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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 2 days

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This story started with Guthláf, Théoden’s banner bearer. To carry a flag in war was (in LOTR and real life) very dangerous, and it got me thinking about the kind of person who would willingly take on that danger and why (see here for Guthláf’s answer). And then I got thinking about what it would be like to love that kind of person and have to watch them do something so brave and glorious and selfless but also so perilous. And that brought me to Wídfara.

Like Guthláf, Wídfara exists in canon for just a few sentences. He’s from the Wold. He’s intuitive about the weather. That’s it from Tolkien. But I do so love an obscure horse boy of Rohan, and two together is even better. Here they are in part 1 of 7, where our boys have their first meeting.

August, T.A. 3017

When he’d taken a third wrong turn in as many tries, Wídfara finally decided to ask someone on the street for help. Unfortunately, getting anyone in Edoras to stop to answer his questions proved even harder than finding his own way around the city. It wasn’t that people were unfriendly or unwilling to assist, but rather that they didn’t seem to even notice him as he tentatively raised a hand or stammered out the beginnings of a greeting. Everyone walked so quickly and with such a busy sense of purpose that they were invariably four steps past him already by the time he got his first few words out.

A quick glance up at the sun told him that he was going to be late if he didn’t get himself together soon, and the last thing he wanted was to make a poor impression on his very first day. He already had enough working against him – his simple country clothing, his thick rural accent, his obvious cluelessness in navigating his way around, all of which marked him clearly as an outsider – and he didn’t need his new éored thinking that he was careless or unreliable on top of everything else. He shifted his pack on his back, hastened his steps around another corner and felt a wash of relief at the sight of a garrison complex with the king’s banner flying in front.

An older man, clad to the waist in armor and standing with a rigid military bearing, waited on the front steps of the central building, just under the banner. His eyes scanned all the passersby, and when they landed on Wídfara they lit up with a spark of intuited recognition. The rigidity melted away in an instant, and he beckoned Wídfara over with a smile and a welcoming wave.

“I’m on the lookout for a new rider just in from the East-mark, and I would bet my horse that you’re him. And right on time, too. My name is Elfhelm.”

Wídfara dropped his pack and stood to attention. For all that he didn’t know about Edoras, he certainly knew the name of Elfhelm, the commander of the garrison and the functional First Marshal of the Mark any time the king himself wasn’t present. “Yes, Marshal. I just arrived in the city last night. My name is Wídfara, sir.”

Elfhelm’s bushy eyebrows shot upward at the distinctive heavy twang of Wídfara’s words. “The Third Marshal told me he was sending us a real country boy, and I see that he wasn’t exaggerating. Where exactly are you from, son?”

Elfhelm’s open, casual manner took Wídfara by surprise. Back home, his captain had been a rather grim man, one who never spoke an unnecessary word or showed his riders even a hint of his own personality, and Wídfara had expected the leaders of Edoras, some of the most powerful in the kingdom, to be even more stern. But yet again, it seemed, he simply had no understanding of how life in the capital actually worked. “I’m born and raised in the Wold, Marshal,” he answered. “My family has run herds out there for generations. It’s quite…” He glanced around at the bustling rush of people moving in and out of the collection of buildings around them. “It’s different from the city.”

Elfhelm nodded with a sympathetic smile. “Well, that’s certainly true. I imagine that Edoras can seem a little overwhelming at first to someone who’s spent his whole life in a place like the Wold. And an éored reordering is never easy on anyone. Saying goodbye to the people and places you’ve always known is a rough task.”

Wídfara swallowed hard on the lump that immediately formed in his throat. It had been less than a week since he’d been forced to say those goodbyes, gathered together with family and friends and brothers-in-arms out near his old post in the plains where the Limlight joined the Anduin. The Wold had never been a thickly populated area – the land was too unforgiving, the semi-nomadic lifestyle of the herdsmen too harsh – but as more and more families moved out of the grasslands and into the East-mark’s larger settlements and towns, an independent éored for the Wold had become increasingly unsustainable. No one had been particularly surprised when the reordering was announced, but it had been painful nonetheless and especially so for Wídfara. Because while his friends were reassigned to one of the three surrounding éoreds in the Eastemnet, all within a few hours ride of home, he had been singled out for transfer to Edoras, a place so foreign to him that it might as well have been Dunland or Rhûn.

