practical purposes who might have her own lover.”
“You really think that a Gondorian noblewoman with a substantial dowry is going to come to Rohan to marry a man whose heart belongs to another?”
“Or I could refuse to take a wife and name Héra’s firstborn son as my heir, then the line of Eorl will continue to pass unbroken from father to son.” Fréaláf suggests.
“Your cousin Héra who has been very vocal about her unwillingness to wed any man since she grew to womanhood? Oh, I think that’s a very viable plan.” Ethelwine says, tentatively laying a hand on Fréaláf’s chest.
“Then perhaps I should just wed Héra and be done with it. All we would need is a son and then she could do as she liked and I would abdicate as soon as he is old enough to rule.”
Ethelwine frowns and leans over to look at him, “Look me in the eyes and tell me you would wed and swive your unwilling cousin, who you love, for the sake of doing what you think is your duty and keeping me at your side. You would hate yourself for it and your people would not respect you either. In fact I can’t believe you would suggest such a thing.”
“I could refuse the crown,” Fréaláf says quietly.
“You could, but then you risk the lords of the Mark fighting over it, Gondor rescinding our sovereignty if Eorl’s line is truly broken, and what would become of Héra?”
“We could turn our backs to it all and Héra could come live with us in Harrowdale. Your mother would allow it.”
“She would, but could you live with yourself if you turned your back on all of this?” Ethelwine asks.
Fréaláf inhales and holds his breath for a moment, “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I know I can do it. My uncle made sure Haleth and I would be prepared to rule. I never expected to have to do it alone though.”
Ethelwine lays down beside him, “I can’t imagine Haleth has gone far. There are already songs of his ghost guarding the steps of Meduseld. I do not think he would abandon you so readily, even in death.”
“Haleth would not want me to shirk this duty,” Fréaláf admits.
“I am sorry for what it will cost you,” Ethelwine tells him.
“There is nothing I can do to make you stay? I do not want you to be unhappy for my sake but I am loath to lose you. You’re the only one I can let my guard down with.”
“Hildred may be an old grump, but he likes you and you can trust him. You have Héra too. You’re not as alone as you think.” He tells him.
“So you have made your mind up on this then?”
“I have.”
Fréaláf turns to tuck his face against Ethelwine’s side and slip his arm around him, “This is all so sudden though, can’t you stay longer?”
“I don’t think I should. You need to learn to stand on your own if you are going to do this. I know it is out of habit, but others have begun to notice how you look to me for guidance even in public.”
“Because you give good counsel.”
“But I am not in a position where I am the one you should be turning to.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“Just because a man has a title it does not make him wise,” Fréaláf protests.
Ethelwine shifts to bring them closer together, “Turn over so I can hold you properly.”
Fréaláf hesitates but does as he’s asked, “Please don’t go.”
“I have to, don’t hate me for it….”
“I could never hate you, only I wish there was something I could do to make you want to stay.”
Ethelwine pauses but then cups his face in one hand and leans in to kiss him, “I have loved you since our first summer together. You are kind and noble and I think you will make a wonderful king. I only hope that you will find a way to be happy again.”
“I want you beside me.”
“I know, but this is not where I belong, Fréaláf. I need to go back to Harrowdale, to the forests, and mountains, and the meadows where I can watch my bees all summer. I will be happy there, even if you cannot follow.” He muses.
“I have only ever wanted you to be happy,” Fréaláf says quietly. “Are you certain that cannot happen at my side?”
“We could argue the details of it all night, but I think the outcome would be the same. I have loved you to the best of my ability, I will continue to do so, but being with you like this is killing me. I want all of you, and I know I cannot have you.” He explains.
Fréaláf sits up to look at him, “Then if this is to be the end, I will make the most of it, if you will have me.”
There is a certain sadness to it, each caress a farewell in itself. Ethelwine holds him after, leaning in to kiss his brow long after Fréaláf has drifted off to sleep. He stays up a while watching him, for now he is still his. At dawn he will kiss him again in farewell, then relinquish his claim on him and ride up the mountain to his home while Fréaláf will remain in Edoras to be crowned king of a ruined city.
Like many of the Rohirrim Ethelwine's most striking feature is his hair. He has the typical but very beautiful pale gold hair of his countrymen. It falls about six inches past his shoulders, but sometimes he lets it get longer. Usually, he wears it half up to keep it out of his face. If he's going to be wearing a helm he has someone do something like a French braid with the top part for him so it lies mostly flat under there. He takes very good care of it and has naturally thick and slightly textured hair that gives him the sort of waves 21st-century women would kill for.
He also grows a beard, though it comes in more of a red-gold color instead of pale blonde. Fréaláf has tried on multiple occasions to convince him to shave it off. He has never been successful.
