Leofe and Lady Elfhild sat before the tall doors of Meduseld, awaiting the arrival of Leofe’s kin. Edoras was spread out below them as they sat on that high place, and the low, wooden buildings clustered around the base of the hill like chicks around a hen. The land was brown and gold and the fields lay fallow, waiting for winter. It was perhaps too late in the year for sitting out of doors, but Leofe wished to feel the sun on her face. She would enter the dark soon enough, and she had not yet had her fill of the light.

It was a bitter thing to leave the world so soon, but the parting would be more bitter for her son. Seven silent babes Leofe had placed into the earth of Rohan since she had come to her marriage bed at the age of fifteen. Her son, Grima, was the only survivor, and he was sickly and malformed, with fragile bones and weak, watery eyes. Had she not begged her husband Galmod for his life, he would have been taken away and exposed on some hillside, food for wolves. Galmod was an oaf and a fool and he had never been kind to her, but he had loved her as much as he could have loved anything, and he could not deny her the prize of a living child at last after so much painful struggle. Ah well. Galmod had gone to his long home, drowned that spring while fording the river Snowbourn. It had been many months and still she was dressed in widow’s garments, though she did not grieve for him. She felt more grief for her son. My unhappy son! You are too weak to be a warrior of the Riddermark, and Rohan does not value scholars. I fear for you now. What will you have, when I am gone? The world is not a kind place for those who are different.

Leofe shivered and hugged herself. Elfhild, dear, kind Elfhild, put her arm around Leofe’s shoulders. “Are you in pain, sister?”

There was always pain. It never left her. It was written in every line on her gray face, every thread of silver in Leofe’s hair. They were not sisters, or even kin, but Elfhild was kind, and they had known each other for many years. They looked like two sides of a coin as they sat together: Elfhild with her fair hair, bright hazel eyes, and gown of yellow wool, and Leofe with her dark hair, gray eyes, and veil of mourning. “It is nothing. I am merely a little cold.” Winter was within Leofe now, and she was always cold.

“Let us go in, then.”

Elfhild started to rise, but Leofe clutched her warm hand. “No, let us watch the sun sink.” Elfhild sat down again. “When will your lord Theoden return?”

Ah, the lovely rush of blood into her fair face when his name was mentioned! How in love they were! It must feel good to be so loved. “Soon, I pray. He has been long away, and I very much wish to tell him of the gift I hold for him.” She laughed like a little girl, putting one hand over her mouth and placing the other on her stomach. Leofe laughed with her. It was indeed a great joy for a woman to feel life stirring inside her. Leofe prayed that all went well for her; she was so small, and the birth might be hard.She prayed that Elfhild, Theoden, and the child lived many years in bliss together, though she would not see it.

Elfhild looked again at Leofe’s dark garments, and her face fell. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

“It is no shame to laugh,” Leofe said, patting her hand. Indeed, laugh while you may, sister of my heart. We are only women, after all, without the strength of men, their chance for valor, or the gift of choice, only the power to endure. If the cup life hands us is bitter, still we must drink it to the dregs, for it is all that is given us. I fear you may learn this lesson all too soon.

Below them on the road several riders were approaching. Leofe sighed. “It seems my kin have come at last.”

“Sit a little longer,” Elfhild said. “I will summon your son.”

She left her for a little while. Leofe’s kin dismounted and stood waiting, their shadows growing long on the ground before them. They did not speak and Leofe did not rise to greet them. They were distant kin to her. She was not even sure of their names, but blood called to blood, however thin it might be, and they had agreed to take her in. She would not burden them long.

Elfhild soon returned with Grima. He was thirteen, but illness had stunted him, and he looked much younger. His pale eyes blinked painfully in the last light of the setting sun, the gray scale that disfigured his skin no longer hidden in the shadows. It had been such a difficult birth, and he had come too soon. The midwife had broken his collarbone, and it had never healed properly; it would always pain him, rounding his shoulders, making him stoop. Leofe rose up slowly and embraced him. He greeted her with joy, throwing his frail arms around her waist, holding her tight. It hurt, but Leofe did not show it. “Must you go, Mother?”

“Yes, my son,” Leofe said. “But I will return for you soon, when I am well.” She had told her son that she went to prepare a place for them among their kin. He did not know that they had refused him, agreeing to take her only because she was blood, and she would die soon. She would not return. He would remain at the Golden Hall of Meduseld, to serve the Queen Elfhild and Theoden King. He would not understand that she had secured his future in the only way she could; he would only remember that she lied, abandoning him among strangers on the steps of Meduseld.

Leofe bent a little to place her hands on his pale face, kissing his cheek. “Be obedient in my absence, my son. Serve your king well, and do as the Lady Elfhild bids you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Leofe and Elfhild embraced each other. Elfhild held her gently, not wishing to cause her more pain, and Leofe’s kinsman came to take her arm. They walked slowly down the steps together. Leofe could not mount up by herself, so he lifted her into the saddle. It would be agony to ride, but she did not have far to go, and then she could sleep.

Grima stood at the doors. Sweet Elfhild was behind him with her hands on his round shoulders. Elfhild was so good and kind. She would be Grima’s mother now, his guide and protector for all the rest of his childhood. She was weeping quietly, but Grima was brave. My poor little son! Leofe thought, tears blurring her sight. He would never be strong. He would never be a tall Rider of the Riddermark. He would always be shunned and feared for his ugliness. Had she done him a disservice, fighting so fiercely for his small life all those years ago? Forgive me, my son. In my love for you, I forgot that sometimes it is not so terrible to die. It is worse to live on in the shadows without hope, without love. Sometimes it is more terrible to live.

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The end.