His face seemed to betray some of his thoughts to Elfhelm, who put a large, comforting hand on Wídfara’s shoulder. “Change can be tough, son, but it also presents opportunity. And you’ve been given a golden one here. It’s not often that someone gets called up to the king’s éored – I can only remember one other time that it happened, and my memory stretches back longer than you’ve been alive. But your old captain was adamant that there isn’t a finer mounted bowman in all of Rohan and it would be a waste to just reassign you to yet another remote outpost. If you’re even half as good as the men of the East-mark claim, you can make a real name for yourself here.”

Wídfara felt his face grow hot, and he looked down at his feet. No one had told him how this transfer had come to be, and the thought of that dour, taciturn captain singing his praises to anyone was almost more than he could believe. And while he was proud of his own talent, he felt an instinctual urge to defend against the implication that the other riders of the Wold were any less skillful. “Everyone who grew up where I did learned early to shoot from a moving horse, sir,” he offered. “A herd will always attract wolves.”

Elfhelm chuckled. “That may be so, but your captain didn’t convince the Third Marshal of the Mark to send just any old herdsman to us. He picked you. Try to remember that.” A bell behind him tolled, and he glanced toward the door over his shoulder. “I need to get back to some other business, so we’d best get you on your way. You’ll be living in Barracks A with the other unmarried men of the company. You can drop your belongings there and then head over to the armorer to get everything you need. Training starts tomorrow at sunrise.”

“Thank you, Marshal.”

Elfhelm was already halfway out of sight before Wídfara realized that he had no idea how to find either Barracks A or the armorer. He considered calling after Elfhelm for help, but the marshal had indicated that he was busy and surely his other tasks were more important than giving basic directions to an ill-informed newcomer. Instead, he reshouldered his pack with a sigh, resigned to wandering the complex until chance took pity on him again, and he took a few hesitant steps toward his left.

“Other way, Wídfara!”

He looked up to see Elfhelm watching him from the doorway, one foot already inside and the door itself held open with his elbow. The older man laughed and nodded in the opposite direction. “Second building on the right. Can’t miss it.”

A furious blush rushed back to Wídfara’s cheeks, and he winced as he felt it spread across his ears and neck. “Sorry, Marshal. I’m still…I’ll learn my way quickly, I promise.”

Elfhelm stepped back outside, allowing the door to close behind him as he walked a few paces toward Wídfara again. “It’s alright to be new, son. You just need someone to help show you the way of things here.” He cast an appraising eye over Wídfara and chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip for a moment. “Keep an eye out for Guthláf. He’s from Edoras, but his mother grew up in the Eastemnet and he spent much of his childhood out there. He even talks a lot like you do. You’ll like him, and he’ll help you get to feeling like home again.” He turned once more to head inside.

“Marshal Elfhelm?” Wídfara called after him. “How do I find him? Guthláf, I mean.”

Elfhelm looked back over his shoulder and smiled. “Anywhere there are people gathered, he’ll be right in the middle of it. You can count on that. He’s one of our best, and he’ll take good care of you. Just don’t let him talk you into playing dice with him unless you’ve got money to burn.” He pulled open the door and his last few words drifted out from the hallway. “See you at training first thing tomorrow!”

Wídfara rolled over again, grimacing as his left shoulder made contact with the floor. One of his first tasks that day had been to see the garrison’s armorer, where he had been fitted for new equipment and received the distinctive tattoo that would identify him as a member of the king’s éored: a small crown above a hill. Each éored had its own mark, used as a crude means of identification in the event that a rider was injured or killed far from home, and the armorers typically etched the designs onto the shoulders of new members, punching a small ink-tipped needle repeatedly into the skin to create the necessary lines and curves. The new tattoo left a lingering pain in Wídfara’s arm, though it was minimal compared to the ache he felt in his heart when he watched the armorer draw a line through his old éored’s mark, casually crossing out an entire decade of his life with a few minute’s quick work. But that had just been the start to an increasingly difficult day.

The éored’s clerk seemed unaware that Wídfara had joined the company, and no arrangements had been made yet for his pay. Wídfara was counting on those funds to support his parents back in the Wold, especially now that he was no longer close enough to help his father with the herd work during his free hours, and the possibility that his first wages would be significantly delayed left a sour feeling in his stomach. Then he had gotten lost on his way to the mess hall and again between the mess hall and the stables, where he discovered that the stablehand sent to fetch his horse from last night’s boarding house had brought back the wrong animal. At every turn, he seemed to be in the wrong place, with the wrong information, running into obstacle after obstacle while being constantly asked to repeat himself as the city dwellers struggled to understand his accent.

