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Meduseld was teeming with gladness and heartiness. The Lord of the Mark had finally wed his Lady from Dol Amroth, the beautiful Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil the Fair. The entirety of Rohan had come together to celebrate their union. The inside of the King’s Hall was filled to the brim with merry Rohirrim, yet more had gathered outside around bonfires, where they were shouting, dancing, and drinking until they keeled over. In other settlements throughout the lands of Rohan, parties were happening, and so it was for a long time that every one of the people of the Mark was genuinely happy.
Except for one man, that was.
Sitting against the wall in the corner of the hall sat Elfhelm. He had fallen, but he had not bothered getting up. Quietly, he nursed his drink.
Of course, he was happy for the lad. He was thrilled!
Truly.
But it was so difficult to witness two people so stupendously in love. Éomer and Lothíriel had been grinning, blushing and laughing all night. They would steal kisses and caresses, and stare at one another from afar. Holding each other’s hands and offering each other morsels of food, or pulling the other along for yet another dance among the rest of the merrymakers.
And after all the grief Éomer had seen – all of his family, Éowyn moving to Ithilien, the harrowing tasks of restoring Rohan – Elfhelm genuinely thought he deserved to be this happy.
And happier still!
He took a few large gulps and roughly wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
It just hurt so much to think of her.
She and he had had the same joyous start of their lives together. And how he loved her then and loved her still, with her dark blonde hair that turned to honey in the sunlight. Her warm brown eyes and her long nose full of freckles. The way she had called his name, complaining about his untidy habits. How she had cried when they had lost the baby. And how she had not been able to cry at all when they lost it again. Her laughter when their adopted daughter had somehow found herself magically covered in jam. It had taken three baths that day to wash all the sweet stickiness from her hair.
The flask was empty, and he groped around for another almost feverishly. He was familiar with his pattern of thought. He knew what was next. His fingers clasped a neck of a bottle. After the jam incident came –
Their hut had been set ablaze by the Orcs. It had been nighttime, and he had been out with the éored of the Third Marshal. When he had returned, he had found only ashes, and his mates had prevented him from going into the ruin to find whatever was left of their bodies.
Ivorwen and Léofwyn.
And he swore before he uttered his complaint for the Gods to hear. Why did you cut my happiness short?
But then he swore again and uttered an apology to the very same listeners. He was afraid that his impudence would cause suffering to the souls of his loved ones.
Then he raised his drink, together with the rest of the Rohirrim who were toasting to the King and Queen for the umpteenth time, and he prayed for their happiness even if there was none spared for him.