Years passed swiftly on the windswept plains of Rohan.
By the time Edwen reached his thirteenth year, he had grown into a lively, sharp-eyed youth. His golden hair had darkened slightly into a richer shade of flax, his features sharpening into the unmistakable grace of the Elves, though his stubborn scowl and perpetual grin remained pure Edward Elric.
Where other boys of Rohan spent their days training horses or honing their swordplay, Edwen did those things and more. He could often be found sketching diagrams in the dirt with a stick, muttering formulas under his breath, or vanishing into the stables for hours on end with sacks of herbs, powders, and odds and ends he convinced the servants to "donate" to his cause.
It began with water.
The halls of Edoras were proud but simple — water was fetched in buckets from wells, carried up steps, and emptied into basins. To Edwen, this was unacceptable.
"Buckets? In the year… what year is it?" he muttered one morning, eye twitching as he watched a servant haul two heavy pails.
His mother gave him a long look. "Buckets have served us well for centuries, my son."
"Well, that's stupid. I'm fixing it."
Two weeks later, after raiding half the kingdom's copper stores and nearly flooding the lower kitchens twice, Edwen proudly unveiled a crude but effective system of pipes and pumps. Servants gasped as water flowed on command into basins without a single bucket being lifted.
The Princess pinched the bridge of her nose. "Edwen… how many near-drownings were there?"
"Only two!" he protested. "Three, if you count the dog. But look at this! Running water!"
Despite her exasperation, even she couldn't hide her pride when the people hailed it as a marvel. From that day onward, Edwen's name was spoken with both admiration and wary amusement, for wherever he went, something would be built, broken, or exploded.
Improvements to the kingdom came quickly. Edwen devised a way to better shoe horses, making them faster and sturdier on long rides. He tinkered with saddles, creating new stirrups that gave riders more stability in combat. He even sketched out ideas for mills and stronger fortifications, though his "automatic crossbow" project was swiftly banned after it nearly took off a soldier's ear.
But with brilliance came chaos.
One summer feast, he announced he had perfected a "self-roasting spit" for the great hall's kitchens. In practice, it rotated so fast that the boar flung free and nearly landed in the high table's mead cups. The hall howled with laughter; his mother did not.
Another time, he tried to "improve" the ventilation of the mead hall by constructing a crude chimney system. The smoke did rise directly into his mother's chambers, filling them with soot for three days.
"Edwen!" she bellowed, storming through the corridors with ash-stained hair.
He peeked out from behind a door, sheepish. "…Good news, Mother. The smoke is no longer in the hall."
"Because it is in my bedroom!"
He bolted before she could throw a slipper at him.
Despite her endless sighs and muttered threats of disownment, the Princess never truly meant her words. Her son was exasperating, yes, but he was also the pride of her life.
A Warrior and a Scholar
Edwen never neglected his duties as heir. His training with sword and bow continued, and though he often grumbled, he excelled. Unlike the other boys, he did not see weapons as symbols of honor but as tools, and he studied them accordingly.
He forged his own blades, mixing traditional smithing with the strange runes and formulas of his mind. Though crude compared to Elven craftsmanship, they were durable, sharp, and unique. His sparring partners learned quickly that Edwen fought with unorthodox ferocity, predicting moves with uncanny insight, striking hard and fast like one who had already survived wars.
At night, he continued his experiments with powders that flashed, liquids that burned, metals that gleamed brighter than steel. His people whispered that he was touched by the Valar, half-mage, half-warrior. Some feared him. Most adored him. All agreed: he was unlike any prince Rohan had ever known.
For all his genius, Edwen was still her boy.
There were quiet moments when he would slump against her side, covered in soot or bruises, muttering apologies for whatever had gone wrong this time. She would stroke his golden hair, listening patiently as he rambled about "pressurized water systems" or "improved combustion ratios," words she barely understood but loved all the same.
"You'll drive me to an early grave," she teased one night as he sketched by the fire.
He smirked. "Relax, Mother. I'll invent something to keep you alive forever."
"You cannot outwit death, little star."
Edwen's grin faltered, but only for a moment. "…Maybe not. But I'll make the time we have worth it."
Her eyes softened, and she kissed his brow. "And that is why I love you, my son."
Though he loved Rohan, Edwen's amber eyes often turned northward, toward distant mountains and valleys he had yet to see. Travelers brought tales of Rivendell, where wisdom older than ages flowed like water, and of a young Elf-maid born not long after him — Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond Half-elven.
Though he had never met her, something stirred within him at the name. Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was simply longing. But Edwen knew his road would not end in the plains of Rohan. His destiny reached far beyond, into lands of Elves, Dwarves, and even the shadows that still lingered after Sauron's fall.
For now, however, he remained the Golden Child of Rohan, heir, inventor, warrior, and constant headache to his ever-patient mother. And though he laughed and played and dreamed, he carried in his heart the memories of another life, another world… and the quiet certainty that his greatest story had yet to begin.