He had greeted the eventual coming of night with urgent relief, happy to retreat to the privacy of his little room in the barracks where, at least for a few hours, he knew where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing. But even then, he struggled. The small, soft bed in the room felt unnatural to him after so much time spent sleeping rough in field camps or out on the plains with his family’s horses, and he quickly gave up on it, crafting himself a makeshift bedroll on the floor instead. After an hour of further tossing and turning, though, he realized that the bed wasn’t the only thing that felt wrong. A windowless box barely big enough for both the empty bed and his nest of blankets on the floor was a poor substitute for having shimmering stars overhead and endless golden plains around him, and he wondered how he would ever find rest in such a confined little space. He sat up, frustrated, and decided to take a walk in an attempt to clear his mind.

The streets, at least, were much more enjoyable to him at night, when few others were out and about. It was quieter, and he could walk at his own pace without worrying that he was holding up someone behind him. Keeping close attention to where he turned and how to retrace his steps, he headed up a hill, thinking to get a good view of the city from the top of the rise and perhaps be able to better orient himself amidst the maze of the city’s layout.

It took only a few minutes from the barracks to reach the peak of the hill, but he was disappointed to find that the view down onto Edoras and the surrounding plains was largely obscured by a thin haze in the air and heavy overhead cloud cover that dimmed the light of the moon. The quiet of his walk was also broken by the presence on the hill of a small tavern, a little wood and stone building from which drifted not only the smell of ale and baked bread but the clamor of voices and laughter and singing. The windows were aglow with warm yellow light, and he could see a large and boisterous crowd inside, many members of which seemed to be about his age. He considered going in – his rational mind understood that the only way to make friends in new surroundings was to put himself where other people were – but the thought of dozens of bodies pressed into such a small building made him a bit panicky, and he had already used all the energy his mind could spare that day for navigating the stares, questions and sometimes the judgments of so many others. That would need to be a challenge for tomorrow instead.

He leaned against a corner of the tavern and gazed northeast, back toward the beloved home that was now obscured by the intervention of both distance and weather. A gentle breeze blew from that direction, and he closed his eyes to savor the soft feel of it against his cheek and in his hair. There was a clean, earthy scent to the air, and he willed himself to believe that this sign of a clearer morning on its way could also mean that good things were on their way for him.

At that very moment, the door of the tavern flew open, bouncing noisily off the wall, and a tiny gray dog scampered out, followed by the striding figure of a man in the uniform of his éored.

“I just need to let Slaga out for a minute,” the man called back to unseen companions inside. “Hold the game for me, and I’ll be right back to finish taking the rest of your money.” A laughing chorus of boos rang out as the door swung closed again, and the man chuckled to himself.

Wídfara registered the stranger’s words as they were spoken, but what flooded his heart with joyful recognition was the lilting drawl of their delivery, the comfortingly specific cadence and tone that represented Rohirric as Wídfara’s ear had always heard it voiced. It was the sound of his cousins calling to him from across the grasslands, his friends teasing and joking as they sat around a fire at night. It was the sound of his old life, and he wanted nothing more than to hear it again.

The other man was crouched down now, cooing affectionate endearments at the tiny dog that bounded in adoring circles around his feet, and Wídfara lightly cleared his throat. The man froze at the sound, the last doting little trill dying on his tongue, and he smiled sheepishly when he looked up and saw Wídfara standing just feet away. “I’m sorry. I thought Slaga and I were alone out here or I surely would have kept that to myself.” He stood and extended his hand in Wídfara’s direction. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m Guthláf.”

Guthláf. The name chimed immediately in Wídfara’s memory, and he smiled to himself at how effortlessly correct Elfhelm had been on all fronts – where Guthláf would be found, how soothingly familiar he would sound to Wídfara, and how quickly just a few words of that familiar sound would kindle a feeling of comfort and kinship in him. He closed the distance between them with a few steps, and in the dim light that shone from the windows he found himself face to face with an unusually tall, well built man with long blonde waves, a trim blonde beard, and striking eyes of the palest blue. He gripped Guthláf’s hand with grateful enthusiasm and smiled. “Wídfara. You wouldn’t have seen me before, as I only just got here.”

