The Way She Was

In Meduseld, the Golden Hall of Rohan, the King Théoden sat on his throne. Little footfalls echoed off the stone walls as a little form ran from another room and jumped in the King's lap. It was his eight-year-old son, Prince Théodred.

"Hello, Father," the boy squeaked.

"Hello, Théodred, what are you up to?" Théoden asked.

"I wanted to ask you a question, Father."

"What is it, my son?"

"What did Mother look like?" Théodred did not hesitate to ask. "I know she was beautiful but nothing more."

Théoden sadly smiled at the boy's belief. He could not have possibly known for himself what she had looked like; the Queen Elfhild had died at the birth of this very child, much to the grief of all the people of Rohan and to Théoden's personal heartbreak.

"Yes, she was very beautiful, Théodred. Her hair was long and golden as an autumn sunset. You have her sky blue eyes, even the same twinkle as she." Théodred smiled at his father. "You have her smile too."

The boy was picturing his mother as she was described to him. "What else, Father?"

"She was tall and fair, with a voice of silk, and she loved to sing. She had the softest hands, like lamb's wool and always wore radiant gowns. Yes, she was very beautiful."

Théodred lay his head on his father's chest. "I miss her, Father."

"So do I." Théoden wrapped his arms around his son, the last gift of his beloved wife. "So do I."