The graveyard was small. Too small, she thought at first. He deserved a place in a wide-open field, or upon a hill, or beside a shining lake. Yet he was a Bree-lander at heart, through and through, and this humble little dell, surrounded by sheltering banks and ancient trees, so close to his beloved village, was where he would belong.
No grave had been dug, for there was no body. But a space had been cleared at her request, slightly away from the other headstones. A tall and stately oak tree stood at the western end of the clearing, and she imagined that he might take his long rest facing east, watching the glory of the sunrise each morning.
A pile of smooth river-stones had been brought in and left in a wheelbarrow. She reached for the first stone, her hand trembling, and with a quaking breath, her sweet, lilting voice began to sing a haunting, solemn melody. The tongue was none that any Bree-lander would know, and the tune was dark and foreign.
"I draw these dark words from deep wells of wild grief, dredged up from my heart."
She had never owned a black dress. But today, the young woman with the bowed head was swathed in a dress the color of midnight; a stark contrast to her pale-gold locks that lay in a perfect braid along her spine. She bent down and laid the first stone on the ground.
"I recount wretched wanderings I've suffered since birth."
The next stone was taken up. A chill wind came rushing over the fields, filling the dell and rattling the grass about her feet.
"My love forsook this world and left. Since then, I've known only misery, wrenching grief, and despair in wild tides. Where, oh where, can he be?"
Her hands shuddered in uncontrollable waves as she set the stone down and straightened again, reaching for the next.
"Before the gods, we vowed never to part, never!"
Her vision slowly became blurred as her eyes filled with stinging tears. Still she sang on, her voice breaking, while the wind howled past, snatching the words from her throat and carrying them away.
"I am now a lonely, lordless refugee. Divorced from hope, unable to embrace him, how my helpless heart broke!"
One by one, the stones piled up. Each one was placed carefully, lovingly, so as not to fall or tumble beneath the rain and winds that would arise in the days to come.
"Elsewhere on earth, lovers share the same bed. While I pass through life half-dead, unable to rest."
The evening deepened as she laid the final stone, and dark grey clouds lowered over the trees, blotting out the last rays of the sun.
"Like an exile to a distant land, caught in the clutches of anguish, moans, and mourning, reminded of our former happiness."
She stood for a time, a small shadowy shape amid the falling twilight, her hands clutching her cloak about her throat. At last, she knelt down, bent her head, and kissed the cold, lifeless stone that was nearest to her. Tender words were murmured, so soft that even the wind and the trees could not overhear. And then she stood, and with her head bowed, turned and walked into the darkness.
(OOC Notes: The lyrics here are taken from the Anglo-Saxon poem, "The Wife's Lament", written sometime in the late 10th century. As Tolkien's culture of Rohan was inspired by the Anglo-Saxons, it seemed fitting to gently adapt such a text into what might have been a traditional mourning poem or song for a widow of the Mark.
Many thanks to those who have been so supportive, both in and out of character, during this most difficult time.)