“I certainly don’t have to ask where you came from,” Guthláf said, and Wídfara thought he detected a slight strengthening of Guthláf’s matching accent in the reply. “Welcome to Edoras, Wídfara. What brings you here?”

Wídfara nodded at Guthláf’s uniform. “I’ll be joining your company starting first thing tomorrow.”

“Is that right? We’ll be glad to have you. The boys could use an eastern rider to show them how it’s really done.” He glanced down briefly at the dainty little dog that was now cautiously sniffing Wídfara’s boots. “Don’t hold it against me. The absurd fussing with the dog, I mean. Every man has an embarrassing weakness, and I guess Slaga is mine.”

“Think nothing of it.” Truthfully, in any other circumstance Wídfara would have found both the toy-sized dog and the indulgent spoiling of it a little ridiculous, but he wasn’t about to say that to the first person in the city to take any interest in him. Outside of Elfhelm, who as Wídfara’s commanding officer was certainly no peer of his, it had been a struggle that day just to be noticed by anyone else, let alone engaged with or welcomed. Wídfara was eager not to squander this opportunity, especially with someone who seemed so friendly and good natured. “I love dogs and have nearly always had one myself, though admittedly never one that size.”

“He is small, isn’t he? I got him when he was a puppy and expected him to get bigger as he got older, but he just never did. And by the time I realized I had myself a lapdog, the rascal had already worked his way into my heart.” He bent down and scooped Slaga up into his arms, where he quickly settled with the look of one who spent a lot of time in just that position. Wídfara reached out and gave the dog a gentle rub behind the ears, which was received with a small, contented sigh.

“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” said Guthláf, looking up with a smile. “But then again, you’re not a stranger anymore, are you, Wídfara of the East-mark?”

Wídfara couldn’t identify anything unusual or remarkable about the way this question was asked, nothing that would explain the sudden rush of warmth that settled over him when that open, earnest smile was turned in his direction. But it was there all the same. “Not a stranger, at least not in the technical sense. And I would hope one day to be a friend, though I wouldn’t presume to call you that yet.”

“No? Why not?”

“You barely know anything about me.”

“But that’s not a problem. Discovering things about each other is half the fun of friendship.” He inclined his head and fixed Wídfara with a long, thoughtful look. “And I have a feeling there is much to discover about you.”

The steady gaze of those cool, blue eyes sent an anxious flutter shimmering through Wídfara’s chest, and he looked away. Before he could muster the nerve to speak again, the tavern door opened, and a red-haired head popped out.

“Guthláf, if the game doesn’t restart soon, Hildred insists he’ll take his losses back and charge you interest for making him wait.”

Guthláf laughingly rolled his eyes and waved a hand in concession. “Buy him another ale from my pot and tell him I’ll be right there.” The red haired man nodded and went back inside, and Guthláf turned once again to Wídfara.

“Do you ever play dice? If you’ve got the time now, you can join us, and by the end of the game you’ll have ten more great friends, I promise. Though I can’t promise I won’t take your money.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m something of a professional.”

Wídfara laughed. “Believe it or not, I’ve already been warned against playing dice with you, and I don’t know the rules anyway. But I appreciate the offer.” The temptation to stay in the kindly glow of Guthláf’s company was strong, but the tumult of the busy tavern still intimidated him. And the length of the day, with its many ups and downs, was beginning to catch up with him at last. “Will I…or, rather, I hope I’ll see you at training in the morning?”

He cringed inside at how needful the question sounded to his ears, but if Guthláf heard it that way he gave no sign. Instead, he smiled broadly and tapped a fist against Wídfara’s arm.

“Of course. I’ll look for you there, friend. Now wish me luck, not that I need it!” He and his dog slipped back inside with a wave, and Wídfara watched through the window just long enough to see them disappear into a rowdy group of men, all wielding mugs and talking excitedly to one another.

Alone again, he turned then to retrace his steps, mercifully finding his way back to the barracks without incident, and he stretched out once more on his floor with a heavy yawn. The weight of sleep closed in on him quickly, and he soon drifted into the comfort of peaceful rest, where a pair of the palest blue eyes lingered in his dreams.

Notes: Guthláf’s dog is named Slaga, which means “Killer.” Presumably he chose that name before he realized his “puppy” was already full grown and would always be a lil’ tea cup.

