A song of Aldburg lamenting the death of Éomund, originating in the months following his burial.
Wood Anenome by Aringsa
THE LAST HOUSECARL
They drowned my lord in the depths of the earth—
in earth they hid his hoard of gold,
his bright byrnie and board of linden,
his many treasures and mighty steed,
his ashen spear, his splendorous helm
his giving hand and heart buried
beneath the ground and grass-covered.
No joy is left for the lonely warrior
seeking his master, mighty princeling
Éomund, the beloved Lord of Aldburg,
the Mark’s champion, marshal of Théoden,
a lover of horses and hater of orcs,
won fame among Eorlings in fierce combat:
both bold and wroth, battle-eager,
in battle he hewed horse-thieves and raiders
orcish warriors—Azog’s people—
till he met his end by many arrows
in Emyn Muil. In the marches of Rohan
to eastern hills he hatefully chased
over fen and field and fast Langflood
an orc war-band with warriors few;
his hirdmen only, for arrogance
had driven the lord into livid pursuit
not heeding his council. Quick to anger
by stealing and slaughter of steeds and men,
he rode to battle in a byrnie that glittered
in the setting sun like silver and gold.
With linden shield and shining sword,
with deadly spear and speedy horses,
battle-hard warriors broke the shield-wall
avenging the deaths of dear Eorlings.
In battle perished the baleful orcs,
raiders and robbers, wrathful killers,
the fated-to-die felled in battle.
The lord Éomund, Eofor’s kinsman
and Aldburg’s ruler was riding bravely,
and as oft before with unerring skill
defended with arms from orcish threat
both hearth and hoard, hunting orc-kind
with steely edge and ardent spirit
as befit his lineage. Then fled the orcs
to the barren hills, where the bane of my lord
lay hidden in darkness. In haste Éomund
pursued the orcs, seeking glory,
chasing the remnants of wrathful slaughter
with hirdmen few. From hidden camps
deceitful foes flanked the riders,
raining arrows on the Eorling troop,
a black hailstorm of battle-snakes
from a host of orcs with hammered swords
and bows of yew and bitter spears
with poisoned points. Perished Éomund,
the proudest of warriors, by wicked arrows,
felling many while foul orc-darts
pierced his body till pain took him—
our gold-friend fell. In grief they cried
the name of their lord they loved the most,
and seeking nothing but death they rode, driving the hateful
angrily to Mordor, to shadow, to the blackest mountains whence they came,
to the realm of the wicked Enemy, where with smoke the wastes are choked
and naught but misery is made, where land is murdered and ravaged,
with no gifts but lash and death, naught felt but loathing and pain.
Defending their people as they promised before,
there nobly fell fearless sword-thanes
beside their lord: loyal Hereweard,
Éadwig and Ecgláf, Athelnoth mighty,
Déorwínë and Dernhelm, Dunstan and Cúthbyrht,
Fréaláf and Fréawínë; too fair Tidhelm
and Óslác the Wise—only one returned
living to the mead-hall. The once mighty orc-host
were first in flight from fierce battle
their strength shattered. Then stalked from the wood
the grey-haired wolf, and the white-tailed eagle
with the swarthy raven swept from the heavens
to feast upon flesh of the fighting’s slain.
Now his body is broken and the bravest of lords
goes to his fathers in glorious battle
not any ashamed, yet I remain
in the world of the living, lonesome and troubled
when my brothers are revelling with my ring-giver elsewhere
and joy is gone. I am jealous of those
who are kept in the earth like his kinsmen noble
whose spirits have gone to the greatest of halls,
where mead still has taste and tongues know sweet,
where dreams of the departed at daylight’s coming
do not anguish the soul when their absence is remembered,
where beauty remains and not miserable darkness,
where the sun is shining and song is no more
ringing hollow, where hears the voices
of close companions and kinsmen missed,
where the brave and dead once dear to him
rejoice with him in happiness.