@emmanuellececchi @konartiste @sotwk @dreambigdreamz (I don’t usually have a tag list but I tried to @ people who had specifically requested it at some point — if you want off (or on, I guess) don’t hesitate to say so!)

Dividers by the lovely @quillofspirit ♥️

#guthláf #wídfara #rohan #forth eorlingas #obscure blorbos #♥️🐎🗡️#horse boys in love #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #guthlaf #widfara

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warrioreowynofrohan · 1 month

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Reading Tolkien’s annotated translation of Beowulf, and learning all kinds of things about LOTR and the Silm from it!

First:

Leave here your warlike shields [from Beowulf]

[Tolkien’s commentary; bold mine:] Note the prohibition of weapons or accoutrements of battle in the hall. To walk in with spear and shield was like walking in nowadays with your hat on. The basis of these rules was of course fear and prudence among the ever-present dangers of a heroic age, but they were made part of the ritual, of good manners. Compare the prohibition against drawing a sword in the officers’ mess. Swords of course also were dangerous; but they were evidently regarded as part of a knight’s attire, and he would not in any case be willing to lay aside his sword, a thing of great cost and often an heirloom.

This gives me some perspective around Tolkien’s probable intended tone for the moment in Meduseld in The Two Towers where Aragon strongly protests against being told to leave Andúril (a sword of very great value and ancientry, and very much an heirloom) with the door-warden. From a contemporary perspective it’s easy to read it as Aragorn being unnecessarily prideful and combative, but this passage strongly indicates that Tolkien intends it to be Théoden who is being unreasonable in that event, an indication - along with many others in the scene, prior to Gandalf dislodging Saruman’s influence - that Théoden is being discourteous and behaving in a manner unworthy of a king who is recieving heroes offering aid. (The fact of Meduseld being a ‘golden hall’ like famous Heorot in Beowulf may be deliberate to strengthen the parallel.)

Second (immediately following the above commentary):

But against this danger [from swords] very severe laws existed protecting the ‘peace’ of a king’s hall. It was death in Scandanavia to cause a brawl in the king’s hall. Among the laws of the West Saxon king Ine is found: ‘If any man fight in the king’s house, he shall forfeit all his estate, and it shall be for the king to judge whether he be put to death or not.’

This adds context to the incident in the story of Túrin in The Silmarillion where Saeros taunts Túrin in Menegroth and Túrin responds by throwing a heavy drinking-vessel at him and injuring him (it’s indicated the injury is serious, so I’d take it along the lines of him giving him a broken nose and knocking out some teeth.) It is stated in at least some versions of the story that death is the punishment for drawing weapons in the king’s hall, in line with the historical customs mentioned here. This gives a further emphasis that what actually happens - Túrin is not punished at all and Mablung strongly reprimands Saeros for provoking him - illustrates that Túrin is, Saeros’ behaviour notwithstanding, in very high favour in Menegroth. (Saeros as the king’s counsellor is also in roughly the same position as Unferth in Beowulf, who taunts the titular character - Beowulf responds heatedly but without violence. Tolkien may be setting up a deliberate contrast here.)

Third:

The word hádor is an adjective meaning ‘clear, bright’…it is almost always found in reference to the sky (or the sun or stars). But that association is in description of brightness…

This was one a lightbulb moment: oh, in the name of Hador Goldenhead (the ancestor of Húrin, Túrin, and Tuor in The Silmarillion), ‘Goldenhead’ isn’t an additional name/epessë so much as it’s a glossed translation of ‘Hador’! The guy with bright, golden hair.

Fourth: Going back to the Rohirrim - Edoras, the name of their capital city/royal court, is basically just the Old English for ‘courts’:

under was very frequently used in describing position within, or movement to within, a confined space, especially of enclosures or prisons, ‘within four walls’. Cf. in under eoderas (eoderas being the outer fences of the courts), ‘in amid the courts’….‘eoder’ means both ‘fence (protection)’ and ‘fenced enclosure, a court’.

I’m also learning a lot about Beowulf - Tolkien’s notes are clarifying a lot of tone and nuances, not to mention the political/diplomatic relationships between the different kingdoms, which were confusing me - but it’s amazing how much it reveals about ways that Tolkien’s knowledge informed his legendarium!

#tolkien #the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #rohan #aragorn #theoden #turin #hador #edain #beowulf #translation

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